Cooking Up Stories

by Liz Hickok

  Kumi suppressed the urge to chuckle. Little did her daughter know that her father was a perfectionist in all areas of his life, dango being no exception. The truth was that his childhood love of it only fueled his desire to make his sinfully perfect.

  The lucky girl didn’t know he was sharing his own personal recipe with her, and it was a definitely a delectable treat.

  Continuing to mix the blob of deliciousness and testing its readiness, he finally divided the dough and carefully molded the portions into perfect bite-sized balls. Ever so gently, he slipped a few of them into the pot of boiling water, taking care to scoop them out only after they rose to the surface and had undergone the precise amount of cooking time needed. Transferring them carefully to a bowl of cold water, he called her over to watch him make his secret sauce. At last, when everything was finished and the effortless lighting of the grill led to a quick searing of the dango sticks, she found delicious perfect examples, lain out in front of her.

  Eager hands hoped to taste one, but he gently guided her away to the sink to help him clean up before she could.

  Once the last of the dishes was dried, Shinji looked over at his young daughter. There she stood, looking expectantly back at him. “I wonder how we did?” she asked, barely able to contain her excitement. Her eyes shifted to see what his reaction was, but his reserved nature made him hard to read.

  “Let’s taste one!” she all but demanded. “Do you think they will be as good as the ones at dango shop?”

  Her impatience and doubt were endearing, and he inwardly smiled. He wouldn’t show it, but he was thrilled to share the family’s secret recipe with her.

  “You be the judge,” he said, watching her as she eyed him then gazed back over to the tantalizing dessert on the table.

  Nudging the plate toward her, he gestured for Kairi to be the first to taste. Though the overwhelming urge was there to immediately dig in, she held herself back to do one last thing.

  “Um, Dad?” she asked tentatively to get his attention.

  “Yes?”

  All at once, she lunged forward and tightly embraced him in the biggest hug she could muster. “Thank you!” she gushed. The thrill in her voice and her genuine smile caught him off guard. Blatant displays of happiness like this were never a part of his upbringing, but the warm fuzzy feeling he felt was a welcomed change. How fitting her mother’s kind and caring nature was embedded in her personality. Delighted, he relaxed and returned her affection with a tiny squeeze. Her show of enthusiasm was definitely contagious and undoubtedly irresistible.

  “My pleasure, Kairi,” he replied.

  As he guided her to sit down at the table, both let their attention drift back to the tempting morsels on the plate. He carefully handed her a skewer and took one of his own. She gladly accepted, then all at once, her uncontrollable cravings took hold, and with lightning speed, she put her hands together, blurting “Itadakimasu!” before stuffing one of the flavored treats into her mouth.

  The moment her teeth sunk into the soft, sweet bliss, her eyes suddenly widened before slowly sliding shut.

  Oh...

  My...

  Gosh...

  Each heavenly bite was simply… sublime. Time slowed, and only after the last swallow did she come to her senses.

  He watched her with deep satisfaction. For a moment, she’d been speechless, eyes glazed over with the look of utter euphoria. He smiled as he knew that feeling well, especially when it came to dango.

  ”I love you!” she declared, to him or to the dango, it wasn’t clear. It didn’t matter though. He knew exactly how she felt.

  Shinji had been tentative with his wife’s suggestion of spending some time alone with Kairi. He had no idea how she would receive him and worried further if they had anything in common at all.

  As he called Kumi to the kitchen, he leaned back in his chair and enjoyed his own pleasurable moment as he contemplated this enigma, his daughter. What a delightful mixture she was of Kumi and himself. Free time was not always a luxury he could indulge in, but after this experience, he decided it would be nice to take a day off now and then and enjoy more time with his family. Kairi had already won him over in a very special way, and if he learned anything from the past, treasuring precious moments and fostering family love might just be the change needed to mold the future into a happy one. His father was rarely around in his youth and long gone before he married. His heart attack at the office was sudden, but not surprising. Few good memories remained of him, and if he was honest, only the memories of his Mom remained fresh in his mind. This harsh discovery floored him, but it offered new hope too.

