The Angst
Good old post-traumatic stress you woke me up again. I’m no novice to a food-related midnight wake-up. My haunting memories of deep sleep wake-ups and thinking I forgot to switch off the oven in the restaurant kitchen, forgetting to ice up the fish, and all the rest.
An uncomfortable sleep is an odd feeling. The fine line of the subconscious is intertwined with pacing thoughts and the prediction of waking up. Once awake, your body readjusts to the realm of physical awareness and it feels off.
My sweaty forehead remembered the two vacation days I took for the supper club, the day of, and the day after. Then came the off-putting sense of having to organize a dinner for about 20 people. Then comes the churning thought of: “Oh shiiit! This dinner is in the middle of the week! I forgot to lock in a vacation day before the event to prepare.”
Let’s Cross That Bridge When We Get There
I wouldn’t say I forgot because it’s an obvious step to plan. It just dawned on me in the middle of the night in bed. This time, these wake-ups are from my own culinary ‘side hustle’ and those responsibilities, instead of those working in someone else’s restaurant. Not having a full day to get organized and avoid stress-shopping for ingredients in order to stressfully cook for the event — stresses me out. It’s like a hypocrite ‘hypocrising’ their hypocrisy.
Step Back for the Clear View
My last supper club landed on a Sunday, the week before Christmas Eve. So I had Friday evening to shop and all of Saturday to get things I forgot and to prep. It left me with some breathing room that I feel I won’t have for the upcoming one.
The shopping takes time and some back-and-forth walking to stock up for a three-course meal fit for 20 people. The moment of despair was on the day of the supper club, where I found out the plates that were at the venue a few weeks ago simply vanished as if I rubbed a genie lamp the wrong way.
Luckily my girlfriend went out into the very cold world of Berlin to get 40 brand new plates. It’s a pricy investment that will hopefully be settled this time around. I’m not really doing this for the money. More for the memory I can provide to the lovely people and myself, but I still need to live you know?
All the obstacles, loops, and hurdles can be deflected and worked around with amazing people who keep you sharp and cool. That’s what made me fall in love with working in the kitchen. You find out and understand you are not alone. You have a team to help in case the shit hits the fan, which eventually it will. This time, my team was my family and friends.
My partner set up the table with my godmother and made it look warm and welcoming. Wines at the ready, flowers, fresh brand new plates, cutlery, napkins, and a 6-meter tablecloth that just fits. The multiple bistro tables were quite wobbly but that didn’t stop us until the guests arrived and a full uncorked bottle of red wine spilled across the pristine tablecloth. You could hear the glug glug of the wine pouring out.
I laughed and said, “fuck it, who cares?” and hid myself in the kitchen.
Shake it Off
Maybe that was the baptism of the evening because, after that, it all went pretty smooth. Except for the dishwasher, which didn’t clean a damn thing and I had to wash the pots and plates by hand.
We had throw-away cameras peppered across the table and once I developed them, I got to see what it was like to sit at that table. That is the sacrifice of being a cook. You provide and serve but you can’t attend the joy of sharing those moments. After serving the last and third course, the dinner came to an end.
I then sat at the end of the table and poured myself some wine next to the lovely wine splotch, I forget which splotch was the first. All the guests raised their glasses in heartwarming unison to cheer for the evening, for the servers, and for the food.
The wine was potent and felt warm and well-earned, what tasted better was seeing everyone smiling and truly enjoying themselves — slightly tipsy of course because the wines were included, after all.
Sure as the Sunrise
I have now learned to ask for help and understand it’s OK to do so. I’ve asked my colleague to help with the dessert because that is not my strong suit. It’s hers, as she spent ten years as a pastry chef. Talk about ending things with a bang. I should also maybe ask for even more help, which I will try to do. It took me years to get to the point of asking for help and understanding the normalcy of it, no need to lone-wolf things anymore.
It took time to find inspiration for what to serve for the upcoming menu for Valentine’s. So far, I’m considering oysters as an aphrodisiac and welcome treat with a kiwi-shallot mignonette. For the appetizer, seared scallops with a grapefruit beurre noisette, edible flowers, and thinly sliced radishes with a drizzle of chili oil.
As for the main, I envisioned something primal and hearty like a roasted lamb leg roulade with a goat cheese and spinach stuffing. Braising it in white wine and chicken stock with a whip of Dijon mustard and crème fraîche. At the end showering a handful of herbs to swim in the sauce like an alligator-in-the-swamp.
One always needs wines and perhaps champagne to provide a bubbly and giddy atmosphere, or a crémant rosé for a visual splurge with the surprise dessert. I want to sit at that table so badly to be honest, but hey, I have to provide a memory to all those beautiful couples that’ll come.
To Love, Trust, and Thank
That is what gets me anxious. I want a positive memory to be fulfilled more than anything else, I need to trust the ride and relax. Have faith in myself and trust the people, in this case, friends and family who help so admirably. To trust and love the process. I’m sleeping much better now, except for my daughter crying in the night because of her new set of teeth coming in.
I want to thank everyone who helped that day. Yolanda, it wouldn’t have been possible without you. Marley, you made sure to keep me smiling. Mady, you are a star. Veerle thank you for your agility. Stefan for your strength and humor. To the Seay brothers for bringing some L.A. to the table. Finally, thank you to all who came to enjoy and celebrate life.
And thank you, my dear reader, it almost sounds like you were there too.
To all the lovers out there and all those who are single but ready to mingle, I wish you a lovely Valentine’s.
Lamb leg roulade-ly yours,
The Greasy Pen.