Words: Kevin Yuen
Photos: Chris Porzio
By the time rapper Fam-Lay gets into his kitchen to fix a meal, he’s working against the clock. “I only cook when I’m already hungry,” says the Norfolk, Virginia native. But when he’s home, his girlfriend is usually there to fix him something tasty, or he’s on the road touring, refueling at fast food joints. “I love McDonalds. Pull over—right there,” he says, pointing to an imaginary Golden Arches. In fact, before he arrived to piece together his three-part feast, he had a Double Quarter Pounder with Cheese, no pickles and a large fries. So much for cooking while hungry. “I’m still gonna eat it, though,” he insists of his proposed meal. “But I’ma go on a diet soon.” Really? “No.”
Fam-Lay, born Nate Johnson, exudes a signature deadpan swagger that hides a seemingly permanent grin. The 30-year-old Fam is both improvisational and innovative, and with his tricks and nuances, leaves his fingerprints all over the food dishes, for better or worse. Perhaps it’s this same mentality that left his would-be debut album in Def Jam purgatory—people simply weren’t ready for an original, dry-but-clever, self-deprecating rapper, even over Neptunes beats. Fam welcomes the uphill battle though, as he recorded a second debut album, Dat Missile, coming out later this year on Star Trak/Interscope, and is planning to put together an ambitious spread. There’s chicken stir-fry, Kool-Aid to wash it down and a few pieces of fried chicken…and that’s just because there was leftover meat. This will be new territory for Fam too, as he admits he’s never attempted stir-fry before. “I was going to make chicken wings and macaroni and cheese and pilaf,” he says. “I can do that real quick. Then I thought about this: Everybody can do that. What’s something that would be cool? Then my friend and his girl were like, ‘Stir-fry!’”
After giving the meat and vegetables a proper rinse through the sink, Fam-Lay dumps the bag of rice into a pot of water to cook while he prepares his cornucopia of ingredients. “This is Virginia style,” he says of the rice. “I’ma show you my twist in a minute.” Fam goes back to the cutting board, seasoning each chicken breast and slicing them into thin strips, dropping them into a pan of hot oil. As the chicken sizzles, he returns to the pot of rice, revealing his secret ingredient as sugar. “It tastes sweet,” he says. “You wouldn’t think it’s sugar though…it doesn’t taste like candy or nothing.” After unloading the sweetener, Fam chops up the vegetables and confesses his distaste for bell peppers, which comes from a time when he was forced to down humongous green blocks of the stuff in a plate of spaghetti his grandma prepared. “I’m only sticking them in here for color,” he says. “See, that’s what I’m all about. The look. You might have to plug your nose when you taste it, but it’ll look good.” The onion and pepper dicing takes a little longer than expected, leaving the rice and chicken unattended for a prolonged amount of time on the stove. Fam forks the chicken onto a nearby paper towel, takes a look at the rice and frowns. “I fucked it up,” he grieves. “Sorry, rice.” He deftly reintroduces everything—the rice, vegetables and chicken—into a pan and douses it all with a healthy splash of soy sauce until he realizes something. “Oh, I forgot this,” he mutters, hastily cutting up the broccoli into miniature trees, adding them to the already-cooking concoction.
The final product looks great—just like Fam promised—and he takes the inaugural bite. Fam’s eyes bug out and he clutches his chest, pretending to stiffen and keel over before returning to his reserved self. “It’s no Chin Chin, but it’s aiight,” Fam concedes, referring to the pricey Chinese restaurant on Manhattan’s East Side that serves fried rice with ten ingredients. He puts the stir-fry aside and begins to prep the fried chicken, placing flour into a freezer bag. “This is where it gets messy,” he says, spilling a bit on his black Billionaire Boys Club t-shirt. As the bird fries, he recalls the food of Norfolk, championing in particular his mother’s potato salad, Old Bay seasoning (“It makes everything better”) and his other personal favorites. “That’s all I eat, chicken and seafood,” he says. “Homemade, Popeye’s, whatever, bro. All of that. Love shrimp, love lobster, love scallops. Clams. But shrimp, lobster, scallops—that’s what I eat when I’m in Virginia. Chicken is my main dish.” His own chicken is both crispy and juicy, a resounding success. The Kool-Aid he mixes, however, is another story. “Not my best work,” Fam grimaces, putting the glass of sludge-like sugar water down for good. Not everything Fam-Lay made turned out perfectly, and while he claims making music is much easier than making food, the metaphor of his career is not lost on him. “When I was at Def Jam, it was like this rice,” he says, pointing at the pot of hardened mush. “This is Def Jam.” So what about the future? “Star Trak is…,” he pauses, slowly looking over his recent culinary achievements. “Star Trak is Chin Chin.”