  Once Kumi sat down and he shared his epiphany, her delight only strengthened his resolve. He knew a golden opportunity was presenting itself and he’d be a fool not to snatch it up.

  “Kairi,” he suggested, “Next month, how about we try making chi chi dango for Hinamatsuri (Girl’s Day)?”

  Kairi froze and cautiously turned to look at him.

  “You’d take the day off?” she asked, somewhat flabbergasted as she watched him nod.

  “Yes!” she squealed, causing them to smile.

  In that magical moment, the deliciousness of the dango paled in comparison to the newfound bond, and suddenly, there was a lingering feeling in the air that plenty more delights with dango would present themselves in their future.

  Author’s Notes:

  Dango is a Japanese dumpling (dessert) made of sticky rice often served on a skewer in sets of three or four. Many different varieties exist. It is enjoyed year round; however, certain ones are traditionally eaten in given seasons.

  Itadakimasu is a Japanese saying uttered before one partakes in a meal. Basically, it’s a way of saying “thank you” and expressing gratitude for all who have played a role in making the meal possible.

  Remembering the Price of Perfection

  By Sheila Scobba Banning

  If you have never heard the angels singing as a bit of foie gras melted on your tongue, then you have not dined at the French Laundry. There is hype, there is truth, and there is divine revelation. Lunch at the French Laundry is little of the first, all of the second, and more of the third than seems possible with mere food.

  Choosing your dining companions well is the simplest of the elements required for a perfect meal - or at least, the one that you have the most control of. The Unabridged Book Club kicked off a weekend-long celebration of our tenth anniversary back in 2004 with a 12:30 appointment to consume the most expensive lunch any of us had ever eaten. Yes, that does mean we’ve been meeting for twenty-two years.

  The six of us vary by age, profession, temperament, and a host of physical details, but we share a love of good books, lively discussion, and joyous celebration. As we walked through the garden to enter the vine-covered building, someone said, “I feel bad for people who can’t be us.”

  We knew we were among compatible souls when our waiter, Marta, recommended we begin with champagne. Two or three of us are certain that you should not only begin with champagne, but end with it and possibly bathe in it. When the man in charge offered the bottle to me, one of the Unabridged girls asked, “Did you go to her just because she’s wearing the hat?” To which he replied with a hint of a smile, “No. It’s not just the hat.” The one member who had been concerned that the ambiance might be stuffy and pretentious was instantly at ease.

  There were three options, a five-course prix fixe menu with a choice for each of the courses, a nine-course Chef’s Tasting where the only choice is between the “waldorf salad” and “foie gras en terrine” (for an additional charge), and a vegetarian tasting menu. One of the U-girls chose the vegetarian, one is allergic to shellfish and went for the 5-course menu, and the rest of us went for the Chef’s Tasting. When the time came to declare a choice, I ordered the foie gras. It just had to be done.

  Over the years, Unabridged has developed guidelines for membership, a statement of philosophy which allows potential new members to have a c
lear sense of the group expectations before they commit. One of the first “rules” was a willingness to read anything. We are not only open to reading fiction and nonfiction, poetry and plays, classic literature and bestsellers, we actively seek genres and authors we have not previously explored. Some of our most rewarding discussions have been about books we roundly despised. Stretching our perspectives through new experience is a baseline expectation.

  Two offerings preceded the foie gras: the Thomas Keller classic treat from the kitchen of salmon tartar and sour cream creme fraiche served as a miniature ice cream cone, and a cauliflower panna cotta with iranian oesetra caviar. When the foie gras was presented with geometric points of toasted “brioche,” I was grateful I had already offered to share. It was the single largest portion of foie gras any of us had seen.

  After my first bite, the U-girl to my left said, “I changed my mind. Based on that expression, I need a taste.” Another member asked if it was like “I’ll have what she’s having” from When Harry met Sally. She responded, “It’s obviously much better than that.”

