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Since he moved to New York City in 1992, Batali has become an ur-Manhattanite--a Bush-hating liberal, a partier, a good friend of R.E.M.'s Michael Stipe. When I asked how he persuaded a middle-American institution like NASCAR to work with him, Batali answered, "I present a compelling case because"--self-conscious pause--"I'm fun." A year ago, a Rutgers classmate who is a well-connected NASCAR aficionado brought him to his first big race. On a lark, Batali and his friend had decided to throw a dinner for the drivers. "We handed out little cards with an invitation to all the drivers' motor homes," says Batali. "And they came. It wasn't like we checked with NASCAR." But when it came time to put together a partnership deal, it didn't hurt that Batali already knew Brian France, NASCAR's CEO. A couple of years earlier, France had paid Batali to cook his wife's birthday dinner on the couple's boat in Key West, Fla. (Batali does six or seven such private meals a year. He won't say precisely what he charges, but if you're interested, expect the tab to approach six figures.)
Batali and I were talking at a bar in Chicago. He was in town for the housewares show, where his display featured a garish, full-scale plastic replica of an Italian farmhouse. As we spoke, a hefty guy, beer in hand, walked over to our table. He introduced himself as a "firefighter here in Chicago" and said he wanted to shake Batali's hand. The firefighter's wife then came over--the first of an endless stream of fans who would approach Batali over the weekend. Cards were pressed into his hand; pictures were taken; autographs were requested on books and shirts and, in one case, a KitchenAid stand mixer. One young female fan walked up to Batali late Friday night and greeted him by biting his cheek.
The next morning, a pixieish 37-year-old named Darcie Purcell (whose business card reads "Brand Manager--Mario Batali") led Batali into a conference room to see finished versions of new items in his cookware line for the first time. A $100 risotto pan weighing an astonishing 12 lbs. came out first. "Wow," Batali said proudly. "You're not gonna be lifting this up with one hand." But there was bad news: the kitchenware chain Sur La Table wouldn't be buying the pan--"too niche," apparently.
The next item he was shown was a handsome pizza peel, one of those flat, round metal sliders used to move pizza to and from an oven. Batali looked eager.
"When will those be market ready? June?" he asks.
The answer is maybe.
"We're gonna get a big splash at this restaurant I'm opening in Los Angeles, which is gonna have a huge pizza oven ... So let's make sure we have 20 of them there, and we can use them all day." Turning your restaurant into a marketing tool works if you're Hard Rock Cafe, but it isn't clear how well it works at the high end. Batali seems to have few qualms: when an assortment of spoons, turners, ladles and skimmers is shown for his approval, Batali says, "All of this will be on display at Mozza in Los Angeles, and it will sell infinitely."