Legendary Lunches

Meet my new best friend. I am thrilled to even type the words.

Let me start you off with a story. When I was younger, New Orleans gumbo was a big deal in my house. I grew up in Washington, D.C. and was the only one in my family that wasn't reared in the deep South. With the exception of those Detroit and Chicago cousins, but whatever. So I grew up on Maryland crabcakes and a continental way of looking at food. When I took an Eastern Airlines flight down to NOLA with my parents, they'd routinely ask me, "Chicken or Beef?". Never will you hear that question on an American airline carrier ever again. Sad really, no matter that the food was borderline indigestible. Anyway, on the flights to New Orleans, I'd proudly opt for "neither, thanks!", knowing that in a few short hours, I'd be seated at my grandmothers kitchen on the East Bank of the francophile city that is Nouvelle Orleans. There was no way I was spoiling my appetite with rank airline food. No way.

Back in D.C., my Dad would make this big show of the prep involved with a true seafood gumbo. The process took all day, it seemed, and at the end, I got a little piece of Freddie's kitchen. A little bit of the Big Easy in a bowl. Now, I was never one to cook and by the time I graduated college, there seemed to be no need. I was moving to NYC. It was like taking my car with me. For what? Who drives in NYC? No one. Who cooks in NYC with all those fab restaurants that deliver? No one. Homecooking was something that I got at (shocker) HOME. I had no interest until that fateful Thanksgiving that I was forced into the kitchen on First Street. I mean, I had gotten into cooking, you know, the basics and a few family recipes. Well, Paul (my pops) thought it necessary for me to learn EXACTLY how my grandmother makes her gumbo and her recipe for macaroni and cheese. I sweated in the kitchen under Freddie's commands for a few hours until she let me loose. Learning all the secrets and traditions of a New Orleans Louisiana Gumbo.

Secrets. That's what's led me to this post. My dad is a big fan of secrets. He likes to keep them until the reveal gets the reaction he's looking for. It drives my mother totally crazy. I've come to learn that's the way he is and the little chuckle he gets from the reaction is pure entertainment. When I realized that his charade of an all day gumbo prep was just for show, the secrets just came spilling out. Every now and again, I'd tell him the latest recipe I'd invented, or the newest trick I'd discovered in the kitchen. My Mom still couldn't get over the fact that I was actually using a stove and oven to feed myself (and not for winter boot storage), while my Dad just gave me his usual, "mmhmm, that sounds wonderful!" routine and went about his day. Until that fateful day he unloaded The Big Secret.

"You should get together with my friend, since you're so into cooking now.... I'll set up a lunch." Who knew his "friend" was legendary chef Jose Andres!! The master behind Zaytinya, Mini Bar, Cafe Atlantico, Oyamel and Jaleo here in D.C. I couldn't believe my ears and his nonchalant tone. As if Jose was just my Uncle Tony, the dude I hadn't seen since I was 12.

So there I was, at Zaytinya in DC (coincidentally, the restaurant is housed in a building designed by my Dad) awaiting lunch with its chef. I purchased two of his cookbooks at the bar while I waited and took great pleasure in telling the bartender after she whispered to me, "the chef of those books just walked in," that he walked in to have lunch with me.

"Do you eat everything?"

"I eat EVERYTHING!"

So he ordered... what, I can barely recall, but it was divine. We had a lively conversation about the eating habits of Americans, the fate of the American dinner table, the seasonality of meats amongst other things.

"Next time, we have dinner, at my home" he said.

Done and DONE! I wonder what other secrets Paul has hidden...