  And it was.

  In case there are children reading this, I won’t go into detail. But whatever you are imagining right now… yes!

  After I had torn off hunks of brioche and passed around generous bites, half the foie gras still remained. One of the cute wait boys arrived to briskly exchange my defiled toast (of which more than half remained) with a fresh plate of architecturally arranged pieces. At FL, the aesthetic is visual as well as oral. Oddly enough, the best part of this course turned out to be, not the foie gras, but the lesson learned. At the side of the plate sat a dollop of “german potato salad” looking like a garnish and seemingly irrelevant. As I waited for my companions to finish their salads, however, I decided to taste it.

  Book jackets rarely give a true picture of the contents within, and the reviews can be even more misleading. A biography of Jefferson we read eight years ago turned out to be a badly written hatchet job in disguise. A book of poetry by Billy Collins, chosen only because one of the U-girls had heard him on NPR, turned out to be one of the best books of any kind we had read in our first decade together. It is easy to forget that assumptions made without direct experience pave the road to disappointment.

  NEVER dismiss anything on your plate at FL, whether it be the dollop of diminishing dots of balsamic vinegar in the corner or “mundane” potato salad. There is no mundane in the FL lexicon. Itty-bitty cubes of perfectly crisp bacon studded the already savory potato combination. Tiny as the portion was, I shared with three or four others and still had several bites - because the smallest portion exploded with such surprising strength and layers of flavor that we laughed in delight.

  It was that attention to detail that stood out over and over again. The Snake River Farms beef in the “calotte de boeuf grille” with corned beef “hash,” poached quail egg and “sauce mignonette” would have been extraordinary on its own. But the “hash,” succulent minuscule cubes of potato and pepper and meat, elevated the dish to another level. The staff of FL prepare and serve food the way Michael Chabon writes, the edible equivalent of The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay. If God is in the details, heaven is the kitchen of the French Laundry.

  Perfect service is like exceptional acting: it is never about making mistakes; it is about making any mistakes invisible to the audience. Just as the best actors can cover a flubbed line or improvise to carry the action forward seamlessly, so will the best waiters serve and clear with motions so natural the diners are undisturbed.

  There was a moment at the end of the beef course when all the forks were down and our group was chatting animatedly. The two cute boys and Marta approached the table, and I actually saw a hand in my peripheral vision just as I reached for my fork. Before my fingers touched metal, all three were gone. Poof! They vanished like ninjas. I had to ask if anyone else saw them, just as a sanity/sobriety check. Two bites later, the ninja wait staff rematerialized, and our plates were cleared. Like synchronized choreography, no plate had been touched until all were, and a slight misreading of timing was resolved without causing even a hesitation in the conversation.

  That standard, alone, was worth the price of the meal.

  With a certain amount of carnivorous bias, we had wondered how the vegetarian menu could possibly measure up to its cost, which was the same as the Chef’s Tasting which included courses of fish, shellfish, game and meat. Course after course, however, each veggie presentation was alive with color and spice and unusual ingredients, including an araucanahen’s egg with a rumored blue shell. The ever-patient Marta indulged us by bringing out one of the eggs in a silver cup so we could see the exact color (grayer than sky-blue, like the shade just above the horizon where the blue is overlaid with clouds).

  The story of a meal is spun chapter by chapter in aroma and color, texture and flavor. The final ingredient is the interpretation of the individual diner. If the tone is witty and “writing” richly layered, it matters not whether it is a translation. The vegetarian tasting was artfully conceived and executed first, vegetarian only because it could be.

  We declared that restaurants offering limp pasta and steamed vegetable platters should be ashamed. And just as we were prepared to accept the worthiness of the menu even without benefit of rare and costly elements, the “ravioli” of Sonoma dry farmed German butterball potato with celery branch Périgord truffles and Vermont sweet butter was served. Like the foie gras, no one had seen slices of truffles this size in an individual serving ever - and even more truffles were grated on top!

