5
GARLIC IS GOOD
When I woke up the next morning I was stretched across the couch in the large, empty living room of Michael’s Malibu house. I opened my eyes and found Jonathan sitting on a big chair, peering fearfully at me. “You okay?” he asked.
I moaned. “You were in no shape to drive last night,” he said, “and we didn’t know where to take you. In the end I just drove your car here.”
My lips were cracked and my head felt like an enormous watermelon. When I tried to stand up, I fell down. I was finally able to stand long enough to negotiate the steps to the car, and I sat there for a moment, breathing hard and waiting for the nausea to pass.
The trip up the curving coast road was excruciating; the sun was very bright, its rays piercing my forehead and stabbing into my eyes. My stomach had become a separate and alien creature whose sole mission in life was attack.
I barely remember the flight back to Berkeley, and the drive from the airport has been mercifully erased from my memory. I hauled myself up the stairs, my head pounding with each step, and sank, gratefully, into my own bed.
Maybe it was pneumonia, I said. At the very least it was the flu. It was not a complete lie; for days I felt hot and queasy, as if I were burning up with fever. Swallowing anything, even water, was impossible. I lay in bed with my face to the wall, feeling as if my world had ended.
Doug came home to care for me; his solicitude broke my heart. He brought me cold compresses and glasses of ice water, and when I could no longer pretend that my ailment was physical he spoke wisely about the depression that often follows a fever.
If he only knew, I thought to myself, and was horrified, all over again, by the way I had betrayed him. I listened to him working in his studio, comforted by the familiar sounds, thinking that maybe I could resign myself to a life without children.
I would have liked to stay in bed forever, liked to forget that I had ever embarked on this sorry episode. The phone kept ringing, but I refused to answer it. I knew what the calls were about: Colman was marrying another editor at the magazine and everybody wanted to discuss it. The one person I was foolish enough to talk with informed me that Colman and his fiancée had been seeing each other for months. “But they had to keep it hidden,” the woman confided, “because he was living with someone else. Nobody knows who.”
After that I avoided the phone altogether, but I still had a deadline to meet. Three days before the piece was due I dragged myself out of bed and walked down to my workroom.
I stared at the blank paper for a moment and then, from out of nowhere, the first line arrived. “In the kit that they sent to the press,” I typed, “they look more like rock stars in a group called ‘The Chefs’ than people who actually cook.” The words came pouring out. Writing the article saved me. If, in fact, I could be said to have written it; the article seemed to write itself. It was finished in three days, and afterward I found that I was, once again, able to eat.
When Colman called to discuss what I had written, the sound of his voice brought it all back, and I shook so hard I could barely hold the phone. The conversation was quick; he was like ice and he stuck to business. He got married, and for weeks afterward I tortured myself by calling his apartment, but his wife always answered, and each time I heard her voice I banged the phone back into its cradle.
“Stop doing that,” said Colman the first time I reached him at the office. Almost a month had passed, and the sound of his voice had become a little less painful.
“Doing what?” I replied as innocently as I could.
“You know,” he said. “It makes my wife crazy.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said with as much dignity as I could muster. “I need to discuss something with you. I want to write a story about garlic.”
“Garlic?” he asked. “Who cares about garlic?”
“Berkeley cares about garlic,” I said, launching into my pitch. My plan was to exorcise Paris by going back to my roots. What did I care about champagne and caviar? I was a Berkeley girl, and I was going to write about something earthy, something elemental, something that really mattered.
I told Colman about Les Blank, a Berkeley filmmaker who was making a movie about garlic. Colman was not responsive; the Museum of Modern Art was presenting a retrospective of Les Blank’s work, but no one in Hollywood had ever heard of his cult classic Spend It All. I explained about The Garlic Book, a big best-seller in Berkeley, but since it was not a must-read in Tinseltown, Colman didn’t care. Trying to interest him in Berkeley’s obsession with garlic sausages seemed hopeless, and I suspected that a restaurant in the High Sierra with a menu dedicated entirely to garlic would hold little fascination for him. But I knew that there was one thing in Berkeley that could attract Colman’s attention.
“Alice Waters …” I began, and I was rewarded with a quick intake of breath, “… has an annual garlic festival.”
“She does?” he asked.
I knew that would get him. “I’m surprised you didn’t know,” I said smugly.
There was a silence. Then, very slowly, he relented. “You might be onto something,” he admitted. “Will she talk to you?”
“Of course,” I said with a certain degree of pride, “she’ll talk to me. We’re both from Berkeley.”
* * *
I found Alice standing in front of the open fireplace in the Chez Panisse kitchen, slicing garlic into slivers and then stuffing them beneath the skin of several plump ducks. A big spray of apple blossoms framed her head; Chez Panisse was the only professional kitchen I had ever seen that was decorated with flowers.
She put down her knife when she saw me. “An article on garlic?” she asked, wiping her hands on her apron. “That would be perfect. The next garlic dinner is going to be a benefit to raise money so Les can finish his film. A little article would help. What can I do?”
