Chef Telly Justice’s ‘Grub Street Diet’

When it opened its doors in 2023, HAGS promised a new kind of fine dining: queer-led, designed in a spirit of accessibility and post-pandemic earnestness. Since then, chef and co-owner Telly Justice, who last year was named one of Food & Wine’s Best New Chefs, has largely delivered on that promise, regularly hosting no-reservation, “pay what you can” dinners, sourcing produce exclusively from queer farmers, and creating a menu that — even still — doesn’t just accommodate vegans but caters to them. Now, Justice and co-owner Camille Lindsley have their sights set on a new location for HAGS and until then are relishing the city’s never-ending churn of pop-ups. The nightmarish lines aside, “it brings such an excitement and diversity to the food world,” says Justice, “and encourages very cool cross-pollination of ideas.”

Friday, January 9
I wake up at 9 a.m. and roll around under my covers for a while. These days, I try to prolong finding out how cold it is outside, so the bed gets harder and harder to leave. I chug the glass of water that is sitting on my bedside table and respond to a few emails from my gigantic Android phone. I text my business partner and best friend, Camille, to see if she needs anything before we meet up. She responds swiftly requesting a cold brew.

My favorite coffee shop on the Lower East Side, Davelle, is right next to my apartment. Its cold brew is unmatched, absolutely incredible. Some days when I have the time, I sit and order a bowl of the pork curry rice. But today, I just grab two cold brews and head out.

I walk up to Bowery and Bond, where we have a site visit at a recently closed restaurant space. I keep having to shift the iced drinks in my hands to keep from freezing my fingers off. Outside the restaurant space, our Realtors are already waiting; we greet and briefly chat about the New Year. Camille shows up and I gratefully unhand one of the coffees to her and suck mine down in three big gulps. I’ve been avoiding caffeine so far this year, and this stuff immediately hit me like a ton of bricks.

We check out the vacant space, looking into every nook and cranny. When you’re searching for a spot for a new restaurant, it’s easy to get caught up in the romance. I imagine a new seating layout, a new kitchen setup. I picture the playlist, the diners chatting over cocktails. My appetite wakes up in this moment, and soon we’re leaving Bowery and saying good-bye to the Realtors.

Camille and I head to her apartment, where she shares a salt roll from Justin’s with me. I gobble it up like a monster, still standing with my coat on while her dog, Tootie, runs laps around us. As I’m leaving, I text Jules, the sous-chef at HAGS, to see if she needs anything. “Rice noodles for family meal!” she says. I’m elated. This means a trip to H Mart!

I grab the rice noodles and peruse the prepared-food section for a bit before grabbing bulgogi inari for myself. Minutes later at HAGS, I’m barely through the door before I’m inhaling the inari. It’s a busy day at the restaurant, so I get changed and start on my prep tasks.

At 4 p.m., the whole staff sits down to eat together. Today, Jules and Lars, our chef de cuisine, prepared rice noodles with peanut sauce, tofu, and braised short ribs. Its honestly fucking incredible, and I eat seconds.

The next few hours of my life are dedicated to dinner service. I fret over other people’s dinners and taste so much as I go — a little sauce here, a seasoned leaf there — that by the end of the shift, I’m full without having eaten a true bite of food. I have a Narragansett with the team before slinking off into the night.

Saturday, January 10 
I wake up naturally at 8 a.m. feeling super-hungry, probably because I didn’t eat dinner. I rush through my morning routine and head straight to the restaurant. Technically, I am off, but we are hosting a traveling chef for a pop-up on Sunday and I want to be around to make sure they’re comfortable. The duo, Mariela and Aaron, own a fantastic panaderia down in Austin called Comadre, and I love them and their pastries.

Once I realize Mariela and Aaron don’t need any assistance, I head up to the service kitchen and pull down a cookbook from our tiny library behind the back bar — On Meat, by Jeremy Fox, which I only just purchased but is already becoming a favorite. I leaf through and find the dogeared pages of recipes I want to play around with. I find his farinata recipe; it’s a traditional Italian chickpea-based tart sprinkled with fresh rosemary, crispy on the outside, and custardy in the center. It’s a dish we’ve made at HAGS many times, so I really wanted to see how his might be different. I make the batter and pour it into one of our heavy Lodge cast-iron pans. The batter sizzles and I start to salivate. Twenty minutes later, the farinata is fully cooked, and I can barely wait to get it out of the pan to eat it.

