The Art of Eating In - Cathy Erway [28]
“Let’s wait for him to come out from there, then chase him into Erin’s room,” Ben finally said after a pause.
“Can I use this broom?” I went into the kitchen and pulled the broom out of the corner. “Maybe it’ll help get him out.”
“Mm, I don’t know about that,” said Ben. “You don’t want to provoke him any more.”
I put it down. We all stood there for a moment, dumbfounded. I could smell the san bei gi simmering away. “Why don’t we just have dinner first?” I suggested. There were nods all around the room.
I went back to the kitchen and removed the lid from the pan. The chicken was clearly cooked, the drumsticks looked ready to fall off the bone, and the ginger and garlic were soft and red-brown. The rice cooker hadn’t yet clicked off to indicate that the rice was fully cooked. In another pan, I heated some oil and a coarsely chopped clove of garlic. I spread some trimmed green beans onto the pan once the oil had begun to pop, added a pinch of salt and pepper, and tossed in some water to quickly braise them.
Sam scooted in to help me. I set her to work getting the plates together and bringing them to the table. Once all the plates were on the table and the drinks renewed, it was time to set out the courses. I took out a large serving bowl from the cupboard, the only one big enough for the main course. Part of a set that Erin and I had bought on the cheap, it had orchard fruits brusquely hand painted around its muddy beige border. I almost laughed at how wrong it looked once the san bei gi was poured inside. I’d never before given a second’s thought to my tableware when I planned on having people for dinner. To me it was all about the food, but carrying the main course to the table, I realized my first rule of hostessing for the night: how much presentation should play a role.
For lack of another serving bowl, I simply took the rice steamer over to the table and placed a large spoon on top of it for serving. We could just barely fit all of our plates onto the square coffee table with the bowl of san bei gi and regular dinner plate that I’d plopped the finished green beans on. So I ended up moving the rice steamer to the floor. Dinner was served.
“Shall we toast?” Ben suggested.
We clinked beer bottles. Everyone looked around the table and at their empty plates, and made a move toward the rice.
“Ouch! This thing is hot,” Ben said, brushing his hand against the metal of the rice cooker while piling white tufts onto his plate. My guests awkwardly passed the steamer around the table, being careful not to touch its sides. It didn’t make things easier that the rice was filled to the brim, and a bit on the dry side. It looked like I had cooked enough rice to serve at least ten.
This wasn’t a very quaint or elegant dinner at all, I thought. Richard and Sam probably weren’t expecting a family-style Chinese meal, with communal courses placed in the center of the table, instead of individually plated dishes, either. Why did I think this style would impress my first dinner guests?
But then it happened: People actually looked happy while eating my messy, slurpy, Taiwanese meal.
In between bites, Sam managed to get out, “This is really good,” as she scooped up the san bei gi and rice with a fork. Richard and Ben echoed her compliments. I was enjoying the food, too, but a creeping sense of failure was still festering inside.
I suddenly cursed under my breath. The basil. I’d forgotten to add it to the chicken. Fresh Thai basil is practically one-third of the dish’s seasonings. Without it, it isn’t san bei gi. I opened the refrigerator door and immediately saw the full container of basil inside. I cursed again.
“What is it?” Ben asked, looking up from his plate.
I heaved a long sigh. “Never mind.” No one knew, and it was time to learn another important rule of hostessing: What your guests don’t know won’t hurt them. Especially if they’ve already complimented the dish.
As soon as I’d convinced myself my guests would be okay without the basil, I noticed that everyone was pushing their chicken bones