It was May, 2004, during a glitzy dinner celebrating that year’s James Beard Awards at a mid-Manhattan hotel.
Gabriella Gershenson, at that time a fledgling food writer living in New York, was seated next to me. I discovered that I and this soft-spoken young woman with thick, wavy black hair and a winning smile were kindred souls.
In Memoriam: Anthony Bourdain – an inspiration to me and the huge number of devotees who followed his ground-breaking, intrepid and wondrous work – committed suicide while filming an episode of Parts Unknown in France on June 8, 2018. He was one of a kind. RIP dear friend.
“I dedicate my work every day to the colleagues I lost on 9/11” – chef Michael Lomonaco.
Michael Lomonaco loves food and people. But it was an act of hate that pushed him into the spotlight: the tragic events of September 11th, 2001.
Martinson coffee, founded by my great-uncle Joe Martinson
This column appeared in the Toronto Star in 2002. I was reminded of it recently when I stayed in a hotel in Kitchener, Ontario, and found this coffee in the room.
A cup of joe.
Who would have thought I am related – albeit distantly – to the “Joe” of that famous culinary phrase.
Chef David Garcelon and his Waldorf Salad
NEW YORK — Pinch me!
I’m on the 18th floor of the famous Waldorf Astoria in midtown Manhattan standing beside the hotel’s executive chef David Garcelon while he makes a Waldorf Salad. (You can listen to my conversation with David here.)
The sold-out scene at the Isabel Bader Theatre in downtown Toronto on a recent dark and stormy night was akin to a Bob Dylan concert (firsthand experience) or a gathering to hear the Dalai Lama (only hearsay).
In this case, it was a packed house comprised of followers, fans, fellow foodies and a large contingent of up-and-coming chefs.
I recently spent four glorious days in midtown Manhattan.
For two of those, I was pretty much closeted in the Roger Smith Hotel attending back-to-back seminars at a cookbook conference.
And apart from a few heart-wrenching hours spent watching the stunning but tragically haunting photos and videos of the holocaust at the Museum of Jewish Heritage, there was no other agenda.
I arrived at the door of Judith Jones’s compact, six-room apartment in a classic brownstone on New York’s Upper East Side to the sounds of enthusiastic, high-pitched barking on the other side of the door.
It was her little white and furry Havanese dog Mabon who was happy to see me and proceeded to jump up and down as I entered the cozy place where she’s lived for several decades.
I’ll begin this blog post by serving up a link to an excellent piece of writing by a young fellow from the U.K. who was sitting next to me during one of the lively panels at the excellent two-day Roger Smith Cookbook Conference I attended recently in New York.
I can’t go for too long without a visit to my favourite place: Manhattan.
There’s something about the buzz, hubbub and hum that permeates it both night and day – not to mention the food aromas emanating from food carts and eateries at every corner – that make that place feel like home.
