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By Root 129 0

’s extraordinary West Side Market, purpose-built in 1912 and still thriving, to gather sausages and potatoes and slabs of ribs and smoked ham hocks. We’d spend all day cooking pierogies and split pea soup with braised ribs and ham hocks. I make a lot of fancy food as a restaurant chef, but at heart I am that pork-filled soup, a soppres-sata sandwich with a fried egg on top, Italian braised beef, or the great lamb meatballs that were a staple at family gatherings. I’ve built my career on family food.

With all this amazing food around, it’s ironic that I spent half the winters of my youth preventing myself from eating it. I went to one of the state’s powerhouse sports schools, St. Ed’s, and I was a fanatically competitive wrestler. I spent the years from age twelve to sixteen trying to make weight—105 pounds (hard to believe given my current, uh, stature). My family knew how I loved to eat and how hard this was for me during the season, so they’d actually plan dinners to coincide with my practice, when I wasn’t around. Food brings people together, and I saw the reverse was also true: in depriving myself of food, I deprived myself of family. During the winters, Mom would wipe down every inch of the kitchen after dinner and open all the windows to air out the house so there wouldn’t be a trace of her food when I got home and I wouldn’t feel so hungry. She understood the power of food.

At sixteen, in a wrestling practice, I broke both bones in my left arm. That was the end of my wrestling career, and it turned out to be the accident that redirected my life. With all the extra time on my hands, I had to find something to do, and I got a job cooking at a local pizza and ribs joint called Geppetto’s.

As my friends, who weren’t quite as Cro-Magnon as I, went off to good colleges I couldn’t get into, I felt lost. My boss at Geppetto’s said, “You want to be a chef, go to chef school.”

Remember, this was 1987, and being a chef wasn’t seen as glamorous. There was no Food Network, and the term “celebrity chef” didn’t exist. I was essentially telling my dad I wanted to be a tradesman (which I still consider myself to be and am very proud to be). After begging, and enlisting Mom’s help in convincing him, I finally got him to agree. When I hit those kitchens, I finally knew what I wanted to do with my life. I would live to cook.

KEFTEDES (MOM'S LITTLE MEATBALLS)

In Greek these babies are called keftedes, a word that roughly translates as “fritters.” To me they are all about family and sharing and eating together—the forces that drive me in the kitchen and what this book is all about.

In addition to this version made with lamb or beef, I also make keftedes from zucchini, tomatoes, or chickpeas. They’re one of my favorite treats from my childhood and I still crave them. At family gatherings, there was always a huge pile of lamb keftedes set out as finger food, and I was only allowed so many. I would try to steal some off the table while the adults were busy cocktailing (and, of course, once I got a little older I would try to sneak some ouzo, too).

Key steps in making these as flavorful as they can be are cooking down the onion and salting it as you do, toasting your spices, and using meat that isn’t too lean; ask your butcher for 25 percent fat in the mixture if you’re not grinding it yourself.

Makes 20 keftedes

Canola oil, for sautéing and pan-frying

½ cup minced or grated onion

Kosher salt

1 garlic clove, smashed beneath the-flat side of a knife and coarsely chopped

½ cup diced day-old bread

½ cup whole milk

1 pound ground beef or lamb

1 large egg

1 teaspoon torn fresh oregano leaves

¼ teaspoon ground coriander

¼ teaspoon ground cumin

⅛ teaspoon ground cinnamon

Pinch of grated nutmeg

Freshly ground black pepper

All-purpose flour, for dusting

Handful of fresh mint leaves, for serving

2 lemons, one cut into wedges

¼ cup extra-virgin olive oil

Heat 2 teaspoons of the canola oil in a medium sauté pan or skillet over medium