  Remember the expression from the foie gras?

  Same thing.

  After hours of merriment and relentless sensory stimulation, I realized I hadn’t really read the full menu. While comparing the Chef’s Tasting with the five-course menu, I saw that the valrhona chocolate box with vanilla bean ice cream from the tasting menu was not otherwise available. That was enough for me at the time, but I had neglected to scan far enough to reach the cheese course.

  I shared my oversight and enlisted my companions’ aid for any recollection of the remainder of the menu. Alas, we were six courses and dozens of individual taste sensations into the menu. The prologue was a distant memory, and the table of contents lost.

  “If there isn’t a cheese course, I’m walking out.”

  Peals of laughter rang out - but not enough to disturb nearby tables. Really.

  Love of cheese is like religion. There are the atheists of lactose, or other intolerance, there are devotees of various sects, and there are those whose worship is all-encompassing. For me, a meal of this stature without a cheese course would be wrong.

  We debated the questions of whether I could actually bring myself to walk out at that point, and whether walking out would be a justified response, right up until the Camembert was served for the tasting menu and two varieties of goat cheese for the vegetarian menu. Resigned to the fact that not everyone shares my belief in mandatory multiple cheese offerings, I accepted tastes of the goat cheeses and was appeased.

  The palate cleansing pomegranate sorbet that followed was served with an almond crisp and a translucent rectangle of Sauvignon Blanc gelée. The golden block provided a lovely complement to the magenta-red sorbet, and it tasted… barely at all.

  The subtle bite of the wine was lost in the exuberance of all else we had eaten. Alone, it may have been remarkable, an unexpected jewel. In the context of all we had experienced, its beauty was diminished and it registered as bland.

  “I’m disappointed.”

  This time the laughter prevented us from eating. We had to remember to breathe. Perhaps we took turns breathing as we wiped away tears. The very notion that anything could be disappointing at that point was preposterous. We had tasted ambrosia, and our expectations rose with it. This was our second lesson. When you have lived perfection, mere excellence pales beside it.

  The chocolate dessert was all we had imagined, and when it was cleared, tiny servings of crème
brulee and panna cotta arrived, delightful creamy concoctions not on the menu and completely unanticipated. One of the U-girls announced, “If they bring one more course, I’m going to cry!” Of course, the “mignardises,” a tiered tray of cookies and macaroons and shortbread and miniature lemon tarts, arrived shortly after. That was the last item on the menu, but it was not the end. Had they overheard her plaintive pronouncement? Is the secret to the ninja service a bug in the clever clothes pins that held the napkins? Whatever the reason, unexpected treats continued to arrive. Marta reappeared with a tray of Godiva-like chocolates filled with caramel, peanut butter, and chocolate. I insisted that we could at least taste anything she would bring for as long as this went on.

  She returned with a box of symmetrical disks of chocolate dusted with cocoa - the way your own handmade truffles might look if you made them daily for decades - and we laughed wildly. But we sampled the truffles, too.

  We had spent three and a half hours at that round table, the wine was gone, nine courses worth of plates had been cleaned (or nearly so), and we had consumed more post-prandial chocolate than might be thought humanly possible. A truce was declared, or maybe we surrendered. We paid the laundry ticket that was the bill and added a generous tip.

  We paid, not with trepidation, not with shock or resentment or even guilt, but with gratitude. Our lunch was a transcendent experience of a quality not generally associated with eating. How do you acknowledge such remarkable attention to detail? How could we praise the philosophy so evident in the choice of rare ingredients, amusing presentation, explosive flavor and service focused on the individual experience? Before we left, we slid a $100 bill under the vase at the center of the table.

  Money seemed inadequate recognition, but it was the only currency we had.

  Just Desserts

  By Cathy Broderick

  Every so often, my grandmother and my mother would visit their old friend, Mrs. Davey. When I was about seven, just after the War, they took me over to her house with them for a visit. Mrs. Davey considered herself psychic and would read the tea leaves and the Tarot Cards.