Chef Ayesha Nurdjaja's Meatballs

Back in 2008, Ayesha Nurdjaja was a sous chef at Felidia, Lidia Bastianich’s fine dining Italian spot in midtown east.

I first noticed Ayesha on stage helping her chef Fortunato Nicotra at a springtime demo at The Institute of Culinary Education shortly after graduating. He made a fig salad with purslane, a ramp panna cotta and I can’t remember what else because I knew I had to go trail there asap.

I was put in touch with the sous chef that coordinated the trails, Ayesha Nurdjaja. At 8AM, I walked in to an all male spanish speaking kitchen. The cooks dashed around quickly, deftly getting their mise en place ready for lunch service.

I started the day off by making finely chopped parsley, minced so precisely, that it gets rung out in a cloth made into a beggar’s purse and squeezed of any moisture, until it turns into green dust.

Then, I cleaned the infinitesimal bones from little anchovies, nervously hoping I was doing it efficiently and successfully.

At around 10 AM, the only other woman besides me, came down the basement stairs and I guessed it was Ayesha. She had presence. Presence you couldn’t ignore if you tried. She came over, asked how everyone was treating me and how I was doing. I said ok, lying about the how I was feeling part. I was a nervous wreck given I’d only done one other trail and was fixated on doing everything perfectly, somehow feeling I needed to prove myself and my worth.

Ayesha brought over a tray of calamari. “Do you know how to clean these?”

“Yes,” I answered and actually I did as I spent a summer on fire island cleaning squid.

“Move over, I’ll help you.”

And like that, we began to chat.

A few minutes in she turned to me and said, “why do I feel like I’ve known you my whole life?”

“I know, right!” I said.

It was one of those feelings where you knew immediately you’d made a friend. A special friend. And these things don’t happen as often as we move on from high school and college. Friends that stick.

Ayesha and I met at Lil’ Frankies a few nights later. We had pizza. We had salumi. We finished a bottle of prosecco. We smoked cigarettes. We went out dancing to house music at Cielo. And we closed the night out at about 4 AM on Tuesday morning like proper late twenty something cooks in NYC.

Ayesha was Italian and I loved Italian food. I was half Israeli and Ayesha loves middle eastern cuisine so we met somewhere in the middle talking food, life, travel, and everything in between.

One night soon thereafter, we were having cocktails at hookah bar in the east village and I said, “so talk to me about meatballs. Who makes the best meatballs?”

“I mean. I only know my grandmother’s meatballs and my meatballs, she said somewhat obviously” This puzzled me.

“You live in the most Italian neighborhood in Brooklyn besides Bay Ridge, what are you talking about?” Still shocked and totally inquisitive, I waited for my answer.

“Bro, Italian Americans do not each other’s meatballs. Carinda, do Italians each other’s meatballs?” Ayesha turned and asked her childhood friend.

Carinda didn’t answer. She just laughed hysterically.

“Hey Al. Do Italian Americans eat each other’s meatballs?” Ayesha turned seeking additional proof from her younger brother Al.

“Nah!” Al, Ayesha’s brother chuckled warmly.

She turned to me and looked me directly in the eye. “Italians. Do not. Eat. Other. People’s. Meatballs.” She repeated.

Suddenly I felt let into a secret world where nonna’s rules rule the roost. I was suddenly enchanted by Ayesha’s world, a world where your friends are blood. A world where your mom and brother live around the corner. Where you share a two floor house with multiple generations of family. A world, where you eat together every Sunday and there are unspoken laws like not eating other people’s forcemeats. There was some code to be lived by which I didn’t quite know or understand but knew existed nonetheless. This was not my world but it seemed familiar, of yesterday.

It grabbed me like a big, fat, warm hug and made me think of how my own family in Israel used to drop by unannounced for cake and coffee in the afternoon. The intimacy of family. The closeness that can only exist when you grow and experience life with others for years.

I knew one day I needed to capture Ayesha sharing this anecdotal information as only she can describe. I hope you enjoy her video and recipe! Ten years after she first told me about the meatballs, we shot this video together at her restaurant, then A Hundred Acres, now Shuka.