The new Diner Journal is out. Chef makes ribollita, surveys the philosophy of recipes, teaches you more about the kitchen than you thought possible and pays homage to Elizabeth David -- all in one piece. I think you should order one.
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speaking of which...
I just read your eulogy for Paul Newman in said issue of DINER JOURNAL and am compelled to write, as I was genuinely moved.
Reading it, I felt transformed into an adolescent girl with triceps sore from kilometers of crawl and skin made of bleach. I felt in love with and terrified of him. I felt flirty--as if my head cocked to the side before yours did.
It occurred to me, while reading your piece, that admiring Paul Newman is in part to admire the best version of oneself. It's to see bravery, sexuality, self deprecation, benevolence, curiosity, industry, talent and love--with vats and vats of good humor. Weather or not he was actually the man of our hagiographic dreams, the legend of Newman offers hope of becoming neither a kid nor an adult but rather some wonderful existence betwixt the two.
Something in your lucid account of the steam table encounter just really made that clear.
Thanks for that.
My best,
Benjamin Stark
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