The Art of Eating In

by Cathy Erway

Hey—that was where I put basil, I thought.

  Then I read the kicker: “In Italy, sweet basil is called ‘kiss me Nicholas,’ ‘bacia-nicola.’”

  The moment I put the name together with who the message had come from, I let out a huge cackle. I continued to giggle, intermittently, throughout the day. At the same time, there was a deep feeling of discomfort growing inside. It wasn’t that I was ashamed of anything we’d done—there was no harm in it, as far as I was concerned. But whatever attraction I’d once had for Nick just seemed to have disintegrated, in a mere day. That wasn’t what was supposed to happen, right? Maybe it was all because of the basil.

  There were other things bothering me about Nick, too. Over the course of our conversation the night before, he’d mentioned that his parents recently struck it rich with a new business of theirs, and how embarrassed he’d felt about their success in front of his friends. He also glorified his job at the coffee shop as if it were the only humane place to work, making slight jabs at the cubicle nine-to-fivers. I could hardly care if he disapproved of my work environment, or his own family, but I felt a bemused reproach toward his more-proletarian-than-thou attitude.

  That Saturday, after politely but pointedly avoiding making plans with Nick during the week, I went out to celebrate my friend David’s birthday. We began the night early. By nine o’clock, we were all pretty tipsy and had each played at least one bad game of pool each. At that point half the party decided to break off and hit up the restaurant next door for a quick, late dinner. This, I’d learned, was one of the dangerous aspects of not eating out: When other people feel the need to eat, like, really stuff themselves with tons of food, I can’t participate in the obvious fun of overeating while drunk, unless it’s something I brought, or junk food from a convenience store.

  Luckily, both Matt and Jordan had also already eaten, and we stayed behind to drink and play pool. Jordan turned in a little while later, not feeling too well, so it was just Matt and me until the rest of the party returned.

  Of course I’d told him and the rest of my friends about my rendezvous with “the twenty-four-year-old,” as they referred to him. Everyone had been pretty amused by the tale. After a trip to the ladies’ room, I came back to find Matt waiting for a drink at the bar. I poked around in my pockets for extra cash and felt my cell phone instead. On impulse, I picked it up and rang Nick’s number. It rang. And rang. And rang. And went to his voice mail. I closed it without leaving a message. Matt had just turned around with his new drink to watch me put the phone back in my pocket.

  “Did you just call the twenty-four-year-old?” he asked.

  “I think so.”

  Matt threw his head back and laughed. “Why?”

  “I have no idea. I don’t even want to talk to him,” I said.

  “And you even put on makeup to make the call,” he said, pointing to the lipstick I’d smeared on a minute before in the bathroom.

  This was weird but true. Suddenly, I couldn’t stop laughing—about how worked up I’d gotten about “dating” again, how I was going to make it “perfect” with some sort of food. How basil had gotten the best of me, and how I truly didn’t know why on earth I’d just phoned the guy, for no reason at all.

  We gradually stopped laughing with a heavy sigh. Matt shook his head as we looked around the crowded bar. Its walls were lined with arcade games, and by that hour, ten thirty, it was teeming with Williamsburg regulars and the usual flock of guys who’d traveled from Manhattan in the hope of impressing girls with their arcane Pong skills. I was beginning to feel a bit claustrophobic, and I could tell Matt didn’t care for many of the characters who were surrounding us. A guy standing at the bar next to us kept glancing our way. Matt shot a wry look at him, and he walked away.

  The next day, and the day after, I’d receive calls and e-mails from Nick, asking to hang out again sometime. But after responding politely once, I let the communication wither away. I just wasn’t feeling it anymore. He took the hint and stopped calling shortly after.

  I realized that my great date meal plan had been a flop. But sitting at the bar, staring glumly at the crowd beside Matt, I couldn’t bring myself to care about date meals anymore.

  “Matt,” I said, “let’s have more cooking nights. Like Friends-giving—just friends. Just for fun.”

  “Sounds awesome,” he concurred.

