Dad's Day

I think about cooking

I’m not a dad.

I know it’s Father's Day, so I give the card - I don’t get one. Some years, that is sad.

But I have been incredibly fortunate to have some amazing “dads” in my life.

Watching both my brothers-in-law father their daughters over the years has been a lesson in patience and compromise. Seeing my Chef Friends, as Dads, struggle with the work-life balance as they raise their children in and out of the restaurant business has been challenging too.

All the while, I have happily been the somewhat weird “uncle” whose Dad Jokes are occasionally cringy, but whose quick breads, snacking cakes, and willingness to adjust the menu to their diets du jour are memorable. I only wish I had more time with them as they grow and discover the foods and flavors I shared with their Dads as they meal-prep their way into the weeks ahead.

As a young chef, I was also lucky enough to accompany good friends and their fathers on meals at Galatoires, The Original Ruth's Chris Steak House, and Brennan's, for Sunday brunch, in celebration of the less hectic parental holiday. It was special not only for the occasion but for the spectacular shared food experience.

I think food, specifically my fruit cake, was the greatest common denominator for me and my father-in-law, Don. He loved food and was happy to share a plate, a grill, a table, but never allowed us to share a bill, as he would mysteriously mind-meld with the server to drop the check quietly within his grasp only. His generosity was legendary, as was his fancy for a cookie or three. Traditional holiday dinners, well-dressed reservations at the country club, and even an occasional Bojangles Chicken Biscuit all meant we could share a moment satisfying our appetites and relishing in the togetherness that good food provided.

One of the by-products of divorced parents was my interest and aptitude for food and cooking. As I posted before, I had grandmothers who basically brought me up in the kitchen. But my greatest encouragement came from my Dad. If my selective memory serves me correctly, it paints a fuzzy picture of a mostly complete set of the Time-Life series of cookbooks and a weathered knife block, poked full of Sabatier knives, mingling with the personal belongings in his trunk on an early visit to see him in Philadelphia, his new home.

Philadelphia has also been my home away from home for most of my life. It was also where my younger siblings and I were treated, a couple of times a year, to soft pretzels with yellow mustard, chocolate water ice, and Jim’s Cheesesteaks with Whiz and fried onions. Gourmet ice cream at Hillary’s and “fancy” meals at The Commissary after a Saturday afternoon movie were always a perk of these visits.

This is the same Commissary I mentioned in my last post, that, nearly 10 years later, would springboard me onto the culinary course my life has taken.

My newly divorced Dad had cooked in the past - paella, baked Alaska, grilled steaks. But now that he was on his own, his interest in food and eating seemed to bloom brightly. He followed recipes, shopped for ingredients to make new dishes, and seemed genuinely to love cooking.

Naturally, I did too.

Getting myself situated at The CIA in Hyde Park, NY, was challenging on many levels, but without fail, his timely phone calls and letters in my student mailbox kept my chin up. I regurgitated my daily lessons back to him as if he had missed class and I was giving him my notes. I could hardly wait to visit and show him how to cut an onion or make a potato chain.

On one visit, after learning about puff pastry in a bakery block, I stayed up all night, laminating the dough, making and cooling the filling, and timing the baking so that everyone would wake up to the smell of cinnamon-scented, still-warm apple turnovers, freshly glazed and ready to be eaten.

Sharing my journey with him has created a bond that I am reminded of each time I taste something new or smell something familiar. Whether it is the discovery of a Birria Ramen shop in a hidden neighborhood in Cozumel, cooking for him at my restaurants, bouncing the ball against the back steps while he grilled Cajun Chicken, or just talking on Zoom about a recipe we want to try, he will always be my Dad.

His pride in my accomplishments goes both ways; He self-published a cookbook called Dad’s Diner, a compilation of recipes, footnotes, and memories of the foods we all cook for each other. He has enough for Volume 2.

And his vision for edible success is found in BBQ Shrimp, pints of Alberta Peach Häagen-Dazs, Pizza Fish at Smitty’s, and even a Wawa hot dog after a trail race.

Happy Father’s Day to all the Dads, but especially to mine. Thanks for sharing.

Ps. His fruitcake is better than mine every year.

One of my favorite recipes from my Dad’s Cookbook…