Acknowledgments

When the meal’s over, what’s left? When the plates are taken away, what remains?

This project began as an exploration of food, but it ended as an exploration of creativity. Working with chefs, and trying to figure out how they do the things they do, helped me to see how my own creative process works. Creativity never stops. Throughout this project, chefs talked about the particular nature of food-based creativity. This is the particular nature: it goes away fast. When the meal’s chewed, when it’s swallowed, no real evidence remains. So how can an artist prove that he or she has made something? This book is really about the term of a creative project, that it extends beyond the work itself in both directions. Creativity starts before the product and ends long after the product has gone: after it’s been consumed, viewed, experienced. And that’s because a true creative product, no matter what part of its life cycle it’s in, keeps humming with curiosity, still asking questions. It takes a form, but then it helps the people who encounter it to form a take. It spurs people to ask questions of their own. That, to me, is the definition of art: inquiry made interesting. The question mark at the beginning of my name isn’t just for show. It’s for tell, too.

Creative ideas are intersections. They are two beams of light that cross to make a brighter beam of light—or three beams of light, or four, or more. And because of that, creativity is a group effort. The idea may be yours, but you exist within a matrix of others. Your ability to see what they contribute to the way an idea develops isn’t part of the skill. It is the skill.

These principles guide chefs and their food. They also guide musicians and their books. I’d like to extend a huge thank you to the team that helped a vision become a reality: Ben Greenman, Alexis Rosenzweig, Marc Gerald, Kyoko Hamada, Jeanette Abbink, Reed Barrow, Beth Lesko, Misha Gravenor, Colin Strohm, Julian Horn, Erin McDowell, Ashley Ricart, Kevin Rogers, Whitney Martin, Ramsey Alderson, Augusta Sagnelli, Daniel Dorsa, Naomi McColloch, and Sara Mark.

I would also like to extend respect and admiration to Francis Lam and the entire team at Clarkson Potter for thinking outside the box. Books like this only happen in partnership with the right book people.

Chefs are the head of the creative operation, and the chefs in this book were quick to remind me that nothing in their restaurants is possible without a supportive staff. From back of house to front of house, everyone is a neuron in the same brain.

Many neurons came together in the making of this book: At Modernist Cuisine: Fransisco Migoya, Melissa Lukach, Sara Mark, Stephanie Swane, and Scott Heimendinger (and everyone at the lab who let me geek out for a day); at Eleven Madison Park: Amy Livingston and Kristen Turkel; at Zahav: Felica D’Ambrosio and Amy Henderson; at Trois Mec: Doug Rankin and Kristen Lefebvre; the teams at NEXT and Dai Due; the entire staff at Atelier Crenn; at Coi: Alexandra Foote and the gracious staff; at Nodoguro: Elena Roadhouse and Colin Yoshimoto: and the staff at the Chateau Marmont.

And now the chefs themselves, the people who transform food into a physical and sensual reality, who make ideas matter, who make me think about food in the same way I think about music or art. These chefs took me into their worlds and I am forever appreciative of being let in. Thank you to Nathan Myhrvold, Daniel Humm, Michael Solomonov, Ludo Lefebvre, Dave Beran, Jesse Griffiths, Donald Link, Dominique Crenn, Daniel Patterson, and Ryan Roadhouse. When I began this book, I knew that the creative process behind food would illuminate and refine my own creative process But I didn’t know how much. From every tiny remark about appetizer ingredients to every knock-down, drag-out conversation about the evolution of the process of dining in public, those men and women helped me think new and surprising thoughts about the things I made.

