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  For Brandon

  It may be that when we no longer know what to do, we have come to our real work, and when we no longer know which way to go, we have begun our real journey. The mind that is not baffled is not employed. The impeded stream is the one that sings.

  —WENDELL BERRY

  A NOTE ABOUT THE RECIPES IN THIS BOOK

  You are holding a book about the birth of a restaurant, and my guess is that you’re probably expecting to see some recipes from that restaurant. There will be a few, but here’s the truth: when you’re opening a restaurant, you might be surrounded by food, but you don’t often get to eat it. You’re too busy, or it’s too expensive and you’re saving it for your customers. During the period of our lives that you’ll read about here, Brandon and I ate a lot of beans and rice at a taqueria in our neighborhood, and a lot of Vietnamese and Thai takeout. Even after Delancey was up and running, our diet consisted largely of scraps and leftovers, or the pizzas that weren’t good enough to serve to paying customers. (At the restaurant, we have a name for those pizzas: “love pies,” because the only person they’re fit for is someone who already loves you and doesn’t mind that dinner looks like a volcanic eruption.)

  A few of the recipes in this book are for dishes that we served at Delancey early on, when I cooked there. But in large part, what you’ll find here are the foods that we wished we were eating. You’ll also find dishes that friends made for us when we were too crazed to cook for ourselves. And you’ll find the recipes that we turn to most often now, when we don’t have a lot of time to cook together but still want to make the most of the time we do have. All in all, these recipes are about a satisfying kind of economy: the day-to-day economy, time-wise and money-wise, of a real home kitchen. They’re about making something great from what you’ve got: maybe a carton of day-old takeout rice, a doggie bag of barbecued pork, and a bunch of kale from last Sunday’s market. The recipes here are straightforward but big-flavored, the way we like to cook. Most of them come together quickly, and even those that take longer require little tending.

  One more thing: a note about salt. At Delancey, we use Diamond Crystal brand kosher salt in almost everything, and I use it frequently at home, too, because it’s cheap, easy to pinch between your fingers, and comes in seemingly bottomless boxes. But different brands of kosher salt have very different crystal sizes, and that can make kosher salt tricky to quantify in recipes. So, for the sake of simplicity, I have written the recipes in this book to use fine-grained salt—either fine sea salt or table salt. My preference is for the former, and I use La Baleine brand, in the blue cardboard canister. I’m not a great fan of table salt, because it doesn’t taste very good, but sometimes it’s all you’ve got. A couple of recipes also call for a crunchy finishing salt like Maldon or fleur de sel, but that’s mostly for the sake of texture. If you don’t have any, don’t worry about it.

  INTRODUCTION

  I dug out my wedding vows the other night. I hadn’t read them since we got married, and our fifth anniversary is coming up. I wanted to see if I was holding up my end of the deal. Brandon and I each wrote our own vows, agreeing on just a rough word count and leaving the rest a surprise, and we read them to each other for the first time during the ceremony, in front of our assembled families and friends.

  Wedding vows were made to be said aloud, and when you look at somebody’s vows written out—anybody’s, even your own—they tend to read like a Hallmark card. In my vows, I told Brandon that he’s the best person I know, and that when I describe him to someone new, the first thing I say is, “He’s so good.” I told him that I love the fact that he whistles constantly, without knowing that he’s doing it. I love that he’s been singing the same Caetano Veloso song in the shower since we met, and that he still can’t get the lyrics right. I love that he’s the first person our friends call when they’re in trouble. I love that he likes to make people happy. My mother once told me that the reason she fell in love with my father was that she knew she could always learn from him. When I met Brandon, I knew what she meant.

