Food Person Quotes

“Before Isabella could answer, she held her phone up in front of Molly so Molly could see what she had written:


FUCK YOU DANA AND FUCK YOUR ARTICLE. MOLLY BABCOCK IS MY FRIEND. I'M NOT SENDING YOU SHIT.


She hit Send so that Molly could watch it go through.
Molly turned to Isabella, eyes watery, her face filled with gratitude and relief.
"Is this your sister? Your bestie? Your agent? What's happening here?"
Molly pulled away and, shifting back into TV mode, she put her arm around Isabella's shoulder and said, "This is Isabella Pasternak. She's my ghostwriter.”
― Adam D. Roberts, Food Person

“Can't we just agree to disagree?" she asked.
"It's a little bigger than that," said Gabe as he got into bed.
"Meaning?"
"Meaning, it's making me question your character.”
― Adam D. Roberts, Food Person

“On a table in front of her was an enormous spread from Russ & Daughters: a dozen assorted bagels, smoked mackerel, smoked salmon, three tubs of cream cheese (plain, scallion, horseradish-dill), sliced tomatoes and onions, capers, and an entire chocolate babka, plus black-and-white cookies and hamantaschen.
"Can you believe all this?" asked Molly, as she chewed a giant bite of pumpernickel bagel schmeared so heavily with cream cheese it was almost an even ratio of dairy to carb. "Netflix sent this! They're worried about the campaign to get me reinstated and that I'll call them on discrimination online, which I might still do. You have to try some of this!"
Their roles must've genuinely reversed, because Isabella, for the first time in her life, had forgotten to eat lunch, and she never forgot to eat lunch. This Russ & Daughters arrived at the perfect moment.
"The only thing Netflix sends me is a bill," said Isabella, expertly loading up her bagel with horseradish-dill cream cheese, a few slices of smoked salmon and raw red onion, sprinkling on some capers at the end. Her father had taught her how to eat a proper bagel at Barney Greengrass, and she firmly believed that the worse it made your breath the better.”
― Adam D. Roberts, Food Person

“She won't bite," she assured her. "You have too many calories.”
― Adam D. Roberts, Food Person

“If I just do Molly's book, it'll go uncredited. No one will know that I worked on it. It'll do nothing for me or my career. I may as well have not written anything at all."
"But is that what this is all about for you? You and your career? Is that why you became a writer, so that people would know who you are? Or was it to do work that matters?"
This was spilling over into the same debate that they'd had on their first date. Gabe was comfortable in the shadows, setting his ego aside and staying out of the limelight. But was Gabe doing the honorable thing or the cowardly thing? What kind of career could you have--- as either a chef or a writer--- if nobody knew who you were? Isabella wasn't sure that she wanted to give up her shot at the limelight just yet.
"You can be a well-known writer who does good, meaningful work... They're not mutually exclusive," countered Isabella.
"Is it good, meaningful work when you're betraying someone who trusts you? To expose all of their secrets and stories from their private life?"
That one stung.
"It's not a betrayal when you're telling the truth," argued Isabella, repositioning herself to face Gabe.
"If someone lets you into their world," said Gabe, rolling to face her, "isn't there a presumption of privacy? I can't imagine writing a tell-all about any of the chefs that I've worked for, even when the chef was shitty. Nobody in my industry would ever do that."
"Of course they would! Haven't you ever seen The Bear?"
"The Bear's a TV show."
"But it started as a book."
"I'm pretty sure it didn't."
"The point is," said a flustered Isabella, getting out of bed, "the right choice will be obvious to me when it's time."
She said it with such conviction she almost believed it herself.
"The right choice is obvious to me now.”
― Adam D. Roberts, Food Person

