by Maya Angelou
She called her husband and told him what she had done, and she went to bed. When Bob came home, he removed the pot and opened it. The chicken was beautifully cooked.
From that time, I have cooked that dish following Decca’s recipe and served it once a month, both to my delight and to the pleasure of my guests. It is still called Decca’s Chicken, Drunkard Style.
Decca’s Chicken,
Drunkard Style
SERVES 6
First, drink 1 glass of wine.
1 chicken (about 3 pounds), cut into pieces
1 stalk celery, chopped
1 medium onion, chopped
1 carrot, peeled and chopped
2 cloves garlic, minced
½ cup water
2 teaspoons salt
½ bottle Chardonnay
Freshly ground black pepper, to taste
Preheat oven to 375°F.
Wash chicken. Put all ingredients into a large, heavy pot, and place in oven. Bake for 2 hours. Serve hot.
If you want thick gravy, remove chicken and vegetables from pot. Add 3 tablespoons cornstarch and ¾ cup water to hot broth. Put back into oven until thickened to desired consistency.
Bob’s Boston
Baked Beans
SERVES 6
2 cups dried Great Northern beans
¼ pound lean salt pork
1 medium onion, diced
1 teaspoon salt
½ cup light molasses
½ teaspoon dried mustard
1 tablespoon sugar
Pick over beans, discarding stones or debris. Rinse beans, then soak overnight in enough water to cover.
Next morning, drain beans. Fill large pot with water, and add beans, pork, onion, and salt. Boil covered until semitender, about 45 to 50 minutes. Watch carefully—water must be kept above beans in pot.
Preheat oven to 300°F.
Mix remaining ingredients with beans. Pour into a casserole dish. Bury pork in beans, leaving rind exposed. Cover. Bake for 4 hours.
SONOMA, CALIFORNIA, WAS A WORKING TOWN. Some camera-wielding tourists did visit on weekends, lured by the romance of the ancient Spanish missions and proximity of the local vineyards, but the town was so busy serving itself there was no time for it to become quaint, precious, or twee.
Cattle ranchers, vineyard workers, farmers, and shop owners used the streets and the parks as if they were extensions of their own homes. Teachers, professors, members of the religious community, and artists held proprietary feelings about the town. Aging hippies mixed with young malcontents; singers from the local chorale walked shoulder to shoulder with the rich local barons. During the golden seventies we moved from Berkeley to Sonoma. My husband and I had come to know the area by visiting our friends David Bouverie and M. F. K. Fisher, who lived there.
The town liked itself so much that it gave itself a party once a year. The summer fete was called the Ox-Roast. During the roast weekend, locals would crowd the town square, bringing their own victuals. (I don’t remember seeing anyone actually eating the ox that was cooked on a spit, which took ten strong men to turn.)
We moved to Sonoma during that annual celebration, and I phoned Mary Frances to learn if she planned to visit the public picnic. She told me she would not be coming that year.
Then I asked her to dinner in our new place. When I added that my husband would come and pick her up, she said she would be happy to come.
There was a chic cookery shop on the town square. The two men who owned the store, Gene and Dick, matched it perfectly.
They had an eastern vogue about them. They welcomed me warmly when I entered the shop. They’d heard that I was moving to Sonoma and they were happy to help me.
They supposed my pots and pans were still in boxes, and they had made a list of the best restaurants in town, which they were sure I would need. Most of my cookware was indeed still packed away, but I explained that I had invited someone for dinner that evening and that I would need to buy a few pots to use that night.
“You are cooking in pots you have not tried? Maybe your guests are not too keen on cuisine and they will never know.”
I said, “My guest is very keen on cuisine. Her name is M. F. K. Fisher.” “You mean …you don’t mean …Mary Frances Kennedy Fisher?” I said, “Yes.”
Dick looked at me as if I were Julia Child and had just flown in the door with saucepans for wings.
“You are going to cook for M. F. K. Fisher?” I said, “She has to eat also.”
“We’ve asked her to have dinner, but we’ve taken her to restaurants. We would never cook for her.”
Gene asked, “What do you plan to cook?” I said, “A cassoulet.”
They both laughed out loud. I defended my choice. “I know that fall is a great season for cassoulet, but after all it is a peasant dish—so any season is great if you like beans and meat.”
“Please let us know how Mary Frances enjoyed your dinner.” They wore wry smiles as we said good-bye.
I began preparing the cassoulet, and my husband opened enough boxes for me to set a good table.
When he brought Mary Frances back, we had a trio of good stories, laughter, and good wine.
Mary Frances was easy with the chaos of my new house.
She said, “All new houses are the same. They search around a few months for their true personalities. This is an amiable space. I think you’ll both be very happy here.” We had an aperitif then went to the table.
I told her that the owners of the cookery shop were shocked that I would cook for her.
She reminded me of what had happened to her in Hollywood. She said that in the 1930s and 1940s she had written scripts in Hollywood but her prowess as a cook had preceded her. The glamorous stars had invited her to their Beverly Hills and Bel Air mansions for drinks and canapés, cocktails and hors d’oeuvres. She said she could smell dinner as it was being cooked, but hosts were so intimidated by her reputation that after drinks they would have their chauffeurs take her back to the hotel.
