Wednesday, 31 August 2022

America Ruined My Name for Me

An Asian womans reflection on a small mirror with a jade bracelet and a vase of lotus flowers.
I cannot detach the name Bich from people laughing at me, calling me a bitch, letting me know that I’m the punch line of my own joke.Illustration by Nhung Lê

People have always told me not to change my name. Some insisted that they liked it: Bich, a Vietnamese name, given to me in Saigon, where I was born and where the name is quite ordinary. When my family named me, they didn’t know that we would become refugees eight months later and that I would grow up in Michigan in the nineteen-eighties, in the conservative, mostly white, west side of the state, where girls had names like Jennifer, Amy, and Stacy. A name like Bich (pronounced “Bic”) didn’t just make me stand out—it made me miserably visible. “Your name is what?” people would ask. “How do you spell that?” Sometimes they would laugh in my face. “You know what your name looks like, right? Did your parents really name you that?”

I have always envied Asian kids whose parents let them change their names or have separate “American” names. Phuoc at home could be Phil at school. But my parents refused to let me change my name. They said that I should be proud of who I was, and they weren’t wrong, but they were so angry about it that I knew I should keep my worries to myself. I didn’t want to reject my family’s Vietnamese culture, replacing it with all that TV commercials promised. And so I stuck with Bich, or let it stick with me.

My earliest memories of school include the tension of roll call, when I would try to volunteer my name to stop the teacher from attempting a pronunciation. The kindest teachers were the ones who asked me directly how to say my name—in classes of almost all white kids, it wasn’t difficult to figure out who would be named Bich. I was a shy child who then became shyer; I avoided meeting people so I could avoid saying my name. And I took on the shame of not being strong enough to handle the shame of the American gaze.

Names are deeply personal and deeply public. We have to see our names all the time. Every form, every post, every e-mail. “Your name here” at the top of every assignment in elementary school. The other kids would decorate their names with stars and hearts; they would try to make their names look bigger than everyone else’s. The sight of their names gave them pleasure and satisfaction. I have never felt this pleasure, not once. Not even with publications. To me, my name has been a taunt. I’m always trying not to look at it.

The word bich means a kind of jade. Growing up, I knew that Vietnamese girls were supposed to wear jade bracelets and grow into them so that one day the bracelets would be permanent. The stone is meant to protect, to heal—and the greener the jade, the better. In a different country, in a different life, my given name would be just as beautiful. In truth, I could never wear a bracelet very long. In truth, most of the people who have claimed to like the name Bich, or who have been outraged and horrified at the idea of changing it, have been white women. They are the ones who told me the name was cool, was interesting, was unique, was being true to myself, was an important part of my heritage and cultural identity. They said that they liked the name, that it would break their hearts if I changed it. They did not say that they wished to have the name themselves. I wanted to believe them; for a long time, I made a choice to believe them. But I knew, too, that they liked the exotic so long as they didn’t have to deal with its complications. They liked the idea of the exotic, not thinking about how exotic might benefit the person deciding what exotic is. Sometimes I wondered whether they also liked feeling bad for me.

I’ve tried to inhabit the name Bich. I used to add the accent over the “i” to show the correct spelling: Bích. The sound is somewhere between a question and an exclamation. But how can I get away from the gaze? It is one of my historical facts that the name is steeped in shame, because living in the United States as a refugee and a child of refugees was steeped in shame. America made sure I knew that, felt that, from my earliest moments of awareness. I cannot detach the name Bich from my childhood, cannot detach it from the experience of people laughing at me, calling me a bitch, letting me know that I’m the punch line of my own joke, too stupid or afraid to do anything but take it. When I see the letters that spell out Bich, I see a version of self I’ve had to create, to hide from trauma. Even now, typing the letters, I want to turn away. America has ruined the name Bich for me, and I have let it.

Ican’t write about my name without writing about racism, and I can’t write about racism without writing about violence. I remember being a kid and hearing my dad and uncles whispering about the murder of Vincent Chin, in Detroit, in 1982. Today, I talk to my kids about the murder of six Asian women in Atlanta. I’m teaching them about colonization, Orientalism, and anti-Asian immigration laws. About what happens when Asians and Asian-Americans are made invisible except as targets of derision or as ideals of behavior—as ways to create fear, enforce compliance, and shore up racism against Black, Latinx, and indigenous people. Of course, my children worry. We’ve all been worried for years. These days, we are extra careful when we leave the house.

Yet, all my life, America has told me that I’m overreacting. That it is still O.K. to laugh at Asian names, still O.K. to make fun of Asian people—those weird foreigners who all look the same and have those hilarious, ugly accents. I know that it’s still O.K. because it keeps happening, in media and in real life. And, when it does, and Asian people express anger about it, they are countered with “you’re too sensitive; it’s just a joke.” I get it—the joke is more important than our existence.

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My first book was published under my given name because it was a memoir and I thought one had to do that, to publish a true thing with one’s given name. (I didn’t have another name idea at that point, anyway.) I was then told that one should not change their name after publishing. Sure, T. C. Boyle, who used to publish as T. Coraghessan Boyle, could get away with that, but someone such as myself could not. Once, at a literary party, I overheard another writer laughing at my name. She didn’t know that I was standing right there, listening, as she said to someone else, “Can you believe anyone would have a name like that?” I wonder whether she remembers that moment that I cannot forget, and have kept to myself for years. When my second book was published, it was reviewed in the Times along with a couple of other books under the subheading “International.” My book was not international. It was a novel set in the American Midwest, released by a big American publisher. The most international-seeming thing about the book was the author’s name: Bich Minh Nguyen.

Nguyen, because it’s the most common Vietnamese surname, has gone from suspiciously foreign and unpronounceable to acceptably different and only somewhat unpronounceable in America. Bich is still waiting for this turn. Is changing it now strategic, safe, self-care, selling out? I’ve been trying to figure this out, trying to write this down, for years. What I know is that being Bich, and growing up as Bich in a mostly white town in the eighties, has felt like a test that I was constantly failing. It was a double bind: the people who made me uncomfortable with my given name also thought that I’d be betraying my heritage by changing it. What I have always wanted is impossible: to be nameless, free from the gaze.

Ihad always given fake names at restaurants, often going with Rose, Sophia, or Beatrice. One day, a few years ago, at the Shake Shack in Madison Square Park, a woman behind the counter took my order and asked the dreaded question of my name, and I said, “Beth.” She nodded. She did not doubt my answer. And, in that moment, it felt real: I wasn’t just saying Beth—I was Beth. So I started to say it more. To salespeople. To babysitters, electricians, new acquaintances, new colleagues. I’d say Beth, and a tiny blast of joy, like cool air from the refrigerator on a hot day, would come over me. Like a secret self. Like another life.

Beth is a social experiment, a hypothesis that life in America is easier with a name that no one ever gets wrong. And it’s true. I am seen as less Asian and more American with the name Beth. Experiencing that difference, glimpsing a bit of that yellow peril, has been insightful and painful. As Bich, I am a foreigner who makes people uncomfortable. As Beth, I am never complimented on my English.

My closest friends accepted this name automatically. Others expressed surprise and disapproval. Some informed me that they will continue to call me by my given name, no matter what. I sort of understand this. But, if you refuse to accept someone’s chosen name, aren’t you refusing to accept who they are or what they have decided for themselves? I am not Beth to make life easier for everyone else; I am Beth to make life easier for me.

Still, because I haven’t gone to the trouble of legally changing my name, I remain Bich on all my documents. Once, at a store with one of my kids, I had to show my driver’s license. The woman behind the counter started laughing. “Is that really your name?” she asked. I think that a former self would have gone along with the laughter to avoid discomfort. I am so used to apologizing, saying, “Yeah, it is a difficult name.” But my child was with me, so I stared back at the woman until she was the one who was uncomfortable. As we left, my kid said to me, “That lady was making fun of your name. That was mean.” It was the first time, I think, he had experienced this. He and his brother have simple, straightforward names that, in America, no one ever questions.

