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“Bobby Flay taught me the secret trick to shucking at a party at Bruce and Eric Bromberg's house out in East Hampton. They're all huge now, Bruce and Eric with Blue Ribbon et al. and Bobby with Mesa Grill et al., new cookbooks, and a television show. They put me to work at the enormous four-sided grill they'd set up in the backyard next to the roasting pit where a cuchinillo (young suckling pig) was being basted on a spit, turning darker shades of pink. I had no idea who Bobby was at the time, and the two of us were working side by side, flipping peppers and onions, zucchinis, squash, swordfish steaks, and New York strips. Fresh out of the Cordon Bleu, I thought I was pretty hot shit, ordering Bobby around like a redheaded stepchild. He was very nice about it. Took my guff and told the other grill cooks to listen to the chef. It was the best cooking time I ever had, feeling like I was one of the guys. When I found out who Bobby Flay was, I was mortified. And then I thought, Wow, he was so cool. He never once pulled rank or made me feel like I didn't know what I was doing. He let me be in control. I guess that's what happens when you're the real McCoy. You don't need to piss on other people to make yourself feel better.”
― Hannah Mccouch, Girl Cook: A Novel