Farewell, 2009...

Gotham Bar and Grill occupies an enormous space on East Twelfth Street in what is technically Greenwich Village. Not the fourth-floor walkup West, but the lower Fifth Avenue Village. Twenty-five years after its opening, a veritable millennium in restaurant years, Gotham retains a singular New York City sense of energy and spectacle. The high ceilings, the parachute-fabric-swathed lighting, the floor-to-ceiling windows--day or night it feels exciting to be there. Working at Gotham back in the Nineties, we encountered a lot of boldface names, although the restaurant rarely closed for a Page Six-type event. We were likelier to see Dustin Hoffman stroll in incognito like Ratso Rizzo in a rumpled trench to see if we were still serving lunch, or Robert Redford unassumingly making his way around the perimeter of the dining room to a quiet table in the back.

We do remember one red-carpet event from our days and nights on Gotham's checkerboard parquet: the Spring 1998 premiere party for the movie The Object of My Affection, directed by Nicholas Hytner and starring Jennifer Aniston and Paul Rudd. The movie, based on Stephen McCauley's 1987 novel about a pregnant women who becomes attracted to her gay best friend, pulled together quite a number of theretofore underappreciated talents: Hytner was fresh off his smash Lincoln Center Theater Carousel revival, and Rudd was skimming the first crest of a career on the rise. As for Aniston, in addition to Friends, still high atop the ratings, she'd recently scored a singular personal (and professional) coup: dating Brad Pitt.

Pitt didn't attend the premiere party, but there were the prinicipals and plenty of others to note. Bret Easton Ellis, an early arrival, made a beeline for the food. Janeane Garofalo jumped whenever we proffered our lighted Zippo for her frequent cigarettes. Amy Irving asked us not to poke her with the serving utensils, and the model Hoyt Richards looked surprised when addressed by name. As for the stars, we didn't see Mr. Rudd, but during hors d'oeuvre passage in the rear dining room, we noted Miss Aniston's near-empty martini glass, and glided over to ask if we could get her another. "Yes," she said, pausing Rachel-style to drain the contents. "A Cosmopolitan. But..." --she raised the index finger that had been wagged so often at Ross (and Joey and Chandler)--"...with olives." She smiled her crooked half-smile. "I know. You probably think I'm weird." Not at all, we replied, smiling in an understanding way. A girl who drank Cosmopolitans with olives? Way to go, Brad. We got your girl's back...

We remember this event not just because of the rare conjunction of so many celebs in the Gotham's loft-like space, but because the crowd was unexpectedly loose and easy-going. With not a little sadness, we particularly remember one late arrival to the party. She showed up around the time the DJ put on an uptempo remix of that season's smash single, Andrea Bocelli's Con Te Partiro. An actress from a movie we loved and will always love, Brittany Murphy grabbed us by the wrist as we were passing with an open magnum of Veuve Clicquot and pulled us to the center of the dance area. She threw down a few good moves, so we threw caution to the wind, passed the magnum to a backwaiter, and joined her for a scant but unforgettable moment during which we became an even-bigger fan than seemed possible by her now-legendary performance in Clueless. We know that few line readings will ever match up to the razor-sharp snap! in her comeback to Alicia Silverstone, "You're a virgin who can't drive..." We were particularly intrigued by online rumors linking her to an impending adaptation of D.M. Thomas's novel The White Hotel. Sadly, suddenly, we are now left, like others, wondering.

We'd like to take this opportunity to acknowledge the many bright spirits we said goodbye to in 2009. May they rest in peace. And to the rest of us, best wishes for 2010.

We Wish You A Merry FLOTUS...

A block off Dupont Circle at the corner of New Hampshire Street Avenue and Q Street sits the Women's National Democratic Club, a late-19th century Victorian building with Arts-and-Crafts touches. The Club, founded in 1922, is an historic D.C. venue for Democratic women that has broadened its affiliation over the decades to all genders, if not all parties. In 1994, as White House Chef on travel, we were responsible for a medium-high profile holiday event for several hundred-plus guests: the Christmas tea of then-First Lady Hillary Rodham Clinton.

Through the First Lady's sizeable staff, we began planning a month ahead of the event, which was scheduled for 4:00 p.m. on a December weekday. The main menu included traditional tea sandwiches such as cucumber on white bread and smoked salmon on rye, as well as savory profiteroles filled with chicken or egg salad; beverages included homemade fruit punch, as well as coffee and tea service. Pastries were prepared by the White House pastry chef. One of our significant responsibilities was making a gingerbread model of the White House. We were given plans for 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue that allowed us to construct--and we do mean construct--a copy to scale that was about three-by-four feet. Ten days prior, the First Lady's chief of staff delivered a final guest count of 250 to us and to the Secret Service. In the meantime, we spent about a week building the gingerbread version of the White House in the club's kitchen; getting it to the display area was going to be another substantial undertaking.

Presidential- and First-Lady-level social events typically require a two-hour window of readiness on either side. The reason for the window on the "far" side of the scheduled time is the need for flexibility in such public figures' hour-by-hour schedules; we never knew what political urgency might necessitate the rare speeding-up or far more common slowing-down. Either case always required keeping foods at proper temperatures much, much longer than necessary--so long that the trick was planning and preparing suitable menus while maximizing flavor and texture. Fortunately, the First Lady's Christmas tea menu included foods served at room temperature.

The two-hour window on the "near" side was necessary for the Secret Service to come through the venue with a detail team, including search dogs, for their security sweep, and then "shut down" the required "perimeter". All guests, having already provided personal information for pre-screening purposes, began arriving an hour ahead of time in order to go through magnetometers. Once through, they waited for the First Lady's arrival. And waited. And waited. We weren't allowed to serve so much as a crumpet until she got there, which made for an awkward hour of social business indeed.

FLOTUS arrived by motorcade, accompanied by her sizeable entourage of staff, security, press corps, and other handlers. Once inside the room, she and her staff maneuvered strictly and entirely within an enclosed area that permitted both access to and protection from the guests. While Mrs. Clinton had access to all 250 guests, her staff had access to on-site briefs about each one. A pre-selected, pre-security-screened waiter from the club's staff remained at hand to serve the First Lady on the say-so of a staff member who shadowed her for just such purposes; he brought the occasional and somewhat obligatory cup of punch or tea sandwich to the First Lady's side. In all photos of such events, the ropes and stanchions defining this area are cropped out; at a state dinner like the recent and now-notorious one for the Indian prime minister, they are considered inappropriate.

