Too Many Cooks (7 page)

CHAPTER 8

Here's the thing: I don't mind working for crazy people. I've done that for years. Even before I landed my first job, I was subject to my loony parents' whims. Dealing with kooks—managing them, focusing them—is in my DNA. I'm good at it. It's what I do.

But Natasha isn't crazy. Or at least not in the way I'm talking about. Crazy was my mom telling me to wear a bathing suit for underwear because she hadn't done the laundry for a week and a half. Crazy was a famous food personality asking me to make doughnuts six different ways and then yelling at me for making doughnuts because doughnuts are “the Devil's vittles.” Crazy was a celebrated pastry chef asking me to taste samples of cat food to make sure they were suitable for her cat, Elizabeth Taylor. But Natasha isn't crazy. She is selfish and oblivious, and combined, those traits could be even worse.

Since Natasha has left me with zero useful information about any of her grandmother's recipes, I decide to re-create the dish from last night's dinner based on taste and memory. One of the reasons I'm good at what I do is I have a pretty sensitive palate and can tell when a recipe needs an extra teaspoon of white wine vinegar or another dash of chili pepper. Sam and I used to play a game: He'd cook something and then blindfold me, and I would try to name all of the ingredients in the dish in as few bites as possible. He was always blown away by how quickly I could identify even the subtlest flavors—walnut oil, saffron, dried sage. What he found even more impressive was that I'd never tasted most of those ingredients until I was a teenager; my mom only made a handful of dishes, which together didn't use more than a dozen or so basic components.

I should probably add that, as a young girl, I didn't mind my mom's limited repertoire. By all accounts, until I was about eleven, I was a pretty fussy eater. I wouldn't touch anything spicy or sharp or “tangy.” I much preferred my mom's tuna noodle casserole and ham salad to a dish of pasta Bolognese. It wasn't that I feared foreign foods. It was that my young palate was so sensitive I couldn't handle an onslaught of complex flavors. For me, eating a bowl of chili was like walking into a crowded party and being able to hear every single conversation at full volume. The cacophony of spices and seasonings was too much. It wasn't until my taste buds matured and dulled with age that I could not only appreciate the many flavors of the world, but also enjoy them.

As I sit at Natasha's kitchen table, I think through last night's meal. The Cornish hens were filled with a fragrant stuffing that seemed to be laced with mushrooms, celery, and . . . was it sage? I think so. And the bread. It was rich and eggy, like a challah or brioche. The skin on each of the birds was crisp and salty, with pops of . . . garlic, I think. And paprika. The sweet kind, not the spicy one. But how did she get the skin so crispy? And did she brine the birds at all? Did her grandmother have a special trick for getting the meat so juicy? All of this would be a lot simpler if Natasha would bother to answer any of my questions, instead of talking to some stylist on her cell phone while she paces around her garden.

Rather than wait for her to make herself available, I decide to set off for the grocery store. I let myself out the front door and, using the GPS on my phone, navigate the winding streets of Belsize Park to an ATM, where I withdraw a hundred pounds using the card Natasha gave me. From there, I set out for Barrett's Butchers on England's Lane. The neighborhood is a mix of colors and architectural styles—white stucco mansions, Victorian redbrick town houses, squat apartment buildings made of dull gray brick. Almost every block contains one house, if not two or three, whose face is saddled with metal scaffolding and bright blue tarpaulins. I can only imagine what Natasha's house looked like a year ago. Poppy mentioned that contractors only recently finished what was a two-year renovation.

I pop into Barrett's, ducking beneath the bright-red awning into the tiny shop, which is packed with fresh cuts of everything, from delicate lamb chops to meaty pork roasts covered in thick layers of fat. Mountains of fat sausages beckon from within the glass case, in more varieties than I could ever imagine—wild boar and apple, venison, chicken and sage, beef and garlic. A musty funk fills the store, giving the place an air of rustic authenticity.

