The Next Best Thing (20 page)

I throw birthday parties for each of my parents every year, and Daddy's fifty-fifth birthday is less than two months away. Because I never wait until the last minute to put things together, I had a menu tasting with Chef Pierre Jean-Claude Basquiat this evening at Rembrandt's, a fine dining establishment that specializes in European fare.

Chef Basquiat is from France, and I chose him to cater Daddy's birthday party because the James Beard Foundation has named him “Chef of the Year” for the past seven years in a row, which makes him not only the best chef in town, but the best in the entire country.

What better gift to my father than to have a five-star gourmet chef serve all of his favorite foods?

Set back off of Barry Road approximately one-hundred feet, the two-story restaurant sits on a sweeping fifteen-acre estate. I drove down the long entry drive lined with well-pruned foliage and white-barked sycamore trees, and was awestruck by the serene beauty of the place.

Inside, the restaurant exuded an old world charm.

Original oil paintings by Rembrandt, hung in the foyer and were illuminated by opulent handmade chandeliers.

“Chef Basquiat has been anticipating your arrival,” said a charming hostess as she escorted me back to the kitchen.

“Ah, Mee-sus Carter!” The chef greeted me with open arms. “So good to see you again. Please, sit.”

I sat down at a table, and the chef proceeded to serve me sample after sample of foods that were far from what I had requested he prepare.

There is no love lost between black folks and European food. Pizza and pork chops, we know. Foie gras and escargot—not so much. And the portions. It might not be so bad if they at least served you enough to get full and satisfied, but the entrée-the-size-of-a-deck-of-cards thing does not work for us.

Nevertheless, I tasted everything that was put in front of me, and pretended to like it whether I did or not.

Mostly not.

“This is the last dish,” Chef Basquiat raved in his heavily accented English, “and it is the highlight of the entire meal!”

He presented me with something that resembled a steaming pile of horse manure in a butter cream sauce, then wrung his hands in eager anticipation of my assessment.

I gave him a halfhearted smile, and took one for the team.

It was so utterly disgusting, I couldn't bring myself to swallow it. Instead, I spit the stuff out into a napkin, wiping the look of anticipation right off of Chef Pierre Jean-Claude Basquiat's face.

“Problem?” he asked, gravely concerned. “You no like mushy pan goat?”

The chef has a reputation for flying off the handle at the drop of a hat, so I kindly and delicately said, “What happened to the customized menu I gave to your catering manager?”

“Ah, your list we cannot do,” he said. “I changed it, and made it much, much better. Yes?”

Uh, no.

Daddy despises highbrow frou-frou food, so I was thinking an upscale twist on all his soul food favorites would be a great idea. Instead of creating a full menu, I wrote down a list of suggestions, like smoked barbequed chicken, brisket, macaroni and cheese—stuff like that, but apparently the chef was utterly offended to have been asked to prepare something as lowly as fried catfish.

“Do you happen to have the menu I faxed over?” I asked.

Basquiat instantly copped an attitude. He dashed into a small office off the side of the kitchen, and came back waving a sheet of paper.

“Ah! Here it is!” he raged. “This is no good—stuffed pork chops, and chitterlings, no! Mushy pan goat, yes!”

“And what exactly is mushy pan goat?”

“No, no, no…” He said it again slowly, and then spelled it.

“Oh! Mushrooms and goat!” I said.

“Yes, yes! Zat is my spe-cial-ty,
not
barvecued shee-ken!”

Chef Basquiat's eyes were bulging, and spit was flying all over the place. I thought I was stressed and uptight, but this guy really needed to relax.

“No disrespect, Chef,” I said. “But I know my father, and we're just going to have to start all over and try and come to some sort of compromise.”

“No! Zat is something you will have to do with someone else,” he said, ripping my list of suggestions in half. “Finished! Now go!”

“You can't do this to me,” I said, on the verge of panic. “What about my deposit?”

“Laydee, it has already vin done!” Basquiat said, handing me back the five-thousand-dollar check I had written him six months ago “Bonjour!”

Chef Pierre Jean-Claude Basquiat banished me from his kitchen so fast that I didn't have time to tell him to take his mushy pan goat and stick it up his French-fried ass.

 

To lose your caterer at the eleventh hour is the worst thing that can happen to an event planner. Without good food, you might as well call the whole thing off.

What's worse, it is extremely difficult to get a quality caterer at the last minute because every single chef worth his salt is booked up for months in advance, even a year or more in some cases.

