Remembering Nathalie Dupree’s Charleston Hospitality
The DailyYou’re reading The New Yorker’s daily newsletter, a guide to our top stories, featuring exclusive insights from our writers and editors. Sign up to receive it in your in-box.In today’s newsletter, remembering the pioneering TV chef and author Nathalie Dupree. And then, news of a ceasefire deal between Israel and Hamas. Plus:What Happened When an Extremely Offline Person Tried TikTokSaving the Stonewall Inn bricksJohn Early joins the Cartoon Caption ContestPhotograph by Cassi Alexandra / ReduxCharles BetheaStaff writerWhen I arrived at a home on Charleston’s Queen Street, in September of 2018, as Hurricane Florence was bearing down on the old city, I had only a rough idea of my hosts. Jack Bass was a well-regarded author of books on Southern politics. (A colleague, distantly related to him, had arranged my stay.) Nathalie Dupree, meanwhile, was the author of more than a dozen cookbooks, a four-time James Beard Award winner, a pioneering television chef, and a chum of Julia Child’s. She had also been a precinct captain for John F. Kennedy’s 1960 Presidential campaign, and, fifty years later, waged a write-in campaign for the Senate from South Carolina. Braced for ego, I found soup instead. Before I could put my suitcase down, Dupree, abandoning her crossword puzzle, and the cat on her lap, was serving me her “hurricane soup.” What was in it? Whatever is in the freezers, she said. It was delicious, as were the meals that followed—lamb with a “balsamic and blood” sauce, charred eggplant, peach cobbler—which nearly derailed my reporting. Perhaps, I said, in one post-prandial reverie, I should become a food writer. “You sure you’ve got the chops?” Dupree asked dryly. There was nothing highfalutin or fake about her.Charleston avoided a direct hit, but the coastal flooding from Florence was disastrous. The region’s hog farms were inundated, and the sight and smell of their breached “manure lagoons” made me consider quitting pork. The industry might be broken, Dupree conceded, but she cautioned against taking extreme dietary measures. She was committed to traditional foods—as sustenance, pleasure, and social glue. She loved to host and often shared her table with writers: Pat Conroy, Anne Rivers Siddons, Stuart Woods, Hendrik Hertzberg. (Conroy later wrote about Dupree in his own cookbook, calling her “the inimitable, unclassifiable queen of the Southern kitchen.”) She had a “pork-chop theory”: one chop in a pan goes dry, but two have the fat needed to feed each other. I was single back then when she explained it, and the metaphor didn’t quite stick. (I get it now.) Her playful love of language was evident on TV, in her cookbooks, and in her bootstrapped but not-a-joke Senate campaign, which fell short. Leaning into culinary metaphor, she’d promised to “Cream DeMint”—Jim DeMint, the Republican incumbent—and “cook his goose.”On future reporting trips to Charleston, Dupree set me up in “my old room.” There was always cobbler and laughter. After learning that she’d died, on Monday, I looked back and found more than a dozen e-mails from her: introductions (to a chef, a Times reporter, a storm-shutter expert), political prognostications (“Biden will beat Trump!”), and congratulations on my own James Beard nomination for a story about a brewery. “Good thing you didn’t become a food writer,” she said.In the NewsIllustration by Deena So’OtehNegotiators from Israel and Hamas have agreed to a ceasefire. The deal needs to be formally ratified, but the agreement will mean the release of hostages and prisoners on both sides, and an end to the fighting in Gaza. At the start of the war, in 2023, the Palestinian poet Mosab Abu Toha shared his family’s story of becoming refugees, and waiting for a ceasefire that seemed just out of reach. Later, Toha would chronicle his family’s perilous journey out of Gaza, and his own detention by Israeli soldiers. And, last year, as part of a series of reporting trips to Israel following the October 7th attack by Hamas, David Remnick wrote about the ways in which the Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu’s own political interests were inextricably linked to the ongoing fighting of the war. The New Yorker will continue to provide reporting and analysis as the ramifications of the ceasefire emerge in the days and weeks ahead.More Top StoriesWhat Happened When an Extremely Offline Person Tried TikTokJohn Early Enters the New Yorker Cartoon Caption ContestHow the Stonewall Inn Bricks Avoided the TrashDaily Cartoon“Between shorter daylight hours and longer times for getting dressed, it’s easier to stay inside.”Cartoon by Amy HwangCopy link to cartoonCopy link to cartoonLink copiedShopShopMore Fun & GamesPlay today’s beginner-friendly puzzle. A clue: Africa’s highest peak. Eleven letters.Shouts & Murmurs: Different Ways to Keep in Touch with Your Long-Distance FriendsP.S. Joe Biden will give his farewell address to the nation tonight. When President Dwight Eisenhower gave his, in 1961, he f
