hi, horseradish
navigating private chef life abroad, brisketgate, my first Bavarian wedding, and reflections on "last suppers"
I have the utmost respect for chefs everywhere, but the specific breed of private chefs working in a big city deserve a standing O.
You may be thinking, wouldn’t a big city give you access to the best quality markets and vendors? Wouldn’t a big city yield clientele with voluminous pockets? You would be mostly right on both accounts, but these advantages are offset by things like: living in a fourth floor walk-up, not having a car, or having a fridge that can hold barely more than a Le Chiquito Jacquemus purse. Pair that trifecta with living in a rental flat without your usual equipment and unexpectedly booking a gig 3 days out when you’re mouth-shoveling croissants in another country. Jokes aside, I was thrilled to get back into the swing of things and there’s nothing that lights a fire under my ass more than a fast approaching deadline.
My first gig in London was a bit unconventional as well. I would be cooking back-to-back kosher Passover seders for 12 people. Luckily, I had experience cooking for an amazing family in Beverly Hills who kept kosher, otherwise this would have been another intricate layer on the learning curve. So I quickly familiarized myself with all of the kosher butchers, delis, and bakeries across London, pleading with Tom, Dick, and Harry to take on one last order before the holiday. My Amazon prime was priming, and before I knew it, I was back in biz. The blessing of all blessings though, was having Lizzy, my little sis of a best friend, as my sous chef. She studied at Le Cordon Bleu in London, and has lived here ever since. It was bashert.
SO. the above. As a private chef, we are FOH (front of house) and BOH (back of house), including dishwasher, PR + marketing departments, sometimes impromptu bartenders, and inherent in-house entertainment, all while attempting to be approximately invisible :) . Working with a new client means working in a new kitchen, with new equipment, new characters, new dynamics, new twists, turns, and unforeseen obstacles. So I’d say it’s a mixed bag at a new gig! Speaking of new characters, it was a first to receive this hieroglyphic text before our arrival. Was someone allergic to horseradish, did they need more at the table, was this a code word? Couldn’t be sure. Not everyone believes in complete sentences, and that’s life. Always an adventure though.
It was also my first time cooking a Jewish-style kosher brisket. Sure, I’ve braised my fair share of meats in my day, but for some reason I felt more pressure for this occasion. So I scoured the internet and created a mental collaboration of recipes by Ina, Alison Roman, Molly Baz, etc and some Jewish grandma on Tik Tok whom I would trust with my life. (If you’d like the hybrid “recipe”, give a shout.) A wise woman once said, you don’t learn to cook recipes, you learn to cook ingredients. So, if you know how to braise meat, in theory, you should be able to braise a brisket. Exact amounts of this and that are all relative. Of course, the oven in my flat also has hieroglyphics instead of words for its settings and the celsius temperatures are more of a best guess than an exact science.
‘Twas the night before Passover and I was sure that my meat was doomed. Miss bris was tough to the touch and not at all like the tender gelatinous hunk I was after. The sauce slapped though, that was my insurance policy. Sweet caramelized shallots and onions in a succulent brown broth of proprietary concoctions. But as the meat cooled, I spiraled while googling “prepared brisket near me”, if that’s any indication of my mental state. Turns out, after a sleepover in the fridge and a luxurious 3 hour 300F bath in the secret sauce, it was great brisket. Or at least my clients said it was the best brisket they’ve ever had? Hi, horseradish!
A BAVARIAN WEDDING
Have you ever been to a German wedding? Have you ever been to a Bavarian German wedding? If not, find a way to do so. Couldn’t recommend it enough. Never have I ever met a more fun, funny, loving bunch, who really just love love, and their lederhosen. The entire thing was in German, to be expected I suppose, so safe to say it was outside of my comfort zone. The lone 4 Americans did receive packets, yes packets, of the translated speeches and I was really blown away by them. You know what else blew me away? Obatzda. It’s a traditional Bavarian dish of mixing cheese + butter (on brand) with a bit of beer I think, paprika, etc on pretzel bread. Imagine how hard that hits at 2am, then double it. I also got my schnitzel fix, if anyone cares.
