Hallelujah! The Welcome Table_ A Lifetime of Memories With Recipes - Maya Angelou [25]
I broke my writing schedule to recall and write the recipe. I handed the missive to the butler. Within minutes he returned and said the chef wanted to see the dottore who had sent him the recipe. I followed him down a flight of dark stairs and, without a hint of change to come, stepped suddenly into a vast noisy, hot, brightly lit kitchen, where a fleet of white uniformed cooks were stirring steaming pots and sizzling pans. The butler guided me over to meet the head chef, who wore a starched white toque. His surprise at seeing me let me know that he had expected Dottore Angelou to be a white male, and, instead, a six-foot-tall daughter of Africa stood before him ready to answer his questions. He did shake my hand, but he then turned his back rather rudely and shouted to another cook, “Come and talk to this woman. I don’t have the time.”
The second cook tried his English, but I told him we could speak Italian. He said, “Signora, we want to follow your recipe, but we have never made corn bread or corn bread dressing. We need your help.”
I asked for cornmeal, only to be offered polenta. I asked for baking powder and was told they didn’t even know what that was. When I described the work of baking powder, I was shown a large slab of moist yeast. The polenta was an orange powdery meal many times brighter than American yellow cornmeal.
During the Easter seasons, my mother always used yeast to make hot cross buns. I figured I could use it as the riser for my corn bread.
I gave my jacket to the butler and listed the other ingredients I needed. He put men to work, and in seconds I was able to put a pan of polenta corn bread into a hot oven and the turkey’s neck, gizzard, liver, and wingtips to boil. I added celery, onions, a stick of cinnamon, and garlic to the pot.
When the bread came from the oven, hot and smoking, the head chef was standing near me. We both looked at the orange brown crust. His eyes widened. He said, “Bella.”
I said, “This is the bread my people eat.”
The chef asked, “Who are your people?”
I answered, “ African Americans. My ancestors came from Africa to America.” The chef said, “Every person in America except the Indians had ancestors who came from some other place.” I couldn’t argue that.
He asked, “What makes you different from other Americans?”
I said, “My skin is black. That tells me and everyone who sees me who I am.”
He raised his voice. “Roberto, Roberto, come.”
A small dark-skinned cook came from the rear of the kitchen.
The chef said, “Here is Roberto. He is from Sicily, but because of his color should I call him an Afro-Italian?”
There was a burst of loud laughter. We had been speaking in Italian and everyone had heard our conversation and enjoyed the fact that the chef was putting me on.
I decided to stop the razzing and get on with the cooking. I quickly diced an onion and sautéed it in a large pan. I drained the stock and mixed some with the onion and crumbled corn bread in a large bowl. No one offered to help me, so I took the raw turkey and stuffed it with dressing. I laced the turkey’s cavity and placed it into a roasting pan. I cut the oven down and set the turkey to roast.
I finely diced another onion and sautéed it and made gravy using the cut-up meat and the rest of the stock. I put a drop of the gravy on my thumb and tasted it for seasoning.
When I looked up, I realized the chef had been watching me for the past twenty minutes. His face told me he had been watching with approval. He asked, “Would you like a smoke?” I said, “Yes.”
His nod told me to follow him. He shouted to the cooking staff, “Watch her sauce, and keep an eye on the turkey in the oven.”
We walked out into an alley. He gave me a strong French cigarette and lighted his own and mine. He breathed in deeply and exhaled loudly, and although he never said a mumbling