by Nan Lyons
While the state dining room was being set for a hundred of the world’s most diplomatic people, Natasha knew that the kitchen was simmering with a bouillabaisse of egos. Her “impossible dream” could still blow up in her face at any moment. No matter how smoothly she had negotiated its passage through culinary canyons and across hostile ethnic borders, she still didn’t have the recipes and photos that would make or break the inaugural issue of American Cuisine.
“Natasha!” Wolf shouted on seeing her. “My gorgeous artichoke!”
“My delicious ham hock,” Brad chimed in, smiling.
Jimmy looked up. “My beautiful chanterelle!”
“My precious salmon!” Larry said, waving a filet hello.
“At last!” Paul held up a fistful of Louisiana oysters. “Venus on the half-shell!”
“You guys nuts?” Parker shouted from the grill. “Get a load of those thighs. Those breasts! The lady is pure pheasant!”
“Miss O’Brien.” The greeting that sounded more like an accusation came from White House Executive Chef Alain Caranne, whose résumé read like a map of the restaurants in Lyons. He was less than delighted to share his kitchen with a band of culinary outlaws. It had taken Caranne over half an hour merely to copy the menu onto the blackboard. And then he stared at it, as though trying to decipher a gastronomic Rosetta stone:
ROASTED ONION SOUP
with Roasted Garlic and Ham Hock Crouton
(Bradley Ogden, The Lark Creek Inn)
CEDAR-PLANKED SALMON
with Old-Fashioned Egg Sauce
(Larry Forgione, An American Place)
PARADISE PASTA
(Paul Prudhomme, K-Paul’s Louisiana Kitchen)
OVEN ROAST PHEASANT
and Pumpkin-Molasses Puree
on a Sauce of Apples, Tequila, and Ancho Chilies
with Crispy Tortilla Relish
(Parker Lacy, The House on Money Hill)
ROASTED TENDERLOIN OF BEEF
with Wild Mushroom Ragout
and Tri-Colored Polenta Terrine
(Jimmy Schmidt, The Rattlesnake Club)
CHINO CHOPPED VEGETABLE SALAD
(Wolfgang Puck, Spago)
VERY BERRY POT PIE
(Natasha O’Brien)
“My darling Chef Caranne!” Natasha sang out. Hoping to defuse him, she went to Caranne first, kissing him on both cheeks. “I feel just like Snow White and the Seven Chefs.”
Paul, wearing his signature pea cap, smiled and rolled his eyes. “I can tell you which one is Monsieur Grumpy,” he said, glancing at Caranne.
“Not as grumpy as I’m going to be,” Brad said, studding a suckling pig with garlic slivers. “My soup will never be ready if I don’t set up a spit over that grill.”
“Hey, dude. Don’t blame me if Frenchie forgot to preheat.” Parker Lacy spoke with a Texas drawl preserved as fastidiously as his physique. Parker, the dean of Southwest cooking, was based in Dallas — despite numerous trips to New York during his yearlong affair with Natasha. “Sure wish I could get my hands on whoever talked me into this gig.”
Ignoring Parker, Natasha went over to Brad and kissed him. “Where’s that boyish grin we all know and love?”
“Thank God you’re here,” Larry called out. “He’s been driving me crazy. Worry, worry, worry.”
Brad began to laugh. “He’s the one who’s worried. I keep telling him, ‘Don’t worry, Larry, someday you’ll cook as good as I do.’ ”
“Sure he will,” Jimmy said from across the aisle. “That’s not much to ask for.”
“All right, children,” Natasha said. “Mommy’s here.”
Wolf, wearing his Spago baseball cap, winked. “And not a moment too soon, liebling,” he said, dicing celery.
Natasha put her arm on his shoulder and whispered into his ear. “You’re beautiful when you chop.”
“And you, Tasha, are even more delicious than my Chino Farm veggies.”
“Even better than what they buy at Safeway?”
Wolf threw his head back and laughed. The Safeway market on Wisconsin Avenue was where the White House shopped. Chef Caranne sent two or three chefs in an unmarked van. On their return, everything was checked in by a security guard.
“Listen, it wasn’t easy to get clearance on your carrots.”
