Thornton is thirty and skinny, five feet nine, with a lean, carved face and the playful, semi-wild bearing of a stray animal that half-remembers life at the hearth. ...Lost boys flock to him; at any given time, there are a couple of them camping on his floor, in tents and on bedrolls.
He once lost fifteen pounds driving across the country because he couldn’t bring himself to eat road food.
[A guest:] “He is obsessed with obscurity, which is why I love him."
[Thornton:] “Cooking is creating a big fucking problem and learning how to solve it.”
Being presented with a plate of Thornton’s food often feels like stumbling upon a crime scene while running through the woods.
Emoticons are not enough.
Running a tiny operation with a set menu allows Thornton to buy, in small quantities, ingredients that are impractical for most regular restaurants: too expensive (watershield, a kind of Northwestern lily pad)...
Thornton told me. “They know with me I don’t care what something costs.”
The apartment was quiet and dimly lit. Small pelts were draped here and there; a preserved rat bobbed in a jar...
Prince Zaleski kept a mummy in his apartment.
Thornton rarely has a chance to test dishes, and much of what he makes he has never eaten before.
[A guest:] "He never makes the same fucking flavors twice,” he said. “They’re rainbows. You can’t catch them."