Lately, they have been learning about ancient languages. They are trying to understand how words and sounds evolve. How, sometimes, a word—for example, cleave—becomes its own opposite, both definitions retaining meaning. I think that they are trying to understand the loss of a language as it turns into something else: Is it always a loss? Or does it always feel that way? Did people know that their language was changing from ancient to modern? I tell them that sometimes the shifts are so slow that they’re recognized only a tiny bit at a time. That language changes all around us, and we are part of that. Like slang, like idioms, new words, new pronunciations. Words don’t shift on their own. We must do the shifting. Sometimes we, too, are our own opposites.

Right now, Beth is where I have shifted. It is comfortable because it’s neutral, unremarkable. It doesn’t change my past, my family, our lives as refugees in the United States. It may not be forever. It just feels like a bit of space, where I can direct how I am seen rather than be directed. I realize that, my whole life, I have been waiting for some kind of permission—my own permission—to be this person.

Monday, 29 August 2022

History Report

Two people watching TV in a flood and a fire in the background.
Illustration by Luci Gutiérrez

Iinterviewed my Great-Grandfather Simon because he is the oldest person in my family who is still alive. He was born in a country called America, on Earth. He said he used to be a writer. I asked him if he wrote “Spider-Man” and he said no, he wrote other things that have all been lost.

My Great-Grandfather was one of the only men to escape from Earth. The rest of the people who got seats on the Escape Pod were women and children. My Great-Grandfather says they let him on because “they needed one man to row the spaceship.” I’m not sure what he means, because there are no oars on a spaceship, but that is what he said.

My Great-Grandfather told me how scary it was when Earth became too hot to live on. The skies burned with fire day and night, and you couldn’t walk across the street without collapsing. I asked him if he had had any kind of warning about climate change, and he said yes, there’d been articles, movies, and books about how it was going to happen. I asked him if he tried to stop it from happening, and he said yes, of course. I asked him how, and he said that he had done something called recycling, which is where you throw your garbage into different-colored boxes. I asked my mom what he was talking about, and she explained that when people become as old as my Great-Grandfather their brains start to break down and it is almost like they turn back into babies.

Since my Great-Grandfather is going to die soon, and he is one of the only survivors of Earth, I decided to ask him what his favorite memory of the planet was. I thought he might tell me about the end of World War Four or going to see “Spider-Man,” but instead he told me about the first date he went on with his wife, my Great-Grandmother Kathleen. They met in College, which is a place people used to go to after high school to drink alcohol. Some people drank so much there that they died.

My Great-Grandfather said that when he was in College online dating hadn’t been invented yet. Instead of matching with someone through a dating app and sending a series of nude photos to each other before eventually meeting up for sex, you would meet them in person, before doing anything else. This meant that when my Great-Grandparents went out for the first time, they had no idea what each other looked like naked. At this point my mother, who was recording our interview, told my Great-Grandfather that he was being inappropriate, because this was a project for school, and he apologized, but said that the naked stuff was “crucial to the story” and that he was going to keep bringing it up whenever it was relevant.

My Great-Grandfather explained that not only had they not seen each other naked, he wasn’t sure if my Great-Grandmother wanted that to happen. Sometimes, in those days, when someone agreed to go out on a date with you, they were still undecided about the naked thing, and wanted to learn more personal information about you before making up their mind. Since this was before social media, the only way to get this personal information was by asking people questions to their face, as if their actual, living, breathing face was their social-media profile. Sometimes this would get embarrassing. Like, you might ask, “What do your parents do?” and they would say, “My parents are dead.” And then you would have to say something like “I’m sorry. I didn’t know that because I have no information about you. We are strangers.” And sometimes the other person would forgive you, but sometimes they would not. Also, sometimes the person you’d asked out on a date would not even know it was a date, because they had assumed that you were gay, or they found you so unattractive that it had not even occurred to them that you might be pursuing them romantically—like, that notion was so sick to them that it had truly not even crossed their mind. And sometimes they would convey this information to you in the middle of dinner—that they considered you a friend and nothing more—and to make the situation less humiliating you would have to pretend that you felt the same way, and keep on smiling all night, even though you’d just learned that this person you hoped you might see naked was so repulsed by you that even though you had invited them to a Spanish restaurant, it had legitimately never entered their mind that you were hoping for intimacy, because that would be as insane as being asked out by, like, a dog or a potato.

The point, my Great-Grandfather said, is that he had no idea what my Great-Grandmother thought about him. He had no idea what she thought about anything. He had zero information about her, other than what she looked like wearing clothes, and also how it sounded when she laughed, which she had done a couple of times on their long, slow walk through campus, with the cool fall breeze whipping through the scattered leaves.

My Great-Grandfather said that all dates began with the same custom. The two people on the date would take turns verbally listing all the TV shows they liked. If they both liked the same show, they’d exchange memes from it. But here’s the thing: gifs did not exist yet. So instead of texting the other person a funny moment from a show, you would say out loud, “Do you remember the part when . . .” and then you would perform the meme yourself, using your face and body to imitate what an actor had said and done. Exchanging memes in person was much scarier than doing it by text, because when you text someone a meme and they don’t respond, you can tell yourself that maybe they liked it but just didn’t have time to text you back. But when you performed a meme in person, and the other person didn’t like it, you would be able to tell, because instead of laughing they would just kind of sadly look away and say, “Yeah, I remember that part.” And you would have to just keep on walking to the restaurant.

Luckily, though, my Great-Grandfather’s meme performances went over well, or at least well enough to keep the conversation going. And while he still had no idea whether he and my Great-Grandmother would ever see each other naked, he knew that it was at least technically still possible.

My Great-Grandfather had invited my Great-Grandmother to a Spanish restaurant, because it was the only restaurant he knew that served wine to people under twenty-one. But when they arrived it was too crowded to get a table. They needed to find some other place to eat, but neither of them had Internet access, so their only option was to physically search for food, by walking around and looking in random directions, like, truly the same process used by animals. Things grew tense. The sun had set, and my Great-Grandfather was fearful they would not be able to find alcohol. But after a few stressful minutes they followed the scent of fried food around a corner and found a Chinese place that served beer, and they were so proud of themselves that they spontaneously high-fived, and that was the first time that they touched.

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My Great-Grandfather told me that they stayed at the restaurant so long that by the end they were the only customers left. Because they were strangers, they asked each other pretty basic questions, like “Who are you? Where did you come from? What kind of a person are you?” They ended up having a lot of things in common, which was exciting, because that didn’t usually happen on a date. Often the other person would dislike things you liked, or love things that you hated, or things would seem to be going pretty well, and the person would seem really nice, but then out of the blue they would say, “What is your relationship with Jesus Christ?”

My Great-Grandfather said that the main thing he talked to my Great-Grandmother about was how nervous they both were about the future. I asked if he meant climate change, and he admitted that the imminent climate holocaust hadn’t come up much, and instead they’d mostly talked about their careers. It turned out they both had the same dream: to write stories down onto pieces of paper. In fact, they were both already trying to do that. Every day, they would each type out stories on computers and then print them with ink onto pieces of white paper. Their goal was to get better at making these paper stories, in the hopes that someday they might be able to persuade someone to reprint their paper stories onto multiple pieces of paper, and then sell those pieces of paper for pieces of money, which were also made of paper. At this point, my mother whispered to me that it was time for my Great-Grandfather to take a nap, and she gave him some medicine which made him sleep for about four hours. When he woke up, though, he was still insisting that all this paper stuff was real, and that it was their actual shared ambition to write stories down on paper and then sell the paper for more paper. And my mother smiled and rubbed his hand and said that she believed him, but while she was doing that she buzzed for the doctor, and he brought in this huge syringe that was almost like a gun, because it was made out of metal and it had this trigger on the bottom, and the doctor explained that he was going to shoot this thing into my Great-Grandfather’s brain, to make him less confused. And my Great-Grandfather laughed weirdly and said that he had been joking about “all that paper stuff,” and that really what he and his wife had talked about on their first date was climate change, because that’s what any sane person from that era would have prioritized: being a climate warrior. And the doctor looked into my Great-Grandfather’s eyes, with his finger on the trigger, and said, “Are you sure?” And my Great-Grandfather swallowed and said, “Yep!” And so the doctor left, but on his way out he told my mom that he would stay nearby, in case my Great-Grandfather got confused again, in which case he would come back and give him that gun shot, right in the middle of his brain.

