Nostalgia Cooked
August 4th, 2026
No. 9

“Hands, please”

The Philadelphia pharmacist who renamed his "root tea" to root beer overnight and built an American classic on the switch; why a fistful of fresh herbs does something the dried version in your spice rack never will; and three things worth your time this week, including the Chicago diner that once handed me a root beer float I still think about.

Coffee, then read on.

- Chef Tim

If I could only teach one cooking lesson this summer, it wouldn't be how to sear a steak, bake better bread, or make the perfect vinaigrette. It would be to use more herbs!

Not as a garnish. Not as the little sprig that gets pushed to the side of the plate. I mean handfuls of them. Blend them into marinades. Fold them into salads. Toss them with roasted vegetables. Finish grilled meat with fresh parsley, mint, basil, dill, cilantro, chives, tarragon, or whatever is growing outside your back door.

And if you don't have a garden, the grocery store works just fine.

Instead of buying one tiny clamshell of herbs, grab the whole bunch of cilantro or parsley. Pick up a couple packs of mint, chives, or even curry leaves. They're inexpensive, they're versatile, and they're one of the easiest ways to make dinner taste like someone cared about every bite.

For all the attention we give expensive olive oils, finishing salts, and spice blends, fresh herbs are still the most underutilized ingredient in home cooking.

Professional kitchens understand this. Herbs aren't treated as decoration. They're treated as an ingredient. Walk into almost any great restaurant and you'll find herbs folded into butter, blended into sauces, stirred into soups at the last second, and piled onto finished dishes. They don't just add flavor. They add freshness. They make food feel alive.

Some of my favorite meals are loaded with herbs. Not because they're trying to impress anyone, but because a generous handful of fresh herbs sends a message. It says someone planted them, watered them, picked them at the right moment, and intentionally put them on your plate. That's a very different feeling than the lonely sprig of curly parsley that's been riding the edge of diner plates up and down the Eastern Seaboard for the last fifty years.

Fresh herbs don't just taste different. They smell different because many of the compounds that make them so aromatic are lost during drying. That's why fresh basil, parsley, cilantro, and mint can bring a dish to life in a way their dried counterparts never quite can.

For years I thought becoming a better cook meant learning more techniques. It certainly helps. But the older I get, the more I realize that memorable cooking often comes down to small decisions made over and over again. A little more salt. A squeeze of lemon. And one more handful of herbs.

That's usually the difference between a meal that's good and one you'll remember.

Before service, the whole crew huddles up and someone tells the story behind the food. Pull up a crate, you’re on the line tonight.

By the time this newsletter lands in your inbox, National Root Beer Float Day is only a few days away. I can't think of a better excuse to order one.

This past week, my partner and I are driving through the Adirondack Mountains when we spot an A&W Restaurant. I order a root beer float without hesitation. My partner orders their first one ever!

The mugs arrive frosted. The vanilla ice cream rises above the rim before slowly melting into the root beer. One sip in, we both understand why this dessert has survived for more than a century. The remarkable thing about a root beer float isn't that it's old. It's that nobody has figured out how to improve it.

The float is generally credited to Frank J. Wisner, a soda fountain owner in Cripple Creek, Colorado, who, in 1893, is inspired by the snow-covered top of Cow Mountain to drop vanilla ice cream into a glass of root beer. Whether the story has been polished over the years hardly matters. The combination spreads quickly across America, and when A&W begins serving root beer in frozen mugs after opening in 1919, the float becomes part of the country's roadside identity. Unlike so many desserts, it never needs reinventing. No artisanal syrups. No deconstructed version. No tableside liquid nitrogen. Just good root beer and vanilla ice cream.

Long before root beer comes in cans and plastic bottles, it's brewed from whatever the landscape provides. Indigenous communities and early European settlers make herbal drinks from sassafras root, birch bark, wintergreen, licorice root, ginger, and dozens of other botanicals. Every family has its own recipe. Every town has its own version. Long before America has a national soft drink, it already has something that tastes unmistakably American.

When Philadelphia pharmacist Charles Hires introduces his recipe to the public at the 1876 Centennial Exposition, he doesn't originally call it root beer. He calls it "root tea." Then he realizes Americans might be more interested in buying something called beer than tea. The name changes, sales take off, and more than 150 years later we're still ordering root beer because of one remarkably smart marketing decision.

What I love most is that root beer has never really had one flavor. Early recipes often include sassafras, sarsaparilla, wintergreen, birch, licorice, vanilla, cinnamon, cloves, ginger, and whatever else the maker has on hand. That's why no two root beers taste exactly alike. Barq's, A&W, Mug, Dad's, IBC, Sprecher, Boylan, and hundreds of small regional brands all have their own personality. Root beer isn't a recipe. It's a family of flavors.

Maybe that's why the root beer float works so well. No matter how the soda changes, vanilla ice cream has a way of pulling everything together. It's one of those rare desserts that's endlessly adaptable without ever feeling different.

Watching someone experience their first float is almost as enjoyable as drinking my own. You can see the surprise when they realize it's somehow creamier than ice cream, fizzier than soda, and more refreshing than either one on its own.

Some classics survive because they're never trying to be anything else.

Top Tip

This week's assignment is simple. Make yourself a big bowl of chicken pesto pasta and don't be shy with the herbs. Use that bunch of basil, parsley, or even a little mint if you're feeling adventurous. Pair it with a crisp Vermentino. Its bright citrus and herbal notes keep the pesto tasting fresh while letting the chicken and parmesan do their thing.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have some very important quality control to perform beneath the table. I never beg. I simply maintain optimistic eye contact.

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