I was working as a curator and director at High Style Deco – a high-end art deco and mid-century modern gallery in New York City’s Chelsea neighbourhood – and moments away from closing the sale of a solid brass sideboard once owned by Andy Warhol. Politely excusing myself from my client, I walked in what felt like slow motion to a quiet corner of the room.
Rob spoke for a minute or two. I felt my eyes well up and my voice crack. I swallowed, took a moment to catch my breath, and thanked him about fourteen times, the words ‘We’d love for you to be part of the show’ echoing in my head. I hung up and immediately called my partner at the time, Joey. ‘Congratulations!’ he said. ‘You did it.’
Joey rushed over after work and met me at the gallery. Riding the subway from Manhattan to our apartment in Brooklyn that night, we just stared at each other, giggling and smiling stupidly. Was this all really happening? At home, I sat down on the edge of our bed, feeling the mix of elation and relief that comes from waiting for weeks, sometimes months, to hear back about a part. I was five years out of acting school and had been on countless auditions, landing a few roles here and there, but nothing like this.
ENTER, STAGE LEFT: crippling self-doubt.
Was I a total imposter?
For one, I questioned whether I was gay enough to be on a show called Queer Eye. Yes, I was living with a man I dearly loved. But I had never come out as gay, never felt polarized at one end of the sexuality spectrum, never felt entirely sure whether I’d live forever as a gay man or fall in love and spend my life with a woman.
And, really, was I enough of a food guy? Many of the contenders I’d been up against for the role of Queer Eye ‘food and wine expert’ had longtime careers as chefs, food-industry people and food personalities. Sure, I had worked in restaurants and been a private chef, waded into TV food territory by auditioning for the part of host for Chopped Canada, and taped a short Tasting Table video or two, but my food passion felt more personal than professional. I saw myself as an aspiring actor, my work in the food business as a means to an end. It would be a full season of working on Queer Eye before I realized the track was one I’d been on all my life.
I was born and raised in Montreal. My parents, both Polish, came from upper-middle-class families. My father had been raised in Montreal (his parents having fled Poland during World War II), but my mother had lived in Poland until her early twenties, when she met and married my dad. Both were well educated and had fairly broad palates, but they also clung tightly to the food traditions of their Polish heritage.
Following the path of my sisters, Karolina and Aleksandra (my elders by fifteen and nine years), I went to Ecole Saint-Laurent, a French school with a student body made up of kids from Indian, Eastern European, Portuguese, Iranian, Lebanese, Egyptian, Chinese and Vietnamese families. My favourite event of the year was Le Buffet des Nations (The Buffet of Nations), which took place in the school gym. Each family brought a dish from their country and, sharing them, we learned about the faraway places our parents had come from. My Portuguese-Iranian friend Andrew Shahidi’s parents brought tahdig, a delicious rice dish with a golden, crispy pan-fried bottom. There were tagines and egg rolls and curries. My mom made a version of a Polish classic called krokiety, thin rolled crepes stuffed with meat or mushrooms, dipped in egg, rolled in breadcrumbs and fried in butter. She’d fancy hers up with handpicked morels and chanterelles and a Cognac-cream sauce.
When Saturday school let out, we’d buy little plum jam-filled doughnuts, called pączki, from Pâtisserie Wawel on Rue Sherbrooke, then head to Wayne’s Deli – a Polish supermarket named for a Canadian man who had married a woman from the motherland and turned his obsession with the food of her country into a roaring business.
On Saturdays I went to Polish school, where I learned history, language, spelling and dictation and practised Catholic prayer. Mrs Siwikowa, the principal and my teacher, wore the same beehive hairstyle and triangular glasses she had when my dad was her student more than three decades earlier.
