Comfort Me with Apples

by Ruth Reichl

  “How are we going to cook six courses for forty people on two burners?” asked Alice, staring at the stove.

  “We’ll grill,” said Jonathan.

  “But what are you going to grill on?” she asked.

  “We’ll build a grill,” said Mark. “I’ll use cobblestones if I have to.”

  “But it’s starting to rain,” said Alice.

  “Don’t worry,” said Jonathan, “I can grill in any weather.”

  They had left behind kitchens stuffed with the latest equipment and staffed with eager assistants. At home they had minions who prepped the food, who cleaned and chopped and shredded. Not one of them had washed a pot in years. Now they were on the far side of the ocean staring at two burners, one small and slightly clogged sink, two pots, one pan, and not nearly enough room. They were staring at disaster. America’s most famous chefs took a deep collective breath, pulled on their whites, and went to work.

  Bradley commandeered a corner of the kitchen. Knife flashing, he began boning quail; within minutes he was covered in blood. As he finished each bird, Jonathan swept the skeleton into one of the pots for stock; Lydia used the other pot to poach brains. Mark assessed the situation, realized that there was no room for him, and went outside to build a grill.

  “I found the most beautiful baby spinach,” said Alice, irritably inspecting her purchases, “but when we tried to buy it the woman took this ancient stuff from the back. We tried to get her to sell us the good stuff, but she said it was only for display.” Alice gathered up the entire heap, dumped it into the garbage, and turned to the remaining greens. “The asparagus is bitter,” she lamented. “The beans aren’t very good. There goes one course. We’re not going to have enough.”

  “Alice, Alice,” crooned Jonathan. He was now shaking garlic in a pan. The aroma rose up and filled the tiny kitchen. “It’s okay.”

  “Where am I going to sauté the brains?” asked Lydia. In one smooth move Jonathan dumped the garlic out and handed the pan to Lydia.

  “I’ll put the garlic in the oven,” he said. As she took the pan with one hand, her other was already reaching for the oil. They were beginning to move in the same cadence.

  “Attention grillmasters,” said Mark, standing in the doorway with a puddle forming beneath his feet. “We’ve got a grill.” He shook his soggy hair. “That’s the good news. The bad news is, it’s pouring.”

  Alice blanched. “There goes another course,” she said.

  “Don’t worry,” said Jonathan, briefly squeezing her shoulder. “I told you. I can grill in any weather.”

  “In this?” she demanded, pointing at Mark, who had squeezed up to the counter, where he was dripping all over Bradley.

  “Pray,” he said.

  Mark removed his knife from the case and changed the tempo in the room. He and Bradley stood shoulder to shoulder, their knives flashing to a different beat. Mark’s was a staccato tattoo that transformed a solid chunk of tuna into a mountain of chopped flesh. He chopped chilies and cilantro and mixed them into the fish. As he squeezed limes over the mixture the aroma in the room changed, becoming piquant and almost tropical.

  “Good thing we decided on tuna tartare,” he said. “At least we have something that doesn’t need cooking.”

  “But we’ve got to toast the bread to put it on,” said Alice, “and we’ve got to hurry; the guests are beginning to arrive.” She pulled open the oven door, and smoke poured into the room.

  “We forgot the garlic!” she coughed, peering through the haze, which now enveloped everyone. “Can’t anything go right?”

  “Alice, Alice,” said Jonathan, starting into the refrain, “it’s fine.” He pulled out the garlic and began pawing through it as Alice knelt beneath him, toasting bread. She handed the bread to Mark, who had to reach around Jonathan while avoiding Lydia, who was still sautéing brains. The four of them were standing in smoke, occupying a space no larger than a shower stall, but the first course had gone out to the guests and they could hear the applause of the crowd. An air of palpable relief ran through the room. And then Lydia let out a groan.

  “We’re almost out of olive oil!” she cried.

  “Oh no,” said Alice, standing up too fast and nearly upsetting the pan. “I can’t believe we didn’t buy enough.”

  “The great chefs of America!” said Jonathan. He began to laugh, and as they all joined in there was a moment of near hysteria. Then it was over. Lydia scattered capers into the hot oil; they burst into bloom, becoming crisp little flowers.