I order three Cornish hens (or, as the British call them,
poussin
) and then head back toward Pomona, the small food shop I visited this morning, remembering the fresh, crusty loaves of bread on their shelves. I grab a loaf of challah, its braided crust shiny and golden brown, along with some celery, an onion, some mushrooms, and a few spices. Before I pay, I also throw a bunch of speckled bananas, a pot of Greek yogurt, and some flour and sugar into my basket. The ingredients are slightly different here than they are back home—“self-raising flour,” “caster sugar”—but I'm sure I can re-create the banana bread I developed for a famous morning-show host back in Chicago. It's one of my most popular recipes to date, and I'm sure it would taste great with a cup of tea.

When I get back to Natasha's house, Olga buzzes me through the front gate and grimaces as she eyes my shopping bags.

“Natasha say I do shopping for house.”

I shrug apologetically. “I don't mind. Natasha gave me an ATM card. Sometimes it's actually easier to go myself.”

“Then you clean after, too, yes? Is
easier
.”

She purses her lips as I walk through the front door, where I run into Poppy, who is scanning through e-mails on her phone.

“Oh. Hello.” She raises an eyebrow as her eyes land on my bags. “You used the Barclay's account, correct?”

“I did.”

“Good.”

I make for the stairway. “Is Natasha around? I have a few questions about the recipe I'm working on today.”

“No, she's at Celine.”

“Celine . . . ?”

Poppy stares at me, apparently appalled. “The
designer?
”

“Oh. Okay.” I'm embarrassed to admit I've never heard of this designer before. When I was a kid, we mostly shopped at Kmart and Sears, so “designer” wasn't really a part of my vocabulary.

“She's getting fitted for a charity event she's attending later this month,” Poppy says. “The dress her stylist originally selected was a total disaster, so we're hoping this one is acceptable. The incompetence Natasha has to put up with—you have no idea.”

I think back to my childhood. The time my mom forgot to pick me up in kindergarten, and I had to walk home by myself, only to find her passed out on the couch in front of
General Hospital
. The time she sent me to school on Halloween dressed in a trash bag because she'd forgotten to buy me a costume and said I should tell everyone I was “white trash,” which I did and then got sent to the principal's office. The time I found my twelve-year-old brother high and reeking of pot, while my parents watched Judge Judy in the family room. Incompetence? Yeah, I know a little about that.

But I don't share any of that with Poppy because she wouldn't be interested, and even if she were, she'd never understand. Instead, I simply say, “Wow. I can only imagine.”

 

Here is what I can piece together of Natasha's day so far:

 

7–9 a.m.
Exercises with trainer

9–10:43 a.m.
Takes stunningly long time to shower, dress, do hair and makeup

10:43–11:43 a.m.
Discusses cookbook with me

11:43–12 p.m.
Complains to stylist on the phone

12–12:45 p.m.
Goes for fitting at Celine

1:00–4:00 p.m.
Spends three hours (!!!!!) getting a massage and facial

And that's all I have so far.

Meanwhile, here is what my day has looked like:

 

7–8 a.m.
Wake up, take cold shower, reply to e-mails from editors and agents about previous projects, make pot of tea that ends up burning my tongue

8:15–9 a.m.
Have weird interaction with Tom, the building manager, about my cold shower, head for the tube, make my way to Natasha's via Pomona

9–10:43 a.m.
Wait for Natasha, sketch out ideas for cookbook, draw doodle of cat with antlers

10:43–11:43 a.m.
Discuss cookbook with Natasha

11:43–1:00
Shop for ingredients, draw up blueprint for Cornish Hen Attempt #1, set out eggs for banana bread

1:00–3:00 p.m.
Navigate Natasha's kitchen, cut my finger with her chef's knife, bleed all over her marble counter (and onto her alligator-skin floor, and onto my pants), wrap my finger with a paper towel and rubber band (which lasts only five minutes until I bleed through the towel and Olga gets me a bandage from upstairs), set a tea towel on fire as I attempt to light her La Cornue range, extinguish fire, finish preparing the stuffing, stuff the Cornish hens, lift massive roasting pan into oven, realize I have sweat through my shirt, consider making myself a gin and tonic, don't.

