True Prep

by Lisa Birnbach

  Yes, they’re nodding gravely, all up and down the East Coast: Life isn’t fair. How could this have happened to JB? You are actually heading up the river to the slammer, where you will live in confinement in the clink. Good-bye, yacht club; hello, rack. Good-bye, trading floor; hello, pokey.

  Is there consolation in the knowledge that other Wharton men have landed in the brig, too? Not to mention a couple of women from Wheaton? While you consider your plight from your Cadillac (big-house slang for inmate bed or bunk), you need to come up with an alibi to use when people ask you where you’ve been the last few years. (Happily, by the time they see you, some will have forgotten you were doing time. And you will look much better and much more toned after your stint in the pound.)

  • You’ve been exploring the Amazon. Sure, it’s possible. Of course, you might have come home for Cassie’s graduation from Francis Parker School, but it was hard to get home from South America. And very poor cell service. (The Amazon alibi might explain the crude-looking tattoo you now have on your shoulder. It will require an effort, but don’t say, “It’s from my jointman,” meaning an inmate who behaves like a guard; say, “It’s from my shaman.” Practice.)

  • You entered a religious retreat. Hmm. Weird. Perhaps you could link it to a midlife crisis, for more believability. And instead of mentioning your sweet kid—an inmate who allies with an older, more experienced inmate, possibly for protection or knowledge—you could discuss your spiritual mentor, who aided you in your transition to monastic life.

  • You joined a not-for-profit think tank in Eastern Europe. (Wasn’t that Dash’s cover?)

  • You decided—without telling anyone in advance—to go to law school. This doesn’t work if you are already a lawyer, but lots of jailbirds end up getting law degrees by correspondence course. And you can, too! And if you are well behaved, you might get a pardon or commutation of your sentence, or “a lifeboat,” as it’s called in the stir.

  When our own David Duchovny (Collegiate School, Princeton BA, Yale MA) portrayed a man with very bad habits on his cable TV program, no one thought that he was performing in a reality show. But when he announced that he was a sex addict and going to rehab for it, we felt just terrible. We felt terrible for his wife, Téa Leoni (née Elizabeth Téa Pantaleoni—Brearley, Putney [x], Sarah Lawrence [x]), and we felt dreadful for their children, but we weren’t sure we understood exactly what this newish syndrome was. Is it a real disease? Some define it as kind of compulsivity. Some call it an “excessive drive.”

  The latest edition of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Psychiatric Disorders (DSM), which our doctors keep on a shelf in their offices, puts sex addiction under this category: “Sexual disorders Not Otherwise Specified.” The text goes on to describe it as “distress about a pattern of repeated sexual relationships involving a succession of lovers who are experienced by the individual only as things to be used.” Like it or not, Duchovny is not our only sex addict. You’ve heard of Eliot Spitzer, the new guy at CNN.

  Central Command wonders at the sudden spread of this malady. One day it’s just Michael Douglas (Allen Stevenson School, Choate, UCSB), and then a decade later, the clinics are flooded. It’s like an X-rated peanut allergy.

  Because a good-looking preppy fellow can be persuasive when he wants to be, young women must be prepared for the charm offensive that can be irresistible. Behind those aviators and that bright smile could lurk a womanizer. Yesterday’s wolf has become today’s predator; or has he? We will keep you posted.

  It might surprise you to learn that there are quite a few preppy women who, despite having never taken a class in economics or computer science, have figured out a way to hack into their husbands’ financial accounts, e-mails, and cell phones.

  Sometimes this investigative work takes place tremblingly alone late at night while their husbands are out of town. (It could just as easily take place tremblingly during the light of day. These wives do not work.) Sometimes a group of them get together and share their techniques and secrets along with cocktails and cigarettes. These sessions resemble their halcyon days at boarding school, when they learned how to blow smoke out the bathroom windows. They are most always first wives for whom the red flag of doubt has been raised.

  They proudly admit they discovered discrepancies this way but are resolute in not sharing their methodology. There’s always a chance that their second husbands are reading this book.

