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Amanda Elliot Biography

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“His hand beneath mine was warm, large enough where mine didn't cover nearly all of it, his skin soft and his bones hard ridges that tensed at the touch of my skin. What are you doing? I thought furiously at it. My lips opened to say sorry, and I went to pull my hand away, but before I could do either of those things, his hand flipped over, our palms meeting as he threaded his fingers through mine. It was like when I was a freshman in high school and held a boy's hand for the very first time. The touch of his skin on mine made me tingle all the way up my arm, and the way he squeezed my hand, reassuringly but also firmly, as if to say, this is the way I'd squeeze around your nipple or cup your ass to press you up against me.”

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“I spun around, and now heat throbbed all through me from my chest down between my legs, because we were front to front, and my eyes met his with a spark that sizzled, and his voice was husky as he said, "We might die in here." There are worse places to die, I thought, nestled against his chest, and then I said it out loud. I could feel rather than hear his laugh. And then I was looking up at him, and he was looking down at me, and he asked the question with his eyes, and I answered it, and he bent down, and I lifted my chin and then we were kissing. Kissing. I was kissing Bennett. His lips were soft against mine at first, gentle, exploring. But I craved more. I wrapped my arms around his shoulders and pulled him closer, kissed him harder, parted my lips and let his tongue slip inside. I was kissing Bennett. He made a little noise deep in his throat, a growl or a purr, as he slid his hands down my body to my waist. They touched the exposed slice of skin between my blouse and skirt and God that flash of tingly heat made me gasp. Made me want more. Made me want him. "Julie." My name was a plea. I answered him with another kiss, curled myself into him so tight I didn't know if I'd be able to untangle myself from his warm skin and soft curls and the gentle flex of his biceps as he held tight to me. I didn't want to, though. I wanted to wrinkle that pressed button-down, slip my hand beneath it and trace the divot running down his back, bite his earlobe and feel him shiver.”

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“And suddenly he was by my side and I was standing and he was ducking down to kiss me. Our lips met with a gentle thrill down the back of my neck. This wasn't a fiery kiss, one that foretold clothes tearing and fuck mes. It was a soft kiss, a sweet kiss, one that brought with it promises of waking up next to each other every morning and him bringing me chicken soup when I was sick and me slowly stealing all of his hoodies because they smelled like him. I pulled away and nestled my cheek into his shoulder. He leaned his head down and pressed a kiss to my forehead. "Does this mean you're my boyfriend now? However high school that sounds." "It means I'm your boyfriend," he said. "Does it mean you're my girlfriend? Do you want me to write a note where you can check off the yes or no box?" This next kiss melted me. Now came the clothes tearing, the sweeping of plastic plates off the table, the gasping as he bent over me and I but his earlobe and he groaned into the curve of my neck. Who needed pastries? This was better than any dessert.”

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“The waitress showed up then with our order, and we had to set to arranging our table so that none of the appetizers fell off. I wouldn't want to have lost any of the crunchy cucumbers marinated in a sweet, tangy vinegar, not quite long enough to become pickles but long enough where they weren't cucumbers anymore, or a single bite of the candied pork belly, rich and marinated in sticky sweet soy sauce, tucked in between pillowy buns and scattered with the crunch of peanuts. Alice pushed the third appetizer, which had only been called Fried Eggplant on the menu, toward me. "Eat this." I obeyed, closing my eyes to focus. The thin sticks of Chinese eggplant crunched with breading on the outside and melted creamy smooth in my mouth on the inside, made even better with a swipe of the silky, mild tofu sauce coating the bottom of the plate. Every time I when I was starting to feel like it was too rich and I might need a break, my tongue would hit a sprinkle of tart black vinegar and reset the richness levels. "Heaven.”

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“I stopped in front of my new building, a thrill of pride running through me at the sight. The sight was bright and clear and elegant: Wander. Because my people had wandered all around the world for thousands of years of the Diaspora, picking up local culinary traditions and incorporating them into our own. Even if my menu had taken the incorporation in a more daring direction----some of the dishes I was most excited about were the brisket ramen and the kimchi chopped liver, a play on my finale appetizer but with Korean influences. Luke had helped me with that. It was the one dish that sat on both of our menus.”

