THE SAKE DEN HAS somehow grown more crowded, and the courses are coming one on top of another. Succulent, snow-white pork bellies lightly seasoned with salt. Thin slices of beef tongue. Liver on skewers. A second—third? fourth?—pitcher of Sapporo. Now Tony is arguing that manning a sauce station in a restaurant like this, the career that left him broke and strung out, is more emotionally satisfying than writing books or making travel television, the career that has made him famous.

How can that possibly be true?

"Because you know exactly how well you did after 300 meals," he says. "You know absolutely, positively."

And you don't know when you write a bestseller? When your show is a hit? You don't get the same sense of approval?

"You don't need approval after a busy week in the kitchen," he says. "We all have a bunch of beers and tell each other how great we are. The waiters come over and say, 'Big tips. Everybody loved it!' The owner comes over and says, 'Yeah, big take at the register today!' You know. You sold all your specials. That's it. Top of the world."