Six Michelin Star Chefs, A New Years Dinner, And A San Francisco Little Italy Apartment

When six Michelin Star chefs crowd into a small apartment in San Francisco's North Beach to cook and celebrate New Years Eve dinner together, pure magic happens.

San Francisco. North Beach. I took the opportunity while I had the chance and slept in. I indulged myself, taking a moment to finish off the year with no where to rush off to, and no particular place to be. After spending an amazing Christmas day in San Francisco, I decided to extend my stay and celebrate the new year in the city by the bay with a few best friends, good food, and great wine. The sun was just beginning to peeking through the clouds and the fog just outside of the window of my tiny but spacious AirBnB. The typical gloomy San Francisco December morning decided to be bubbly today and mocked me with its cheerfulness. It was New Year’s Eve in Little Italy. San Francisco. And instead of rushing out to enjoy the city, I was behaving like a lazy bum, laying in bed, scrolling on my phone and contemplating my next move. Reader’s note, my next move was generally to shift under the covers, but remain in bed as long as I damn well pleased.

After reminiscing my way through North Beach on Christmas Day, walking through a neighborhood where I spent the better part of my 20s, I was scheduled to go back home. But, some things happen in life are unexpected. Plans change. Schedules shift. And sometimes I find, it's generally for the better. With no plans on the horizon, my general thought was “Fuck it! Why not stay here for New Year’s?” I'd already survived Christmas Day, despite nearly everything being closed for the holiday. I thrived the days after Christmas, managing to enjoy the city by eating and drinking my way through my favorite restaurants. I also thoroughly enjoyed the city by staying away from all of the malls filled with shoppers who, as it happened, were returning everything that they were received for Christmas and were exchanging those gifts for things that they actually wanted. “What was another week?” I thought. I would have to spend another week in San Francisco, in North Beach. Go ahead, twist my arm. Once my decision was made, the rest was easy. I grabbed my phone, messaged my AirBNB contact, and before I even had time to exit the app, he responded and confirmed my request. And just like that, I was here to stay. The deed was done, and I was home for the holiday’s. Well, my former home anyway.

I stared up at the ceiling and briefly day dreamed of my homemade cappuccinos, expertly pulled espresso, always ground at the perfect setting. With an overly dramatic groan, a deep exhale, and a realization that my Rocket Mozzafiato espresso machine was all the way back at home, I pulled myself out of bed and shuffled reluctantly to the bathroom. It’s truly incredible how a little splash of some water on your face and a fresh shave can really make you feel somewhat closer to human. Reluctantly, and emphatically, I decided that the sun had won. And, while spending the day lounging in bed was a much more preferable thought, I agreed with myself that it was time to face the day like a grownup. I dressed and made myself presentable. While the thought was also first on my mind, I also agreeing that I was of course going to scavenge up some caffeine and some sort of pastry to kick start my foggy brain, and bring it to a state of somewhat normal function. I made my way down the stairs and navigated my path towards the sunlight, and onto Vallejo Street. The crisp morning air managed to slapping some sense into me. When in a caffeinated stupor, I could always count on the cold San Francisco salty breeze to wake me up and drag me back to coherency. As if on cue, the smell of freshly brewed espresso wafted through the air. It was a siren song, a pull stronger than attraction. It latched onto my brain and led me by the nose to the door of Caffe Trieste. Willingly. Without hesitation. I joined the line of the caffeine-deprived already in procession, and waited patiently for my coffee, butter and sugar fix.

The barista took one look at me and instantly knew he had the cure for what ailed me. He wasn’t even surprised when I ordered a whole milk double wet cappuccino and a croissant to absorb whatever alcoholic concoction I decided to put in my system the night before. While I queued up to wait for my cappuccino, the barista handed me a croissant on a plate. This was the kind of buttery, flaky goodness that could soak up last night's regrets with every crunchy and soft layer. I paid in cash, because who the hell uses cards at Caffe Trieste? While I patiently waited, I peeled back and broke off a layer of my pastry and took a long and very hungry chew. Instantly, the sugar hit my blood stream and I knew that I had made the right choice. This was what I wanted. This was exactly what I needed. What I just really couldn’t say “no” to. As my caffeine dealer handed me my large ceramic mug of steaming hot addiction, I retreated to the back of the coffee shop, nursing my cappuccino like it was the elixir of life, or at least the medicine of the moment. The morning rush ebbed and flowed around me, a symphony of orders and small talk. I watched, detached, slowly sipping my coffee and breaking away at my croissant. I followed the line of tourists and locals alike as they went about their morning. The cycle here was always the same as patrons formed a line and placed their orders. Some of them paid in cash, while others fumbled in their pockets and purses for cash not realizing that credit cards were never accepted here. But in the end, the ATM around the corner always provided the necessary relief. And everyone received their dose of caffeinated beverages; eventually.