  “Two courses down,” cried Alice, relief evident in her voice as the brains went into the dining room. She picked up a bucket of shrimp and called, “Somebody peel these,” as she sent it flying through the air. The confidence of the gesture stunned me; who did she think would catch it?

  It was Lydia who held out her hand and grabbed the bucket. With one easy motion she dumped the shrimp out on the counter and began pulling off the heads. The chefs had all caught the rhythm now, moving in a kind of kitchen ballet that did not waste a single gesture. They had become a single ten-armed creature, thinking on its feet with a common goal: to get through the night.

  The olive oil held out; the rain stopped. The creature worked silently, piling vegetables, beans, peppers, and clams onto the salad plates, dressing them, getting them out the door.

  “It’s colorful,” said Jonathan. “It’s unusual.”

  “And it’s gone,” said Alice, watching the last plate disappear into the dining room. Without a word Mark and Lydia went outside to grill quail. Inside, Jonathan reduced stock on one burner to make a sauce while Alice stood next to him, shaking artichokes and potatoes over the other.

  “We could have used that spinach,” said Alice, unhappily inspecting the final arrangement. “It’s too brown.”

  The plates were not pretty, but that was a minor detail. The chefs were gritting it out, trying to get the food cooked and the evening to end. There was not quite enough quail to go around—every chef’s worst nightmare—but they simply rearranged the plates and made it work. The ordeal was almost over.

  Bradley was setting the pace now, his spatula hitting the side of a stainless steel bowl with a relentless thwack, thwack, thwack, a vibration reverberating through the kitchen. The beat was strong and so compelling that when he stopped, everything else did too.

  In the sudden ringing silence Alice dipped a finger into the sorbet. We watched her face. “Nothing’s right tonight,” she said.

  Jonathan took a taste. “Terrible,” he agreed. And then in an instant they had pulled together, desperately trying to make the dish into something they could serve. They macerated strawberries in Muscatel and tumbled them onto the plates.

  “We could make circles of blood oranges and put them around the edges,” suggested Lydia. She was already slicing as she spoke.

  * * *

  The guests applauded. They were polite. “It is so interesting,” said the Julia Child of Spain, “to see our own products used in such different ways.”

  “That was a terrible meal,” said Alice under her breath. She took a bow.

  “It could have been worse,” I whispered back, “under the circumstances.”

  “No,” murmured Jonathan, “it was really bad. Accept it. That was no fun.”

  Lydia, the optimist, did not even lower her voice. “I had a good time,” she said. “I liked working together. We fought for it.” She looked around at the group and added, “We did our best. Sometimes that is all you can do. And then you move on.”

  * * *

  The rain had ended, and a gentle mist was rising off the streets when we left. As we walked through the haze we could see that we shared the sidewalks with prostitutes wearing nothing but pantyhose and pumps. In any other city in the world this would have seemed surreal, but framed by Barcelona’s fantastic architecture, the women seemed to be appropriately dressed.

  We were very hungry; we had worked all night and eaten nothing. But it was so late that eve
n the bars had stopped serving food, and all we could find were flaccid french fries and pallid pizza in an all-night joint. It was our last night in Barcelona, and we had cooked one terrible meal and were eating a worse one. But somehow, we were happy. We had fought for it. We had done our best.

  * * *

  “I want to ask a question,” said Colman. The sun was coming up, and we all looked blearily across at him. “Why did you come?”

  Bradley said for adventure and Jonathan, for the sheer craziness of it all. Lydia had wanted to work with Alice, and Alice had liked the group.

  Mark, of course, had had a loftier goal. “I came,” he said, “because we need to prove to the Europeans that American cuisine has arrived.” He paused for a moment and then added, “And because the thing that gives American cooking its strength is our ability to share ideas and work together.” We kept looking at him expectantly, and he finally conceded, “Okay, and also because I thought it would be fun.”

  Colman turned to me. I knew he had been hoping that we would say we had come to learn about Catalan cooking, and I didn’t want to disappoint him.