It took about an hour for FLOTUS to make the circuit of the entire room. Once all the guests were acknowledged, the First Lady, still within the cordon, stepped to a podium in the vicinity of the Gingerbread White House to thank all the guests for their support of the Democratic Party. Mrs. Clinton was brought through the kitchen where, as was her custom, she personally thanked us and the staff; we always appreciated this touch of class. Then she and her team exited, as usual, through the venue's rear entrance, going back through the guests being out of the question. The guests remained in the reception area (typically, guests for presidential-level functions are held from exiting until the motorcade has cleared the secured area) and departed within a half-hour or so of the First Lady's exit.

What no one, not the First Lady, not her various staff members, and not one of the guests realized was that, while about a half-dozen people were in the process of moving the Gingerbread White House from the kitchen to the display area the morning of the event, the two east columns of the South Portico crumbled, resulting in the collapse of the entire portico. We finished moving the whole thing into place, however, and for the rest of the morning two chefs repaired the structure with Styrofoam and frosting. The Gingerbread White House remained at the club for the rest of the month. If such a confection is being assembled for the Obamas this year, we can't help wondering if a gingerbread version of Tariq and Michaela Salahi are positioned just outside that South Portico and are waiting to get in...

Cubanismo!

The Cuban artist Carlos Estévez believes “that works of art...are men’s supreme effort to conquer the universe.” Mr. Estévez, who was born and educated in Havana and still works and lives there, has a show up at the University of Buffalo Art Gallery called “Images of the Thought”. Earlier this month, we had the privilege of catering his opening reception.

The reception brought 200 people to the gallery, which is on the Main Floor of the UB Center for the Arts. As the guests arrived at 5, Mr. Estévez went through the galleries and briefly explained each work of art. He works in a wide array of mediums, from drawings to ceramics to painting to installation art. He has developed a distinctive visual lexicon that owes something to primitive mythology and cosmology as much as 19th and 20th century science. Human figures are prominently featured in his work; from a distance his canvasses, which have a somewhat neutral palette, resemble old-fashioned medical charts, like those used by palm readers or phrenologists. From mid-range to up close, the details in his work have the whimsy of Cornell, as well as the mandala abstraction of Kandinsky and Brazilian artist Beatriz Milhazes.

After Mr. Estévez finished explaining the exhibition, we started serving a buffet of Cuban specialties. We offered homemade beef empanadas, grilled eggplant on skewers, and plantain chips with mojo sauce, which is a light-textured, spicy citrus dressing, like a vinaigrette, that is common throughout the Caribbean (and allegedly originated in the Canary Islands). We made miniature version of the traditional Cuban sandwich with roasted pork loin, ham, mustard, and dill pickles grilled between bread. Lacking the necessary plancha that gives the sandwich its characteristic, panini-like flatness, we used a grill pan and weighted the sandwiches down under a baking sheet with a heavy, water-filled pot. Hundreds of guava-filled pastellitos were assembled and baked in advance by hand, and we fried up an enormous batch of savory, crunchy bacalaitos, a salt cod fritter. Without access to a good Cuban beer, we poured Corona and white wine and other soft drinks. We were pleased when the artist and many other commented on how authentic the food was; a Cuban émigré even mentioned that the bacalaitos were as good as she or her mother could have made.

“Images of the Thought” is up at the UB Art Gallery, on the UB campus in East Amherst, until mid-February 2010.

The National Bird

Thanksgiving Week reminds us that for several years back around the turn of the millennium, we prepared the holiday meal for members of the McCormick family, the Illinois-based clan descended from the early 19th century inventor of the mechanical reaper. Over the past two centuries, various McCormicks went on to prominent roles in American life, including Chicago politics and journalism. We knew Matt McCormick, who worked in high-end Washington, D.C.-area real estate, and over the years, he engaged us to cook and serve the traditional holiday meal in various residences in Georgetown, Kalorama Heights, and the Embassy Row areas for his parents and other family members.

After several days of preparations, as the guests entered the media room/lounge of Mr. McCormick’s residence, our assistant served Pimm’s Cups, Campari-and-sodas and Oysters Rockefeller. (The main event was adult-oriented; various nannies looked after the children.) Around four the adults moved the dining room and the huge, circular glass-topped table. Mary McCormick, Matt’s mother, oversaw the table setting, which included Royal Worcester china, Christofle silver, and Waterford crystal. Fresh flowers and votives completed the ambience while classical music piped throughout the house. At each place was a small, hollowed-out pumpkin with its lid. Then our work really began.

We’d prepared a soup with cooked fresh pumpkin, chicken stock, spices and cream. We called it a bisque although it wasn’t thickened with rice. Bringing the bisque just to the boiling point (so it would stay hot but didn’t curdle), we poured it into an enormous, hollowed-out pumpkin set on a ceramic serving platter. After pouring white wine for the first course, our assistant removed the lids from the pumpkins at each place setting, propping each at a just-so, Martha Stewartesque angle. We followed behind, lading piping hot soup into each. The assistant followed with a silver dish of homemade sage croutons.

After the guests finished and our assistant cleared and reset for the main meal, the two of us circled the table with platters of the traditional meal. One year we carved at table, but mostly we offered a heaping platter of sliced turkey or turducken with homemade cornbread or cornbread-and-oyster stuffing with individual hollowed-out orange cups of fresh cranberry-orange relish. The assistant followed with mashed Idaho potatoes—the McCormicks insisted on Idaho spuds put through a ricer—and giblet gravy. We continued to alternate with service of the various side dishes, including Grandma McCormick’s creamed corn pudding, mashed sweet potatoes baked en casserole with Bourbon and pecans, and fresh French-cut green beans with sautéed fresh mushrooms and a light béchamel. Once the entire menu was served, the assistant took over in the dining room with wine service—Mr. McCormick was fond of the wines from the Bourgogne region—while we refreshed each of the platters and quietly returned them to the table so the guests could help themselves to seconds.

Desserts included traditional pies with homemade vanilla bean ice cream and fresh whipped cream, served from the sideboard onto varicolored Limoges china plates with pewter scrollwork (which had to be washed by hand). Once the guests finished with dessert, some two hours after the start of dinner service, they adjourned to the living room for espresso-strength coffee brewed and poured from a silver coffee service, and served with rock candy sugar stirrers; Bigelow-brand teas were offered from a passed caddy.

