In the Chef's Kitchen

Or: The Accidental Stalker

This is my very first Paid Subscribers Only essay.
I do hope I see some of you on the other side of the paywall.
It’s beyond time for me to officially go pro.
And be able to pay a few bills.

(But don’t worry, there’ll still be plenty of free posts to go around.)

I was at a party in New York several years ago when I became worried that one of the people I was chatting with was having a small seizure. But what I mistook for a minor convulsion turned out to be her way of pointing without resorting to the use of her fingers, which were already occupied with a glass of rosé.

"That's Nancy Silverton!" she said to our group in one of those whispers that is anything but.

"Which one is she?" I asked, curious.

"The one with the glasses behind Ruth Reichl. White blouse." I made a mental note for later. The covered patio was bumper-to-bumper James Beard award nominees and food luminaries, but Nancy Silverton was the only one I cared about at the time.

I had a very specific question I'd always wanted to ask her but wondered if the asking of it might come across as creepy or stalkerish. I considered this as I drank another glass of orangey-pink wine. I knew I'd hate myself if I didn't take this opportunity to say something, so I gathered up enough courage to tap Ruth Reichl on the shoulder, say “Pardon me, excuse me…” like Bugs Bunny at the theater and snake my way past her because she was blocking my path to Ms. Silverton.

I introduced myself and then asked the question that had been gently bubbling away on the back burner of my brain for more than twenty years: