Chapter Text
In 2025, shortly after their restaurant ABC opened in Greenwich Village, NYC, Carmen Berzatto and Sydney Adamu were profiled by The New York Times.
Sydney Adamu and Carmen Berzatto Don't Care About The Rules
Sydney Adamu and Carmen Berzatto enjoy working late.
“This is the best time of the day,” says Adamu with a smile, just past 1:00 AM.
Tonight, Berzatto and her are workshopping a new menu item for their restaurant, ABC— an East Village sensation that has earned them both places at the very center of New York City’s culinary conversation.
Pinned above their station is a drawing Berzatto created for Adamu to work off. The two of them cook in almost eerie silence—there’s a synchronicity to their movements that most kitchens struggle to achieve, even after years of work. Only two weeks into their life as official culinary partners, the ABC kitchen is almost ballet-like—movements are fluid and exacting, there’s a grace to the way they work that captivates the eye.
Maybe this can be attributed to Berzatto and Adamu’s romantic partnership, though both are coy about this point when asked.
“I don’t think it factors into the kitchen much, to be honest,” Adamu says. “Though I obviously get shit for it; people think I’m Carmy’s sous, they see me and ask to speak to the chef. Or they’ll say I only got started in the business because Carm gave me a leg up.”
“Those people get kicked out,” Berzatto says, though it’s unclear whether or not he’s joking.
Do they have any ground rules that help with managing both a business and a relationship together at the same time?
Adamu laughs at this question, leaning into Berzatto’s side and raising an eyebrow at him.
It’s rare to encounter a couple with quite so many inside jokes.
“Ground rules?” Berzatto repeats.
"Yeah, we make rules,” Adamu chimes in. “Then we break them.”
Berzatto smiles at that, though he’s quick to clarify that the restaurant is: “not about us being a couple.” Rather, he says: “Me and Syd just do good work together, we always have. There’s nobody else I could do this with, she’s the best chef I know. That’s really all there is to it.”
Berzatto and Adamu’s culinary paths diverged significantly on their way to their current partnership.
Berzatto had racked up a respectable resume before the age of twenty-five—cooking everywhere from NOMA to Chef Andrea Terry’s Ever— he played by the book and advanced in the industry at a speed that defied dismissal. In 2019, Berzatto was on fire. However, while most chefs would’ve capitalized on such a rare moment of culinary glory, Berzatto did the unthinkable. He went home.
“There’s no place like Chicago,” he says, while dutifully caramelizing a pan of onions as Adamu plays around with sauce reductions on the burner next to him.
Berzatto and Adamu grew up a mere thirty minutes from each other, and while their paths crossed a few times, it wasn’t until Berzatto had taken an official step back from professional cooking that he got to know the chef who would one day be his partner, in both senses of the word.
Four years later, when Berzatto returned to New York, Adamu was with him.
“I think when Ever closed, we both kind of woke up and realized what we wanted,” Adamu says. “It sucked. I’d been hoping to stay there for at least five years, I mean, Andrea is the best mentor anyone could ask for—”
“The best?” Berzatto interrupts here, a wry smile on his face.
Adamu rolls her eyes, shaking her head at him with a slow smile. It’s a small glimpse into the chemistry that so clearly runs between the two of them.
“Please ignore him, he has an ego problem,” Adamu says. “I was saying, after Ever closed, we had to kind of sit down and think about what we really wanted.”
“And I really wanted to spend the rest of my life watching Syd cook,” Berzatto says.
ABC—an abbreviation of Adamu-Berzatto-Culinary—is all about family.
“Right from the start, we knew we wanted somewhere people could bring their kids,” Adamu says, adding, “we will serve french fries and chicken nuggets, on request. And Carmy makes an excellent mozzarella stick.”
“When my sister brings her daughter to visit, we make mac and cheese,” Carmy adds. “But only for her.”
Adamu and Berzatto aren’t strangers to family dining. Berzatto’s cousin, Richard “Richie” Jerimovich, was recently featured in The Chicago Tribune for his work revitalizing the Berzatto family’s sandwich shop. In the face of rampant gentrification and pressure to sell, Jerimovich is changing the traditional family-business model, capitalizing on nostalgia and providing those who have grown tired of chain restaurants and impersonal dining with another alternative. The Tribune called Jerimovich “Chicago’s working class hero,” and as the topic comes up, it’s clear Berzatto is proud of his cousin.
“Richie does his own thing,” Berzatto says. “And I guess he’s doing it very well.”
“This man was weeping when we said goodbye to Richie,” Adamu adds.
“Yeah, yeah, I love him very much,” Berzatto admits, jokingly adding: “Please don’t print that.”
