One evening years ago, when I was but an impudent novice home cook, I concocted a dinner so memorable that it persists in tormenting
my ego to this very day. The entrée – my
personal piece de resistance – was a
veal and asparagus stew simmered in butter and white wine. Subtly sweet veal, woodsy asparagus, rich
butter, buttery white wine – these were a few of my favorite flavors and
textures, so I was certain that they would combine to delectable effect.
In addition to slaving in the kitchen on that long-ago
evening, I had also made a considerable effort in preparing the dinner table, dressing
it in subdued hues of taupe and jade to harmonize visually with my piece de resistance. And I had even set some mellifluous music
like “the most relaxing classical album in the world…ever!” crooning in the
background. (Hey, this was the ‘80’s and
I was in my 20’s, alright? I wouldn’t
make the same mistakes today: instead, I’d dress the table in ecru and lime green and put
on some hip retro album like “The Best of Barry Manilow”).
My honored guests for the evening were the two most important
men in my life at that time – my (former) husband, a hamburger-popping, culinary
half-wit, and my brother, Thomas. As I
was toiling above the electric burners, I fantasized about them walking through
the front door, the haunting fragrances from my pots and pans arresting them in
their paths, coaxing expressions of blissful anticipation from their weary
faces. And, indeed, my fantasies weren’t
too far off the mark. My husband’s first
question when he walked through the door was “What stinks?” My brother’s was “Did she call?”
We eventually made it to the table for dinner, just as the
liquid in my stew was starting to stick irreversibly to the bottom of the pot. I filled the plates and sat down, watching in
blissful anticipation my brother’s face as he poked a forkful of veal cubes and
asparagus into his mouth.
“Tastes like restaurant food,” he said, squinting his eyes
and nose.
Now, for those Americans who learned to cook by following recipes
in cookbooks written by famous chefs, or who learned to cook by watching famous
chefs perform their magic on television, or who learned to appreciate food and
wine in restaurants, my brother’s evaluation would probably constitute the
ultimate compliment. Not so for me.
For many of us raised in Italian home kitchens, an evaluation
that the food you have prepared tastes or looks like it came from a restaurant could
only mean one of two things: (1) the food is contrived and pretentious or
(2) the food is institutional and anonymous.
I threw an atrocious conniption fit.
Yet, Thomas wasn’t wrong.
My piece de resistance was, in
fact, contrived, pretentious, institutional and anonymous, all together. Yet even this experience served its
purpose. It not only furthered my
culinary know-how, it taught me that culinary conniption fits can lead to retractions
and reassurances of the most obsequious kinds.
3:02:03 PM 
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