After decades of cooking, developing recipes, and writing about food, chef Carla Lalli has learned her appetite is best met when she eats her feelings. That’s exactly the crux of the former Bon Appétit Food Editor at Large’s new book Food is a Feeling, a cookbook/memoir about her lifetime spent in kitchens, and particularly the role food played after her divorce.
But long before Lalli hosted hit YouTube cooking shows and published bestsellers like Where Cooking Begins and That Sounds So Good, she got her start studying at the French Culinary Institute and working as a line chef and kitchen manager in New York restaurants. There, she honed her craft and fell even more in love with it—but also learned how to hold her own in traditionally hyper-masculine environments.
As Food is a Feeling hits shelves on September 8, Lalli has shared an exclusive excerpt with Marie Claire about her days in the late ’90s spent working in a Tribeca kitchen. You can read the chapter, titled “Restaurant Haze,” below.
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Restaurant work began for me in 1998, at Montrachet, a three-star restaurant in Tribeca run by a tall French chef who seemed proportionally oversized for the short and narrow kitchen. I arrived as a twenty-six-year-old culinary student, a baby whale, ready to inhale every scrap of instruction that came my way. I wasn’t passive: I wanted to contribute, earn approval, and, most of all, I wanted to fit in. I was there for about a year. When I left, it was with a fledgling cook’s swagger and skills that are foundational to the way I prepare food, almost thirty years later.
I was “hired” as an unpaid intern while still in culinary school and went to Montrachet straight from class. After I changed, I’d set up my workstation right on the other side of the swinging kitchen door, between a janky toaster oven and the stainless countertop where the salad cook whisked vinaigrettes in massive metal bowls. It was good that I was small. My body slid into a spot that was barely wide enough for a slim kitchen trashcan, and I could stand comfortably beneath an open shelving unit without having to crouch. I can remember feeling my hip bones press into the lip of the counter as I worked, but I can barely conjure the posh dining room. When I passed through it, I kept my eyes lowered on the red carpet and moved quickly. The kitchen staff were meant to be invisible to the guests.
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In addition to helping the cooks with menial prep work—trimming vegetables, mostly—I was tasked with the amuse-bouche. This was a little bite from the chef that went out to each guest after they were seated, which meant I’d have to keep up with service, too. On my first day, Chef gave me a container of gently roasted mini sweet bell peppers and a large metal pan of cold braised rabbit. My job was to debone the rabbit and tear the meat into pieces that would fit into the cavity of each pepper.
The most efficient way to do this was by hand, digging the pieces of rabbit out of the gelatinized braising liquid, then sliding the meat off the tiny bunny bones. Once I had separated the usable bits from the discard, I would coax a pinch of shredded rabbit into the pepper, being careful not to tear the silky, floppy skin. I hadn’t been at it long when the chef swooped in behind me and said, in a searingly derisive tone: Do you know there are oils and bacteria on your hands that you are putting into that entire batch of rabbit, causing it to become contaminated and spoil, and we will have to throw it into the garbage? This was his way of telling me to wear gloves. Enveloped in shame and embarrassment, I knew enough to say, Yes, Chef. Heart pounding, I washed my hands, put on gloves, and continued with my task.
Clarkson Potter
‘Food Is a Feeling’ by Carla Lalli
An hour later, dinner service began and orders rolled in. I stood silent and rapt, watching the cooks call back orders and fire their dishes. As though automated, they grabbed skillets and dropped them onto already-lit burners, spooned into their mise en place, squirted oil, lemon juice, and vinegar from squeeze bottles, slid aluminum trays in and out of the eye-level broiler, and monitored multiple types of proteins at once. Heeding internal timers, they bent to extract fish fillets and chicken legs from the blasting oven, then used their heels to swing the door closed behind them. My adrenaline soared.
The dance would slow when it was time to plate. From the opposite side of the counter, the chef would bend forward to scrutinize each dish being presented to him. If all went well, he’d dip a tightly rolled white napkin in a bowl of diluted white vinegar and use that to wipe the plate rim. The food runners lined up behind him, listening for him to call table numbers and positions before gliding out to the dining room with the hot plates.
