Maman's Homesick Pie

by Donia Bijan

  The proprietors took a risk and turned their kitchen over to me, even though they were already well known for the classic cuisine of their former chef. Their firm faith in me was an essential component to our success. There was no other way to reinvent this kitchen but to be bold and to work long, hard hours. My apartment was a fifteen-minute walk away, and I would often break into a run for the last few blocks, frustrated that my legs couldn’t get me there faster, always stopping for just a minute to gaze up at the hotel, still incredulous that its kitchen was mine.

  I was in the basement again and I loved every inch of that four-hundred-square-foot kitchen, with its flight of stairs that took you up to the gardens. Backed by a charged, muscular crew, I cooked the way my father practiced medicine—with joy, precision, heart, and soul. My sous-chef, a gifted pastry chef, was equally uncompromising. We fell in step from day one and cross-trained our staff, not allowing anyone to become too specialized. Dishwashers learned how to make everything from croissant dough to truffles. Like hummingbirds, we flew between stations. We all washed dishes, we all took the stove apart and scrubbed it. We never quit, and no one dared to call in sick unless they were in the hospital.

  Just weeks after I started, the Loma Prieta earthquake shook the soup bowls off the shelf. At five o’clock, I was making jam thumbprint cookies, expecting a party of fifty at six. Potatoes roasted in the oven, mushrooms simmered in red wine, and Ricardo, one of our prep cooks, was dipping candied orange peel in chocolate. I heard what sounded like the telephone, but it was the shrill of silver bowls rattling as they slid off the shelf. I yelled for someone to answer the phone—we had a three-ring rule—but everyone rushed past me out the door. The boy delivering our bread dropped the bag of rolls and dashed back out, and I looked down to see dinner rolls bouncing like Mexican beans. I still hadn’t figured out what was happening and I was annoyed with the bread man. I looked through the back door to find everyone, including the general manager, standing bewildered on the street.

  The Bay Bridge has collapsed! Until I heard that, I wasn’t convinced that our party wouldn’t show up. As we rushed to turn the gas off and calm our hotel guests, I thought about my cousin, Kimya, who had just recently moved to San Francisco and was staying with me until she found her own place. It was October and already dark; I hoped she would find the candles in the kitchen drawer. I thought of my parents, unable to reach me, and how worried they must be. Literally shaken out of their rooms, the guests gathered in the lobby. We opened the bar and made platters of food, as did most of the restaurants in the city that night. A few hours later, they told me my cousin was at the front desk. Somehow, in the dark chaos, she had found her way to me, her eyes wide as saucers. I made her a plate of cheese and crackers while I struggled to ice down everything in the walk-in refrigerator. Eventually we walked home, holding hands in the pitch black. On the busy intersection of Van Ness and Green, a man in a ball cap was directing traffic. Everyone was outside on the street with bottles of wine and stories: Where were you when it happened? I was at the Laundromat. I was walking my dog. I was washing dishes. We stopped to listen and offer our own account: I just moved here from Kansas City! By the time we reached my apartment, we weren’t surprised to see my neighbors—the human faces of my building, until now anonymous—perched on our front stoop, offering us a beer. That night, I learned their names.

  Over the next few days it seemed as if we were always searching for coffee. A café in the neighborhood had a generator, and we joined a line that looped around the block to take coffee to the hotel guests who were rushing to check out. Once we had power, Kimya sat in a trance, watching TV coverage of the damages. She made anxious calls home, and my mother urged us to come stay with them. Neither of us slept through the night, but we never considered leaving the city. It was a period I would look back on with wonder, because for the first time in years I was forced to slow down. It took an earthquake for me to eat dinner with my cousin, the same one who had consented to relentless hours of playing Barbie when she was seven and I was nine, the same one I had coerced into memorizing lines for our plays, the same one who pain stakingly glued together the plates and bowls that had slid off my shelves. As annoyed as I was for the disruption the earthquake had caused, it had offered a respite. Once we resumed our routines, she found an apartment, and I returned to the insular world of my kitchen.

