Padma Lakshmi’s ‘Grub Street Diet’

Padma Lakshmi’s snow day last week was cozy, complete with chai with fresh honey from the beehive on her terrace. It was, in the middle of a blizzard, the calm before another hectic storm: Her new CBS show, a chef battle called America’s Culinary Cup, premiered this week. Lakshmi reprises her role as competition host, but unlike on Top Chef, her job as the show’s creator means she has crafted every detail, down to the challenges to the set design to the judges. At home, her primary judge is her daughter Krishna, who often taste-tests her recipes. And she will be honest. Lakshmi recalls the tedious process of making tamales: “It took me so long to get the corn husks and soak them, to get banana leaves, make the dough, make the chicken that went in the middle as a filling, fold it all together, tie it up in a neat package, steam it, take it out, serve it.” Her daughter’s review? “Not bad.”

Monday, February 23
A snowstorm has dusted New York overnight; at 7:30 a.m., it’s quiet. The Teen has a snow day, so I let her sleep. On the stove, broth is already bubbling, and I dip in a cup to test its flavor before morning tea. Needs more black garlic. Perhaps half an apple for some stealth sweetness?

I have my usual swamp water of collagen, bhringraj (an Ayurvedic herb), and creatine whisked into tap water. Then a shot of elixir, which I make by blending a whole orange and lemon, a knob of turmeric and ginger, black pepper, and homemade honey from the bees upstairs. It’s a bittersweet jolt I hope will stave off any malaise.

Around 8 a.m., it’s time for a cup of masala chai with cream and honey. The first batch of emails awaits. Forty-five minutes later, I’m off to the gym with a 32-ounce bottle of water with electrolytes and a protein shake.

For lunch, I use the broth from earlier to make a cauldron of ribollita, a recipe I’ve honed since my 20s when I was modeling in Milan and Rome. Lots of Swiss chard and buttery white beans bob in a savory broth of tomato and vegetables. I have a giant bowl paired with crusty toasted sourdough bread slathered with Irish butter and Maldon salt, which I eat at my desk while on my third Zoom call. Thirty faces from CBS’s marketing team look back at me as I crunch and slurp. I finally have the decency to mute myself.

I have a second cup of tea in the afternoon, same as in the morning: masala chai, cream, honey. Outside, the wind whirls, snow atomized. A couple hours later, I slice a Honeycrisp apple and eat it with a quarter cup of creamy peanut butter. A third cup of chai, but this time I forget the honey.

Around 6:30, I sip on a cup of hot dark chocolate, swirling in a cacao stick from Nicolas Nuvan. I also snack on a bombolone filled with Crema Toscana, which the Teen’s best friend, Camilla, made for her birthday this past Friday. Since then, I’ve eaten the majority of them. The snow still blows like we’re at the North Pole.

I end up making dinner around 9 p.m. Even though there’s fresh chicken broth, I defrost goat broth yielded from asun, a Nigerian spicy snack we made two weeks ago for a charades party. I toss in some Sun Noodle ramen along with leftover roasted veggies and cubed tofu marinated in soy and black vinegar and pan-seared with chile crisp. I smother a bowl of all this with fresh mint, cilantro and lime juice, drizzling some extra chili crisp over the top. Heaven in a blue bowl. I curl up in bed and turn on a rough cut of episode five of the new show as edit notes are due in the morning.

Tuesday, February 24
The Teen has school today, so we’re up early. Same liquid routine of elixir, swamp water, and tea by 8 a.m. I have a cup of Good Culture cottage cheese, which is nice and salty. I douse it with a cascade of pomegranate seeds, lovingly shelled by our nanny, Tashi.

Out and into the slush by 8:45 a.m. Mamdani has done a pretty good job with the sidewalks, and people are surprisingly cheerful. The halal cart is already humming, and the smell of tandoori chicken and frying onions trails behind me. I’m already thinking about lunch. At 11:30, I down a 42-gram strawberry protein shake while in a fitting.

I dash home. I’m starving, so I have a giant bowl of basmati rice and tadka dal with a side of string beans sautéed in tomato and ginger. Pickles smuggled from Kerala and raita, too. It’s comfort personified. The mint has blackened in the raita slightly, but it’s still minty and cool, and the cucumbers retain their crunch. I sneak a bit of cucumber to Divina, our Chihuahua.

An hour later, I munch on some spiced Afghan nuts sent to the office in a PR box. I also pack some off in a care package to my mom in L.A. She had a health scare a few months ago but is on the mend. Still, hospital food is the pits.

