It is reported (by Graham Robertson in LIFE WAS WORTH LIVING) that James A. Whistler once said in his customarily iconoclastic way, "I don't why people make such a to-do about choosing a new cook. There is only one thing that is absolutely essential. I always ask at once, 'Do you drink?', and if she says 'No!' I bow politely and say that I am very sorry I fear she will not suit. All good cooks drink."
If Whistler meant that all good cooks drink to excess, his quip is only superficially amusing, and is part of the grim picture drawn by statistics which show that in many great prisons there are more cooks than there are representatives of any other one profession. Most cooks, it would seem, are misunderstood wretches, ill-housed, dyspeptic, with aching broken arches. They turn more eagerly than any other artists to the bottle, the needle, and more vicious pleasures; they grow irritable; finally they seize upon the nearest weapon, which if they are worth their salt is a long knife kept sharp as lightening . . . and they are in San Quentin.
On the other hand, some of the best cups I have ever downed were in the company of good cooks, men (and a few women) who were peaceful and self-assured, confident that they were artists among their sincere admirers.
-M.F.K. Fisher
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