Alone in the Kitchen with an Eggplant (7 page)

But his eyes would get straight to work as soon as we set foot through the front door, and he knew his business, he really did. I’ll give him that any day. Sometimes, watching him take in a room, it was like watching an artist sketch a nude, the way his eyes darted back and forth, from body to canvas, never still. And sometimes he’d make a comment, offering criticism or praise, or mentioning some restaurant he knew in London or Barcelona or wherever…. But that’s how he taught me, how I learned the most, just from watching him, really. And I was a quick study—I think so, yes.

Then again, so much has to do with exposure. He took me to all sorts of places I’d never been, restaurants I never could’ve afforded otherwise. Mostly two-and three-star, but the kinds of places I’d always imagined I wanted to go, until you really got down to it, and I didn’t, after all. It used to cause me such anxiety, just trying to figure out what to wear, for fear of drawing attention to myself. And
why I cared—
honestly, that was such a ridiculous waste of time and energy. Really, I don’t know what I was thinking. Then again, there were a few instances when my ignorance showed.

Like the first time we went to Danube, when I took my wineglass firmly in hand, pretty much like a beer bottle, I suppose, and my husband kept tapping my hand and wagging his finger at me, No no no. Until I finally said, What? What is your
problem
? I asked, completely fed up, then he leaned forward and whispered over the table, explaining that you hold a wineglass by the stem, not the bulb. I didn’t know the proper way to hold my wineglass because no one had ever told me. No one had ever taught me any table manners, to be honest. So I was mortified, of course, but thankfully, there weren’t too many of those incidents. And otherwise, his view of wine was this: either you like it or you don’t. In fact, wine was one of the few things that humbled the guy. Which was a pleasure in itself, really.

So I decided, well, I guess I’ll just tell him what I like. Soon enough, when he’d bring home a bottle of wine that really knocked my socks off, I’d call him at the restaurant, while he was working on the floor, just to tell him so. Some afternoons, he’d rush home for an hour between shifts, carrying an erect briefcase full of new wines. Oooh…I’d squeal, running to meet him at the door, and throwing my arms around his neck: Is that a
Blah-di-blah-y-Blah-de-blah,
or are you just happy to see me? Then, before I could lay on the full-court press of my solicitation, my husband would share the retail price, telling me not to get used to it. So, feeling slightly deflated, I’d stiffly remove my arms, telling him that if I wasn’t getting used to it, he might want to look into some retail prices of his own.

Anyhow, I’d say, oh, 99 percent of the time, we agreed on wine and just about every restaurant we visited. Then again, the more I learned from my husband, the more restaurants
were
disappointing, actually. And it wasn’t long before I started realizing what a snob I can be—I have it in me, I’m afraid. And then some. But the thing is, every time, every single time a word of criticism reached the tip of my tongue, I was torn between how I was raised and who I wanted to be. Which was not necessarily someone who complained in restaurants, but still.

I mean, simply admitting that my food wasn’t served hot, when he asked about my entrée, felt strangely disloyal. Like I was leaving my family behind or something—it was just so against the grain…what can I say? It’s hard to let these things go. Christ, my mother was
forty years old
before she could leave a bite of food on her plate. And I remember the day she told me, because I was so proud of her—it was a milestone in both our lives, really. Because I had to wonder how old I would be before I could do the same.

I’ll tell you the turning point, though, the night everything changed for me. I mean, we went out to a lot of restaurants, and I enjoyed them, you know, but I can’t say I really cared until the night my husband took me to his favorite sushi joint. Which was the night we became engaged, for all practical purposes, because this was his top-secret joint—I mean, this was a serious commitment. I’m not kidding: the guy wouldn’t share the name of this place with
anyone.
But I will, of course, gladly. It’s this little spot on the Upper East Side called Sushi of Gari, and I was a bit stunned when we arrived, because the place wasn’t much to look at, taking our seats at the bar, while my husband ordered us the chef’s special and some sake.