And my Great-Grandfather was quiet for a while, almost like he was afraid to keep going with his story, but when I pressed him for more information, he said the main thing he wanted me to know before was not what he and my Great-Grandmother talked about, it was how they talked, because even though they were basically still strangers, who had never even seen each other naked, they somehow believed in each other from the start.

My Great-Grandfather told me that all dates ended with the same custom. After the two people had finished all the alcohol they’d been served, one person would ask the other to come over to their dorm room to watch “Arrested Development.” “Arrested Development” was a non-“Spider-Man” show that you played by putting small, round disks into a machine. The reason it existed was to create a way for people on dates to gauge each other’s interest in becoming naked, without having to directly ask them. The way this worked was a little complicated, but my Great-Grandfather was able to explain all the steps. First, you asked the other person if they had seen “Arrested Development,” and they would respond, “Some, but not all of it.” This would be your prompt to ask them if they wanted to come to your dorm room to watch the episodes they’d missed. If they didn’t want to see you naked, they would say that they had to “finish a paper,” which was an expression that meant that they were not attracted to you. If they did agree to watch “Arrested Development,” it meant that they probably wanted to see you naked. But here’s where it gets complicated: sometimes it didn’t mean that. Sometimes it just meant that they wanted to watch “Arrested Development.”

That’s why there was a third part of the custom: after walking back to your dorm room and putting one of the disks into the disk-playing machine, you would sit side by side on a small couch. Your eyes would be facing the screen, but your attention would be focussed entirely on each other. As “Arrested Development” played, you would physically move closer to the other person, inch by inch, without making any sudden movements. The idea was that, if you both moved incrementally toward each other, eventually your hands would touch. If the other person pulled their hand away, or laughed and said “Sorry!,” that meant they had really, truly come to watch “Arrested Development.” But if they did not pull their hand away from yours, that meant it was time to start kissing, which is what my Great-Grandparents did, even though they had never exchanged even the most rudimentary of nudes, and at this point my mother told him to stop telling the story, and he had to admit that the next part was genuinely inappropriate.

My Great-Grandfather said that their marriage wasn’t perfect. Sometimes they argued, and in the 2050s they both had full-fledged affairs with sex robots. But they ultimately forgave each other, because nobody’s perfect, and also by the 2050s sex robots had become extremely advanced, and also incredibly persuasive—like, if you refused to have sex with them, they would start making really high-level philosophical arguments about “why it wasn’t wrong,” using logic that was essentially bulletproof, while their boobs and dicks lit up and spun and stuff, and eventually it got to the point where the U.N. had to regulate the Sex Robot Industry, because they needed people to leave their apartments again, so we could go back to being a society.

The point is, my Great-Grandparents rekindled their romance in the 2060s, and they even ended up renewing their vows, while riding on the Escape Pod to New Earth, in front of their daughters and their grandchildren. And my Great-Grandfather asked my mom if she could remember the ceremony, and she said she was only four at the time, but she did vaguely remember how weird it was to see him on the spaceship, when it was supposed to be just for women and children, and my Great-Grandfather said that they needed to bring one man to “help the women lift their bags into the overhead compartments,” and I reminded him that earlier he’d said he’d been on the ship to row an oar, and there was a long pause, and then he said that he was tired and had to go to sleep. And he closed his eyes, but it didn’t really look like he was sleeping, because every few seconds he would open them to check if we were still there, and when he saw we were he would quickly close his eyes again.

And it was around this time that my Great-Grandmother rolled up in her wheelchair. And my Great-Grandfather stopped pretending to be asleep, and he sat up and smiled, and she smiled back, and then he looked into her eyes and said, “Do you want to watch ‘Arrested Development’?” And my mom reminded my Great-Grandfather that “Arrested Development” has been lost, along with everything else on Earth, because of his generation’s crimes against humanity. But my Great-Grandfather ignored her and motioned for his wife to wheel next to him. And he flipped through random channels, while their hands inched slowly toward each other.

And that’s when I finally figured out what the Earth was really like.

It was kind of like “Arrested Development.”

It was something people talked about, and praised, and maybe even tried to save, but the whole time what everybody secretly, actually cared about was the person sitting next to them. That’s where all of mankind’s effort went, the sweat and the toil of billions, not to saving the world but to the frantic, desperate quest for love. And that’s why the Earth is gone, because it was nothing more than a conversation starter. It wasn’t what we really, truly cared about. We never even really lived there. We lived in the presence of each other.

And when my mom read my first draft of this, she said that I shouldn’t end it this way, because it’s glib and defeatist and deeply problematic, and seems to absolve my Great-Grandfather for his political inaction, but it’s not like anybody’s going to read this stupid essay, and even if they do it’ll eventually be lost, like everything else besides “Spider-Man,” so I’m just going to stop it right here, because I want to go out and the night’s still young. ♦

The Philosopher Chef

Yotam Ottolenghi
No one who has grown up in the Mediterranean Middle East can really live without the colors and textures and tastes of home. The food that Ottolenghi serves and writes about often includes them all, but it isn’t ethnic cooking, grounded in one tradition, and it certainly isn’t fusion cooking.Photographs by Richard Burbridge

In 1997, in Amsterdam, Yotam Ottolenghi finished writing the last chapter of his master’s thesis on the ontological status of the photographic image in aesthetic and analytic philosophy, rode his bicycle to the post office, and sent copies of the manuscript home to Israel. It was his second year away. He was twenty-nine, and nearing the end of an adventure in indecision that began a few months after he had completed the coursework for a fast-track, interdisciplinary bachelor’s and graduate degree at Tel Aviv University—known among students as “the genius program,” because only fifteen freshmen a year were admitted—and decamped with his boyfriend to sample the famously accessible offerings of the city of marijuana cafés, Ecstasy raves, and breakfast hams. When he wasn’t celebrating his release from school, he worked. He edited the Hebrew pages of a Dutch-Jewish weekly known by the acronym NIW, plowed through the essays of Ernst Gombrich, passed the qualifying exams for a doctorate in the United States—he was thinking comparative literature, at Yale—sat through long nights as a desk clerk at the kind of hotel he wouldn’t recommend, and wrote his thesis. “I’m incredibly self-disciplined,” he says. “I never would have not written it.”

One copy went to his thesis adviser in Tel Aviv, and another to Yehuda Elkana, the philosopher who created the genius program. A third copy—“the one I dreaded sending”—went to his parents in Jerusalem, where his father was a chemistry professor at Hebrew University and his mother, a former teacher and herself the daughter of a professor, was at the Education Ministry, running the country’s high schools. It was a moment of truth, Ottolenghi says. He slipped a note into the envelope—“actually, buried it in the manuscript”—which read, “Here is my dissertation. I’ve decided to take a break from academia and go to cooking school.” A few months later, he was in London, rolling puff pastry at the Cordon Bleu.

The moral is that smart people can be masters of many trades, though Ottolenghi claims that it took him a lot longer to “really experience pastry with my hands” (six months) than to make his way through Hegel (an excruciating few weeks). At forty-three, he is not much changed from the recovering geek of his Amsterdam years—lanky, loping, and quite tall, with the same short, sticking-up dark hair and fashionably stubbled chin, and even a version of the same black-rimmed student glasses. The difference is that today he wears the happy smile of a man who has left behind “The Phenomenology of Mind” for baked eggplants with lemon thyme, za’atar, pomegranate seeds, and buttermilk-yogurt sauce—and, in the process, become the pen, prime mover, and public face of a partnership of four close colleagues who have quietly changed the way people in Britain shop and cook and eat.

At last count, his eponymous reach extended to two hugely popular London restaurants, the flagship Ottolenghi, in Islington, and, in Soho, nopi (for North of Piccadilly, but known to foodies as “Ottolenghi’s new place”), as well as three packed gourmet delis, in Notting Hill, Kensington, and Belgravia, which are never without his favorite pastries and his signature platters of butternut-squash salad, roasted aubergine with yogurt topping, grilled broccoli with chili and fried garlic, and fresh green beans. The delis, along with the Islington restaurant, also provide a catering service that will deliver a dinner party to your door or, if you happen to be the Queen, put together a groaning board of snacks (as in “golden and candy beetroot, orange, and olive salad with goat’s cheese, red onion, mint, pumpkin seeds, and orange blossom dressing”) for the eight hundred and fifty people sipping champagne at your jubilee party at the Royal Academy of Arts.

