Heat.

A portion of a review by Diane Leach of the book Heat by Bill Buford.

"..Time passes -- weeks -- and Buford must return to New York, where he convinces his wife, Jessica, that another extended trip to Italy is necessary, this time so he can work with Tuscan butcher Dario Cecchini. Jessica is understandably hesitant but finally caves, leaving me wondering about the wives of celebrity cooks. Anthony Bourdain jet-sets all over the place. Where's his wife, Nancy? At home in New York, watching American Idol? Standing in the shadows of Bourdain's camera crew? And what of Mario Batali's wife? I'm amazed the guy had time to marry, much less sire children.

(Similarities?)

But back to Italy.

Dario Cecchini is insane. Dante-quoting, screaming, and swearing, this is a fellow who doesn't care what you want. Never mind your pocketful of lira: you get what he has, and only if your approach suits him. He will think nothing of tossing you out. He is not interested in profit. Only meat. At dinner with his wife and Buford at a local restaurant, Cecchini throws an amazing scene, pouring a cruet of balsamic vinegar onto the floor, shouting, insulting the proprietor, throwing the menu not once, but several times. The seed of his rage? Insufficiently "Tuscan" food.

Fortunately, Dario's staff is less intimidating. The Maestro, an older butcher, offers a quiet foil to Dario's histrionics. Before a cow or pig he is an artist, expert with a knife. And Buford, incredibly, takes the reader through the Maestro's every slice, detailing animal muscle cuts, consulting sources, arriving at the amazing-but-true realization that butchery is a defiantly local art."