  But that wasn’t the truth, and it was too early, or too late, to lie. “When I got on the plane,” I said slowly, “I didn’t really know why I was coming. But I do now. I needed to find out that sometimes even your best is not good enough. And that in those times you have to give it everything you’ve got. And then move on.”

  * * *

  It had been a short trip. It had been forever. When I got home the house seemed less empty and Michael less like a stranger. I was filled with a strange serenity.

  “You’re crazy,” said my mother when I told her what I thought lay behind this extraordinary feeling. “It’s all been too much for you. Have you seen a doctor?”

  “No,” I said. “I don’t need to. I know.”

  “How late are you?” she asked.

  “One day,” I said.

  “Ruthie,” she lamented, “stop it. When would you have gotten pregnant?”

  “When Michael and I were in the Napa Valley,” I said, certain that it was true.

  “It’s just wishful thinking,” my mother insisted.

  “I think I’ll go get one of those home pregnancy kits,” I said dreamily.

  “Yes,” she replied, “please. Get it over with quickly. The sooner you find out the truth, the less disappointed you will be.”

  My doctor said much the same thing when I called her. “Those home pregnancy kits are very unreliable.” She sighed as if she wished she could wipe them all off the market. “You might as well come in and let us give you a real test.”

  That one was positive too, but she remained wary. “Don’t get your hopes up,” she warned. “You’re forty-one years old. The chances that you will carry this baby to term are very slim. You’ve been through a lot. If I were you, I wouldn’t tell anyone about this. Not even Michael.”

  “Of course not,” I said. Then I got in my car and drove straight to Michael’s office.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked when he saw me. “Is something wrong?”

  “No,” I replied. “For the first time in a very long time, nothing is wrong.”

  “So why have you come?”

  “To tell you that we’re going to have a baby.”

  “Are you sure?” he asked.

  This time I had absolutely no doubts.

  FRIED CAPERS AND CALVES’ BRAINS WITH SHERRY BUTTER SAUCE

  I keep telling my son, Nick, that he really ought to try these; that they are, somehow, mixed up with his destiny. So far I haven’t been able to convince him of this fact. But then, he’s only eleven.

  The brains are almost entirely texture—like savory marshmallows in a crisp crust. Tossed with salty capers and drizzled with a sweet, buttery sherry sauce, they play tricks in your mouth. I make them whenever things are going badly. They’re a lot of work, but they’re worth it. They remind me that life is full of surprises—and that there is always hope.

  1 pound calves’ brains

  6 cups water, plus additional salted water for soaking

  1 1/2 tablespoons white wine vinegar

  1 small onion, quartered

  1 medium carrot, cut into 1/2-inch pieces

  1/2 celery stalk, cut into 1-inch pieces

  2 sprigs fresh parsley

  1/2 small bay leaf

  1/8 teaspoon dried thyme

  1 1/2 teaspoons kosher salt

  5 black peppercorns

  1 large egg

  1/2 teaspoon salt

  2 cups fresh bread crumbs

  3/4 cup olive oil

  2 tablespoons large bottled capers, drained

  salt and paper for seasoning

  1/3 cup medium-dry sherry

  3 tablespoons unsalted butter

  1 teaspoon fresh lemon juice or to taste

  Accompaniment: lemon wedges

  Rinse the brains under cold running water in a colander and transfer them to a bowl of salted cold water to cover by 1 inch. Let the brains soak for 30 minutes; then drain them in a colander and carefully remove the surrounding thin clear membrane and external blood vessels with your fingers.

  While the brains are soaking, simmer the remaining 6 cups water with the vinegar, onion, carrot, celery, parsley, bay leaf, thyme, kosher salt, and peppercorns in a 5-quart pot for 15 minutes. Bring the liquid to a boil, add the brains, and simmer gently, covered, for 20 minutes. Use a slotted spoon to transfer the brains to a clean colander. Cool completely.

  Put one lobe of the brains in the middle of a piece of plastic wrap and gather the edges of the plastic wrap to form a tight purse. Tightly twist the ends of the plastic wrap so the plastic fits snugly around the brains, folding the ends of the plastic wrap under the purse to prevent them from unraveling. Wrap the remaining lobes in the same manner and chill for 1 hour, or until they are firmer.