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“Out marched a woman carrying a plate. I didn't see what was on the plate at first, because I knew this woman. She was short and dark-haired, with rosy cheeks and shiny gold Converses that sparkled beneath the ceiling lights. I'd seen her wearing those same gold Converses on TV. My brain short-circuited a little as she kept on marching toward our table, and I saw what she was holding on her plate. It was some sort of twisted pastry with cherries and chocolate sauce forming... hearts all over the plate. And just one dainty fork. Oh. Oh no. She set the plate on our table with a wide smile. "I hear it's a special day for you, and I wanted to bring you this babka beignet on the house. Happy anniversary!" Oh my god. I couldn't believe I had to lie to Chef Sadie Rosen.”

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“Is dessert okay? Maybe some kind of bread pudding with homemade ice cream---simple, but hearty and good?" We all nodded. "I'd like to do a raw fish appetizer," said Bald Joe. "Maybe a crudo with hamachi?" "And I'd like to do an entrée," Vanilla Joe said. "A beef dish. Which means our other entrée should probably be seafood." I nodded. "I can do a slow-cooked black bass." We'd done one at the Green Onion that I loved. It had a preserved tomato broth and cauliflower and a pile of nutty grains. I could do farro. That left Bald Joe and me to divide another appetizer and a dessert between us. "I can do a dessert," I offered, thinking about a deconstructed baklava, but Vanilla Joe shook his head. "No. Joe here is already doing one appetizer; we can't make him do two. He'll get overwhelmed." "I really don't mind," said Bald Joe. "As long as Sadie helps me put everything together. I'd rather do an appetizer. I'm not great at pastry." Vanilla Joe shook his head before I could speak up and say of course I would help. "Joe, I want you doing a dessert, so Sadie, you pick an appetizer." Fine. Whatever. I hashed it out with the rest of the team, decided I would make a sunchoke soup with bacon and thyme. Vanilla Joe squinted at me. "I didn't think bacon was kosher." "I don't cook kosher food," I explained patiently. I actually didn't mind; I was used to it. Kosher cooking had a long list of rules: no pork, no shellfish, no combining meat and dairy, among many others. Grandma Ruth had kept kosher, and I had total respect for everyone who did, but it wasn't me.”

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“I would eat this liver for breakfast, lunch, and dinner." "The airiness and crunch of the bread is a perfect contrast to the smooth, thick texture of the liver." "I love that these onions and leeks are hovering just on the edge of burned. It adds a wonderful complexity to the dish." "I'm enjoying the tartness of these pickled gooseberries in contrast to the richness of the rest of the plate.”

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“I'm enjoying the beets and the duck together. It's not a combination I've had before, but it really works." "I'm not usually a fan of raw onions, but the little bits you've strewn throughout are perfect with the beets and the richness of the duck." "The chicken skin adds a nice fatty, crispy element, but I would've preferred duck skin." They raved about Nia's, a lettuce wrap with smoked fish and pickled watermelon rind. "This fatty, oily fish with the sweetness and acidity of the pickled rind is stellar. It's Southern without being Southern.”

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“I panted as he pulled me back through the entryway, hands on my waist, kissing the whole way, and collapsed backward onto the gray leather couch, which felt softer than my skin. I fell on top of him, straddling his lap. He kissed his way down my neck and across the collar of my blouse, leaving a trail of fire behind. "Enough of that," I panted, ripping my shirt over my head. Thank goodness I'd worn a decent bra today---blue satin with a bow in the middle, not frayed or torn anywhere. He eyed it with a growl of approval, but maybe it wasn't a growl for the bra at all, because a moment of fumbling over my back and---pop---I shook off my now unfastened bra. "And to think you didn't like me at first." He drank me in unabashedly, his eyes roaming from belly to breasts to nose to eyes, and each inch his eyes traveled made me feel more and more powerful. Like I could go anywhere, do anything. Except all I wanted to do was right here. I ground against him, feeling his cock already hard and strong under his zipper. "Who says I like you now?" He gasped and pulled me tighter onto him. "If this is what you do to people you don't like, what do you do to people you do like?" I silenced him with another kiss as I rubbed up and down him again. Now my own sex was throbbing, and I sucked in a breath with every movement. I kept moving up and down as he kissed my breasts, tongue tracing lightly over each nipple. When I couldn't take it anymore, I tumbled to the side, lying down on the couch and pulling him on top of me. Because his was an expensive couch and not the cheap one my old roommate had bought at Ikea, there was plenty of room for us to writhe without making me feel like I might topple off the edge. He went down to kiss my breasts again... and kept going. His tongue slid down my stomach, did a lazy circle around my belly button. I clenched my teeth, holding back a beg for more as he slowly, slowly, way too slowly unzipped my skirt and tugged it down. I kicked it off, along with my underwear, when he reached my knees, nearly clipping him on the ear. When I felt close to the edge, I reached down and pulled him up. My hand moved down and took over, zeroing in on just the right spot on my clit. It didn't take long. I shuddered against his shoulder, biting back a cry, then wondered why I was biting it back and let it out. Breathing hard, my head collapsed back into the cushion. I was a little worried that now post-orgasm clarity would descend upon me and be like, What the hell are you doing, Julie? but the post-orgasm clarity seemed to approve. With a wink and a nudge, it made me pull away, and the desire roared back inside me. "That's why it's great to have a clitoris," I told Bennett. "Multiple orgasms.”

