Grandma Annie would have wanted it that way.
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Back when I was a teen, the butcher shop was the wild wild west of the food market.
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In the South, the typical fruit used in a French clafouti (a type of baked pancake) is adapted for a grape I only know from my part of the world: muscadine or scuppernong.
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Like most things in life, cornbread is all about the respect it is accorded.
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This stack of breaded green tomatoes reminds me of a stack of poker chips. Metaphors don’t lie.
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Cram these Madjul dates full of aged balsamic vinegar, parmesan cheese, lemon zest, parsley, salt, pepper, and olive oil, and bam.
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I have my own ridiculously long list of obsessions in the kitchen
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Did it really matter for a magazine shoot if the food tasted good?
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For me, the disturbance often takes the form of figuring out the sequences for the next day’s cooking orders.
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Let’s not label it, especially something as cold and clinical as OCD
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Believe it or not, ice is critical for all of the fucking blanching I do.
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Channeling my dad in the kitchen
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When is less more and when is less simply less?
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Hard to imagine anything better than this simple soup. Refinements perhaps. But better?
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Our mom told us that we were allergic to chocolate. It was a bold-faced lie.
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It took forever to get up the nerve (and ability) to put fried chicken on the menu.
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There is almost total randomness between the introduction of a (new) southern dish to the Tel Aviv palate and how it will fare
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People often ask 3-star Michelin Chef Thomas Keller what he would choose for his last meal. His answer, as with most things, is instructive.
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Confessions are tricky. Ask Augustine.
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