“The reason that she loved cookbooks so much was that the people who wrote them were experts at food who weren't chefs. They could tell you how to make the coziest roast chicken with root vegetables, how to bake up a lasagna, they'd probably roll all the pasta sheets from scratch, using 00 flour imported from Italy; they'd add some rare and unexpected cheese, char the sides of each individual piece in a skillet to give it a restaurant sheen, add microgreens, and swirl some unneeded sauce around the plate before making the waiter give a speech on how to eat it properly. Why go through all of that trouble when a basic, familiar lasagna is the kind of comforting, rib-sticking goodness that most people want?”
― Adam D. Roberts, Food Person

“And this is Louie," Gabe said, pointing to a redheaded guy on a La-Z-Boy, sipping a purple smoothie with a giant straw, playing Legend of Zelda: Tears of the Kingdom. "He works at Misi."
"Yo," he said, frantically tapping the controls, helping Link cook some mushrooms to restore his hearts.
"Hey," said Isabella, no stranger to the game. The last guy that she'd hooked up with had canceled their second date because he was deep inside a shrine.”
― Adam D. Roberts, Food Person

“At least I can cook," said Isabella, the words bursting out of her like a spray of bullets.
"What?"
"You heard me," said Isabella. "Do you honestly think people aren't laughing at you when you make food on your Instagram? Do you know how ridiculous you look, chopping kale, hacking it like a blind executioner, and making a salad that wouldn't be good enough for a hamster cage?"
"She's just jealous," said Molly, turning to Xavier, who was watching all of this while vaping against the wall. "She can't handle the fact that I'm pretty and thin and famous and that I can do what she does just as well as she can, only I look better doing it."
"Ha!" said Isabella. "That's such a fucking laugh. Do you think you could ever make this meal?" She indicated the food in the kitchen. "Do you think, in a million years, with a million lessons and a million cookbooks and a million helpers, you could ever make a coq au vin or butternut-squash soup? I bet you don't even know how to turn on the heat.”
― Adam D. Roberts, Food Person

“The sequence would go as follows: the butternut-squash soup would be served with white wine (she'd bought a Sancerre at a decent-enough liquor store next to the grocery market). The coq au vin, which she would serve over buttered egg noodles, would go with the Pinot Noir that she'd also brought home. Then, finally, she would flambé the bananas Foster with them looking on--- igniting it dramatically with a tablespoon of the rum that she'd found in the liquor cabinet (no sense in buying a whole bottle for one tablespoon)--- and serve it all over vanilla ice cream.
Who could resist a meal like this? Who, after eating it, wouldn't want these recipes going into their cookbook? Who wouldn't want this to be their legacy?”
― Adam D. Roberts, Food Person

“Your definition of me putting myself first is my not going along with whatever it is that you want me to do."
Jeannie had never heard her daughter talk like this, and she was beginning to vibrate with anger.
"So now I'm a terrible mother? That's what you're trying to say? That I made you feel bad your whole life, and that I make unhoused people sick, and that I may as well lock myself up in my room, crawl into a ball, and die?"
Jeannie had a flair for the dramatic, a flair that usually had an effect on Isabella. But not this time.
"You can do whatever you want, but I can't let you cook poisoned food for people anymore. And if you want me to be in your life, you're going to have to start respecting my boundaries."
There it was: the million-dollar word, the preeminent concept in all therapy podcasts and self-help books, and the one that Isabella heard about all the time and had never applied to herself. Only now, in this moment, did she finally understand it.”
― Adam D. Roberts, Food Person

“Our faces must be covered in sauce right now," said Isabella as she gnawed a second rib.
"Only one way to tell."
Isabella could sense Gabe getting out of his seat and leaning across the table to kiss her; only, in the process, he knocked down what sounded like two wineglasses and a small carafe of water. Still, he followed through, his lips landing near her left eye--- she burst out laughing--- before kissing their way down the path of sauce on her cheek to her lips, which opened up to help them finally connect with their target.
"All clean," said Gabe, after kissing her for a good twenty seconds and returning to his seat.
"You're better than a Wet-Nap," responded Isabella, who was blushing several shades of red and glad that nobody--- especially Gabe--- could see.”
― Adam D. Roberts, Food Person