  Explaining why I love Brandon was easy. But then came the tricky part of the vows, the part where I had to make the kind of promises that make you married. I remember the day that I wrote that part, because it made me very nervous. Not that that’s a real problem: I’ve always thought marriage was a fine thing to be nervous about. There’s nothing breezy about “until death do us part.” You’re hitching your wagon to someone else’s, and if you’re totally honest about it, neither of you really knows how the steering column works, which road you’d be smartest to take, and whether, somewhere down that road, your spouse’s wheel hubs will open to reveal blades designed specifically to tear your wagon apart, Ben Hur–style. I see trepidation as a mark of sanity. But that’s why I forged ahead and wrote what I did: because I knew all of that, and still I wanted to get married. So I told him that I would always love him and support him, even though the word always makes me feel like I need an antacid. I wanted to say it. I wanted to believe it. I vowed to work with him to make our hopes and dreams real, whatever they might be, and I meant it.

  I had already had a preview of Brandon’s hopes and dreams. When we met in the spring of 2005, he was twenty-three and living in New York, and I was twenty-six and living in Seattle. He was a trained saxophonist and composer, working on a master’s degree in composition. I worked in publishing, wrote a food blog, and was slowly extracting myself from a doctoral program that I’d decided not to finish. We both loved to cook and eat. Brandon was particularly into espresso. He had three espresso machines and a commercial-grade grinder that was larger than some New York kitchens, each one carefully researched and purchased on eBay. The first time I took him to visit my mother, he spent an entire afternoon working on my dad’s old Faema Contessa, which hadn’t been touched in the three years since he died. A bolt in the housing was stuck, and Brandon wrestled with it for most of an afternoon. When it came loose, he made my mother a cappuccino, and then he grinned for a week.

  But about a year after we met, when we moved in together in Seattle, he started noticing that caffeine made him feel like the Hulk, like yelling and smashing things and wearing tight purple pants. So he gave up espresso and sold his fancy machines. Instead, he decided, he would build violins. He’d always loved the instrument: the romance of it, the sound of it, the fact that it’s notoriously difficult to build well. Brandon loves a good problem. He was starting a PhD program in composition at the University of Washington that fall, and he had a job at a restaurant, but building violins, he thought, would be a nice way to spend his free time.

  After we settled into our first apartment, he built a workbench from plywood and two-by-fours in the basement. He bought chisels and planes of every size. Whenever we were out in the car, he pulled over at every garage sale, shopping for tools. He bought books on violins. He bought a broken violin and broke it even more, studying the way the parts fit together. On Craigslist, he found an ad for a specialized drill, eighteen inches long and closely resembling a milkshake blender, and one afternoon, we met up with the guy who was selling it, handed him a few twenties, and heaved it out of the back of his truck.

  But Brandon didn’t build a violin, or a fraction of a violin. Once he understood how to build one, once he’d gone through the steps in his head, once he’d solved the problem, he was satisfied. The tools lay dormant through the winter, and then, when summer came around again, Br
andon announced a new idea: he was going to build a boat.

  Since moving to Seattle, he’d bought himself a membership to the Center for Wooden Boats, and anytime he had a few hours free, he’d rent a boat and go out rowing on Lake Union. He wanted to have his own boat someday, and given that such things are not cheap, the best bet, he decided, was to build one. Our friend Sam would help, and they would do it in the backyard of our apartment, using plans for a traditional Australian skiff that Brandon bought online. This was 2007, the summer of our wedding, and it was going to be a busy summer. But as he pointed out, the boat would be fun for both of us: it would be a mobile picnic table! (He knows what I like.) Plus, he wouldn’t even have to buy tools! He could use the stuff he’d bought for the violins! It was perfect! I had no reason to argue. I looked forward to the picnics.

  I also looked forward to the ice cream shop that he was going to open. He’d been into making ice cream since I met him—since before then, actually, when he spent a few months studying in Paris and lived in an apartment down the street from the famous Berthillon ice cream shop. The first year that we were dating, he bought me an Italian gelato maker for my birthday—one of those buy-your-partner-the-gift-that-you-yourself-would-like-to-receive scenarios, though I didn’t mind—and on his next visit, he christened it with a batch of bourbon-spiked pear sorbet. By the time he moved to Seattle, he was well on his way to perfecting his favorite ice cream flavor, salted caramel. He’d noticed that Seattle didn’t have a great local ice cream company, like Berthillon or San Francisco’s Bi-Rite Creamery, and he began to think, Hey, I could do something about that. So when he wasn’t reading up on boat design, he researched local health code regulations, methods, and industrial-grade machines.