  Mummy, what are you looking at? Why do you always look so surprised?

  Oh.

  Face-lifts were once the property of Hollywood and those whose appearances were crucial to their livelihoods. Now every woman over the age of thirty-five (outside of Las Vegas, Miami, Los Angeles, and Brazil, where they start much younger) has to confront her softening skin, her drooping parts, and consider seeing the doctor. Even preppies are not immune.

  Dr. Alan Matarasso, a highly regarded plastic surgeon on Park Avenue, has a practice filled with an eclectic constituency, “one day a senator, the next a schoolteacher.” He has seen enough preppies to draw several conclusions.

  “From the first consult to when we remove the sutures, these women are more understated, in the way they dress, in the way they behave with us, and in what they do. Everything is on a different scale; they’ll do one step less.” He has many patients whose pictures adorn the society pages, who start at the same age as non-preppies, “late thirties, early forties. They stare at themselves at the hairdresser and say, ‘That’s not me.’ Then they go back to the hairdresser, look in the mirror, and say, ‘That’s not me.’ The third time, they say, ‘That’s me,’ and then they make an appointment for a consult.” Botox injections and fillers like Restylane are usually the first step.

  Matarasso’s preppies are far less voluble than his non-preppies. They are not sharers. They don’t chat about what their friends had done, or what their husbands think of their necks. “They come alone. They might say, ‘You operated on my friend, but don’t tell her I was here.’ They are less open. They ask fewer questions. They suck up the drugs and don’t complain to your face.”

  Surgically, they have certain genetic advantages over the general population. “They’re thin. These are women who jog six miles every day, have a carrot and a glass of water for lunch,” the doctor explains. “They’re not here for liposuction.” Also, this is not the crowd looking for nose jobs.

  Although some of the name-brand surgeons in Manhattan live in the same social milieu as their patients, they can experience a professional backlash, since their patients don’t necessarily want to go out and see “the man who cut open their faces. And even Dr. Michael Hogan, famous for performing one of Jackie Kennedy’s face-lifts, said, ‘They often treat you like you’re the help.’ ”

  Finally, it is less likely that Mummy will go overboard and have the plumped lips and breasts of the ladies across town. She still wants to look like Audrey Hepburn, after all.

  Give us an E for effort, won’t you? We used to consider Velveeta its own food group. Now we are all little foodies-in-training. Edwina spent a postgraduate year in Tokyo and now considers wasabi the world’s most important condiment. Corby took a cooking course when he was separated, and he and his girlfriend talk endlessly (read: boringly) about “fusion this” and “fusion that.” Blue is “into” artisanal teas, Cobb apprenticed for that famous butcher in Dutchess County, and Daisy is a vegan … or so we’ve heard. (Is that pronounced “vee-gan” or “vay-gan”?)

  And on top of that, everyone’s allergic! Gluten, lactose, shellfish! It’s an epidemic, or a punishment, isn’t it? Family suppers with the roast and potatoes just aren’t what they used to be—someone’s always complaining; too many questions (Is there lard in this crust? Peanut oil on the haricots verts?); it’s become quite an effort. The only thing everyone can agree on is a simple salad.

  There’s no denying our palates have expanded in the last few years. We used to eat when we remembered to, or chew a few Triscuits, Wheat Thins, or Ritz
crackers before cocktails. Now we think about food; we actually think about it.

  It’s probably because of Martha, a woman who looks like Mummy, dresses like Mummy (though Mummy wears skirts, too), and cares about food. She made us feel bad that we didn’t care enough about food, so we follow her, and try, though it may be futile, to copy her. Some of our number are obsessed with Martha, of course, and become disconsolate when their attempts at making wrapping paper from scratch, carving their hedges into topiaries with a pair of garden shears, or assembling her rainbow sorbet cake fell short of the Stewart level of perfection. But look at the bright side: Our homemade pesto is decent (though store-bought is better), our holiday cookies are prettier, and we now make interesting centerpieces using gourds, flats of grass, and metallic twine. We will never—repeat, never—run out of votive candles.

