Illustration: Ryan Inzana
Just a Dash, for anyone who hasn’t seen it, is insane. The cooking series, which began its life on YouTube and debuted its new season on Netflix last month, follows Matty Matheson, and for reasons that are never explained, he is determined to produce a perfect dump-and-stir instructional show under any and all circumstances: a perfect steak dinner made in an out-of-control RV, breakfast burritos after his wife bars the entire crew from entering his home. The person who holds everything together, sort of, is Michelle Rabin, the show’s on-camera food stylist and Matheson’s foil. “It’s hard to be Matty’s food stylist because he’s a great chef,” she says. “His process is a bit … flawed, but the end result is always beautiful food.” And, as the show’s culinary producer, Rabin really is the person who makes sure that food looks as beautiful as possible. “When you see my stress, that’s real,” says the Toronto resident, who was recently in town for a few days of eating. “Like, we’re in the RV and the eggs fall and I’m like, ‘We fucking needed that egg.’”
Wednesday, January 28
I land in New York at 5:30 p.m., delayed, starving, and already mentally sipping on a cocktail. I didn’t pack snacks — a mistake that somehow never feels avoidable. Flights are still getting settled after the snowstorm, and I stress at the airport. We do customs for the U.S. in Canada, and I always worry they’re going to be like, “Not today, babe.”
I take a cab straight to Rolo’s from LGA to meet a friend. I’ve never been, but I’ve seen the two-sheet lasagna online so many times it feels like a memory. The burger, too — one of those menu items that exists more on Instagram than in real life. I study the menu in the taxi. When we sit down, it’s as if my order’s already been decided for me.
Lasagna. Double cheeseburger. Two martinis. A green salad. I ask the server not to course it — I want everything to land at once. I love bacon, just not on burgers, so we skip that. As I say the order out loud, I become aware that I might come across as a TikToker, only here to try the fad items. Then I realize: I am.
The burger is perfect. So tender I barely need to chew. The lasagna is genuinely smart food, comforting but refined. I also want to spotlight the salad, because even though it’s simple, it hits in a way salads at home don’t: fresh, herby, and balanced. I wish I could pick the restaurant up and drop it directly into my neighborhood in Toronto.
Thursday, January 29
My day is stacked with meetings. I’m not much of a breakfast person, so I start with a black coffee that I pour from a large carafe in the hotel lobby. I skip the lackluster “continental breakfast.”
I head to Dumbo for my first appointment. We try Devoción, but it’s packed. We pivot to the Korean coffee shop next door. We consider a pastry, but nothing calls to us. We both get sweetened matcha lattes.
Lunch is a meeting at Il Buco, not my choice, but exceptionally charming. I order the kale Caesar and the soup; pasta seems like a reckless lunchtime order. The soup is a silky purée of parsnip and Jerusalem artichoke. It’s freezing outside, and this feels luxurious.
They bring fresh bread. I’m seated in the back corner, deeply comfortable. I order a glass of prosecco. We talk for over an hour and finish with macchiatos. It’s a perfect lunch.
Dinner is looser. I’m staying on the Lower East Side and have been eyeing Ha’s Snack Bar since it was a serial pandemic pop-up. I’m skeptical we’ll get in before 10 p.m., but we do — at 7 p.m.! — with a standing table in the front of the room. Then we order the entire menu: liver ragout on toast, tuna tartare, tamarind snails, squash risotto, oeuf mayonnaise.
Friday, January 30
I wake up early to record the Taste podcast and pour an aggressive amount of coffee down my throat. I skip breakfast (same vibe as yesterday), and I’m stressed. Not about recording: I’m stressed about logistics. Will I trip? Miss a train? Black out dramatically?
I arrive early. We talk about cooking and Just a Dash, and I leave around 11 a.m. starving.
I need to pick up a product sold only in New York (just my luck!) for a food-styling job on Monday. The shop is in the Flatiron District, so I head to old reliable S&P for brunch. It’s early enough that I beat the lunch rush and walk right in.
I have a term for my preferred winter cuisine: beigewet. Anything beige. Anything wet. Black coffee. Tuna melt. Matzo-ball soup. It’s perfectly beige. Perfectly wet.
I head to Astor Place to buy a bottle of vermouth as a gift, then stop at Librae for an afternoon treat — a dirty chai bun I eat while walking back to collect my suitcase. Then I head to Bed-Stuy, where I’m staying with a friend.