Noon rolls around, and I run to Third Avenue to meet my friend Amanda for lunch at Yellow Rose. I met Amanda five years ago cooking in the kitchen at Wildair. We bonded early on over our love for Yellow Rose’s bean-and-cheese tacos and huge crisp salads. We still make it a practice to meet there frequently. Today we order the cashew queso, a couple of tacos each, and a fried-chicken biscuit dripping with honey butter. Let me tell you, there are few indulgences in the world more satisfying than that chicken biscuit. At the end of the meal, the kitchen sent us out a chocolate doughnut as a gift and I ordered a few more tacos to go for Jules and Lars to share. I was full to the point of feeling sick but so happy. I practically floated back to the restaurant.

In the kitchen, I spend a bit more time with Mariela and Aaron, talking about the pop-up menu and working through the logistics of the next day. They need a coffee break, so we hit up La Cabra. I can’t drink coffee two days in a row, so I opt to share a cardamom bun with them, even though I am way too full to properly enjoy it. They finish their work, and we make a plan to head to my apartment to drink wine and listen to records. Camille recommends a cool Riesling and a bottle from our wine-pairing list that I love: Tanuki Bob, made from Manto Negro and Syrah.

We are back at my place by 6 p.m., and we pop the bottles. Aaron combs through my records and pulls out Flaming Groovies while I pour the Riesling for us. We chat about The X-Files and Hellier and goblins and finish the Riesling. I pick out an Alice Coltrane record, and we get into the Tanuki Bob, but I can tell Mariela is starting to get sleepy. She typically wakes up before 5 a.m., so bedtime is early for her. By nine, we’ve depleted most of the wine, and I walk the two of them down to the Oven’s Slice for a quick couple of slices before saying goodnight!

Sunday, January 11 
Pop-up day! I wake up at 7 a.m., which is uncomfortably early for me. I’m wobbly and foggy as I make my way to HAGS. Mariela is already deep into prep when I arrive, and everything is looking so great. I start to prep the regular brunch-menu items that will be served alongside the Comadre offerings, while simultaneously trying my best to drink all the orange juice I can find in the bar fridge. Jules shows up and brings my energy up a notch. Things that are baking begin to smell sweet, their crusts turning golden brown. Mariela is so calm and nonchalant, but her pastries are turning out incredibly perfect. We get the kitchen set up and brace ourselves for the melee of a fully reserved brunch service.

By noon, my stomach decides it needs more than just OJ if I’m going to continue. I scarf down each kind of the Comadre pastries, sharing with Jules and our line cook, Leta. The concha was probably my favorite, but so was the nicuatole-stuffed dona. And now that I’m thinking about it, maybe the masa galette with sweet beans and pepita frangipan!

After brunch, we scrub all traces of the revelry from the kitchen. It’s already been a full day of sweaty labor; we are starving again and basking in the glow of a beautifully successful pop-up. Mariela wraps the remaining pastries, and the whole team heads over to Superiority Burger on Avenue A. I like to call Superiority Burger the East Village’s living room. It’s my favorite spot in the city to bring traveling chefs.

We order essentially everything on the menu and two orders of fries. I eat half of a collard-greens sandwich, which is about all I can ever finish, and slide the rest to Camille. I hog the beans with croutons for a while before Amanda steals them away. We all talk about how infuriatingly perfect the fries are. But the standout bite of the night is the licorice gelato! I promise, it was absolutely delicious.

After dinner, still buzzing, we waddle over to Bar Snack on Second Avenue. I drink two Big Twea Energys, made with twisted tea and passionfruit, before we collect the bill and say our good-byes. I walk Mariela and Aaron to their hotel, and we hug good-bye.

It’s 10 p.m. when I get home. It’s early for me to be getting ready for bed, but I don’t really know what else to do. So I put on pajamas and sit on my couch trying to gauge my energy level. Suddenly, my phone springs to life. Ana Castro, the chef-owner of Acamaya in New Orleans, is calling me. Of course I answer.

“TELLY WHAT ARE YOU DOING? How quickly can you get to Super Bueno??”

“20 minutes!” I say, and I throw off my PJ’s, hop into a dress and run to her.
Ana is one of my favorite people in the world, and her restaurant is one of my favorites. She is also in town to cook a pop-up at Dame. I rush through the door at Super Bueno and fall into a hug with her, almost crushing her Prada loafers. Isabel Coss, the chef of Pascual in D.C., is with her. We all dance and slurp cocktails until I don’t know when, but late. I crawl home smiling like a sap.