We particularly remember that by Mary McCormick’s request, we passed assorted See’s Chocolates on a silver tray. See’s isn’t as well-known in the Eastern United States as elsewhere, and in certain circles the service of a domestic chocolate product might even be frowned upon. The late Claudia Cohen, for example, insisted on candied ginger and truffles from the famed Maison du Chocolate in Paris, and on the East Coast there are certainly better-known artisanal chocolatiers. See’s, however, uses E. Guittard chocolate—another Bay Area product—which is couverture-quality. This means that the chocolate has a higher percentage of cocoa butter, giving the end products more sheen, a mellower, creamier taste, and the distinctive “crack” when broken. See's Chocolates achieve a marvelous balance between American and European elements...much like that first Thanksgiving did way back in the early part of the 17th century.

Heart and Seoul

Stories about putting up grape jelly in Chautauqua County reminded the other Juicy Disher of putting up in the pantry on the other side of the continental United States--except that what was put up by the Gentes family was another matter altogether...

In 1970-71, our parents adopted three girls from Korea. They were biological sisters aged fourteen, twelve, and eight, all from the same orphanage in Seoul. The exact story of their relinquishment remains obscure, but has something to do with the father's coming down with tuberculosis, his relocation to the warmer, drier south part of the Korean peninsula, and the mother's being largely responsible for turning them over to the custody of the orphanage. In any case, our parents adopted the youngest first, and on discovering that there were two older siblings, cut through reams of paperwork and bureaucratic resistance to take the daring step of adopting all three, a decision unorthodox even by Seventies standards in California.

The girls brought Korea with them and within them. Whatever Korea was (and in many ways, the country itself was irrelevant), to us, the girls were Korea--its people, its history, its language, and above all, its food. Out went the creamed tuna on toast and stewed tomatoes of our mother's Midwestern background; out went the steamed clams and picalilli of our father's Francophone New England childhood. In came the rice, the bean sprouts, the lightly-cooked vegetables, the cellophane noodles, the dried fish, the exotic Asian mushrooms, the tofu. In came such oddities (to the rest of us, that is) as sungnyung, a beverage made by pouring water into a pot encrusted with leftover rice and simmering the whole like a soup; as with another other hot drink, the resulting "tea" is then sipped and savored...at least, it was savored by our sisters. Above all, in came the kimchi, staple of the Korean table, a kind of spicy coleslaw make from bok choy, sesame oil, rice vinegar, garlic, salt, and chili pepper. Lots of chili pepper. Think there's enough chili yet? There's not. With kimchi, like a pitcher's fastball, there can never be enough heat.

When the girls were still new to the country, our mother sought out the closest Asian market (this was the early Seventies, so it was still called the "Oriental" market) and bought some prepared kimchi. As soon as our sisters were old enough, however, they made it at home. They made it by the double-gallon in the largest mixing bowl in our cupboard, mixing the sliced greens with the requisite seasonings, adding so much red pepper and salt and garlic that the kitchen started to smell like...well, like a Korean household. The odors took over, and we American-born kids wrinkled up our noses at the prospects of all that "Korean cole slaw." Our mother was simply content to let the girls appreciate their heritage; our father, who appreciates foods the more idiosyncratic they are, couldn't wait to try some.

The kimchi had to be put up to ferment for a few weeks. We didn't have a basement or a garage--this was California, after all--so we put it up in the laundry room. As a family of eight (later, it became thirteen), we always had numerous leftover glass jars of all sizes--jelly jars, mayonnaise jars, pickle jars, and peanut butter jars. We had dozens of the latter with metal lids in a large two-quart size one seldom finds anymore. (Writing this, we realize that in this age of plastics and recycling, glass jars and metal lids have gone the way of the original Volkswagen, so the noise of the lid from a half-gallon peanut butter jar ringing on a cement laundry room floor has become a sound of the past.) Our sisters spooned the kimchi into the jars, topped each with a square of waxed paper, and screwed the lids on as tight as they could manage. The jars were put up in the laundry room to sit, and a few weeks later, the flavors, especially the chili, salt and garlic, had steeped, intensified. We kids...well, we didn't appreciate kimchi anymore than we appreciated tea made from water boiled after the rice was cooked. We tried it only because our father, as he helped himself to more, said that one should never simply categorically dismiss things without trying them first. We tried it; we just didn't like it. Fine, said our sisters, more for us. Which was equally fine with us.

Decades have passed since then, and even if we still don't appreciate kimchi, at least we appreciate the early exposure to such an exotic condiment. To be honest, we only have to imagine the sound of the metal lid of a peanut butter jar been unscrewed, and we can feel the crunch of the cabbage, taste the bite of the chili and garlic, the tang of the vinegar, the brine of the salt, and remember that we too, have our preserves...Seoul food, if you will.

Canning Time

Martin family life was farm life—genuine, largely self-sustaining farm life, with the bulk of the food on the family table coming from either our own farm or the farms of our Chautauqua County neighbors. We recently discussed the cost of food with Father Martin, who reminded us that the entire monthly budget for the Martin family averaged fifty dollars a month! Mother Martin therefore spent a good portion of the spring, summer, and fall putting up fruit and sundry items for the year. Because it’s October, we were remembering how she used to put up grape jelly.

Our cousins had a 175-acre Concord grape farm in Westfield, in the grape belt there along the southeastern shore of Lake Erie. The Concord grape, Vitis labrusca, is named for the Massachusetts town which also gave us the beginnings of the American revolution, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Louisa May Alcott, and Henry David Thoreau. Our cousins’ farm was part of the National Grape Cooperative Association which provides fruit for Welch’s Foods. During the year, the fruit from our cousins' farm had to meet Welch’s standards for pesticides, soil conditions, sugar content, and so on. In the fall, when the fruit was ripe and had the right sugar levels, a mechanical picker went through and harvested the bulk of the grapes. Back then, the picker wasn’t technologically able to harvest the last hundred or so feet on each row of vines, so those grapes had to be picked by hand. Each year, therefore, rain or shine, on the Saturday after the mechanical harvest, the Martin family gathered bright and early to strip what the machine had missed before the first frost came and rendered the fruit useless.
We met around seven or eight in the morning for a hearty farm breakfast: pancakes, eggs, sausage, bacon, and juice. Then everyone, nearly two dozen grownups and kids of all ages, headed out into the fields armed with pruning shears, toting carts and a huge assortment of plastic and traditional wooden bushel baskets. At the ends of the rows of vines sat these huge wooden boxes—each about twenty feet square—holding fruit the machine had already harvested. They were sitting there, waiting for us to clear the last, good fruit; once we were done, a semi would come and haul the fruit off to the processing plant.
Even when it was sunny, there was often a cool autumn breeze off of Lake Erie. More than once, we had to pick in the pouring rain. Picking the fruit was tedious, of course, so we kids inevitably made a game and a meal of it. We’d race each other to see who could pick the fastest; we’d drift off into daydreams while we picked the slowest; we got into grape-throwing fights. As the morning passed the kids’ mouths and faces and hands turned purple from the juice in the skins (even with black grapes, the juice from the pulp runs clear; you have to press the skins to extract the color). We stopped for lunch, then returned to finish the work. By late afternoon, we were tired and sore and sick of eating grapes, but for our help, we were able to take home about six bushels of grapes in clusters.