The caffeine kicked in, bringing me out of my morning stupor and I slowly began to feel like a human being again. At the very least, an awake human being. When I confirmed my extended stay the day after Christmas, I also blasted out a group text message to a few local San Francisco Michelin Star chefs, my friends, inviting them to dinner. As they had a feverishly busy holiday season in their respective kitchens, I knew that they would be taking New Year’s Eve off. And what better way to get away from the holiday rush than to spend New Years Eve cooking and drinking together for fun. To have a few laughs and ring in the new year making delicious food and by spending the time with people who you love being creative with. There was one particular issue that I needed to solve, and that was brought about the fact that I was traveling and away from my own kitchen. I needed to get groceries. Thankfully, everything that I needed was within walking distance. I downed the rest of my coffee, slurping the final fluffy foam between my lips and headed out, my feet carrying me down Vallejo Street towards Columbus Avenue.

I quickly looked both ways and crossed the street, dodging cars with the practiced ease of someone who's faced death by taxi more times than they'd care to admit. My destination? Molinari Delicatessen. Where else could I find the supplies I needed for the New Years feast that I had mentally planned just moments ago. Unlike Christmas morning however, today the doors were open. And, as expected, there was a line that stretched from the counter to the sidewalk made of tourists who had gathered to purchase Molinari’s amazing list of Italian sandwiches. The smell of cured meats and aged cheeses hit me like a freight train of nostalgia as I walked inside this Little Italy gem, squeezing between the patrons, some of whom gave me extremely dirty looks. Obviously they were all thinking that I was cutting in line. But, I wasn't here for Molinari’s famous sandwiches. No. Quite the contrary. I was on a mission. Having sent a group text to a bunch of chefs, it was always a good idea to list out the planned menu. That way, they would all know what they might be on the hook to jump in and help with, should any expertise be necessary for the evening. After all, this was about cooking for each other, engaging in the consumption of expensive wine, and having a lot of fun doing both. It was for that reason that spaghetti Carbonara and bistecca alla Fiorentina were on the menu for tonight. Since I had a few days to plan, the meat and potatoes were already taken care of, courtesy of a late-night butcher run that I made just last night.

I reached around a group of tourists who were scrolling on their phones, grabbed a basket and started loading up. All-purpose flour? Check. Eggs? Check. Salt? Check. And, as I made my way over to the cheese cooler in front of the counter, I spied and grabbed the Pecorino Romano. Check! If you haven’t been reading closely or keeping up with my list, these were the essentials for a Carbonara that would make a Roman Nona cross her arms and beam with Italian pride. While gathering the groceries was the easy part, the most difficult task was the next one. I eyed the line at the counter, weighing my options. Fuck it, I thought. I'm not waiting on a sandwich. Brazen, I know. But, I took my chances and sidled up to the counter, flashing my most charming smile and pointing to my basket of goodies for this evening. "Just groceries," I said, holding up my basket like a shield. The guy behind the counter nodded and smiled back, understanding the universal language of "I'm not here for sandwiches, please don't make me wait." And, while he began to ring me up, I also was able to snag an order of guanciale, the holy grail of Carbonara ingredients. There was none of that pancetta bullshit at Molinari. This was the real deal. It was absolutely, and without a single doubt, a heart attack on a plate, but still, and without argument, delicious.

