The Kitchen Table
(Literary Disclaimer: Not a lot of ha-ha to this post, but I’m pressed for time and thought I better make good since three people today have all wondered where the heck I’ve been)
(Photographic Disclaimer: None of these photos, nice as they are, were taken with The Camera I Don’t Have Yet. The only reason they look halfway decent is because when it comes to Photoshop, I am a god. A god, people. A god.)
Okay, okay, okay, I know I’ve been grossly negligent these past five days and I’m sorry. Lots of life has happened and this truly is my first chance to get to the blog and catch up.
So, let’s get right on into, hm?
[Big lead-in] I can be a big, fat idiot sometimes a lot of the time…
Like all posts having to do with almost killing your spouse in front of God any everybody, ours begins with an incredible meal with great friends and this hair-brained idea that we would recreate, in our own kitchen, the delicacies festooning this page.
See that dish up there? I made it. Me.
Me me me me me.
And, in fairness, not just me. Cute Redhead, our friends Brent and Michelle, Trecia and Mike, Racquel and Sam, and Chef Tom (who I think we annoyed the hell out of but that comes later).
We met at this very cool cooking school place where you take a second mortgage out on your home and learn how to cook very cool meals and then drink very large amounts of very good wine while sitting around a very hip and perfectly appointed table and act like you do this all the time. The cooking school is called The Kitchen Table and if you ever have the chance to participate in an evening fairly pop-sizzling with hip friends, hip cooking and hip people watching you from behind a glass like your some sort of Hip Experiment, trust me: do it.
But don’t do the big fat argument that Cute Redhead and I did over something so earth-shattering and critical to the survival of mankind that there is no way I can conceal the sobering reality of what we fought about. The world must know. Everyone must be made aware of this because, failing my sharing The Issue, we run the risk of relational land mines going off all over America. What could we possibly fight over garnering statements this sensational, you ask?
Why veal stock, of course (more on that later).
The dish is called Beef Tenderloin with Sauce Bordelaise. And you know what else? When we sat down and sampled our work, Cute Redhead took a bite of hers, I took a bite of mine, we looked up, looked right at each other and she said, (something I’ll tell you later). And I was literally about to say the very same thing.
This is Mushrooms Something Something on a Something. I don’t remember. I have the recipes but they’re not handy and I have to hurry up and get all this down before the Spawn get home because the rest of the night is going to be STUPID busy.
Now, I’m not a big mushroom kinda guy, but let me tell you: this dish was just ama—well actually, there’s no other way to put it: I’d roll around in it and lick the whole dish off my naked body.
It’s that good.
(and don’t even pretend that grosses you out because if you tasted it too you’d ask me for seconds) (bada-boom).
Oysters. (No, really?)
I’ve never had oysters before in my life, if you can believe that. But I did. Raw. We made some pickled sort of vegetable-type topping thing involving celery and carrots and something else. And then we went out to the Very Hip Table and sampled our work. I dove right in. I slung back five in a row. Though they were not as unsavory as Cute Redhead believed (read: “Yeah no, I’m not touching those things, dream on”), I don’t ever picture myself waking up, springing out of bed and proclaiming loud and clear, “Gotta have oysters! To the oyster bar! Away!”
No.
Making the Mushroom Something Something. I don’t know about any of you, but there is nothing like creating anything with the right equipment. And by right equipment I mean a professional kitchen baptized in every conceivable kitchen utensil, pot, pan, knife, ladle, towel, oil, spice, Marty Steward Died And Went To Heaven, yada yada yada.
Our friends Trecia and Racquel. Trecia would never come out and tell you this, but when it comes to cooking, she can kick anyone’s butt.
Anyone’s.
See that cute redhead? That’s my Cute Redhead. See the fair maiden next to her? That’s Michelle. See how they’re smiling?
They’re drunk.
(kidding.)
Okay, that’s our guide, Chef Tom. I had this feeling he was bone-tired after a day of who-knows-what else, but he was a good sport and put up with our (I love this word coming here) bonhomie. Which is French, from bonhomme, good-natured man : bon, good (from Latin bonus; see deu-2 in Indo-European roots) + homme, man (from Latin hom
; see dhghem- in Indo-European roots). Which is just a ten-dollar sentence for “Brent and Todd and Sam and Mike were being dorks all night long but it was for Brent’s 40th birthday and we just shelled out a lot of money to cook our brains out and have a blast, which we did so deal with it, Chef Tom.”