The thought of calling Colin crossed my mind, but I quickly banished the thought. I was desperate, but not so much that I'd chance someone finding a booger in their food.

Think…think…think…

Got it!

I jumped up, ran across the hall, and knocked on Nelson's door. After all, food is his passion, and he knows everybody who is anybody in the culinary world.

Hopefully, my new friend could help me out.

“I'll tell you what,” Nelson said, after I explained my dilemma. “Give me a couple of hours to make some phone calls. We'll have dinner at Le Dome's at eight o'clock, and I'll let you know then what I was able to come up with.”

“Thank you so much!” I said, breathing a huge sigh of relief.

“Not a problem,” Nelson said, patting me on the back. “Anything for a friend.”

“By the way,” I said. “I like the way you just slid that in there, asking me to dinner without really asking.”

“Hey,” he shrugged, “we both gotta eat, right?”

“True…” I said. And I probably should have left it at that, but I just had to ask, “You sure Ursula won't mind you having dinner with me?”

He looked confused. “Why would she mind?”

“Well, I saw her using her own key to go in and out of your place on several occasions, so I just assumed that you two had something going on.”

Nelson threw his head back and laughed. “First of all, Ursula and I are co-workers,” he said. “Plus she and Kara were good friends, so I would never—Anyway, I have an arrangement with Ursula that whenever I'm out of town, I let her
borrow
my key so that she can keep the plants watered for me. I would have asked you, but it was like you had disappeared from the face of the earth.”

“Oh,” I said, hoping I didn't look as molded as I felt.

“You weren't jealous or anything, were you?” he teased.

“Of course not. Who you screw—I mean, what you do is none of my business.”

“Well, just for the record, there has never, nor will there
ever
be, anything between me and Ursula. Trust me; she has more than enough irons in the fire already.”

I felt a huge sense of relief, and was confused as to why. Nelson is not my man, and I shouldn't care one way or the other if he was getting it on with the neighborhood jump off.

After all, we are just friends.

It was a little after six-thirty. Time was short, so I had to make a quick decision as to what to wear.

Technically my dinner with Nelson was not a date, but Le Dome's caters to an elite clientele, so I definitely didn't want to walk in there looking like a slump-a-dump.

After much debate, I finally decided to go with a look that was classy and elegant, but not too much: A navy blue Yves Saint Laurent pants suit, set off with silver accessories and a pair of silver Valentino stilettos. I did my makeup, then swept my hair into an updo with a few loose, wavy curls framing my face.

By the time I finished getting dressed, it was ten minutes past eight, and I was late.

I stepped out into the hallway to find Nelson waiting patiently for me, wearing black slacks, black Kenneth Cole loafers, and a black Ralph Lauren blazer over a white button-down shirt.

He tapped his watch when he saw me, as if to say,
What took you so long?

“I know!” I said. “Sorry I'm late.”

“That's alright,” he said, locking his door. “The reservations are for eight-thirty, so we have plenty of time.”

The restaurant is not far from our building, so Nelson and I decided to walk and save ourselves the hassle of trying to find a parking space, which is always hard to find on the Plaza.

“Have a good evening, folks.” Eddie, the security guard, waved to us as we passed through the lobby.

The sun had begun its descent towards Kansas as we walked out of our building and into the hustle and bustle of the high-end shopping district.

“Man, I love living down here,” Nelson said, deeply inhaling the commingled aromas coming from dozens of nearby restaurants. “I wouldn't trade it for any other place in the city.”

“Yeah, you can get a decent meal around here, but it's the architecture and the fountains that I love seeing everyday,” I said, as we strolled by a life-sized statue of Benjamin Franklin. “It never gets old to me.”

“I know, right?” Nelson said, as he held open the door to Le Dome's for me. “It kind of reminds me of New Orleans a little bit, with all the different influences from around the world.”

Inside the restaurant, the bar lounge and vestibule were crowded with people waiting to be seated. It was my first visit to Le Dome's, but I had heard that the waiting list is often booked months in advance, and that there can be a long wait for a table, even with reservations.

The maitre d' greeted Nelson with a wide smile, and a cheery “Welcome back, Mr. Tate!”

“Good to see you again, Chauncey,” Nelson said.

And the other waiting patrons looked annoyed as hell that Nelson and I were immediately whisked to a large, round table in the center of the main dining room.