The next day, back at our house, we fought over which one of us kids got to work the 2-quart food mill, our home kitchen version of the huge presses at the Welch’s processing plant, while the others picked the grapes from the clusters by hand. Once the juice was pressed, Mother Martin would get to work making jelly, about seventy-five jars or so. The kitchen filled with the syrupy smell of grape juice, sugar, and lemon, and the steam rose from the gleaming surfaces of the Mason jars waiting for the cooked jelly. When she was done, we kids helped carry the jars downstairs to the basement (yes, more than a few jars met with catastrophe over the years), but we remember with great affection the sight of those shelves of brightly-colored canned vegetables and fruits, jams, jellies, juices, sauces, preserves, pickles, and relishes. Mother Martin passed this May, so in her memory, and in tribute to her, we present a version of her grape jelly that doesn't require the trouble we went to each fall, back on the Westfield farm.

Ingredients
3 cups Concord grape juice. (Note: you can use 3 cups of store-bought grape juice.)
2 tablespoons lemon juice
1 teaspoon unsalted butter (this is what gives Concord grape jelly its sheen)
1 envelope pectin
4 cups sugar

Sterilize a dozen pint-sized canning jars, rings, and lids on the hottest cycle of the dishwasher (without soap), or submerge them completely in boiling water for five minutes.
While waiting for the jars to sterilize, bring the fruit juices, the butter, and the pectin to a rolling boil and stir constantly for 1 minute. Gradually add the sugar, continuing to stir until dissolved and skimming off any foam that comes to the surface.
As soon as the jars are sterilized, remove them with canning tongs, and fill each one with jelly mix, leaving approximately 1/4" space at the top of the jar. Using tongs, and working quickly, place the inner lid and the ring on the jar. Secure each ring; you can do this with your hands as long as they’re clean. Set the sealed and covered jars in several inches of hot boiling water for five minutes to set the seal (this time, the jars don’t need to be submerged). Remove the jars, and check the seal by pressing on the center of the lid with your finger. If the metal makes a clicking sound, the seal isn’t set; close any loose seals with a layer of melted paraffin. Allow the jars to cool overnight, then store in a cool place until ready.

Remembrances of Diners Past

Since it's the 27th of September, we thought we'd tell a little story about the birthday of someone we once met...

We first ate the cuisine of Mario Batali back in the mid-Nineties at Po, and knew with a glance at the menu that a pasta tasting menu was the best invention since ice. We got ourselves to Babbo not long after it opened, and in the fall of 2000 started working there. Superlatives are inadequate to describe Molto Mario's cuisine, and we can still recite large portions of the menu by heart. Goat Cheese Truffles. Lamb Tartare with Mint. Whole Branzino, which we filleted at the tables in the centers of each dining room. The pastas: Goat Cheese Tortelloni with Fennel Pollen and Orange. Mint Love Letters--meat-stuffed, envelope-shaped ravioli. Beef Cheek Ravioli. We recently made Mario's sauce for Pappardelle Bolognese; Batali writes in his cookbook that the traditional ground meat sauce is normally tossed with fresh fettucine, but that he prefers it with the wide ribbon pasta, so we got out the hand-cranked Atlas machine. Though it wasn't as good as Mario's, it came close.

We were working in the second-floor dining room one night, when the maitre d' conducted a party up to our section. Nothing unusual, except that this party caused the kind of stir a celebrity sighting causes--only this was multiplied several times over. Gwyneth Paltrow, Ben Stiller, and Luke Wilson were seated at a four-top in our station, and around the room there were murmurs and nods and eyebrows raised and heads jerked almost imperceptibly toward said table. Complimentary appetizers were sent out by the kitchen; Molto Mario was absent for the night, so he didn't make a tableside appearance. In the usual way of celebrities, the three were very low-key. They were together in New York--and at Babbo--because Wes Anderson was filming "The Royal Tenebaums". Over the next several weeks, most of the all-star cast came in to dine in a variety of groupings, with and without Mr. Anderson. Particularly memorable was the night that the "youngsters" came for a late dinner and were joined by a post-theater Bill Murray and Anjelica Huston. We saw the maternal side of Miss Huston that night, and we actually made Bill Murray laugh--which still makes us proud.

The night that Paltrow, Stiller and Wilson came in as a trio, the two men spent most of the time talking to each other. We decided to chat up Miss Paltrow simply beyond asking her what she wanted to eat and drink. At one point we couldn't resist telling her that we'd admired her mother, the beautiful, patrician Blythe Danner, ever since we first saw her in "A Love Story: the Eleanor and Lou Gehrig Story" way back in the late Seventies. We confided in Miss Paltrow that we always thought her mother was the epitome of class, and that she was fortunate to have had such good parents. As if to prove that she had her mother's good taste, good sense and sensibility, Miss Paltrow picked up the tab of the neighboring table, a couple who was celebrating their anniversary, and asked me to promise not to tell that she had done so.

Anyway, it's Gwyneth Paltrow's birthday today, and because it's been a quiet couple of weeks, we thought we'd spend a little time walking down the lane of memory with one of the more memorable anecdotes from our days in the world when and where you never knew who was coming to dinner...

Zuni

Over Labor Day Weekend we were invited to a reunion at an institution--culinary, not academic.

Zuni Cafe has occupied at least some part of an odd triangular block on upper Market Street in San Francisco since 1979. The restaurant was founded by the late Billy West, who wanted to open a place people wanted to hang out in from sunrise to midnight and beyond. We worked at Zuni for two years in the early 1990s, but our own relationship with the restaurant goes back to 1984, and a pre-concert dinner. We remember the now-legendary margarita, made with fresh lime and served in a Martini glass. We remember the ambience of the restaurant, which was a mix of California comfort, Southwestern-style, urban edge, and San Francisco attitude. We don't remember exactly what we ate, but we returned to Zuni many, many times with other friends for many, many memorable meals.