Guanciale did you say? Why yes, yes I did. It’s the quintessential pinnacle of porcine indulgence. The cheeky, irreverent cousin of bacon. Guanciale is the kind of ingredient that rolls its eyes at your kale salad and chuckles darkly at the mere mention of "low-fat." Guanciale is unapologetically rich, a veritable slab of fatty delight that seems to exist solely to mock the health-conscious. Imagine the pig lounging decadently, almost aristocratically, as it gifts us its jowls for this culinary treasure. It's as if the universe is saying, "Here, have some unadulterated sin on a plate." The Italians, of course, knew exactly what they were doing when they crafted this masterpiece. They knew that there was no need to gussy it up with unnecessary frills. Salt, pepper, a bit of time, and voilà—the world's most ostentatious piece of charcuterie. A little goes a long way, they say, but who are we kidding? Moderation is for the faint-hearted when faced with such decadence.

The utter and complete audacity of guanciale is that it’s the sort of ingredient that seduces you into culinary debauchery. Toss it into a Carbonara, exactly the dish I am planning to tonight, and watch as it transforms humble pasta into a dish worthy of Roman Nonna’s everywhere. And it will just rest there, in the dish, smirking all the while as it defied any attempts to resist seconds, or even third helpings. It's the kind of indulgence that sneers at any feeble New Year's resolutions. What’s that you say? It’s daring you to abandon your New Years resolutions in favor of its succulent embrace. And, if I may add, while it continues to seduce you, take a very close look and marvel at the fat and how it renders beautifully throughout the meat. It will forever be a luscious bath of flavor that coated your taste buds and left you questioning your life choices with each blissful bite. Guanciale doesn’t sit on the sidelines. It’s always the main ingredient. It laughs in the face of restraint. It will always leave you with a smug, satisfied grin. Because in the world of culinary excess, guanciale will always rise above everything. It will always be a decadent reminder that sometimes, just sometimes, it's perfectly okay to revel in a little gluttony.

With my ingredients secured and safely packed away in my paper bag, I paid the cashier, smiled and nodded to the patrons who were still waiting in line as I passed, and made my way back up Vallejo Street. I strolled back to my AirBNB with a happy swagger. Walking through North Beach was always familiar. It was an absolute pleasure to navigate the streets here. It made me happy just to stroll the neighborhood that I once called home. It was the neighborhood where I tasted my first cappuccino. Where a slightly tipsy Italian girl once gave me her number as we were enjoying an Aperol spritz at 348 Columbus Avenue, sitting at the Steps of Rome after a late night of adventures in the city. This was the place I started to learn Italian, or at the very least all of the great dirty words. This was Little Italy. And I was home, even if I was only visiting for a short while. I reached the front door of my temporary home and punched in the code to let me inside. The door unlocked with a long buzz, and I made my way up, bags of groceries slightly banging against the walls around me as I climbed the century’s old staircase, the wooded floors creaking under my feet with every step. The narrow hallway stairs seemed to stretch on forever, until at last, I stumbled through the door of my apartment. I dumped the groceries on the clear countertop, not bothering to put them away immediately. That was a problem for future me. Right now, all I wanted was to collapse on the couch and contemplate the life choices that led me to this moment.

I sank quickly into the cushions, stretched myself out, crossed my feet on the edge of the couch, and starred out over Telegraph Hill, admiring Coit Tower in the distance. I smiled and breathed out a long, deep breath, closed my eyes, and let the sounds of the city wash over me like a familiar blanket. The city was 47.355 square miles of stunning white noise. It was the distant honking of car horns. The chatter of pedestrians on the street below as they passed by my build. The occasional clanging of a cable car in the distance followed by the all too familiar “ka-chunk, ka-chunk” of the rails. This was San Francisco. It was raw. It was unfiltered. It was beautiful. I stared at the ceiling and started my mise en place in my head right there on the couch. The laughter, the stories, the inevitable arguments over cooking techniques and wine. It was the hours of conversations that I was looking forward to this evening and the promise of a new year just around the corner.