He shrugged. “Love me, love my carrots.”
“Hey, break it up, you two!” Paul said. “I’m getting jealous.”
Natasha whirled past the sixty-quart mixer and went to the worktable where Paul was sitting. “You want to talk jealous?” she asked. “Talk the chicken cacciatore recipe in your new book.”
“You think I should make that instead of pasta?”
“And miss out on the fabulous oysters you brought?” She reached for one and sniffed its shell. “From Pointe à la Hache?”
“On the nose.”
Natasha kissed his cheek. “What makes you so luscious?” He offered her his coffee cup. She took a sip of the dark roasted Louisiana coffee flavored with chicory. “You don’t miss a trick.”
He leaned over and whispered, “I’ve got a dozen oysters just for you. After we feed the hicks.”
Natasha groaned. “Oh, you are bad! I can’t wait.”
“You can’t wait? What about Mr. Pig?” Brad asked, stuffing the cavity with onions, garlic, and oranges.
Natasha spoke confidentially. “Listen, you incredibly handsome brute, I’m walking on oeufs. I can’t be rude to Chef Caranne.”
“But coach, all I want is my turn at bat!”
She leaned over to see what Brad was doing. “Such vibrant colors, such robust flavor — ”
“Such baloney!” He flashed her one of his famous smiles. “I’ve got something I want to make for you after dinner.”
“Your place or mine?”
She turned to Parker and motioned for him to hurry up.
“Don’t blame me, darlin’. Ask Merci Bocuse.”
Natasha was dancing as fast as she could to keep the peace between her dream team and the French foreign legion. She couldn’t believe Caranne had simply forgotten to preheat the grill, especially after she had been so specific with her instructions for the prep work. Was it bad form to scream in the White House?
Larry held up his salmon. “Better go over there and do your stuff,” he said, nodding toward Caranne. “I need the grill, too.”
“I already did my stuff,” Natasha said between gritted teeth. “I’ve been on the phone for months now, telling him exactly what we needed and when. You can’t get blood from a foie gras.” She changed the subject quickly and picked up one of the cedar planks Larry had brought with him. “How’d you ever think of cooking salmon on a wooden board?”
“Shh. The Indians in the Northwest did it first. Except they didn’t have to wait on line for the grill.”
More fast footwork. “You know what I’m going to do?” Natasha said, running her fingers across the embroidered American flag on his chef’s jacket. “I’m going to speak to the Secret Service again. I really don’t see the harm in having a few smoldering planks in the dining room. It’s a dynamite presentation.”
Jimmy Schmidt was very dapper in his checked Armani cook’s pants and white jacket. “I think for the best presentation, you should substitute a pastrami sandwich.”
Larry started to laugh. Natasha leaned over and took a sip from the glass of Schramsberg champagne Jimmy was nursing. She ran her hand over his Appaloosa horsehide knife case. “You shoot this yourself?”
He nodded and glanced toward Caranne. “Just practicing.”
“Jimmy, darling, you must do me a favor.”
He stamped his foot. “No! I won’t invite him to my birthday party.”
“Promise you’ll save me a slice of polenta.”
“Sure. But I’ve also got a great veal chop with crab apples, cider, and sage that has Natasha written all over it.” He leaned over and whispered, “Listen, I’m really getting worried. I’m last on the list for the grill.”
<
br /> Natasha spun around and without missing a beat shouted, “Enough already, Parker!” He was the only one at whom she could yell. “I thought you were grilling pheasants, not buffalo.”
“Thirty pheasants, missy. You can afford to sashay around here being sexy. All you’ve got to do is fill ten pies.”
Parker’s words struck terror in Natasha’s heart. She turned full face to Caranne, who had been following the conversation as though it were a tennis match. Everyone became quiet. All eyes were on her. She walked toward the dessert table as Cleopatra had walked toward the asp. More frightening than a deadly cobra was the sight of ten blind-baked thirteen-inch pie crusts. They were stacked in two pie racks. Five pies each. A total of ten.
Pausing to catch her breath, she shut her eyes and counted in a flat, emotionless voice. “Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six, sept, huit, neuf, dix.” Then, just like the little girl in The Exorcist, her voice echoed through the room. “My instructions called for one hundred pies!”
