Read Online Last Bite: A Novel of Culinary Romance by Nancy Verde Barr - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Nancy Verde Barr
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buckets of water and served as our water source and cleanup area. The second table was our prep area and on top were another hot plate, cutting board, knives, utensils, and the food. Underneath were pots, pans, numerous small appliances, and several electrical outlets.
Sally was demonstrating trout mousse rolled inside salmon fillets and napped—such a nice word—with hollandaise sauce.She made the hollandaise on her hot plate and handed it to me to keep warm on our back-table hot plate. When I took the pan from her, smiling for the audience, I could see that it had curdled; little bits of hard yolk were visible up close. I wasn’t exactly sure what to do about it. I certainly didn’t want to point it out to her, but I knew she wouldn’t want to use it as it was. So I made another one. I melted butter on my hot plate and crouched under the skirted table with the butter, egg yolks, lemon juice, and the blender. I waited for Sally to turn on the food processor to puree the trout, and then, knowing the processor would drown me out, I turned on the blender and whirred yolks, butter, and lemon juice into a perfect hollandaise and put it in a pan identical to the one Sally had handed me. I saved hers just in case she was planning to discuss curdling, but when I handed her the newly made one, she just gave me that schoolgirl grin and said, “Nice work” and went back to the demonstration.
That night, Sally asked me if I would be available to assist her whenever she was working in New York. I guess being able to cook on the floor is a valuable asset. My first official gig with her turned out to be an eighteen-hour marathon of television, demonstrations, and eating. We started our day at five in the morning right here at
Morning in America
. Back then, they had no prep chef, not much equipment, and no Romeo, so the resources weren’t much better than the makeshift theater kitchen. But we managed to pull off one live show and three taped shows without a hitch. We congratulated ourselves with a four-course lunch and some very fine wine. Before going on to the evening demonstration, we stopped off at a champagne-and-chocolate-ice-cream tasting that the James Beard House was sponsoring. At six o’clock, we were back in another theater setup, where Sally made gumbo for three hundred people intwo electric woks. She was amazing. When the show ended at ten o’clock, the sponsors brought us champagne to toast the evening. Up until this point, I had been sensibly sipping the spirits, knowing that I wasn’t called “Thimble Belly” for nothing, but now that the day was over I greedily held my glass out. As I was draining my second glass, Sally asked me where I’d like to go to dinner. Who was thinking about dinner? Mentally, my head was already on a pillow. We chose a homey little Italian restaurant, and after dinner, and more wine, I was showing Sally how to burn amoretti papers and coming close to burning down the restaurant. The next morning we met for breakfast, and I thought I should explain my behavior.
“Sally, I think I misjudged my dinner wine last night. I seem to remember dancing on tables.”
She put her hand on my arm, got that impish look in her eyes, and said, “You were. But you were very good.” From that moment on, I saw her not as a star but as a cool person, and before long, we saw each other as really good friends. When the position at
Morning in America
came up, she told Sonya she had to have me. That led to the happy place where I am today.
“Cooking together is such fun,” Sally exclaimed between ice cubes.
“It sure is,” Mae and I echoed each other.
Jonathan, however, did not look as if he were having fun. He might have been unsettled by the realization that the all-time greatest cooking personality could have keeled over in the middle of a conversation with him. He would become the medical case model for proof of dying from boredom. “I’m going to go to the fish market to see if I can get
Sally was demonstrating trout mousse rolled inside salmon fillets and napped—such a nice word—with hollandaise sauce.She made the hollandaise on her hot plate and handed it to me to keep warm on our back-table hot plate. When I took the pan from her, smiling for the audience, I could see that it had curdled; little bits of hard yolk were visible up close. I wasn’t exactly sure what to do about it. I certainly didn’t want to point it out to her, but I knew she wouldn’t want to use it as it was. So I made another one. I melted butter on my hot plate and crouched under the skirted table with the butter, egg yolks, lemon juice, and the blender. I waited for Sally to turn on the food processor to puree the trout, and then, knowing the processor would drown me out, I turned on the blender and whirred yolks, butter, and lemon juice into a perfect hollandaise and put it in a pan identical to the one Sally had handed me. I saved hers just in case she was planning to discuss curdling, but when I handed her the newly made one, she just gave me that schoolgirl grin and said, “Nice work” and went back to the demonstration.
That night, Sally asked me if I would be available to assist her whenever she was working in New York. I guess being able to cook on the floor is a valuable asset. My first official gig with her turned out to be an eighteen-hour marathon of television, demonstrations, and eating. We started our day at five in the morning right here at
Morning in America
. Back then, they had no prep chef, not much equipment, and no Romeo, so the resources weren’t much better than the makeshift theater kitchen. But we managed to pull off one live show and three taped shows without a hitch. We congratulated ourselves with a four-course lunch and some very fine wine. Before going on to the evening demonstration, we stopped off at a champagne-and-chocolate-ice-cream tasting that the James Beard House was sponsoring. At six o’clock, we were back in another theater setup, where Sally made gumbo for three hundred people intwo electric woks. She was amazing. When the show ended at ten o’clock, the sponsors brought us champagne to toast the evening. Up until this point, I had been sensibly sipping the spirits, knowing that I wasn’t called “Thimble Belly” for nothing, but now that the day was over I greedily held my glass out. As I was draining my second glass, Sally asked me where I’d like to go to dinner. Who was thinking about dinner? Mentally, my head was already on a pillow. We chose a homey little Italian restaurant, and after dinner, and more wine, I was showing Sally how to burn amoretti papers and coming close to burning down the restaurant. The next morning we met for breakfast, and I thought I should explain my behavior.
“Sally, I think I misjudged my dinner wine last night. I seem to remember dancing on tables.”
She put her hand on my arm, got that impish look in her eyes, and said, “You were. But you were very good.” From that moment on, I saw her not as a star but as a cool person, and before long, we saw each other as really good friends. When the position at
Morning in America
came up, she told Sonya she had to have me. That led to the happy place where I am today.
“Cooking together is such fun,” Sally exclaimed between ice cubes.
“It sure is,” Mae and I echoed each other.
Jonathan, however, did not look as if he were having fun. He might have been unsettled by the realization that the all-time greatest cooking personality could have keeled over in the middle of a conversation with him. He would become the medical case model for proof of dying from boredom. “I’m going to go to the fish market to see if I can get
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