Professionals & Academics
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Undercooked: How I Let Food Become My Life Navigator and How Maybe That's a Dumb Way to Live
A collection of hilarious essays about how food became one man's obsession and coping mechanism, and how it came to rule-and sometimes ruin-his relationships, from the Cobra Kai actor, stand-up comic, and host of Food Network's Raid the Fridge
"When most people say they have an unhealthy relationship with food, they mean they eat too much of it or too little. When I say I have an unhealthy relationship with food, I mean it's what gives my life meaning. That's a really dumb way to live your life, as the stories in this book will attest to."
Despite an impressive résumé as an actor and writer, Dan Ahdoot realized that food has been the through line in the most important moments of his life. Growing up as a middle child, Ahdoot struggled to find his place in the family until he and his father discovered their shared love for la gourmandise. But when the tragic death of his brother pushed his parents to strengthen their Jewish faith and adopt a strictly kosher diet, Ahdoot and his father lost that savored connection.
To fill the absence left by his brother and father, Ahdoot began to obsess over food and make it central in all his relationships. This, he admits, is probably crazy, but it makes for good stories. From breaking up with girlfriends over dietary restrictions, to hunting just off the Long Island Expressway, to savoring his grandmother's magical food that was his only tactile connection to his family's home country of Iran, to jetting off to Italy to dine at the one of the world's best restaurants, only to send the risotto back, Ahdoot's droll observations on his unconventional adventures bring an absurdly funny yet heartfelt look at what happens when you let your stomach be your guide.
"When most people say they have an unhealthy relationship with food, they mean they eat too much of it or too little. When I say I have an unhealthy relationship with food, I mean it's what gives my life meaning. That's a really dumb way to live your life, as the stories in this book will attest to."
Despite an impressive résumé as an actor and writer, Dan Ahdoot realized that food has been the through line in the most important moments of his life. Growing up as a middle child, Ahdoot struggled to find his place in the family until he and his father discovered their shared love for la gourmandise. But when the tragic death of his brother pushed his parents to strengthen their Jewish faith and adopt a strictly kosher diet, Ahdoot and his father lost that savored connection.
To fill the absence left by his brother and father, Ahdoot began to obsess over food and make it central in all his relationships. This, he admits, is probably crazy, but it makes for good stories. From breaking up with girlfriends over dietary restrictions, to hunting just off the Long Island Expressway, to savoring his grandmother's magical food that was his only tactile connection to his family's home country of Iran, to jetting off to Italy to dine at the one of the world's best restaurants, only to send the risotto back, Ahdoot's droll observations on his unconventional adventures bring an absurdly funny yet heartfelt look at what happens when you let your stomach be your guide.
Editorial Reviews
"Heartfelt and hilarious, Undercooked is a rumination on life through your belly. Dan Ahdoot has been my culinary guide and mentor over the years, and he hasn't led me to a single bad meal. A few bad decisions, sure, but some incredible meals. You're absolutely going to love his literary debut!"-Hasan Minhaj, Peabody Award–winning comedian
"Dan Ahdoot is hilarious. Whether he's describing hunting, stand-up, or soufflé, you'll get laughs and insights that are totally unexpected."-Steven Rinella, New York Times bestselling author of The MeatEater Guide to Wilderness Skills and Survival
"Dan Ahdoot is a man after my own stomach. I love this book because it combines my favorite things in life: food, laughs, and great stories. It made me even happier and hungrier. Undercooked overdelivers."-Phil Rosenthal, creator and host of Somebody Feed Phil
"Breaking bread with Dan Ahdoot is a very fun, slightly educational, wild ride. Undercooked made me laugh, cry, feel all the feelings, and hungry too! Do yourself a favor and have a nosh while you enjoy this read."-Michelle Buteau, author of Survival of the Thickest
"Reading Undercooked feels like getting a same-day reservation at the hottest restaurant in town, and the waiter just happens to be a professional comedian. We're all lucky to be a part of this food lover's journey-it's a beautiful book."-Jimmy O. Yang, author of How to American
"A hilarious adventure with surprisingly contemplative moments."-Book Riot
"Hilarious . . . Ahdoot peels back the layers through amusing anecdotes, seamlessly pairing his sharp-witted humor with an endearing self-awareness. Whether he is skewering food restrictions or lamenting relationship regrets, Ahdoot's rib-tickling collection will satiate culinary adventurers."-Publishers Weekly
"Ahdoot's coming-of-age memoir takes readers on an often hilarious ride through his many food-related adventures. . . . [He] i...