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“Lenore's galettes, one savory with a filling of fresh summer tomatoes and basil and one sweet with caramelized peaches, were tender and flaky and buttery and perfect. Maz's nargesi, an egg and spinach dish similar to shakshuka, burst with flavor on the tongue, especially when eaten beside the fresh watermelon and soft cheese salad he'd brought. They'd catered in bagels from the local bagel place, and whatever empty boasts New York City made about its food, they were right in that they had the best bagels anywhere. Especially when heaped with lox and cream cheese and capers and red onions sliced so paper-thin light shone pink through them.”

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“Even though we had ordered light, ordering light for a food reviewer meant ordering a roughly normal amount of food. We noshed first on flaky biscuits that melted in my mouth when slathered with a combination of sweet cream butter, smoky bacon butter, and a spicy drizzle of local honey infused with chiles. Then on a salad, crunchy chunks of iceberg and romaine bathed in a coconut-lime vinaigrette, studded with chunks of roasted squash, sunflower seeds, and crispy pork belly that melted into bacon fat on my tongue.”

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“I knew there would be a talk coming, but obviously we couldn't let the food get cold. Or warm, in the case of the tuna tartare with benne seeds I finally got to compare to Jada Knox's review. It really did taste a little bit like coffee, which, contrasted with the cold, clean chunks of tuna and hits of acid, was the perfect mellowing factor. The red stew, with a tender chicken thigh nearly falling apart in the spicy, sharp broth, was both hearty and exciting, the bland, fluffy fufu it was served over the perfect contrast. And the curried goat with roti and crispy potatoes? The whole fried red snapper with jerk seasoning? All the contrasts of flavor and texture made me want to eat and eat and eat until I burst.”

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“And I've never been all that passionate about brunch food in general." My mouth dropped open. "Then clearly you've never had good brunch food." He raised an eyebrow, obviously amused. That tiny gesture made something hot tweak below my stomach. Down, girl. "I've eaten brunch at some of the best restaurants in the world." "But not from my kitchen," I countered. Now it wasn't so much about caring about how he felt: it was about proving I was right. "Come on. We're going to make a full Ashkenazi breakfast spread. I'm talking blintzes. I'm talking challah French toast. I'm talking bagels and lox and shakshuka. I'm talking matzah brei." "I've never heard of that last one." "See? You have never had a good brunch.”

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“The menu was full of foods that felt like home to me, but that also had a flair of originality. Brisket and matzo balls in a hearty bowl of ramen. Lox bowls with nori and crispy rice. Savory potato kugel and boureka pastries with hummus and fried artichokes with kibbeh. Knishes with kimchi and potato filling and a gochujang aioli. "This menu is so... Jewish." "So Jewish," Seth agreed. "And make sure you're saving room for dessert. The rugelach is unreal, and the rainbow cookies are---" he looked around, then lowered his voice--- "better than my mom's." One of the things I actually missed about living in New York was seeing all the fun twists people put on Jewish and Israeli food at restaurants and in delis. Nobody was doing that in Vermont. Maybe you could do that in Vermont, something whispered in my head. I was used to just pushing that voice away, but, for once, I let myself pause and consider it. Would it be that crazy to sell babka at my café? I bet people would love a thick, tender slice of the sweet bread braided with chocolate or cinnamon sugar or even something savory with their coffee. I could experiment with fun fillings, have a daily special. Or I could rotate shakshuka or sabich sandwiches on the brunch specials menu, since they both involved eggs. My regulars might see eggs poached in spicy tomato sauce and pitas stuffed with fried eggplant, eggs, and all the salad fixings as breaths of fresh air.”

