That’s pretty much been her calling card from the beginning, helping her break through the crowded and competitive field at Bon Appétit, where she began working in 2016. A crop-top-wearing good time who makes saucy, meaty sandwiches. Unavailable emotionally and scheduling-wise.”īaz is fun. Plus there’s Jeremy Allen White’s character: “He reminds me of a boy I dated who was the sous-chef where I was a line cook. It’s too anxiety-inducing and reminiscent of her early days working back of house. The only thing she can’t abide is The Bear. It’s become branded that way.”Īt the beginning of the evening, she warns me, “Sorry, this conversation is already jumping around a bit, but that’s probably how it’s going to be.” She is a whirlwind in person, just as she is online, sweeping me from topic to topic without breaking stride and mostly showering effusive praise: There’s Willett (“I love him so much”) canned tuna (“Tuna fish for life”) the dog, Tuna (“Light of my world”) and living in California (“Ten out of ten. “I probably should have just originally spelled it C-Sal and then everyone would’ve said it right,” she tells me. Cae Sal, for the record, is pronounced see-sal, not say-sal. these ones take the ding dang □.”) To follow Baz means becoming so fluent in Bazspeak that you may even cease to notice it … that is, until you want to send the recipe to a friend and find yourself apologizing for the baby talk. Other Mollyisms: Meatballs are “Meaty-B’s,” a mortadella sandwich is a “Morty-D Sando,” and cooking chicken thighs in a cast-iron skillet makes their skin “Crispy McCrisperson.” (An Instagram caption for a biscuit recipe pushes the bounds of the English language: “i’m na gunna lie, i’ve developed a lotttttt of bangin biscuit recipes in my day. that does a tableside Caesar salad - “Cae Sal” in Bazspeak - which is one of her favorite dishes. The restaurant is one of the only places in L.A. It’s epic.”īaz has been meaning to come to the Los Angeles institution since she left New York with her husband, Ben Willett, and dachshund, Tuna (both featured players in her videos), at the start of the pandemic. Tonight is a nice change of pace: “No one has any fucking clue who I am. “If I go to Bub and Grandma’s in Eagle Rock, there will be four encounters in one lunch,” she says. No one has come up to her tonight, but we’re also the youngest people here by at least 20 years. It’s a few weeks out from the publication of her second cookbook, More Is More, and Baz is a bona fide celebrity. If, a century ago, Betty Crocker marketed the idea of the perfect housewife, baking the day away for her husband and children, Baz is offering the chill wife in her airy, Gen-Z-yellow kitchen (featured, naturally, in Domino ) hosting pool parties for her furniture-designer husband and effortlessly cool friends. She’s the one with a best-selling cookbook, a subscribers-only recipe club, and 720,000 Instagram followers who fangirl in the comments whenever she posts a cooking Reel. I’d insisted Baz, 35, take charge of the ordering. “What I look like, what I sound like, what I’m eating. “It’s like I’m trying to sell me, not just my recipes,” Baz says. She’s self-aware enough about what life as a social-media-famous chef requires. “I’m sometimes an annoying person to go to dinner with?” she says. When the Caesar-salad cart rolls up at the Dal Rae steakhouse, Molly Baz whips out her phone and starts recording.
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