H

T TE
M E A
H O O K
For charcuterie connoisseur Joshua Smith, pigging out is a good thing

by HANNAH SHEINBERG photos by HOLLY RIKE

CHEF JOSHUA SMITH
HAS A PRETTY FULL
PLATE THESE DAYS.
For starters, he operates his five-year-old
charcuterie hot spot in Waltham, Moody’s
Delicatessen and Provisions. He’s expanding his
restaurant adjacent to Moody’s, the Backroom,
by adding an oyster bar, and he’s opening a taco-
barbeque joint next door—a nod to his southern
heritage. In December, he introduced a second
Moody’s location in the heart of Back Bay, and by
the end of this year, he’s hoping to open an out-
post of the Backroom in Napa, California. Then
there’s his 10,000-square-foot meat-processing
plant, New England Charcuterie—which he
fondly refers to as the Death Star—that supplies
cured creations to restaurants across the city,
from Townsman to Area Four.
His influence is everywhere, but don’t mistake
Smith for a celebrity chef.
“I’ve said no to the Food Network more times
than anything. They’ve asked for Top Chef, Beat
Bobby Flay, Guy’s Grocery Games—I couldn’t care
fucking less,” Smith says. “I don’t want it to be
about me. I want it to be about my team.”
When it comes to his business and 90-plus
staff members, Smith says there are no small
parts. When someone calls in sick, he’ll step in to
deliver the platters of sandwiches or repair the
custom-made ovens.
“One day, I’m scrubbing toilets or taking out
the trash or whatever, and the next day I’m sitting
on the 55th floor of the Hancock Tower having a
meeting about raising $3 million to do the next
project. Nothing’s above or beneath me.”
Smith’s distaste of the Food Network is partic-
ularly ironic because family dinners—something
he tries to make it home for at least three nights
a week with his wife, Tracy, and 10-year-old son,
Tyler—are essentially an episode of Chopped.
During father-son grocery store runs, Tyler picks
out random ingredients that he finds interesting,
and Smith then attempts to create a cohesive
meal with their haul.
Just like dad, Tyler’s a big meat-eater—steak
or lamb are his top selections—and he’s also
no stranger to how the sausage gets made, so to
speak. “Tyler’s seen the farm where we raise our
pigs, he’s seen them slaughtered and he eats the
bacon that those pigs yielded. So he’s very famil-
iar with the food chain.”

T H E I M P R O P E R B O S T O N I A N 37
SMITH’S first forays into
the food industry took a much different path.
At age 15, he was sweeping the floors of a Mc-
Donald’s in his hometown of Charlotte, North
Carolina. He’d left home around that same
time after his parents divorced, living on his
own and working his way up the Golden Arches
ladder to the egg station.
Instead of finishing high school, he washed dish-
es at a local restaurant before earning a spot on the
prep line to cut chicken for tenders. “I identified
with all the cooks, and it was this camaraderie that
I just craved coming from a broken home,” Smith
says. After dinner service ended, he would nap in
the booths before meeting his friend, Crazy Steve,
who’d pay him $50 to clean the kitchen’s hoods and
stoves. Then he’d get ready for the morning shift.
At that time, any extra cash went toward Grateful
Dead concert tickets. “We’d go to these shows and
sell beers or grilled cheeses in the parking lot and
make a few bucks and buy some weed or whatever.”
(The Grateful Dead is Smith’s soundtrack of choice
for the Backroom’s Sunday brunch service.)
His first taste of charcuterie came at age 19
when he was working at Dean & Deluca in North
Carolina. “The butcher didn’t show up one day
because he drank a lot, and [the chef] told me to
go work in the butcher shop.” Even though he
had only ever worked with chicken breasts, Smith
immediately felt at home behind the gourmet meat
counter. “The general manager of the store was a
classic American butcher, so he showed me how

