Plucking Essentially Basque off the shelf at the cookbook’s launch party, which Caper hosted at Ernesto’s on the Lower East Side. (Photo by Elijah Edwards.)

I t’s been a few months since the first hardback copy of my cookbook, Essentially Basque, arrived. It was around 2:00 p.m. on a Monday. I was sitting in Bartolo’s back dining room, scrolling on my phone, when Anastasia, our general manager, said, “Hey, Ry, there’s a package here for you.” I looked at her, trying to hide my smile. “I think I know what it is,” I said.

I was hoping it was my book and not another box of sample vinegars or heirloom potatoes from a sales rep hoping I’d be their next client.

I got a box cutter and carefully made an incision, then ripped the sides open. Bubble wrap was the next layer in my excavation, but I could see what was underneath. I pinched a few bubbles and kept ripping. Like Ralphie admiring his Red Ryder BB gun in A Christmas Story, I pulled out the book, held it in my hands, and raised it toward the ceiling.

It was beautiful. Bright red, with the title in a bold black font. I knocked on the hardback cover a few times like it was a front door and saw my own name in print. It was surreal. I was a published author.

Cookbooks have been a part of my life since I was a teenager. I kept a copy of my mother’s The Silver Palate Cookbook on my bedside table next to my Thrasher magazines. By 15, I had mastered Chicken Marbella, one of the book’s most lauded recipes. Cookbooks introduced me to gastronomy and became my gateway to Spain. Had I not stumbled on the El Bulli cookbook, my career might have taken me elsewhere.

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