MASTER
OF
CEREMONIES
LEGENDARY ROOTS DRUMMER,TONIGHT
SHOW MUSICAL DIRECTOR, AND . . . DINNER-PARTY
HOST? TAMAR ADLER MEETS
QUESTLOVE, THE MAN CHANGING CULINARY
CULTURE ONE FOOD SALON AT A TIME.
T
he plush rec room in Questlove’s
Manhattan apartment tower is full
to brimming. Over by the open
kitchen is Olivia Wilde in a Stella
McCartney bomber jacket, chatting
with Chris Rock. By the swimming
pool are Rosario Dawson and Jim-
my Fallon. There at a cocktail table
is Matt Lauer. And Pharrell. Chefs—Kwame Onwuachi of
the late Shaw Bijou in D.C., Amanda Cohen of Dirt Candy
on the Lower East Side, and Bryce Shuman of New York’s
recently departed Betony—compose bites of crab with uni,
carrot sliders, and tête de cochon. Misty Copeland stands
by the window in a canary-yellow dress and four-inch heels
like a mystical bird guarding downtown Manhattan at dusk.
Towering above everyone is Questlove, né Ahmir Thomp-
son, ever recognizable in the extravagant Afro he’s had since
he was a child. He’s dressed in his uniform: a black hoodie,
custom-made black jeans, Nike high-tops, and a Dee and
Ricky Lego brooch. Questlove is, of course, cofounder and
drummer of the Roots; musical director of The Tonight Show
Starring Jimmy Fallon; Hamilton Mixtape producer; and DJ
for everyone from the San Francisco 49ers to Balenciaga to the
Clinton Global Initiative to the Golden Globes. His position
in the food world is more nebulous—he’s part impresario, part
creativity evangelist, part entrepreneur. Whatever he is finds its
expression in these high-wattage culinary jam sessions.
He calls them salons, a quaint, Enlightenment-era term
that he deploys with some irony. You might call them dinner
parties, but that misses their accessibility and unaffected exu-
berance. His ascension to a place where chefs such as Daniel
Humm, David Chang, and Dominique Ansel value his culi-
nary opinion—and moreover consider him one of them—is,
for lack of a better term, a little weird. He doesn’t cook. “No,
no, I’m a very good eater,” he explains when I make my way
to him through the crowd. “Except, actually, for carrots and
beets,” he adds, as we taste Amanda Cohen’s carrot sliders.
“Which I didn’t like until tonight. But now I’m converted.”
Nor is Questlove a restaurateur, though he briefly owned
a very good fried-chicken stand at the Chelsea Market with
Philadelphia restaurant scion Stephen Starr. And he isn’t a
140
food journalist, though last year he wrote a cerebral romp
through culinary creativity called Something to Food About
(Clarkson Potter), and he’s developing a documentary on
black chefs with filmmaker Lyric Cabral.
What Questlove is, in a traditionally parochial, rule-bound,
white field (has there been #gastronomysowhite yet?), is a
glimmer of a better future. Around Questlove, hierarchies
dissolve. The salons are notable for their mix of colors, ages,
occupations, and there is an almost palpable absence of ego.
That’s part of the point. “Nobody here has status above
another person,” he says. To be sure, his guests are mostly ce-
lebrities (not all; there is a token segment of civilians, like me),
but they’re the celebrities one tends to fantasize less about
being than having as friends. Questlove strikes me as that rare
breed in preadolescence—the cool kid who makes schoolyard
life harmonious. Fallon agrees with me. “Questlove has this
childlike innocence. When we booked Phil Collins, he sent me
a text, freaking out. It’s that level of excitement.”
It helps that Questlove has star power enough on his own—
and is such a serious artist—that chefs know their fame isn’t
what attracts him. “Questlove isn’t trying to join a club,” says
Wylie Dufresne. “He’s genuinely excited about what we’re
serving—but he also contributes. He adds to the conversa-
tion.” Part of that contribution is bringing exposure to chefs
who don’t look like Jacques Pépin and Alain Ducasse. “I
don’t think he’s playing with favoritism in terms of color,” says
Onwuachi. “But he is aw