When Saturday school let out, we’d buy little plum jam–filled doughnuts, called pączki, from Pâtisserie Wawel on Rue Sherbrooke, then head to Wayne’s Deli – a Polish supermarket named for a Canadian man who had married a woman from the motherland and turned his obsession with the food of her country into a roaring business. There we’d get fresh handmade pierogies, house-smoked kielbasa, Polish ham, headcheese, sauerkraut and pastries, plus little treats like krówki (milky fudge candies) and Prince Polo Bars (the Polish version of KitKats).
At home my mom put together the big Saturday spread. She crisped up slices of kielbasa in a frying pan and arranged them on a platter with sauerkraut and a crock of hot Polish mustard. My father, who was in charge of anything that was put on bread, spread slices of fresh rye with cold butter, then layered on sliced ham, a smear of Poland’s beloved Kielecki mayonnaise and razor-thin slices of very dill-y pickles that came from the barrel at the deli.
For culinary inspiration outside her Polish repertoire, my mom turned to classics like beef Stroganoff, which she made often during the cold Montreal winters. My parents went sailing in the British Virgin Islands every December, and my mom came back with recipes like mango-wrapped roast salmon topped with bubbling charred Brie from chic waterfront restaurants where they’d eaten.
I never cooked with my mother; she didn’t like anyone helping her in the kitchen. But she was happy to let me sit with a little snack at the other end of the island and watch. Just before a dish was ready, she’d let me weigh in on any final salt and pepper adjustments. I loved tasting and being part of it all.
My father wasn’t a cook, but he loved food. On Friday nights, he put together his famous cheese board. There were always at least four or five varieties, including a rich triple-cream selection, like Délice de Bourgogne, and one real stinker (often an Epoisses or Valdeón) that had to be held under a glass cloche lest its aroma become offensive. We almost always had our very favourite, Riopelle de l’Isle, a buttery soft-ripened type from Quebec, named after the famous Québécois abstract expressionist artist Jean-Paul Riopelle. Alongside the cheeses were carefully considered pairings like Champagne grapes, fresh figs, thinly sliced Anjou pears and roasted Marcona almonds, along with three kinds of bread, which often included the famous baguette trente-six heures (the dough was fermented for thirty-six hours before baking) from a bakery called Au Pain d’Oré.
It was during summers with my Aunt Magda J that I first had the chance to get into the kitchen. She and Uncle Stefan had a big log cabin in the historic village of Knowlton, in Quebec. Situated on acres of rolling hills with a magical wooded perimeter, it was the place where our relatives and close family friends and their kids all convened. We played by the lake and went horseback riding nearby. It was our own special summer camp.
Along with all the fun, everyone had to sign up for a task. My favourite was being in the kitchen, where I helped cook, set the table and do the dishes. My cousin Maïa let me help her measure the ingredients and stir together the dough for her lemon bars. I came to appreciate the whole process of serving a meal, and I loved the collaborative nature and inclusivity of working as a team in the kitchen.
Around the same time, my sister Aleks signed up for a subscription to Martha Stewart Living. Aleks would re-create dishes from the magazine, and she was drawn to the visual aspects of both the food and tabletop decor. I was curious about how the recipes worked. Aleks and I didn’t get along very well during those years, but the magazine showed us that we shared a common passion, and it sparked my interest in entertaining.
When I finished primary school, my father took a job in West Virginia, since it was typical at the time for Canadian doctors to head south for better work opportunities. I went with him and my mom, while my sisters stayed behind in our house in Montreal. My father worked around the clock, including nights and weekends, and my mother split her time between the States and Canada, which often left me alone. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I longed for family.
At fourteen, I began hosting dinner parties for my friends. Cooking for and sharing food with people gave me the comfort of the family experience I needed. My signature dish was warm roasted garlic spread onto torn pieces of baguette and served with nuggets of Parmesan cheese. I made sure to have the garlic finishing up in the oven when my friends arrived, so the warmth and fragrance would welcome them. The menu continued with dishes like grilled chicken that had been marinated in a raspberry barbecue sauce, which I served with fresh raspberries on the side. I piled slices of grilled courgette and peppers onto a big platter and topped them with fresh oregano and a drizzle of olive oil and red wine vinegar. When I was feeding just myself, I folded grated Parm and frozen peas into boxed mac and cheese.
