Lifestyle
Celebrity Chefs Gather at Andre Soltner Memorial
André Soltner, the influential French chef who died at 92 in January, was remembered warmly by family and friends for his frugal habits, though a memorial to celebrate him on Saturday afternoon in Manhattan was anything but.
A 16-piece orchestra perched above the cathedral-size ballroom at 583 Park Avenue welcomed guests to their gilt chairs with strains of Handel and Bach filling the air, a rampart of yellow and apricot flowers lining the stage. Beneath a massive crystal chandelier, a sea of chef’s whites assembled to honor the man behind the famed restaurant Lutèce, who many in the room considered a hero, if not a close mentor.
Daniel Boulud, who is Mr. Soltner’s fellow Frenchman and the chef of the Michelin-starred restaurant Daniel, sat next to Thomas Keller, of Per Se and the French Laundry. Danny Meyer, the restaurateur behind Gramercy Tavern and Shake Shack, sat in a row just behind them, with the celebrity chef Tom Colicchio nearby. Jacques Pépin, at 89 one of Mr. Soltner’s few contemporaries present, donned his chef’s uniform for the afternoon.
The concentration of culinary star power should have required a designated survivor.
“Lutèce was not a fancy restaurant,” Mr. Boulud said affectionately, recalling the restaurant in a cozy townhouse on East 50th Street that Mr. Soltner helped make into a destination for French cuisine from its opening in 1961 to its shuttering in 2004. “You walked in and there was that little bistro feeling in the front, and it felt like a home.”
Mr. Soltner began as head chef at the restaurant, eventually buying out his partner, Andre Surmain, in 1973. He was a constant presence until he sold it to Ark Restaurants in 1994, whereupon he became a dean at the French Culinary Institute in Manhattan.
Mr. Soltner and his wife, Simone, who died in 2016, lived above the restaurant, which drew the likes of Henry Kissinger, Marilyn Monroe and Mick Jagger. At the memorial, a slide show projection with photographs of notes left by notable, and well-fed, patrons through the years drew oohs and ahs from the crowd.
A large screen projected photographs of Mr. Soltner throughout his life, ranging from his youth in the Alsace region of France through his years at Lutèce and later as an educator and mentor, many with his companion of eight years, Maryvonne Gasparini; his mirthful, Gallic smile unchanging.
“I have yet to find a picture where André didn’t look happy,” said Glenn W. Dopf, a longtime friend of Mr. Soltner’s. Mr. Dopf and Jacques Torres, the pastry chef and chocolatier, were emcees of the memorial, which included remarks from Mr. Boulud, Mr. Keller, and Rodrigo Campos, who met Mr. Soltner as a 16-year-old while working as a cleaner in his building in New York and is now a chef himself.
Mr. Campos spoke of how he had expressed his desire to be a chef, with Mr. Soltner taking the teenager under his wing and arranging for him to eventually attend culinary school. He is now the executive chef at Mr. Boulud’s Centurion New York restaurant.
“He didn’t expect anything back,” Mr. Campos said of Mr. Soltner’s generosity.
Anne Vandevoorde, a niece of Mr. Soltner’s, was one of a few family members who spoke, remembering her famous “tonton” with fondness. “Having no children was a source of sadness, but you have been a father to many,” she said.
Bill Peet, who is the executive chef at Tavern on the Green and was a chef at Lutèce for 15 years, shared an anecdote of his old boss having knee surgery in the morning and showing up for the evening dinner service later that day.
“André was the example,” he said. “He never took off.”
As guests descended to a lower level for lunch, a band that evoked Mr. Soltner’s Alsatian roots played “La Marseillaise,” the French national anthem, while a silent coterie of ushers from the Frank E. Campbell funeral home, which organized the afternoon’s proceedings, herded the likes of Martha Stewart and the chef David Burke down to the awaiting feast.
Hardly a typical post-service repast, the various stations boasted such delicacies as smoked mushrooms by Jean-Georges Vongerichten, bacon tarte flambeé by Gabriel Kreuther and bonbons by Mr. Torres.
Mr. Pépin’s table in a far corner became the center of gravity as relatively younger chefs, like Mr. Keller and Mr. Boulud, knelt in conversation to the room’s elder statesman and plates from each food station were delivered.