The original restaurant expanded in 1986, and a year later Judy Rodgers came aboard. We knew of her because of the reputation of Chez Panisse, where she had once worked. Under Rodgers, the Zuni menu evolved gradually, organically, away from Southwestern cuisine and toward something more Californian, more seasonal, more Mediterranean--more Zuni. Though we missed the guacamole served in genuine pumice molcajetes, the new dishes were so amazing they often stopped us mid-bite. We kept chewing, but slower; we wanted to savor every flavor as long as we possibly could: fresh fettucine tossed with sauteed cherry tomatoes in a reduction of light cream with a chiffonade of fresh basil. The roast chicken with the bread salad. The Gateau Victoire--a sublime flourless chocolate cake--with whipped cream. The dish we remember most was a cold summer soup of pureed yellow tomatoes drizzled with good-quality olive oil and seasoned with exactly the right amount of salt. When Darrell, our waiter, asked if we wanted any dessert, we said, "You're going to laugh, but--" "You want another bowl of that soup, don't you?" he said with a smile. "I totally understand..."

We ourselves went to work at Zuni in August 1990, and were still very young, and very immature. In various ways and nefarious means, we got caught up in the chaos and silliness that often obtains among restaurant co-workers, yet amid the individual and collective dysfunction, something lasting developed: already familiar with Rodgers' cuisine from a diner's point-of-view, we now had the chance to experience what it was like to taste it, serve it, and watch it in action, day after day, meal after meal. Working there, we were even more intrigued by Judy Rodgers. Towards her, publicly, we acted less than honorably and less than professionally, more like a brattish student in an exclusive academic institution; privately, we realized that she was sui generis, that we'd never met anyone like her, and that we'd never been in the presence of a palate as developed as hers. We marveled that she could taste so much food over and over, and know so quickly and so exactly what was good about it and what it still needed. We sensed that she was a genuine professional, the first we'd worked with so closely, and that she was possibly some kind of artist.

It was a culinary education like no other, our first opportunity to taste the work of a chef who cooked with the deepest possible thought and care about what she was doing. And because the Zuni menu changed every single day, we got to taste every new dish. We got to experience the flavors of foods that were seasonal, that had been chosen expressly for that seasonality, that had been combined with other flavors in ways that made it seem that cooking was the inevitable next stage in the life of the food, as if cooking was almost another form of ripening. Salmon with a piece of bacon and mesclun greens over French lentils. Lamb shank en daube. Pissaladieres. Fritto misto with sprigs of fresh sage and slices of lemon that had been lightly battered and fried to exactly the right amount of crispness; we wanted to eat nothing else. Ribeyes with lavender. Fennel, its edges perfectly browned. Fusilli with breadcrumbs, anchovies, garlic, and parsley. Eggs en cocotte. The wines. Rhone reds. Bandol. Vouvray. And cheeses. We grew up on Velveeta, and now we were eating Bleu d'Auvergne drizzled with wildflower honey with an unctuous glass of Muscat de Beaumes-de-Venise in the rare San Francisco sun. Creamy Fougerus. Salty, buttery Morbier. And of course, the classics: the oysters, the burger, the shoestring fries.

We left Zuni, and California, and went on to eat at other restaurants, cook in other kitchens, taste foods we never had before because...well, because you don't find Atlantic lobsters in the Pacific, because there's no taste like the succulence of fresh pate eaten on the side of the Route Napoleon in Provence, because the experience of fresh fried squash blossoms on the North Fork of Long Island in August is one worth having at least once. We didn't make it to the reunion; we didn't need to: the foods and flavors of Zuni are something we carry with us every day.

Wedding Bells at Chautauqua

This past Sunday, we catered a wedding for 64 guests in the shadow of the Miller Bell Tower on the grounds of the Chautauqua Institution. The nuptials were those of Amy Klostermann and Mathew Lipp, who live in the Seattle area. We were recommended by long-time acquaintance Gerta Christensen, who does flowers on a freelance basis, and we very much appreciate that contact. The bride’s parents have a home at Chautauqua, yet because of the geographical distances, the entire planning process took place by phone, fax, and e-mail.

We couldn’t have asked for a more beautiful day or a more beautiful setting. The Miller Bell Tower dates to 1911, designed in the Italian style by Buffalo architect E. B. Green. The tower is Chautauqua’s icon, and is used as the institution’s symbol. A tent was set up with tables of eight, and we set them with china and glassware from All Season Rentals in Amherst. The cocktail hour began around 5:30 with Spanakopita, Bacon-Wrapped Medjool Dates Stuffed with Almonds, Smoked Salmon Canapes, and Caprese Skewers. These last are a finger-food variation on the well-known salad of fresh tomatoes, mozzarella, and basil drizzled with olive oil and sprinkled with cracked black pepper. We used grape tomato halves which we hollowed out with a melon baller and beckoning, and layered these like a sandwich onto a skewer.

For dinner, we served a plated salad of Mixed Baby Greens with Chevre, Toasted Pignoli, and a Lemon-Thyme Vinaigrette. The entrée choices included Hunter’s Chicken--the Americanized version of the French classic Poulet Chasseur, where chicken pieces are dredged in seasoned flour, sauteed, and simmered with mushrooms, the idea being that hunters in the field find fresh ones to cook with their bagged game. We also had Pork Tenderloin Stuffed with Apricots and Prunes with Rosemary, and we served both with Garlic Chive Mashed Potatoes and a side of Roasted Beets and Fennel. There were a few vegans in attendance, so their option was a Vegan Eggplant Curry served with Minted Green Peas and Indian Wedding Rice. This last is a biryani-style toss of Basmati rice with dried fruits, orange peel, and slivered almonds. We’ve done this dish with dried apricots, golden raisins and cranberries; this time we used Zante currants.

The wines served included a couple we didn’t know well. Mirth is a winery located in Sunnyside, Washingon, in the Yakima Valley appelation, and to give you an idea of how far north the vineyards are, that latitude lies north of Montreal, Canada. The valley is protected from the Pacific cool by three prominent Pacific Northwest mountains--Rainier, Adams, and Hood--and the growing season is hot and dry. (We still wonder whether a strange byproduct of climate change is ever better viticulture in places it wasn’t traditionally expected.) The other wine was a genuine discovery: a Marselan from Domaine de Couron, in the Coteaux de l’Ardeche. The grape is a cross between Grenache and Cabernet Sauvignon, producing a highly-drinkable, medium-full bodied Rhone red.