I went back to Montreal for secondary school when I was seventeen and got my first job working in a supper club called Buonanotte, where I was a busboy and runner. While I was there, I met and became friends with Chuck Hughes and Tim Rozon, then-unknowns who later became successful in their respective careers as chef and actor, along with my pals Kyle Marshall Nares and Andy Weinman. Andy was from Australia, and he made a snack for us of toasted white bread spread with margarine and Vegemite and topped with Swiss cheese. He deemed it his hangover cure, which, I have to say, worked quite well. I topped it with a crispy egg one morning to make it a more complete breakfast. I still make a variation of that egg-toast today (page 162).
At Concordia University, I took acting classes on the side while studying psychology and art history, and I spent my weekends waiting tables at a classic Polish restaurant, Stash Café. Stash was owned by my Auntie Ewa at the time, and working there was a family tradition. My dad had put in his hours when he was in college; Auntie Magda and her three daughters, Olga, Marta and Maïa, had all been employees, and so had both of my sisters when they were in school. Located in a historic seventeenth-century building on a cobblestone street in the heart of the city’s Old Port, it’s a magical little place, dimly lit with a warm glow from red-shaded lamps that hang from the rough-hewn wood-beamed ceiling. There are church pews for seats and art deco–style film and theatre prints by the Polish painter Tamara de Lempicka. Vodka is kept in a dedicated freezer. (Today Stash is one of the few remaining Polish restaurants in Montreal.)
I always showed up for my lunch shift horribly hungover. A rickety staircase led to the basement prep area, where a group of Polish grandmothers made pierogies, cooked the beetroot for the borscht and chlodnik, rolled krokiety, stirred big pans of bigos stew, pounded pork chops, shaved cabbage and cut carrots into the shape of flowers that they dyed red with beetroot juice and served with a sprig of parsley to mimic a rose. They were stocky women, with ankles that matched the size of their hefty calves. As tough on us waiters as they were during service, they made sure we started and ended our shifts with full bellies. Pani (Lady) Marysia always greeted me when I arrived and offered me a steaming bowl of zurek (a hearty sausage and vegetable soup) topped with an extra helping of hard-boiled eggs and a double or triple spoonful of sour cream. I would go upstairs, devour it, and feel human again.
Chuck Hughes opened his restaurant Garde Manger in 2006, and I left Stash to work there as a waiter as part of the opening crew. The place was an instant success. The market-driven menu changed daily. I learned about king eryngii (aka king oyster) mushrooms, which Chuck served in a gratin with raclette cheese and fresh herbs, and beluga lentils, which he piled onto toasted crusty bread with oven-roasted tomatoes and celery leaves. It was an exhilarating place to work.
I always showed up for my lunch shift horribly hungover. A rickety staircase led to the basement prep area, where a group of Polish grandmothers made pierogies, cooked the beetroot for the borscht and chlodnik, rolled krokiety, stirred big saucepans of bigos stew, pounded pork chops, shaved cabbage and cut carrots into the shape of flowers that they dyed red with beetroot juice and served with a sprig of parsley to mimic a rose. They were stocky women, with ankles that matched the size of their hefty calves.
About a year later, I landed a spot as a student at The Neighborhood Playhouse in New York City, where the revered instructor Sanford Meisner had trained stars like Robert Duvall and Mary Steenburgen. Just before graduating, I fell in love with Joey Krietemeyer, who would be my partner and family for the next seven years. Joey’s parents, Minette and Jim, had just moved from the Midwest to New York to be closer to him and his sister, Bess, who both lived in the Clinton Hill neighbourhood of Brooklyn. I loved his family from the get-go, and we began a tradition of having dinner together on Sundays.