The sun finally dipped below the horizon on the last day of 2024. I was shuffling around the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, ready to get my hands and fingers covered in as much dough and butter as possible. I have always believed that there's something magical about making pasta from scratch. It was as if I had some primal connection to a Nona, somewhere in the heart of Italy, who was herself kneading and shaping dough by hand. Like I have done hundreds of times before, I poured three cups of flour onto my weathered wooden cutting board, creating a small mountain with a crater at the top. Into the volcanic opening, I cracked four large eggs, their yolks gleaming like liquid gold in the California sunset. With a fork, I began to slowly incorporate the flour into the eggs, watching as the mixture transformed from a sloppy, powdered mess into a cohesive mass. I worked the dough with my hands, feeling it coming alive between my fingers, becoming smoother and more elastic with each fold and press. For the next ten minutes, I kneaded that dough like my life depended on it. The repetitive motion was meditative, allowing my mind to wander as I thought about the pervious year, and the remaining night ahead. Once the dough reached that perfect silky texture, I wrapped it tightly in plastic and set it aside to rest. The hard work was done, but the magic, that special alchemic reaction was just about to begin.

With the pasta dough resting, I turned my attention to the wine. I had to call in a favor to get these bottles on short notice, as they are not normally sold in just any wine shop. I reached for a few bottles of La Pelle 2016 Cabernet Sauvignon Saint Helena. It was a special Napa Valley Cabernet from the Alluvium Vineyard. I removed the top of the capsule and pulled the cork out with the ease of an expert Somm. The pop of the cork is excessively satisfying. Since my friends were coming a bit later, I poured myself a generous glass to enjoy until their arrival. I had to make sure that the wine was stored correctly, so please, don’t judge me. I brought the fresh glass up to the tip of my nose and savored the rich aroma of dark fruits and subtle oak as it drifted into my open nostrils. I let the wine breathe, taking a moment to appreciate its deep ruby color. I had tasted this wine before, so I knew what complexity was waiting for me on my first sip, and all the way to the bottle of the bottle.

As I polished off one glass, and then the second, one by one, my friends began to arrive. Each one of them brought their own energy and excitement to the kitchen as they entered the room. We gathered around the kitchen island, glasses in hand as I poured generous portions in each glass. We spent the first moments catching up on the year's events and sharing our hopes for the year to come. The kitchen was always the center control room. It was always the beating heart of any good home. It was the one place in each house that buzzed with conversation and laughter, tears of joy and sorrow, and moments of success and triumph. We chatted the evening away towards midnight. And, with everyone present and accounted for, I turned my attention to the ultra-crispy smashed potatoes that I planned to make for the evening. I started by boiling a pot of baby yellow potatoes. The water began to heat up quickly and I watched as they dance in the bubbling liquid until they became tender, and enough that a fork could slide right through them with ease. I drained the pot and arranged them on a baking sheet that I slathered with olive oil. This kitchen definitely was not made for a chef, much less a group of experienced chefs with a love for their craft and a passion for their tools. I improvised with a small glass, gently pressing down on each potato. I flattened each one, creating a network of nooks and crannies perfect for crisping up in the oven and turning them golden brown.

I grabbed the olive oil and melted butter, and drizzled it over the smashed potatoes generously. I seasoned them liberally with kosher salt, freshly ground black pepper, and garlic powder to create a bit of color and depth. While the rest of my friends stood around the kitchen island drinking with me, between toasts, I slid the pan into the scorching hot 450°F oven, and took a moment to pour myself another glass from a freshly open bottle. Clearly, my friends all knew how to drink very well, and I was very happy that I managed to purchase eight bottles for this evening, knowing that we would probably get through most, if not all of them in the process. While the oven worked its magic on the potatoes, I turned my attention to the spaghetti Carbonara. This Roman classic was deceptively simple, but as a Nonna in Rome once told me in a cooking class that I attended while on vacation, “It was all about technique and timing, not the ingredients.” Although, the ingredients honestly were still important. Somehow, I think that she was just trying to make a point about understanding the process first. Which I obviously did, because she told me I was her best student. I drafted one of my friends to start dicing the guanciale, which he was only too happy to do, as long as he continued to take an occasional sip of the La Pelle. I watched him dice the guanciale like an expert. It sliced so beautifully. Marbled pork jowl that would, when cooked, serve as the foundation of flavor for the Carbonara.