In addition to these wines, guests helped themselves to home-brewed beers and ales made by the groom’s family. There was an India Pale Ale called Classic Mag and Best Bitter, brewed by the groom’s father, Pat Lipps, and a pair of kegs with Best Man Brown and a Belgian Witbier, made by the best man, John Beystehner (there's a beermaking surname, if we've ever heard one).

After darkness fell, it was time for a Chautauqua County tradition, Light the Lakes in which fireworks are set off from one lakeside community to the next, and not just along Chautauqua Lake. The fireworks some twenty or so miles downlake in Lakewood and Jamestown could be seen, as well as those from Mayville, but we really liked how long it took the sounds to carry the length of the body of water. It was a fitting salute to the end of what has been a productive and busy summer, and a fitting way to send off the newlyweds on their life together. We wish Amy and Mat health and happiness together for years to come!

Teddy

The recent passing of Teddy Kennedy and Eunice Kennedy Shriver and the coverage of the funeral services stirs up so many memories for us that it’s hard to isolate one from another, but the first time we met the late senator stands out, of course. It was the 1994 Easter brunch at Hickory Hill, home of the late senator’s brother Bobby. The brunch was hosted by Bobby’s widow, Ethel, whom we were working for then. President Clinton did not attend—-he was at Camp David with his family—-but the rest of the Kennedy clan was expected, and the entire Clinton cabinet was there: Janet Reno, Robert Reich, the late Ron Brown, Warren Christopher, Mickey Kantor, and so on. Others in attendance included James Carville and Mary Matalin and Dee Dee Myers, and everyone brought their families. The late Art Buchwald was dressed, as usual, as the Easter bunny, and the prize for finding the most eggs (hidden the night before by Mrs. Robert Kennedy’s personal secretary) was a real French rabbit, lopears and all. We Hickory Hill staffers chased down three different bunnies before the floppiness of the ears satisfied Mrs. Kennedy.

All of these people had arrived, but we were still waiting for Teddy Kennedy and his family. When he arrived, the party finally came fully to life. Part of this had to do with the late senator’s larger-than-life personality; we also feel that it was because Teddy connected most directly to the hope and promise of the New Frontier. He was Jack’s and Bobby’s actual brother, after all. At first the guests were formal in his presence, but after the initial greetings, Teddy said, “Let’s have fun!” and removed his tie. Cautiously at first, some of the others removed theirs, then jackets came off, and the women dropped or removed their purses and handbags and Easter hats.

A rappel line ran from the top of the Hill to the poolhouse, and the children had been riding down the slope all morning. The line had been installed back when Bobby’s children were young as a fun way to get down to the pool. You climbed up a few steps, grabbed a bar attached to a pulley, held tight, pushed off, and let gravity carry you nearly thirty yards downhill. When the kids saw the grownups beginning to relax, they began to prod them to try it, and eventually some of the men did. We seem to recall that Mickey Kantor went first. Teddy began prodding the more hesitant to take a ride on the line. We can still see him standing in his customary navy blazer, yelling at the men to “have another Bloody Mary or glass of wine, and it’ll get you all to do it!” Sen. Kennedy even began to egg Janet Reno. “Get up that tree and take your shot!” he told her. Mrs. Reno looked at him steadily from behind her familiar eyeglasses and said, “Not in this dress.” Her security detail burst out laughing, as if knowing that under other circumstances, she might have been first in line.

The party carried on for nearly an hour until the guests were invited to help themselves to the buffet set up in the dining room. We served Eggs Benedict, Eggs Norwegian, Fruit Salad dressed—we kid you not—with Vintage Dom Perignon, Sliced Roast Beef with Fresh Horseradish, Chicken Divan, Boneless Leg of Lamb with Mint Jelly, Potatoes Lyonnaise assorted breads and rolls, hard-cooked eggs, and several Kennedy family dishes that we served whenever the clan and guests gathered. This included the Kennedy Shrimp Salad: the shellfish was boiled in clam broth with crab boil seasoning, cooled, and tossed with homemade mayonnaise and capers. We made Red Potato Salad, New England Cranberry Salad (strawberry-flavored gelatin tossed with fresh whole cranberries and lemon zest), traditional Thick-Cut Bacon with a Caramelized Brown Sugar Crust, and the famous Hickory Hill Iced Tea. We won’t divulge the recipe here, but guests loved it, and we made it by the dozens of gallons over our years of service at Hickory Hill. For dessert we made Lemon Bars, Profiteroles (another Kennedy staple), and a Chocolate-Peanut Butter “Turtle” cake. The family and their guests dined on the house’s famous flagstone terrace or down by the poolhouse.

Well into the afternoon, the Senator and others played croquet, with other played tennis. The festivities were still in high gear and everyone was still having a good time when Teddy began saying his goodbyes around five. As soon as he left with Vicki, something went with him. The event, it seemed, was over. As if clouds had passed over the sun, everyone began gathering their belongings and thanking the hostess. We don’t remember if Janet Reno cast one longing look back at the zipline or not.

A Summer Wedding Luncheon

Last month we did a wedding luncheon for 75 at the Sheldon House in Jamestown. The mansion, which sits at the corner of Lakeview Avenue and Falconer Street in the north-central part of town, was owned by Julia Sheldon Ludwig Livengood, a member of the Sheldon family. The family’s fortune accumulated in the late nineteenth century due to the hard work of Julia’s ancestors, who founded The American Aristotype Company, which developed and manufactured one of the first photographic papers made in America. Their success attracted the attention of George Eastman as he was creating the Eastman Kodak Company; when he bought out the Sheldon family around the turn of the century, he paid them in shares of Kodak stock, which eventually made them wealthy. When Julie died in 1980, she left her house to the local community college, and one of us has had a long connection to the House.

The nuptials were those of Nichole Lynn Myers, daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Dalbert (“Chip”) Myers of Jamestown, and Arthur Kuyumjian, originally of São Paulo, Brazil. Though the day was hot, the facility itself was cool and crisp and elegant as the wedding party and their guests arrived. Due to the wishes of the bride and groom, alcoholic drinks were not included on the menu. Instead, we passed Fresh Minted Iced Tea, Homemade Lemonade and sparkling water, along with Canapés of Smoked Salmon and Cream Cheese on Dark Rye Toast Points, and Medjool Dates stuffed with Almonds and wrapped in Bacon. Classical music played throughout the venue.

