issue no. 14: on kitchens

However the chef recommends.

my proclivity for men in food.

My uncle told me never to date a writer, a man I was seeing last year said on a date, everything becomes material.  I retorted: and I was told to never date a chef. He laughed, that's probably true. We were sitting at a now defunct “French” restaurant on Vanderbilt Avenue, the main drag of Prospect Heights. It was industry night and meals for people who worked in restaurants were 50% off. We are going to eat like kings, he said to me. We ordered nearly everything on the menu and then had what I can confidently say was the worst creme brûlée of my whole life. I’m not a picky eater, I am a picky dater. In fact, I love most food. You’ll rarely hear me complain at a meal. Plus, I’m usually surrounded by people who know significantly more about food and wine than I do—people that some would call experts and others would call snobs. But both of us, me the eater and him the restaurateur, agreed this was one of the most inedible meals we’ve ever had. We left, had a second dessert up the road at Lalou (talk about having your cake and then having another cake) before returning to my apartment to make out on my kitchen counter. 

Photo by Meghan McNeer

This would be the second to last time I ever saw him, our courtship lasted half as long as this terrible French place that boarded itself up six months after it had opened. It made me think about expiration dates—that some things are meant to turn sour, to be tossed in the garbage along with the overly confident vegetables I bought at the farmers market. By the laws of attraction and expiration, the bad things and the good things both have the possibility go south—the best restaurants, the hottest summer flings. Not everything could or should last forever. 

When I moved into my Williamsburg apartment in the Fall of 2019, I had big dreams for the space. The apartment was a unicorn, somehow expansive and inexpensive, positioned right above a smoke shop called Vapeology 101 on Metropolitan Ave. I painted everything a cool white and covered the walls in art. I had the closet rebuilt by taking the doors off and using them for shelving. I found a ten foot pink sofa at Dobbin St. Coop and a structural gray dining table at Lichen. I installed the largest paper lantern Pearl River had to offer—at 36” inches it was the closest thing to a Noguchi light my 26-year-old self was getting.

The kitchen, however, was fake paneled wood and had the ceiling of an accountants office in a strip mall—those textured tiles that you push up to reveal electrical wires and maybe even a crawl space. There was a white metal chandelier and more colors of wood than you could count. Not to mention, the yellow linoleum countertops. I called it my country western kitchen. 

In the summer of 2020, when I had returned from 2 months of quarantine in Vermont—I went on a warpath to reimagine this kitchen. If it was beautiful, I’d surely use it more right? New knobs, every surface painted, beautiful pot racks and a textured rug. I put lipstick on a pig. And it worked, sort of. The bathroom is next, I said to a friend. Why are you putting work into a space you don’t own, it's like setting money on fire?, she said. Harsh and, unfortunately, correct. So in my truest form, instead of pausing renovations and living happily with my rent-stabilized 1200 square foot apartment, I switched focus and tried to figure out whether I could buy one.

I want a kitchen that I don’t have to touch, I said to my real estate agent, Manek. The prospect of buying a new range or fridge was certainly out of the question and out of budget. I didn’t know how to be a homeowner, let alone how to redesign and rebuild a kitchen. With a narrowed list, I landed on a space whose previous owners had entirely redone the kitchen three months before leaving. A surprise job transfer took them to Seattle. It wasn’t the way I would have designed it, but it was beautiful and brand new and I swore one day, I’d retile the small patch of backsplash that felt like an afterthought.

Quickly, after moving in, I realized that even having a new beautiful kitchen wouldn’t change the frequency with which I cooked. I loved to host, creating big spreads for friends who’d come to visit, or having quarterly dinner parties and making

Alison Roman

’s citrus fish and sticky apple cake for a table of twelve. But my kitchen is mostly storage—not quite like Carrie’s piles of sweaters in her oven on Sex and the City—but definitely severely underused. 

Citrus fish and a de-panning of the sticky apple cake one NYE.

