It was the middle of the night in Paris when I got a sudden call from Jamal James Kent’s wife, Kelly, letting me know that he had passed away.
Only days before, we had been together in Las Vegas at the World’s 50 Best Awards, making new plans and celebrating his success, surrounded by our idols and colleagues. I’m unwilling to accept a future where he is anywhere else but a kitchen in lower Manhattan, doing what he loves and making people laugh.
I vividly remember the day I first met James. It was a cool spring morning in 2006 when he came in for an interview at Eleven Madison Park. I was 29, and just months earlier, I had moved across the country from San Francisco to become the executive chef. Hoping to breathe new life into this iconic New York City restaurant, I was now searching for other young cooks to help me build my team.
We sat in the lounge area of EMP, and as he began to tell me about his experiences growing up in Manhattan and working in the kitchens of Bouley, Babbo, and Jean-Georges, “Better Git It in Your Soul” by Charles Mingus (one of my absolute favorite jazz musicians) started playing on the speakers. James instantly recognized the song. “This is my grandfather!” he said.
Everything aligned in that moment. He told me that he had found his place here at Eleven Madison Park, and I knew that I had found someone who could help me imagine a new future for the restaurant.
In the months and years that followed, James became an indispensable part of the business—cooking his way through every station, always ready to learn and never too proud to try something new. He believed in treating people fairly; giving everyone a chance, regardless of their background. It didn’t matter to him if you had spent years in culinary school or if you had cut your teeth as a line cook at an outer borough dive bar. As long as you were curious, passionate, and ready to put in the work, you had his respect. Having spent many years in traditional fine dining kitchens, I found this attitude refreshing and incredibly valuable.
Eventually, James worked his way up to become our chef de cuisine, my eyes and ears on the ground, and a mentor to the entire kitchen. More importantly, he became my true friend and collaborator. As a fresh transplant, I didn’t know anything about the city, except that I was enchanted by its people and energy. He took me under his wing and showed me his New York—the real New York.
James grew up in Greenwich Village and knew the streets of Manhattan like the back of his hand. He seemed to run into an old friend or acquaintance everywhere we went, and each street held years of memories. New York City was more than just his birthplace: It was a part of his DNA.
He not only introduced me to the city’s food traditions, like downtown’s appetizing stores, the joys of egg cream, and a classic bodega sandwich, he also shared his love for New York hip-hop, basketball, and street art. After working long days at the restaurant, we’d often go out for a late-night bite, when he’d show me the magic of Manhattan after dark: bibimbap and Korean feasts in K-Town, fried chicken at Blue Ribbon, a few too many drinks followed by Artichoke Pizza at 4 a.m. He took me to his favorite bars and clubs, and, of course, to many underground rap shows. When we entered any room, no matter how out of place I may have felt, James always managed to put me at ease. One night at a downtown club, he knocked a guy out because he made fun of my sneakers. He was intensely loyal like that.
Soon after meeting, James brought me into his childhood friendship circle and made me feel like I truly belonged here. He taught me how to think and see the world like a New Yorker: how to be wise to the bullshit, how to spot beauty in the mayhem, how to find humor in difficult moments, when to withhold judgments, and how to identify bright, raw talent through a rough exterior. I was a sponge for it all.
To meet James was to know and love him. He was hilarious, street-smart, and unashamedly himself. He was confident while retaining a sense of humility that allowed him to approach everyone with an open heart and mind. When I told him my goals to transform Eleven Madison Park into the best restaurant in the world, he had every right to dismiss them as nothing but a fantasy, based on how we were seen at the time. But he didn’t even flinch. He bought into the dream entirely because he believed in himself, he believed in me, and he believed that we could build the right team.
At the very beginning of our careers, we were both on a mission to prove something to the world. We presented ourselves to the fine dining industry in ways that we thought would be easy for the old guard to accept. Despite being very proud of his father’s Moroccan heritage, James eschewed his first name, Jamal, for the first few years that I knew him—a decision that he had first made in 2001 in reaction to the Islamophobia that followed 9/11. But over time, he discovered that he didn’t need to fit into a conventional mold to succeed. In fact, his roots were his superpower. Soon James started going by Jamal again, and he began finding ways to weave Moroccan flavors and traditions into his cooking. This evolution was beautiful to watch, and it pushed me to uncover and embrace many hidden facets of myself as well.
James craved and created community everywhere he went, and he made sure to include everyone in his success. At any celebration or gathering, you could always find his brother, Rashid, his mother, Susanna, his father, Peter, or his grandmother, Sue, somewhere nearby. And when it came time for him to start his own family with his high school sweetheart, Kelly, he took on the role of husband and father with extraordinary passion, warmth, and pride. He loved Kelly, Gavin, and Avery with a fierceness and joy that I couldn’t help but admire.
Not much later, I also had two young children of my own: Colette and Vivienne. James often joked that I was so competitive that I couldn’t help but follow his lead, and I suppose he wasn’t half wrong. No one knew how to rib me quite like he did. In this way, we became men together and experienced many of life’s important milestones side by side. He became my brother, and our children like cousins, inviting us to celebrate many holidays together as a big group.
After James took on the role of executive chef at NoMad, leading the restaurant to receive many glowing reviews from The New York Times and win a Michelin Star, I could tell that he was ready to run a restaurant of his own. His leaving was not an easy decision for either of us, as he was so important and well-loved at the company, but he knew that he would regret not making the leap, and I knew that it would be a disservice to New York City’s culinary future if I did not let him.
It has been such an honor and a pleasure to watch him open Crown Shy (and later SAGA and the Overstory). To see him flourish as a leader, a chef, and a business owner, while also keeping his family as close as ever.
One Easter, about three years before he opened SAGA, James invited me and my family over for a delicious meal at his place. To our surprise, before we sat down to eat, he took us up to the top floor of 70 Pine—just the beginnings of a construction site—where he had hidden eggs in every pocket, crevice, and corner. Surrounded by sweeping views of the river and the city, our four kids set off on an Easter egg hunt for the ages while we watched from afar, just soaking in their delight. It’s an afternoon that will stay with my daughters and me forever. James always knew how to bring a sense of wonder into the everyday, and he thrived on creating joy for his family and friends.
Whenever you step into one of his restaurants, you can feel his personality shine through. He managed to blend his vast knowledge of classic French techniques with a culinary perspective that was playful, innovative, and profoundly personal. There is a real sense of openness, liveliness, and community that you can’t find anywhere else of this caliber. Everyone in the kitchen cares deeply about their craft, but is also having fun doing it. In his own way, he has created multiple New York City institutions that have made an impact far beyond 70 Pine Street. It breaks my heart to think of how much more he had left to achieve. He had so many dreams and plans that were just on the verge of coming to life.
In the few days after that awful phone call in Paris, I felt both a yearning and a resistance to return to New York—not knowing how to imagine the idea of the city without him in it. Walking around the streets of Manhattan, I can’t help but be reminded of him everywhere I go. His stories are woven into my perception of every block and corner, and they continue to reverberate through our culture at Eleven Madison Park. And at the same time, there’s nowhere else that has ever felt quite as much like home. His New York is now my New York, and I am forever grateful to him for that gift.