  The legendary Julia Child, icon (see), is also on our minds thanks to writer-director Nora Ephron. We tried out her boeuf bourguignon. (Wash those cubes of beef first, everyone!)

  In addition to the exotic food we now attempt to cook, we go out to ethnic restaurants. We love cold sesame noodles and Peking Duck, burritos and fajitas—even fish tacos are now a comfort food. Pad Thai, coconut soup, tikka masala, curried goat, sashimi, and crudo. We eat parts of animals we don’t want to know about, know what shapes are denoted by various pasta names (farfalle, rotelle, orecchiette), and yes, that black pasta has squid ink in it. We’ve branched out, and we’re a little proud of ourselves. Let’s celebrate with a tiramisù per tutti!

  Poor Mrs. Gibbs. She’s just called in and suddenly has to go with her husband to get his green card. Of course we understand, and we wouldn’t dream of docking her, but that’s not the issue. Dinner’s in only a matter of hours, and now it’s practically an emergency.

  We’d been meaning for ages to get her recipe for that lovely thing she does with the peas and the pearl onions and the bits of meat, all swimming in that divine sauce. But she’s not answering her cell. We can’t order pizza—again.

  Let’s see what she keeps in the cupboard. Oops, that’s the liquor cabinet—well, serendipity! We need inspiration, so why not? What’s in the fridge? Lemons. An excellent start. Limes! Ooh! My, there’s all sorts of things in here. And there’s the Junior League Cookbook to the rescue! We’re all set. We may not exactly be Martha, but even she had to start somewhere. Come to think of it, it was near here, wasn’t it?

  One thing we know for sure: No meal was ever ruined by mayonnaise. Or martinis.

  ONE KRAFT INDIVIDUAL SHARP CHEDDAR SINGLE, CELLOPHANE REMOVED

  SHOT GLASS

  ONE BOX OF RITZ CRACKERS, OPENED

  FRENCH’S MUSTARD (OPTIONAL)

  Place the sheet of cheddar on a flat, clean surface. Using a shot glass, set the rim flat on the cheese square and twist it around carefully. Lift, and voilà! A perfect circle. Place perfect disk of cheese on one Ritz cracker and serve. If you’re feeling especially festive, affix flawless dairy coin to the cracker with a dab of mustard.* Très bon!

  Six sheets yields six pieces, which ought to be enough for anybody. We eat to live, not vice versa.

  *Tip: If it’s a special occasion—say, a holiday or a funeral—top with a thin slice of olive, perhaps from your martini glass.

  Cocktail hour demands drinks with brio. Not for us a bananatini or a lollypop-flavored frozen margarita. Simple daiquiris, gimlets, and cosmos are okay for some, but the basic prep cocktail is a martini.

  Those Who Know have discovered that traditions need shaking up (or is it stirring?) from time to time. A vodka martini can seem boring, a gin martini can taste medicinal. Conventional wisdom dictates we never mix our liquors, but now and then we have to take a leap away from complacence. Let us propose the Mixed Marriage: the Lucy and Desi of adult beverages and its colorful offspring, Baby Pinky.

  Pour into your favorite cocktail shaker with plenty of ice. If tiny shards of ice shimmer on the surface after pouring, they are properly mixed. Remember our rule of thumb: One is not enough, and three are too many.

  Stratas are grilled ham and cheese “sandwiches” for breakfast. I assemble the dish the night before if I think we’re going to be drinking, and then I bake it for a delicious breakfast remedy the next day. Feel free to improvise and add bacon instead of ham; add interesting sausages, such as chicken-apple or spinach-feta; or vary the cheese to your tastes.

  SERVES 8

  6 1-inch-thick by 5-inch-wide slices French or Italian bread

  6 ounces Virginia ham, finely diced

  4 ounces Gouda cheese (about 1 cup)

  4 ounces Jarlsberg cheese (about 1 cup)

  8 large eggs

  1¾ cups whole milk

  1 tablespoon Dijon mustard

  ¼ teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg

  Salt and freshly ground pepper to taste

  ¼ cup freshly grated Parmesan cheese

  1 tablespoon unsalted butter, diced and softened

  1. Lightly butter an 8×11×2-inch baking dish.

  2. Break up the bread into little pieces and place in the prepared baking dish. The bread pieces should cover the bottom of the baking dish.

