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 from a story in Philly Mag. She insists that her success owes much to luck—a statement as humble as it is untrue.
After studying her Instagram, replete with satirical art—such as fake $100 bills burning in dog shit, sea urchin on a hot dog, and numerous googly eyes—I was apprehensive and braced myself for a potential sacrifice of flavor for show. It would be easier to dismiss Alex as an 'eccentric, performative chef' based on her Instagram and the decor of Roxanne, which features mini stuffed animals affixed to the wall. However, my night at Roxanne transcended initial expectations, revealing depths beyond the (googly) eye.
The meal defied the traditional arc of a tasting menu with an opening salvo—a scallop bathed in brown butter, crowned with golden osetra caviar, daring the palate with its richness. The 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. As I savored the last bite, curiosity about the upcoming dishes gripped me. The menu, detailing the main ingredients, promised next: raw beef, house cheese, pomme rosti. Cloaked in modesty, the house cheese was a revelation in itself, assuming a form unlike any other. As the flavors melded in my mouth, a familiar sensation arose—it was a cheesesteak, a playful nod to Philly, her latest home. As the meal progressed, meticulously folded edamame dumplings, perhaps reminiscent of those found at Trader Joe’s, arrived alongside a piece of halibut. They served not just as a side but as clever utensils, mopping up the accompanying sauce, enhancing each bite with their simplicity and ingenuity.
As the lights dimmed, the aroma of caramel and butter filled the room, signaling the arrival of dessert. A slice of yellow mille crepe lay in a pool of taupe panna cotta, followed by a plate of seared foie gras. Each component combined in a single bite evoked the indulgence of a chocolate custard cake—the cool panna cotta 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 initially skated on the surface tentatively, then 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, engage 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 as the culinary world's Alice, 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.