"Dan Ahdoot is hilarious. Whether he's describing hunting, stand-up, or soufflé, you'll get laughs and insights that are totally unexpected."-Steven Rinella, New York Times bestselling author of The MeatEater Guide to Wilderness Skills and Survival
"Dan Ahdoot is a man after my own stomach. I love this book because it combines my favorite things in life: food, laughs, and great stories. It made me even happier and hungrier. Undercooked overdelivers."-Phil Rosenthal, creator and host of Somebody Feed Phil
"Breaking bread with Dan Ahdoot is a very fun, slightly educational, wild ride. Undercooked made me laugh, cry, feel all the feelings, and hungry too! Do yourself a favor and have a nosh while you enjoy this read."-Michelle Buteau, author of Survival of the Thickest
"Reading Undercooked feels like getting a same-day reservation at the hottest restaurant in town, and the waiter just happens to be a professional comedian. We're all lucky to be a part of this food lover's journey-it's a beautiful book."-Jimmy O. Yang, author of How to American
"A hilarious adventure with surprisingly contemplative moments."-Book Riot
"Hilarious . . . Ahdoot peels back the layers through amusing anecdotes, seamlessly pairing his sharp-witted humor with an endearing self-awareness. Whether he is skewering food restrictions or lamenting relationship regrets, Ahdoot's rib-tickling collection will satiate culinary adventurers."-Publishers Weekly
"Ahdoot's coming-of-age memoir takes readers on an often hilarious ride through his many food-related adventures. . . . [He] i...
Short Excerpt Teaser
1
Appetizer (JK)
I grew up one of three boys. My older brother, Solly, was an amazing athlete; my younger brother, David, was charming, cute, and got all the attention. I had a nondescript, chubby vibe, and like most middle children was forced to create new ways to get attention. Because my father was born in Iran and spent his formative years in Switzerland as a student, he had a robust passion for food. He did his best to pass down his European trappings to us. He raised us speaking French, drinking wine before our Bar Mitzvahs, and eating stinky illegal unpasteurized cheeses he would smuggle into the States. But neither of my brothers shared his love for "la gourmandise," as he'd call it. I (chubby vibe) did.
I'm not sure if I actually loved the eating, or loved what it got me, an opportunity to bond with him on something my brothers could not. Either way, chicken or egg, as a child I developed an appreciation for both a perfectly roasted chicken and a sublimely poached egg. I was a finicky foodie in the making. By age eight, I knew which dishes demanded which fork, and I never got ice cream on my face when eating from even the drippiest of cones. When I turned nine, my parents took me to a Long Island pizza joint. When we entered, I looked at them and said, "It's my birthday, and you're taking me out for pizza?" My dad still tells that story with pride.
My dad and I would go to restaurants alone together. While my mom stayed at home with my brothers, he and I would set out on culinary adventures in New York City. And like most adventures, our dining escapades required a uniform. I would don my restaurant blazer-an olive-green wool number with brown suede elbow patches-over one of Solly's hand-me-down shirts that had a stain on the breast pocket, which my blazer just covered. When I was seated, chunks of flab would gasp for air between the buttons. My khakis had two pleats, because I wasn't f***ing around. My dad, in a handsome suit, helped me tie the laces on my moccasins, and we were off.
Those trips are my fondest memories as a kid because I was finally able to enjoy my dad's attention without having to compete for it. We reveled in the most avant-garde foods New York City had to offer. Fresh pastas at Mezzaluna, impeccable côte de boeuf at Les Halles. For my eleventh birthday, Dad took me to Le Cirque. Let me repeat. We went to a New York Times three-star restaurant for my eleventh birthday. Quite an upgrade from Gino's. And I can still recite the menu from memory. There was something called a Trio, a holy trinity of caviar, smoked salmon, and foie gras. A silky butternut squash soup with huckleberries. A seared Alaskan black cod that melted in my mouth. Then something I had never had before-duck confit. A duck that was cooked in its own fat. The crispy skin and lusciously gamy, unctuous flesh beneath it didn't just create a memory-that memory was nailed, à la Martin Luther, to the door of my brain.
Having this special connection with my dad helped me to be less contentious with Solly and David. I had textbook middle child syndrome-I could've written the foreword to said textbook. But because I knew that I had a piece of my dad they'd never get, I was able to let down my guard and become a better brother. My being a better brother to them allowed them to be better brothers to me. Solly and I became best friends. He was my cheerleader, my mentor, my idol. I was a decent piano player, so he convinced me I could be a pro. I was not great at tennis, yet he told me that if I kept practicing, I could be, like him, number one on the college team. He gave me the confidence that helped me eventually become a comedian. (You don't try to become a professional comedian without a healthy dose of delusion.)
