The first course was to be served at seven fifteen. Not wanting the hollandaise to sit around getting stiff, we planned a most efficient itinerary: we'd load up the car at five thirty, arrive by six thirty, and be ready promptly at seven fifteen.
And our vehicle to greatness? Suze's rickety old red Datsun station wagon, a car so decrepit, so run down, so patched with authentic Toledo rust and punctuated with dents, that it was a wonder California renewed its registration every few years. The car was truly disgusting, not only on the outside, but also on the inside, with frayed fabric underfoot, tears in the seat upholstery, and debris in every available receptacle. Susan never had time to clean it, and we both drove Honda scooters to and from work. The only time we were in that old jalopy was to get to and from the fish market and various other purveyors. The interior emitted an unfortunate aroma that was the by-product of the coming together offish juice, herb scraps, and whatever else had dripped, fallen, or grown on the carpet.
But it was a reliable vehicle, and we had a great fondness for its character. We even loaned it to one of our best customers to move some plants. She decided to return it with a full tank, and while pumping the gas a thief grabbed her keys, punched her in the jaw, and made off with that trusty old Datsun. The police found the car and returned it later that day—I guess the thief couldn't take the smell. This made the car somehow even more loveable to us.
So there we were on a typically balmy Thursday afternoon in Los Angeles. We had the seared eggplant slices packed up in a couple of empty orange crates (hey, they came free with the produce), with paper towels between the layers, and we loaded the crates in the way back along with a couple of buckets of tomato concasse and grated Parmesan. The backseats had long since refused to fold down so we set the buckets of warm, silky hollandaise on the seats directly behind us. The buckets—originally holding dish soap—were covered with plastic wrap, and held in place by packing tape. But to be safe, we supported them with sundry other items, like bowls of utensils, rolled-up aprons, and so on. We would have strapped them in with seat belts, but those were long gone.
We were still shouting last-minute instructions to the skeleton crew who would be manning the stove as we got into the car and slammed the doors shut. As usual, Mary Sue—known for her speed behind the wheel—drove, even though it wasn't her car. We pulled away from the curb . . .
. . . and immediately had to stop.
Because we were in uncharted territory.
Rush hour.
We had heard of rush hour. And we knew that rush hour in Los Angeles was supposed to be among the more onerous on the planet. But rush hour is when chefs are just getting ready for the body of their workday to commence, so we are safely ensconced in our places of business. We suppose we had seen rush hour before, maybe through the windows of the restaurant. But rush hour cannot be fully appreciated until you are in a car, caught in the snarl, and have someplace to be.
Rush hour sucks. And to this day we do everything possible not to drive in L.A. between 3 and 7 p.m.
In search of less clogged roadways, we gradually snaked our way down to Sixth Street, bumping along the sloping, potholed streets of Los Angeles, the crates of eggplant bouncing up and down and the hollandaise lapping up against the sides of the bucket. Taking Sixth, we began our exodus east to Grand Avenue. With the time ticking away, Mary Sue began driving more aggressively, weaving in and out of the right-hand lane to pass the slower drivers, or those who simply didn't have to be at the Biltmore Hotel to serve a first course to 250 foodies in less than an hour.
So there we were, running our little automotive slalom course though the streets of Los Angeles, when all of a sudden some jerk runs a stop sign on an adjacent street, screeching out right in front of us.
Mary Sue slammed on the brakes and we came to an abrupt, lurching stop that threw us into the dash and caused the boxes of eggplant to smack against the seat backs, and the buckets of hollandaise to fall over on their sides. The liquid sloshed forcefully enough against the plastic wrap to dislodge it. We both instinctively threw an arm back from the front seat but not before we heard the unmistakable splash of 10 gallons of hot buttery emulsion being deposited in the disgusting, fish-scented foot wells behind us.
Some of the sauce seeped through the space between our seat backs and seats, catching us on the rear, and as the warm hollandaise soaked through to our butts, we looked at each other in horror: "Oh. My. God."
Susan peered over the headrest into the foot wells. "You're not going to believe this," she said, reaching down and grabbing one of the buckets, verifying that there was, in fact, just about 3 inches of sauce remaining. "You're really not going to believe this."
We pulled over to the curb, got out, and shifted into crisis mode. Quickly, we ran through the possible options: Go back to our place and remake the hollandaise? Well, that would have been a fine idea but not for two chefs who set off on their little adventure with a mere fifteen-minute contingency. Ask the hotel chef to help us out? Surely he'd have eggs, but did he keep gallons of extra clarified butter just laying around? Doubtful. More than likely he used that fake canned stuff, anyway.
We should add that this was in the prehistoric days before cell phones were prevalent, so we couldn't call out for reinforcements, or even get answers to our questions from the hotel's chef.
Maybe we could stretch the paltry amount of surviving hollandaise by adding even more cheese and cream to it? No, probably not a good idea: the yolks wouldn't set up when flashed under the broiler, and with too much cheese the sauce would certainly break and turn our elegant appetizer into a greasy mess.
"What are we going to do?"