All week long, I looked forward to cooking for my new family, planning meals that echoed the American comfort foods that Joey and Bess grew up eating and that I spun with a contemporary twist. Things like cheesy turkey meatloaf flavoured with fresh herbs (page 222) and Mac and Cheese with Peas (page 146), but also healthy dishes like Roasted Carrots with Carrot-Top Pesto (page 94), Cauliflower ‘Rice’ with Parmigiano (page 96) and Grilled Peach and Tomato Salad (page 81).
By that time, I was tired of waiting tables and working late nights. I had graduated from The Playhouse and I was still taking acting workshops and auditioning, but I was trying to figure out what I would do next to pay the bills. My friend PJ Vogt had long encouraged me to pursue my passion for food, and one day he mentioned that a guy named Ted Allen – the OG food and wine expert on the original Queer Eye and now host of the food show Chopped – had just come out with a cookbook and was signing books at Greenlight Bookstore that night.
Joey came with me to the event, and we struck up a conversation with Ted and discovered we were neighbours. Ted was headed to a community wine-tasting event where he’d meet up with his husband, Barry Rice. He invited us along. It wasn’t long before the four of us became close friends. Ted and Barry were looking to hire someone to help them with administrative tasks and research for a new business. Knowing I was on the hunt for work, they offered me the job. The hours were flexible, which meant I could dip out to auditions at a moment’s notice. It was perfect.
Barry had an extensive mid-century modern furniture collection and was considering starting a gallery, so I assisted by documenting his existing pieces, purchasing new ones from auction and finding high-end upholsterers, caners and glassworkers. I organized Ted’s press engagements and coordinated his busy calendar. All the while, I was learning about production schedules, meeting people in the food world, writing about food and helping Ted with his research for public-speaking events on food and nutrition. Without realizing it, I was preparing for Queer Eye.
In the coming pages, you’ll find a mix of food that mirrors my life’s path as well as my own discoveries. Soups and stews like zurek (page 124), bigos (page 137) and chlodnik (page 117) – recipes that my parents brought from Poland to North America – keep me connected to my roots. Alsatian Tarts (page 68) and Spicy Fennel Frico (page 65) are some of the snacks I lean on when I invite friends over for a casual party, while I turn to healthy dishes like Carrot Ribbon Salad with Ginger, Parsley and Dates (page 86) and Tangy Beluga Lentils (page 110) for energy during the working week.
I hope the recipes in this book bring joy to your kitchen and inspire you to discover the dishes that have shaped you. Nothing would make me prouder or happier.
1
Buy the best ingredients you can get. Pared-down dishes made with high-quality ingredients are the ones that taste the best and are the most satisfying to make.
2
Don’t put too much pressure on yourself when you’re entertaining. Lean on snacks that can be prepared ahead, like Warm Herbed Olives with Marcona Almonds (page 38), Cheesy Lemon-Rosemary Artichoke Dip (page 53), or a cheese platter (page 49).
3
Stock a good pantry. Items like good olive oil, nuts, quick-cooking grains and tinned beans can help you put together a variety of dishes in a flash.
4
Cheese and nuts do wonders in adding depth of flavour and texture to all sorts of dishes, especially snacks, salads and vegetables.
5
A collection of little veg plates, like the Asparagus with Oozy Eggs (page 88), Duck Fat–Roasted Potato Salad with Mustardy Sauce (page 84) and Summer Corn with Chorizo and Cilantro (page 100), can be put together to make a complete lunch or dinner.
6
Dessert can be as simple as a stack of Ginger–Cardamom Cowboy Cookies (page 240) or a plate of watermelon, ginger and mint (page 255).
7
Retro is fun, especially when it’s meaningful to you. Case in point: my mom’s Raspberry Mousse Dome (page 252).
8
Any hangover, no matter how vicious, can be soothed with a bowl of hot zurek (page 124).
9
French omelettes (page 164) are romantic.
10
Frozen peas for president.