Soon after, I head over to The Daily Show. Around 5:30, glam is glamming in the dressing room. I sample all the snacks in the basket they’ve left for me with all their swag. You can tell a lot about a show based on the snacks in the dressing room: artisanal chips, delicious caramels, and some nougat or nut soft bar with a texture I cannot wrap my head around. Glam and entourage seem to like them, though. I down a Diet Coke, which is my usual emergency measure to try and wake up and be funny and informative. I hug Desi, the host. She is so slim and svelte in her gorgeous suit. I drop the candy in my hand immediately.

Afterward, around 8, the Teen and I drop by a cocktail party for an Oscar contender at Zero Bond, where I have one glass of crisp Champagne. The Teen and I gobble a passing slider. It’s not special, and we don’t go back for seconds.

It’s a school night, so we’re home at ten. Realizing we didn’t really eat dinner, we make nachos in the microwave. Not my finest hour of parenting. The nachos are gooey, warm, and tangy with pickled jalapeños smothered over the top. I wash this down with 16 ounces of Lactaid 2 percent milk.

Wednesday, February 25
8 a.m. Elixir–swamp water–masala chai. Off to the gym with electrolyte water and a protein shake.

At 12:30, lunch is two bowls of leftover ribollita, no bread. I eat while on another Zoom call, then a podcast recording with Samantha Bee. Do we ever eat at the table anymore??

I have a third cup of chai. Not sure when, but I know I had a second cup of chai somewhere. Another podcast recording. I grab another bombalone from under the glass cloche on the kitchen counter — they seem to be taunting me there every time I pass, like heroin on a platter. I take a bite, and the Crema Toscana oozes out like yellow lava onto my chest. Sugar and cinnamon dust are everywhere. It doesn’t help that I have a dentist appointment this afternoon.

At 4:15 p.m., after a lecture about flossing, motorized water blasting, and brushing, I stop to get a Butterfinger. Some kind of self-destructive revenge eating at its finest. I must be getting my period (yes, still!) because I’m craving sugar, and I don’t usually have a sweet tooth.

Back for an all-hands meeting at the office, where I sneak a wedge of a colleague’s Cara Cara blood orange. Then I have another, hoping she doesn’t notice the thievery. I remember I’m not supposed to eat anything after the dentist — it’s a little too late for that.

At 8:45 p.m., I’m determined to have at least one goddamned meal at the table this week. The Teen and I have schnitzel dusted with a Gunpowder spice blend, a collab with Diaspora Co. that we’ll resurrect in spring. We also have steamed buttered broccoli and mie goreng: rice noodles with veggies and tofu. I douse it all with homemade salsa macha.

Later, I sneak down to the kitchen to grab a bowl of Häagen-Dazs mint chocolate chip, but then opt for coffee ice cream. Really no way to go wrong here. These are my two favorite flavors of ice cream since the Coco Banana ice cream shop closed 30 years ago in Hacienda Heights. Back then, when I would hang out there in high school, my favorite was lychee. Tonight, I shave some salty dark chocolate from Hu with a microplane over the top of my bowl. Why not??

Thursday, February 26

Same liquid trio as every morning. Today, I have a second cup of chai within minutes. First one didn’t hit enough. Then an egg in a hole on sourdough with Maldon salt, olive oil, and Maggi Hot & Sweet sauce. Two cups of fresh pomegranate arils, too.

Back from the gym, I can’t resist: I eat yet another bombalone. What is wrong with me? It’s pretty stale by now, so I take only two bites and then just squeeze the crema directly into my mouth. I head to Rockefeller Center for Radio Cherry Bombe, where I have a cup of coffee with cream and two sugars around noon.

No formal lunch as I dash off to the Good One podcast with Jesse David Fox, my partner in throwing comedy shows. Tashi has packed a protein shake and a small insulated tiffin box of hot rice and tadka dal with pickle on the side nestled in, too. There’s also SunChips and carrot sticks. I love that my daughter and I can’t go ten steps without her packing us a snack for the road. I gobble this up as I’m dashing to a board meeting back downtown, and I get crumbs everywhere. When I leave the car, I see my driver dusting off the back seat with … is it … disgust?

Back home, I make a cup of chai, this time with loads of honey and fresh ginger. I notice the bombaloni have been tossed out (just as well) but to the side there is a lone cinnamon roll that came with said bombaloni. Cinnamon rolls are the Teen’s favorite. Can I really take this from my daughter??? I stand there too long, but I leave empty-handed.

I’m sitting at my desk again when I spy a lone candy cane sticking out of the pen holder. I grab it and peel off the plastic. I then remember my poor dentist and toss it.

A little later, Tashi comes in with a pom toast: sourdough slathered with peanut butter and topped with a queen’s ransom of pomegranate arils piled high and glistening like jewels. Hits the spot, though I’m sure I’m now potentially crushing a few I’ve dropped under my bum in the squishy chair. Good thing I’m wearing dark jeans.

