Student Angelina Bruno and world-renowned chef Emeril Lagasse at The Birchwood hotel after “A Taste of Florida,” an event he helped host in September.
Yeah. You read that right. I’ve officially started my full-fledged, downward spiral into foodie psychosis.
I hunted down a famous chef and food personality and (somehow) I was successful.
On Sept. 16, I attended a “Taste Of Florida,” an event hosted by famous chef Emeril Lagasse and some of Florida’s best culinary crafters for the Association of Food Journalists.
After donating a Friday night doing tedious online housekeeping for the group, they more than rewarded me by giving me a free pass to wine and Florida-inspired food.
But I had bigger fish to fry. I was determined to meet the BAM man himself: Emeril.
The chef did his formalities during the event, thanking and introducing local chefs and caterers while encouraging us all to “DRINK MORE WINE.” He snapped a few pictures with the event’s coordinators – but then he was gone.
I panicked and tried to calm my thoughts between bites of whipped ricotta and lobster.
I wondered where Emeril had escaped to. I looked up onto the balcony and around corners with no sign of him.
The end of the night approached, and patrons started to trickle out of the museum. My feet ached from standing in heels all night (they didn’t provide chairs, and I’m new at this whole “adulting,” heel and dress-wearing business) and I almost threw in the towel on my missing-chef (search for Mr. Chef.)
But then, a beacon of hope appeared – wearing a name tag. It was the coordinator of the event.
She told me she thought he had gone back to his hotel. Taking a serious leap, and nearly exposing my creepiness, I asked her if she could tell me which hotel. The hostess indulged me with the information; it was right across the street. I grabbed my clutch purse, glugged down my wine and hobbled over, blisters forming.
Upon arriving at the hotel’s entrance, I saw a group of employees. “Damn it,” I said to myself. I was sure they were going to stop me.
But I had come too far to fail.
I asked if Emeril was in there, and gestured toward the door. They asked me if I was a crazy stalker, and gestured toward me. I told them no, which was only half a lie and pushed past them through the doors.
Finally, I made my way into the hotel bar, and there he was. Emeril in the flesh: plump and glorious, and better yet, not surrounded by a bunch of security.
The hard work was not over yet, though. My wimpy, scaredy cat-self still had to muster up enough courage to interrupt his dinner and ask for a photo. I waited, sipping on a glass of water. He smiled at me once. I looked away, still too nervous. Then, a second smile. That was my cue.
Trying my best to not to hobble, I swiped up my phone to the camera setting and walked over to him.
To my surprise, he was more than willing to take a photo with me and was quite personable. He asked if I had enjoyed myself as we talked for a brief minute. We snapped three pictures together, courtesy of his assistant.
I zipped right out of there before I could look any creepier and uploaded the photos to every single one of my social media accounts.
And that my friends, is how to stalk a chef 101. BAM!
