It’s hard to take one’s eyes off a beautiful sunset, especially one setting behind successive silhouettes of Healdsburg hills, a graceful bend of the Russian River, bluffs of manzanita, and countless other thriving, verdant living things of which I do not even pretend to know the name. An impressive pink hue dominates the dusk opposite the sun to the east. It is heavenly, at worst.
Neglecting that, I find myself staring at the cutting board next to me – more specifically the ruby red juice pooled around the lone chunk of beef. A blood stained knife rests in the background. I cure my slackjaw only momentarily to lick my lips in a decidedly Pavlovian fashion---a sort of simple culinary still life notwithstanding the juices still ever so slowly oozing from the 2 inch thick Piedmontese beef ribeye right in front of me.
We have just finished service for a very high end 230 guest wedding this past Saturday night (dessert buffet still to come after dancing). Only four passed hors d’oeuvres (but rapid fire! – these guests are hungry!); then a plated little gem and grilled artichoke salad that all of a sudden had to be served immediately, fifteen minutes before the scheduled time.
Family style platters of hot food (81 heaping platters in all) as a main course followed, served simultaneously with 72 plated vegetarian entrees of our housemade English pea ravioli – all in 15 minutes.
And now I allow myself a moment to finally let my mind wander. I would say 75% of the guests have exited the tent, satiated, in an effort to soak in the aforementioned setting sun and pink clouds. The other 25% appear to be cut from my mold, utilizing the mass exodus to their advantage by stalking each table in an attempt to grab the remaining prime ribeye chunks from the unattended platters. “Bravo,” I admire. “Huh?” the chef next to me asks. Oops! I guess I said that out loud. Blame it on the slackjaw.
Food, of course, stirs up poignant memories in us all. As I stare into the four hot deep fryers of pure duck fat (noble cauldrons of witches brew if ever there were!),
my mirrored reflection dissolves into memories of past sunsets, my own wedding, and, of course, some of the finest, fattest steaks I can recall eating. I may not remem
ber to pick up the dry cleaning tomorrow, but I sure can remember that bistecca Fiorentina I ate at Perseus in Florence ten years ago. Or the sizzling 42 ounce porterhouse I ate at the original Ruth Chris’ in New Orleans some twenty years ago. Not to mention the thick Kobe steaks I grilled up for myself, my wife, and my three year old only a few weeks back.
More importantly, food not only stirs up the past, it creates new, poignant memories again and again. Why may you ask did we have 4 fryers full of thousands of dollars of duck fat? For the decadent duck fat fries that the bride and groom just had to have on arguably the most important day of their lives---the yearning for a taste memory that only food can create and sustain. I certainly understand. Ultimately, that is the reason I cook. And eat.
As more and more people exit the tent to gaze at the ever increasing pinkness of the Sonoma sky, the bride and groom sit by themselves at the head table. No conversation – just an impressive display of beef and duck fat fry splendor---making memories indeed.
I will never forget...
Photos: Kate Webber Photography
Comments