I’ve said it before. I will likely say it again. I have a major problem with things that slice, things that dice. Things called knives. I can’t stop buying them. And now, I have another on the way. It’s the first I’ve ever bought online, without feeling the heft, first. It’s another Wusthof, and it’s my first “professional-quality” piece of cutlery. It’s a 23 cm. Wusthof Le Cordon Bleu Chef’s knife. Thin like Japanese blades, but with slightly more heft than most such dragon-esque gyutos of hard-sharpened fame. Drop-forged steel near the length of a short-sword. 17 degree polished bevel, whippy like Harry Potter’s wand, and sharper than DM’s math skills. Oh, yeah, baby… It’s fuckin’ ON. Sweat starch, potatoes… Fall into julienne, carrots! Turn to dice like Chessex d6, tofu! That’s right, there’s a new German enforcer on the cutting block, and he’s a Japanese-speaking badass who was totally schooled by Yakuza.
I am SUCH a pathetic loser.
The nice thing is, this knife is on wicked-clearance. Discontinued on the US market in favor of the IKON Classic line, of which I own three particularly fine specimens, this is the less-pretty but performance-for-the-professional-kitchen line developed for use at Le Cordon Bleu in Paris. It started at a whopping $205.00, and I got it for $75, no tax, free shipping. I keep expecting to get a phone call telling me I’m under arrest for the steal of the century. THANK GOD FOR CLEARANCE SALES!!! Also, because of the wicked-cheap prices, I’m considering buying a three-knife set for my friend S. whose bridal party I will be part of come July. Along with a sharpener and steel, it’ll be the kind of wedding present one can pass on, still very much functional, to one’s firstborn in 25 years when moving on to the new battery-powered super-sonic de-pinkifier of the future. It’s the gift that keeps on giving, man!
On a totally unrelated note, working in the safety industry carries certain threats for the practicing pouf. For instance, one has to grin and bear it when it occurs that the signs you’re hocking to a customer, “DANGER: HIGH VOLTAGE” need only a second repetition of “danger” before all you can think of is a retro pastiche involving sexy construction workers. Plus, the humor is more gallows-savvy than at a poppers-scented bare-backing halfway house. If only I hated it a little less! There are definite comic possibilities afoot, but nobody sees the irony except yours truly. Imagine the sad little monkey, clickety-claking at his computer! Yes, that sad little monkey knows for whom the keys clack… They clack for me.
Pray, mes bonne enfants! Pray for the immortal soul of safety monkey me, with my German kitchen knife fetish, through a dark wood, wanderin’.
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