While Adamu and Berzatto both left their families back in Chicago to come to New York, they frequently host visitors. It’s plain to see that the family spirit in the restaurant is very real.
Toward the back of the kitchen, there’s a "family wall." The restaurant’s staff are welcome to add polaroids of their family when they come for dinner. Adamu proudly points out her dad’s polaroid to me, noting that he comes to visit: “At least twice a month.”
His picture is right in the middle of a row of Berzatto family members. Adamu points out one of Carmen’s sister and her husband and daughter, another of Jerimovich and his daughter, one of Berzatto’s mother, who seems to have scrawled the message: In bocca al orso, Carmen! on the bottom of her polaroid in sharpie—apparently an “Italian inside joke.”
“They’re all excited he’s finally talking to them about his job,” Adamu shares, out of earshot of Berzatto. “At least once a week, some random New York Italian comes in and says they’re related to Carmy.” She laughs. “And then he’s like, Syd, this is my second cousin twice removed! I told you about him! And he’s only actually related to like a third of them.”
Adamu also shows me a corkboard in her and Carmy’s office, where their families have taken to leaving each other notes in the form of song lyrics, a unique way to communicate during busy shifts.
“We take our music very seriously in this restaurant,” Adamu tells me. “I’m currently in a copyright battle with Blue Note Records because you need authorization to play their records in a restaurant like this.” She sighs heavily. “Trust me when I say, I am not backing down.”
(Note: At the time of publication, Adamu had finally received her authorization).
Adamu smiles, looking rather embarrassed, as she indicates some of the highlights of their lyric cork board.
“We took a cab downtown the very first time we came to see this building, and this song was on the radio,” she says, pointing to the piece of paper pinned to the very top of the board.
It quotes Elliott Smith, reading: No one’s gonna fool around with us.
“I’d never heard the song before, but I say that to Carm all the time now,” she says, smile broadening.
There’s a Billy Joel quote below the first, which Adamu says Berzatto wrote for her a few days before they opened: You may be right, I may be crazy, but it just might be a lunatic you’re looking for.
She points out a Carole King quote from Carmy’s sister: Missing you the way I do, you know I’d like to see more of you, but you know my love is always there for the taking.
A slightly less emotional Jerimovich quoted Green Day, writing: Free for all, fuck ‘em all, you are your own sight. Below, his daughter, Eva, has written: You are what you love.
There are countless others.
“I read them over sometimes when I can’t concentrate on anything else,” she says. “Tell myself these idiots will all come eat here, even if nobody else does.”
The next morning, Adamu heads to Brooklyn to shop at the the Borough Hall Greenmarket, while Berzatto opens the restaurant for the morning.
“I’m sorry, I don’t have much to say,” he volunteers, flicking on the lights and walking to the kitchen to wash his hands.
In a 2018 interview with Food & Wine, Berzatto, when asked, explained that the S.O.U. tattooed across his knuckles stood for “Sense of Urgency.”
Now, the O and the U have been tattooed over by two stars.
“Is it really that obvious that they’re cover-ups?” he asks, though after he’s reminded of his past interview comments on them, he relaxes. “Yeah, well, I guess I just grew out of the old ones. I’d burn all those old interviews if I could; I was running on empty, terrible example. I really hope nobody reads them and takes the advice I gave.”
And now? Does he have any updated advice for aspiring chefs?
“Cleanliness is godliness?” he says, then adds with a seemingly-nervous laugh, “I don’t know. Ask Syd, I’m sure she’s got some good advice.”
At the mention of Sydney, he subtly rubs his thumb over the remaining letter S on his index finger.
Did he ever consider covering that one up?
“No,” he says simply. “I did not consider covering up the S.”
As he preps his station for the day, he says into the silence: “You know, this kitchen isn’t like the ones I started out in.”
Better?
He laughs. “Night and day,” he says. “I mean, people are people, there’s always gonna be shit in kitchens like this, but nobody’s getting verbally abused here and I don’t think anybody’s cried in the walk-in yet, at least not that I’ve seen. Knock on wood; we’ll see how this week goes.”
It’s clear that Berzatto cares about the energy of his kitchen. Alone, he’s calm and exacting, setting up the space for the arrival of his employees with a practiced precision.
“This is when I kind of go through things in my head,” he says quietly, “make sure I know my day and what I need to get done.”
Later, when the employees arrive, and Adamu returns from the market, Berzatto takes on a different tone. He always has a smile for Adamu, but as service begins, it’s clear he’s no longer the relaxed, experimental chef that stayed late sketching at the restaurant last night.