“EVERYWHERE I WENT, I TALKED ABOUT

CHARCUTERIE AND EVERY CHEF LAUGHED
AT ME BECAUSE THEY WERE LIKE, ‘THAT’S A
DYING ART, NOBODY DOES THAT ANYMORE.’ ”
Americans cut [their meat] and the French chef
showed me how the French cut for their cuisine,”
Smith says. “So I got a real OG lesson on how to set
a beautiful butcher case, and how to manage it.”
And then just like his favorite jam band, Smith
took his act across the country.
He hitchhiked his way to Seattle, ready to start
slicing meats for the masses. “Taking the Grey-
hound bus, catching a ride, meeting someone,
living on couches—I didn’t have anything; I had
only what I could carry on my back.”
When he got to Washington, he discovered
that charcuterie was old news. “Everywhere I
went, I talked about charcuterie and every chef
laughed at me because they were like, ‘That’s a
dying art, nobody does that anymore.’ ”
Smith didn’t care. He cooked for 1,200-
person banquets at the Four Seasons Olympic
Hotel, catered parties at Bill Gates’ house and
worked the cheese and charcuterie counter at
a Thriftway.
California came next, where Smith worked at
two local golf courses, whipping up more than
200 pastrami sandwiches a day. His take on the
Katz’s specialty? Instead of steaming the meat,
he fries it to render all the fat. He then worked as
chef de cuisine for a group of restaurants in the
Lake Tahoe area. That’s where he met his wife,
World Cup skier Tracy Jolles, and they eventually
moved to her home state of Massachusetts, where
Smith found work at the Four Seasons in Boston.

T H E I M P R O P E R B O S T O N I A N 39
IN November 2012, Smith finally got to
open his own deli dreamland, Moody’s, where
store Moody’s perishables in its fridges. The Back-
room mostly serves domestic wines, since there’s
and spicy ketchup, was created after the eatery’s
electrician, Gino, regularly ordered the combo.
salami and pork legs dangle from the rafters like an Italian restaurant down the street that already “When I started, I didn’t think Moody’s was go-
chandeliers and the butcher cases are stocked has a comprehensive European wine list. And every ing to be as big as it got. It was only supposed to be
with pate, premium cold cuts and spicy sausages. morning, Smith has a proper sit-down meal—a mix this small little deli where we made charcuterie in
But to Smith, Moody’s is about more than of eggs, smoked salmon, avocado, jalapeños and the the back and we sold it in the front,” Smith says.
just the meat, though there is plenty of that. It’s occasional dollop of caviar—with his “Breakfast “It totally took on a life of its own.”
about the neighborhood hangout spot that a deli
environment fosters.
“People are very habitual about their breakfast
and lunch. They get into their routine and that’s
“MY DAYS ARE SO SLAMMED THAT IT’S
what makes them comfortable and happy,” Smith
says. “For me, that’s so special. To have a place
NICE TO ESCAPE AND RETREAT INTO SOME
where you can see the same people over and over
again, and have an impact on your community.
ALTERNATE PLACE FOR A FEW HOURS.”
That was all I really ever wanted.”
When Smith gets his hair cut nearby on Moody Club,” a crew of local plumbers, electricians and So how does he cope with the craziness of run-
Street, he brings lunch to the salon. If the deli’s pow- landscapers that chat about last night’s game over ning his own burgeoning restaurant empire?
er goes out (thanks to the main street’s antiquated eggs. The Gino, a breakfast wrap on the menu that Cappuccinos help. As do Boulder and Brady,
power lines), the pub across the way has offered to consists of ham, scrambled eggs, American cheese Smith’s two golden retrievers who accompany him

40 I M P R O P E R . C O M
on delivery runs and have
a dog bed and toys at his
New England Charcuterie
office. And when he really
needs to get away from
work for a bit, he and a
fellow “geeky” co-worker
have a steak dinner, split a
bottle of wine and go catch
a superhero movie. “My
days are so slammed that it’s
nice to escape and retreat
into some alternate place
for a few hours,” says Smith,
who buys the movie tickets
a month ahead of time, usu-
ally for the Thursday night
advanced screenings.
Smith finds a lot of
comfort in planning
ahead. Before he seriously
sliced into the charcuterie
game, he had already
decided on his retirement
arrangements by the time
he turned 20. The plan
includes a lot of pigs,
unsurprisingly, and a place
in Chamonix, France,
where he can walk to the
charming town center to
share plates of prosciutto
with friends and shop for
small-batch groceries.
“I’d hang out with the
guy who makes the cheese,
and I’d be guy who makes
the meat, and then there’s
the guy who makes the
bread—just that real com-
munal love for food and
family. The town would
get together and everyone
would eat food together.”
Aside from the whole French chateau element,
Smith already has the trimmings of his lifelong
goal. He’s building his own version of a town center
right in Moody’s, constantly chatting with the lo-
cals who meander in for their morning coffee. The
restaurant’s chef and baker, Luke Fetbroth, is the
guy who makes the bread and some of the cheese
(as well as the chocolate-frosted and bacon-topped
doughnuts). The community comes together to
dine on simple, classic dishes that serve up a sense
of nostalgia, nestled between two slices of rye.
And most importantly, Joshua Smith is the
man who makes the meat. ◆