  Soy-Sesame Filet Mignon with Sautéed Cabbage and Wasabi Mashed Potatoes

  This is one of those quick, simple, but luscious and inventive “perfect date meals” I had been dreaming up. Unfortunately, I never got to make it for any home-cooked date, though I have for myself and thoroughly enjoyed it. I think that the ease of preparation and the classic elements—steak, potatoes, and vegetables—makeit a good fit for cooking at home with someone special. Plus, a hint of hot wasabi powder never hurts to spice things up.

  (SERVES 2)

  2 beef tenderloin steaks (filet mignon)

  2-3 teaspoons soy sauce

  1-2 teaspoons Asian sesame oil

  2-3 medium red potatoes

  ¼ cup whole milk or half-and-half

  1 tablespoon butter

  ¼-½ teaspoon wasabi (Japanese horseradish) powder

  Salt to taste

  About 2 cups cabbage, shredded

  1/2 red bell pepper, finely sliced

  About 1 teaspoon fresh ginger, cut to matchstick-sized slivers

  2-3 tablespoons vegetable oil

  1 scallion, finely sliced

  1/4 teaspoon white pepper

  Marinate the steaks in the soy sauce and sesame oil, spreading the marinade evenly with your hands. Cover and chill while you prepare the rest of the ingredients (up to a few hours).

  Boil the potatoes until tender. Drain, and return to the pot. Add the milk, and mash with a large fork or potato masher. Add the butter, wasabi powder, and a couple of pinches of salt. Taste for seasoning, adding additional wasabi or salt as desired.

  Combine the cabbage, bell pepper, and fresh ginger in a bowl. Heat a large, heavy-bottomed skillet with the oil. Once pan is very hot, place the steaks in the skillet. Let cook a minute or two until nicely browned. Reduce heat to medium-low, and flip steaks. Cook another 2-4 minutes, until the other side is browned. When steaks are medium-rare, they should feel slightly firm to the touch. Continue cooking to desired doneness. Remove steaks and set aside. Immediately add the cabbage mixture to the pan and cook on medium-low, stirring frequently, for about 2-3 minutes. Season with salt and white pepper to taste. Serve alongside the mashed potatoes and steak.

  Fresh Basil Panna Cotta

  If you don’t have an ice-cream maker, you can always make individual custard cups of fresh basil panna cotta. The recipe’s name means “cooked cream,” and the recipe’s almost just as simple as that. Like the ice-cream version, it’s tried, tested, and true for inspiring a little romance (for better or for worse).

  (SERVES 4)

  1 packet unflavored gelatin

  2 tablespoons water

  1 bunch fresh basil leaves, rinsed well

  2 cups heavy cream (or substitute whole milk for up to ½ cup)

  1/3 cup sugar

  Dissolve gelatin in water and set aside. Reserve one or two large basil leaves for the garnish. Combine the cream, sugar, and the rest of the basil in a medium saucepan and bring just to a simmer. Remove from heat and cover to steep for 20 minutes. Strain the leaves from the cream mixture and stir in the gelatin. Divide equally among four ramekins, cover with plastic, and chill at least 4 hours or overnight to set. Roll up reserved basil leaves and slice thinly into chiffonades. Place a pinch of the chiffonades on each of the ramekins to garnish.

  CHAPTER 11

  Underground Eateries

  SUPPER CLUBS AND THE EXCLUSIVE SOS

  The first time I went to an underground supper club was back in January of that year, 2008. It was the Whisk and Ladle Supper Club, the Williamsburg-based operation run by four residents of a large loft apartment in a converted industrial
building. I’d heard about it from a casual friend and fellow food blogger, Amelia, who often cooked with the group. We’d run into each other a few times at various food-related events that year, and she urged me to come by sometime. At Whisk and Ladle, she explained, the bar area was open for drinks after the sit-down dinner was served. So I could drop by without sitting through (and paying for) dinner to check it out.

