Read Online Last Bite: A Novel of Culinary Romance by Nancy Verde Barr - Free Book Online
Authors: Nancy Verde Barr
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“Is
that Casey Costello
?” Sally said this as though she had just discovered the Queen of England cleaning the loo. It was her regular greeting, and it always makes me feel all warm and fuzzy.
“Can it be—
Sally Woods
?” I mimicked her tone and slight Georgian drawl as I stretched out my arms to join her in a big hug. Sally is my exact height, so hugging her is easy for me. Lots of people find their faces crushed into her ample bosom, a position that can be disconcerting when hugging someone as famous as Sally. “It’s
so
great to see you.”
Sally has been the biggest cheese in the food world for nearly thirty years. She has been declared a legend and a national treasure, been dined and feted by three presidents of the United States and one in France, and granted diplomas and awards more times than anyone of us can count, including Sally, whodoesn’t pay a whole lot of attention to such things. The man in the street knows her; children barely old enough to use the stove ask for her autograph; foodies swoon over her.
“It has been much too long, honey,” she said and then turned to hug Mae, who did stand on her tiptoes to avoid the bosom crush. “And here’s our Mae.” There was never any question about who belonged to the Sally family. They were “ours.”
As big a deal as Sally is, she never acts like one. The first thing she did after the hugging us was pull an apron out of her tote bag and ask what needed to be done.
“Well, we still have apples to peel and cut. All the dough’s made and chilling and needs to be rolled out and we have to caramelize enough sugar to cover . . .” I looked down at my notes. “Six—no, seven pans.”
Sally looked at the ten cast-iron skillets stacked up on the counter and let out one of her great hoots. “Huh! Just look at those pans. Isn’t this something? I’d like to make the caramel.”
Sonya reached for an apron and asked what she could do to help. Her question brought panic to Mae’s eyes. Sonya is a genius at producing food shows but a real klutz when it comes to actually cooking. The last time she helped, she came close to chopping off two fingers. Between getting her to the hospital for stitches and washing blood out of the potato salad, we were lucky to get on the air in time. At some point one of us was going to have to level with her, but for now, I just had to find her a task. “Would you mind going over my notes for the tarte Tatin setup? There are so many pans to deal with; I want to make sure it’s all there.” It was a stopgap measure at best. It wouldn’t take her all that long.
“Sure,” she said without enthusiasm and sat down at one end of Romeo with my script. Mae dusted the other end ofRomeo with flour and lined up six plastic bags, each containing a perfectly smooth, flattened cake of
pâté brisée
. Sally gave the bags affectionate pats on her way to the stove. “Those are lovely, Mae.” She slipped one out of its plastic cocoon, broke off a piece of the raw dough, and popped it into her mouth. It’s not for nothing she’s the best; she tastes
everything
. “Mmm. Buttery and delicious,” she said before going over to the stove.
“I just followed
your
recipe. It’s, like, foolproof.” Mae was beaming even as she tried to make a perfect circle out of the cake with the missing mouthful. I measured out the sugar and butter for the caramel and put it on the counter next to Sally, who was trying to get the uncooperative electric stove to deliver a moderately high heat. Any serious cook uses gas, not electricity, and this particular stove always presents a challenge. She turned on all four imperfect burners and waved her hand a few inches above them to see which ones were responsive. “You can be sure no cook ever designed a stove like this. And who sells these? Someone who last week was working in men’s socks? It’s just a shame.” Knowing what little control electricity provides the cook, I gave Sally a cut lemon. A
that Casey Costello
?” Sally said this as though she had just discovered the Queen of England cleaning the loo. It was her regular greeting, and it always makes me feel all warm and fuzzy.
“Can it be—
Sally Woods
?” I mimicked her tone and slight Georgian drawl as I stretched out my arms to join her in a big hug. Sally is my exact height, so hugging her is easy for me. Lots of people find their faces crushed into her ample bosom, a position that can be disconcerting when hugging someone as famous as Sally. “It’s
so
great to see you.”
Sally has been the biggest cheese in the food world for nearly thirty years. She has been declared a legend and a national treasure, been dined and feted by three presidents of the United States and one in France, and granted diplomas and awards more times than anyone of us can count, including Sally, whodoesn’t pay a whole lot of attention to such things. The man in the street knows her; children barely old enough to use the stove ask for her autograph; foodies swoon over her.
“It has been much too long, honey,” she said and then turned to hug Mae, who did stand on her tiptoes to avoid the bosom crush. “And here’s our Mae.” There was never any question about who belonged to the Sally family. They were “ours.”
As big a deal as Sally is, she never acts like one. The first thing she did after the hugging us was pull an apron out of her tote bag and ask what needed to be done.
“Well, we still have apples to peel and cut. All the dough’s made and chilling and needs to be rolled out and we have to caramelize enough sugar to cover . . .” I looked down at my notes. “Six—no, seven pans.”
Sally looked at the ten cast-iron skillets stacked up on the counter and let out one of her great hoots. “Huh! Just look at those pans. Isn’t this something? I’d like to make the caramel.”
Sonya reached for an apron and asked what she could do to help. Her question brought panic to Mae’s eyes. Sonya is a genius at producing food shows but a real klutz when it comes to actually cooking. The last time she helped, she came close to chopping off two fingers. Between getting her to the hospital for stitches and washing blood out of the potato salad, we were lucky to get on the air in time. At some point one of us was going to have to level with her, but for now, I just had to find her a task. “Would you mind going over my notes for the tarte Tatin setup? There are so many pans to deal with; I want to make sure it’s all there.” It was a stopgap measure at best. It wouldn’t take her all that long.
“Sure,” she said without enthusiasm and sat down at one end of Romeo with my script. Mae dusted the other end ofRomeo with flour and lined up six plastic bags, each containing a perfectly smooth, flattened cake of
pâté brisée
. Sally gave the bags affectionate pats on her way to the stove. “Those are lovely, Mae.” She slipped one out of its plastic cocoon, broke off a piece of the raw dough, and popped it into her mouth. It’s not for nothing she’s the best; she tastes
everything
. “Mmm. Buttery and delicious,” she said before going over to the stove.
“I just followed
your
recipe. It’s, like, foolproof.” Mae was beaming even as she tried to make a perfect circle out of the cake with the missing mouthful. I measured out the sugar and butter for the caramel and put it on the counter next to Sally, who was trying to get the uncooperative electric stove to deliver a moderately high heat. Any serious cook uses gas, not electricity, and this particular stove always presents a challenge. She turned on all four imperfect burners and waved her hand a few inches above them to see which ones were responsive. “You can be sure no cook ever designed a stove like this. And who sells these? Someone who last week was working in men’s socks? It’s just a shame.” Knowing what little control electricity provides the cook, I gave Sally a cut lemon. A
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