LAST SUPPERS
I picked up a great book last week when flying out of Heathrow called “The Best of A.A. Gill”, which is a compilation of his greatest work as a journalist, namely his food writing. If you’re not familiar, he was sort of like a British Jonathan Gold x Anthony Bourdain, RIP x 3, but far more pejorative (nicer way of saying c word ending in y). There’s a chapter from his column on Last Suppers, and it got me thinking…
I really love asking people this question, and I love answering it even more. My response is never really fixed, but rather transient, a reflection of what my tastebuds have been demanding and what my palette prefers at the moment. Sometimes it’s simple and homey — roast chicken with a jus made from a mixture of its schmaltzy drippings and the glorious elixir from the caramelized onions that sit beneath the bird. Of course, it’s impossible to not pair poultry with potatoes. A crime really, maybe even worse than the sentence that sent you to Death Row in the first place. Potatoes in any form will do, but if I had to choose, it would be crispy, fried, slightly smashed, baby potatoes. Boiled in overly salted water until very tender, so tender that when you strain them they hardly keep their shape and start to take on scraggly edges, yes, this is what you want. While steam escapes and they sit nestled together in the hot pot blanketed by a film of starchiness, the pan preheats in a 450F oven, coated in glugs of golden oil. The hot oil helps to fry the potatoes and ensure that there is an audible oily crunch with the first bite. Maldon flaky salt is the only acceptable salt pairing. Other necessary accompaniments include a heaping scoop of garlicky aioli, and maybe some fresh cracked black pepper. The last bit that really completes this plate, personally, is a leafy green salad dressed in a punchy zingy lemony vinaigrette. I know some people prefer salad to sit separately, in its own little bowl, but no not me. I want my butter lettuce to bathe a bit in the jus. Some woman’s soggy greens are another woman’s last supper. Obviously, I would luxuriate in this meal with a bread basket + salted butter. And for dessert, I’ll take the chocolate mousse.
Anyway, sometimes I say that, and sometimes I just say pomodoro. (The lazy but truthful answer.) You know the kind I’m talking about. Not the kind from Zip’s or Nick’s Tomato Pie, or your mom n pop Italian joint from childhood. Not Frank’s in East Village, or even Misi, and certainly not the kind you make at home with a jar of Rao’s, sorry. I’m talking 2, maybe 3 ingredients tops straight from the motherland, enjoyed in late August or early September when the tomatoes are so ripe and sweet you can smell them wafting in the air like a perfume. Somehow, consuming a bowl of this pasta is even more euphoric when enjoyed seaside. (This may be logistically hard to arrange from prison). You’d think it’d make you sink, post lunch, but really it makes you float. Float along merrily, jolly from your head to your toes because you just had heaven on earth. Consuming a heaping bowl of fresh pomodoro pasta should be a prerequisite for living life fully, and if not that, at least before death. And for dessert, I’ll take the tiramisu, please and thank you.
I could go on and on, really. Don’t get me started on dim sum or dumplings of any kind, doused in chili oil (relax, David Chang, not chili crunch).
As AA Gill writes, “these meals are small windows into the lives that led to their consumption”. He actually goes on to renounce the question, finding it useless and relating it to the prompt “Name the 10 sexiest women” — “all the anxiety of the choice but none of the pleasure of the execution.” Lol.
Nevertheless, this all has me curious. What’s your last meal on earth? The death row meal hotline is officially open.
Please comment below. If character counts are an issue, email me. Would love to read / share your responses.
Bye, Horseradish
Xx
B&b
P.S. maldon salt or work of art?
Always trust a Jewish grandmother on TikTok xx
last supper hmmm I’m not refined but tie between the best hamburger on an English muffin from this place in Tucson that no longer exists, with a mix of Caesar salad and French fries as sides and a huge chocolate chip cookie that’s flat and salty — or butternut squash soup with flaky bread and then more bread later and they just keep bringing bread and it never stops and then also there’s hazelnut chocolate mousse involved xx