“André would be very unhappy with all the waste,” Mr. Pépin said with an ironic smile, indicating a half-eaten plate of smoked salmon crepe in front of him. Mr. Soltner’s propensity for economizing had been recalled by Mr. Dopf upstairs earlier, with reported habits like judiciously saving wine corks to use to balance unsteady dining tables or placing burned out lightbulbs in the freezer with the belief that the cold could revive the filament.
In a room of people known as celebrity chefs, Mr. Soltner had been the prototype.
“He was very much,” Mr. Boulud said. “But he hated to get the attention. He didn’t want it. André was humble.”
Mr. Boulud described his late friend’s food as honest.
“André was someone who didn’t need caviar, truffle or Foie gras to prove that he could cook,” he said before describing some of his favorite dishes with relish: a soup of mussels, then a pheasant with braised cabbage, and a souffle.
“Simple and just perfect,” he added. “He made New York his village, and they all came to his house.”
The kiss finally happened at a Halloween party Chatterjee hosted at her apartment, while the two were watching “American Psycho” on the couch at 3 a.m., when everyone else had gone out for food. “We’re sitting so close our legs are touching and I’m freaking out,” Braggins said.
“I looked at Abby, and I was like, ‘I’d rather kiss you than watch this,’” Chatterjee said. So they did. About a month later, they were official.
On April 10, Braggins suggested they take a trip to Home Goods in Brooklyn. When they ended up at Coney Island Beach instead, Chatterjee was none the wiser. It was an early morning, so the two, along with the dog they adopted together, Willow, enjoyed having the beach to themselves.
Braggins ran ahead with Willow and crouched behind some rocks. When Chatterjee got a glimpse of Willow, there was a bandanna tied around her neck. It said, “Will you marry me?” Braggins pulled out a shell with a ring in it. The answer was yes.
A few days before, Chatterjee had proposed to Braggins amid a gloomy, cloudy sky on top of the Empire State Building.
The two were married on April 21 at the New York City Marriage Bureau, in front of three guests, by Guohuan Zhang, a city clerk. Afterward, they celebrated at Bungalow, an Indian restaurant in the East Village, with a few more friends.
Though Chatterjee’s parents were not present at the wedding, one of the couple’s most meaningful moments came in 2023, when Braggins traveled to India to meet Chatterjee’s family for the first time. Chatterjee had never brought a partner home before, and she had warned Braggins that same-sex relationships were still not widely accepted there. But by the end of the trip, Chatterjee’s mother had embraced Braggins as family, telling her, “I have two daughters now.”
I was comfortable being called “weekend girl” and had even coined the nickname. We met running on Ocean Avenue in Santa Monica. Our first date followed: a run through Pacific Palisades. We talked about food. Our second date: dinner. We talked about running. I was coming out of a sticky romantic relationship and into a new job, so a casual fling seemed appropriate. We had endless common interests; making plans was easy. He was the best kisser I’d ever come across, but I still liked my solo weeknights.
It continued that way for a few months. There were sleepless nights of laughter and love-making. I didn’t care where he was on a Wednesday. I had a dumpy, dark one-bedroom further south on the disregarded part of Bundy Drive, and he had a well-appointed and nicely lit two-bedroom, so weekends were at his place or occasionally the Ace Hotel in Palm Springs. Things were light and fluffy until he made a proposal.
“Do you want to be adventure buddies?” he asked while we dined at the hotel bar.
“Well, yes, I like that title. Does that mean I’m not ‘weekend girl’ anymore?”
“Adventure buddies” had a nice ring, but it was vague.
“I was thinking we can clear out a closet at my place, and you could spend more time there.” He faced forward.
We organized the closet the following weekend. I was wearing a T-shirt and just my underwear, while he was wearing his sleeping shorts, no shirt. We agreed it was a fantastic Friday night. I woke up in the morning to a warm California sun and hot coffee, sipped on the balcony. Noticing that the outdoor space got just enough light to wring out some tomatoes, we headed to the nursery to top off our nest.