She said she would have given anything for a home-cooked hamburger or a decent omelet made in the kitchen of a friend.
I served the cassoulet with good Sonoma bread.
She spent a few quiet seconds savoring each flavor, but she was such an adept social guest that the conversation never lagged nor did the food get cold.
We took dessert, a simple flan, out by the swimming pool. She was the perfect guest. She left at the proper time, not too early, nor too late.
My husband took her home. When he returned, he said, “She really enjoyed the evening.” I wasn’t all that sure. I thought the beans had been a little mushy.
One week later I received a thank-you note with a few comments on the state of the world. After her signature, there was a P.S.:
“Dear Maya, thank you. That was the first honest cassoulet I have eaten in years.”
Cassoulet
SERVES 8 TO 10
4 cups pea beans, washed and drained
2 quarts water
1 tablespoon salt
2 cloves garlic, mashed
2 carrots, peeled and quartered
2 medium onions, whole
Bouquet garni made of parsley, 4 cloves, bay leaf, and thyme (see p. 8)
½ cup salt pork, diced
2 tablespoons duck or goose drippings or olive oil
1½ pounds lean boneless pork, cubed
1 pound boneless lamb, cubed
2 small Bermuda onions, chopped
1 cup chopped green onions (white and green parts)
1 cup thinly sliced celery
1 cup tomato sauce or juice
1 cup dry white wine
1 garlic sausage or Polish sausage, sliced into ¼ inch pieces
1 roasted duck or roasted goose, removed from bones and cut into bite-size pieces
1 roasted chicken, removed from bones and cut into bite-size pieces
Combine beans, water, and salt in large kettle. Let stand overnight, or boil for 2 minutes
and let soak for 1 hour.
Add garlic, carrots, onions, bouquet garni, and salt pork, and bring to a boil. Simmer, covered, for 1 hour, skimming surface as needed.
Heat drippings in large skillet. Add pork and lamb, and brown on all sides over medium heat. Add to bean mixture.
In same skillet, sautê Bermuda onions, green onions, and celery until soft. Add tomato sauce and wine, and simmer for 5 minutes. Add to beans together with sausage. Simmer covered over low heat for 1 hour, or until beans and meats are tender. If necessary, add a little water to prevent scorching. Skim off excess fat. Discard bouquet garni.
Preheat oven to 350°F.
Transfer mixture to large casserole dish, and add pieces of duck and chicken. Bake covered for 30 minutes, stirring a couple times. Check occasionally for moisture; if necessary, add a little wine or water. Adjust seasoning. Serve hot.
THE HOST SAID WE WERE EATING braised beef and potatoes. We knew she had an inordinate amount of false modesty and that in fact she had served us an exquisite daube de boeuf with potatoes Annette. Her dessert almost knocked us back from the dining table. Like fried ice cream, it was oxymoronic. She ended her splendid dinner by serving a cold lemon mousse with a baked meringue topping. We were floored.
We were an eclectic assemblage who had developed, without planning, a habit of cooking for each other once a month. At the end of each incredible meal (each host tried to outdo the last), the next cook would volunteer.
Everyone knew that I should be the next host, but I hesitated. How does one follow Auguste Escoffier or M. F. K. Fisher? I rolled my trepidation into a pill and swallowed it. “Come to me next month, I’ll be ready.” My friends looked at me pityingly.
Once swallowed, the fear remained buried, and I tamped it further down with the knowledge that after all I was a good cook and I was in New York City where anything I thought I needed could be found. I toyed with duck galantine and sautéed veal with sherry and macadamia nuts. I considered a ten-boy lamb curry, placing ten relishes in my mind’s eye: grated coconut, golden raisins, Major Grey’s mango chutney, diced avocado, diced onion, tomatoes, fried onions, banana, cucumbers vinaigrette, and plain yogurt. Although no award of any kind was at stake, the competitive spirit among the circle of cooking friends was alive and kicking. I did not dare risk those dishes I’d thought of against the dinner we had just finished.
When the group came to my house, I fell back on my Arkansas upbringing. I gave them a black-eyed pea soup and southern fried chicken with homemade biscuits. For dessert I offered New Orleans pecan pie with a bourbon sauce. The food was a knockout, I had held on to my reputation as a peer among peers.
Bebe was a single parent who bragged in her heavy Uruguayan accent that she couldn’t cook and wouldn’t cook. She said she was raising her tall strapping teenage son, Bo, on dry cereal and milk in the morning, pizza and a salad for lunch, and the same thing for dinner. Her presence in our circle of writers who considered themselves to be gourmet cooks was inexplicable, but she did belong. She was a businesswoman and a writer who was very funny and interesting.
As we were having dessert, Bebe shocked us by saying, “Come to my apartment for dinner next month.” We almost choked on our pecan pie.
“No, no. We know you don’t know how to …”
“Really, I had planned to be in Bangkok that …”
“Oh, no, you shouldn’t have to do this.”
“Okay. We’ll come and eat pizza and salad.”