If Nelson was trying to impress me, he had already succeeded. We had been in Le Dome's all of three minutes, and already we were being treated like royalty.

Nelson held my chair out for me, before sitting down across the table.

“This is quite a place,” I said, feeling as if I had been warmly welcomed into someone's home.

“Yeah, and the food is amazing, too,” he said. “The executive chef is doing some really innovative things with food here.”

“So, Mr. Food Critic, what do you look for when you review a restaurant?” I asked, opening my menu and taking note of the exorbitant prices.

“A little bit of everything,” he said. “Décor, service, atmosphere, what you ordered and expected versus what you actually got.”

The sommelier came to the table, and decanted a bottle of Rothschild Pinot Noir, 1978, with a flourish. He poured a sample for Nelson, who held the glass up to the light and inspected it.

The sommelier waited patiently as Nelson swirled the wine, smelled it, and then took a small sip. After a long minute, Nelson finally said, “Excellent!” which prompted the sommelier to fill my glass, and then Nelson's.

“Well, so far the service is great and the décor is impressive,” I said, admiring the white linens, candles, and fresh flowers on every table. The lighting was low, and the gilded, throne-style chairs with cream brocade upholstery complimented the cream-colored walls, and matched the gilded, elongated mirrors perfectly.

As I looked around, I saw Nadia and Terrell tucked away in a private corner of the restaurant.

“Oh look, Nadia's here,” I said to Nelson. “I'm going to go over and say hi.”

“Tell her I said hello,” he said, pulling my chair out for me.

“Will do,” I agreed, silently praying that I wouldn't fall and break my neck on the slick, highly polished hardwood floor.

I approached Nadia and Terrell's table, and it was obvious that he was very smitten with her. They were holding hands and gazing into each other's eyes, when Terrell looked up and said to me quite rudely, “I'm not signing autographs, or posing for any pictures right now.”

“She's not one of your damn groupies!” Nadia said, elbowing him in the side. “Terrell, this is my best friend, Tori. Tori, this is Terrell.”

“Tori? Ah, my bad!” he said, offering a handshake. “Nadia's told me a lot about you.”

“Likewise,” I said, shaking his hand.

Steroid freak! Even if I were an autograph seeker, was all that necessary? I mean, he may be this tall, extremely fine, muscle-bound NFL star, but he ain't all that to be treating people so impolitely.

Terrell received a call on his cell phone and answered, “Hey, what's up, man?” loud enough for everyone in the whole restaurant to hear.

“Well,” I said to Nadia, “what a coincidence.”

“I know, huh? And you look good too, girl. Remind me to remind you to let me borrow those pumps. Fierce!” she said, with a finger snap.

“Now you know you can't squeeze those size elevens into these size eights.”

“Watch me! You wouldn't believe how many model tricks I have up my sleeve,” said Nadia. “So who are you here with?”

“Nelson,” I said.

“Nah-who?” Nadia asked, teasingly.

“Stop playing, you know Nelson,” I said. “And by the way, he said ‘hello.'”

“Uh-huh.” She gave me a suspicious look. “I thought you said you two weren't dating.”

“We aren't! We're here to discuss
business
.”

“Umph!” Nadia said with a laugh. “Well let me know how that
business
turns out, okay?”

Terrell ended his phone conversation and snuggled back up to Nadia.

“Well, let me get back to my table,” I said, taking the hint. “Nadia, I'll talk to you later. And Terrell, it was nice to finally meet you.”

“Same here,” he said, with a trace of
Of course it was a pleasure for you to meet Me
in his voice.

What
eve
r! If Nadia likes it, I love it.

When I got back to the table Nelson jumped up again to help me with my chair.

“I went ahead and ordered the appetizers,” he told me. “I hope you don't mind.”

“Are you kidding? I'm dining with a big-time food guy. You can order for me all night.”

At that moment, a server brought what must have been the entire appetizer menu, naming each item as he set it on the table.

“Smoked salmon parfait with chive oil, empanadas with Kobe beef, portobello mushroom terrine, potato-and-basil-wrapped tuna roll, and this one is a trio of caviar, courtesy of the chef.”

“And please give Chef Montague our thanks,” Nelson told the server, and then ordered the five-course tasting menu for me, and one for himself. That's soup, salad, meat and fish courses, paired wines, plus two mini courses of dessert.

