by Cathy Erway
Once everyone was done picking at their dishes, we all took them to the sink and got up to stretch a little. Dessert wouldn’t be served until later on, if anyone had the appetite for it then. Somehow, almost three hours had slipped by already, and since we began the dinner a little late, it was almost time for people to start getting back home. We opened another bottle of wine. As a precaution, I’d stocked my kitchen with a few extra bottles. I was glad I had, since we had just run out of the specially paired wines. We put on some livelier music and tried to get a dance party going, but nobody was into dancing much besides the four of us core supper-club members. Finally, at around midnight, I put out bowls of the amaretto ice cream that I’d made earlier that week, each one topped with caramel sauce and a crisp amaretti cookie that I’d baked that day. I ended up talking a bit with Morgan as we all stood around the kitchen, chatting about the dinner and wines and so forth. When I cornered Karol about how things were going with George, she just shrugged.
“We’re just friends, that’s all,” she explained. “There was never going to be any hope of anything else.”
“I see,” I said. I hadn’t realized that this was in fact the case all along, but it made sense. Karol wouldn’t have wanted to invite someone she wasn’t comfortable with. George was nice, but they did truly seem to be on a platonic wavelength the entire night.
George was the first guest to take off for the night, explaining that he had to work early the next morning. Kara and Thaddeus were next to go, an hour or so later. We were listening to a dance-mix CD that Lauren and François had brought along as a gift. It was a pretty good mix, and we ended up staying up late listening to it as we chatted. Lauren and François also brought rubber bouncy balls to the party, for some reason, and we all enjoyed a run at popping them around the room.
“I’m way too full to dance,” Lauren said, shaking her head when Matt tried to take her hand. “I think I might throw up if I tried to.”
“So what does SOS stand for, anyway?” François asked at one point. It was the question we were all dreading earlier on, when it was just the four core members in my apartment. But no one had prepared a good answer for it then.
“Something-or-Other Supper Club,” I quickly filled in.
“Really? That’s all,” he said.
“Yeah, whatever. We just wanted to have some friends over; you know, it’s a supper club,” Matt said. Thankfully, the topic was quickly dropped. Also, around then I remembered to put a bowl out for contributions. In all, I had spent somewhere near $200 on ingredients for the meal. I couldn’t keep track of it all, actually. I’d gone so far as to purchase ingredients I didn’t end up using—white truffle oil I thought might be nice for the goat cheese crostinis, a whole tin of caviar, only half of which was used. A whole bottle of nice, expensive amaretto liqueur to spike the ice cream with, instead of a generic, imitation-flavor brand. That, plus the wines we owed Morgan for, amounted to a loss for the four of us of $20 to $30 each. It wasn’t so bad, compared to throwing a regular dinner party without asking for contributions. But I realized how grossly I’d underestimated the cost of the night.
Morgan was the last guest to go who wasn’t a core supper-club member, at around three in the morning. Just before he left, I remembered that I needed to pay him back for all the wines. We stepped into my bedroom for a minute while I found my checkbook.
“Is that enough? Are you sure?” I said, after handing him the check.
“Yeah, that’s perfect,” he said. “Thanks.”
“Well, thanks for bringing it, and for coming,” I said.
“No problem.”
We were silent for a second. I was holding a pen that had taken me a few minutes to find. For a moment, because I had been so used to holding a thin wineglass stem, I almost forgot what it was and started to bring it to my mouth. But I stopped myself just in time.
I had to give Morgan some credit for sticking around the longest of all the invited guests. But there was something desperately unanswered in our rapport. He had his jacket in hand, ready to leave, and there was a strangely vapid, phony smile on his face right then, as if to say, “Okey-doke.”
I wanted to ask him, in that brief pause, just what exactly was going on. What was he doing here? Why was he standing in my bedroom, exchanging checks for wines that he’d offered to bring—and why did he contact me in the first place? We barely knew each other. What was the meaning of this?
“Well, good night,” he said.
“Yep.”
I walked him to the door. We said good night once again at the door, and nothing else.
I closed it shut and turned to the threesome of Jordan, Karol, and Matt.
“You know what?” I said, after giving the door a good tug. “Who cares?”
“Turn that stereo up this minute!” Matt yelled. I gladly obliged.
“He’s really not that cool,” Jordan told me seriously. “You’re so much better than him.”
Karol was sprawled out on the couch but nodded without pause.
I realized then that in my eagerness to cook up the best, swoon-worthy meal, I let myself dismiss the goal of finding just the right person to swoon over.
We stayed up until well past four in the morning, dancing, drinking the last bottle of wine, but mostly talking about why the four of us, creative, fairly attractive, and fun-loving twentysomethings, couldn’t seem to find a decent date in this big city of ours. For the first time that night (perhaps for the first time in the past few weeks since SOS planning got under way), I felt completely relaxed. We poured ourselves small glasses of the amaretto liqueur I’d used for the ice cream. We scraped up the last remaining scoops of ice cream from the carton in the freezer, and I single-handedly polished off the so-so amaretti cookies that were left behind. We got too tired from dancing and drinking to stand and found ourselves sprawled out on our backs on the hardwood floor.