I had been a serial apartment dweller with limited outdoor space, so I never knew the color of my thumbs. We plucked three healthy tomato plants and three pots. We added plant food and tomato cages to the cart. The staff offered their expertise several times, and I wondered if I was wearing something that screamed “gardening noob.” We declined the help, as it seemed easy enough; put the plants in the dirt and water them.
Two blissful months later, we were getting some tomatoes and lots of loving. We were planning adventures, date nights and what we would cook with our forages from the farmers’ market. It was effortless. We spent most of our time just the two of us, but we were slowly integrating our respective worlds and families. I was the happiest I had ever been, and I felt fortunate. Gratitude is due when your biggest problem is the sad-looking tomato plants on your balcony. Something was wrong.
Back to the garden center we went, bringing a leaf as a specimen. They said we had an unidentified pest and pointed us to the neem oil. We got back to our babies, and as we started to spray, there they were: hornworms. They were bright green with pokey stinger-looking things on their butts, and they were as long as my index finger. There were dozens of them. We loaded them into a giant mason jar, but it was too late. My green dreams were now caterpillar nightmares. Maybe we should have asked more questions in the beginning? How did I not notice this sooner?
“Wanna get froyo?” I was a sucker for mochi and figured that would cheer me up.
“Sure, just gonna take a quick shower.” He set his phone down and hopped in. I went to grab my mascara and saw the white and blue messages light up.
“I wish I were with you tonight, but Em is here.” No name, just a number. I scrolled up — boobs but no face. Who was this girl?
I didn’t move to L.A. to become an actor, but I sure put on a performance that night. I let the phone go black without a word as the shower shut off. We ate the yogurt and called it an early night. I lay mummy-style and wide-eyed next to him through the sleepless night. By daybreak, I had a plan.
I spent the next morning with his iPad reading through text chains. “You’re so gorgeous,” or “I’d love to take you to dinner,” or “I am not with that girl; you are the one for me.” There were nudes and sexts and I love yous. And so, so many people. I gasped and shook while reading the first few lines, but it became more like entertainment as the minutes passed. It was more than two hours of reading material. I was hungry and had planned to get my nails done, so I grabbed the wallet he had left on the table and helped myself to a champagne lunch and a mani-pedi.
I got home before he did and prepped myself for the fireworks. The bubbles and the “five-more-minutes” foot massage helped boost my confidence.
“Babe!” he exclaimed, excited and clueless.
“Babe!” I parroted. “I just finished reading your iPad! What a productive morning!”
I was calm while he paused.
“Oh my god. Get out. I can’t believe you violated my privacy,” he yelled.
I responded without defensiveness. “It’s sad. I thought I loved you. But it turns out you love 13 others — and that ain’t gonna work for me.” With calculated confidence, I directed him to pack my things from the closet. I was eager to get back to my dungeon-like, safe apartment.
“I hope you get help. It seems like you need it.” I really did care for him, and it was hard to drive away.
It was a lot to take in over a short time, but I am grateful for the lessons. For me, integrity is paramount and asking questions up-front is a must. Even when the dating gets tough, I won’t settle for less than the truth. This summer, I will be companion planting basil, dill and marigolds with my tomatoes and an occasional spritz of a natural insecticide.
The author is an entrepreneur and working on a book about overcoming betrayal. She splits her time between L.A. and Michigan. She’s on Instagram: @emilybrynwilliams.
L.A. Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the L.A. area, and we want to hear your true story. We pay $400 for a published essay. Email LAAffairs@latimes.com. You can find submission guidelines here. You can find past columns here.
There are, as I’m writing this, just shy of 500 reader comments on our recap of our 15 favorite looks from the Met Gala on Monday. The top comments are almost all negative.
“I’m sorry. I find this display of ‘fashion’ disgusting and I wish the NYT wouldn’t celebrate it,” reads the most recommended comment. “I’m struck by how out of touch and unrelatable this feels for the average American,” is the one just below that. A few down we get the first of many comparisons to the elitist incongruity captured in “The Hunger Games.”
The uneasy state of the American economy watered the soil for this sentiment to grow. Gas prices have soared since the onset of the war in Iran. The cost of groceries remains stubbornly high. The word “inequality” came up five times in the comments section of our story. It seems that the gala, to some, landed as a financially frivolous, Marie Antoinette-like affair.