When I was sixteen, and he was twenty, we hit our sweet spot. I was having a tough time adjusting in high school because I was weird and eccentric. So I'd go visit Solly at Brandeis to get away. He showed me that weird and eccentric were actually valuable assets at university, and that if I applied myself in high school, there was light at the end of the tunnel. He was right. He saw in me a potential that nobody else did. And my fondness for his wisdom was at its peak. Sadly, it would last only six months longer. He got cancer and died. Out of nowhere. Fast, cruel, devastating.
My parents became zombies of their former selves and eventually took a sharp turn into religion. I veered in the opposite direction. We'd been raised pretty lax Jews, but suddenly, they became true believers. While they were saying, "This is all God's plan," I was insisting, "If God existed, Solly wouldn't be dead." I would try to debate them, ...
Appetizer (JK)
I grew up one of three boys. My older brother, Solly, was an amazing athlete; my younger brother, David, was charming, cute, and got all the attention. I had a nondescript, chubby vibe, and like most middle children was forced to create new ways to get attention. Because my father was born in Iran and spent his formative years in Switzerland as a student, he had a robust passion for food. He did his best to pass down his European trappings to us. He raised us speaking French, drinking wine before our Bar Mitzvahs, and eating stinky illegal unpasteurized cheeses he would smuggle into the States. But neither of my brothers shared his love for "la gourmandise," as he'd call it. I (chubby vibe) did.
I'm not sure if I actually loved the eating, or loved what it got me, an opportunity to bond with him on something my brothers could not. Either way, chicken or egg, as a child I developed an appreciation for both a perfectly roasted chicken and a sublimely poached egg. I was a finicky foodie in the making. By age eight, I knew which dishes demanded which fork, and I never got ice cream on my face when eating from even the drippiest of cones. When I turned nine, my parents took me to a Long Island pizza joint. When we entered, I looked at them and said, "It's my birthday, and you're taking me out for pizza?" My dad still tells that story with pride.
My dad and I would go to restaurants alone together. While my mom stayed at home with my brothers, he and I would set out on culinary adventures in New York City. And like most adventures, our dining escapades required a uniform. I would don my restaurant blazer-an olive-green wool number with brown suede elbow patches-over one of Solly's hand-me-down shirts that had a stain on the breast pocket, which my blazer just covered. When I was seated, chunks of flab would gasp for air between the buttons. My khakis had two pleats, because I wasn't f***ing around. My dad, in a handsome suit, helped me tie the laces on my moccasins, and we were off.
Those trips are my fondest memories as a kid because I was finally able to enjoy my dad's attention without having to compete for it. We reveled in the most avant-garde foods New York City had to offer. Fresh pastas at Mezzaluna, impeccable côte de boeuf at Les Halles. For my eleventh birthday, Dad took me to Le Cirque. Let me repeat. We went to a New York Times three-star restaurant for my eleventh birthday. Quite an upgrade from Gino's. And I can still recite the menu from memory. There was something called a Trio, a holy trinity of caviar, smoked salmon, and foie gras. A silky butternut squash soup with huckleberries. A seared Alaskan black cod that melted in my mouth. Then something I had never had before-duck confit. A duck that was cooked in its own fat. The crispy skin and lusciously gamy, unctuous flesh beneath it didn't just create a memory-that memory was nailed, à la Martin Luther, to the door of my brain.
Having this special connection with my dad helped me to be less contentious with Solly and David. I had textbook middle child syndrome-I could've written the foreword to said textbook. But because I knew that I had a piece of my dad they'd never get, I was able to let down my guard and become a better brother. My being a better brother to them allowed them to be better brothers to me. Solly and I became best friends. He was my cheerleader, my mentor, my idol. I was a decent piano player, so he convinced me I could be a pro. I was not great at tennis, yet he told me that if I kept practicing, I could be, like him, number one on the college team. He gave me the confidence that helped me eventually become a comedian. (You don't try to become a professional comedian without a healthy dose of delusion.)
When I was sixteen, and he was twenty, we hit our sweet spot. I was having a tough time adjusting in high school because I was weird and eccentric. So I'd go visit Solly at Brandeis to get away. He showed me that weird and eccentric were actually valuable assets at university, and that if I applied myself in high school, there was light at the end of the tunnel. He was right. He saw in me a potential that nobody else did. And my fondness for his wisdom was at its peak. Sadly, it would last only six months longer. He got cancer and died. Out of nowhere. Fast, cruel, devastating.
My parents became zombies of their former selves and eventually took a sharp turn into religion. I veered in the opposite direction. We'd been raised pretty lax Jews, but suddenly, they became true believers. While they were saying, "This is all God's plan," I was insisting, "If God existed, Solly wouldn't be dead." I would try to debate them, ...
