Daniel Humm had arrived early, checked in at Guest Reception by himself, and was wandering around the bowels of 30 Rock like some normie instead of one of the world’s best chefs. Unfortunately this mortifying situation was very much my bad. An NBC Page is supposed to welcome on-air guests at their scheduled arrival time and take them to the greenroom, but Daniel had used another entrance and gone through a different security check, and he could have been just anybody standing there leaning against the wall with no place to sit, except he wasn’t, he was about to be on national television in front of millions of people.
I was producing a cooking segment with him that morning after working until midnight the night before, and while my subway was on track to get me there by 8am when we’d agreed to meet, I did not expect a phone call at 7:45 from a member of his team informing he was there, ready to go, but no pressure if I wasn’t. I tried to control my breathing as I raced up the stairs from underground at 7:52. The last thing I wanted was to seem flustered. I apologized for keeping him waiting and he was disturbingly nice about it— worse than being yelled at, of course. He was dressed casually but I could tell his sneakers were cool. I don’t know shit about shoes so I just asked how his weekend was as I guided him along the labyrinthine maze towards the studio kitchen. Oh, he had run the Boston Marathon yesterday and hadn’t thought to mention it until now. I searched for any sign of a hobble in his long lopey strides and saw no evidence this person was recovering from 26 miles in another state. Unbelievable. I was in worse shape after my subway ride from Brooklyn.
Inside we went over the demo steps he’d be doing on air for the recipe. It had not been easy choosing something he wanted to make that would resonate with our audience. I’d been intrigued by the idea of what a 3-Michelin star chef eats at home, but it turns out the answer is— not what you and I do. His idea of a casual meal involved a type of seaweed I’d never even heard of. It was Earth Week and we landed on baked rice with seasonal spring produce. There were specific instructions for how to prepare not just each vegetable but each part of each vegetable. Asparagus stalks, for instance, were to be sliced into thin coins, while the spears were left intact, cut on the diagonal. We do a lot of football food segments at work; this is a kitchen that sees vast quantities of queso. He seemed happy with how the asparagus had been arranged on the beauty platter by our talented culinary team.
We had plenty of time before his hit so I took the chance to tell him I had been to Eleven Madison Park once, years ago. It was my high school graduation gift, to eat there with my family, what I cared about more than a car or a watch or whatever other teenagers ask for. I hoped it didn’t make me sound like too much of a fan girl to share, but if I always think if I were a celebrity doing a TV segment, I’d be happy to get matched with a producer who really cared. He asked when that was and seemed impressed it had been in the early days of the restaurant. Now, of course, it’s all plant-based. Secretly I was glad my memory involved steak. I told him it was a perfect celebration because it was. I’m sure my parents saved up a long time to afford that meal.
Now I’m in my mid-thirties and think often about how they managed it, giving my brother and me such a rich life in the city on two journalists’ salaries. Of course I’ve followed in their footsteps, albeit pivoting to TV instead of print, and I see now how the world opens up to you when you are in media. Getting to work with chefs I’ve admired my entire life is both an enormous honor and a regular Tuesday. Last week an invitation arrived in my inbox: would I like to attend a press dinner at Eleven Madison Park?
Indeed I would.
The dinner was hosted by Prolon, a company that supplies “precise nutrition” for people detoxing on a fast. I honestly can’t stop thinking about their decision to host a dinner at the one-time best restaurant in the world in order to tell us about their longevity juices and supplements. The vegan menu did feel kind of ascetic, especially in comparison with the feast I remembered from 17 years ago. By far the best part was the bread course, a warm and flaky croissant-like roll with onion butter (or “butter,” I guess, although I have no idea what kind of witchcraft produced this magic without dairy) that tasted like pure luxury. Slathering it on until it glistened while a Prolon spokesperson at the head of the table talked about the benefits of being on a diet that “mimics fasting,” I briefly entertained a thought about whether I’m doing enough to protect future me. Eating-wise, career-wise. There are always things I, a non-marathon-running non-vegan in a terrifically unstable industry, could be doing to better face the giant question mark of the years ahead. I’m here for a good time, not a long time, baby, I tried joking to myself as I dragged the last shards of pastry through the remaining swipe of butter on my plate. It felt a little hollow, but I still enjoyed every crumb.
Next time come home with eleven Madison park samples instead of prolon samples please
I could read you write about onion butter any day. Ily my genius friend!