Caranne stepped back. “One hundred pies for one hundred people?”
As though pointing to the Ark of the Covenant, she tapped the listing for Very Berry Pot Pie on the blackboard. “What does that say? That last item. My dessert?”
Caranne cleared his throat and spoke as distinctly as possible. “Veree Beree Poh Pie.”
“Pot pie!” she corrected, exploding the t. “As in chicken pot pie! Very Berry Pot Pie is a culinary turn of phrase.”
The White House chef shrugged and raised his hands in amazement. “Je regrette, but I, too, turn the phrase. I check the ingredients. Raspberry. Strawberry. Red currant. Blueberry. ‘Ecoutez,’ I say to my sous with a big smile on my face, ‘she is making the joke. She is making a poh pie.’ ” He waited and narrowed his eyes. “As in pot-pourri.”
“As in chicken pot pie!” she snapped. “One hundred individual pot pies!”
His voice began to rise. “Chicken poh pie is not always un petit pie!”
“Right you are! But if you’re having one hundred people for dinner and the recipe calls for one hundred pies, what is the logical conclusion?”
“I conclude that you make a mistake.”
Natasha began circling Caranne. The room was silent. You could hear a sprig of parsley drop.
Parker came to her side. “Whatcha gonna do now, little lady? Reckon it’s too late to round up a hundred head of pot pies.”
“Reckon so, Tex.” Natasha felt tears of frustration well up in her eyes. But she knew everyone was waiting to see the great Natasha O’Brien save the day.
It wasn’t as if she’d never faced a crisis before. If you were a world-class chef, every day was filled with one crisis or another. But this was just a stupid mistake. She couldn’t let it ruin a state dinner or destroy a new magazine that was fighting for its life.
She turned to Caranne, put her hands on his shoulders, and said, “Not to worry. A simple misunderstanding. It happens all the time. Oedipus Rex. The Titanic. Ollie North.”
An audible sigh of relief swept through the kitchen. But then, very slowly, Natasha moved her hands closer to Caranne’s neck. As his eyes widened, she tightened her fingers and screamed, “What the fuck am I going to make for dessert?”
* * *
CARANNE HAD OFFERED Natasha a small room near the kitchen. She hung up her jacket, took off the rest of her clothes, and slipped under the sheet on the single bed. She had to think. Natasha always thought best on her back.
What would Julia Child do? She had eight quarts of strawberries, eight quarts of blueberries, eight quarts of raspberries, and eight quarts of red currants. She had ten thirteen-inch pie crusts and no time to make the hundred that she needed — unless she made them out of meringue. No, they’d leak or get soggy. But not if she lined them with chocolate. Tricky. Perhaps white chocolate.
There was a rap at the door. “Knock knock.”
“Who’s there?” she asked.
“Tex.”
“Tex who?”
Parker opened the door, stepped in, and locked it behind him. “Tex two to tango.”
“Oh, Parker. Do you realize what a terrible position I’m in?”
“Don’t look so terrible to me,” he said, unbuttoning his white jacket and unzipping his trousers. He wore bikini shorts with an American flag pattern.
“Three cheers for the red, white, and blue,” she said wistfully.
Parker slid in next to Natasha. “Ain’t lust grand?” He leaned over and kissed her breasts.
“Tex, we can’t do this in the White House.”
“Why not? It’s time somebody did.”
“I’m so worried.”
“I know,” he said, reaching for his trousers. “But I didn’t forget.” He held up a package of condoms.
“Sex is the last thing I need now.”
“What the hell kind of dessert chef are you? No one is ever too full for sex.” Parker got up onto his knees and straddled Natasha. He moved up and sat gently on her stomach. She positioned the condom and slowly, very slowly, unrolled it millimeter by millimeter. He groaned with ecstasy.
“All I can think about is a thirteen-inch pie!”
“Hey, you want to give me a complex?”
“Parker, we’ve got to do this fast.”
“Fast is good.”
“I need inspiration.”
He smiled. “That’s what I’m here for.” He kissed the top of her head and worked his way down to her toes. “Giddyap!”
“Tex, I’ve got to think about pies.”