The loop was closed when the runners returned with empty china, pausing in front of the chef so he could see how much (or how little) had been consumed. From there, dishes and silverware landed noisily at the dishwashing station. The porters transformed them into stacks of clean plates that made their way back to the cooks’ warming shelf. I was electrified. The dining room was pomp, performance, a show. The kitchen was unedited, raw sport, a coordinated mosh pit. It seemed like the most beautiful transaction imaginable. The diners order the food, we cook the food, they eat the food, we wash the dishes, they give us money, they leave, we leave.
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I made sure to be on time, take up a minimum of space, heed the chef, help the cooks, and keep up with the amuse. Soon, I was offered an actual staff position: $350 for a six-day week; we worked a double on Fridays and the restaurant was closed on Sundays. No sick days, no vacation. It was a low wage for the overtime hours and the nonexistent benefits. But it was a line position. I’d be an entremetier, preparing the vegetables that went with the fish entrées. I accepted on the spot. The shitty pay and punishing conditions were, unfortunately, a big part of the draw, my chance to rebel against my privileged upbringing and fancy education. I wanted to be tough; I wanted to be a player in the behind-the-scenes ruckus of it, anonymous to the diners but indispensable to the team. There was something so sexy to me about being a woman in this masculine space, where I’d get dirty and sweaty flinging skillets all night. I had no idea what I was doing, but I desperately needed to prove I could do it. To them, and to myself.
At Montrachet, cooking went from a hobby to grueling work that destroyed any desire I had to cook on my days off. Or, day: Sunday. I arrived for my shift in a state of panic, which ebbed and peaked depending on factors out of my control—how many reservations were on the books, when food deliveries arrived, the amount of prep on the to-do list, Chef’s mood.
There was something so sexy to me about being a woman in this masculine space, where I’d get dirty and sweaty flinging skillets all night. I had no idea what I was doing, but I desperately needed to prove I could do it. To them, and to myself.
I reported to the fish cook, Max, a six-foot-tall, effortlessly cool woman with spiky, platinum hair; long, graceful fingers; and several years of kitchen experience. She intimidated me, I needed to please her, I was a little bit in love with her, and I wanted to be her. She was mysterious, humorless, and unflappable. Hot. Most of the time, I assumed she wanted to throttle me, which felt warranted given my naiveté. Fucking something up and wasting product was my main fear; as was falling behind during service. Like being sucked into a tornado, you have time to recognize your demise coming, but not enough to avoid it. No matter what was happening, I actively tried not to anger or annoy Max.
The hierarchy of a French kitchen is based on a battle brigade, and that kitchen was assigned macho at birth. My performance anxiety was coupled with the culture shock of existing in an overwhelmingly masculine environment. I expected to be ogled and I was waiting to be belittled. There was no escaping my femaleness, yet femininity had no role in the group dynamic. The process of shedding my girlhood started in the co-ed changing area when I disrobed alongside four men, then slid into a boxy white chef’s jacket and the polyester checkered pants that were cut for a man’s body. I did this as quickly as possible, staring straight into the wall. Earning respect and being less femme were entwined.
In the kitchen, I wanted to transcend “not bad for a girl.” I refused to be seen as weak, and wouldn’t let my male colleagues hoist heavy pots for me. Eventually they stopped offering. If something was out of reach, I didn’t ask long-limbed Max to get it for me, either. She’d signaled early on that she couldn’t interrupt her flow every time I needed something. Like a stubborn toddler set on doing whatever the big kids could do, I’d climb up on the stainless counters in my socked feet to fetch the tall stockpot, the steamer basket, the giant colander stored on the highest shelves. My war paint was the olive oil I’d rub on my lips when they got chapped from ducking in and out of a 500°F oven all day. I lost weight from the long days of physical labor, and Max showed me how to twist strips of plastic wrap into makeshift belts that we used to keep our pants up.
I kept up my tough-guy masquerade and assimilated to the job. I diligently followed Max’s directions, leaning into the corrections she gave me, and parroted her motions when we were in service. Within a couple of months, I went from my amuse-bouche station to finding my own physical flair on the line. I could juggle multiple skillets at once. I knew when to add water to a pan of sautéed vegetables to create a blast of steam that would finish cooking them through. I liked to hook my first two fingers into the butter at my station, then whip my wrist to launch that knob of dairy into a sauté pan and swirl it to emulsify a sauce. I was good at memorizing the combination of dishes the chef fired, murmuring, You ready? to Max at the exact moment her branzino was cooked through, the two of us turning in unison to plate the next dish.