“I like a good pizza. A good pizza is a work of art…”
Bebe said, “No, we won’t eat pizza. I will cook.”
When the evening was over, everybody left laughing in their hands. Would we really be given take-out pizza for dinner and would she at least make the salad dressing at home?
Four weeks later, we met in the lobby of her building, still snickering.
“What do you think?”
“I brought my Tums.”
“I brought Alka-Seltzer for everybody.”
When we emerged from the elevator on her floor, the hall was redolent of mouthwatering aromas.
“At least somebody on her floor knows how to cook.” “Or maybe just someone in the building.”
We laughed as Bebe opened the door, but our laughter ended when we entered her apartment. As we followed her to the living room, we knew that the aromas emanated from her kitchen. We were stunned. Her son, Bo, brought out a tray of drinks with a filled ice bucket, tongs, olives, and slices of lemon. We were invited to make our own drinks as Bebe disappeared into the kitchen. We could find nothing to say, so we offered blank faces to each other as we helped ourselves to libation. Bo emerged from the kitchen again, with a larger tray, which held oversized cups. He said “Gazpacho, please take one.” The Spanish tomato soup was as cold as it should have been and rich with bite sizes of cucumber and finely chopped onion.
Many would-be cooks attempt to make gazpacho but conclude with horrific nonedible, nonpotable results. This one was as perfect a blend as any I had ever tasted. Bebe stayed in the kitchen as we chewed the crunchy vegetables and drank the beautifully flavored cold tomato soup.
Bo collected the empty cups and asked if we would sit to table. There were place cards. We knew Bebe hadn’t been brought up in a barn, but nothing about her prepared us for this sophistication. After we were seated, she stepped into the dining room and announced, “Dinner is served.” When she turned back into the kitchen, the smile on her face was sweet enough to rot teeth. She and Bo returned, placing on the table petit pois with pearl onions in a cream sauce, haricots verts in vinaigrette, and twice-baked potatoes and mushroom gravy. The piece de resistance was a beef Wellington.
We stood and applauded and she joined in the admiring laughter. Each of us knew the complexity of building a beef Wellington. How the duxelles must be prepared while the loin is in the oven. How the loin must be cooling as the short pastry rests in the refrigerator. How the pate must be at a spreadable consistency before the duxelles is patted in place. Bebe said she would love to tell us when we finished eating how a noncook had managed to bring off a four-star dinner.
We sat with small bowls of good commercial ice cream for dessert and she described her day. At 10 A.M., she telephoned The New York Times and asked to speak to food editor Craig Claiborne. She would not be pacified by his assistant. When Mr. Claiborne answered, Bebe accented her already heavy accent and, with her flair for dramatics, began to cry. “Mr. Claiborne, I am the wife of the Uruguay ambassador and I have invited eight couples of diplomats and two foreign vice presidents with their wives for dinner. This morning”—here a loud outburst of sobs—“my cook and his staff walked out in a huff. Oh my, Mr. Claiborne, I fear an international incident. I had the cook send out the menu, and I cannot possibly deliver.” According to Bebe, Craig Claiborne asked what the menu was.
She replied, “Gazpacho, beef Wellington, petit pois, twice-baked potatoes, and haricots verts.”
She told him she had all the ingredients and a grown daughter who could help her. He assured her that he would keep the telephone open all day and would walk her through each dish. All she had to do was follow his instructions to the letter.
According to her, he did keep the telephone open, and from the success of the dinner, she certainly followed his instructions.
As we left her apartment, she said, “I did this to prove to you unbearable egotists that cooking is no big thing. After we eat up all the leftovers, Bo and I will be back to pizza and salad. I’m not a cook and look what I was able to do.”
I think Bebe is a great cook. No one knew it then.
I believe one can be born a great cook, achieve the status of a great cook, or have the greatness of cooking thrust upon her.
Bebe is probably head chef at New York’s Four Seasons today.
Wherever she is, here are my recipes for beef Wellington, gazpacho, petit pois, twice-baked potatoes, and haricots verts.
Beef Wellington
SERVES 6 TO 8
Salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste
1 small onion, minced
2 stalks celery, minced
2 portobello mushrooms, minced
2 tablespoons (¼ stick) butter
1 sheet Puffed Pastry (recipe follows)
½ pound chicken liver páté
1 large egg
½ cup water
Preheat oven to 375°F.
Season tenderloin with salt and pepper, and roast for 45 minutes. Interior tenderloin temperature should be 135-145°F for medium. Remove from oven. Let cool. Reduce oven temperature to 325°F.
In large skillet, sautê onion, celery, mushrooms, and butter—this is called duxelles.
Take Puffed Pastry from refrigerator, and roll out on floured board. If pastry is too dry, add cold water sparingly. Sheet should measure 3 inches longer and 5 inches wider than roast. Place half the duxelles on pastry. Place roast on the duxelles mixture. Cover roast with pate. Put the remaining duxelles on tops and sides of the roast. Bring pastry dough up to cover sides, ends, and top of the roast.
Mix egg and water together. With cooking brush, spread egg wash on sides, ends, and top of pastry. Bake for 40 minutes.