New York City is my idol. Before visiting, I spend weeks poring over New York magazine, the NYT, Serious Eats NY, all in search of the latest and greatest in food. But no matter what, I need to have these 4 things:
1. quiche at Bouchon Bakery
As a friend once memorably put it, "if I could be reincarnated as a chicken so I could lay an egg that would be a part of this quiche, I'd be happy." The texture of the custard is indescribably wonderful, closer to gently jellied heavy cream than to an eggy quiche mixture. You take a bite and it seems to both melt into your tongue and evaporate off of it. Amazing.
2. pizza
People criss-cross Manhattan and beyond seeking out The One, but my tastes here are more simple. Any NY pizza. This trip it was from nondescript "Ben's Pizza" next to the hotel and it cost $3.65 which seemed plenty to pay for an ordinary-sized slice. But it's so so so good. Crust neither thick nor thin, sauce in moderation (and it has a gentle sweetness to it, and not much herb or garlic taste) and tons of grated mozzarella -- the stretchy, tangy, salty kind.
3. something ridiculous
Last trip it was a $900 meal at Le Bernardin (totally worth it). This trip it was 2 suppers in one night. First at Buddakan, second at Momofuku. Both, curiously, involved pork belly steamed buns.
4. Fage yogurt, full fat
What is it, like 12% fat? Mmm.
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What passes for a meal this week
- a terrible cafeteria salad
- veggie miso burger on greens
- bran flakes and a few medjool dates
- pork chops and sweet potatoes with green beans
- pesto pizza
- spag bol
- half a lamb chop, a sausage and salad
What's the deal?
I’m a chef - I make my living cooking. Years in the restaurant industry were good to me, but I concurrently took my Master of arts and when I was through it dawned on me that I didn’t actually want to be a prof in some charming small town; I wanted to keep cooking. Trouble is, restaurant work isn’t the most intellectually stimulating, and I wanted more. After years of cobbling together food-and-writing-related work, I landed in the wild world of magazines as a food editor.
The wrinkle is that I don’t cook for myself. People I meet at parties go all gooey-eyed when they ask me what I made for supper, imagining no doubt seared scallops on a puree of freshly shelled peas with crisped guanciale and basil oil. The unexpected truth is it was likely a bowl of pasta with olive oil and whatever was in the fridge, be that Parmesan, sundried tomatoes, or a shot of gin. I live alone so there is no one else to impress except myself. And now you.
But this is hardly the the sad tale of a lonely young woman. Many nights, it’s quite the opposite: if there is bread in the house I will drench two slices of it with mayo and add a fried egg and thinly sliced kosher pickles, then stand over the sink and inhale that mofo. It’s so good and makes me so happy that I often make another one right away. What, am I going to create a stunning three-course meal for myself, set the table, light a candle and cluck about how great it is to be single and independent? Bah. Better to dirty as few dishes as possible and get on with it.
The wrinkle is that I don’t cook for myself. People I meet at parties go all gooey-eyed when they ask me what I made for supper, imagining no doubt seared scallops on a puree of freshly shelled peas with crisped guanciale and basil oil. The unexpected truth is it was likely a bowl of pasta with olive oil and whatever was in the fridge, be that Parmesan, sundried tomatoes, or a shot of gin. I live alone so there is no one else to impress except myself. And now you.
But this is hardly the the sad tale of a lonely young woman. Many nights, it’s quite the opposite: if there is bread in the house I will drench two slices of it with mayo and add a fried egg and thinly sliced kosher pickles, then stand over the sink and inhale that mofo. It’s so good and makes me so happy that I often make another one right away. What, am I going to create a stunning three-course meal for myself, set the table, light a candle and cluck about how great it is to be single and independent? Bah. Better to dirty as few dishes as possible and get on with it.
The Girl
During my apprenticeship I was the only woman in a kitchen of randy, raucous men. At first they called my first name to get my attention, but once they started calling me The Girl ("pick up table 45 Girl", "get The Girl to make more crackers") I felt like I was one of the crew. Feminism be damned, there's nothing like being accepted into a kitchen brigade.
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