He tossed the cuttings into a large skillet, and as the heat came to life, it crisped up the guanciale until it released its flavorful fat, filling the kitchen with an irresistible aroma that turned every head and made everyone gravitate towards the stove. As we were all chefs, I drafted another one of my friends to start on the sauce. In a separate bowl, we all watched him whisk together egg yolks with finely grated Pecorino Romano cheese and a generous amount of freshly cracked black pepper. This was the holy trinity of Carbonara if you were going to make this dish properly. Somehow this evening, my kitchen transformed into our own private restaurant. As the guanciale sizzled on the pan to my left and the potatoes crisped in the oven to my right, I enlisted one of my other friends, who was in all honesty a self-proclaimed steak aficionado, to take charge of the bistecca alla Fiorentina. Which, I want to add he had volunteered to do before he even arrived. He approached the task with the reverence it deserved, starting with a magnificent T-bone steak, thick as a novel and marbled like fine Italian marble. He also made sure to tell all of us that he didn’t trust any of us animals to cook this slab of meat correctly.

We all laughed and gave in immediately, knowing that he truly wasn’t wrong. To cook a steak correctly takes skill, finesse. To cook a bistecca alla Fiorentina correctly, took skills that most of us in this room did not have. At best, it was an educated guess on texture, temperature, look and feel. So, we all gave in to the master of the beef. I had set the steak out on the counter top per his instructions, letting the marbled meat come up to room temperature. This was a very crucial step for cooking it. And, something so many people missed in their preparations of the dish. He seasoned it generously with kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper, then gave it a light brush of olive oil. He looked like he was painting a masterpiece instead of a hunk of red meat. But even as we teased his technique, ultimately, we knew that we were in the presence of a master.

He preheated a cast-iron skillet until it was screaming hot. Once again, this kitchen was not equipment for general cooking, much less a group of master chefs. So, he brought his own cast iron skillet. Much as we all do when ever we are called upon to cook in a person’s home. Just a side note—if you ever invite a chef to your house to help you cook, that chef will never use your knives. Please, don’t take it personally. The chef will always, always bring their own knives to use in the kitchen. It’s a religious act. Think of it as a samurai who carries their swords with them, always ready for battle. These knives are all carefully rolled in leather. They are razor sharp. And, they ready to be withdrawn and used at any given notice. This night was no different than any other night. If you took one peep, one quick glance at the side countertop, in the corner of the kitchen, if you just happened to look, you would see six beautifully rolled, leather bound containers with the sharpest knives in nearly all of San Francisco. All of these were ready to be used by chefs who have been using them for years. Carefully, our steak expert laid the steak down across the scorching skillet. The sizzle and aroma immediately silenced the entire room. It was no easy task to bring six carousing chefs to complete and utter silence, but this sizzling bistecca did the job with ease. He cooked the blistering steak for about twelve minutes on the first side, as he allowed a beautiful crust to form across the bottom. Then, before we even had the chance to pour another round of the La Pelle, he flipped it for another nine minutes on the second side. The end result was a perfectly charred exterior that gave way to a rosy, medium-rare interior. We watched as he checked the steak to make sure it was perfect, salivating at his expertise and his fortunate position as he was the one tasting the juicy, caramelized meat that seemed to permeate the entire room with its intoxicating aroma.

He finally rested the steak, draped with sprigs of fresh rosemary and sage, and warned us that if we touched it before it was ready, he would take the whole thing on the cutting board and leave us to finish it himself in the middle of Columbus Avenue. Seeing that we all yearned to indulge in his expertise, we all obeyed without question. To keep our attention occupied elsewhere, and away from the bistecca, I drafted the rest of my friends to help me prepare the pasta. I returned to my pasta dough. We created an assembly line in an instant. One chef divided the dough into manageable portions and began to roll it out, He pushed and pulled on the dough as it became thinner and thinner until we could almost see right through it. With practiced motions, he folded the sheets and sliced them into perfect ribbons of spaghetti. The finale was a carefully choreographed dance of timing and precision. I dropped the fresh pasta into boiling water as another one of my friends quickly tossed the crispy guanciale back into its pan to rewarm. In a matter of minutes, the pasta was al dente. Such was the benefit and the wonder of working with freshly made pasta. If you ever have the chance to make pasta from scratch, please heed my advice. Do it. It will prepare faster and it will just taste better. Plus, any decent chef who claims to be able to cook any Italian dish should always be able to make pasta from scratch. Swiftly, I transferred the pasta to the pan with the guanciale, took the pan off of the heat, added the egg and cheese mixture, stirring vigorously to create a creamy sauce. The beaten eggs, the pecorino cheese, fat from the guanciale, the pasta water, all came together to create something that any Nonna would be proud of. And this one, I could imagine would deserve a bear hug so tight, that you might be bounced up and down in the process.