Cooking for myself is sad, I said just last week to a long dinner table of friends in Sonoma. It's not something that brings me any joy. There was an audible aww, but they understood. Food was in many ways about community and togetherness, about sitting around a table and talking about the things you like and don’t like. I’m sure that will change when I have a partner, or at least I’ll be able to split the bill. I joked to add some levity to my own serious commentary.  I couldn’t tell if my disdain for cooking alone was more about the kitchen or the man.

I was sitting at Scribe Winery, a family-run vineyard that sits on my very short list of my favorite places on the planet. I was there for work, producing my friend Katherine’s book tour and staying at the hacienda on the property. I had been here many times over the years, first when Domino shot the space for our Summer issue in the spring of 2017. Returning was always special, sprawling grounds, fresh produce from the farm, a large kitchen that opened onto the main deck where guests drink and eat. I remembered when I got to the space that the last time I actually woke up here (to the line of palm trees that line the drive up and the early fog that breaks around one) was when my mother was alive. 

It is always wild to return to places—like my trip to Italy or this stay in Sonoma—that have this type of context. A context that predates death, a context before I considered myself a serious person, a context that is constantly getting further away. Unlike Italy, the last time I stayed here, I was not in love. I was bright-eyed and single and had a new job in the editorial world and a terrible apartment in Bushwick in a building with Dr. Sex graffitied on the side. My flare for the dramatics would tell you that I had my youth taken away from me by my mother’s death, but there is some truth in the way grief ages you before you are ready—a quicker fermentation process, not enough time in the barrel. 

You know most people are using rancid olive oil, someone noted at the dinner table. You are supposed to use it, not let it sit slowly going bad. It's not that olive oil technically expired but that, sort of like wine, once opened it should be consumed. I thought about all the half opened olive oil bottles on my kitchen counter. I thought about the eggs in my fridge from the farmer’s market that I couldn't remember how many weeks ago I had bought.

This was the same kitchen that until 6 months ago, had no tupperware. Something that friends pointed out after a dinner party—how do you save anything? I had spent years using an imperfect system—takeout containers, things guests had left behind, random pieces I bought at the grocery store in a pinch, tin foil. But when trying to store the 3-day marinated Nobu miso cod I just made for a dinner party, not having ANY tupperware is a little silly. I remember thinking that I was good at saving memories, at holding on to objects—non-perishable items could live forever on my shelves. Why save things that would leave or turn?

Shelves and shelves of non-perishables.

The last time I saw him (the boy who I had inedible creme brûlée with) we were at a dinner in an empty restaurant, fitting for a break up in that it was quiet except for the fact that the servers came over every 3 minutes to refill water glasses and ask if we needed anything else. I had been gone for two weeks in Vermont, and he had grown colder and more distant. In an attempt to get some clarity I asked what we were doing. I remembering saying I was having fun and I liked him but I also didn’t need anything from him. He told me I was important to him (that was probably a lie) and that we were friends (which we weren’t) and that our relationship didn’t just have to be romantic (he actually said sexual but I have family members who read this). So are you breaking up with me? I said. No, no, he said nervously. Okay, so you want to be friends with benefits?, I asked. I’m not saying that. I was getting frustrated so I asked him what he wanted. He didn’t know. Then he went quiet, he had to go home to work, we got the bill, and we hugged outside of the G train. The last words he said to me were, let me know when you are in town next. I walked to my best friend’s house stone-faced for a mile in a 2.5 inch heel, before taking my shoes off and sobbing in her bed.

There were plenty of red flags, of moments I noticed where things might be turning for the worst that I ignored. And this was not a man I could preserve, it had gone bad. Maybe dating was like cooking—you could throw a lot of compatible ingredients together and even then sometimes it didn’t work. Or it tasted great but wasn’t satiating enough. 

When I was in Japan in November, I got a text from our mutual friend that this man was engaged to someone he met in April, it was love at first sight, she texted me. It was Thanksgiving and I was sitting with my family at a soba restaurant in a small town near Kyoto. We dated from May to July, how is that possible? It explained so much, the distance, the pace of things. 