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“Grapefruit isn't usually my favorite fruit, even in the citrus family," he said, thoughtful. "But this is something else." He was right. It should have been a simple, maybe even boring dish: grapefruit shaved ice, with thin slices of candied grapefruit and mint leaves on top, all heaped into a frozen grapefruit skin. "I think the word you're looking for is transcendent." Somehow the dish was a thousand times greater than the sum of its parts. Each bite of ice literally melted away in my mouth, transforming into something luscious and concentrated, something that brought me right back to being a little kid in my mom's lap, asking for a spoonful of the grapefruit half she'd sprinkled with sugar. But even better. And it was beautiful, too. I was already imagining the way the miniature shards of ice would glitter in my photo, the way the crystallized grapefruit slices would shine like jewels, how the green shreds of mint would keep it from looking too much like something you'd want to wear around your neck.”

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“If you don't try the shaobing with Cubano pork today, you're missing out," I said. "It's just an explosion of flavor. The pork is tender and practically falls apart in my teeth, and the pickles add a nice vinegary crunch against the meatiness of the pork and ham and the richness of the cheese. And that structure! I'll never be able to eat a Cubano sandwich on ordinary bread again, not after the flaky crunch of the shaobing. I hope you caught the steam that billowed out when I took that bite. I'd bathe in it.”

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“He cooks from his heart. From his soul." A pause, where I took in his words. "That is, when he is not drawing." That was a surprise. "Drawing?" "He draws little comics," the bartender said. He disappeared down below the bar again. This time when he popped up, he was holding what looked like an old menu. "Look." I took the menu and flipped through. Yes, it listed various dishes and their prices. But the artist---Luke---had doodled all over it, tiny pictures of the food, wavy lines of steam rising over bowls of rice specks and eggs, and slightly larger pictures of the people enjoying them as elaborate anime characters: their eyes enormous, little strings of drool slipping from the corners of mouth slashes, frizzled lines of movement showing their frenzy as they dove through the menu categories looking for more food. "This is adorable," I said with some surprise. I hadn't pictured Luke, with his posh accent that slipped out when he wasn't paying attention and his buttoned-up fancy restaurants, drawing cartoons. "Yes," the bartender said. "Adorable.”

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“Let's do snacks." And snacks, we did. We consumed japchae, stir-fried sweet potato noodles with shredded veggies and beef, that were sweet and savory and wonderfully chewy. Ddukbokki, chewy cylinders of rice cake, soft and springy cakes of sweet ground fish, more veggies, and sweet and spicy gochujang sauce. Soondae, a sausage stuffed with noodles, barley, and pig blood, which I had to say gave me slight pause (and made my Jewish grandmother shriek with terror), but which had the most interesting mix of textures. We cleansed our palates with hobakjuk, a porridge made from glutinous rice and the sweetest steamed pumpkin I'd ever tasted, and finished up with hotteok, sweet, crunchy fried pancakes filled with cinnamon, honey, brown sugar, and peanuts.”

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“The noodle/worm idea was appealing to me. I hadn't made pasta in the competition yet. And noodle kugel was a traditional Jewish dish that held tight to my heart... and could also be made to look extremely disturbing. To be honest, it could be a little gross-looking on the best of days. Noodles submerged in a creamy cheese base, some of them sticking up top to get crispy in the oven. Raisins or other fruits flecking the kugel like little bugs. Maybe I could make the whole thing graveyard-themed. If I was going to make something so rich and heavy and creamy, my other dish should balance it out by being light and savory. And spooky, of course. Maybe organ meats? Chicken feet were extremely scary-looking, maybe with some kind of beet sauce...”

