Hallelujah! The Welcome Table_ A Lifetime of Memories With Recipes - Maya Angelou [34]
We were an eclectic assemblage who had developed, without planning, a habit of cooking for each other once a month. At the end of each incredible meal (each host tried to outdo the last), the next cook would volunteer.
Everyone knew that I should be the next host, but I hesitated. How does one follow Auguste Escoffier or M. F. K. Fisher? I rolled my trepidation into a pill and swallowed it. “Come to me next month, I’ll be ready.” My friends looked at me pityingly.
Once swallowed, the fear remained buried, and I tamped it further down with the knowledge that after all I was a good cook and I was in New York City where anything I thought I needed could be found. I toyed with duck galantine and sautéed veal with sherry and macadamia nuts. I considered a ten-boy lamb curry, placing ten relishes in my mind’s eye: grated coconut, golden raisins, Major Grey’s mango chutney, diced avocado, diced onion, tomatoes, fried onions, banana, cucumbers vinaigrette, and plain yogurt. Although no award of any kind was at stake, the competitive spirit among the circle of cooking friends was alive and kicking. I did not dare risk those dishes I’d thought of against the dinner we had just finished.
When the group came to my house, I fell back on my Arkansas upbringing. I gave them a black-eyed pea soup and southern fried chicken with homemade biscuits. For dessert I offered New Orleans pecan pie with a bourbon sauce. The food was a knockout, I had held on to my reputation as a peer among peers.
Bebe was a single parent who bragged in her heavy Uruguayan accent that she couldn’t cook and wouldn’t cook. She said she was raising her tall strapping teenage son, Bo, on dry cereal and milk in the morning, pizza and a salad for lunch, and the same thing for dinner. Her presence in our circle of writers who considered themselves to be gourmet cooks was inexplicable, but she did belong. She was a businesswoman and a writer who was very funny and interesting.
As we were having dessert, Bebe shocked us by saying, “Come to my apartment for dinner next month.” We almost choked on our pecan pie.
“No, no. We know you don’t know how to …”
“Really, I had planned to be in Bangkok that …”
“Oh, no, you shouldn’t have to do this.”
“Okay. We’ll come and eat pizza and salad.”
“I like a good pizza. A good pizza is a work of art…”
Bebe said, “No, we won’t eat pizza. I will cook.”
When the evening was over, everybody left laughing in their hands. Would we really be given take-out pizza for dinner and would she at least make the salad dressing at home?
Four weeks later, we met in the lobby of her building, still snickering.
“What do you think?”
“I brought my Tums.”
“I brought Alka-Seltzer for everybody.”
When we emerged from the elevator on her floor, the hall was redolent of mouthwatering aromas.
“At least somebody on her floor knows how to cook.” “Or maybe just someone in the building.”
We laughed as Bebe opened the door, but our laughter ended when we entered her apartment. As we followed her to the living room, we knew that the aromas emanated from her kitchen. We were stunned. Her son, Bo, brought out a tray of drinks with a filled ice bucket, tongs, olives, and slices of lemon. We were invited to make our own drinks as Bebe disappeared into the kitchen. We could find nothing to say, so we offered blank faces to each other as we helped ourselves to libation. Bo emerged from the kitchen again, with a larger tray, which held oversized cups. He said “Gazpacho, please take one.” The Spanish tomato soup was as cold as it should have been and rich with bite sizes of cucumber and finely chopped onion.
Many would-be cooks attempt to make gazpacho but conclude with horrific nonedible, nonpotable results. This one was as perfect a blend as any I had ever tasted. Bebe stayed in the kitchen as we chewed the crunchy vegetables and drank