No dinner reservations. Partly because I’m bad at making them, mostly because they’re impossible. We walk right into Leo, which has a chopped salad I think about often.
From a salad-architecture standpoint, it’s flawless: dates, crunchy almonds, fresh herbs, balanced and deeply satisfying. We add butter beans and a soppressata pizza. I had a bottle of the Marto Pinot Gris last time I was here. I order it again — it’s crispy, chuggable, memorable. We skip dessert and buy a Tony’s Chocolonely bar at the bodega instead.
Saturday, January 31
I sleep in. Coffee is already brewed, and I sip with my friend. She’s been wanting to try a new lunch spot. We walk 30 minutes to Barker in two-degree weather. On the way, we stop at a grocery store to warm up for a second, and I spot a pack of Nathan’s Famous franks, my favorite hot dog, which is not sold in Canada. I grab a pack to take home. Judge me.
The luncheonette is on Nostrand with a chalkboard menu and trays of fresh baked goods. The owner greets us and seats us at the warmest table, right beside the kitchen, where there are piles of freshly baked bread and focaccia. We ask her what to order, but she seems torn. We press on, and she suggests the spicy charred-broccoli salad and the mushroom melt on polenta bread. Both are impeccable. The broccoli sits on fluffy hummus; the melt comes with a sharp little giardiniera that cuts through the fat.
The best thing I eat in New York is Barker’s apple fritter. Light, airy, generously glazed. We eat that before lunch even arrives. We finish with a Nanaimo bar, curious how Americans interpret the Canadian classic. Nanaimo is on Vancouver Island, and there’s a treat named after it — coconut and cocoa with custard and a pretty hard chocolate ganache on top. It’s something a granny might make, church-basement food. Barker nails it.
We head into the city. I stop at Trader Joe’s in the West Village to buy everything I can’t get in Canada: chile-covered dried mango, fruit jellies, sesame-honey almonds, and cashew-butter–coated cashews, which are confusing but good. I pop into some shops until I have to head to the airport.
Back at LGA, I eat at the lounge. I set myself up for disappointment, but it’s actually abundant and fresh. I have tandoori chicken, a Napa cabbage Caesar with edamame, and an “aqua fresca” that ends up being watery pomegranate juice with fresh ginger. Honestly, it hits. I finally get home and eat almost all the Trader Joe’s snacks.
Sunday, February 1
I wake up thinking about work. I make myself a coffee. It’s important to note that my normal kitchen is currently being renovated. I still have access to a little kitchenette in the basement, but I have a strong visceral aversion to cooking there. I leave without eating.
I run between grocery stores picking up what I need for Monday’s shoot. I grab a chia pudding that looks kinda fancy from one store and eat it in the car. At another store, I grab a sad premade salmon-avocado roll that fills me with shame.
Back home, a pipe that’s been exposed to the cold has suddenly burst and partially flooded the basement. My boyfriend and I clean for three hours, dumping buckets of water, setting up fans, and doing laundry. Cooking is out of the question. We order delivery: Chinese dumplings, cucumber salad, garlic broccoli, and fried vegetable rice.
Monday, February 2
I’m on set. It’s a commercial for a popular drink brand, and I am the hired food stylist. Before I take off my coat, I hit the craft table and grab some overnight oats and a Kind bar. I take three bubbly waters and a black coffee back to my station. It’s a busy set, and I barely have time to think before lunch is called.
Lunch is catering — ten chafing dishes and some assorted cheesecake squares arranged in a fluorescent-lit room beside our studio. I wait on line studying what other people are taking. I sit with the art department, everyone with a different mishmash of food from the buffet. I eat unremarkable chicken fajitas that I load with sour cream and shredded cheese. I put a kale salad on my plate that I mostly just move around with my fork. I get back to work before lunch is over.
I rely heavily on sugar to keep my energy going in the afternoon. I grab some of Costco’s finest snacks: Mott’s Fruitsations, a small pack of Celebration cookies, and some mini chocolate bars — Aero and Smarties, which are not available in America.
I get home exhausted. My boyfriend has bought hot-dog buns and we boil up Nathan’s Franks for dinner. I put a thick squiggle of ketchup and a thin line of mustard. This is not a typical dinner in my house, but I’m not mad at it. We are still cooking — Rob says he’ll roast a chicken tomorrow — but we’re not going on any culinary journeys during the renovation. We are using our air fryer more than the average person might.
EAT LIKE THE EXPERTS.
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