Ottolenghi himself is the author of a weekly food-and-recipe column in the Guardian and a visually irresistible vegetable cookbook called “Plenty”—proof that an education in aesthetics is never wasted—and, with Sami Tamimi, his Palestinian executive chef and one of the early Ottolenghi partners, the co-author of two other cookbooks, the latest of which, “Jerusalem,” is about the food of their home town and the rich symbiosis of Arab and Jewish culinary traditions that survives in the markets and kitchens of an otherwise fractured city. (The book came out in Britain and America this fall, but the British got a preview late last year, when Ottolenghi became the peripatetic guide and narrator of a BBC documentary about his research, “Jerusalem on a Plate.”)

No one who has grown up in the Mediterranean Middle East can really live without the colors and textures and tastes of home. The food that Ottolenghi serves and writes about often includes them all, but it isn’t ethnic cooking, grounded in one tradition, and it certainly isn’t fusion cooking, or its muddled suburban hybrids. He uses the fish and meat and produce that everyone in Britain eats, and then, he says, “borrows from here and there” the tastes that will produce a recipe he likes. His instincts are collaborative and practical. When he started the Guardian column, six years ago, he wanted to create recipes that a home cook could pretty much put together from the shelves of a decent supermarket. (At first, he sent them to friends to test. His bottom line: a harried child-minder in Hackney, with two children of her own to feed.) He was wrong about supermarkets. But his column was so successful that the chain Waitrose began to stock his favorite condiments and spices. And he eventually launched an extensive online catalogue, in the hope of restoring domestic calm to readers like the woman who wanted to make his whitefish-grapefruit-and-fennel seviche. She ignored his advice about the quarter teaspoon of dried fennel pollen—“Don’t worry if you can’t get it, though. This cured fish dish will still taste great”—and wrote to the paper, “I’m a bit of a Yotam fan, but his mere mention fills my husband (who does most of the shopping) with dread. This week’s ‘dried fennel pollen’ might send him over the edge.”

Ottolenghi’s first word was ma. He didn’t mean “mama,” and he didn’t mean marak, which is “soup” in Hebrew. He meant the croutons that his mother scattered on the tray of his high chair while the soup was simmering. (“Store-bought croutons,” he maintains.) He can still name everything his parents cooked, from his mother’s beef curry, stuffed red peppers, and gazpacho to his father’s polpettone and polenta. His older sister, Tirza Florentin—a businesswoman who lives in Tel Aviv with her family—says that, as a boy in Jerusalem, he was “very passionate about food,” but much more interested in talking about what he ate and where it came from than in actually cooking any. It was a household of cosmopolitan tastes and backgrounds. Ottolenghi’s mother, who comes from a Berlin Jewish academic family (her uncle was the modernist architect and critic Julius Posener), had arrived in Palestine via Sweden, where she was born, in 1938, the same year that his father’s Florentine merchant family arrived from Italy. Two prominent, secular, Zionist clans had pulled up stakes in the wake of the Hitler-Mussolini military pact and, with it, the certainty of disaster.

Ottolenghi calls them a “strong-minded” and resilient people—smart (one grandfather started the mathematics department at Tel Aviv University) and, like him, masters of many trades (one grandmother worked for Mossad, forging documents for the agents who, most famously, captured Adolf Eichmann in Buenos Aires and delivered him to an Israeli prison). His sister calls it a family of high unstated expectations “that were simply something we grew into.” The burden of them fell on Yotam when he was twenty-three, and his younger brother, Yiftach, was killed by friendly fire during field exercises toward the end of his military service. “For Yotam, I think it was a tragedy on top of a tragedy,” Florentin says. “Yiftach had been the star; he was outspoken, charming, always in trouble—making us laugh—and very bright. Yotam was the reserved one then. And, like me, he was in a kind of under-the-surface competition with our brother. He wanted to find his niche. When Yiftach died, we were very concerned about how my father would get through the loss. He was a conservative person, which made it terrible for Yotam. Not talking to him about being gay—that was the price he had to pay for a long time.”

“I just had a terrifying glimpse into our snack.”

Every Israeli boy spends three years immediately after high school in the Israel Defense Force. (Girls spend two.) Ottolenghi had studied Arabic in school—in part, in the hope of avoiding assignment to a fighting unit. He succeeded, and went to Army-intelligence headquarters instead. “Otherwise, I was a conformist boy,” he says. “I studied physics and math because my best friend was good at that, but I was really much more interested in literature. I read a lot in the Army, I had a good time, and made lots of friends, and went home at night for dinner.” A few months before his discharge, he fell in love with a twenty-five-year-old Tel Aviv psychology student named Noam Bar, and that fall—after a summer in Berlin, learning German—he moved to Tel Aviv, started college, and began experimenting with his father’s Florentine pasta sauces. (Bar did the dishes.) He also managed to land a part-time job on the news desk at Haaretz. “I’d arrive at four-thirty in the afternoon, when the news was coming in fast,” he says. “It was very exhilarating—everybody was young, everybody smoked. I was going to become a journalist if not a chef.” His parents were still thinking “a professor.” Four years later, with a thesis to write, he left for Amsterdam with Bar. “We arrived the month of the Rabin assassination, and joined the demonstration,” he says. “That death was the end of a moment of high optimism at home. Israel became a very closed culture again, living according to its own rules. There was a desire growing in me to live somewhere else.”

In Amsterdam, he began to cook in earnest. He prowled the fishmongers for mackerel and herring. He stopped at the butchers he passed for bones, and made his own stocks. He roasted, sautéed, and baked his way through Julia Child, started ordering from Books for Cooks, and “cooked for everyone who asked.” So many people did ask that, at dinnertime, his walkup, on Herengracht, turned into an open house. “We were his guinea pigs,” a Tel Aviv friend named Ilan Safit, who was studying in Amsterdam at the time, told me. “I had a Dutch girlfriend. We were living practically hand to mouth, but even after we got married we must have eaten at Yotam’s every other night. He loved the kitchen. He was obviously an intellectual—a first-class intellectual—but he wasn’t happy writing philosophy in his study. He was happy feeding people. He said, ‘Ilan, I don’t want to go back to academia, I don’t want to live with books.’ ’’

His father was shocked. “This is not a very good idea” was his reply to the note buried in Ottolenghi’s thesis. His adviser, Ruth Ronen, puts it this way: “Cooking? It was like a metamorphosis, it was so extreme. His thesis was excellent, very thoughtful and intriguing. He had a natural inclination to philosophy—you could feel the urge—and the world of cooking was so far from that; I couldn’t even see the connection. Was I disappointed? In a way, yes.” But his sister told him, “This is the coolest thing.” His mother wanted to see him happy. And his old mentor, Yehuda Elkana (who died in Jerusalem this fall), even claimed some credit for the change. “We had hundreds of candidates for the program,” he told me. “We were looking for the few who had an original attitude to something in life. It could be anything. How you made love, how you made bread, how you ‘made’ philosophy. Yotam had that curiosity and enthusiasm. He would come to my home, and I’d cook for him. I’m a very good cook, so I may have had an influence. Even then, he was proof that the division academics make between ‘cognitive’ and ‘emotional’ is bullshit.”

