How to mark a year without saying a word about it.
Light the candles you never light. Bring back the wine from the trip you took. Let the plate tell the calendar what it means.
Notes on being deeply in love, and the meals that carry it. Read one before you cook.
Something simple, something with your hands in it, something that leaves room for the conversation to be the main course.
Light the candles you never light. Bring back the wine from the trip you took. Let the plate tell the calendar what it means.
None of them said between courses. All of them said before dessert. Two of them cried while telling us.
The most romantic thing you can do is refuse the idea that romance requires an occasion.
Warm bread. A stew. A room quiet enough for them to eat without performing.
A reader wrote in. We asked her permission. This is her letter, unedited.
The first course is not there to feed you. It is there to give your hands something to do while you decide whether this is going to work.
The first glass is politeness. The second glass is intimacy. Almost every good conversation of your life has happened in the second glass.
Restaurants are for performance. Your kitchen is for confession. A private chef closes the distance between the two.
A menu for each year of a marriage — from the first, when you're still nervous, to the twelfth, when you're finally not.
A reader nearly cancelled the booking three times. Then his chef sat him down in the kitchen and gave him a small, unforgettable piece of advice.
We asked three chefs to write about a single evening that stayed with them. They wrote longer than we expected.