There was only one answer. The moment that followed was akin to the one in desert-island tales, when the poor shipwrecked souls decide they have to turn to cannibalism, or perish. We looked down into the pools of hollandaise sitting in those foot wells, those disgusting, fish-juice-stained foot wells, and, without a word, we nodded to each other, solemnly acknowledging what must be done. Then we each took a bucket, got down on our knees, and with cupped hands began bailing the hollandaise from the car floor back into the buckets. Glancing up at each other we knew that we had both come to the same unspoken decision—that as long as we didn't actually touch the unspeakable floor of Lake Hollandaise, dislodging its bacteriological horrors, we could live with ourselves.
We have to add here that we'd never do such a thing today—heck, we'd never find ourselves in this predicament today—but twenty-plus years ago, for two gals who were just starting out, the moment was as hilarious as it was horrific, and it wasn't long before the two of us were shuddering with laughter at our predicament, thanks in part to the questions we'd ask each other:
Mary Sue: "You never let Stella (her dog) in the car, right Suze?"
Susan: "Is that black pepper . . . or dirt?"
Mary Sue: "You promise you won't tell anyone?"
As the amount in the buckets began to finally exceed the amount left slopping in the car, we gave each other status reports:
"How's it goin', Milliken?"
"Pretty good."
"How much do you have?"
"About a gallon and a half. But if I go much deeper I might hit carpet."
Hit carpet. Tee hee. We started laughing again at the very thought of the godforsaken floor.
And so it went.
We got the buckets as full as they were going to get, secured them extra well, and hopped back in the car. The rest of the journey was spent recalling Mary Sue's mom's strong convictions about food that had touched the floor being GOOD for you because ingesting a few foreign particles helped your body build it's immunities and people who were too germ-a-phobic had weak systems as a result.
"Right, Milliken, we're doing these diners a favor they won't even know about! Whatever you need to tell yourself is fine—but let's figure out how we're gonna explain our butter butts."
"I don't know about you, but I'm gonna wear two aprons, front and back,
and say it's a fashion statement."
When we arrived at the hotel at the corner of Fifth Street and Grand Avenue, it was just minutes before seven o'clock. An assistant manager was waiting for us at the entrance and when he sighted us, his brow relaxed and he picked up the house phone to call for reinforcements; within seconds, we were greeted by an army of cooks who descended on the car like vultures, flying all the food back to the kitchen.
We joined them and oversaw the assembly-line production. Before anyone could get a good look at the hollandaise, Susan cranked a ton of black pepper into each bucket to help camouflage any "extras" we might have picked up accidentally. We didn't dare make eye contact with each other, or we would have burst out laughing again.
At exactly seven fifteen, we served the dish. It was a big hit. We watched from the kitchen door as the diners, 250 of Los Angeles' most savvy food lovers, dug into the eggplant with gusto. Some of them even soaked up the last remnants of hollandaise with their dinner rolls.
After dessert, the chefs were introduced to the gathering and asked to talk about their dishes.
When we got up, Susan took the microphone and proceeded to tell everyone how honored we were to be there, at our first benefit event, and described our dish by its new name: "Seared Eggplant with Tomato Concasse and Black Pepper Hollandaise."
Like they say, necessity is the mother of invention.
A Chef in the Family
SARA MOULTON
A lifetime food enthusiast, Sara Moulton graduated from the University of Michigan in 1974, and from the Culinary Institute of America in 1977. She worked in restaurants for several years, including a postgraduate stage with a master chef in Chartres, France. In the early 1980s, Moulton worked at La Tulipe in New York and cofounded the New York Women's Culinary Alliance. In 1983, she worked as an instructor at Peter Rump's New York Cooking School, then took a job in the test kitchen at Gourmet magazine, which led to her becoming the magazine's executive chef, a position she holds to this day. In 1997, she became an on-air food correspondent for Good Morning America. Moulton has hosted two Food Network shows, Cooking Live and Sara's Secrets. Her first cookbook, Sara Moulton Cooks at Home, was published in 2002.
PUT SOMEONE IN a uniform and you confer upon her a sense of authority. Put her in a uniform and throw a little knowledge her way, and that person becomes downright un bearable. For proof of this axiom, you need look no further than your average, first-or second-year culinary student.
Chef-instructors warn kitchen aspirants against getting a big head. "Just because you have a degree, doesn't make you a chef," they tell you on the last day of school, their stern message lent an air of finality by their French and German accents. Culinary school instructors are fond of reminding their beaming graduates that "commencement" means "beginning" and that when they leave the hallowed halls of Academy X, their education is only just starting. Translation: "Get over yourselves, because you don't know nothin' yet."
None of that makes the slightest dent in the humongous egos of most culinary students. As far as they're concerned, they know it all. If you don't believe me, just ask one: she'll tell you herself.
I know this because I worked in restaurants for seven years and I had a chance to interview young cooks for jobs, many of the applicants right out of cooking school. To a person, they had an attitude, ready to tell their co-workers and bosses what they didn't know, and to share their own dish ideas with executive chefs who had been cooking professionally since before the young cooks were born.
Truth be told, I also know this because I myself was once guilty of this behavior, back in the mid-1970s, when I was a student at the Culinary Institute of America in Hyde Park, New York, the finest cooking school in the country by my, and most industry folks', estimation.