Ottolenghi still makes the puff pastry that he learned at the Cordon Bleu. He loved the pastry part of his cooking course; he found “the physicality of pastry” soothing. But he found the savory part—which, in the hierarchy of professional kitchens, is called “cuisine”—so pressured and unnerving that it nearly ended his new career. “I thought, This will only get worse,” he says, and it did. His first cooking job was a trial run at a London restaurant called the Capital. He spent three mind-numbing months whipping egg whites for the pastry chef to fold, and then was promoted to full time in the cold-starter section. “On my first day, the sous-chef said, ‘O.K., now make me a lobster bisque and an amuse-bouche.’ It was terrifying. I couldn’t sleep all night, and by the middle of the next day I was so exhausted that I took my scooter and went home and never went back. I said to Noam, ‘This is not a normal job.’ ”

He was rescued by the well-known London chef Rowley Leigh—an experience on the order of starting out in New York with, say, Daniel Boulud. (“Not charitable, but sweet,” Ottolenghi describes him. “I doubt if he likes my food.”) Leigh placed him at a small restaurant that he had opened in Kensington called Launceston Place, where he quickly became the pastry chef. “I could do what I did best, and I was really teaching myself, because the menu was basically French-English, and French pastry wasn’t my thing. I wanted the vibrancy and freshness of California pastry”—the Ottolenghis had spent a sabbatical year in Mill Valley, when Yotam was ten—“so I bought Alice Waters, and Emily Luchetti’s ‘Stars Desserts.’ I made fresh-fruit galettes and meringue pies. I stayed a year and got a lot of confidence. You can do that with pastry; you learn a certain range of processes, and it’s very contained. I began to think that maybe I had a pastry talent and should get a pâtisserie job—see how it all worked, napoleons, pâte à choux, crème pâtisserie.”

He went to work for a chain of bakeries—a franchise spinoff of the entrepreneurial restaurateur Raymond Blanc. The bakery turned out to be a factory, where the crème pâtisserie came out of a machine. Plus, it was freezing. “Fifteen degrees,” Ottolenghi says. “The guy next to me said we’d be warmer driving a minicab. I did twenty-five shifts, and, on the one where I worked a machine that poured chocolate mousse into sponge cake, I decided that this was not what I needed to know to further my career.” A few days later, he got on his scooter and rode up and down the streets of central London, “searching for bakeries that looked exciting.” On a quiet street in Knightsbridge, he spotted a small traiteur called Baker & Spice, peered through the window, and ran in. “It was completely magical,” he says. “I saw all these walls and counters covered with a marvellous mix of food. There were Middle Eastern salads, Italian Caprese salads, rotisserie chickens, even char-grilled broccoli, and you could see into a small kitchen open to a mews garden, full of light. You could even see Ringo Starr’s house.” A young chef, about his own age, came out of the kitchen and said, “I’m Sami. I’m from Tel Aviv.” Ottolenghi said, “Me, too.”

Sami Tamimi was seventeen when he moved out of his father’s house, in the Old City of East Jerusalem. It wasn’t entirely his decision. “My family was a very traditional Muslim house,” he told me one day in Acton, in West London, where he lives with an English property-research analyst named Jeremy Kelly, his partner of eight years. We were in the kitchen. I had found him making a cheesecake for us to have with coffee; the cake was from a television recipe he had just downloaded, but the gesture of hospitality was timeless, tacit, and very Arab. “I had six siblings and five step-siblings; every time I came home, there was another baby born. And when the whole sexual thing came up—well, in Palestine you can’t tell anyone how you really feel. I was fifteen when I left school; I always knew there was something else in life.” At the time, Tamimi was working at the Mount Zion, a West Jerusalem hotel whose German chef, seeing the makings of a cook, had promoted him from kitchen porter to “head breakfast chef,” a job Tamimi describes as an education in scrambled eggs. Three years later, he said goodbye to his friends, and left for Tel Aviv.

He says that he could “breathe” in Tel Aviv, a city as open then as Jerusalem was staid. He acquired an Anglo-Israeli boyfriend and a decent restaurant job, discovered his talent for catering home-cooked food (“After all those years of dreaming about European food, I realized that the food I grew up with was the food I did best”), and settled into the kind of “good” neighborhood that he describes dryly as “quite unusual for an Arab living in Tel Aviv.” He stayed for the next twelve years. He liked the city—the freedom he’d felt at first, the European cafés and restaurants, and, above all, the chef’s job that he eventually found at Lilith, a fashionable new brasserie whose owner, a transplanted American, served an eclectic “California-Mediterranean” mix of grilled meats and vegetables that was, in many ways, a version of the kind of food Tamimi cooks now. One night, a woman visiting from England ate at Lilith and asked to meet him. She said that she loved his food, and that there would always be a job waiting for him, with her, in London. In 1997, he called the woman, got on a plane, and started working at Baker & Spice—“creating the concept” that made Ottolenghi stop his scooter, on a spring day two years later, and run in, asking for a job.

“And bring a ton of quarters.”

“We clicked as friends, right away,” Tamimi says. “It was an ‘everything’ mesh. We came from the same place, we tasted food in the same way. And, of course, our cooking was very similar. We both wanted to surprise, but we also wanted our food to taste ‘comfortable.’ Our feeling was: pick good ingredients and let them speak.” They worked together in Knightsbridge for about two years—with Tamimi running savory and Ottolenghi eventually running pastry—and talked, from time to time, about someday opening a place together. In the fall of 2001, Ottolenghi left to find one. Tamimi stayed. “For months, I was thinking yes, no, yes, no,” he says. “Then Yotam asked me to join him, and a few weeks later it was yes.” The Notting Hill deli opened with a bright-red “Ottolenghi” painted in block letters above the door. I asked Tamimi if he thought it should have had his name, too, and he shook his head: “It was Yotam’s vision and his dream. The work was his. The stake was his. I didn’t have money to invest. He risked everything he had. A few years later, I became a partner, but regardless of the cookbooks we do, regardless of our friendship, I’m still working for Yotam. He’s my boss.”

Tamimi writes poetry, in Arabic, and paints. There is a haunting gouache on his living-room wall—lines of script painted over with bright-yellow flowers and green leaves. The poem, he told me, is “about the things you’re supposed to remember and the things you have to forget”; the flowers are “the way I felt after it was written.” There are layers of irony (or innocence) in a lot of what Tamimi says, and, perhaps because of this, he stays away from the kind of exposure that Ottolenghi is able to embrace—and weather. When they worked on “Jerusalem,” it was Ottolenghi who did the travelling, the interviewing, and nearly all the writing, but it was Tamimi who in many ways talked him through the experience. “We’d sit down and think about little things we’d done as children—things associated with a recipe,” Tamimi says. “We’d tell stories. We’d compare the smells and tastes and sounds that were our memories of food. It was mind-blowing, for me, to be re-created through that book.” This fall, he went with Ottolenghi on two “Jerusalem” book tours—first in England, then in Canada and the United States—and admits to having enjoyed them both. He discovered two nephews looking for him on Facebook, and even talked by phone to a brother who hadn’t spoken to him since the day that, as a gay man, he became unwelcome in their father’s house. He and Kelly are going to East Jerusalem for a week at Christmas—his first trip to Israel in nine years. (He had told me that after the second intifada started, in 2000, visiting “became unbearable, the hatred on both sides was too intense.”) “I don’t know what will happen, but I’m going,” he says. “We’ll see.”

In Acton that day, he said, “I’m very private. I don’t think I’m built to be Yotam’s sort of famous person.” Ottolenghi—who stopped cooking at the restaurant and deli kitchens when he took on the column and, with it, the job of creating, testing, and writing new recipes each week—still visits them almost every day, to check out the food and talk to the chefs and the staff. The customers recognize him. They stop him to say hello. They ask about recipes. Some take out their smartphones and ask him to pose with them for a picture. (He obliges.) Tamimi never leaves the kitchen if he can help it, and he shoos away any customer (including me) who invades his space during lunch or dinner service, hoping to watch him work. “I’m happy in our kitchens,” he told me. “I divide my week between them, working with the chefs all day, and you can’t do that and have a public image. It would be easy for me to visit a kitchen, taste, and leave, but my idea of teaching our chefs is to work with them, to work as hard as they work—to compete. They’re young, they respect that, and I like passing what I know to other generations. I have so much knowledge in my head that it just comes out. You spend your life learning, and a time comes when you want to share it.”