“I was thinking more about cock au vin. But all right. Let’s think about pies before this thing chokes me to death.”
Natasha put her arms around Parker and sighed deeply as he entered. “Pies, pies, pies.”
Parker whispered, “Who was it stuck his thumb in a pie?” He began rocking back and forth.
Eyes closed, she held tightly to him. “Little Jack Horner.”
“There you go, missy. What kind of pie?”
“I can’t remember.”
“Think harder,” Parker gasped.
Natasha went through all the obvious choices. Berry tart with apricot glaze and vanilla ice cream. Berry cream pie. Red berries in blueberry sauce? Perhaps with a spun-sugar dome. Like the Capitol building.
Parker nibbled on her ear. Breathlessly, he whispered, “How you coming?” He buried his face in her breast, massaging her nipples with his lips.
Perhaps a thin lid of dark chocolate studded with white chocolate stars.
Parker began rocking faster. “Did you say ‘stars’?”
“I said I was seeing stars.” It was then that she remembered Parker’s American flag shorts. She reached for them. “Hey, Tex,” she whispered, putting them around his head, “I love your red, white, and blueberry undies.”
“Depends on where you put the blueberries.”
Natasha gasped. “Oh my God!”
“Thanks, baby. It’s great for me, too.”
“Tex, I’ve got it!”
“Wait for me, missy. I’m gettin’ it!”
Natasha held tight to Parker. “I can see it!”
“Jeez, you’re really hot today.”
“Listen to this . . .”
“Talk to me.”
“I know what to put in the pie crusts!”
He began to groan as he thrust deep into her. “I never thought about doing it in a pie crust!”
“A circle of red currants . . .”
“Oh, yeah!”
“Then a circle of white-chocolate mousse . . .”
“Destry rides again!”
“Then a circle of raspberries . . .”
“Then white, baby.”
“Red, white, red, white . . .”
“Oooooooooh!”
“Then strawberries . . .”
“Aaaaaaaaah!”
“More white mousse.”
Parker laughed. “I never saw a white moose.”
“The red and white stripes of the flag.”
<
br /> “I love it!”
“And a big circle filled with blueberries. Blueberries covered with white-chocolate stars.”
“Shootin’ stars!” he shouted. “Holy jicama! I’m gonna shoot stars just for you!”
Natasha began to gasp. She dug her fingers into Parker’s back and tightened her muscles around him. “Oh, say, can you see!”
Parker began to groan and rock faster. “Hold on, darlin’. The cavalry is coming!”
After a few moments, they lay motionless in one another’s arms. Parker took the underwear off his head. “You are some wild filly. You on something?”
“Does my ass count?”
“I don’t know.” Parker sat up. He turned Natasha facedown and stared at her buttocks. “How much is two and two?”
She began to laugh. “Oh, Parker, promise you won’t ever fall in love with me. I’d really miss the sex.”
He took her chin in his hand. “What about the inspiration?”
Natasha shrugged. “You know me. I’ll think of something.” She threw her arms around Parker while she began to work out her battle plan for “Red, White, and Blueberry Pie.”
RED, WHITE, AND BLUEBERRY PIE
TART DOUGH
1 1/2 cup unbleached all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon sugar
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/2 cup unsalted butter, cold
1/3 cup whipping cream
Blend flour, sugar, and salt together in a large bowl. Cut butter into 1/2-inch cubes and toss into flour. Press butter between thumbs and fingers, blending it into flour mixture until a coarse meal is formed--its texture will resemble that of cornmeal.
Add cream and blend with a rubber spatula or spoon until it is absorbed. Press together with hands until a dough forms. Work the dough gently if needed. Shape into a ball, dust with flour, and roll into a 13-inch circle. Roll around a rolling pin. Unroll over a 10-inch tart pan. Lift the edges, allowing them to fall to the inside edge of the pan. Press dough against the pan. Fold the extra dough over and against the edge of the pan, forming a double edge. Press the double thickness of dough into the rim of the pan, forcing some of it above the top. Move the extra dough out beyond the rim. Trim this with the bottom pad of your hand, cutting it against the rim. Chill for 30 minutes. Preheat oven to 375° and put rack on lowest level.