“You made such good food,” Jordan mumbled.
“Yeah, too much, though. I think I’d throw up if I tried to sleep with anyone tonight,” Matt said.
“Do you want us to help with the dishes?” Karol asked, glancing at the stacks of plates on the counter and in the sink.
“Nah. It can wait until tomorrow.”
I didn’t want to think about doing the dishes, or about throwing another supper club ever again. Not right then. Yet, despite all the work and mess it produced, and it being an utter failure in terms of inducing romance, SOS was still probably the most fun I’d had all year. SOS, indeed, I thought. Sorry Old Suckers for romance.
“You know what a better name for this night might have been?” I said, looking up at the plastered ceiling. My friends grunted in response.
“Appetite for Destruction.”
Asparagus, Avocado, and Watercress Salad
I’ve made this salad with many types of vegetables when asparagus isn’t in season, like broccoli, and sometimes swap in sautéed portobello strips instead of the avocado. The crisp, blanched asparagus contrasts in texture with the rest and makes for a light, refreshing salad.
(SERVES 4-6)
1 bunch (about 10 thin stalks) fresh asparagus, tough ends trimmed and discarded, and chopped to 1-inch pieces on a diagonal
1 avocado, cubed
1 bunch watercress, roughly chopped
1 scallion, thinly sliced on a diagonal
1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice
1-2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
Salt and pepper to taste
Bring a wide, shallow pan of water to a boil. Set up an ice bath in a large bowl. Place asparagus in boiling water and cook for about 2 minutes. Remove asparagus with tongs and immediately transfer to ice bath. Let cool about 1 minute; then drain and pat dry.
Toss the rest of the ingredients with the asparagus in a large bowl. Can be covered and chilled up to 2 hours before serving.
Pomegranate-Braised Beef Cheeks with Butternut Squash Puree
(SERVES 4-6)
5 pounds beef c
heeks, trimmed of excess fat and cut to equal-sized pieces (depending on how many you’re serving)
Salt and pepper
½ cup flour
2-4 tablespoons vegetable oil
1 medium onion, chopped
1 carrot, chopped
1 celery stalk, chopped
2 cups Chianti or other dry red wine
2 cups pomegranate juice
1 large butternut squash
1 tablespoon butter
1/2 cup heavy cream
Fresh pomegranate seeds for garnish
Pat beef cheek pieces dry. Season with salt and pepper on all sides and dredge in a light coating of flour. Heat the oil in a large, oven-safe pot or Dutch oven over high heat until oil begins to pop. Shake off excess flour and place beef cheeks in a single layer on the bottom of the pot (working in batches if necessary). Brown on each side until lightly golden. Remove beef cheeks with tongs and set aside in a bowl.
Preheat oven to 325 degrees. Add the onion, carrot, and celery to the pan (adding additional oil if bottom is very dry), and sweat over low heat until softened, about 6 minutes. Season with salt and pepper and scrape up any browned bits from the bottom of the pot. Return the beef cheeks to the pot, and add the wine and 1 cup of the pomegranate juice. Bring just to a boil, stirring. Cover, and transfer to the oven to braise for 3-4 hours.
Meanwhile, slice the squash in half lengthwise and scoop out the seeds. Generously oil a baking tray and place squash halves cut side down. Roast for about 1 hour while the beef cheeks are braising, or until the tops are soft to the touch and the flesh underneath is tender through. Let cool, and scrape out the flesh from the skins with a spoon. Transfer to a saucepan and add the butter, cream, and a couple of pinches of salt while stirring over medium heat. Using a hand blender, process until smooth.
Return the pot with the beef cheeks to the stove. Transfer beef to a separate dish carefully with a slotted spoon. Add the remaining cup of pomegranate juice and reduce sauce to about half, depending on how much liquid there is to begin with. Arrange beef cheeks on a plate with a scoop of the squash puree, and top with a ladle or two of the sauce. Garnish with fresh pomegranate seeds.
CHAPTER 12
Hanging Over in New York
THE MEXICAN MENUDO INCIDENT
At work one day, my coworkers and I somehow got on the subject of tripe. We were gathered in the narrow aisle that connected our six cubicles, chatting because, as had been common over the past few months, the server that enabled us to do virtually any work was down. It was a recurring technical problem, one that no doubt drove the company mad, but for us, it was a pleasant little break in the day. We’d come to expect it at least once a week.