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“I'd used vegetable dyes to color the entire thing a purple so deep it was almost black, the effect of which was fairly unappetizing... but perfect for Halloween, I hoped. I'd turned up the richness of the filling, aiming for a luxurious mouthfeel without being sickening, and made the whole thing more savory, dialing back on the sugar and adding garlic and onion and lots of fresh herbs to cut through the richness. I then rolled bites of it in a potato chip crust and deep-fried them, which sounded bizarre but worked. At least, I thought so. I held my breath as the judges crunched in and chewed thoughtfully. "I love this." Lenore Smith was blunt as always. "It's bizarre, but in all the best ways. The inside is melty and rich and savory, and the outside is perfectly crunchy and salty. It makes me think of an arancini." I was familiar with the fried Italian risotto balls, but I hadn't connected them to my dish until now.”

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“Bennett. Without. A. Shirt. My breath hitched in my throat, jaw dropping the way Bennett had dropped his wet button-down on the scuffed linoleum floor. He had his arms over his head, preparing to put them through the sleeves of the T-shirt, which left his long, lean torso on full display. A thin coating of soft brown-blond hair dusted his pecs and traveled down his stomach in a line. At least it looked soft. Obviously, I wouldn't know without running my fingers over it, following the line it made down his stomach and into his jeans, over his...”

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“I'd have no problem describing the ceviche in words. Raw sea bass, firm and gleaming and presenting just a little resistance to my teeth, marinated in an explosion of sour citrus and ripe garlic and crunchy onion, chile peppers sparking heat on my tongue. The fierce citrus cooked the fish in a way that allowed the essence of the fish to shine through along with the marinade, untouched by fire. To soothe the intense flavors of the ceviche, it was served alongside a simple mashed sweet potato and crunchy pieces of giant corn that tasted like a purer corn chip. We also noshed on maki rolls filled with eel and cream cheese, a strange combo of fat and fat that somehow worked, a salad of pickled sunchokes, some charred octopus with yucca root.”

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“Knives sliced cleanly through the salmon, pink flesh flaking on either side, the crust giving way with a satisfying crunch. Lenore and Maz were eating, too, but I kept my eyes fixed on Luke's fork. He tried a bite of the salmon plain first, chewing thoughtfully, then swept up some of my rice porridge with the seaweed-pickled vegetables, then returned for a bite of everything together, pink salmon and white porridge and pops of green and red all entering his parted lips. He closed his eyes as he tasted my food. He didn't open them again until he swallowed. "The salmon is perfect," he said. "Flaky and tender, with just the right amount of smoke, and the crunch of that crust is just..." He paused, those bottomless eyes on mine. The tip of his tongue darted over his lower lip. "Incredible." I didn't mean to smile, just nod appreciatively at any praise, but I felt it curl over my lips anyway. "Thank you." "I agree," said Lenore. "The salmon is something quite special. Is the crust rice alone?" "No," I said. "It's ground rice with some panko and a little nori." She nodded with approval. "And these seaweed-pickled vegetables are stellar. Bright and tangy, a lovely pop of acid against the richness of the salmon and the porridge.”

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“Sadie." Luke took my hands in his and squeezed. "I loved your food." I would've thought nothing could make my heart flutter like those words, but then he went on. "The chopped liver melted in my mouth with the most luscious feel. The pickled herring was tart and meaty and resisted my teeth just enough to make it a battle. Your duck was so rich, the beets so succulent and slick and smooth. And the babka beignets? They were sweeter than your lips.”

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“Hand-holding, hot. It felt like I was in middle school again. But Bennett traced every inch of my skin, fingers skimming from my wrist up my palm, learning my life lines and my love lines, rubbing each finger from root to tip. My breath caught in my throat as his thumb rubbed an oval into my palm, sending tingles shooting up my arm. Muscles strained in my neck with the effort to keep looking forward as he raised my hand slowly, gently, to his lips and grazed the back of it with a kiss.”