  Finally given the freedom to develop my own style, I was able to draw from my Persian, French, and American pantry, coaxing partnerships and matchmaking, not for the sake of novelty, but because I couldn’t help being a sum of those cuisines. I refused to have specialties. I disdained the notion of cooking as art, or any reference to it as “my food.” And I couldn’t imagine a private life, one separate from my kitchen. I didn’t have a boyfriend. I didn’t shop. I didn’t go to parties. Happiest standing by my stove, I appreciated the recognition that came in due time, but I didn’t have the temperament for stardom, afraid it would take me away from my kitchen.

  At twenty-eight, I was oblivious to pop culture. When Bono and his family checked in one afternoon, one of the waiters bolted down to the kitchen to let me know. He was trembling in his tuxedo, beads of sweat gathered on his forehead. James played bass in a band; seeing Bono was like seeing Jesus walk through the front door of the hotel and ask for a room. He mistook my blank expression for shock, stammering:

  I-I-I know. Can you believe it? I-I-I’m speechless. Help me. Oh God!

  You mean Sonny Bono? Who cares? Pull yourself together, man.

  This was too much for him. He raced out to find someone to commiserate with, someone from 1990, not 1977. Later that afternoon, Bono’s wife stopped by the kitchen to ask if I could warm her baby’s bottle. Quiet and sweet, she stood by and waited while the bottle bobbed in a pot of simmering water. In the evening, James held their dinner order in a sweaty palm. While I cooked their dinner, he prepared their room-service tray, lovingly polishing the silver domes and cutlery that rattled in his hands. What a racket, I thought. How’s he going to carry that upstairs?

  You’re going to have to make two trips, James. Shall I come with you? He assured me he had everything under control. That look of rapture never left his face. I had no one to blame but myself when I heard the deafening crash a few minutes later. Down went the rack of lamb, the scallop and blood orange salad, the lemon tart, the bowl of raspberries. It was like a Marx Brothers movie, only humorless. The next morning, I called a friend: Who is this Bono? I asked, still pronouncing it like “no-no.” Ever heard of him?

  At home, my mother was doing her share of matchmaking, introducing new ingredients into her Persian dishes, adjusting temperaments and intensities, substituting cranberries for barberries in a classic saffron rice dish with slivered almonds and pistachios, roasting Halloween pumpkins for a veal shank stew. I tried to call her every day for a quick hello, and our conversations inevitably fell to the topics of food and men. Apparently, ancient aunts were calling her with names of suitable mates for me, interested parties, new crops of graduates, like freshly harvested fruit for Donia joon ’s inspection:

  Darling, your auntie Haleh called.

  Oh?

  Yes. She said Dr. so-and-so’s son is graduating from Stanford Medical School.

  Good for him!

  Do you remember him?

  You mean that short kid with the really high voice?

  Not so short anymore. And he’s looking for a wife.

  Wish him good luck for me, Mamani. I have to go now.

  Baby, remember Dr. so-and-so’s son, Shahin?

  The hairy one?

  He’s going to law school at Berkeley.

  So?

  Auntie Jamileh said he read about you in the paper. So?

  Do you want to meet him for coffee sometime? What for?

  What for, what for. To exchange recipes!

  Seriously, how boring.

  What makes you so interesting?

  Nothing.

  Then you’ll have so m
uch in common!

  So, did you ever try the pomegranate molasses? Don’t change the subject!

  Apparently the French boys’ assessment of me was proving true: no baker, no doctor, no lawyer was going to derail the old girl. I had only just begun. After four years at the helm of the Sherman House kitchen, I had received hearty accolades, and the desire to open a restaurant of my own increased. I couldn’t shake the idea of a sweet little French bistro—its wood-paneled interior, its chalkboard menu, its zinc bar, its starched white napkins, its sound spilling out onto the sidewalk every time someone opened the door—like the ones I used to gaze at so longingly on the streets of Paris.

  In the last few weeks of my tenure, the hotel proprietors invited my parents to dinner. My father’s health had been deteriorating—stress, fatigue, and disappointment had given way to disease. He had survived heart attacks and heart surgeries, but the final diagnosis of Parkinson’s sentenced him to the weary walls of his ravaged body. My mother had recently retired and was taking care of him full-time. Once again, faced with despair, she showed her absolute resolve.

  I was so proud that my parents would finally eat in the dining room where I had lovingly cooked thousands of meals for others, but never for them. I had lived and worked like a monk, deliberately leaving them out of my world in a feverish race to be really good at something, and when my mother finally pulled up to the curb where I stood waiting for them in the rain, I wept. When they saw me crying, they started to cry, too. The owner, rushing to greet them, stood by and let the three of us cry on the sidewalk in the rain.