After the wedding party and their guests had relaxed and refreshed themselves (the schedule ran a bit slow because of the photographer), a buffet was set out in the dining room for a sit-down luncheon. Newlyweds, family members, and guests helped themselves to a Fresh Summer Fruit Salad, Chicken Cordon Bleu, Rosemary-roasted Red Potatoes, and Fresh Green Beans with a Shallot Butter. Salads of Mixed Baby Greens with Balsamic Vinaigrette were set at each place; the beautiful color scheme included mint-colored damask tablecloths custom-made for the event. Everything was served on the Sheldon House china with their house silver. For the traditional cake, a table was set in the marble foyer at the bottom of the grand staircase. The bride and groom chose a four-tier, separated-tier cake with traditional white frosting, and after slices were plated and passed, rich Brazilian coffee was served as a nod to the groom’s ancestry, and then his mother and grandmother, who had flown from South America for the occasion, passed around the traditional Brazilian wedding favor, individually-wrapped casadinhos. Casadinhos comes from the Portuguese word casado, meaning conjugal; the suffix -inhos is like -ini in Italian or -ine in French, making the adjective a diminutive. “Little married ones” is the best translation, and the cookies are so named because two smaller cookies are sandwiched together with something sweet, like jam, or chocolate, or pastry cream. We’d never seen this tradition before—we’ve not been to Brazil yet, but we would sure like to go.

We wish the newlyweds many years of health and happiness together!

The Feast of San Lorenzo

We had a chance to display the qualities of Juicy Dish Catering for friends here in Buffalo recently with a menu that’s intrigued us for years. Or should we say, menus. In The Chez Panisse Menu Cookbook from 1982, there are two picnic menus, one inspired by Elizabeth David, and we decided to combine the two so that there was even greater variety of things to eat. The main item—the protein—was Grilled Chicken Wings marinated with Lemon Slices, Garlic, and Black Pepper. We bought a box of 125 chicken wings and to the box added a dozen lemons sliced as thin as we could make them with a knife. We added copious amounts of crushed garlic cloves, and lots of ground and whole black pepper. The craziest part of the entire meal was having to toss the wings around every hour or so. We were up to our elbows in chicken wings—literally—pulling the ones at the bottom of the storage box to the top and pushing the ones on top to the bottom. The grilling operation took about three hours total, using one gas and one electric grill. Apparently the aromas from our grill spread throughout the neighborhood, making several people wonder where they could get something to eat.

We made a “slaw” of shaved fennel and red onion with a simple red wine vinaigrette, a platter of roasted red bell peppers with a touch of anchovy and lots of fresh basil, a few dozen hard-cooked fresh quail eggs. Quail eggs are pretty to look at, but once they are hard-cooked they are incredibly difficult to peel. Next time, we’ll do the right thing and peel the eggs before service (we won’t, however, capitulate and buy them canned, as we were tempted at first to do). The most labor-intensive dish besides the chicken wings and the several dozen handmade biscotti—they were studded with sultanas (golden raisins) and almonds and delicately flavored with anise—was a salad of lentils with goat cheese. Prepping the requisite fine (and we do mean fine) dice of carrots, celery and red onion was the most time-consuming and nerve-wracking job of the entire menu, but it was worth the trouble because once the legumes were cooked and cooled and tossed with a chive-garlic-parsley dressing and fresh goat cheese, the result was a a delicious, Middle Eastern-flavored lentil salad. We sent “care packages” of it home with more than one guest.
One of the best—and most deluxe—dishes we prepared was a potato salad like no other. One of us made it back in the mid-Nineties for a party for Super Bowl XXIV; we don’t remember how the dish was received, but we do remember that the San Francisco Forty-Niners beat the San Diego Chargers, 49-26. For the salad, we cooked 14 pounds of red and white creamer potatoes just to the point of doneness, let them cool, and sliced them into quarter-inch rounds. When they were completely cool, we shaved two fresh black truffles over the slices and mixed them in thoroughly, letting the whole thing sit for most of the day (we used double-layers of basic kitchen garbage bags for several of these dishes) so that the heady truffle aroma permeated the potatoes as thoroughly as possible. We finished the salad with a simple shallot-red wine vinaigrette and corrected its seasoning; many of the guests never had fresh black truffles before, and asked about the dish.

The rest of the menu included simple things like fresh baguettes with parsley butter, nectarines, purple grapes, pears, and Niҫoise olives. We really made a concerted effort to select fruits that would be as close to the peak of ripeness the night of the party, and one of the guests remarked on that very fact, so we were especially gratified that our efforts to be choosy paid off for at least one person. Most importantly, it paid off for us, because we were the hosts of the event. It was the warmest and clearest night of what until that point had been a consistently soggy summer, and the party—a middle-of-August celebration of the Sign of Leo, the Perseid meteor shower, and the Feast of Saint Lawrence. We were privately inspired by one of our favorite movies, the Taviani Brothers’ dazzling La Notte di San Lorenzo (English trans., "The Night of the Shooting Stars") but as one guest remarked, Saint Lawrence is the patron saint of barbeques because he was grilled to death. Unlike, we fervently hope, our well-marinated chicken wings...

Julia...who else?

Through the Buffalo Film Society, we lucked out with passes to an advance screening of Julie & Julia last night, and it brought back our own cherished memories of the culinary legend. In the fall of 1991, one of us attended a "marketplace tasting" presented by the D.C.-area chapter of the American Institute of Wine and Food, at Union Station in our nation's capital. We got to sample foods from the Capital Region, and bought one of Julia's cookbooks, which she personalized for us. How things have changed...the ticket price was a mere fifteen dollars! Union Station had only recently been restored, and it was a grand setting for the occasion.

In the late Nineties, the other one of us had the privilege of waiting on her and Chef Alfred Portale at Gotham Bar and Grill in New York City. She and the chef's party sat at Table 45, the large round table in the center of the floor. Julia was dressed in her trademark, no-nonsense matron francaise mode. After Champagne was poured and amuses-bouche of silken Goat Cheese Ravioli with Cremini Mushrooms and Parmesan had been delivered and devoured, Julia turned to the chef and said in her sing-song, plummy voice, "Now, what shall we eat?" Alfred, who we still greatly admire and respect, seemed at a loss for words, but Julia opened the menu and said, "Now, this sound delicious...Pheasant and Foie Gras Terrine..." We left them to discuss the strategy for ordering, and everyone else at the table wanted to know what Julia and Alfred were having before they ordered.