“Give me the menus from the past few festivals,” I replied. “I need to persuade a skeptical editor that this is a good idea. He lives in L.A. and he doesn’t think anyone is interested in garlic.”
Alice gave a little sigh and cast me a sympathetic glance. “Of course,” she said. She wiped her hands again and added, “Let me find you some good-looking copies.” As she walked into her office she called over her shoulder, already a co-conspirator, “And if that doesn’t work, maybe we can think of something else.”
“Don’t worry,” I said when she came back with the menus. “These will do the trick.”
* * *
Colman called as soon as he got the menus. “Grilled tripe with garlic, herbs, and bread crumbs sounds wonderful,” he said, perusing the menu from the first garlic festival. “So does poached fish with tomato and aioli whisked into the fish broth. And I love the idea of fresh figs, white cheese, and garlic honey.” He began reading the dishes from the second year, stopping when he got to the Troisgros recipe for roasted pigeons stuffed with whole garlic. “We should have gone to Troisgros when we were in France,” he said wistfully. For a moment it was as if the past few weeks had never happened. Then he remembered and hurried on. “Just imagine how good Japanese buckwheat noodles with seaweed in a soy, garlic, and chive sauce must taste.”
“Which festival was that?” I asked, hoping to get the good feeling back.
“The third,” he said. “She served it after the garlic baked under ashes. And before the roasted suckling pigs from garlic-fed sows.” He stopped for a moment and asked, “Do you think that the piglets really tasted like garlic just because their mothers were fed garlic?”
“Alice assured me that they were very potent,” I replied huskily. My voice was sticking in my throat; talking to Colman had suddenly become so painful I would have said anything to get him off the phone. But our conversation had come to an end. The menus had the desired effect, and Colman was converted to the garlic cause.
Before long Colman seemed convinced that the idea had been his in the first place. Or maybe it was just an act; maybe he only wanted to reinforce the notion that our relationship was strictly business now. Whatever the reason, he kept throwing statistics at me. Did I know that garlic consumption had gone up 200 percent in ten years? Was I aware that California grew 90 percent of the garlic consumed in America? He wanted me to visit a garlic farm. He wanted me to spend time with Les Blank. He wanted me to interview Alice Waters. And wasn’t there some restaurant up in the mountains that made a specialty of garlic?
I had no desire to keep him on the phone, so I refrained from reminding Colman that a few weeks earlier this restaurant had bored him to tears. I merely replied that Les was going to Truckee that weekend to film the restaurant’s owners, and that he was taking some sausage maker along.
“You have to go too!” said Colman, “You could build the whole story around the trip!”
* * *
Doug drove me to the station. “I’m glad you’re feeling better,” he said, stroking my hand. “You’ve got color in your cheeks again. This trip sounds like it’s going to be fun.”
“Why don’t you come along?” I asked. “You love garlic, you love Les Blank’s movies, and you love the mountains.”
“I wish I could,” he said. I thought I detected a wistful note in his voice. “But I’ve got too much work to do here.”
“It’s only a weekend,” I pleaded, but he shook his head.
Les was at the station, standing next to the sausage maker, a huge man with a shaggy beard. Next to them was a small mountain of movie equipment.
“I’ll hand the stuff up to you,” said Doug as the train came chugging into the station. We leapt on board while Doug stood on the platform handing lights, tripods, and cameras through the window. As the last camera came aboard, the train lurched off. I looked out, watching Doug become smaller and smaller in the distance.
The seat suddenly sagged away from me and the sausage maker’s wild head was reflected on the landscape in the window, like a big buffalo obscuring the scenery. He heaved himself into the seat, and I turned to ask, “Why did you come on this trip?”
“I’ve always wanted to visit La Vieille Maison,” he said. “Robert Charles is a pretty interesting guy. He was too weird to stay in France. Did you know he once had a restaurant in San Francisco that only served lamb?”
“You’re kidding, right?” I said.
“No,” he said earnestly. “He really did. The funny thing is, he actually made a go of it; you couldn’t get into the place. Now he’s into garlic. I like the guy’s spirit—I want to see what he’s up to.”
I pointed to the box of sausages next to his seat. “Is your interest professional?” I asked.
He grinned, which made him look even more like a wild man. “Sort of,” he admitted. “I’ve been considering quitting my day job and selling sausages instead. I want to see what Robert thinks of my garlic sausage.”
“What do you do now?” I asked and was surprised to learn that this large, furry man had a Ph.D. in biology. “But I’d really rather be in the food business,” he said. “It’s so much more fun. I want to see if I can make a living selling sausages. Do you think it could work?”
I didn’t want to be discouraging, but it seemed like a long shot to me. So I mumbled something polite and suggested that we go to the dining car. How was I to know that Bruce Aidells would one day be the sausage king of America?
* * *
The day had faded into darkness when we finally pulled through the mountains into the Truckee station. The air was like crystal as we got off the train, and our breath became visible. For a group in search of the holy garlic grail, this seemed prophetic.