We’d pushed our chairs to the farthest edges of our cubicles so we could sit and talk in the aisle. Across from me sat Keith, the kitchen and electrics copywriter. To my right was Mike D., a menswear copywriter, and across from him was Melissa, a freelance copywriter who came in about twice a week. Mike M., the furniture copywriter, was across from me to my left, and in the cubicle left of me was Josh, a Web technician who really had nothing to do with our creative department. He spent most of his time on long-distance conference calls, trying to find ways to reprogram the server that was constantly crashing. (Our boss, Lauren, once referred to Josh as the “Chandler” of our little section, because for a long time she had no idea what he did all day.) That day, Keith brought into the office a box of dried cricket snacks, a free sample someone had given him on the street to promote something or other, and Josh, Melissa, and I had bonded over being the only ones brave enough to try them. Everyone else in our aisle had been horrified by the sight of the dried, spindly creatures. But they all stared in awe as first Josh, then I gamely popped one in our mouths. It took Melissa about five minutes to work up the courage, egged on by the others, but she eventually put one in her mouth with her eyes shut and quickly swallowed.
Maybe that’s how we got on the subject of tripe. In any case, Mike D. spoke up:
“Yeah, my wife’s grandmother sometimes makes menudo, and I can never get myself to eat the tripe in it.”
“What’s menudo?” I asked.
“It’s like, this Mexican stew. It’s supposed to be good for hangovers,” Mike D. answered.
“Let’s look it up,” Keith said, and promptly pulled up a Wikipedia entry for menudo. A spicy, chili-based soup, essentially of beef tripe and occasionally hominy, it said.
“It does say it’s supposed to be good for hangovers,” Keith observed, scrolling down.
“My wife and I always pick out the hominy and eat it all instead of the tripe. I just can’t stand the texture ... it’s so gristly and weird.”
Melissa made a face. “I’ve never had it before.”
“I don’t think I could eat tripe, either,” said Keith.
“Sara’s grandmother always makes it with much more hominy these days than tripe,” said Mike D. Our conversation was interrupted when he had to take a phone call.
A few minutes later, I sent an instant message to Mike D.
“Does the tripe in it look like this?” I copied and pasted a link to a photo of whitish, prickly-surfaced rumen tripe in a bowl with a thin, clear sauce.
“No,” he typed. “That actually looks more appetizing than the kind she makes it with.”
I brought up another image of braised honeycomb tripe with turnips, another Chinese dim sum specialty. The honeycomb tripe had much larger welts on its surface, hence its namesake, and a floppier, softer texture.
“Yeah, that’s what it looks like,” he wrote back.
I asked Mike if he might be able to get his grandmother-in-law’s recipe for me so that I could make it myself. I joked that I’d have to plan on getting really wasted the night before and then try it out.
“Sure,” he wrote. “But I can’t vouch for its healing powers since I never eat the actual tripe.”
By the end of the day, he’d sent me a Word document with the simple recipe, passed on from his wife. (On days when the server was down for hours, things moved very slowly.)
“Sara’s Super-Secret Menudo,” the recipe was titled. I looked it over. It seemed awfully easy to prepare. I printed it out and began thinking of how and to whom I was going to serve up this rare treat.
I would throw a brunch, of course. And I’d invite a few gung-ho friends to spend the night before getting soused with.
My friend Aaron immediately came to mind as someone to bring into this experiment. Aaron and I had gone to college together, and over a semester in Europe we had both seen what the other was capable of eating—which was pretty limitless. We had also traveled to Thailand with two other friends, on a separate trip after graduation. On the streets of Bangkok, Aaron had eaten a scorpion from a vendor. Its spiky exoskeleton looked like it had been baked (or simply dried, perhaps?) to a polished mahogany, and just before handing it over to him, the girl attending the cart sprayed it with some kind of sauce from a plastic spray bottle. As Aaron held the scorpion to his mouth, a few other Westerners passing by stopped to gawk at him and got to witness the earth-shattering crunch when he popped it into his mouth whole and bit down.
“Oh, my god!” a girl had shrieked in a British accent. As if hypnotized, the bystanders stood there a minute longer, twisting their faces in horror as Aaron chewed noisily.
“Tastes like burned chicken,” he declared.
By now Aaron was married; he had met his wife, Mai, during the two years he spent teaching English in Japan. Jordan and I had gone to Cincinnati for their casual weekend-long wedding about a year ago. Now he and Mai were living in New York, but we rarely found the time to hang out due to our different schedules; Aaron was in his first year of law school. We still found time to catch up on the phone and by e-mail, though, and I fired off a rambling e-mail to him explaining my menudo mission.
Aaron replied immediately with enthusiasm.
“That is perhaps the greatest idea I have heard in a long time,” he wrote. �
��I am totally intrigued by this ancient Mexican hangover cure. We should get completely wasted, and I’m thinking maybe a sleepover should be in store, just so it won’t be so much trouble for us to get to someone else’s place the next day.”
He even went so far as to say that he and Mai were experts at bunking on people’s floors. I wasn’t sure this was necessary but was excited that my idea had garnered solid interest. I requested Jordan’s attendance next. It was no surprise to me, after the time we’d spent together in Morocco eating local delicacies that included sheep’s brain, that she was game.
A couple of weeks flew by, and then Aaron told me he and Mai were planning to celebrate Mai’s birthday at their place on a Saturday. He suggested that we make this our designated “get wasted” night and have brunch the following day at my apartment. Aaron said it was the perfect occasion since chances were good we would all be getting trashed together anyway. We agreed.