“Okay, this is a bit overwhelming,” I said. “I have worked up a pretty good appetite, but there is no way I'm going to be able to eat so much food.”

“You don't have to,” he said with a wink. “But giving it your best shot is half the fun.”

Indeed. I dug into the appetizers, which were so beautiful they looked like miniature works of art.

The food was beyond delicious.

I chewed slowly, savoring every morsel of every bite, noting that the flavors and textures of the food were so divine, it almost felt like I didn't deserve to be eating so well.

“This is the second time I've had to tell you this,” shouted a male voice on the other side of the restaurant. “I want my steak well-done. Not red, with all this blood and shit dripping off of it!”

The noise level dropped a few notches as other diners halted their conversations to turn and gawk in Terrell and Nadia's direction.

“I'm not trying to catch no mad cow disease up in here!” Terrell ranted at the poor waiter, who bowed courteously while apologizing profusely.

“Apologize all you want,” Terrell said. “But I'm gonna keep sending it back until you get it right. Comprende?”

The waiter scooped up Terrell's plate and ran off to the kitchen, close to tears.

I looked at Nadia, who appeared to be more angry than embarrassed, and if looks could kill Terrell would have detonated two minutes ago.

“What the hell are y'all looking at?” Terrell asked the diners who were staring at him.

Having had enough, Nadia threw her napkin down and stormed towards the exit. Terrell sprinted after her without bothering to pay the bill.

The second Nadia and Terrell left the restaurant, the dining room exploded into animated conversations.

Nelson and I looked at each other and shook our heads.

“And that, ladies and gentlemen,” he said to me in a haughty British accent, “was another episode in Ghetto Theater.”

“I'll bet that'll be front page news tomorrow.”

“Speaking of news, I've got some good and bad news in regards to finding a caterer for you.”

“Okay, let's hear it,” I said.

“Well, you're absolutely right. Every chef in town is booked solid on that date, but the executive chef at the Mesa Grill said that he could squeeze you in on that date—”

“Yes!” I pumped my fist like Serena Williams.

“Don't get excited just yet,” Nelson said. “The chef wants triple his normal fee, which is roughly ten-thousand dollars.”

“Oh, well, that's definitely out!” I said. “I thought you said there was good news.”

“Well, the good news is, I can cater the party for you.”

I raised an eyebrow, and waited for the
Just kidding!
But it never came. The look on Nelson's face said that he was actually quite serious.

“No really, Nelson. What's the good news?”

“Ouch!” he said, clutching his heart and pretending to be hurt. “That
was
the good news.”

“Nelson, if you don't stop playing…” I said, frustrated that he was failing to grasp the seriousness of the situation.

Nelson knows a lot about food, and from what I've eaten he isn't a bad cook himself. However! The expertise required to cater a party,
and
impress the guests with your food is a whole other level of cooking that I seriously doubt he's capable of reaching.

I mean really, those who cook, cook. And those who can't, write about it.

“Not to be mean, or anything,” I said, “but you cooked me one great meal and all of a sudden you're Wolfgang Puck?”

“Oh, jokes!” he laughed, then reached across the table and patted my hand. “Seriously, Tori. I didn't always just
write
about food. I have spent some time working in the restaurant business, you know.”

“Where was that?” I asked. “And slinging fries at Burger King when you were a teenager does not count.”

Nelson gave me his whole résumé and biography, starting with the revelation that he is the only son of barbeque baron Oliver Tate.

I had no idea.

Nearly everyone in town knows the story of Oliver Tate, who came up from New Orleans in the early '60s, opened a small mom-and-pop BBQ joint, and turned it into a fine dining establishment that has been a legendary Kansas City institution for over thirty years.

Nelson grew up working in the family business and planned to make it his life's work, but Oliver would not allow it. Father told son that he had not slaved over hot pits for all those years, for him to come along and do the same. No way. Oliver expected his son to elevate the family name even higher, so Nelson chose law as his profession.

He served as a public defender for three years, hated it, and was too prideful to ask Oliver if he could come back into the family business. Nelson then enrolled in culinary school with the intention of one day opening his own eatery, where he would serve a fusion of Caribbean, Asian, and Latin foods.

So for my information, Nelson is a chef who just so happens to be working as a food writer for the time being. In the meantime, he views his job with the
Tribune
as a paid apprenticeship that allows him to be like that fly on the wall, taking notes, soaking it all in, and saving money towards the dream restaurant that he has already named “Utopia.”