For three years I was the featured columnist for Shore Magazine. My column was called A Fine Mess, inspired by the old Stan Laurel saying, "This is another fine mess you've gotten us into, Ollie."
This particular column was in the February 2012 issue.
When my wife told me that she wanted to sign us up for a cooking class with another couple, I must admit, I wasn’t thrilled by the prospect.
“It’s one of those Living Social packages,” she said. “It’s
going to be a lot of fun.”
I’m not 100% positive I said anything out loud, but I most
certainly groaned on the inside. Then she said the magic words to stop the
groaning: “Every person in the class is supposed to bring a bottle of wine.”
“You mean the two of us would bring two bottles?” I asked, as a matter of clarification.
“Yes.”
“I’m in.”
What she didn’t tell me was that the class would be held on
a Saturday morning. Even someone with a
low “it’s gotta be happy hour somewhere in the world” threshold like me has a
hard time justifying pulling the cork at 10 AM. By the time I found out, it was
too late to renege.
The cooking class was at Au Vin on Elston Avenue in Chicago.
There were six couples in the group. My wife and I, our old college buddies
Mike and Lynee, a mother-in-law and her brand new daughter in law, and three
young hip couples from the city.
All of us were given aprons and chef hats, and instructed to
write our names on the hats so our classmates could identify us. The
teacher/chef was named Cecil, a 20-something tattooed bon vivant with gigantic
earrings. He was enthusiastic and passionate about the matter at hand: French
cooking.
“The first thing we’re going to make is a soufflé,” he said.
If you’ve ever watched an episode of Top Chef (I’m a devoted
follower), you know that soufflé is one of the most difficult and delicate
things to make. Even Top Chef Contestants get it wrong all the time. Cecil immediately
warned us how easily it could happen to us: “If there’s even one tiny—and I
mean even the slightest hint—a whiff, a whisper, or drop of yolk in the egg
whites, the entire soufflé will be ruined.”
I think that’s when I started panicking.
I cook dinner for my family every night—but I’m entirely
self-taught, and I hate it when anyone watches me. I know that my food will end
up tasting good, but I’m a little insecure about my techniques. The way this
class worked, we all took turns separating the egg whites while everyone else
watched. With all eyes on me, I suddenly couldn’t do it. I was choking under
pressure.
That’s when my buddy Mike made a suggestion that rescued me:
“Maybe we should open the wine.”
I now have an answer to this question: “What is the earliest you’ve ever
started drinking?”
My answer: “10:15 A.M”
(Paging Dr. Phil.)
Mock me if you will, but after the wine began to flow, I really got into the
class. I learned how to properly julienne vegetables (as I suspected, I had
been doing it incorrectly). I learned how to correctly poach an egg (something
I’ve never been able to do before). And I learned how to make a soufflé that
didn’t fall.
We created an incredibly beautiful four-course lunch;
tilapia wrapped with prosciutto and julienned vegetables, cauliflower au
gratin, fresh salad with a poached egg, and chocolate soufflé. And most
importantly, we got to eat it.
It tasted as good as it looked. The tilapia was heavenly.
The cauliflower was complex and delicious. And though I never would have
ordered a salad with a poached egg on top, it was a really interesting
combination of flavors. Plus that soufflé was sinful, and if I can pat myself
on the back for a moment, it was perfectly prepared.
But if you are ever invited over to dinner at my house, don’t expect me to
serve this meal. I couldn’t possibly julienne a vegetable, separate an egg
white without a hint, whiff, or whisper of yolk in it, or poach an egg again. That
knowledge was gone by dinner that night.
I’m thinking that the 10:15 AM wine might have been a contributing factor.
At least that’s what Dr. Phil told me.