  When I arrived, around eleven o’clock, dinner service was still in full swing. The loft’s open kitchen was separated from a vast dining area by a wooden staircase that led to bedrooms overlooking the entire space. A few waist-high brass candleholders lit the lobby area, and a small side table held a placard with the night’s menu. Just before the kitchen, a rope-and-wooden-slat swing hung from the ceiling. About thirty guests were seated to the far left of the loft, at three or four long tables. The kitchen was full of cooks and their presumed friends scurrying about, plating dishes and bringing plates or glasses to the dining area. I spotted Amelia in the kitchen, wiping her brow with the back of her hand and squeezing some sort of plastic bag with the other. She walked over when I waved. Taking my hand, she immediately piped a spurt of pea green substance the texture of toothpaste onto my finger.

  “We made edamame paste,” she said. “Try!”

  I found myself licking creamed edamame off my hand before I could even say hello to anyone. Smooth, with a buttery richness that coated my tongue, it had the concentrated flavor of fresh edamame beans.

  “Wow!” I said.

  This state of awe pretty much remained with me throughout the night. After meeting a couple of the roommate-chefs, I settled at the living room area’s makeshift bar to let them get back to work. The bar was manned by Nick, one of the roommates and a professional bartender by trade. I was his first cocktail customer of the evening, and he was more than gracious about fixing me a drink. Written on a folded card set at the bar were the drink specials he’d come up with for the evening. After he briefly explained each of them, I chose a Bourbon-based drink with Japanese-twig tea and fresh lemon. A few moments later, he poured me a shot of roasted peanut-infused vodka that he’d been experimenting with lately. It tasted of peanut shells at a ballpark in liquid form, in a surprisingly good way. While I was sipping and chatting with Nick, Amelia came over and brought me a bowl of soup from the kitchen, apparently extra stock from the evening’s first course.

  “This is Danielle’s green-apple soup,” she said, referring to one of the resident-cooks I’d just met. Even though I had already eaten, I took a curious sip. Lukewarm, it was still good enough to finish. The thick soup was creamy and tangy at the same time, topped with julienned Granny Smith apples and shaved Parmesan.

  Eventually the diners, finished with their desserts, flowed into the room. Soon, everyone was drinking and chatting with one another. The cooks, finished with serving for the night, were lapping up leftovers with their hands and coated spatulas. Interestingly, the night’s main course had been bear meat, and there was a lot of buzzing around the room about how the new dish had turned out. The cooks had ordered the meat frozen from Exotic Meats USA, on a whim, and were cooking with it for the first time that night. I didn’t try any but heard that it was pretty tasty. I got to sample the dessert, as well as an extra serving of the salad, which was simply flat-leaf parsley sprigs with farmer’s cheese, dressed in a light vinaigrette. I think I took a turn on the rope swing toward the end of the night; I also managed to break one of their plates. Luckily, no one seemed to mind this at all, and overall, I had a terrific time at Whisk and Ladle meeting new people and tasting their food. I’d been a little unsure about arriving at the supper club all alone, but after that night, I knew there was something completely different about this type of experience from what I’d found at the normal bar, restaurant, or club.

  I’d heard whispers about secret supper clubs popping up sporadically in several cities, but before going to Whisk and Ladle, I didn’t really understand what they were. I’d heard of the Ghetto Gourmet, which started in San Francisco but had grown several offshoots in other cities, including New York. From descriptions of the club on its website, it sounded like a Bohemian gathering of friends serving humble, homemade food to diners sitting on cushions tossed about one big room. I didn’t know anyone personally involved in Ghetto Gourmet, and through their website I couldn’t tell if the New York City-based chapter was still in operation. Come to think of it, the GRUB dinners at the Rubulad warehouse might be described as a supper club.