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“I have for you braised and fried chicken feet, served with buffalo sauce, a salad of cauliflower rubble and grated celery, and a blue cheese mascarpone cream." Luke's face lit up as he saw the chicken feet, the exact opposite expressions of Lenore and Maz, who looked very much as if they were at an actual graveyard and had seen an actual claw shoot up from the grave. "It reminds me of dakbal," he breathed, and he sounded for a moment as if it were just the two of us sitting side by side in that Korean speakeasy, shoulder touching shoulder. Unconsciously, I took a step toward him. "My halmoni used to make dakbal as a snack when we visited her in Korea. She'd steam them first, then panfry them until they were charred, and then there was the secret sauce she made, all garlicky and gingery and tingling with gochugaru..." As he trailed off, I could almost taste his grandmother's chicken feet. The chew of the meat after the crisp of the char. The caramelization of the sugars on the skin, and the nose-running spiciness of the sauce. "I didn't know you were Korean," said Maz. That broke the mood. I stepped back, clearing my throat. Meanwhile, Lenore Smith was crunching away. "I was worried about eating these fried chicken feet right after that deep-fried noodle kugel, but this bracing, vinegary salad underneath really cuts through the fat and the richness," she said, swallowing. "I love the chicken feet, but I almost love this salad more. Is that crazy?" "Yes," Luke said. "The chicken feet are delicious. Cooked so that they're tender and also crunchy on the outside, and that sauce is the perfect amount of spicy and vinegary.”

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“Like most normal people, I didn't have any M.F.K Fisher quotes memorized. So I selected one of her books at random---well, not random, the one that looked the least valuable---and flipped to a random page. Hoping I'd find something beautiful but decidedly unsexy, maybe about the smell of a mushroom farm or boxes of durian. Where my eyes landed: Sharing food with another human being is an intimate act that should not be indulged in lightly. Thanks a lot, Mary Frances Kennedy.”

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“The bread was earthy and chewy, crunchy on the bottom and meltingly soft on top, and rather than rubbing the bread with tomato as in a traditional pan con tomate (yes, I'd done my research), the raw tomato had been shredded and mashed and spread on top, a cool, sweet, tangy contrast to the bread. A hint of garlic spoke up in the back of my throat; anchovies whispered underneath, the salt and the brine making everything else taste sweeter.”

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“Quick, what was my favorite thing to cook at the Green Onion that I can make in this time limit? The Green Onion's menu had been plant-focused, not much red meat, with lots of fresh Pacific Northwest seafood. Which was good, because I didn't have a ton of time to spend roasting a full rack of lamb or simmering a brisket. A salad was too simple, falafel was too complicated, and---- Scallops. My mind whirred, gears clicking into place. Scallops cooked quickly. The Green Onion had a scallop special that people really loved. Seared scallops with a green, herby broth and tempura-fried vegetables. I could put my own spin on it and do a fried artichoke instead of the tempura, and make the broth more of a buttery green sauce. Yes. That would be delicious.”

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“My mind started to tumble, much like fresh pasta dough rolls its way through the machine. I hadn't made fresh pasta yet in this competition, and if I could pull it off, I could see it being a real winner. That way I could turn the herb broth and herb butter into an herby butter pasta sauce----maybe with white wine, maybe with some fried capers to cut through the richness with their briny bite. My scallops would go well with with that, being perfectly seared this time, of course. And the artichokes? Maybe I didn't need to fry the hearts whole. I could chop them smaller and fry them like that, crispy little flowers to add some crunch to the soft pasta and meaty scallops.”

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“We also really enjoyed the sunchoke soup and the slow-cooked black bass," said Luke. "Which chef made those?" My fingertips tingled as I raised my hand. "I made them." Luke nodded, his face serious. "The sunchoke soup was creamy, earthy, and smoky all at once, and those bacon croutons were crunchy and added some much-needed texture. We all liked the hint of thyme----it was just enough, as any more would have sent it over the edge. "And the slow-cooked black bass was so tender it almost melted in our mouths. The preserved tomato broth was a touch salty for our tastes, and we thought the cauliflower could have been cooked a little less, but the texture of the nutty farro stood up against the broth and the fish quite well." He swallowed hard and looked me in the eye. What was that I saw now? Admiration? "Very nice, Chef Sadie." I gave him the barest nod in response, but I felt like jumping up and down.”