  3. Top the bread with the ham, Gouda, and Jarlsberg.

  4. Combine the eggs with the milk in a large mixing bowl and whisk until smooth. Add the Dijon mustard, nutmeg, and salt and pepper, and continue to whisk until well combined.

  5. Pour the mixture over the bread, making sure the bread soaks in the liquid. Scatter the grated Parmesan and tiny pieces of the butter on top. Cover and refrigerate overnight.

  6. Preheat the oven to 350°F. Remove the strata from the refrigerator 30 minutes prior to baking.

  7. Bake the strata, uncovered, for about 45 to 55 minutes, or until puffy and golden and the center is set.

  8. Remove from the oven and allow to sit for 5 to 10 minutes. Serve hot, cut into squares.

  Laurie Burrows Grad

  University of Pennsylvania

  If you’ve lived in Australia, New Zealand, or South Africa for any length of time—even for a week’s holiday—you’ve probably heard of Berocca through its many catchy commercials. B-B-B-Berocca gives you B-B-Bounce.

  Berocca is an effervescent tablet that is said to prevent hangovers if dropped into a glass of water before drinking. If drinking has occurred (and you will probably know if it has), you could drink your bubbly Berocca water when you’ve rolled home, and hope for the best. In the worst case, drink your Berocca the next morning when you awaken, and your hangover will be cured or reduced.

  It tastes citrusy. It’s got a lot of vitamins (“vit” rhymes with “wit”). It can’t hurt you, and in fact could very well put the pep in prep.

  Manufactured now by Bayer HealthCare, the product’s Web site recommends that it be taken daily (drinking or not drinking) by every adult over twelve, to increase brain function and energy, reduce stress, and, of course, eliminate hangovers.

  Whenever we have friends visit us down South, we take them shooting. Even if they don’t shoot, it’s just nice to walk outside on a fine morning. If all goes according to plan, we’ll have dinner for six.

  Cooking the quail is easier than you think, and delicious besides. If you don’t have access to your own game, you can use this recipe on birds you order at your butcher or on the Web from D’Artagnan. They will be plucked and all bones gone except for the wings and legs.

  SERVES 6.

  8 quail

  8 cloves of garlic, peeled

  Juice of 1 lemon

  3 tablespoons fresh rosemary (just stripped from its branchlets)

  ½ teaspoon salt

  Freshly ground black pepper

  ⅔ cup virgin olive oil

  Rinse and dry each bird. Prepare a marinade by throwing the garlic, lemon juice, rosemary, salt, 10 or so grinds of pepper, and olive oil in a Cuisinart and pulsing the ingredients to a wet paste, being sure to finely grind up the garlic and rosemary.

  Thoroughly coat each quail, inside and out, with the marinade
, cover, and place in fridge.

  About 45 minutes before you want to sit down to dinner, light the grill. (You’re using real charcoal and a chimney instead of lighter fluid, aren’t you?) Once the fire is ready, grill for 5-plus minutes a side, turning occasionally, until the skin is crisp. Encourage guests to pick the birds up and eat them with their fingers.

  SERVES 6–8.

  6 medium potatoes

  2–3 tablespoons butter

  Salt and freshly ground pepper to taste

  5 cups chopped cooked lamb (leftover lamb is fine)

  3 large cloves of garlic, peeled and minced or put through a garlic press

  1 large onion, finely chopped

  1 tablespoon crumbled dried rosemary

  2 cups gravy (freshly made from your butcher, or any canned gravy from the supermarket)

  Preheat the oven to 325°F.

  Peel the potatoes and cut them into quarters. Put them in a deep pot, cover with cold water, and boil for 15 to 20 minutes or until tender. Drain well and put back in the pot. Add butter, salt, and pepper. Mash potatoes by hand until smooth. Set aside.