Around 7:30 p.m., I make spaghetti carbonara with slowly rendered pancetta cubes and no cheese emulsified into the egg. That’s right. No cheese. If done right, carbonara doesn’t need it. I dry roast a heaping teaspoon of peppercorns in a large ladle held over a blue flame on my stovetop. I then tip them into the mortar. As they begin to smoke, I crush them with the pestle. Shards fly in spite of my covering the bowl of the mortar with my free hand. I drop the crushed pieces into the pasta bowl.

Then, while the pasta is boiling, I chop some cucumber and make a quick dressing of rice vinegar, yuzu, Maldon salt, and a pinch of sugar. I mix the bacon, eggs, and pepper into the pasta in batches so the egg doesn’t curdle, and I put it all on the table. I beg the Teen to come down. She asks if she can have it on a tray. Her laments of much homework come echoing down the stairs. I hold my ground. Finally, a meal at the kitchen table.

The Teen and I both feel the loss of the birthday bombaloni. She asks whether I took a bite out of her last cinnamon roll. I look down at my hands and ask her how much homework she really has. I remind her that we have frozen bananas ready to lock into the Ninja Creami, which is basically a fancy Pacojet that makes ice cream in minutes. I douse the bananas with whole milk, maple syrup, copious amounts of cinnamon, and a teeny pinch of ground clove. The machine is as loud as a lawn mower, but like a great lover who happens to snore, I don’t mind it at all.

I shave an avalanche of chocolate over the top: milk for her, dark for me. Maybe I do have a sweet tooth? But my period has now come and it’s an utter bitch. I’m sure in a day or two, I’ll be over this sugar death wish. The Teen says my bowl has more. I switch the bowls. I do love her after all.

Friday, February 27
I’m running around all day, and nothing that I eat is particularly interesting. I work out in the morning and spend the rest of the day doing pre-interviews and ADR for the show. My assistant makes me a packed lunch of leftover rice and dal that I eat at some point. It’s all a blur.

Saturday, February 28
Today, the Teen and I fly to Minneapolis. I guzzle the protein shake I’ve stashed in my purse on the way to the airport at 9 a.m. Luckily, my cousin Rajni, who slept over, fed the Teen before we left this morning.

By 11:30, we’re on the plane. I eat a tray of braised chicken that the menu boasts is by an acclaimed chef I know well. Knowing them, I find it hard to believe the beige blobs of chicken floating in the brown sauce with islands of carrots and pearl onions is something they’d eat, let alone serve. This is framed by an off-white sludge of celery-root puree. I taste it because it’s warm. It’s surprisingly not as bad as I’d feared. I walk back a square bowl of some chocolaty dessert to the Teen in coach. She lights up, but that’s because she hasn’t tasted it yet. My sugar crush is gone.

After arriving in Minneapolis, I drop the Teen and our bags at the hotel. There’s no room service, so I encourage her to order from an app, as we’re downtown and there’s no sign of restaurants nearby.

Today, I’m going to the ACLU’s offices in Minneapolis to meet with staffers and ICE observers. Right now, it’s hard to feel hopeful about this nation, but seeing how Minnesotans have reacted to the chaos and turbulence that ICE has instigated in their city has given me hope. It’s really a lesson for all of us to come together and work like a community.

As I’m leaving for their offices, I misguidedly purchase an egg-salad sandwich in a plastic triangle package at a convenience store. The top layer of egg salad has darkened. This is not a good sign, but I’m starved. I eat this in the car. The bread sticks to the roof of my mouth. It is not good. I dream of my usual omelet and fries dipped in a swirl of ketchup and Tabasco at Balthazar.

At the ACLU, I gobble a bag of dried fruit and nuts, trying not to crunch too loudly. I notice that a human-rights lawyer has taken the last can of citrus-infused San Pellegrino. She deserves it more.

From there, I make my way to a PEN America event, where I’m speaking on a panel. I arrive at the venue around 5:45 p.m. and drink a large cup of coffee with cream and sugar. It tastes like it’s seen fresher days. My stomach roars onstage and I hope no one hears.

Afterward, the Teen and I arrive at Gai Noi, a Laotian restaurant that is buzzing with more life than we’ve seen yet. We sit at the bar and sample way too much food for two people: egg rolls and eggplant purée, spicy tofu laab salad with lettuce leaves and giant thin slices of pink radish, stir-fried udon noodles with tomato, rice noodles in coconut broth with chicken, a mango margarita for me, some pale-blue froufrou-looking mocktail for her. We’re full, but we take leftovers because there is no food at the hotel and we may be hungry later. We are always hungry later.