  Whisk together the egg and salt in a bowl. Put the bread crumbs in a shallow bowl. Unwrap the brains and cut them crosswise into 1/2-inch-thick pieces. Dip two pieces of brains at a time in the egg, letting the excess drip off, and dredge them in the bread crumbs to coat them, lightly patting the crumbs so they adhere to the brains. Transfer the slices, as coated, to a plate.

  Heat the oil in a heavy 10-inch skillet over moderately high heat until hot but not smoking and fry the capers, stirring occasionally, until they open up like flowers and are crisp, 2 to 3 minutes. Use a slotted spoon to transfer the capers to paper towels to drain. Immediately fry the brains, in batches without crowding, until golden brown on both sides, 1 to 2 minutes. Use a slotted spoon to transfer the brains to paper towels to drain. Season the brains with salt and pepper and keep them warm in a low oven.

  Drain the oil from the skillet and wipe it clean with a paper towel. Add the sherry and simmer until it’s reduced by half. Whisk in the butter, and cook over moderate heat until just incorporated. Remove the skillet from the heat and whisk in the lemon juice. Add salt and pepper to taste.

  Serve the brains sprinkled with fried capers and drizzled with sauce.

  Serves 6 to 8.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  You have to be a little crazy to write a book while editing a magazine. You also have to be blessed with a very indulgent family, friends who put up with never seeing you, and above all, colleagues who can step in and do the work you never quite get to.

  I could never have written this book if Laurie Ochoa, Larry Karol, and Diana La Guardia had not been so competent, accommodating, and willing to cover for me at Gourmet. They even let me take three weeks off during our biggest issue—and never complained about it. At least not to me.

  Michael and Nick were also amazing, letting me disappear into my book every night, every morning, and across entire weekends. They only occasionally mentioned that I was no fun.

  My editor, Ann Godoff, and my agent, Kathy Robbins, were both enormously supportive as we raced toward the deadline, making changes up to the very last second. My assistant, Robin Pellicci, n
ever once complained when I handed her yet another page to copy. And Lori Powell did more than test the recipes—she also improved them.

  Thanks also to the MacDowell Colony for providing a few weeks of paradise: time to write, endless quiet, and an extraordinarily creative community.

  I also want to thank all the people who played such an important part in the tumultuous years I’ve written about here. Susan Subtle, who practically forced me to write when I insisted I was just a cook. Rosalie Wright, my first editor at New West (and still the best boss I’ve ever had). Bill Broyles, who took over when the magazine became California, and pushed me even further. And Donna Warner, who worked with me at Metropolitan Home, not only taught me what makes a good photograph but also let me sleep on the floor of her hotel room at all the food conferences I could not afford.

  Pat Oleszko, Marion Cunningham, Sherry Virbila, and Elena Fontanari talked me through the painful process of breaking up with Doug. It would have been a whole lot harder without them.

  Bruce Henstell was, for many years, my L.A. home. He introduced me to sushi and came to get me the night I was mugged. When I moved to L.A., Mark Peel’s and Nancy Silverton’s endless generosity made living there fun. Henry Weinstein, Mary Louise Oates, David Shear, Bill Steigerwald, and Kathie Jenkins, my first friends at the Times, taught me the difference between writing and journalism. David Shaw and Lucy Stille were wonderful sources of food and friendship. And Steve Wallace changed my life by introducing me to Danny Kaye.

  Shelby Coffey gave me the Food Section and let me mold it into something we could all be proud of. Laurie Ochoa and Jonathan Gold did more than help me; they showed me how exhilarating collaboration can be.

  Writing about Gavi was hard; living through it was harder. There is still not a day when I don’t think about her but over time I came to see that we had played an important role in her life; had we not fought so hard to keep her, she would not have a father. That comforts me. At the time, however, the only comfort came from friends. Stacey Winkler and Howard Weitzman were with us all the way, and Sonia Hernandez was a rock. And I will never, ever, forget Margy Rochlin showing up on Wednesdays and Saturdays to see us through the visits, or Bruce and Barbara Neyers’s kindness in lending us their Napa Valley house.