Ottolenghi likes to write. “He wasn’t interested in sports,” his mother says. “He was interested in trying his hand at a short story.” He expects that, one day, he will produce a book about food that isn’t a cookbook—something literary, maybe a memoir full of experiences and ideas. “Jerusalem” includes his nimble, often eloquent evocations of the city and its multitude of different peoples, and of the helplessness both he and Tamimi feel as “that elusive dream of peace in the Middle East” fades. He put it this way: “It takes a giant leap of faith, but we are happy to take it—what have we got to lose?—to imagine that hummus will eventually bring Jerusalemites together, if nothing else will.”

In the fall of 2004, a literary agent named Felicity Rubinstein, who lived a few blocks from the Notting Hill deli, suggested that Ottolenghi write a cookbook. She wasn’t thinking about literature. “I wanted the recipes,” she says. “I was shopping at Yotam’s all the time—the food was different from anything I’d ever eaten—but I was spending a lot of money there. I thought, I could do this myself if I had a book.” At the time, Ottolenghi had only one deli, and the Islington restaurant had just opened. He was working at both kitchens with Tamimi, doing pastry or savory or both, as the need arose. They were absorbing each other’s recipes and techniques. His ideas for a book were, perhaps, still more philosophical than gastronomic. “I heard back that it was ‘maybe no recipes, maybe no paper,’ ” Rubinstein says. She told him to think again.

A year later, with the Kensington deli open, he was ready. By then, he had established a name, and also what in the restaurant trade is called a “look”—thanks, in large part, to a commuting Israeli architect and friend named Alex Meitlis, whom he credits with the clean, white, laid-back elegance that all the Ottolenghis share, from the red logo on their white menus to the chairs and countertops and tables. (Meitlis told me, “Yotam has absolutely no ego when it comes to how much of the aesthetic success is his.”) His one problem was the limited reach of his reputation. He had a big following in the trendy boroughs of central London, but not much farther, and to fast-track that to a good book deal, as they would have said in the genius program, his choice was apparently between flinging pots and flipping fritters, as a wannabe television-chef celebrity, and producing a weekly column in the kind of national newspaper whose readers would like his butternut-squash salads and his green beans. The Guardian was “inevitable,” Rubinstein says.

Ottolenghi isn’t a vegetarian. He once told me that he hadn’t left the country of “no seafood, no pork” in order to cook for people who wouldn’t eat anything but plants. But many of the customers who ate his beans and salads assumed that he was one of those people—and, as it turned out, the only available space in the Guardians overflowing food pages was the “vegetarian slot.” The slot had for years been filled by Rose Elliot, an ardent herbivore and astrologer with an army of sandal-wearing fans, who had departed the paper with an M.B.E. and the royalties from more than fifty books waiting in the bank.

At first, Ottolenghi thought he should refuse the column. He said this to me one night at nopi, as we were sitting down to a carnivore’s feast of sharing dishes that began with gurnard, a fish from the Celtic Sea, which the chef, a Malaysian from Australia, had filleted into a beautiful chunk of white flesh, marinated in a complex curry-lime-and-coconut paste, wrapped in a pandan leaf, steamed, and served with a pineapple sambal. (Not for the home cook.) Ottolenghi, who has a huge appetite, had ordered half the dishes on the menu. We finished the fish, cleaned a plate of zucchini-and-manouri-cheese fritters with lime yogurt, and moved on to a baby chicken—simmered for an hour, marinated overnight in Asian wine and spices, then flash-fried crisp—so tender that you could munch the bones. We washed them down with a good, light Austrian white, and I asked him what changed his mind. “My agent,” he said. “She told me, ‘Yotam, beggars can’t be choosers. The day you take that column, you’ll get a book deal.’ ” He took the column, and three months later he had the deal. His first recipe was for “seriously zesty bread salad,” which appeared with the addendum: “Will taste amazing alongside a piece of slightly charred meat from the barbecue.” There were so many letters that week from angry readers that, despite his frequent pleas “to get my brief expanded,” he had to swear off any mention of flesh until the fall of 2010, when Merope Mills, the editor of the Guardian Weekend and a “big Yotam advocate,” called to say, “The shackles have lifted—write anything you want.”

“It’s for you.”

By then, of course, he was seriously into vegetables, and today at least one recipe of the two or three in each of his columns remains a vegetable dish. “I found it appealing—the idea of celebrating vegetables or pulses without making them taste like meat, or as complements to meat, but to be what they are,” he says. “It does no favor to vegetarians, making vegetables second best.” In his first cookbook, “Ottolenghi,” vegetable dishes were often spiked with a bit of meat: try the caramelized endive, smothered in bread crumbs, Parmesan, thyme, and cream, and roasted with a topping of serrano ham. With “Plenty”—a collection, for the most part, of his favorite vegetarian columns—the vegetables stood alone, their ontological status deliciously revealed. The book, which sold nearly half a million copies in Britain, became a best-seller in Germany, Holland, and America. A Russian translation is on the way.

Noam Bar, who moved to London with Ottolenghi in 1997, doesn’t cook. Nor, in fact, was he still living with Ottolenghi when the Notting Hill deli opened, five years later. But he had remained Ottolenghi’s closest friend—“the one person in the world who I knew would never let me down,” Ottolenghi says—and had also become his business partner, the éminence grise of the operation. “Our M.B.A.,” Ottolenghi calls him. “He put the company together.” It was Bar who pushed Ottolenghi to open his own place, searched with him for the right place, structured a backers’ prospectus that would spread the risk among small investors (who are “more than satisfied,” he says), and, over the years, has sat at the negotiating table for every one of Ottolenghi’s contracts. “Noam’s the one who rattles the cage,” Ottolenghi told me. Rubinstein put it this way: “He’s more abrasive than Yotam, but he’s much softer than he appears, and Yotam is much steelier than he seems.”

Bar is another polymath. He grew up in Haifa, where his father—a Polish Jew and a Holocaust survivor—was a chemical engineer and his mother taught literature and Bible studies at a junior high school. “I had a problem with Haifa,” he said, in the middle of a conversation one morning at his house in Hammersmith. “I couldn’t express myself in that middle-class city. Actually, I couldn’t express myself in Israel. It was opera seria then. Today, it takes a lot out of me just to be there.” He has not stopped running since he left. In Amsterdam, he started a company that offered “premium-line telephone services” (horoscopes, dating, and the weather). The Internet killed it. In London, he went back to school for his business degree, and in 2000, when he and Ottolenghi ended their nine-year affair—a parting that left them both shattered—he flew to Dharamsala to meditate and study Tibetan medicine. A year later, he was back in London, getting a degree in homeopathy, which he still practices, in Marylebone, twice a week. When he can get away, he flies to Tanzania and volunteers with a homeopathic project that provides supportive treatment to aids victims. The rest of his time is spent keeping the Ottolenghi brand current—“Jerusalem” was originally his idea—profitable, and realistic. Meitlis calls him “the wind behind everybody’s wings.”

“My job at Ottolenghi is asking the ‘now what, now where’ question—it’s about strategy, about keeping an edge,” Bar told me. “Food is not my passion. Nothing infuriates Yotam more than me in the kitchen, making comments about the food. My passion is the organism—it’s about people working together with a sense of movement and purpose.” He says of Ottolenghi and Tamimi, “Yotam is inventive; he has the ultimate, the most discerning, palate. Sami is more traditional, but he’s the kitchen authority; his hand goes into the salt, and his fingers know it’s the right amount.”

And he says of himself, “I’m the one who’s either solving problems or looking for the next new thing. The fact is that most restaurants fail. You have to stay one step ahead. We were fine in Notting Hill for a while, but the back room was always too small. Then there was Islington. We know how to fix things now, but in 2004, when we bought Islington, we didn’t know what we were doing with a restaurant. It’s been a big success, but, at the beginning, I’d go for dinner, there would be eight people. Maybe. I’d want to slit my wrists. And Belgravia? We opened Belgravia in 2007, and it was another catchment. We’re still working on a hot breakfast there. Last year, the problem was nopi, because Soho is definitely another catchment. You can’t do an Islington there.” He meant that a couple of North London literati looking to sample and share, in Islington, after the curtain falls across the street at the Almeida, is not the same as a couple of testy businessmen walking a few blocks from their offices to Soho, looking to seal a deal. “We had to reinvent the wheel at every level, without making the mistake of ‘surprising’ at every level.”