“As she processed all of these sensations, she saw Gabe watching her from the kitchen, an eager puppy-dog look on his face. She couldn't help but beam her enjoyment back at him.
For the first time in a very long time, she felt completely happy. It was as if this night, which had seemed so awful at first, was designed in such a way that the lowest lows could build to the highest highs.”
― Adam D. Roberts, Food Person

“Isabella gently guided her fork to the fish and lifted a piece of the pristine white flesh, lightly drizzled with Italian olive oil and dusted with fennel pollen, to her mouth. She closed her eyes as she tasted.
It was simple, but not simple in the pejorative sense. It tasted clean, like the fish had emerged from crystal-blue water already on a plate, just waiting to be enjoyed. The olive oil added depth, and the fennel pollen a floral whiff.
The fries were another story. They crackled under her teeth, and every bite was a salty surprise. There was a sprig of rosemary. There was a whole piece of lemon peel. Was that a caper she detected? There was also some kind of chili dusted on top, giving everything a capricious that kept making her go back for more.
The Pinot Noir was like drinking a plum that'd been reclining on a leather chair, and the trifecta of the fish, the fries, and the wine became for Isabella a lodestar, a benchmark against which she would measure all other meals.”
― Adam D. Roberts, Food Person

“This seat is for VIPs only," he said, removing the placard and lifting the pillow. "That would be you."
Isabella felt like a piece of mozzarella cheese that'd been stretched and dunked and stretched again as it arrived at its final destination. A night that was supposed to be celebratory had become royally embarrassing, and now it was taking a turn toward the romantic?
"This is so nice," she said, finally looking at Gabe as he escorted her to her stool. His face was open and eager and focused entirely on Isabella. Was it because of her hair? Her dress? Her makeup? Well, no: when he'd first met her, she was wearing overalls and a tie-dyed Ben & Jerry's T-shirt and hadn't showered in two days and was about to get fired, and he'd still seemed smitten.
"Will you let me cook for you? Put yourself into my hands?"
If Isabella had a kink, this would be it.
"Ummm... a hundred percent yes?" she answered.”
― Adam D. Roberts, Food Person

“I'm not sure why you gave me such a personal book if you cared about it so much."
Isabella's fuse, famously long, now blew in an instant.
"I gave it to you... because I thought that maybe, somewhere, inside of you... there was the tiniest semblance of a soul."
Isabella's cheeks were bright red, as was her neck, as hot tears filled her eyes.
"What did you say?"
"I thought that maybe... maybe beneath all of the... all of the hair products and the lip gloss and the eye shadow," said Isabella, her voice shaking, along with her hands, "there was an actual human being inside of you. But... there's nothing human about you."
The look on Molly's face was one of both shock and awe at the fury stirred up in Isabella.
"You're just... an empty vessel. You're all exterior. And you'll never write a great cookbook or do anything great in your life, because... because whatever part of you was human, whatever part of you existed that could connect with other people, is gone and it's all been replaced by... by... Botox."
Isabella put her mug down and headed for the door. Molly, too stunned to speak, watched her.
As Isabella pulled open the handle, she turned back one last time:
"Good luck with the cookbook. You can delete me from your phone. I'm going to keep you in mine and change your name to an emoji, just like you did with me. Only your emoji is going to be... it's going to be a smiling piece of shit!”
― Adam D. Roberts, Food Person

“If she could communicate as easily with words as she could with butter, flour, and sugar, she would've saved a lot of time (and a lot of calories) spent standing at the tiny kitchen counter in the tiny apartment that she shared with her roommate, Owen, mixing cookie dough by hand because there was no room for a stand mixer, coaxing lemon curd to thicken on the ancient electric-coil stove, and waiting for the chocolate cheesecake to set up in the crowded fridge next to all of Owen's protein shakes.”
― Adam D. Roberts, Food Person