  But he didn’t build the boat or open the ice cream shop. Brandon and I got married, and then we went on a honeymoon to Vancouver Island, and then summer was over. I had left my publishing job and was writing my first book, a memoir about growing up in a food-loving family and losing my dad. Brandon was in his second year of the PhD program, working as a teaching assistant, leading music classes two days a week at a Montessori elementary school, teaching on Saturday mornings at a conservatory program for teenagers, and still working at a local restaurant. We were happy, working hard, learning how to be adults, figuring out what it meant to be married. Things were humming along. And then one night that fall, over a late dinner at our friend Carla’s restaurant that ended with us dancing to Blondie in the darkened, empty dining room, Brandon and Carla hatched the idea of opening a pizza place.

  A pizza place? What we had here was a giant violin! Or maybe, maybe, a picnic boat offering ice cream by the scoop.

  A little over a year later, Sam took a picture of us. Brandon is on a ladder in what is now the kitchen of Delancey, tiling the face of the wood-burning pizza oven. I’m standing below him, holding a power drill. He looks tired, a little worried, possibly in mid-sentence. I’m staring at something outside the frame, absolutely expressionless. But I know what I was thinking: Holy shit.

  1

  If you want to get Brandon’s family talking, you need only ask about his childhood tantrums, aaannnnnnnd they’re off! Their descriptions are sufficiently vivid that you’d think he’d had a screaming meltdown in the family car last week. But if you ask Brandon about his tantrums, he’ll tell you that he was constantly hungry, and that low blood sugar will bring out the wailing, shrieking lunatic in anyone. When he was eight or nine, he taught himself to cope by cooking. And his parents, who weren’t especially interested in cooking, rewarded his initiative, because in the Pettit household of Upper Saddle River, New Jersey, whoever cooked dinner didn’t have to do the cleanup afterward.

  Anyway, while most of his peers were off wrestling in the yard, breaking things, or lighting household pets on fire, Brandon got a lot of positive attention for cooking. His uncle Tom offered to teach him how to make a few dishes, and so did his mother’s friend Ellen. His best friend Steve’s mother, Laura, taught him how to make penne alla vodka when he was in middle school. Afterward, before he went home, she dumped out a small Poland Spring water bottle, refilled it with vodka, and gave it to him so that he could make the recipe for his parents. His mother found it in his backpack later that night, and you know how that story goes.

  Meanwhile, I grew up 1,500 miles to the west, in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, the only child in a family so preoccupied with cooking and eating that we would regularly spend dinner discussing what we might eat the following night. My parents met in Baltimore and courted over oysters and pan-fried shad roe, and though they had lived in the land of waving wheat and chicken-fried steak since a few years before I was born, they took pleasure in introducing me to lobster, croissants, and Dover sole. My father was a radiation oncologist, and he worked full-time until he was nearly seventy, but most evenings, after pouring himself a Scotch and thumbing absentmindedly through the mail, he made dinner. It wasn’t necessarily fancy—there were hamburgers and salad and cans of baked beans, and his macaroni and cheese involved a brick of Velveeta—but the kitchen was where he went to relax, to unwind from a day of seeing patients. He was a good cook. My mother is also a good cook, a very good cook, but I think of her mostly as a baker. She made brownies and crisps and birthday cakes, and in our neighborhood she became something of a legend for the elaborate cookies and candies she made each Christmas. Food was how the three of us spent time together. Cooking and eating gave our days their rhythm and consistency, and the kitchen was where everything happened. As a baby, I played on the floor with pots and spoons while my mother cooked. The three of us sat down to dinner at the kitchen table nearly every night (except Thursdays, when my parents went out and left me with a Stouffer’s Turkey Tetrazzini and Julia Beal, the elderly babysitter, who always arrived with a floral-patterned plastic bonnet tied under her chin), and we kept up the habit (minus Stouffer’s and Mrs. Beal, after a certain point) until I went to college.