  I wrote a menu that read like a love letter, with quotes and poems tucked within its lines, its pattern evocative of a Persian carpet, following a different sequence of flavors but telling a familiar story, like the carpets we had left behind depicting water, trees, birds, harvest, home, hope. This was a chance to show them the patchwork quilt I had made with the threads they had given me. I made sweetbread schnitzels with lemon and capers, braised endive with honey, wrapped duck with dates in tender cabbage leaves, quince sorbet, and rose petal ice cream, mindful of the portions so my father wouldn’t need a knife. My hands trembled like my father’s—they always did when I cooked for loved ones—and I didn’t want him trying to cradle a knife in his quivering fist. There were eleven courses. My mother sent a note with her plate after the sixth course was cleared: Bravo, my girl! Just like the notes she used to tuck in my lunch box and my apron pocket.

  Roast Duck Legs with Dates and Warm Lentil Salad

  This is a favorite fall dish, when pomegranates hang heavy like impossible red bulbs from skinny branches. As kids, we used to squeeze their leathery skin to crush the seeds to a pulp, then poke a hole with a fork, run outside to avoid dripping on the carpet, and tip our heads back to suck the juice. It was the ultimate juice box.

  I use dates for this dish—an homage to an old French dish, canard aux pruneaux, duck braised with prunes—for the generous flavor of molasses they lend to the sauce. I love to serve it with a lemony watercress salad tossed with just a few roasted, crushed pistachios to break the richness of the sauce and wake up your palate.

  Serves 6

  6 Muscovy duck legs

  Kosher salt and fresh-ground pepper

  1 medium yellow onion, diced

  1 carrot, diced

  1 stalk celery, diced

  2 whole cloves

  1 bay leaf

  1 tablespoon honey or pomegranate molasses if available

  3 sprigs thyme

  1½ cups pomegranate juice

  2 cups duck or any poultry stock

  4 tablespoons olive oil

  2 cups green French lentils

  1½ cups Medjool dates, pitted

  1 tablespoon red wine vinegar or pomegranate vinegar

  1. Trim the fat from the edges of the duck legs. Rinse and pat them dry. Season both sides with salt and pepper and refrigerate overnight.

  2. Preheat the oven to 325°F.

  3. Pat dry any excess moisture from the duck legs. In a large skillet over medium heat without oil, brown the duck legs, skin side down, until golden, about 8 to 10 minutes. As the duck browns, it will render fat. Turn the legs over and cook 3 or 4 minutes on the flesh side. Remove from the skillet and arrange them snugly, skin side up, in a roasting pan.

  4. Pour off the excess fat, keeping just 1 tablespoon in the skillet to sauté half the diced onions, carrots, and celery. Add 1 clove, the bay leaf, 1 tablespoon of honey, and 2 sprigs of thyme. When the vegetables are translucent, add the pomegranate juice and simmer 10 minutes. Add the stock and reduce for 10 minutes. Pour around the duck legs to a depth of about 1 inch. Cover well and place in the center of the oven for 1 hour.

  5. While the duck is braising, cook the lentils: Sauté the remaining onions, carrots, and celery in 2 tablespoons of olive oil over medium heat. As the vegetables soften and begin to turn golden, add the clove, salt, a sprig of thyme, the lentils, and about 3 cups of water or duck stock if you have extra. Bring to a gentle boil and reduce the heat to a simmer, cooking the lentils uncovered and adding water (or stock) just as the lentils absorb the liquid. Cook about ½ hour (if using brown lentils, they may cook more rapidly), until they are tender and coated with their liquid but not swimming in it. Taste for salt. Keep at room temperature.

  6. Remove the duck legs from the oven and turn them over. Tuck in the dates. Cover the roasting pan and return to the oven.

  7. After 30 minutes, turn the duck legs back over, skin side up, and increase the oven temperature to 400°F. Let cook, uncovered to brown the legs, for about 20 to 25 minutes.