 

And that's pretty much where I am at the moment.

Around four o'clock, the timer goes off and I remove the roasting pan from the oven. The hen's skin crackles as I lay the pan on a trivet, the rich smell of mushrooms and sage filling the air. The scent is even more intoxicating than the one I remember from last night, but I know better than to think I've mastered a recipe on the first try. Even if it tastes perfect to me, I need to call upon my recipe tester friends from home to see if they—and I—can repeat the recipe as I've written it. If not? Back to the drawing board.

I let the pan cool briefly, and then I transfer one of the hens to a plate and slice into a piece of the breast meat.

Heaven.

The meat is tender and juicy, perfumed with garlic and paprika and a hint of sage from the stuffing. It could use a bit more salt, so I'll have to try it again with that adjustment, and the stuffing could be a bit tighter (An egg, maybe? Less butter?). But otherwise, I think I've almost nailed it. I hope the rest of the recipe testing goes this smoothly. If it does, I'll finish this book faster than expected.

I tidy up the remaining mess around the kitchen, leaving the pan of hens at the far end of the island for Natasha to try later. Then I grab the butter and flour and start on the banana bread, a recipe I've made so many times I know it by heart. I've made numerous variations over the years—sometimes adding chocolate chips and crystallized ginger, at others drizzling a lime-coconut glaze over the top—but no matter what tweaks I make, licking the streaks of golden batter left in the bowl is pretty much mandatory.

Once I've poured the batter into the pan and stuck it in the oven, I finish cleaning up the kitchen, dusting the bits of flour off the counter and washing the bowls and spatulas. The caramel-laced scent of banana bread wafts across the kitchen, filling the room with its sweet perfume. If I had to draw up a list of the best baking smells in the world, banana bread would, without question, rank in the top five. Possibly the top two. I'm not sure why its smell is so intoxicating, but one whiff and I'm ready to attack that baking pan like a cheetah on a fresh kill.

While the banana bread bakes, I creep along the hallway toward the stairway, hoping to hear some indication that Natasha has returned from her facial. The only sound I hear is Olga vacuuming the front hall. I linger for a few minutes, checking my phone and sending off a quick e-mail to Meg, when I hear the clickety-clack of Natasha's heels coming down the marble staircase.

“How did the testing go today?” she asks, her formerly made-up face now bare and dewy, swathed in some sort of shiny serum. She wears a leopard-print bomber jacket over her black top and carries a purse the size of my torso over her shoulder.

“Pretty well, actually. I think I got really close on the Cornish hen recipe. They've been cooling in the kitchen—I'd love to hear what you think.”

Natasha brushes past me and marches toward the kitchen, but comes to an abrupt halt as soon as she walks through the doorway. She whirls around, her eyes wild.

“What is that
smell?
”

“What smell?” I sniff the air. “You mean the banana bread?”

The timer starts beeping manically on the counter, so I rush across the room, grab two potholders, and pull the domed, golden loaf from the oven, placing it on a trivet beside the stove.

Natasha's eyes widen as they land on the craggy, caramelized top of the bread. “You made
banana bread?
Why would you do that?”

My cheeks flush. “Because . . . you told me to?”

“When?”

“This morning. You asked me to make a loaf of something sweet to go with tea.”

She stares at me icily, her green eyes filled with contempt. I am so confused.

“I did
not
say to make banana bread,” she says.

I think back to this morning's events and replay them in my mind. Did I misinterpret something she said? No, I am absolutely certain she asked me to bake a loaf of something sweet. Why else would I have bothered? She didn't say banana bread specifically, but seriously—who doesn't like banana bread?

“You asked me to bake something,” I say. “Right before you went outside to take your call.”

“Are you calling me a liar?”

“No . . . I . . . of course not.”

She narrows her eyes further. “Good.” She purses her lips and waits for me to say something more, but when I don't, she looks away. “Get it out of my sight.”

She yanks open the refrigerator and pulls out a plastic bottle of ginger beet juice.