Beaten, Seared, and Sauced

by Jonathan Dixon

  In the rare moments when Nelly and I felt a little flush, we’d occasionally go out to eat, but more often we’d splurge on really good ingredients and do something for ourselves at home.

  Since being in school a lot of my friends and family would ask me to prepare dinner when we’d visit. I never said no. I loved bringing in my equipment, unpacking it, setting myself up, and cooking for all of us. There’s nothing like a restaurant kitchen, but watching people enjoy food I’d cooked never lost its thrill.

  I recalled years ago, when the notion of culinary school was barely germinating, being at a party in an acquaintance’s Brooklyn apartment. They’d hired caterers to do Indian food for the guests, and I found myself standing off to the side of the apartment’s kitchen for half an hour, nursing a beer, watching the caterers at work, and wishing I was working with them.

  And as I drove across the bridge, over the Hudson River, the realization was as much right there in front of me as the swollen moon and its light on the water: Those caterers weren’t conjured up from the ether. They go to people’s homes—all the time—and feed them.

  Most catered food is something consumed with weary resignation, to stave off pangs or act like a sponge for cocktails. But I remembered that Indian food being pretty good.

  And I asked myself, Does it really work like that? Can you really do something like that on your own terms?

  One voice answered, No.

  Another voice countered with, Why the hell not?

  I liked the second voice much better. Seriously—why the hell not? Now that I thought of it, I’d been at more than a few parties over the years like that one in Brooklyn. And I’d gotten pretty good at the stove. Sometimes when I’d make us dinner, Nelly paid me what I thought of as the ultimate compliment: “If I was served this in a restaurant, I’d be completely happy.”

  Right then I knew that this idea embodied the best of both worlds for me. It was exhilarating to think about. After I got home, I was up until very late at the dining room table, piles of my cookbooks around me, playing with ideas, planning sample menus. Planning the rest of my life.

  I MADE THE DRIVE to school one last time. Graduation began at 10:00 a.m. in the Student Rec Center, where I’d watched the Bocuse d’Or five months prior. From where all the students sat on a dais, I could see my parents and Nelly in their seats. It took about forty-five minutes, from the opening invocation to the moment when Tim Ryan called us each up to a podium where he draped a medal around our necks and shook our hands. At 10:45, he announced, “Consider yourselves graduated.”

  Later, I guided my parents and Nelly around Roth Hall, taking a last look at the kitchens. I said good-bye to Viverito. I said good-bye to Perillo. I said good-bye to my classmates.

  When there were no other places to revisit, no more people to say good-bye to, Nelly and I went to the parking lot and got into my truck. I couldn’t bring myself to start it. I turned around in my seat and looked out the back window. I sat once again staring at the buildings. Delivery trucks were pulling in and driving away. Students in uniform were walking to, or home from, their classes. I saw some students in their waitstaff uniforms walking toward Roth Hall. Three weeks from now, it would be their turn. Another minute passed.

  Nelly put a hand on my knee. “Let’s go home, honey,” she said.

  “Yeah.” I started the truck and drove out of the parking lot.

  After we all got back to the house and changed, Nelly, my parents, and I sat at the kitchen table.

  “So what do we do about dinner tonight? Is there a restaurant you’d like to go to and celebrate?” my mother asked.

  “Any place you want,” my father added.

  “Let’s go hit some of the farm stands, instead. Storey Farm in Catskill has great corn. Sauer Farm has been doing really nice okra. We can go to the market in Kingston and get some good, local meat. I was thinking, why don’t we do buttermilk chicken crusted with cornmeal, and some succotash, and a tarragon jus?”

  I thought my parents would really enjoy that—and, in the future, other people might too.