Battle Scars From the Culinary Front By Leanne Shapton and Ben Schott To mark the New York Food & Wine Festival we present an honor parade of wounds received in the line of service.

Mark Ladner Del Posto, New York Harold Dieterle Perilla, New York City Michael Laiskonis Le Bernardin, New York Sean Rembold Diner, Marlow and Sons, Brooklyn Paula Dean The Lady & Sons, Savannah, GA Johnny Iuzzini Jean Georges, New York Anita Lo Annisa, New York Dominique Creen Luce, San Francisco Hugh Acheson Empire State South, Atlanta Andrew Carmellini Locanda Verde, New York Tim Love The Lonesome Dove Western Bistro, Fort Worth, Tex. Marcus Samuelsson Red Rooster, New York Dan Barber Blue Hill at Stone Barns, Pocantico Hills, N.Y.

Around 1995, I was cooking for Scott Bryan at a restaurant called Indigo on 10th Street. The huge car- rot I was chopping lengthwise rolled away from me and my knife took off the tips of two fingers. As the blood squirted in a high arc, I nearly fainted. But then I made the tightest fist of my life, walked to St. Vincent’s Hospital and was operated on by Dr. Hand (of course). A double skin graft left me out of work for almost four months, and caused pain and discomfort for more than five years. I rarely think about the accident now, though it’s still quite strange having no finger pad for cushion. Moral: Watch out for big carrots!

In 1998, I was deboning a New York strip steak when a dishwasher bumped into me. The knife sliced through my thumb right down to the bone. Light-headed and dizzy, I drank a Coke before cauterizing the wound on the flat-top grill. Then I drove to the local drugstore to buy gauze and tape, and returned to work. After we’d completed dinner service, I took myself to the nearest E.R., where I was given 32 stitches.

I was in one of my line-cook phases in the mid-’90s. I don’t remember exactly why I was in such a rush, but I do vividly remember trying to bust through a very large pile of on- ions. You know how novice cooks are taught to tuck the thumb back and under while chopping? I cheated, and then I looked up, or the heavy chef’s knife slipped ... and into the mountain of sliced onions went the very tip of my left thumb. My reac- tion was swift. I rinsed my thumb in the nearby sink, haphazardly slapped on two or three Band-Aids, wrapped it with a length of gauze and secured it all with what must have been a foot or two of electrical tape. Then I went on with my prep. It’s not that I forgot about it over the course of the night’s work, but I was uninsured and liv- ing check-to-check on my meager cook’s wage — I was in a state of de- nial. Eventually the wound healed, though I noticed the contour of my left thumb was no longer rounded, but now sloped off at a sharp angle.

I was 21 and still very much a high-strung, nervous wreck of a line cook working at Campagna on 21st Street. One evening during a rush, I degreased a good amount of smoking- hot grapeseed oil from a pan in which I was about to roast a portion of halibut. Unfortunately, the oil splat- tered onto the calf of my chef, Stuart Alpert. I distinctly remember the sec- ond and a half it took the oil to soak through his chef’s pants and for him to realize he was being seared from behind. I also recall him shrieking loudly and, covered in sweat, stare at me over his shoulder as if to say, “After all I’ve taught you, I should murder you for that.” Stu eventually cooled off and totally let the incident pass. I, on the other hand, was filled with remorse. After service, I asked Stu if he’d share with me a minute of his time. I took the ticket spindle on which we’d “spike” order tickets and submerged it into the deep fryer for about 15 seconds. I removed it and applied the hot spindle to my forearm for another five seconds to produce a two-inch stripe. Stu looked at me and said: “What are you do- ing? Are you nuts? But I appreciate your dedication to perfection.” This was the first of three hash marks I’ve carried throughout my career as reminders of preventable gaffes that put my co-workers in jeopardy.

I haven’t hurt myself in the kitchen since my early days at The Lady & Sons. But I recently burned my fore- arm taking a tray of cookies out of the oven because I was distracted.

I was 17 and training as a pastry chef at a famed restaurant. I was busy making custard, filling a hotel pan with water, then laying butter wrappers over ramekins, when the executive chef asked what I was do- ing. I began to explain, but I guess the way I did it — young and naïve, I was eager to share any new pastry knowledge I had learned — made him angry. He said: “What do you think I am? Stupid?” And then he closed the oven door with my arm in it, searing a perfect five-inch straight line into my forearm. From that point on, I kept my mouth shut and eyes open and only responded with a quick “Yes, Chef” or “No, Chef.”

I have so many scars that I can’t re- member what they’re all from. But my most dramatic one I got while carv- ing pumpkins with my sister when I was 12. With my mother’s paring knife, I was trying to cut a hole in the top of the pumpkin. I pushed so hard that my hand slipped right over the knife blade, cutting through the ligament of my right pinkie, blood spouting up about a half-inch. It was disgusting and hurt badly, but my sister and I were laughing about it. The doctor re-attached the ligament. Back then, I wanted to be a pian- ist, but after the wound healed, I couldn’t extend my pinkie far enough.

It was a Thursday evening, and we had 265 guests on the book at Stars in San Francisco. I was oyster- shucking, 200 to 400 oysters a night. While I was talking to a guest from the open kitchen, the oyster knife went right through my left hand. I nicely excused myself and ran to the back of the kitchen. The head chef gave me a shot of tequila and they cleaned me up. I went back to work.

I was 17, working at a deli in Otta- wa. As I was slicing meat, I sliced the tip of my finger completely off. Luck- ily, it was at an angle and it kind of grew back. But I have been very care- ful around sharp objects ever since.

I was opening Locanda Verde in 2009. I was exhausted and scold- ing one of my crew because he hadn’t cleaned the porcini mushrooms prop- erly, which I discovered while making the first order of the night. I placed the hot pan on the stainless counter, left it there too long and it transferred all the heat. Then I leaned against the counter. Classic stupid mistake. I did not go to the E.R., as that is what a normal person would have done.

I was searing chops in a cast-iron pan when I burned the palm of my left hand. Two weeks later, the wound had still not healed, so I thought it might be a good idea to go to the E.R. They told me the burn probably wouldn’t heal correctly if I continued to cook and grab hot pans. They were right. Five years later, it’s still there.

I have scars all over, but they’re part of my DNA as a chef. One really bad one is on my forehead, which I got working on the line when I was young. I was making roasted duck, and as I turned around another chef holding a heavy pan crashed into me. Blood spurted everywhere, but no one felt sorry for me — in fact, I was yelled at for making a mess in the kitchen! Some of my scars aren’t physical burns or cuts. My stomach is “scarred,” in a way, as I threw up every day when I first started cooking because I was so nervous.