  I started cooking with my parents when I was in high school. I was not what you would call a difficult teen: Friday night might find me baking a cake or holed up in my bedroom with my notebook of poems. If I felt like doing something really exciting, I might invite some friends over and make a rhubarb cobbler. When I was seventeen, Food Network came into existence, and then I spent hour after hour watching cooking shows, which fueled even more baking and a poem about immersing myself in a vat of Marshmallow Fluff.

  Brandon’s teenage years were a little more interesting—he regularly handed in his homework late—but he too watched a lot of cooking shows. This was back in the golden age when you could actually learn something from Food Network—when David Rosengarten’s brilliant Taste was still on the air and Emeril Lagasse’s show was taped on a modest set without a studio audience, live musicians, or abuse of the word bam. Brandon learned about extra virgin olive oil on Molto Mario and balsamic vinegar on Essence of Emeril and begged his parents to add them to the grocery list. He once watched a show about soups during which the host reeled off a number of tricks for adding flavor and body: add a Parmigiano-Reggiano rind or a bouquet garni, for example, or drop in a potato, toss in some dried mushrooms, or simmer a teabag in the stock. Armed with this information, he decided to combine all of the tricks in a single soup, surely the greatest soup the world would ever know. The result, he reports, was very flavorful, like runoff from a large-scale mining operation.

  Growing up, Brandon had four favorite pizza places: Posa Posa, Martio’s, and Michaelangelo’s, all in Nanuet, New York; and Kinchley’s, in Ramsey, New Jersey. Of course, every kid on earth loves pizza, and a lot of them probably have four favorite pizza joints. But I know of few eight-year-olds who want to interview the pizzaiolo. Brandon took dance classes as a kid, and the ballet studio was conveniently located a few doors down from Michaelangelo’s. After class, he would pummel the owner with questions. What’s in the dough? What do you put in the sauce? Why do you grate the mozzarella for the cheese pizza, instead of slicing it? In exchange
for answers and free slices, he agreed to put coupons under the windshield wipers of cars in the parking lot out front.

  But if it were all really that straightforward, if Brandon and I had both homed in on food from the get-go, and if he had known that he would be a chef and I had known that I would someday own a restaurant with my chef husband, this would be a boring story, and I would not be telling it.

  Maybe even more than he loved to cook, Brandon loved to dance. His mother, wanting to expose her son to a little bit of everything, started him in dance classes as a very young kid, and by the time he was a preteen, he was on track to someday join a touring company. Down the line, he’d decided, he would be a choreographer. Choreography and cooking pushed the same buttons in him: they were both about making things, about taking a series of separate elements and assembling them in a particular sequence to make something appealing and new. As a middle schooler, he took upwards of eight hours of dance classes a week, and sometimes, depending on the season, he took as many as twenty. When he was twelve, he got into a prestigious summer program at the Pennsylvania Ballet school. Each afternoon, when he was supposed to be resting, he sneaked into the classes for older teens, where he got to partner with female dancers. This was the big time. One day, while doing some sort of move that you’re not supposed to do when you’re twelve, he fractured one of the vertebrae in his lower back. The upshot was that he couldn’t dance for the better part of a year, and as further punishment, he had to wear a plastic torso brace that made him look like Tom Hanks’s deranged secretary in Splash, the one who wore her bra over her clothes.

  He couldn’t do anything that required much mobility, but he could still cook. He could also practice the saxophone. In addition to dance, he’d taken music lessons—piano and saxophone—since he was a kid. Now, while sidelined from ballet, he began to practice for hours a day. After school, he’d go down to the basement, put on Pink Floyd’s “Money,” and play along, over and over, with the sax solo that starts at 2:04. Or he’d go to Tower Records and fish around in the discount bin for classic R&B and blues CDs, Charlie Parker or T-Bone Walker, and then he’d play along to those too. He sometimes went to the ballet studio to watch a class, to try to keep his head in it, but he began to notice that, maybe more than the physical movement itself, what he liked about dance was the music. Music was underneath all of it.