Of course I’d had sushi before, but this…Sushi of Gari was nothing less than a revelation. I know that sounds exaggerated, but I’m telling you: the man did things with fish I didn’t know were possible, that were just…
inconceivable
to me before that moment—every single time, too. Because when you order the chef’s special, you’re served one piece of sushi at a time, and it’s a surprise every course.

And obviously the pleasure of sitting at the bar is watching those gentleman prepare your sushi, which is genuine artistry, not to mention a complete turn-on. You know, I’ve often heard Anthony Bourdain bandy the word
orgasmic
about, and I’d always roll my eyes, thinking, Well,
no shit,
you’re a man: that’s a given. But still…the chef’s special at Sushi of Gari is a culinary multiple orgasm. That said, I must have had twelve courses—honestly, ten, easy—before I finally said no more, thank you. And the only reason, the only reason I quit was because my husband had, and I didn’t want to look like a complete pig, even though everyone behind the bar knew exactly what the score was. Even so, I could’ve gone all night.

Suffice it to say, looking at Gari, standing at the helm, with those dashing streaks of gray hair, looking so handsome, so stern, so, so—
masterful,
it was all I could do, biting my tongue, to keep a postcoital
I love you
from escaping my lips. I’m telling you, it was truly mind-blowing, that meal. On par with any musical, sexual and/or pharmaceutical awakening…ugh, I cannot imagine skydiving could be more exhilarating. Then again, the bill will certainly bring you back to earth, but anyhow. Sushi was never the same after that. Actually, nothing was the same after that.

It’s true, once you know what’s possible…Well, like they say, you can’t go home again. So I figured the best way out of the jam was to take my parents, right? I mean,
I
certainly don’t have that kind of money, so God bless good old Mitch and Cathy for coming to town once a year. My folks, yes, who, like me, also thought they’d had sushi before. Oh, no…
oh no no no,
I smiled, assuring them with my enlightened nod, if you haven’t been to Gari’s, you haven’t had sushi, trust me, I said. And they agreed. And now, every time I speak to my dad on the phone, he always makes a point of asking about the man, if I’ve seen him recently, speaking in a tone as though Gari was the one I let get away.

Speaking of, rumor has it that Gari was quite taken with my mother-in-law. And who could blame him? She’s stunning. She’s tall, thin, she’s elegant, she’s led an incredibly glamorous life, and she’s one of the only women I’ve ever known whom I’d call regal. Basically, she was everything I ever thought I wanted to be. Plus thirty years—but even that. I mean, she made aging look pretty damn good. Like somewhere you might actually want to be, one day. And at my age, she was absolutely breathtaking.

Then again, truth be told, I didn’t like her at first for the simple reason that she was far more interested in talking about food than me. Hard to believe, I know, but the woman had no interest in
me,
whatsoever. It’s true: we met uptown, that first night, because my husband and his mother were attending some sort of food-and-wine-pairing series at some posh midtown locale, organized by some bigwig in the French culinary scene, I don’t know what. The point is, I met them for dinner at a Korean barbecue joint in the thirties. Which I strongly suspect was chosen because they allow smoking in a back room, those cunning Koreans.

So there I was, trying to make conversation with my mother-in-law, asking about the tasting, which was exactly the wrong question. Because apparently, the tasting had proven a terrible disappointment, which she then proceeded to talk about on and off, the rest of the night, and I just thought, what is the big deal? So they served guacamole, and it wasn’t even good guacamole. Get over it, lady. Jesus Christ. After we dropped her off at her hotel, my husband asked what I thought of her, and all I could say was, Is she
always
like that? Like what? he said. Does she always talk so much about food? Opening the building door for me, he just nodded yes, pretty much. Ohmygod, I thought, how long is she
staying
?

As it turned out, the joke was on me. Because in the end, my mother-in-law proved a far better teacher than my husband, for the simple reason that she knew how to tell a great story. She was a RADA-trained stage actress and she was so passionate about food that just listening to her was a hell of a lot more exciting and educational than any cooking show I’ve ever seen. Yes, she was the one who taught me that every meal tells a story, literally and figuratively, and yes, she could talk for hours about famous chefs and famous restaurants and famous meals with famous friends, many of whom are now dead, I’m afraid.