For a few years, the Met Gala has ignited these “Hunger Games” comparisons, as the event has mutated into a competition of which attendee can wear the most baroque, procession-halting dress. I lost count of the celebrities who proudly shared how many hours it took to make their ensembles.
This, more than anything, seemed like the point where they were misjudging the simmering animus toward them.
If the intention was to laud the work and elevate the craftsmanship involved in making garments like these, it was ringing hollow in this forum, where tickets cost upward of hundreds of thousands of dollars for a table. The opulence of the clothes became another example of billionaire class entitlement for a cause most people don’t benefit from.
It’s not an entirely new conversation, even if the critiques were louder this year. Five years ago, when Representative Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez wore a dress splayed with “Tax the Rich,” she sprayed lighter fluid onto a hot conversation about the class politics of this particular charity event. (At this year’s gala, Sarah Paulson arrived with a dollar bill stretched over her eyes, an intended critique on the influence of money that many viewers saw as a hollow gesture.)
The discourse roared with a particular fervor in the lead-up to Monday for the marquee presence of Jeff Bezos and his wife, Lauren Sánchez Bezos, one of the world’s wealthiest couples.
Placing the Bezoses at the apex of the gala ratcheted up the sense that something already well outside the reaches of the average person had been taken to a new tier of exclusivity. There were protests centered around Bezos, and at the event Christian Smalls, a former Amazon union leader, attempted to storm the carpet. He was arrested and charged with two misdemeanors.
“It shouldn’t be that way when you have all of this money and wealth,” Smalls said of Bezos in an interview with The Times on Wednesday. “He should pay his workers a fair share.”
In responding to cries of elitism, the Met Gala’s organizers have long pointed to the money that the event raises. They did so again this year. At a news conference on Monday introducing the Met’s new fashion exhibition, Anna Wintour, the event’s longtime chair (and the global editorial director of Vogue magazine), shared that this was the most successful Met Gala ever, having raised $42 million.
“That money could feed and clothe many hundreds of less fortunate people,” read the top comment on our Met Gala story.
We’ve come to expect anti-celebrity comments when we cover cultural events. “Who cares!” is a common, if slightly disingenuous, refrain given how many readers clamor to see and vote on their favorite looks from awards shows.
But there’s a meaningful difference between the Met Gala and many other red carpet events. At the Oscars or the Emmys, the arrivals lead to a star-studded performance the public can watch, shows with a purpose — celebrating talent (subjective though that is) — that is self-evident. For the viewing public, the Met Gala ends at the doorstep of the museum. If you’re watching at home, the gala can be seen as nothing more than a bunch of grandiose clothes that lead nowhere.
In reading up on the life of Ted Turner, who died Wednesday at 87, I perked up at this five-word sentence in Malcolm Gladwell’s 2010 profile of the media mogul: “He dressed like a cowboy.” It led me to scroll through photos of the Cincinnati-born businessman — especially in the 1970s, when he was sailing in a piqué polo and an incongruous striped conductor’s cap or taking in his Atlanta Braves with his button-up shirt undone to mid-chest.
Turner, a college dropout, who was a prolific drinker (and philanderer), looked rugged — swashbuckling even. He was, it should be said, handsome. In some images, Turner, with his modest mustache, looks like Robert Redford’s body double. But it’s remarkable to visit these images now, when all corporate titans — of media, tech and otherwise — dress so alike. They’re Sun Valley clones in their fleece vests, stretch chinos and dad caps that they theatrically pull low in front of cameras.
But Turner was indeed a telecom cowboy, upending how networks ran in his rugby shirts, knit ties and denim. He looked suave. How few media C.E.O.’s can we say that about now?
Everywhere I go I see young men in ribbed tank tops, sometimes with unbuttoned shirts on top, but often not. The tank tops can be black, white or gray, but they’re worn with everything — not just as undershirts, as I was taught was correct. What is going on? — Richard, Philadelphia
The tank top may seem basic — just a sleeveless cotton top with a scooped neck — but as a garment it contains multitudes. It has roots in the working class and the professional class, the military and the farm, men’s wear and women’s wear, sports and Hollywood, gay culture, rap culture, gym culture and indie sleaze. Read more …
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