In today’s newsletter, remembering the pioneering TV chef and author Nathalie Dupree. And then, news of a ceasefire deal between Israel and Hamas. Plus:
- What Happened When an Extremely Offline Person Tried TikTok
- Saving the Stonewall Inn bricks
- John Early joins the Cartoon Caption Contest
Charles Bethea
Staff writer
When I arrived at a home on Charleston’s Queen Street, in September of 2018, as Hurricane Florence was bearing down on the old city, I had only a rough idea of my hosts. Jack Bass was a well-regarded author of books on Southern politics. (A colleague, distantly related to him, had arranged my stay.) Nathalie Dupree, meanwhile, was the author of more than a dozen cookbooks, a four-time James Beard Award winner, a pioneering television chef, and a chum of Julia Child’s. She had also been a precinct captain for John F. Kennedy’s 1960 Presidential campaign, and, fifty years later, waged a write-in campaign for the Senate from South Carolina. Braced for ego, I found soup instead. Before I could put my suitcase down, Dupree, abandoning her crossword puzzle, and the cat on her lap, was serving me her “hurricane soup.” What was in it? Whatever is in the freezers, she said. It was delicious, as were the meals that followed—lamb with a “balsamic and blood” sauce, charred eggplant, peach cobbler—which nearly derailed my reporting. Perhaps, I said, in one post-prandial reverie, I should become a food writer. “You sure you’ve got the chops?” Dupree asked dryly. There was nothing highfalutin or fake about her.
Charleston avoided a direct hit, but the coastal flooding from Florence was disastrous. The region’s hog farms were inundated, and the sight and smell of their breached “manure lagoons” made me consider quitting pork. The industry might be broken, Dupree conceded, but she cautioned against taking extreme dietary measures. She was committed to traditional foods—as sustenance, pleasure, and social glue. She loved to host and often shared her table with writers: Pat Conroy, Anne Rivers Siddons, Stuart Woods, Hendrik Hertzberg. (Conroy later wrote about Dupree in his own cookbook, calling her “the inimitable, unclassifiable queen of the Southern kitchen.”) She had a “pork-chop theory”: one chop in a pan goes dry, but two have the fat needed to feed each other. I was single back then when she explained it, and the metaphor didn’t quite stick. (I get it now.) Her playful love of language was evident on TV, in her cookbooks, and in her bootstrapped but not-a-joke Senate campaign, which fell short. Leaning into culinary metaphor, she’d promised to “Cream DeMint”—Jim DeMint, the Republican incumbent—and “cook his goose.”
On future reporting trips to Charleston, Dupree set me up in “my old room.” There was always cobbler and laughter. After learning that she’d died, on Monday, I looked back and found more than a dozen e-mails from her: introductions (to a chef, a Times reporter, a storm-shutter expert), political prognostications (“Biden will beat Trump!”), and congratulations on my own James Beard nomination for a story about a brewery. “Good thing you didn’t become a food writer,” she said.
In the News
Negotiators from Israel and Hamas have agreed to a ceasefire. The deal needs to be formally ratified, but the agreement will mean the release of hostages and prisoners on both sides, and an end to the fighting in Gaza. At the start of the war, in 2023, the Palestinian poet Mosab Abu Toha shared his family’s story of becoming refugees, and waiting for a ceasefire that seemed just out of reach. Later, Toha would chronicle his family’s perilous journey out of Gaza, and his own detention by Israeli soldiers. And, last year, as part of a series of reporting trips to Israel following the October 7th attack by Hamas, David Remnick wrote about the ways in which the Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu’s own political interests were inextricably linked to the ongoing fighting of the war. The New Yorker will continue to provide reporting and analysis as the ramifications of the ceasefire emerge in the days and weeks ahead.
- What Happened When an Extremely Offline Person Tried TikTok
- John Early Enters the New Yorker Cartoon Caption Contest
- How the Stonewall Inn Bricks Avoided the Trash
Daily Cartoon
- Play today’s beginner-friendly puzzle. A clue: Africa’s highest peak. Eleven letters.
- Shouts & Murmurs: Different Ways to Keep in Touch with Your Long-Distance Friends
P.S. Joe Biden will give his farewell address to the nation tonight. When President Dwight Eisenhower gave his, in 1961, he famously warned of the “military-industrial complex” and a coming “scientific-technological élite” that would dominate public policy. When the son of Eisenhower’s speechwriter found his father’s papers boxed up in his boathouse, the drafts of that address made clear how deliberate the writing process had been. “Regarded in his day as inarticulate and detached,” Jim Newton explains, “Eisenhower in these papers is fully engaged, grappling with the language of the text and the radical questions that it raised.”
