The Art of Eating In - Cathy Erway [129]
I was up to my elbows in noodles, squatting over a large, industrial-sized plastic tub, when Mark came back from an appointment. He’d had to work that day, so he’d done the brunt of his cooking the night before, roasting the pulled pork and simmering the collard greens. He hadn’t slept a wink. In one corner of the kitchen, I’d created a Jengalike stack of aluminum trays with fully baked banana-coconut cornbread. I had a system down, filling one greased tray and shoving it into the oven just as soon as one of the trays was ready to take out. I was half machine by then, fueled only by my sample batch of cornbread; nothing could stop me.
Meanwhile, Michael was preparing the brisket, duck, and succotash from his home in Greenpoint. He’d called both of us several times since ten o’clock that morning, checking in on our progress, asking about any extra ingredients we might need. He made a last-minute run to the supermarket, picking up some cans of coconut milk for me. He came by Mark’s at around three, plopping boxes of groceries on the crowded floor of Mark’s apartment, his eyes darting around the kitchen.
“How are we doing on the cornbread?”
“Under control,” I said. I offered a taste of the sample batch.
“What have we still got left?” Michael asked.
“The coleslaw,” Mark said. “That can be done last though, so it’ll be fresh.”
“Better start that now,” Michael said.
“Yeah, I know—that’s what I’m about to do.”
“What else are we missing?”
“The peaches. We’ve gotta do those peaches,” I said, pointing to two bushels of fresh, fuzzy peaches lying on the floor in cardboard boxes.
“Right—the vegetarian entree.” Michael snapped his fingers.
“And the compote,” Mark added.
“Hey, man—you busy?” Michael asked Nick, who was seated at a table in the living room (aka the Whisk and Ladle cocktail lounge). Nick was putting together a turkey sandwich and shrugged.
“Nah—what can I do?” he replied.
“Once you’re finished with lunch, wanna help peel and core all these peaches?” Michael asked him, pointing to a stack of cardboard boxes filled with fruit.
“Sure,” Nick said. “I think I can handle that.”
“Good.” Michael put his hand on Mark’s shoulder. “I’ve got an apartment full of duck grease. Gotta check on the brisket.”
“See you in a few hours,” Mark said.
Like Zorro, flinging a sack of onions over his shoulder instead of a cape, Michael was off.
Somehow, we all managed to remain focused and stick with our individual tasks until everything was complete. I even relaxed a little, enjoying chatting with Mark and Nick as we worked. But by crunch time, six thirty, we were still stirring an enormous pot of bubbling peaches, trying to cook it down to something saucelike for the compote.
“It’s so hot; how are we going to bring it there?” Mark asked.
“I don’t think we have enough. Is that the only pot you have left?” I asked. The dented metal pot held about ten or twelve quarts, and I worried whether it was enough for the four hundred servings.
“We’ll make it work,” Mark said. We were still throwing peaches into the pot after they were peeled and sliced by the ever-helpful Nick.
“I know what; let’s add these bananas,” I said, pointing to an extra bunch of bananas left over from the cornbread.
“Let’s do it,” said Mark.
Half an hour later, we piled all the pots, vats, and trays of cornbread into Mark’s car. It took two trips with two cars—Mark’s and Michael’s—to cart all our food to the venue. I was just glad we’d no longer have to carry it upstairs to the rooftop at Studio B. A week before the event was scheduled to take place, the rooftop patio at Studio B was shut down by the health department. Darin and Greg had scrambled to find another space to host the party in, and luckily nailed a nearby Williamsburg bar called Hope