Bar thrives on his intimations of disaster. “You have ten minutes of Noam, maximum,” their general manager and fourth partner, Cornelia Staeubli, says. “He gets bored, and he’s on another planet—or another problem that nobody else has seen. He loves change, and Yotam doesn’t. We will sometimes do Noam’s idea just to prove him wrong.” Bar says that their arguments are “loud but never personal. It was never difficult, working with Yotam on a new basis. We were always more than lovers. We had that deep trust; we broke up, I went to India, and a year later we had new lives, but we still had it. We’re very complementary. Yotam is measured. I’m forward-looking, always pushing. Yotam says, ‘Stop! Let’s wait and think.’ I say, ‘Let’s do it now!’ A restaurant is like a bicycle—if it stops moving, it has no life.”

The partners call themselves a family. They eat at one another’s houses, take vacations together, and occasionally even rent a house in the country together for a weekend, to reconnect—or, as Meitlis puts it, “to celebrate their different obsessions.” “Three gay guys and a mother hen” is how their friends describe them, which isn’t entirely accurate, since the family now includes their lovers and spouses and parents and brothers and sisters and nieces and nephews, and the list goes on. Staeubli, a blue-eyed Swiss beauty of forty-four, is, de facto, the mother hen. Bar calls her “the foreman,” and says he can see her “moving armies around in World War Two, calm and energized in a crisis.” Ottolenghi says, “She makes everything work.” She shares his obsession with “the context of food,” with the balance of buzz and quiet in a restaurant, and, especially, with the way the mood and clarity of its spaces can anticipate and echo the look and taste of the food in front of you on the table. “She’s tough, too,” he told me. “She’ll spot the one speck of dirt on the floor—the way I’ll see the one tart that’s badly displayed—and stand there until it’s gone. But there’s the other side. I’ve seen her go out and buy a sleeping bag for a waitress who didn’t have a bed. She looks after a staff of two hundred people. She takes care of us all.”

Staeubli comes from Goldau, a mountain town in the canton of Schwyz so remote that, when she left it, at nineteen, for an au-pair job in America, it had “maybe a thousand people, just like me.” She still talks about the thrill of landing at J.F.K.: “The smells, the elbows out, I loved it all. I loved that there were so many nationalities in those visa lines, everyone with the same goal—to start their lives.” (In her best of all possible worlds, she would open a New York Ottolenghi, “big, like Eataly.”) Her job turned out to be in a New Jersey suburb. The family was rich, the children spoiled, and after three months she decided that she was “not an au-pair person” and fled to the Lower East Side, where she waitressed happily until her visa expired and she had to go back to Switzerland. She stayed there for ten years, and, at thirty-two, quit the last of a series of dull office jobs and set off to see the world. She flew to Southeast Asia, and eventually on to Sydney in the middle of a winter so cold that she got on a bus for Queensland. The trip took forty-eight hours, and at the end of it she fell in love with a backpacking Englishman who had boarded along the way. They spent a week together in the sun, on Airlie Beach. Three months later, she arrived at Heathrow to the same multicultural mix of people that had delighted her in New York, and she and the man from the bus—a journalist named Peter Lowe, who is now the managing editor at Sky News—got married.

Nine years ago, Staeubli sold her half of a small Internet café-cum-restaurant that she and a friend had opened in Putney a year earlier, and went out looking for a job closer to the Notting Hill apartment where she and Lowe then lived. She passed a “Sales Assistant Wanted” sign in the window of the Notting Hill deli, met Ottolenghi, and started working the next day. “I came home that night crying,” she told me late one afternoon, over tea at their apartment. “I said to Peter, ‘I can’t do it, it’s too chaotic there.’ He said, ‘Try till Christmas.’ ” By April, she was managing the store. A year later, she was managing managers, and doing it so efficiently and agreeably that she was invited into the business. “I know I’m the ‘mother hen,’ ” she said. “I don’t have children of my own, so I like that. But I don’t mother them. I love them. I do the hiring, the staff, the managers, and the chefs. I fill in when someone on the staff’s away. My job is to make everything O.K.” She spends her days whizzing around London, from deli to restaurant to the next deli, and knows before anyone else when something’s wrong.

I asked her what, exactly, the problem had been at nopi, which opened in February last year and is now arguably one of the city’s hottest restaurants, and she said, “At first, it was all sharing plates, like Islington. I told Yotam, ‘We haven’t got the right customers here yet. We’ve got your most boring fans, the food bloggers and the ladies over fifty who sit with a glass of water and talk about your beautiful salads, and then order a single plate to share.’ Sharing is fine at night, but the rich guys we need for lunch in Soho, the ones with offices in the neighborhood, don’t want to be disturbed or distracted by the food. They don’t want a cluttered table. They want a main dish, fish or meat, and if they get that they’ll order a nice, expensive wine to wash it down. Yotam got that wrong.” (She meant he was nervous about diluting the Ottolenghi signature.) “But Noam and I fixed it. It didn’t take long. You can share tastes, or you can dig into your own big steak. We’re very popular now.”

On my last night in London, a Friday, Ottolenghi and I cooked from “Jerusalem” in the Notting Hill apartment that he shares with Karl Allen, a quirky and quietly impressive Northern Irishman whom he met at the gym twelve years ago—and married in September, in Massachusetts, where gay marriage has been legal for eight years. Allen, who is a law graduate, a former British Airways flight attendant, and a keen-eyed collector of vintage fifties antiques—he found the outsized cabbage-leaf chandelier that hangs like a flashy hat above the receptionist’s stand at nopi—has been managing the company’s Kensington deli since it opened, in 2005. (“You function at eighty per cent when you fly,” he says. “You don’t realize it until you’ve spent a week in one time zone. I met Yotam and I wanted that.”) His plan is to quit Kensington “when the first baby arrives” and become a house parent, eventually selling antiques or designing interiors from home. With family in mind, they have bought a large house on a quiet street in Camden—a short walk from Ottolenghi’s test kitchen, in an old building under the Camden railway arches, and the adjoining prep kitchen where the bread for his restaurants and delis is now baked and the pastry is prepared for on-site finishing. “Pretty, respectable, and bourgeois” is how Ottolenghi happily describes the house. It has five bedrooms, a deep garden, and a proper kitchen to replace the one he cooks in now, which is minuscule, or, as he put it when I walked in, “a case of the cobbler goes barefoot.” Every inch was taken.

Ottolenghi cleared some space for us on a serving counter above a shelf of tottering pots and bowls and unpacked the fixings, which, in keeping with his “any decent supermarket” home-recipe rule, he had just picked up at the local Waitrose. He tweeted a picture of the radishes he’d bought, glistening in the sink, “because they look so fresh,” and then a message to say that, regrettably, they were tasteless—after which we took a break, opened some white wine, and stepped onto a narrow balcony off the kitchen for a clandestine cigarette. Ottolenghi rarely smokes. His real vice is drugstore candy, which he keeps stashed in the glove compartment of an eight-year-old Prius, and dips into on his daily rounds. He is almost preternaturally energetic, perhaps because of the sugar but more likely because of the Pilates classes he takes twice a week and never misses. He started Pilates twelve years ago, with a terrible “bending-over-the-stove” backache. Eight years later, he qualified as an instructor—something he hopes will come in handy on the off chance that London ever stops eating Ottolenghi.

My first job that night was to help assemble a “one-pot Sephardic hybrid” inspired by a dish called plov—a barberry, cardamom, onion, chicken, and rice concoction, originally hours in preparation, that Bukharan Jews introduced to Jerusalem and still serve in one form or another at celebrations. “You have to remember that, for Jews, Jerusalem was never an affluent town,” Ottolenghi told me. “It was different for Palestinians. The Arab middle class was affluent. But for most Jews it was a poor immigrant town. They cooked with what they had. There is no one recipe. In fact, we never replicate recipes. We replicate the idea of a dish. We replicated the idea of plov.” The barberries—a sour, dried berry from Iran—went into an infusion of water and sugar to plump and sweeten. The chicken thighs went into a marinade of olive oil, green cardamom pods, cinnamon sticks, and cloves, along with salt and pepper. Sliced onions slowly caramelized in a frying pan, and we began chopping herbs and tearing lettuces for a raw cauliflower salad. I looked at my watch: we’d been back in the kitchen less than twenty minutes, and talking all the time. Ottolenghi had been so carefree and relaxed, juggling pots and pans in that ridiculous space, that it was impossible to imagine him as the panicked apprentice who had once fled on a moped from the cold starter station of a London restaurant.

