One evening, a month or two after the end of his time at Le Villon, we are watching TV, Mauro and I, in that studio apartment in the thirteenth arrondissement, which he has kept—though its Spartan decor still gives the impression that he isn’t really living there. Top Chef is on. The French version of the reality competition show is a huge hit, as are all the other similar shows, whose ratings keep growing. The chef has become an important figure in contemporary society—a media star now remote from the grouchy guy who produced dishes from the shadows of his lair—and kitchens have become television studios. Mauro lists aloud the various programs—MasterChef, Oui Chef!, An Almost Perfect Dinner, The World’s Best Pastry Chef—and I am amazed by how many there are. My friend shrugs: It’s obvious that when people talk about cooking, they don’t talk about the rest, all the bad things going on in the world; it’s obvious that people are always more interested in gastronomy during those periods when there’s lots of anxiety: it’s reassuring, it brings people together, it’s about the body, about pleasure, it’s about sharing, theatricality, truth. Face darkening, he adds: Competition, discipline, merit: everyone watches it, and it keeps them calm and happy. On the screen, an immense kitchen scattered with multiple islands; the contestants stand in a row, arms crossed, listening to the presenter reminding them of the rules of the contest in a voice supercharged with enthusiasm. The goal is to create a dish around a pigeon. When the timer starts, the contestants rush to their countertops, in a panic, their thoughts scrambled, then each of them calms down and begins cooking. The pressure mounts as the clock ticks down.

Are you sure you want to watch this? I ask, surprised. Mauro doesn’t answer, his eyes riveted to the image of those young people peeling, cutting, boiling. The stainless-steel utensils glisten in the spotlights; as does the food, which looks as if it were painted with varnish; as do the young chefs themselves, magnificent in aprons or in tight-fitting, dazzlingly white jackets. The camera lingers on their gestures, their meticulous hands, hands that seem to multiply like those of an Indian goddess, butchering a pigeon while simultaneously buttering a pie base. Drops of sweat bead on their faces as the countdown progresses, as the presenter talks with a famous chef, the two of them highlighting the contestants’ qualities, their hard work, their hunger to surpass themselves, their heroism. Their teeth gleam as they speak. Suddenly, Mauro stands up, spitting acerbically: Cooking is not the shiny happy world they’re making it out to be; there’s not much affection, you know—and I can hear his teeth grind.