I mean, you met him at a wine rave, a friend said. I laughed and looked up when the next one was happening, if anything for another good story. Storage containers, screenshots of texts, journals and letters, aside, things fade, expire, get taped over. He was right though, everything was material, even him. And that never goes bad.

Said wine rave, complete with a wine bottle bib.

home goods.

My guide to an aesthetic kitchen.

1. I have such a smattering of napkins collected over the years and I tend to lean simple but bright—like from Block Shop or Atelier Saucier.

2. I am relatively short and my cabinets are wildly tall—I’ve been eyeing this amazing step stool at Forsyth as a solve.

3. I’m a selective cookbook collector—mostly buying visually inspiring vintage cookbooks like this Dali one I found at housing works OR from friends who are chefs. I just purchased Camille Becerra’s new book Bright Cooking.

4. My favorite cutting board is a vintage cheetah print one that was a Christmas present (an astute gift after I declared animal print was in fact coming back in style). I also love the confetti ones from Frederick’s & Mae.

5. I dreamed so long about these paper clip stools that Shannon from Yowie first intro’d me to. I bought a similar Jennifer fisher for CB2 version which adds a metallic punch to my dark kitchen.

6. If you haven’t seen the first episode of Sex and the City, now is your sign to. This pepper mill is 15 inches long, if you are counting.

7. Luke Edward Hall can do no wrong in my book—I was given a tray like this a few years ago from his Ginori collection and use it regularly to serve dishes.

8. My bar is stocked with vintage and new glassware (as I talked about in the last issue) but its also complete with some playful barware like this Gohar citrus squeezer.

9. I was in the Hamptons for events and during some down time bought a tea caddy for $10 at a store that had $1600 quilts. Turns out they are from this chic brand from the UK.

10. I’ve talked about my love for Yvon Lambert before—both posters in my kitchen are from their archive.

sloppy secondhand.

Each issue I’ll pick a favorite vintage spot & a local watering hole—maybe you’ll find a new-to-you sofa or a new-to-you man. All I can promise is perhaps some promiscuity and a little credit card debt.

Bar Contra—The boys are back with Bar Contra—I went opening night and let me just tell you the cocktails are some of the best I’ve ever had. There were sexy booths, a poster of a black cat, and ice cream made from potatoes.

Shop Feels Good—my not-so-secret, secret shopping destination is in my friend Katie’s apartment. The selection of 90s and early aughts wear is a dream—at this point a quarter of my wardrobe is from her her shop called Feels Good. Do yourself a favor and book an appointment.

shop girl.

I shop more than I date, here is everything I bought or saw recently:

1. I gasped when I saw this Norma Kamali at vintage store on Orchard street. Perfect for my big red birthday I’m throwing this month.

2. This Chardonnay from Scribe is my new go to—I’ve been craving rounder, warmer whites this summer and this skin fermented bottle is divine.

3. I’ve spent the last few weeks wearing these Warby sunnies, a great summer vacay look.

4. I kid you not this Tibi shirt is the best staple I’ve ever owned. It’s chic and cropped and looks good over literally everything.

5. I brought this Helmut Newton poster back from my Italy trip, it’s so evocative and brings me back to my time in Venice.

6. I am living in this infinity wrap top from Great Eros, so very Monica Vitti. I have it in two colors and am considering buying a third.

7. Jesus Christ these Marni shoes. I need them, that’s all.

8. Out east a few weeks ago, I found myself at the summer party of the Parrish—these stone sculptures that looked like paintings had me in awe.

9. Clare V. has been surprising me lately—this studded number is coming with me to Europe and will be a staple this fall.

10. I got this LV guide to Lisbon as an early gift and have not put it down. Surprisingly, it’s a mix of local flavor and accessible finds with edits of hotels and restaurants. Who the hell knew LV had so much to say about travel but I’m here for it.

xxHappy Leo Szn to all who celebrate. See you in September.