Monday, January 12 
The restaurant is closed on Monday, and nobody needs anything from me. I sleep in late, till about 11 a.m. I’m hungover. My favorite hangover cure is also a favorite nostalgia food for me: tomato pie, the kind you can find at a corner deli or bakery in South Philly, where I lived for a while. I walk slowly up to 11th Street and First Avenue to Russo’s. This place is amazing. They’ve been open for like 100 years. They have fake hams hanging in the window. But the best part is they have these awesome round loaves of tomato pie that hit just right. I peel off the plastic wrap and devour the whole wheel of focaccia slathered with tomato paste. I start to feel human again.

The rest of the day, I chill out on eating. I want to reserve my appetite for Ana and Isabel’s pop-up later. They’re cooking a collaborative meal at Dame, and I know I will want to eat everything on the menu.

I more or less hibernate for a few hours and reemerge once the sun has gone down. Camille and I decide to meet up before heading to dinner at Milano’s Bar on Houston. I get there first and order a High Life. Black Sabbath is playing loudly on the speakers. This is the kind of dive bar I love — dark and old and weird. Camille shows up and joins me with a beer, and we discuss whether the weird thing on the wall is a real-deal Keith Haring piece. Probably not, but … maybe?? We do a shot of whiskey with the bartender and head over to Dame.

My friend Scott is waiting for us outside. Scott is also a chef, formerly of Oxalis, now working privately. He is super-tall and probably the best-dressed person I’ve ever met. We walk in together. Ana and Isabel come out of the kitchen, and we share hugs all around and quick small talk before we situate ourselves in a corner booth, laying our coats and scarves and bags around us like we’re building a fort. Scott, Camille, and I order everything on the menu and proceed to get into a very serious conversation about Heated Rivalry and yearning. The food starts rolling out like a parade. Oysters so plump and beautifully roasted I want to cry. Tuna sliced wafer thin, served over a mole madre that tasted impossibly complex. Fish-and-chip tacos! It’s all so thoughtful, fun, and divine. Midway through the meal, a mariachi band takes over the dining room and Ana and Isabel emerge to dance and sing.

We pay the bill and slip back into our outdoor wear. Camille and Scott jump into separate cars going to opposite parts of the city, and I walk home along Houston, back to the Lower East Side, smoking a handful of Parliament Lights. It’s a terrible habit, I know. But this is a week of indulgence.

Tuesday, January 13 
I roll out of bed. I have no idea what time it is. I try to avoid looking at the clock or my phone; it feels so peaceful. I slide my Yeti skillet over the good burner on my stovetop, set it to medium-low, and toss in a knob of butter. Doc Noe sent me this skillet as a gift when I won Best New Chef. I cherish it.

I crack three eggs into a little glass bowl and whisk them around with a fork till they are runny. I pull a few shiitakes from my fridge, rip their dirty stems off and slice the caps thin. Throw them in the pan as the butter begins to foam. The mushrooms soften, then begin to take on a bit of caramel color, and I pour in the egg. I mix and fold and pull the eggs for a few seconds, then take them off the heat and fold them into a lovely yellow omelet. Omelets are my favorite thing to make for myself when I have time in the morning. I sprinkle a few flakes of crunchy Malden salt over top and eat it slowly, thinking absolutely zero thoughts.

Tuesdays are big meeting days for me. I have a jam-packed schedule today, mostly chatting with literary agents. Maybe there is a HAGS cookbook on the horizon, maybe not. We will see! Between my 1 p.m. meeting and my 3 p.m. meeting, I run over to H Mart and grab a kimchee onigiri and an iced green tea. If I don’t go to H Mart at least three times a week, it’s a bad week.
Outside, I rip the plastic off the onigiri, tearing the nori only a little bit, and take a huge bite — so good. Amanda calls and my gigantic Android phone is too big to hold while I’m also eating an onigiri. I drop both things on the 10th Street sidewalk. I pick up the phone while a dog walker lets a little scruffy dog eat my soiled snack.

I plunge into the remaining meetings and close up HAGS. I was the only one in the restaurant all day, which is a magical feeling. Just around the corner, my friend Jaya Saxena is waiting for me at Veselka. We planned to grab dinner at 6:30 so I could gab about the literary agents and the cookbook. Jaya is a phenomenal writer, so I pick her brain about books she likes and how she prepares for writing a book. We exchange chef gossip, journalist gossip. I order a matzoh-ball soup, four potato pierogies, and four mushroom-and-sauerkraut pierogies — all boiled. Jaya drinks some wine, and I have a pilsner. Jaya shares a bite of her chicken paprikash, and I feel just a bit of order envy.

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