Bands with Pans: Celestial Shore
Once the chips finish, Sam dumps them a brown paper bag (Max, retrieving the bag from his bedroom: “This had food in it.” Sam: “Perfect.”). “This is another mom trick,” he says, winking, right before he holds the top closed in his fist and gently shakes with salt, black pepper and crushed red pepper. “It gets the excess oil off.” Then he lays them in an even layer on a cookie sheet, spritzing lime on top.
I ask more about ratios, measurements and other generally douche-y specific questions. “It doesn’t really matter,” Sam says, tilting his head. He’s airy and incredibly mild-mannered—I try to imagine the dude growing furious at a spilled glass of almond milk and, well, simply can’t piece it together.