  8. Remove the pan from the oven and let rest a few minutes. Gently arrange the duck legs and dates on a platter. Skim the fat from the cooking liquid and pour into a saucepan. If you’re short on sauce, add a little stock. Set the pan over medium heat, bring to a gentle boil, removing any foam that rises to the surface, and lower the heat to reduce the sauce until it coats the back of a spoon.

  9. Warm the lentils and stir in 2 tablespoons of olive oil and the red wine or pomegranate vinegar. To serve, spoon the lentils onto a platter as a bed for the duck legs with the dates perched in between. Dress each leg with 1 to 2 tablespoons of sauce.

  Rose Petal Ice Cream

  This ice cream, reminiscent of a scent more than a flavor, is what I imagine people who have fallen in love ought to eat. It is new and fresh, evocative and mysterious. It is not vanilla.

  Makes 2 quarts

  2 cups fresh garden rose petals

  8 egg yolks

  1 cup granulated sugar

  2 cups heavy cream

  2 cups milk

  1 tablespoon rose water

  1. Wash the rose petals and pat them dry between 2 towels.

  2. In a large stainless steel saucepan, immerse the petals in the milk and cream. Scald, then turn off the heat to let the petals steep in the hot milk. Strain the milk after 20 minutes. Discard the petals and return the milk to the saucepan. Over low heat, bring the milk just to a boil and turn off.

  3. Whisk the egg yolks with the sugar until the sugar dissolves and the mixture turns pale yellow. Pour about ¼ of the hot milk into the yolk mixture and whisk continuously while slowly adding the remaining milk. Return to the saucepan and cook over low heat, stirring continuously with a wooden spoon until it thickens and coats the back of a spoon.

  4. Strain through a fine mesh strainer into a bowl. Whisk 2 or 3 times to release the heat. Stir in the rose water. Chill the ice cream base in the refrigerator for 2 to 3 hours.

  5. Freeze the mixture in an ice cream machine, according to the manufacturer’s instructions.

  6. Serve in chilled glasses garnished with fresh rose petals, or scoop into a sugar cone and share with the one you love.

  Chapter 12

  LIKE EVERY CHEF, I held on to the dream of having my own place. Everything I had done was meant to prepare and train myself for achieving this goal. So clear was my vision of what this place would be, that I co
uld hear the sounds, the chatter, the calling of tickets. I could feel the warm bodies huddled around steaming bowls of coq au vin, mopping up the juices with torn bread, raising their glasses of red wine. I twitched with the longing to feed them, to gather them under my roof. I wanted to own, not just the china and silver, but also the scars, the praise, their appetites.

  When a neighbor found my father wandering one afternoon, she brought him home just as my mother had spiraled into panic, screaming his name throughout the neighborhood in her search to find him. Coming to terms with the astonishing rate of his memory loss, she swiftly decided to move to a gated complex. The funds from the sale of their home, plus vast contributions from my sister’s paychecks, went toward the lease and renovation of an eighteen-hundred-square-foot space that became my restaurant, L’Amie Donia. If ever you find yourself with the extraordinary good fortune of coveting a lifelong dream aligned with the fervent support of your family, know that it is an unparalleled gift.

  The intensity of kitchens past was a honeymoon compared to opening and operating a restaurant of your own. Every day tests your resolve and stamina. Every day you are thrown a dozen curveballs, which you’d better catch because there is no mercy if you happen to look the other way. My sister left her own kids at home to watch my back like a mama bear, keeping a vigilant eye on the front of the house, placating disgruntled guests who had waited too long for tables, buffering the tension that built up once the doors opened. Her firm hold allowed me to march forward with a battery of sous-chefs, one in particular who blasted Annie Lennox, the Pretenders, Sinéad O’Connor, and Madonna from speakers perched on the beams, sound tracks to propel our forward motion. Others sustained the motion with humor, wit, and creamy bowls of polenta. Our maître d’hôtel had spent her youth in France and knew instinctively how to keep my vision intact without compromise, orchestrating the dining room with impeccable savoir faire. And underneath this beautiful collaboration, we still shuddered with anxiety when the doors opened every night. Vitamins, coffee, service. Vitamins, coffee, service. Push-ups, coffee, service. A grease burn. Cold beer buried under ice—drink it or pour it on your wound. Clean up. Call orders for the next day. Go home. Get a Band-Aid. Collapse. Get up. Do it again. Do it again. Do it again.