And this is Brent showing the oysters What’s What. Brent and I have known each other since God was an altar boy.
Not gonna lie: pouring in the brandy and watching the stove turn into Raging Inferno was a highlight.
And, dear God in heaven, I have discovered the making of the reduction sauce. I will never eat anything without it again. I will put it on chicken, on steaks, on fish. I will put it in my coffee. I will put it over cereal. Ever shall I sing the praises of the reduction sauce.
Shallots, red wine, beef tenderloin drippings, Something Else I Can’t Remember, and a little Something Else I Can’t Remember? Are you kidding me? Where do I sign?
We end with these four beef tenderloins and our very own kitchen table. The very next night. Where we decided we’d try our hand at the dish you see up top. And you know what? It was a huge success. And the thing Cute Redhead said to me the night before when she tasted it for the first time? The very thing I was about to say out loud myself? “The kids would love this!”
And they did. The very next day we went bonkers, bought the ingredients and gave everyone a task to complete toward the creation of a dish we can’t wait to have again.
So. In closing (the Spawn are home) let me just say that I realize I only alluded to the fact that sometimes a lot of the time I can be a big fat idiot. The story behind how the purchase of veal stock almost resulted in a steak knife in my back is eclipsed only by how brilliantly seventeen years of marriage and doing The Kids Thing for the past thirteen of them, teaches High Powered Man and Cute Redhead a lot of bad habits.
Like talking and not listening but being 1,000% certain you’re being 10,000% clear.
Which we’re not.
But we’re learning.
Or, rather, unlearning.
Not easy. And this is me trying to laugh about a fight so bad and so stupid [of me] [oh, who am I kidding] [of both of us], in order to make my way through this particular waltz by putting it in a story (and I will) (soon) and sharing it with all of you.
In the meantime, however, I’m going to go eat the last bit of the leftovers I hid in the back of the fridge.
PS – If anyone would like these recipes, just leave a comment and I’ll post.
so this is becoming a once a year thing for you, eh? (only this time there were women)
Ooh. I’d do this once a week if I could get away with it. And I failed to mention that the kitchen split down the middle, men on one side, ladies on the other. But not much of a Oh, Yeah! Ha! Take That! kind of cook-off. I think we lost ourselves in the fun :)
To cook and To eat… That’s something Americans should learn… Mmmm. Look delicious, look all you’ve had great time and the master chef was very kind if he was tired as you mentioned before and everything is funny as usual but… Oh God! I just love the way you illustrated us of what and from where a word like Bonhomía (in Spanish) or Bonhomme (in French) came from… Priceless.
p.s.: I mean, this exactly show us that you’re a writer. Kind of, actually.
Recipe(s), please! Mark is ALL about a reduction, and is readying his favorite saucier…
He’s got Williams-Sanoma on speed dial!
Williams-SONOMA. Geez.
Thank you Frappé. I envy you a culture so intimate with food and cooking!
Speed dial? That is a man dedicated. Recipes coming!
The fighting …well I never understood the whole make-up-sex thing, in our house it usualy much less wonderful, something more akin (exactly like) me groveling for a week for my stupidity. Send recipies, I sense me doing something dumb that will require groveling coming on. I know me.
John…just start cooking now. Beat the rush.
LOL!!!! Pre-emptive groveling? Hum, good idea. :)
You don’t have a drop to envy anyone… But I’m on about food and cooking! Please, don’t forget to send recipies…and their pictures with “the camera you soon will have”.
Could you imagine the time we’d save if we just led off with, “I’m sorry. I won’t do it again”?
Recipes forthcoming, folks.
Alas, we are men, verbalize now, process later. We WILL do it again, and they know that, maybe not the exact same thing, but a derivation of it. Thank God for loving wives and short accounts.
“Verbalize now, process later.” Oh! you mean Ready! Fire! Aim! Got it.
That IS what he means. I can testify to that. 27 years under his thumb..I mean tutelage…
“Tutelage”…now that made me laugh out loud.