He consulted his list—he is a compulsive list-maker—and announced that dessert was next, whereupon he opened two packages of phyllo pastry, melted a good third of a pound of butter, brushed some onto a baking tray, and began layering the tray with sheets of buttered phyllo. The name of the dish was mutabbaq. It was Palestinian, and was traditionally filled with “hard-core” goat or ewe cheese, which, Ottolenghi allowed, was an acquired taste. He and Tamimi had decided, instead, on the combination of ricotta and soft white goat cheese that he now mixed together with a fork and spread over half the phyllo sheets, leaving me to cover the mixture with the rest. It took me seven sheets, but the last one looked respectable. He checked it out. “Phyllo masks all mistakes,” he said, reaching around me for a small pot to hold the sugar, lemon juice, and water for a pastry syrup. While the syrup boiled, he tackled the bowl of chicken. Soon the spicy smell of the thighs, browned with the cloves and cardamom pods of the marinade sticking to their skin, was mingling with the sour-sweet smell of barberries and caramelized onions in a pot of simmering basmati rice. We opened another bottle of wine, filled a dish with some olives left over from the cauliflower salad, and crashed.

It had been what his friends call “a Yotam week.” He had worked mornings at the test kitchen with his assistant, Sarah Stephens, a young Tasmanian chef of surpassing patience, whose job, at the moment, was to produce a large number of interesting, attractive dishes for the British food photographer Jonathan Lovekin, who had taken the pictures for “Plenty” and whom I met that Monday, waiting in a patch of light by the front door, to start taking them for “Jerusalem.” (We ate the morning’s offerings for lunch.) He had visited the prep bakeries next door, where the pastry chef (Lebanese-Brazilian) taught me how to work the dough laminator (think of an old-fashioned clothes wringer, only horizontal and sleek steel) and to hand-roll croissants (so addictive it was hard to stop), and a staff of sous-chefs from Australia, Poland, and Brazil fed me leftover crackers, smothered in salt caramel and chocolate, which they called “brittle.” He had played the fall guy in an interview routine at a cabaret in Soho, appearing between a campy standup-comedy act and a famous cross-dressing singer; agreed to four more television hours, this time for Channel 4, which would take him from Morocco to Tunisia, Turkey, and back to Israel by the end of the summer (they began airing this month); met for a long Islington breakfast with a group of American women (chefs, food writers, and their friends) on an eating spree in London and Paris; hosted a butchery demonstration at nopi; endured a humorless session with a group of Dutch students, who were horrified to learn that he ate meat, shopped occasionally at a supermarket, and stretched his carbon footprint by importing his pomegranate molasses from Beirut; prepared for the class that he and Tamimi teach, on alternate Saturdays, at Leiths cookery school, in West London; written three columns; and made time for countless hours eating and talking with me.

“I’ve had it with this kitchen!”

Ottolenghi works hard, and the challenge for him is long-term: how to maintain the Ottolenghi signature and, at the same time, not exhaust its appeal in a notoriously trendy and capricious city. nopi was an attempt at both. It tastes different—more Asian and exotic—and looks different, with a gleaming brass counter and brass tabletops and fixtures replacing the pristine Corian white of Islington and the delis. “We wanted a brasserie feel, something fresh,” Meitlis told me. “So we kept the white walls but made it as mellow and deep as possible, and let the brass shine.” Ottolenghi admits that it looks terrific. Whatever hesitations he had at first are long resolved. “We wanted to get everything right—right away,” he says. “It’s not easy to keep on reinventing.” He worries (or, more accurately, Bar and Staeubli worry for him) about the downside of so much success—about the gorgeous Ottolenghi-catered buffet becoming the ubiquitous Ottolenghi buffet. One writer recently grumbled about walking into an Ottolenghi dinner party and wondering what had happened to serious English food, served in the proper English dinner order. Another quoted his wife saying that ninety-four per cent of the DNA in every Ottolenghi dish is identical—arguably a case more of expectation than of reality. Ottolenghi experiments all the time. Lately, he has been incorporating tastes he discovered this year in Turkey into recipes at his test kitchen. Tamimi, who loves Japan—he says that “taste is a part of me, it’s why I travel”—has been working with Asian seaweeds and vinegars. As for me, I would be hard put to explain what, genomically speaking, the Malaysian-spiced gurnard I sampled at nopi had in common with the Turkish-inspired zucchini fritters I also ate that night—beyond the fact that they were both good, in an unmistakable Ottolenghi way.

At seven, Allen came home from the Kensington deli and took a Friday-night nap on the living-room couch. When he and Ottolenghi met, Allen was in the habit of driving to Gloucestershire on Fridays, to work on an old cottage that he had bought to sell. “I grew up in the countryside,” he told me. “I can rough it in a sleeping bag. But Yotam? It would have killed him. Luckily, it was sold.” The phone woke him. Bar, who was coming to dinner with his boyfriend of four years, Garry Chang—a young Taiwanese doctor with the National Health Service—had called to say they were running late. We turned off the pot, and I peeked in. The plov was as beautiful as it smelled. “The senses are not so separate,” Ottolenghi had said one day in Camden, en route to a High Street diner for a quick lunch. “They’re synesthetic. They need to work together.” He called this his aesthetic. The word, at work, is “smiling.” Staeubli, who coined the expression, says, “Sami can make food smile,” and Allen swears that he has seen Yotam walk into one of his delis or restaurants and take away half the food on display or the salad about to be served “because it’s not smiling.” The smiliest dish I’d seen that week was shakshuka—a North African breakfast from “Plenty,” cooked and served in little cast-iron skillets. It wasn’t fancy: a couple of eggs poached in a spicy saffron-onion-tomato-and-bell-pepper sauce, flecked with fresh herbs and dappled with drops of yogurt. But it was irresistible. I could taste it before I raised my fork.

Bar and Chang arrived at the apartment toward nine. Allen and I set the table. Ottolenghi put the mutabbaq in the oven, turned the plov back on, and chopped some parsley, coriander, and dill, for sprinkling. A few minutes later, we sat down and ate serious Jerusalem food served in the proper English dinner order. The plov was delicious, if you didn’t count the undercooked rice and the pinkish chicken near the bone. Ottolenghi, who is known to be very precise at work—“He’s always asking, ‘How much of that? A teaspoon? A half teaspoon?’ ” Allen says—tends to get lost in thought, or conversation, when he cooks at home. He had doubled the number of chicken thighs in his recipe and added some extra rice, but not the extra water with which to cover and cook it all. (“The big secret at Yotam’s house is that the food is much better when Karl cooks it,” Meitlis, who stays in their spare bedroom when he comes to London, says.) It didn’t matter. We chewed the rice, avoided the pink, and asked for seconds.

The pastry was a sweet success. We ate it slowly, and talked till midnight. Ottolenghi was leaving for Israel in a few weeks, to be with his parents on the twentieth anniversary of his brother’s death. He has been flying to Israel two or three times a year since he left for Amsterdam. He says that “the sense of a network there, the security in that, is what gives me the cohesion that I don’t have here.” He calls it “the feeling that, when I’m at my parents’ house, anything wrong or difficult can be fixed.” The Ottolenghis have both retired. His father gardens; his mother volunteers with the women of Checkpoint Watch, documenting the trauma of border crossings for Palestinians. Once a year, they spend a week in England with Ottolenghi and Allen. His father has become a fan. Three years ago, at Yotam’s fortieth-birthday party (three days and thirty guests in a rented Dorset mansion), Professor Ottolenghi stood up, raised his glass, and said, “My wish for Yotam today is that he keep not listening to my advice.” ♦

In the Land of the Very Old

Jan 23, 2024 — by Sam Toperoff in  Original  for THE SUNDAY LONG READ 1. Passports, or Prescriptions I am writing this in a blue notebook I ...