A SPLURGY, RESTAURANT PASTA AT HOME

Bucatini with wild mushrooms and lentils: my most memorable pasta dinner, for a quarter of the price. A love letter to a former life.

Hello, dear friends.

Lately, I have been reading—long form, short form, essays, books—and relishing in the quieting of my thoughts as I learn from others. There’s so much to say and not say about the world around us. This essay, Nothing to Say, by Sophia Efthimiatou, so poignantly expresses our times of informational overwhelm and knowing when adding our voice to the mix doesn’t help. Instead, I’m here with a pasta dish I hope fills a deep bucket of longing—a longing for comfort, for greatness.

Inevitably, when I eat out with my daughter (increasingly, my favorite dinner date), she orders whatever mushroom pasta dish is on the menu. This is one of the many things I love about her. Before she commits, she’ll often turn to me and ask, “Is it okay if I order the mushroom pasta?” subtly acknowledging the price tag. Frequently, it is one of the pricier choices on the menu (wild mushrooms take knowledge, practice, and time to source, clean, and cook). I say yes because I love her and because I love her confidence. I love her knowledge of herself and what is good in the world.

Whenever her dish comes, I know she made the right choice. She orders what she wants. I order what I think I should have—the good deal, the healthy protein, the meal with the most vegetables.

This wasn’t always so. As a young line cook at Café Boulud in New York City many moons ago, I often dined out with my fellow cooks. We were broke and hopelessly romantic about food, spending every last dime for the best of the best—to feast at the most noteworthy tables across the city.

One night, a group of us made a reservation at Le Bernardin (still New York City’s top table 25 years later—and the best restaurant in the US, according to La Liste). We were conspicuous at our big, round center table—younger, probably louder, and more curious than the other diners around us. We discussed every dish, passed plates, and picked things apart verbally. What was that spice? What made it so creamy—cream or creme fraiche?