Part 1: How A Michelin Chef Ended Up At My Table
My path to full fledged food addict has been somewhat subversive. By that I mean that during my earliest years, I rarely took note of food’s impact on my being. Yet many of my earliest memories revolve around food. I remember standing on my mom’s kitchen stool making chopped liver with her (stop saying gross, Jew..ish people love it). I recall staying at my grandfather’s house in Mass. and running around with lobster claws on my hands (back when my little digits could fit inside). I certainly remember the day I took tinfoil packed scrambled eggs into school for lunch (at my own insistence … I’m a stubborn little bastard).
Hell, before I can even remember, food was a huge part of my life. Case in point: I peaked early when I wrestled a gallon jug of OJ up three flights of stairs and proceeded to dump the contents all over my sister. She was obviously being a big stinking doo doo head. I don’t remember that … at all! (But it sounds familiar … right sis?). Probably the crowning achievement of my life and it’s been all downhill ever since.
So it seems that now is as good of a time as any to tell a story that is really important to me, even if the conceptualization of why it’s important has evolved over the years. It was the night I cooked for a Michelin starred chef. Yeah … seriously … HOW THE FUCK did that happen? Let me tell you.