Food is creative and intellectual, but food memories are personal. I wanted to also throw some light toward people who I think about when I think about food: friends, family, close-to-hearters. To my aunts and uncles, for the Sunday dinners after church. To my cousins, who I’d fight with trying to claim the cereal prize at Grandma’s. To my Grandma, who ended my two-year-running vegetarian childhood with bacon. To my Uncle June, who taught me the world’s best egg omelet consists of milk, cheese, turkey and a dab of vanilla extract. To Ms. Riley, who fed the block every summer with those half sandwiches and hugs (quarter waters to the rest of y’all). To John C, who would occasionally be down with sharing his sandwiches when I spent my lunch money on records in school. To Mama Angelina’s on Locust, less for the food and more for the idea (new at the time) of attracting customers with video games—it got me into a lot of trouble as a kid. To my morning school breakfast spots: Harris’, Gus’, and Jack Myers (I miss the 25¢ Tastykake Oatmeal Bars), Pete’s & Jerry’s (who knew cheddar, butter, and jelly on a raisin bagel was a great idea?). To my sister Donn, who made the best Jiffy Pop for my 1 a.m. viewing of Soul Train and who took me to my first sushi restaurant. To my Dad, whose antidote to me spilling Mom’s burning hot food on my lap would be to sacrifice himself and spill some on his own lap, too, so he could catch up to me running 300 mph out the door—that was hilarious to me at 10. To my Mom, for always making me feel like each spot we went to was some ritzy high-class place, even if it was Roy Rogers. To Tariq, for teaching me that the best dates could be had for 10 bucks at Wawa (4 rolls for $1.25, a half pound of honey turkey for $2.75, a quarter pound of pepper cheese for $2.15, a half gallon of punch/lemonade/tea for 99¢, all the napkins/mustard/plastic utensils for free, and split a Butterscotch Krimpets with what was left)—and that, if the girl was worth it, you could trek all the way to Yeadon for the dollar theater with free popcorn. To my Roots cohorts past and present—I’ll never forget London ’94, when we only had 40 quid and no electricity in our loft and still made a miracle with fish, chips, cheese, and red sauce. To the Black Lily movement, all the artists/musicians/poets/part-time singers/mcs/hangers-on/observers/staff/organizers/babysitters who were lured to the jam sessions by Terry’s cooking. To the Tastytreats Crew of 2002–2012, for spreading good music and good Tastykakes throughout Philadelphia. To Nance, for forgiving me eventually for embracing hard-shell tacos when it was a slap in the face of authenticity. To Saana Hamri, the world’s BEST tea maker. To my Quest Loves Food partners and collaborators, for making a lifestyle and dream turn into magic. To Jimmy Fallon, for providing a place for all the chefs I dreamed about meeting. To Lorne Michaels, for being easily sold with a bag of popcorn. To everyone in 6b, for being there for the occasional treats (sorry about the failed “double down” experiment—I almost sent 30 of y’all to the hospital). To my personal “Cheers,” En Brasserie—thanks for everything guys, Love “Norm.” To Steven Starr, major gratitude! To My Blue Ribbon Gods: Thank Ye! To my salt-tasting, lemon-sucking, vanilla-coconut-loving, avocado-stealing, bread-snacking, goat-cheese-advocating food segregationalist assistant Zarah: Chipotle is NOT a place one needs to eat four times a day! To Steve, who blames me for his having The Sugars. To Maddie, who swears nothing is better than her mom’s cookin’. To Christine Farrier, for literally banning me from certain restaurants without her permission. To Elita Bradley, all my undying thanks and love for your talent. To William, my partner in culinary crime. To Ardenia, for making everything with love. To Sascha, for all the enlightenment and caviar. To my beer tutor Daria, here’s a toast. To Alexis Rosenzweig, for carrying the heaviest torch to the end. To Shawn Gee, for taking us further than we ever thought we’d go. To everyone I shared a meal and broke bread with—if we had a meal together, that really means something significant.

Lastly but not leastly, no Philadelphian with a book about food should fail to acknowledge the true culinary masters of his city. So here are the top cheesesteak providers (look, everyone has an opinion; I’m name dropping my faves—not yours): Gennaro’s, Ishkabibble’s, Cosmi’s, Tony Luke’s, Philly’s Finest Sambonis (food truck—catch ’em if you can), Max’s Steaks, Pagano’s Steaks, Barclay Prime (I know it’s real 1% of me to brag about the $100 Cheesesteak…but it’s really that good), Chubby’s, and George’s Pizza. And then the best hoagie joints: Ricci’s Hoagies, Melino’s Hoagies, Dalessandro’s, Wawa (hey, if it’s 2 a.m. after clubbing, you are allowed to consider Wawa a spot for authentic Philly hoagies). And special mention to Bottom of the Sea, home of the “Lapdance.” Everyone that grew up around the way has at least one or two hood “fish sammich” spots they still frequent. I’m thinking about putting clothes on now and running over before they close at 2, and I’m hours away from home. My trainer hates you all, but I never let a health nut get in the way of our ongoing affair. Thank you for representing my city well, and for making it easy every time I had to make a list for a band or an ex-girlfriend’s parents or a food blogger.

My love to you all.