Roxanne
[edited]
The chiaroscuro of life's canvas is vividly captured in Alex Holt's forthcoming cookbook, If I Miss This Jumpshot, I’ll Kill Myself, a title that resonates with the same rawness as Jeannette McCurdy's I’m Glad My Mom Died. It weaves a hearty narrative, acknowledging the complex relationship she shares with her mother. An entanglement of love and hurt, deftly woven into her culinary identity.
Alex remains a whisper of humility amid the clamor of accolades. She is the girl crush I never anticipated, unveiled through parasocial tendrils unfurling first from a story I read in Philly Mag. She insists that her success owes much to luck, which seems a statement as humble as it is untrue.
After studying her Instagram, replete with satirical art (fake $100 bills burning in dog shit, sea urchin on a hot dog, and numerous googly eyes), I became apprehensive. Is she female Salt Bae? Why does she have stuffed animals affixed to the walls? Why are there googly eyes in the dessert? Despite my initial hesitation, my night at Roxanne transcended initial expectations, revealing depths beyond the (googly) eye.
An opening salvo, scallop bathed in brown butter and raspberry sauce, crowned with golden osetra caviar. This was no crudo. Then, a salmon melon dish followed, its loosely diced pieces bathed in buttermilk, reminiscent of ocean foam washing ashore, delivering both the cold sweetness and the sea's brininess.
Up next: raw beef, house cheese, pomme rosti. Cloaked in modesty, the house cheese was a revelation in itself, assuming a form unlike any other. A liquid goo, like Velveeta. As the flavors melded in my mouth, a familiar sensation arose, ah a cheesesteak!? I imagine it’s a playful nod to Philly, her latest home. As the meal progressed, meticulously folded edamame dumplings, reminiscent of those found at Trader Joe’s, arrived alongside a piece of halibut, serving as clever utensils, mopping up all accompanying sauce.
Lastly, as the lights dimmed, the aroma of caramel and butter filled the room. A slice of yellow mille crepe lay in a pool of taupe panna cotta, followed by a plate of seared foie gras. This was Alex’s chocolate custard cake where the cool panna cotta was enveloped by the warm, rich fat of foie gras. Asymmetrical pieces of golden pineapple scattered atop echoed the presentation of melons in the salmon dish. Was the asymmetry intentional? Perhaps a subtle rebellion against the rigidity often demanded in fine dining.
As dinner concluded, I sought out Alex in the kitchen, driven by my desire to delve deeper, to get to know her. Curiosity, for me, is not merely an emotion but a pathway. As I navigated this path, I skated on the surface tentatively as to not disturb, but once she welcomed me into her kitchen, I began lobbing questions like hockey pucks. Not everyone is keen to play on this rink of revelations; some find the scrutiny jarring. Yet others, like Alex, engaged with an honesty that is as refreshing as it is rare. Her open and unpretentious responses resonated with sincerity.
Dining at Roxanne felt like peering through the looking glass of Alice in Wonderland, with Alex, revealing more of herself beyond the exterior. Once a solitary, one-night act, her seatings have recently doubled, a testament to her burgeoning legend and resilience. That evening, I found a kinship with a woman I barely knew, a chef who serves a mosaic of her journey, marked by authenticity and unapologetic ambition.
P.S Google ‘Googly Eyes’ and see what happens. What a delight!