How to Write the Gordon Ramsay Way

One wonders about the nasty nasty Brits. They have become ubiquitous in American Pop culture. Whether you're talking about the cruel criticisms of American Idol's Simone Cowell, the acerbic snicker of Dancing with the Star's Len Goodman, or the caustic cackles of the fascist fashionistas of What Not to Wear, the British have turned being sadistically blunt into a national export. It’s not just popcorn culture either, this phenomena is just as present in more refined circles as well, where Martin Amis brings a distinctly English form of bitter decay to the world through his novels, and Christopher Hitchens makes an entire intellectual career out of being a contrarian asshole. (Forgive me, I meant arsehole.)

Maybe they are the inevitable by-products of a culture in decay, maggots on the corpse of the fallen empire. Maybe their success in the States is more of a reflection of modern America than Britian, that they fulfill the role of truthsayers in a culture enveloped in fake smiles and convenient lies.

To be honest, I don’t understand. How can you be so sad, dear Englishmen, when you have Amy Winehouse to sing for you?

Regardless, there is one nasty Brit I really enjoy (perhaps because he’s a Scot, and they are considering dropping out of the Kingdom). I’m speaking of Gordon Ramsay, particularly the version of the man presented in Ramsey’s Kitchen Nightmares, which can be seen in the USA on BBC America. I have been addicted to the show for quite a while: I love haute cuisine, I love seeing the workings of careers other than my own, and the Calvinist in me loves seeing people learn to improve their lives through hard work. Ramsay may be a hard bastard at times, but what makes him brilliant is that he is so passionate about his craft. And even more important, he seems to genuinely care about the people he's trying to help. As a teacher, it's a hell of a lot easier to smile in someone's face and tell them that everything is just fine than to tell them the truth when it isn't.

But several viewing hours in, I realized that there was another, even more central reason I love watching Ramsey’s Kitchen Nightmares. Surprise: it reminds me of the struggle to become a writer as well. It's just one more bit of evidence that the quest to become a successful craftsman, to elevate one's art and self, is universal. As proof of this theory, here are some lesson’s from Ramsay’s Kitchen Nightmares that apply to the aspiring writer just as well as the aspiring chef:

Just Because You Think You’re a Superstar, Doesn’t Mean You Are
It's amazing how many of the restaurants that Ramsay goes to are failing because the cooks think they are talented chefs, when in fact they are completely incompetent in the kitchen. It reminds me of all the would-be Shakespeares I've met over the years who talk a great game about their writing skills, then I pick up their books and see that they are barely capable of constructing a grammatically cohesive sentence. Any one can call themselves a master, but to become one takes years of development, education and dedication. The act of self-crowning does not make one a king, but believing that it will does make one a fool.

Listen to Criticism
One of the reoccurring scenes on Ramsay's Kitchen Nightmares is the one where the chef (whoever it is that week) resists the criticism of Gordon Ramsay, insisting that they know how to cook properly despite the fact that they are invariable failing at that task. If you get the chance for expert, seasoned advice, listen to it. Don't just listen: be open to changing accordingly. Talent isn't enough, and even the best can be sidelined by their own ego, rigidity, or fear of change. I teach would-be writers who are resistant to criticism all the time, people who decide that they know better than everyone who reads their work. Some give in eventually and learn to change for the better, and some don't. Of those that don't, I have never seen one go on to success as a writer.

Build Your Palette
It's amazing how many of these inept chefs Ramsay encounters, so-called professionals who have no concept of how to prepare fine cuisine, don't even eat the type of food they're trying to create, instead ingesting only fast food. Actually, it's not amazing; it's obvious. In art, you really are what you eat. In order to build and maintain a palette, you have to ingest the type of product that you seek to produce. If you're not interested in consuming sophisticated work, you shouldn't bother trying to create it. If you don't want to read literary fiction, don't try and write literary fiction. You won't have the aesthetic understanding necessary to pull it off.

Don’t Make Things Unnecessarily Complicated
Even those chefs that do know what they are doing get tempted to overdo their food in an attempt to seem unique or prove their sophistication. But the best haute cuisine is at its essence simple: fresh ingredients cooked expertly to highlight their flavor. Likewise, a good story told expertly has no peer, and no amount of over-reaching language or pretentious narrative structuring can beat a story consisting of fresh observations on humanity presented in a way that they can resonate fully.

Keep the Kitchen and the Dining Room Separate
One of my favorite episodes of Ramsay's Kitchen Nightmare is the one where he visits a soul food restaurant in Brighton run by an African American expat (coincidentally Ray Shell's ex-wife), Momma Cherri's. This episode is one of the only ones where the food is actually really good. The problem is, the maître d' is always in the kitchen barking orders at the chef, and the dining room is going to hell. For the chef to be successful, he or she has to focus on the food; everything else comes a distant second. For the dining room to be successful, the maître d' needs to leave the food preparation alone and worry about the people, specifically selling them the product. Likewise, writers should worry about their writing. Don't let commercial concerns into your kitchen. Let the agents and publishers worry about running the business, you just worry about the product itself.

Creation is an Act of Love
Love what you do. Love what you create. Love the act of creation. Love those you create for. Because when you love, you will respect. When you love, you will prepare yourself fully and love that too. When you love, you don't cut corners or produce work that is just good enough and nothing more. When you love, you aim for perfection, and do the work necessary to get as close to that goal as possible. When you love, you don't become cynical or despondent or bitter. And the people who consume what you create will be able to taste that love and in turn they will return their love back to you.