Four Cheeses, Movie Mise en Scène, and the Judgment of the Ghost

Hello, friends. As you may have guessed after last week’s issue, I decided to make Anthony Bourdain’s macaroni and cheese (Appetites, pg. 128) for our weekend guest (the gastronaut) and my husband, who, bless him, loves 99% of the things I cook (and is usually smart enough to keep quiet about the other 1%).

I wanted it to be impressive. Intentional.

A collective pound+ of four cheeses, carefully chosen, wrestled through my food processor — which, of course, has a tiny broken piece that means I have to clamp the lid down with one hand while feeding cheese into the chute with the other, praying that the whole thing doesn’t blow apart.

Ingredients assembled, building the mac and cheese began. First, pasta cooked to just al dente and drained. Then, the cheese sauce — the roux, golden brown and nutty. The 4½ cups of warmed milk carefully whisked in. Next, toss in handfuls of cheese. Stir until melted.

It was all going so well.

And then…disaster struck. By the time I poured the pasta into the sauce, I knew.

The cheese sauce had split.

I could feel his eyes watching me — one raised eyebrow, a drag on his cigarette, and a wry smile. I probably blushed.

The culprit? Heat. I didn’t turn off the burner after I added the cheese. So it rebelled.

Of course I was upset. Not because it tasted bad — it didn’t — but because it didn’t look like it should have. It wasn’t creamy; it was kind of...grainy. But I served it anyway. I plated it like I meant it. And I watched them eat it like it was gold.

And maybe it was. In its own broken, cheesy way.

There’s something about cooking intentionally for someone — really choosing the dish. Making something they don’t eat often, something they’d never make for themselves, that feels like giving a gift. Like wrapping up care in garlic and cream and hoping it lands as more than just dinner. And it usually does.

A few days later, I rewatched Burnt with Bradley Cooper. Some folks say the main character was inspired by Bourdain. Maybe. More likely, him and a handful of others.

If you’re like me, you’ve already devoured every chef movie you can find — The Taste of Things, The Menu, Julie & Julia, Ratatouille — all of them. There’s something about that final scene in Burnt — the tension, the fire, the orchestrated chaos — that hit me hard. That kind of intensity is something I crave. It’s intimate. It bonds you to the people beside you.

When you’re cooking at home, you don’t get that. No brigade. No barked orders. Just you, a questionable food processor, and a sauce that may or may not betray you.

Maybe that’s why we watch them. To feel the drive of the line, to be pushed to be more than you thought you could be. And the exhilaration that follows.

And then there’s Chef. Jon Favreau’s Cubano-laced love letter to food, flavor, and finding your way back to joy. I cannot watch that movie without needing immediate access to a Cubano sandwich — like, emergency level.

No movie has ever made me crave a certain food like that. Well, except for Chocolat.

So this week, I’m considering two meals. I might go the cozy route with Anthony’s Chicken Pot Pie (pg. 160), or I might do two recipes — Roast Chicken with Lemon and Butter (pg. 157) and Roasted Baby Beets with Red Onion and Oranges (pg. 247).

Because roasting a chicken at 450 degrees sounds like a dare.

See you next Friday. May your sauce hold, your processor behave, and your cravings be honored.

In reverence and rebellion,
Michelle Davis
Your kitchen medium