I wasn’t excellent, but I tried really hard, and I started to feel Max soften toward me. She was always quiet and stoic during rare lulls in service, not engaging in frivolous side talk, while I wiped down our station, refilled our squeeze bottles, checked and triple-checked our backup containers. After especially long nights, she’d sometimes decide to prepare a second family meal for the cooks, and I’d help her throw together ingredients for a quick puttanesca pasta that we’d eat standing up. She told me about her fantasy of opening a super-casual fish restaurant in Northern California, with intentionally uncomfortable wooden benches for seats and a view of the coast. The concept was about as different from Montrachet as I could fathom, and it made me realize her dreams diverged radically from the predictable course we were on. She was the most punk rock, the coolest of the cool girls.
In the kitchen, I wanted to transcend ‘not bad for a girl.’
One night after work, Max invited me to get drinks at the bar on the corner, a legendary local spot that was popular with the staff. I was surprised, excited, and nervous about socializing with her, even though we were bonded at the hip for twelve hours a day, six days a week. To cope, I got absolutely shit-faced on anise-flavored Pernod and water. (Don’t ask why that old-guy aperitif was my drink at the time.) I remember realizing with embarrassment that I had never changed out of my kitchen clogs, and when I accidentally knocked over a drink and sent sticky Pernod flying all over the bar, I decided to call it a night.
The next day, I woke up to the most horrific, crushing hangover of my life. Blind with nausea, head like cement blocks grinding together, and on shaky legs, I could barely stand up without gagging. The usual antidote—a bacon-egg-and-cheese with a Coke—was out of the question. I was ill and incapacitated, but I could not call out of work. There was no one to cover my shift. Certainly not on this day, because it was Saturday, and Valentine’s Day, a notorious night to be a line cook. The dining room would be packed with two-tops to squeeze in as many doe-eyed couples as would fit. There was lobster on the prix fixe menu, which meant Max and I were going to get clobbered. If I didn’t show, she’d have to do the two-person job alone, and all of my gains would be blown to bits.
Duty called. I walked into the kitchen late, wearing sunglasses. Max took one look at me, rolled her eyes, and went back to her cutting board. Sympathy was not on the menu. First up: We had to cook and shell about sixty lobsters. I set up opposite Max; she would cook and I would process, in an assembly line. When the first batch of lobsters had met their steamy demise, she plopped them into a long metal pan, slid it across the counter to me, and turned around to do more murder. I was expected to shell as quickly as possible.
I wanted to die, but I could not quit. I twisted the tail of the lobster’s body, releasing a fragrant gust of steaming lobster guts into my face. I immediately dropped to the floor in a crouch, with one hand pressed into the rubber kitchen mat on the floor. This seemed like a logical place to wait for the nausea to pass. When I could stand again, it was back to business.
Are you going to make it? Max asked, irritated.
Me? Oh yeah, I said, I’m good.
That initial lobster established the pattern I was locked into until my crustacean circle of shell was over: liberate the tail, unleash tomalley facial, succumb, stand, proceed. This, dozens of times. When the chef walked in, he found me down on one knee, prayerful and remorseful. I heard him ask, Is she okay? Max replied: Hangover. From the floor, I chimed in: It was Pernod. He let out a groan. Pernod! You were drinking Pernod?? This is the worst hangover you can ever have. He went on and on about it, how bad Pernod hit the next day, as if I didn’t know. When I stood back up he looked me in the eye and said: Once you get on the line and start sweating, you’ll be fine. You’ll sweat it all out. Trust me. I did not believe him, but when I took my place on the hot line, either the sweat cured me, or we were too buried in tickets for me to have body awareness. I made it through the night, earning some sort of battle badge, surviving a rite of passage. I didn’t ditch. I faced the consequences. And I’m pretty sure I never drank Pernod again.
Working while sick was an unspoken part of the job, not only because we weren’t entitled to paid sick days. There were heaps of other injustices that I filed under Stuff That Toughens You Up. The suffering wasn’t saved for me, and in fact, people who had been there longer were vulnerable to far worse.
It was a package deal. I was learning to cook for real, and I was learning what it took to be a cook. I was getting paid, which meant I would stay quiet when our chef threw a molten-hot sizzle tray straight out of the salamander at the cook standing next to me, hitting him in the chest. He would do this when, say, a duck breast was undercooked. Sometimes Chef would just berate him, viciously, for overreducing the demi-glace that went with the sweetbreads. When the chef let loose, the rest of us would stand respectfully silent. I squirmed through mixed feelings of empathy for my coworker and gratitude that I wasn’t in his shoes. On more than one occasion, the captain came into the kitchen to tell the chef that his yelling was audible to the guests in the dining room. When the tantrum was over, we’d swing right back into it like nothing had happened, the kitchen noticeably more quiet afterward.
