The (Abbreviated) History of The Anne Samuel

If you’ve followed me on any of my other social media accounts for any length of time, then you’re probably (at least slightly) familiar with a mystical location at which I frequently drink, dine, and dance. It’s called the Anne Samuel. You may also know that this über-exclusive establishment is, in fact, not a restaurant at all but, instead, my childhood home. The maître d’, chef de cuisine, sommelier, and server is my mom.

Oftentimes, I receive questions in response to my stories, asking if my mother is/was in the restaurant industry…and I’m finally going to tell all as I share with you snippets of An Abbreviated History of the Anne Samuel, the pseudo-memoir I’ve been penning over the summer in an attempt to capture nearly three years’ worth of delightful, delicious dining experiences that fed my heart and soul just as well as they satiated my appetite.

Prologue – Before The Anne Samuel

Before I knew the meaning of the word “gourmet”, I had tasted it a thousand times. Before I was old enough to wield a steak knife without parental fear of bodily harm, I knew how to twirl pasta with my fork. Before The Anne Samuel, I was already spoiled for “real” fine dining. 

Growing up with an Italian mother and grandmother, I was endlessly at the mercy of their culinary whims—handmade pasta, fresh-baked bread, and oversized meatballs were common enough occurrences on the dining room table during our weekly dinners together, but so were (rather Americanized) Mexican tamale pies, Asian lettuce wraps, and German stroganoffs. While I took naturally to the family business of eating well and with gusto, I was still very much a child during those days—with the palate to match. It took croutons to convince my five-year-old self that salad was, in fact, an appetizing addition to the table and not a culinary form of punishment. I was well into my teens before I could say the same about olives, and, to this day, I am still learning to appreciate certain types of shellfish instead of gagging on its inherent brininess. 

I learned early on (some time not long after my grandmother moved to my hometown from her condominium in Hollywood, where she had once thrown glamorous parties for the southern Californian glitterati) that my grandmother’s yappy purse dog would gratefully accept any table scraps I didn’t wish to consume. And that foil-wrapped plate or plastic tupperware tucked away in the corner of my grandmother’s formica countertop? It usually contained a new batch of crispy cereal treats or a freshly glazed coffee cake. 

There was nothing I anticipated with the same glee as I did the weekly Thursday dinners around my grandmother’s dining room table. Faithfully attended by both myself and my mother—and, whenever he wasn’t arresting drug traffickers on the interstate or attacking terrorists in the middle east, my father—these evenings dug themselves deep into my soul and knitted themselves into the very fabric of my being. At my grandmother’s kitchen table, my family shared spirited conversation along with oven-warmed appetizers, freshly tossed salads, generously buttered slabs of bread, and steaming entrees. And, once the kitchen had been tidied to the pinnacle of neatness and dessert had been devoured, then re-devoured (my grandmother was always generous with her second helpings) we would retire to the living room, where we read the classics aloud in front of the fireplace. Perhaps that is why, as an adult, my appetite for literature is surpassed only by my fanaticism for food. 

Regrettably, despite my grandmother’s excellent culinary instincts, she was afflicted with the same ailment as were so many aging mid century housewives. Her glamorous background did nothing to disguise the fact that her dishes were rich, heavy, and usually involved a casserole pan. However uninspired and unhealthy, the food was always warm and comforting—and that was what mattered above it all. 

Alternately, one of my mother’s signature dishes, developed when I was nearing my teenage years, was fried hummus fritters. Around that time, she also famously invented a family-favorite fusion feast of Italian hamburgers, complete with garlic-infused beef patties, melted fresh mozzarella, and basil aïoli (accompanied, of course, by parmigiano reggiano-crusted frites). The epicurean seeds my grandmother planted were watered by my own mother’s addiction to cooking magazines and culinary television. After my grandmother’s death, Mom’s cooking became the product of a quest to not simply fulfill the family food legacy but to usher in a new era of culinary greatness.

By the time I found myself teetering precariously on the cusp of adulthood, Mom and I had bonded not only over the memory of my late grandmother but also the thrill of working together in the kitchen. A trip to Europe to celebrate my high school graduation resulted in a familial obsession with artisanal bread and cheeses; a year later, we became one of the many success stories of those who, homebound due to the Coronavirus pandemic, began experimenting with sourdough starter. At that point in my life, I was already a dedicated gourmand. But, with restaurants across my state shut down, options to indulge in avant-garde cuisine were sadly limited. Which is why my mother turned to her stove night after night…and she cooked.

Family recipes (passed down from my grandmother, of course) for pastas and other old-world dishes were supplemented by procedures procured from Pinterest that resulted in Moroccan stews, Greek flatbreads, and Hawaiian coconut shrimp. When pandemic restrictions finally lifted—if but for a moment—in the summer of ‘20, we finally paid a visit to a local restaurant. We left no more than ninety minutes later in a disappointed huff, struck by the realization that my mother’s months of kitchen-experimenting and cooking show binge-watching had made her not a mere “good cook” but an actually phenomenal chef who was more than worthy of a position in any of the world’s most-lauded dining establishments.

It was that moment—when we turned our backs on the restaurant industry and its sterile environment and returned to our home with a kitchen that welcomed us with open arms—that marked the conception of what would, in a matter of a few short months, become The Anne Samuel.

The End…For Now 😉

Feel free to drop your thoughts in the comments…are you ready to know what happened next to officially launch The Anne Samuel into the world of luxury fine dining? Let me know!