Tonight, Berzatto is running expo tonight while Adamu oversees food prep, and although now they speak out loud (unlike last night’s non-verbal synchronicity) the same breathtaking cohesion is present in their kitchen.
“Okay, okay, wait,” Sydney says, snatching the magazine from Carmy’s hands. They bought the first copy they saw, from a bodega a few paces down from the restaurant. Now, Sydney is perched on a bench in Washington Square Park with Carmy at her side, the two of them skimming the article together. “It says breathtaking cohesion?”
Carmy fails to cover a laugh.
Sydney looks at him incredulously.
“Oh my God, they made it sound like we’re eyefucking across the kitchen all night.”
“Why did it keep saying I was joking about things? I was serious,” Carmy says, taking the magazine back.
“Do we have too many inside jokes?” Sydney asks.
“Never,” Carmy replies, without even having to think about it, eyes darting over the page. “I mean, I think generally it’s positive.”
“They didn’t talk about the food much,” Sydney says, frowning. “I really don’t think our relationship is any more interesting than your rosemary polenta.”
“Really?” Carmy says flatly.
Sydney scoffs. “It’s more interesting to me obviously,” she says. “But I’m saying, to the average person, is it really that fascinating?”
Carmy silently drapes an arm around her shoulders as she continues to read quickly over the page.
“We have, like, T-minus thirty seconds until my dad sees this and calls us to tell us how proud he is,” she says.
“Yeah, fate worse than death,” Carmy says, dropping his head onto Sydney’s shoulder. “Sugar might beat him to it, you know,” he adds.
“Nobody beats Emmanuel Adamu,” Sydney says, shaking her head.
Carmy looks down at her left hand; the simple silver band that she’s taken off for service and forgotten about at least three times already this week. Carmy’s gotten into the habit of holding it for her on a dish on his desk so it doesn't get lost. He slid it back onto her finger that morning, kissing her knuckles, earning a rare 4am smile; exhausted but happy.
“You gonna tell him soon?” he asks.
Sydney smiles, shrugs.
“Maybe when you tell Sugar,” she says. “Or Richie. Or your mom. Like, literally anyone. Stop acting like it’s 1850 and we’re in a secret forbidden engagement?”
“Okay, okay, point taken,” Carmy says, with a guilty smile, looking at the ring on her finger for a little longer, considering. “I don’t know. Maybe I like that it’s just us two who know right now. It’s just ours.”
Sydney kisses him on the cheek, catching him by surprise. He flushes.
“No more journalists then,” she says. “We can keep our secrets secret.”
“Yes,” he agrees. “No more interviews.”
“And we’ll tell the family before the holidays, yeah?”
Carmy nods in agreement.
The sun is coming up over the park. It’s mostly empty, save for a few joggers, some college students, some folks still sleeping at the edges.
Carmy used to walk this park alone at midnight.
“I was thinking, for Saturday,” Sydney says, “we can do your seafood—”
She’s interrupted by Carmy wrapping his other arm around her, pulling her into a tight embrace. She laughs in surprise.
“What are you doing?” she says.
“I love you,” he says, pressing his head against her chest.
She hugs him back.
“Yeah, I love you too, weirdo,” she says.
Her phone rings. Without pushing Carmy away, she pulls it out of her pocket, smiling triumphantly as she holds it up.
“Nobody beats Emmanuel fucking Adamu,” she says, pressing answer.
“Babygirl,” he says, a strangely knowing quality to his voice.
“Hi dad,” she says cautiously.
Carmy sits up, eyes narrowing at the phone.
“You feel like explaining why there is an engagement ring on Carmen’s desk in the background of this magazine photograph?”
Sydney’s mouth drops open.
Carmy laughs explosively.
“Oh, she thought she could fool me,” Emmanuel says to no one. “When did this happen?”
Sydney shakes her head slowly, standing up from the bench, holding a hand out for Carmy to take. They stroll toward the arch at the edge of the park, circling the edge of the fountain, watching the sun cast the buildings around them gold.
“Dad, I can explain,” she says, pulling Carmy toward the restaurant.
As she talks on the phone, he opens the magazine again, skimming to the end of the article, biting back a smile as he reads.
Contrasting Berzatto’s less-than-enthusiastic response to the question of what advice he has for young chefs, Adamu is more willing to offer a few words of wisdom.
“You’ll never get anything you want if you don’t go around acting like you already have it,” she says.
So fake it till you make it?
A private smile crosses her face.
“Exactly,” she says.
Anything else?
She shrugs.
“Find somebody who you have fun cooking with in your shitty kitchen first,” she says. “Then build them a better one.”