  Unlike those dinners, however, Whisk and Ladle and the supper clubs I visited afterward operate on a much more formal level. To attend a dinner at Whisk and Ladle, for instance, one needed to hear about the club by word of mouth first. Then prospective dinner guests would sign up for the group’s e-mail list, and when a dinner was announced (roughly twice a month), guests had to RSVP for a seat by e-mail well in advance. If accepted, the diner would receive an e-mail with the secret address and directions to the dinner shortly before its scheduled date. Because Whisk and Ladle had become such a popular underground phenomenon in its two years of serving dinners, only about a quarter of hopeful diners who RSVP’d would score a seat. The menu was listed in each e-mail, usually consisting of five courses with wine and beer, and a cash cocktail bar would be open before and after the dinner. There was a set price, which was usually around $50, depending on the night’s delicacies. I’d heard rumors about some unorthodox reservation-taking habits—like members deleting a chunk of the RSVP e-mails at random, reading only the rest, or choosing certain reservations over others at their own discretion rather than on a first-come, first-served basis.

  Supper clubs, “underground restaurants,” or RSVP-only dinner parties for strangers in a home setting are a fairly new trend. But they’re a largely undefined trend, too. In the recent book Secret Suppers: Rogue Chefs and Underground Restaurants in Warehouses, Townhouses, Open Fields, and Everywhere in Between, Jenn Garbee wrote that there is a lot of variation among the numerous supper clubs that have cropped up in the last decade or so around the country, according to the ones she visited or investigated. She determined that there are no distinguishing rules, limitations, or factors behind supper clubs, except that they are not restaurants.

  My fascination with supper clubs was complete. I attended a full dinner at Whisk and Ladle later that spring and visited two other underground supper clubs in the city that I’d hunted down.

  The first one was held in a quaint two-bedroom apartment with a beautiful backyard, in my old neighborhood of Fort Greene, Brooklyn. Called Ted and Amy’s Supper Club, it was run by resident Kara and her friend Adam, a former chef. They’d named the club after Ted Allen and Amy Sedaris, their two favorite food idols, respectively, but the stars had no connection to the club.

  I had planned to go to the supper club with Amelia, but when she came down with a cold the day of and couldn’t make it, I called up Matt. When I arrived at Kara’s brownstone by bike, Matt was already hanging out with other guests in the backyard, with a glass of wine in hand. The supper club had sent out a reminder e-mail that day with a brief sentence about each of the dinner’s ten guests, which we had provided earlier that week. But I hadn’t had a chance to tell Kara and Adam about my last-minute date switch. I was relieved to see that they were so laid-back, though, welcoming Matt inside once he simply announced that he was my “alternate.”

  Unlike Whisk and Ladle’s closed-off cooking process, the guests at Ted and Amy’s Supper Club seemed to be pretty welcome to help out in the kitchen. At least, they were invited to help if they were willing. While watching Adam grill up some mango chicken sausages, I noticed he was having a difficult time flipping them on the grill without them tearing. I stepped over and offered to help, and together we quickly pried the sausages from the blazing grill before they became too burned. We concluded that they were sticking because of the extra sugars in the sausage from the mango, and because they were so lean. The grill needed to be oiled well beforehand. I was a little
cautious about overstepping my role, since Adam was after all a trained chef, but he seemed truly grateful for the extra hand. After the main course had been saved, we relaxed with a clink of our beer bottles.

  After a thoroughly enjoyable dinner of grilled sausage and vegetable skewers, grilled corn on the cob with the charred frays of husk protruding from the plate, savory black beans, and a yogurt and blackberry panna cotta dessert, I had made several lasting friends and even earned an invitation to come back and cook with the group. The ambiance of Ted and Amy’s dinner was less formal than that of Whisk and Ladle’s, and the number of guests was small enough that we could all engage in the same conversation.

  After I wrote a blog post about my supper at Ted and Amy‘s, I was invited to a dinner by another supper club, this one, called SocialEats, located on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. The eight-person dinner was a casual, modest affair, perhaps even more so than Ted and Amy’s, hosted by a husband-and-wife team who were lawyers by day but passionate about cooking at home. They also dined at the same table as the rest of the guests, as at Ted and Amy’s, and since roughly half of the eight people at the table already knew one another, it felt a little bit more like a traditional dinner party.