My recent foray into becoming “the accidental caterer” began at the Ladies Village Improvement Society Fair this past summer. Patti Ferrin had enthusiastically suggested I auction myself off to cook/demo a dinner in someone’s home.
I am a good cook, not a great cook, so I chose a cuisine that is in my wheelhouse and is most often a crowd pleaser, bistro food.
When I arrived at the fair to work in the baked goods booth, I passed by the silent auction booth to see if the dinner had been sold. It had, immediately, to a Susan Bloom and several of her friends. We met at the fair and I came away thinking, “She’s cool; this will be fun.”
When the time came to plan the menu I had to ask the now obligatory question, “Do any of you have food allergies and/or food preferences, likes, dislikes, etc.” Her reply was along the lines of “We’re all foodies and love to cook. The only things we don’t like are alligator, lima beans, and squid.” I told you she was cool!
I decided on a selection of olives marinated with lemon and orange peel, fennel seeds, and garlic, along with warm Roquefort gougeres for the aperitif hour. The main course would be cassoulet, followed by a frisée salad with shallot dressing and frizzled prosciutto, and a selection of cheeses with sliced baguettes. The dessert would be Marion Burro’s famous plum torte.
Susan had kindly invited me to join the dinner party, but I never feel comfortable crossing the line from service person/chef/caterer to guest. The only other time I had done this I spent the whole meal with people I didn’t know, watching them silently eat my food and doubting whether they enjoyed it. Who needs the agita? So I agreed to stay for the hors d’oeuvres hour, discuss the origins of the courses, and then depart.
I had never made cassoulet before and after researching recipes (which are so varied it makes your head spin) I decided to just combine a bunch of them and wing it. And this caused my confidence level to drop. What if they hate it? What if it’s too rich, too dull, too meaty, too beany? They paid good money and put their trust in me, this has to be awesome!
I am confident cooking at home for friends. I was always confident as a pastry chef in restaurants (that part only took about 30 years). So why was I suddenly panicking over disappointing people I didn’t know? I don’t know. But after cooking hard for two days I was exhausted and came to the conclusion that I’m too old for this.
When I dropped off the food and lingered with the guests I was immediately struck by how smart and fun and curious and interesting and hungry they were. They gobbled up all of the gougeres. I drove home thinking, “That’s a good sign, I hope they like the rest of the meal.” The next day I got an email from Susan saying how much everyone had enjoyed the dinner, having seconds, even thirds, and that next time she’d like to cook for me.
I kept a small portion of the cassoulet for myself and tasted it the next day. It was pretty darned good. The beans had absorbed so many flavors from the different meats and aromatics. So I tried to remember exactly what I had done and scribble down a recipe which was basically everything from Saveur, The New York Times, Epicurious, Bon Appetit, Martha Stewart, Balthazar Restaurant, D’Artagnan’s website, and more.
Fast forward a few months and I run into the delightful Dianne Benson and Lys Marigold, who lamented that they had wanted to bid on the L.V.I.S. auction item of the bistro meal but had missed out. “Aw, heck, you all are friends, I’ll cook for you anytime!” I blurted out, obviously forgetting the exhaustion, vapors, insecurity, conniption fits, jitters, and dithers I’d felt the last time. A few weeks later Dianne called and said she’d like to surprise Lys with a birthday dinner prepared by moi. “She’s very particular but I think she’d love a dinner cooked by you.”
We toy with the idea of a Middle Eastern-themed dinner, but I am allowed to fall back into my area of almost-expertise, simple cozy bistro fare.
I try to find my scribbled hodgepodge of a recipe, but cannot. I start again from scratch, bastardizing and borrowing from every source. The dinner will be for 10 people, to be held at their friend Faith Popcorn’s house, and I am invited to join them at the table. I waffle a little bit, aware that I am still the service person, the cook, and I have a job to do. But I agree to join.
The cooking frenzy begins anew, days in advance, and the vague memory of recipe performance anxiety comes creeping back. Why did I agree to do this again, I wonder?
I arrive at the Popcorn abode (gorgeous and quirky) an hour early to get acclimated, get a feel for the kitchen (teensy and charming) and meet the hostess (super cool). I am wearing an apron and have pinned my hair back, to remind myself, and everyone else, of my role here. Ms. Popcorn is warm and bossy at the same time, so I immediately like her. She chooses huge plates for the salad/cheese course. This is brilliant. When the guests arrive and I see that several of them are some of my favorite people — Frank and Stephen and Michael — I start to relax. The guest of honor, birthday girl Lys, is delighted over the whole prospect of the meal. I am fretting a little bit about the cassoulet version 2.0 that I winged yet again. I am also nervous about the bold decision to buy one and only one whole wheel of Reblochon as our cheese. It could be a glorious addition to the meal, or an ammoniated nightmare of over-ripened cow goo, we won’t know until we slice into it.
The evening is a delight. Murmurs of pleasure waft down the table. I hear words like “subtle,” “smooth,” “authentic,” and best of all, “Where else can you get authentic cassoulet in America?” I am pleased and proud, not so much because I made a good meal for wonderful people, but because I made them happy and nourished them with something they don’t see every day. Unless they live in Toulouse.
Cassoulet is a labor of love. It is not hard, but it is time consuming. The ingredients can be expensive because you really should buy the best duck confit, sausages, and demi-glace you can find.
The epilogue to this self-involved rumination is the following: On Saturday night I was invited back to Susan Bloom’s for dinner. I met more fascinating people and Susan made a divine beef stroganoff. I contributed an apple galette with Calvados crème fraîche. I also made an extra galette for my buddies, the Schmitz family, at the Sag Harbor Liquor Store cuz they like it too. Today I am bringing leftover cassoulet to my friend Rick at Bridge Gardens.
Food made with love (and even the occasional uncertainty) is one of the best gifts you can share.