We remember that terrine almost as much as we remember being in the presence of the late, great author of Mastering the Art of French Cooking. The portion was a good half-inch slice of rich, wine-colored pheasant forcemeat studded with morsels of foie gras that nearly melted during the bain-marie bath in the oven. There were pistachios and peppercorns and a white ribbon of fatback around the whole terrine slice, which came with a salad of blanched haricot verts that snapped when you ate them, as well as some simple but delicious lentilles du Puy. We still make pates and terrines on special occasions, and are tracking down the technique and proper name for a chicken galantine we haven't made in a while.

The movie, incidentally, is enchanting. Bon appetit!

The Rain in Spain...

We did a menu recently that was a real success:

Salad of Valencia Oranges with Avocado, Black Olives, and Red Onion
Grilled Flank Steak with a Cumin-Paprika Dry Rub, Sherry Vinaigrette, and Cabrales
Juicy Dish Paella with Red Snapper, Shrimp, Chorizo, Scallops, and Fresh Peas
Fricassee of Chicken, Spanish-Style
Pappas Fritas with Aioli, Fresh Mushrooms with Red Peppers
and a Flourless Chocolate Cake with a Touch of Chili and Espresso Powder

The client's only initial suggestion was for the pappas fritas with the aioli, and as soon as we heard that, the idea of a grilled flank steak came to mind. Or should we say, to palate! We love grilled beef in the summertime--there's nothing better in the summer than a juicy ribeye right off the grill--and though the menu could have gone in a straightforward, tomato-salad-and-corn-on-the-cob direction, the pappas fritas idea suggested Spain to us. What we thought of next was a grilled flank steak with blue cheese and sherry vinaigrette. Doing an overnight dry rub of cumin and paprika would give the meat lots of flavors without going too spicy.

The rest of the menu fell into place pretty quickly. The salad was a way to make a green salad heartier, but we did this a week later for a private party without the lettuces, and it was even more delicious. The plated colors--orange, black, avocado, and purple--were all the table decor that was needed. We have an assortment of glazed terra cotta cookware that are like cazuelas, and we wanted to use those for service.

The most intriguing dish was the flourless chocolate cake with a touch of chili powder, cinnamon, and espresso. We'd heard of the idea of chocolate and chili before--just saying that makes us think of Aztecs and pyramids and ancient gods--but we wanted something both elegant and intriguing. Sure enough, once the moist chocolatey goodness began to melt on the tongue, the chili flavor came forward. There was a moment when we wondered, Will it be too much? But just as we thought that, the flavor receded and the chocolate reasserted itself. With a dollop of fresh whipped cream, it was a great dessert. We made the cake the following week with all organic ingredients, and it may have only been our imaginations, but it tasted even better.

Summer Herbs

Summer will always remind us of Cape Cod. For several summers back in the mid-Nineties, we worked for the late Diana Trilling. Mrs. Trilling was one of the last of the New York Intellectuals, but when we took the job, we knew her mostly as a widow of nearly ninety who needed a driver and a companion. Mrs. Trilling hired us partly on the basis of our experience in restaurants, as well as our enthusiasm for cooking and eating in general. We got to know her, her history, and her work over the course of three summers in Wellfleet, but we got to know her best through food and cooking.

Mrs. Trilling enjoyed fresh fish, tomatoes (pronounced with the long "a", natch) and corn on the cob. She commented constantly about how bad food in America was becoming; this was a good decade before the current uproar against what post-war economic expansion has done to eating in our culture. She loved steamer clams, although she was squeamish about cleaning them, and once in a while, enjoyed the treat of a fresh lobster. Eating this summer's peaches and tomatoes and corn here in Buffalo, we can't help thinking, "Hmm...that's not the best peach I've ever had..." And when we're shopping at Wegman's, we find ourselves thinking with her mind, speaking to ourselves with her voice. "That canteloupe is too large...choose smaller fruits...they taste better...Americans think large is best, and that's a fallacy."

We thought of the herb garden we gave her for her last, ninety-third birthday. Mrs. Trilling loved tomatoes with basil, olive oil, and salt and pepper, and the expense of herbs at the local market--Hatch's, which sits on the edge of the parking lot behind the Wellfleet Town Hall. Her last July--her birthday was the 21st of this month--we bought a large terra cotta pot, a bag of potting soil, and a collection of potted herbs, including basil, thyme, marjoram, dill, and oregano. She was delighted by the miniature garden, and enjoyed the herbs as much as she could that last summer of her life. When we left the Cape at the end of the season, we had to leave the pot there. Perhaps someone transplanted them without telling us; perhaps some of the plants were discarded, but found their own way to sink their roots into the sandy Cape soil.

Independence Days

The Fourth of July weekend reminds us of the work we used to do in our previous "lives" in New York City and Washington, D.C. Though those two cities are traditionally associated with the holiday, we typically had to work at our employers' homes elsewhere along the Atlantic shore.

Chef Tracey used to work for International Medical Consulting, and entertained at a house in Rehoboth Beach, Delaware, for their president and CEO. He would arrive the Wednesday or Thursday before the holiday weekend, shop the following day for local produce and seafood, and spend a day or two doing prep work. Guests arrived Friday for a self-serve lunch buffet; dinner was usually a family-style casserole-type meal--homemade lasagna, since the employer was Italian-American (he was related to Albert J. "Cubby" Broccoli, Jr., the producer of the James Bond movies in the Eighties) and since guests tended to trickle in throughout the evening. Saturday brunch was an abbondanza of eggs, fruit, and pastries; lunch a cold buffet, with a semi-formal dinner that evening. Smoked salmon, blackeyed peacakes with corn salsa, shrimp satay were passed beforehand; guests frequently enjoyed extra-thick veal chops studded with garlic and fresh rosemary and grilled to order. Risotto, Caesar salad, and ratatouille were the most frequent accompaniments. After dinner, everyone adjourned to the roofdeck for digestivi and fireworks.

Meanwhile, a six-hour drive up the Atlantic shore, another member of our team was ensconced on Lily Pond Lane in a home decorated in white-on-white. The table was set for such guests as Calvin Klein, Vera Wang, Alan Alda, Senator Alphonse d'Amato, Joe Namath, Regis Philbin and many other boldface names. Hors d'oeuvres included miniature crab cakes, fresh corn arepas, and classic pigs-in-blankets; the bartenders shook rum, cachaca, fresh lime, and mint for mojitos and caipirinhas. At table the dishes frequently included fresh paella with ample ocean bounty--lobster, chicken, clams, and shrimp--from the new Citarella's in East Hampton, and dessert was often a creamy caramel flan with ripe midsummer berries. In the pool room after dinner, reposado tequila and Upmann cigars were passed to the sound of Rod Stewart's classic "Do Ya Think I'm Sexy?"