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“The waiter arrived with our entrées. Because we'd "ordered light," there were also only two of these. A firm whitefish with crispy skin that glistened under the light and shattered between my teeth, nestled atop a smooth, creamy carrot-ginger puree, luscious with just the right amount of butter (a lot). Roasted carrots, yellow and purple and orange but always caramelized on the outside added pops of sweetness and texture, and candied ginger was sprinkled on top, providing some spice and some chew. I was sad when it came time to move on to the second entrée, but it cheered me right up. A pasta that had clearly been made here, thick strands that were tender but with a chew to them, bathed in a sauce of coconut milk and garlic and ginger and chiles. I could've slurped this pasta down all on its own, forever, but the buttery chunks of shrimp and crunchy bits of okra scattered throughout made for most welcome diversions. Okra seeds popped with relish on my tongue.”

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Book:Best Served Hot
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“The strong urge to give her the biggest hug I possibly could swamped me. But then our entrées came, and sorry, Alice, but they smelled so good I only wanted to hug them. Which I did not do, because then they'd be all over my shirt and not in my mouth. Which was the only place I wanted the beef roll, tender shreds of beef braised in garlic and ginger and soy sauce all chopped up and snuggled tightly inside a flaky, oniony, tender scallion pancake. The effect was something like beef Wellington, but better. Alice and I gobbled it down, using our fingertips to scrape up the last few flakes of pancake in the hot, peppery sauce. Then we turned to the other dish. "Is this... a doughnut sandwich?" Alice asked, cocking her head and blinking. "Yes," I said with relish. Alice's entire face lit up. "Excellent." And it was. From the outside, it looked like any normal glazed doughnut, shiny with hardened sugar and puffy from the heat. But the chef had sliced it down the middle and filled it with the most delightful combination of ingredients: a salty, savory aged prosciutto-like ham that melted in my mouth; little bits of tart, sweet pickled pineapple, leaves of grassy cilantro. Together, when they came into contact with the sweet, fluffy doughnut, everything crashed into a bite that was sugary and crunchy and tart and spicy and bright, so bright.”

SeasoningsDoughnutEntreesUmamiFlavor CombosTaiwanese
Book:Best Served Hot
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“Check out this fish knife," they said, holding it up with a flourish. Though the shelves running through the big, warehouse-like space were tall, the ceiling light still glinted off the knife's hooked, nasty top. "Bet I could fillet Vanilla Joe like a trout." "I would not advise that," I said. Kel's face dropped, until I held up a cheese grater the size of my head. "How about grating him instead?" That was perhaps a tiny bit of overkill for his general level of douchebaggery, but we shared a grim laugh anyway.”

TorturesKitchen Appliances
Book:Sadie on a Plate
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“We set up shop on a nearby bench, me starting with the savory order--- trout roe; sour cream; pickled radish--- and him with the sweet one--- spicy apple chutney; honey; whipped cream. The second savory order, with smoked salmon and dill and cucumber, we balanced between us, because I couldn't limit us to only two options after all. And really, when it came to fried potatoes, the more the merrier. Especially these, because they were excellent: lacy and crisp, with crunchy edges and soft, pillowy centers.”

ToppingsJewish FoodSweet And SavoryFried PotatoesLatkes
Book:Love You a Latke
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“We both went in for a bite, our spoons clinking against each other over the wide blue bowl. I understood his hesitation because the combination of ingredients inside just seemed so bizarre: soft pearls of earthy quinoa formed the base, mixed with chewy bits of slab bacon, avocado, bananas, and Brazil nuts. I popped the spoonful into my mouth and chewed, expecting these ingredients to clash with one another. But they didn't. They sang together, the saltiness and chew of the bacon mixing with the sweet, silky banana and grassy, buttery avocado. The salty crunch of the Brazil nuts gave the dish texture, and the quinoa was a fairly neutral stage for all the rest to shine. The whole effect was unique, something I wasn't quite sure how to write about. How to put it all into words. But, I thought as I cocked my head, it'll speak really well in a photo, where you can see all these different things mashed up against one another. It'll be beautiful, like its taste.”

