The cooking class was crowded that day, people bustling about, eager to learn, taste and leave with their signed books in hand. Yet, amidst the sea of faces, Charlie stood out like the sun breaking through a dense morning fog. He was patient, waiting quietly while the others clamoured for attention. When the class ended, he didn’t rush to the front. Instead, he lingered, giving me space and time, and that gesture – a small, almost imperceptible act of thoughtfulness – spoke volumes.
As I signed his book, I felt an electricity between us, an unspoken connection. He wasn’t just standing there; he was present. Towering, radiant and brimming with quiet confidence, he was breathtaking – a tall glass of milk, as I’ve often described him, nourishing and steady. His smile was something out of a dream: ear to ear, bigger than life, and dazzling in its brilliance. Yet, it wasn’t merely the size of his smile that captivated me; it was its audacity. It carried a sense of hope, innocence and majesty, a pure light that seemed to have remained untouched by the betrayals and bruises of life.
His hand brushed against mine, and I caught a faint scent of smoke. I asked if he was a smoker, and he hesitated. “Yes,” he confessed, his voice steady. “But I haven’t smoked all day because I wanted to meet you. I even showered twice.” That honesty, that small vulnerability, was as electrifying as his presence. There was no pretence with Charlie. He stood there, tall and solid, open about who he was and what he carried.
At the time, my life was fractured. I was in a relationship that the world envied, but that left me feeling hollow. My partner and I had built a life in Greenwich Village that epitomised success – lavish parties, a grand apartment and the kind of social circles most would dream of. But behind closed doors, it was broken. The relationship that had shaped me, elevated me and opened doors to my career was now crumbling, taking pieces of me with it.
Charlie walked into my life at a time when I wasn’t ready to be loved but desperately needed to be. His presence wasn’t intrusive; it was steady, like a lighthouse guiding a shipwrecked sailor. He saw my brokenness and didn’t flinch. In those early conversations, we shared the rawest parts of ourselves – the betrayals we had endured, the betrayals we had committed, the ways life had bent and broken us. And instead of turning away, we leaned into each other.
Charlie wasn’t afraid of my storms. I knew, from the moment I met him, that he was big enough to hold me. He had a quiet strength, the kind that comes from having weathered life and emerged wiser for it. He wasn’t a man looking to fix me or be fixed himself; he was a partner in the truest sense.
When we moved in together, we chose a Federal-style house in Clinton Hill, Brooklyn. The neighbourhood felt like a step back in time, its wide, tree-lined streets reminiscent of a Parisian boulevard. Our apartment was on the ground floor of a stately brick home, next to a white “wedding cake” house that added a touch of whimsy to the block. It was larger than we needed, but it felt right – a space to grow, to build, to dream.
Charlie came with furniture, pieces he had collected as a retailer of home furnishings. His taste was impeccable, his eye for beauty unparalleled. Together, we turned that apartment into a haven, not through catalogues or trends but through the yearnings of our hearts. We spent weekends scouring antique stores and flea markets, often with our friend Marianne, who adored Charlie from the moment she met him. She would call, excited about a find she thought we’d love, and we’d rush over, trusting her instincts.
One day, in a run-down Salvation Army shop in Brooklyn, Charlie found a Victorian candelabra. It was black with years of grime, almost unrecognisable, but he saw its potential. We brought it home, cleaned it meticulously and revealed a magnificent piece that still stands proudly in my home today, a testament to Charlie’s vision and our shared love for history and transformation.
Our home became a reflection of us – a blend of old and new, ordinary and extraordinary. Every piece told a story: the antique chair from a flea market on the Lower East Side, the rug we bought on a whim during a trip to the Hudson Valley, the tchotchkes gifted by friends and family. The walls, painted in colours Charlie chose intuitively, seemed to radiate warmth. It was a space that welcomed love, laughter and life.
When Simba and Kali, two cats, were dropped off at Amma, my restaurant on 51st Street, with a note saying, “You don’t come calling on us, so we’ve come calling on you,” I didn’t know what to do. Charlie already had a dog, Sebastian, and I was allergic to cats, a fact we learnt about when we adopted them and I started wheezing – later I was diagnosed with asthma. “Take them in,” he said. “They’ll be our babies.” And they were. Simba and Kali became part of our family, living long, full lives – 21 and 18 years, respectively. Charlie’s openness to love, in all its forms, was boundless.
When my career demanded sacrifices – long hours, relentless travel and the emotional toll of navigating a competitive industry – Charlie stood by me. He didn’t just offer words of encouragement; he acted. He prepped ingredients for recipe testing, ensuring everything was ready when I came home exhausted. He sat with me as I cooked, tasting, adjusting, documenting, always my quiet cheerleader.
At night, he insisted we resolve our arguments before bed. “You can’t go to sleep feeling unloved,” he would say, and he meant it. He kissed me goodnight every single evening, no matter how tired or frustrated we were.
Charlie had a way of making the simplest moments magical. He could turn a cheese sandwich into a feast, adding hot sauce and humour to make it extraordinary. He loved mac and cheese, a dish I had loathed until I transformed it into something gourmet. With Parmigiano Reggiano and other luxurious ingredients, I created a version that became a favourite not just for Charlie but for friends like Gail Greene and Stephen Richter, who often joked about how much weight they gained eating it.
Charlie brought joy and laughter into every room he entered. He mimicked voices with uncanny accuracy, his impressions so spot-on they left us doubled over in laughter. His generosity of spirit was unmatched and his ability to see beauty in the mundane was transformative.
Our home wasn’t just for us. It was a hub for friends, neighbours and family, a place where people came to feel loved and be fed – both literally and metaphorically. The kitchen, always alive with the aroma of spices and roasting vegetables, was the heart of our gatherings. Charlie and I built a space where people felt safe, where they could escape the noise of the city and find solace.
Even in the quiet moments, when it was just the two of us, there was magic. We discovered hidden gems together, such as Tanoreen, a Palestinian restaurant in Sheepshead Bay, which became our favourite. We travelled, explored, and dreamt. In Udaipur, India, we both fell in love with the same painting – a man with his lips and nose twisted in a way that reminded us of our own silly faces. Without consulting each other, we had separately told the shopkeeper we wanted it. It was a sign, a reminder of how deeply in sync we were.
Charlie believed in me when I couldn’t believe in myself. When I faced betrayals in the restaurant world, when business partners tried to undermine me, he told me, “Keep going, Baba. You’re meant for bigger things.” He gave me the strength to walk away from toxic situations and the courage to dream bigger.
Our love was built on trust, laughter, and a shared belief in each other’s potential. It wasn’t perfect – no love is – but it was real. It was the kind of love that transforms you, that makes you better, that becomes the foundation of everything you do.
Looking back on those early years in Brooklyn, I see a life that was rich not because of material success but because of the love we poured into every corner of our home, every meal we shared, every laugh we echoed. Charlie was my partner, my anchor, my greatest love. And together, we created something extraordinary
Excerpted with permission from Tell My Mother I Like Boys, Suvir Saran, Penguin India.
