Making The Cut

Tamar Adler Gathers An Arsenal Of Chef’s Knives— Japanese, French, German, American—in Her Search For The Perfect Blade.

Here is a roster of the knives I own: a teninch Wüsthof bought fifteen years ago after a knife-skills class, where I was tricked into believing that extremely large knives are easier to use than small ones; assorted paring knives bought for €9 a pop at markets in France; a heavy, pricey bread knife; a boning knife sharpened to resemble a prison shiv; an eight-inch Global santoku, which I don’t remember buying; and an eight-inch Togiharu, the house brand of the famed Japanese knife store Korin, which was a gift from my brother.

My collection puts me far outside the perimeter of knife geekdom. But several months ago a mild obsession struck. I had just inherited my late father’s set of hunting knives: Bowie knives and fishing knives, survival knives, hand-forged Bedouin knives. Gazing on this menacing array, I found myself wondering, What makes a perfect knife?

It’s not a question I’d considered before, despite being a former culinary professional—a cook. And as any cook will tell you, a knife is an extension of your arm. It determines whether things go well or poorly: A good one holds its edge and turns tasks like brunoise-ing or filleting into mere trifles. Hardened cooks who close flesh wounds with superglue buff their knives with shammies and swaddle them in organic bunting. Chef Russell Moore, of Oakland’s Camino, sharpens his knives 20 minutes a day. I once heard him cooing to them.