At long last, everything was ready. The table was set. The wine was poured. The food was prepared. The lights of San Francisco created the perfect view from my bay window. The chefs were decently tipsy. And the hour of the new year was fast approaching. We all prepared our respective dishes, gathered around the table, and expertly cooked a feast fit for the best Michelin Star restaurants in the city. The Spaghetti Carbonara glistened, each strand perfectly coated in thick, silky sauce. The bistecca alla Fiorentina was the centerpiece. It sat gloriously at the center of the table, its perfectly charred crust giving way to a juicy, rosy interior. We all stared longingly at it, ready to rip it apart at a moments notice. And finally, the last side dish was pulled from the oven, and moved into a serving plater to be placed at the table. Sitting in their golden, crispy glory, were the smashed potatoes, just begging to soak up every last drop of steak juice like small, delicious, crispy sponges.

I raised my glass for the first toast. As we had toasted many times that evening, this was not the official first toast. However, we were all seated for dinner. And technically, this was the time to take a moment after the chaos and the laughter in the kitchen subsided to pause, reflect and remember. I toasted to each and every chef at the table. To all of us who were sitting here together, taking part in this incredible meal. To all of us who came together at a moment’s notice, who added their own expertise in a kitchen that was not their own. And, in addition, a special toast to fallen comrades. Those who were our friends. Those who we always remembered and never forgotten. Those that were taken too soon and could not be with us tonight as we celebrated the new year together. And as I raised a glass and finally said “To all of you gorgeous fucking bastards. To each and every one of you who has made my life as special as it is. Thank you. Thank you for the gift of yourself, your passion and your heart.” And with my final word, and a long sip of the beautiful La Pelle reserve Cabernet, we dug in to our magnificent feast. The table, much as the kitchen was earlier, was a frenzy of conversation that flowed as freely as the wine was poured. We savored, we marveled, we made all of the yummy noises together as we tasted and paired everything. The La Pelle Cabernet stood up to the richness of the steak and complemented the salty, peppery notes of the Carbonara with ease. The smashed potatoes provided the perfect textural contrast, their crispy exterior giving way to fluffy, buttery insides that warmed each of us on a cold San Francisco night.

I think the anticipation of the meal drove our hunger for the evening as we managed to finish off nearly everything on the table. With the primi and secondi piatti devoured, I ran into the kitchen and brought out two extremely pungent cheeses to pair with the remaining wine. Both of which I might add, with their aroma, arrived at the table well before I placed them there. The Taleggio’s thin crust and strong scent, offered a mild, fruity flavor that played beautifully with the bold La Pelle Cabernet. Alongside it, the Cossanella provided a sharper counterpoint, its complex flavors evolving with each sip of wine that we took. We lingered at the table, picking at the remaining morsels, refilling our glasses, and sharing stories from our restaurants and our travels. Through the window, the lights of San Francisco twinkled like earthbound stars. It was a perfect backdrop to this evening and gave our dinner a drop of magic that couldn’t be found anywhere else on the planet.

Midnight approached. For once, we opted out of pouring a traditional champagne and stuck to the ruby red Cabernet that we were enjoying all evening. We raised our glasses, refilled that beautiful La Pelle reserve as we toasted to friendship, to amazing food, and to the promise of a brand new year to come that was full of hope and endless possibilities. The clock struck midnight and while we were the only ones in the room, we erupted that small apartment in cheers that echoed around the room and around our table. And so, we stepped into the new year together, fortified by great food, amazing wine, and even better company and friendship. It’s those simple things. It’s the pleasures we take. It’s the experiences we share with those we love. It’s those special moments that made all the difference in the world.