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Oddly unpleasant. DIRT is Bill Buford's tale of learning to become a French chef by living and training in Lyon. Buford, a NEW YORKER writer, comes across as entitled in the early chapters, the kind of guy who, when he has a problem with his passport and visa, decides to call the French ambassador (whom he doesn't know). Left in charge of his toddler sons for a weekend while his wife arranges their foreign accommodations, Buford's immediate impulse is to get a babysitter and go off on an excursion. Told a class will cost $3,000 for a couple of weeks, Buford responds simply, "I want it," and he gets it. Late in the book, in an incident when he takes a picture of one of his sons (as he sadly recalls his French friends), Buford just seems insensitive. It's not clear from the tone in these episodes whether or not Buford intends to expose his flaws or thinks they're amusing, charming; mostly, they're just off-putting. Along the way to fulfilling his goal, he does develop friendships, so he's probably not as jerky as he portrays himself, but to a reader he's a mixed bag, at best.

Once he gets a placement in a restaurant, Buford becomes slightly more sympathetic because, in comparison, his colleagues are so sexist, mean-spirited, and abusive. The work atmosphere is poisonous. Buford doesn't fight back, even when a female co-worker is harassed, and he is aware in this case of his complicity. It's not enjoyable reading. But he learns his trade.

The second half of the book is less narrative-driven and more anecdotal. One of Buford's missions is to prove Italian food provided the origins of French cuisine. He doesn't quite get there. It seems likely there was an Italian influence, for sure (along with other influences and a lot of local tradition). However, some of the episodes are entertaining and enlightening, and a few are sad.

The title, DIRT, is a tribute to something fundamental in French cooking, food, and eating. Like the book itself, the title is a little off, a bit unappetizing.