In the fall of 1976, I was in my second year at the Culinary Institute, which in their two-year program was my senior year. I was feeling very confident. I had attended an excellent private high school in New York City, graduated from the University of Michigan, and at twenty-three was older than many of the other students, who were right out of high school. Consequently, I was a better studier than most attendees, who were primarily interested in guzzling beer, and—let's be honest—getting laid as often as possible.
As my head swelled with knowledge, I became more and more insufferable, driving all who loved me screaming out of the kitchen. For instance, my then-boyfriend (and now-hus-band), Bill, was an accomplished home cook. When I was in college, I'd go over to his apartment and he'd be cooking calf's liver, or braising a brisket, or making a textbook-perfect omelet.
Bill hadn't been to cooking school—he had learned a lot from his mother, also a very good cook, and through his own self-discipline—and I was the beneficiary of his gifts, a very well-fed girlfriend, indeed.
After I started cooking school, though, I became such a backseat chef that Bill eventually stopped cooking. And who can blame him? Does anybody enjoy cooking a meal while the person for whom you're preparing it is standing there telling you: "You haven't heated the pan enough," or "You didn't pound that chicken breast thinly enough," or "You should have added more acid to that vinaigrette"?
By my second year, I was a force to be reckoned with, a culinary goddess of the highest order, capable of spreading knowledge and good taste wherever I went.
None moved more quickly out of my path than my own family. That fall, when Thanksgiving weekend rolled around, I climbed into my trusty yellow Volkswagen and made the three-plus- hour drive to my sister Anne's home in Providence, Rhode Island, where she lived in a brownstone with her husband, John.
Anne and I always had a healthy sibling rivalry. In many ways, I was the Snow White to her Rose Red. Two and a half years older than I was, dark haired and pretty, Anne always had some piece of good news when we were growing up, or a handsome new boyfriend to show off. And there I was, little sis, trying to steal attention and affection with smart-alecky comments, or flirting with her new beau. I have to admit, I was a pretty obnoxious younger sister.
Though we loved the heck out of each other, in those days the echoes of our childhood squabbles still reverberated when we got together, even in her grown-up home. Not surprisingly, that Thanksgiving I showed up ready to demonstrate to my family how skillfully we did things at the CIA—that's insider speak, I smugly informed them, for Culinary Institute of America. No sooner had I arrived than I had donned my chef's coat and white apron and gracelessly taken over the kitchen.
Anne's home was airy and open; the kitchen flowed right into the living room, where my family was drinking wine and catching up, some seated on the couch, some on the floor lounging on big throw pillows. I was situated only a few yards away, but they paid me no mind, uninterested in my fanatical, self-satisfied plans.
I really went to town that day. Even though my mother made a wonderful gravy, I decided to set them straight with mine, starting of course with a homemade stock that I prepared right there.
I made stuffing as well, and of course a turkey. I had never cooked a turkey before—most chefs probably don't "do turkey"—but I faked it, acting as though it, too, were something about which I had been professionally schooled.
With the stock made and the turkey roasting, it was time to turn my attention to mashed potatoes. Oh, I'm sorry. Did I say "mashed potatoes?" I meant to say "potato puree," the real name by which any serious gourmet would refer to them. How much I had grown at the CIA!
I took out my russet potatoes, and felt them in the palm of my hand, one at a time. Ah, I had chosen well. They each weighed almost exactly the same and were of similar length and circumference. Why is this important? you ask. Why, so they'll cook at the same rate, of course. If you'd been to cooking school, you'd know that, too.
After boiling the potatoes in their skins, I peeled them and transferred them to a dry pan and heated them over low heat, stirring to help evaporate any lingering moisture.
I had my milk warmed—just enough—on a low burner, and t
he butter set out at room temperature, cut into little cubes to facilitate its melting into the puree.
Then it was time to run the potatoes though a food mill. I rummaged through the cupboards, searching for one. But I couldn't find a mill, or even a ricer.
Out of options, I plugged in the food processor, dropped in the potatoes, and started the motor. Within seconds, the potatoes turned to glue as the starch rapidly overdeveloped. It was so thick and pasty that the machine actually stopped running.
"Oh, darn," I muttered.
Upon hearing this, Anne sprang up off of the couch with a wicked look in her eye.
Everything is fixable. That's my philosophy. Unless it's burnt, in which case you either lie and say it's smoked, or order out for pizza. But I learned that day that overprocessed potatoes cannot be saved.
I tried, though. As Anne approached, dancing into the kitchen with an excited step, I furiously attempted to cover the mistake, adding hot milk and butter to the jammed processor. But it had no effect. The potatoes, and the machine itself, were ruined.
Anne didn't mind. A broken food processor was a small price to pay for sweet revenge on her know-it-all little sister, the girl who used to flirt with her dates, and cackle at her every misfortune.
"Well, lookie, lookie here," she said with a big grin as she peered over my shoulder into the processor's bowl. "The master chef who can't even make mashed potatoes. Wonder what they'd say about that at the ol' C.I.A."
Don't Try This at Home Page 19