Up in the air the salad goes—arugula, multicolored cherry tomatoes, olive oil, and lemon juice—and down it splashes, most of it landing in the big metal bowl, as I intended, and some of it sloshing over the side. Chef Jonathan Waxman, with a bemused look on his face, says, “Good. Now try again.”
We are in the kitchen of Barbuto, Waxman’s West Village restaurant, and as the summer sun streams through big glass windows, the master imparts his culinary knowledge to me, his eager student. Waxman, who’s often credited with introducing California cuisine to New York City in the 1970s and who mentored a young Bobby Flay, is a born teacher. Instead of showing off his legendary cooking chops during our time together, he has me do everything. I came here to learn from the master and, apparently, the best way to learn how to cook like a master is to actually cook.
So Waxman has me begin with a large red heirloom tomato.
“You’re going to cut the core out with this knife,” he says, handing me a large chef’s knife with a long blade. “Hold it like a pencil and you’ll get laser accuracy.”
I carefully maneuver the knife around the core, Waxman looking over my shoulder and correcting my grip before I hurt myself. Then he has me repeat the process with several more tomatoes, after which I dice them.
I ask questions and Waxman tells me I worry too much. The edict seems to be “Don’t take this too seriously,” even though the food we’re making, when it’s finished, is pretty serious.
We proceed to a stove, where Waxman shows me how to tip a whole bottle of olive oil upside down, stemming the flow of oil with my thumb. The oil heats in a pan, and then I add eggplant, which I also have diced myself.
“Don’t shake the pan yet,” he warns. “You lose heat and disturb caramelization.”
When the eggplant’s browned all over, I add tomatoes to the pan and then add gnocchi to a separate hot pan. “How long does the gnocchi cook?” I ask.
“Why do you need to know that?”
“Umm … I guess so we can time the sauce to finish when the gnocchi finishes?”
Waxman shakes his head. “People shouldn’t look at clocks when they cook. You don’t time it; you just feel it.” Indeed, when the gnocchi is brown and feels like it’s done, it goes into the pan with the tomatoes and eggplant, along with some scallions and a Fresno chili. Voilà: the alchemy of lunch.
And so it goes as I prepare several dishes (including that salad in the big bowl) that we ultimately serve to Waxman’s staff. Waxman doesn’t say much—he just watches me—and by the time we’re done, I feel empowered and remarkably capable.
By trusting me to do everything, Waxman makes me a better cook.
“Cooking’s the opposite of science: it’s alchemy.”
Serves 4
Summer ingredients rarely want to be cooked, but this is the dish to make when you want to coax deep flavor out of the eggplant and tomatoes that you bring home from the market. You can’t be afraid of fat here; the butter and olive oil are essential for cooking the eggplant. “It soaks them up,” explains Waxman, “and they help it cook properly.” The gnocchi itself can be store-bought and frozen; it’ll brown straight from the freezer in a pan of hot fat and finish cooking in the sauce.
Extra virgin olive oil (about ½ cup)
1 medium eggplant, cut into medium cubes
Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper
Unsalted butter, at room temperature (5 to 6 tablespoons)
2 large red heirloom tomatoes, cored and cut into a large dice
1 pound store-bought gnocchi*
1 Fresno chili*, minced
1 scallion, chopped
Coat a stainless-steel sauté pan with olive oil (about ¼ cup). Raise the heat, and just before it starts smoking, add the eggplant and don’t move it around. Season with salt and pepper. After a few minutes, when the eggplant has had time to color, shake the pan. If the eggplant is sticking (and it very well might), add a knob of butter (let’s say 1 tablespoon) and shake the pan again. Let the eggplant keep cooking until it detaches, and then toss the eggplant around by shaking and flipping it in the pan. Lower the heat slightly.
After a few more minutes, when the eggplant is golden brown on all sides, take a large piece out and cut into it. Taste it: if it’s cooked all the way, or almost all the way, you’re ready for the next step. This is a good time to adjust the seasoning too.
Add all the tomatoes and their juices. Season with more salt and pepper, add a glug of olive oil, and toss.
While that’s simmering, start the gnocchi. In another sauté pan, heat 3 tablespoons olive oil and 2 tablespoons butter until very, very hot (almost to the smoking point). Add the gnocchi and shake the pan to make one even layer. Season with salt and pepper and allow the gnocchi to cook until it caramelizes, about a minute. When it’s golden brown on one side, toss the gnocchi over using a spoon and cook on the other side. (Careful: as it heats, the gnocchi will become delicate.)
To finish, add the gnocchi to the pan with the sauce, along with the Fresno chili, scallions, another tablespoon or two of butter, and a splash of water. Toss on medium heat (careful not to break up the gnocchi) and then pour onto a large platter. Serve hot.
Serves 4
“People are too scared when they make salad,” Waxman told me. “You have to relax, think about ingredients.” This salad has just a few ingredients, and that’s the way Waxman likes it. “People overload salad,” he continued. “They put in mustard, shallots, all that crap. But the best salads have the fewest ingredients.” Because there are so few ingredients in this particular salad, source the best you can find (tomatoes are best in late summer). Tossing them all in the air isn’t just a way to show off; it prevents you from damaging the lettuce and tomatoes with salad tongs.
A dozen heirloom cherry tomatoes (preferably multicolored), sliced in half along the equator (with the stem as the top of the globe)
1 large red heirloom tomato, diced
2 to 3 big handfuls of arugula (washed and spun dry)
Extra virgin olive oil
Lemon juice* (a few squeezes from 1 lemon)
Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper
Put the tomatoes and the arugula in a very large bowl. Use your thumb to stop the top of a bottle of olive oil and turn it completely upside down. Drizzle a generous amount of oil over everything until it’s lightly coated. Squeeze the lemon into the bowl and sprinkle salt and pepper over everything.
Now toss: flip the tomatoes and greens on themselves by making a swooping motion with the bowl (much like flipping an omelet). Taste for salt, pepper, and acid and adjust. Serve quickly, before the acid from the lemon wilts the arugula.
Serves 4
The first time I ever made a seafood stew, it was a disaster. I overloaded a pot with fish and potatoes and left it on high heat for so long that half an hour later, the fish was so overcooked it resembled Sally Field’s performance in Not Without My Daughter. The secret to Waxman’s remarkable fish stew (which he talked me through, improvisationally, after a fisherman delivered an enormous portion of swordfish) is that you only need to cook it just enough.
Extra virgin olive oil
2 cloves garlic, smashed*
1 large shallot, minced
1 baby fennel bulb, stems cut into small pieces and the bulb diced (if you can’t find baby fennel, use half a regular fennel)
Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper
1 medium fillet of swordfish, skin cut off, cut into cubes
1 medium fillet of cod, skin left on, cut into cubes
6 to 8 mussels*, scrubbed and debearded
6 to 8 heirloom cherry tomatoes, sliced in half
½ glass (about 2½ ounces) white wine*
Juice of ½ lemon
1 to 2 tablespoons unsalted butter
Heat the olive oil in a medium pot on medium heat and add the garlic and shallot. Cook briefly, until aromatic, and then add the fennel. Season with salt and pepper and continue to cook, tossing occasionally, until tender.
Add all the fish, season again, toss, then add the mussels, tomatoes, wine, lemon juice, and butter. Cover the pan and shake. Cook for a minute or two, until the mussels open and the fish is just cooked inside.
Pour onto a large platter and serve hot.