UniqueSaladBananasUnassumingBaconFood CombiningQuinoaAvocado
Book:Best Served Hot
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“But my own style, I'd say, is more homestyle, with Jewish influences? Not kosher cooking; that's a different thing. I'm inspired by traditional Jewish cuisine." Paper rustled on the other end. "Right, the matzah ball ramen you cooked in your video looked fantastic. We were all drooling in the room!" I perked up. Forgot that I was naked. Forgot that lately I was a walking disaster. "That's one of my go-tos and will definitely be on my future menu. I've been experimenting lately with putting a spin on kugels..." As I chattered on, I could practically see my grandma shaking her head at me. Grandma Ruth had cooked up a storm for every Passover, Yom Kippur, and Chanukah, piling her table till it groaned with challah rolls, beef brisket in a ketchup-based sauce, and tomato and cucumber salad so fresh and herby and acidic it could make you feel like summer in the middle of winter.”

InspirationalGrandmaCuisineFusionPersonal StyleJewish Food
Book:Sadie on a Plate
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“For one, the lomo saltado was so delicious I thought I might forget my own name. It was beef tenderloin stir-fried so that the sugars in the marinade caramelized on the outside, making it crispy and chewy and as tender as the name in the middle, on a big blue platter piled high with roasted tomatoes, various salsas and chiles, and crispy fries. The idea was to wrap pieces of beef and the toppings in the scallion pancakes that came along with it. What resulted were flavor bombs, savory and spicy and fatty and crispy, all accentuated by the sweet, tangy pop of tomato. Flakes of scallion pancakes drifted from my lips down to my plate as my teeth crunched through each bite. "I can't even handle how good this is," I said, then swallowed because I couldn't wait to say it. The other two dishes we'd ordered were pretty great, too----a whole branzino marinated and charred so that we picked it clean off its spindly bones and ate it with greens and roasted peppers; a half chicken roasted with aji amarillo chile paste and served over shiitake mushrooms and a lime crema---but the lomo saltado was the true star of the table. I could already picture how it was going to look on my page. The golden-brown fries glistening with oil. The beef shaded from light pink in the center to deep brown on the edges. The ruby red tomatoes nestled among them. And the scallion pancakes serving as a lacy backdrop.”

PancakesFrench FriesUmamiPicturesque DescriptionPeruvianStirfryScallionsWhitefish
Book:Best Served Hot
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“I stopped worrying about the precise amounts of tiny caviar pearls that went atop each pillow of cheese, and started looking around me to see what the other chefs were doing. As I knew, Vanilla Joe on my left was handing out his homemade pigs in a blanket, his hand-ground sausages wrapped in what looked like hand-rolled pastry, all served with a variety of dipping sauces he must also have made himself (including vanilla aioli, obviously). The judges were at his station now. From the big, cheesy grin on Vanilla Joe's mustached mouth and the rhapsodizing tones of Charles Weston's and Maz's voices that floated my way, they loved it. I scowled. On my other side, Kaitlyn looked to be handing out arancini balls atop a bed of crisp greens and pickled vegetables. Probably tasty, but hard to eat in one bite---the judges always took that into account. She was laughing and talking with each guest, assembling her dishes in a way that looked totally effortless; was she even sweating at all? Guests wandered by with charred meat on a skewer, alternating with ripe chunks of watermelon and tomato. In the distance I could see Kel cooking up spoon bread with what looked like mushrooms. Megan was frying dumplings, which made my mouth water thinking about the inner mixture of pork and cabbage and water chestnuts. When I saw somebody eating takoyaki balls, I assumed that was Bald Joe's work----after all, the tender balls of fried dough and octopus were a traditional Japanese street food. Somebody else had soup shooters.”

VendorsHors D Oeuvres
Book:Sadie on a Plate
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“Alice and I have photographed and eaten jerk chicken over plantains, spicy and sweet; cups of icy, sweet, rich halo-halo piled with red beans and fruit cocktail; lobster roll sliders stuffed full of delicate shellfish on buttery brioche; pani puri, the fried Indian hollow rounds of dough loaded up with mashed potato and chickpeas and sweet, tangy tamarind chutney. My camera was happy. I was happy.”

VendorsCultural Cuisine
Book:Best Served Hot
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“If I was indeed seeking a mate by fishing for him and then eating him, I hoped he'd be the lobster in the fried lobster and waffles. Anything fried well always looked delicious---light brown, glistening slightly with oil---and these chunks of lobster in their coating of crispy batter couldn't have looked more appealing atop the delicate squares of golden waffle smeared with a sunset of sweet potato butter.”

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Book:Best Served Hot
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