In this issue
Issue #133
I've always cherished Thanksgivings at Nepenthe, my grandparents' storied restaurant in Big Sur, California. My mother's parents, Bill and Lolly Fassett, opened Nepenthe in 1949 on a cliffside property they'd fallen in love with and then purchased from its owners, Rita Hayworth and Orson Welles. My grandfather, the child of an astrologer, and my grandmother, whose grandparents founded the artists' colony of Carmel, fit right into Big Sur's bohemian culture. They envisioned Nepenthe—a Greek word for an elixir that erases grief—as a place where people could forget their worldly cares and draw inspiration from the ocean views, the architecture (the restaurant was built by a student of Frank Lloyd Wright), the guests (painters, poets, vagabonds, and a few celebrities, like the writer Henry Miller), and, of course, the food. Keep Reading »
There were some soul food dishes that my family did not eat. Chitlins were spoken of in hushed, horrified tones. Pig's feet? No, thank you. We left those back at the plantation. But collard greens were different. Stewed in a cauldron, the big, tough-looking leaves become wonderful and delicious, tender and emotional. Keep reading »
Farming in Oneida County, 250 miles north of New York City, has its challenges. Melons turn to mush when there's too much rain in July. Groundhogs get into the salad beds, and sometimes the tomatoes don't ripen when a frost comes early. But it has been a good year, and on a blustery day at the end of the harvest season, it's nice to gather with friends for a good meal. Keep reading »
For many of us, there's a certain smell that we associate with the start of the workday. It might be the nutty aroma of that first cup of coffee, the gasoline vapor of a parking garage, or the antiseptic tang of an office lobby. When I walk through the doors of Colicchio & Sons, my restaurant in New York City's Chelsea neighborhood, it's yeast that I smell. Buttery, sweet, and welcoming, the scent of 500 baking Parker House rolls — the number we serve in a single night—hits me like a carb-loaded wave. Keep reading »