I had officially romanticized being a professional cook, the beauty and ugliness of the job balancing each other like butter and salt. Sure, the pay was shit, and no, it’s not okay to normalize workplace violence. But (here comes the irrational upside), I got to touch the most beautiful ingredients I’d ever seen—wild black trumpet mushrooms delivered in shallow cardboard boxes littered with pine needles and scraps of wet leaves from where they were foraged. Dayboat sea scallops so fresh the flesh undulated when the chef cut into them, the muscle still alive. I tasted delicacies for the first time: crosnes, Tristar strawberries, sea beans, black truffles, sweetbreads.
Every night I stood elbow-to-elbow with the fish cook on one side and the meat cook on the other, watching and learning how hot a pan had to be to sear tiny Taylor Bay scallops and encase them in lemony brown butter without overcooking them. (I still make a version of this at home with sea scallops and a spicy cumin butter.) I ate chewy nubs of duck breast anchored to crisp fat off the meat cook’s cutting board; we never sent out the end pieces, only the prized slices from the widest part of the breast. My obsessive brain was subdued by being consistent, nailing the cookery, getting my dishes up on time, not running out midservice.
It has taken me this long to detangle the hardness of that work from the nostalgia I feel about everything I learned.
It has taken me this long to detangle the hardness of that work from the nostalgia I feel about everything I learned. I believed that starting out in kitchens should be brutal; we were warned about it in cooking school the way actors are prepped for audition rejections. Surely if I wasn’t worthy of this occupation, I’d be asked to leave. In late-90s logic, being “cut out for it” meant I could (must?) handle the hardness, too. The physically taxing and emotionally draining environment validated my world view that work should be tough. (Throw every eldest daughter trope at me—I will overachieve ’til I drop.) Being a line cook was outrageous and incredible. It was exploitative and thrilling. It was a job that made me both expect and tolerate bad behavior, and unfortunately I internalized that perspective and brought it to every other workplace I entered afterward, in ways that I deeply regret. But, still. I never wanted to be anyplace more.
Montrachet taught me that fear and growth are intertwined. It helped me realize I enjoy being at the bottom of a learning curve. That’s made it easier for me to take risks ever since. I don’t miss the people I worked with; I can’t remember most of their names, except for Max, whom I’ve tried (and failed) to track down many times. I no longer accept that restaurant kitchens should be run like that. How to shell a lobster, though—I still do as I was shown, and have taught my sons to do it that way, too, minus the hangover. I preheat my carbon-steel skillet until it’s matte and near-molten to get the most glorious sear on my scallops. I can flip food in a skillet with my left hand while salt cascades from the fingers of my right, and I know how to get fish fillets to lie flat in the pan from watching Max do it over and over, all night long. It was many years before cooking at home was fun for me again, and I never want that feeling to go away. If I overcook a steak, I don’t throw hot plates. We eat it anyway, of course, with some spicy mayo to camouflage the error.
Montrachet is gone now, as is the bar on the corner (it closed and then reopened as a J.Crew, which was sad). The stinky phone booth where I used to call my husband-to-be after work doesn’t exist, either. Uber drivers don’t argue with me about going over the bridge to Brooklyn, like cabbies sometimes did when I’d splurge on a taxi home. I don’t have a single photograph from that time. In a way, I’m glad, because everything that happened there can stay exactly how I remember it. When I’m on that block in Tribeca now, I have to search to find any familiar landmarks from when I walked out of the restaurant. But if I close my eyes, it rolls like a movie. It’s hard to fathom that young woman was me, diving into a world of cooking that would become her entire life. It wasn’t a dream. The adrenaline that hit me that first night of service was a thunderbolt of pure love that I still feel for the job I chose. I’m grateful the hardness is mostly gone, and not a bit sorry for finding out who I am.
Excerpted from FOOD IS A FEELING: Recipes & Stories, With Love by Carla Lalli. Copyright © 2026 by Carla Lalli. Photographs copyright © 2026 by Lucia Bell-Epstein. Published in the United States by Clarkson Potter/Publishers, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House LLC.
Dining and Cooking