As a matter of fact, my mother-in-law was a close friend of Rex Harrison, and to this day, every time she’s in New York, she makes a point of looking up Lady Marcia Harrison. They meet at Petrossian and feast on caviar,
mais bien sûr.
Oh, and by the way, it’s pronounced Mar-
see-
uh, not
Marsh-
uh.

But she was no name-dropper, my mother-in-law. Really, she was no more interested in talking about a celebrity than a Parisian vendor who’d been selling her leeks since the 1960s. And of course it wasn’t what, it was
how
she described the meals, how lovingly and descriptively and animatedly, all in the hopes that those people and places and meals, that those stories might live on. See, that’s what I didn’t get at first: that she was just trying to share something with me the best way she knew how. I guess I had so many biases of my own, it took a while for me to see that, but once I did, I finally saw the beauty in looking at the world in that light.

It certainly didn’t hurt that she had some pretty outrageous stories, too. Like that one about the time Peter O’Toole visited her in Israel—that was one of the most hilarious, depraved stories she ever told. Oh, sure, he looked harmless, sitting in the back row of the Oscars a few years ago, but I’m telling you, that man is
crazy….
God, she has so many stories I’d love to share, but they aren’t mine to tell, you see. Regardless, my mother-in-law was the first person to translate her knowledge of food into a language I could appreciate without any backlash of conscience or fear of betrayal. And I grew to love her very much.

A few months after my husband and I married, she visited and took us to a four-star restaurant to celebrate. So of course calls were made—Christ, even the whole thing with making calls and pulling favors, and I know it’s partly Israeli, but even that was so strange to me—we never ask for favors in my family, but anyhow. The kitchen was notified we were coming. And it’s quite a scene when one of the most famous chefs in the world steps out of the kitchen and approaches one table to speak to one guest in particular. A few minutes later, the chef leaves, of course, but people keep staring: Who are those people? Are they somebody? Should we know them? Funny.

At one point, my husband stepped outside for a cigarette, leaving me with my mother-in-law, who was telling me a story; I don’t remember which, but I was rapt. So, a few minutes later, my husband returned inside, grinning, and he proceeded to tell us that one of the other guests, a senator, no less, had introduced himself outside—
Ooh hooo,
a senator, she and I said, nudging and winking at each other. We’d had a few glasses of wine by then, obviously. Anyhow, the senator laughed, offering my husband his condolences, assuming that my husband was dining with his new wife and his new mother-in-law. We all got a good laugh out of that. And it was probably the greatest compliment my husband ever paid me.

But it wasn’t always like that. A year later, my mother-in-law took us to New Orleans for a long weekend. We left New York in the morning, and that cheap-ass American Airlines didn’t even serve a crummy bag of pretzels, so we were
famished
by the time we got to our hotel. Well, naturally, ever the culinary explorer, my mother-in-law wanted the real deal, so we made a beeline for a famous gumbo joint near our hotel. I was so hungry by the time we sat down, I was shaking, and when our gumbo arrived, it was several bites before I realized I was the only one eating: my husband and his mother had put down their forks almost simultaneously.

When the waitress approached, asking about our food, they both smiled and thanked her, saying it was delicious. But as soon as the waitress stepped away, they began speaking in Hebrew, never a good sign. What’s wrong? I asked, leaning forward. Inedible:
gruel,
my mother-in-law pronounced, with a violent shudder. I knew that shudder. Sure enough, my husband agreed, and neither touched their food, which left me in a terrible position. Waste food and go hungry, or prove myself uncouth? Tough call, yeah. Especially when, a moment later, my mother-in-law surmised, Well, it is slave food, after all. And the first thought that came to mind was
I was born a poor black child. Nothing was ever easy for me….
I didn’t say a word. And my stomach growled until dinnertime.