It was instantly clear that we would have no trouble locating La Vieille Maison: We could smell the restaurant from the station. The scent became stronger as we walked down the main street of Truckee, past dilapidated wooden buildings that gave the entire town the air of a hokey Western movie set.
The garlic trail ended in front of what would have been the saloon. “Charlie Chaplin stayed here when he was filming The Gold Rush,” said Les, seeming pleased. A man stood in the doorway; with his trim beard, black shirt, and pure silver hair he himself might have stepped out of a Chaplin film. Around his neck, on a heavy chain, was a silver head of garlic. “Robert Charles,” he said, bowing theatrically and waving us through the door.
The dining room was lit only by candles, which sent shadows racing up the walls. A rustic bar occupied one wall of the room; the entire center was taken up by a long wooden table laden with bottles of wine and loaves of bread. We set the equipment down and gathered around the table as Robert poured the wine. Suddenly the garlic aroma increased, becoming so strong, so powerful that it was as if an enormous tangible creature had come crowding into the room. But it was only a woman wearing a small, tight shirt and carrying two big bowls. She set them on the table, swept her long black hair out of her eyes, and announced, “Aioli!”
“My wife, Amora,” said Robert, sitting down.
Amora brought long baguettes to dip into the garlic mayonnaise, which was soft, airy, rich, delicious. Eating that aioli was like biting into savory clouds. As we ate, Robert told stories of his native Provence, where women sit in the sun with mortars squeezed between their fat thighs, furiously pounding garlic into aioli. As I listened my eyes grew heavy and I began to sink into an odd, sleepy euphoria.
“Ah,” said Robert, “she is feeling the garlic effect.” He patted my shoulder. “Now you know why we love garlic so much.”
Wrapped in this haze of garlic we ate dinner: garlic soup and garlic tart and brains cooked in brown butter with garlic and sage. There was boursin, the garlic-laced cheese, for dessert. We had been eating for six hours—not counting the French toast we had consumed on the train—and somehow I was not full.
“Yes, yes,” said Robert sagely, “this too is the garlic effect. You do not even feel uncomfortable after the meal, but full of energy, non?” He motioned to Les. “Monsieur Les, I think now is the time to begin the filming.”
“You’re filming now?” I asked. It seemed very late.
“It is never,” said Robert, “too late for the garlic massage.”
“Garlic massage?” I asked. “What garlic massage?”
“The one that we do in the south of France,” said Robert. “There is nothing like it.”
I looked around to see who the intended recipient of this massage might be. “There is nothing better for the skin than aioli,” said Robert ingratiatingly. “The Arlesiennes massage it into their skin to repel insects and promote suntan. And what a heavenly smell they have—oh là là!” He kissed his fingers in my direction.
I was just thinking that it might be fun to give my body up to olive oil, eggs, and garlic when he looked at Les and added, “Your film is too serious, Monsieur Les. Think how nice it will be for the film.”
Monsieur Les looked wistful, and I came to my senses and emerged from the haze. Even a Berkeley girl has her limits. And being naked on film was beyond mine.
“Not me,” I said firmly. “I am a reporter.” I picked up my notebook and held it like a shield. “I am here as an objective observer. My job is to keep notes about all of this. Why not massage Bruce?”
Robert eyed the large man at my side. He shuddered visibly. “Monsieur Bruce?” he squeaked. “Non, non, c’est impossible!” Before I could say another word, he turned and surveyed the room. As he made his way toward a buxom blonde with very long hair, he was almost running.
We watched him lean persuasively toward her. He gestured to Les, to the camera, to me sitting there with my notebook. She smiled, considered, licked her lips. And then she gave a small nod, strolled to the bar, and removed her clothes. She stretched herself languidly across the wood. Robert flexed his fingers. The cameras rolled. Working around the naked woman, Robert began to make the aioli.
“You begin with four cloves of peeled garlic,” he said, smiling into the lights. “First you pound them in the mortar for half an hour.” He pounded assiduously and added, “It is not how much garlic you use that is important; it is how well you pound it. When you can turn the mortar upside down without anything falling out, then it is enough.” He turned the mortar over to demonstrate.
“Then you add the yolk of an egg and a bit of salt. And then a soupspoon of good mustard. And now, slowly, slowly, you pour in a pint of olive oil. When it is a thick mayonnaise you add the juice of one lemon. Voilà!” Robert dipped some bread into his creation and ate. An ecstatic expression crossed his face; standing there, with the lights shining on his silver hair, he looked almost saintly.
He turned to the woman draped across the bar and began to massage aioli into her shoulders. As he slowly worked his way down her body she began to sigh. “Do they really do this in southern France?” she moaned as he started on her inner thighs. Robert, intent on the work of his fingers, assured her that they did. She fell silent, intent on finding her own ecstasy.
* * *
Les had gotten everything he needed, so we went home the next day. Was it my imagination, or did the train really empty out when we got on board? Were people fleeing into the next car, gasping for breath? They seemed to be. “And now we know another reason why garlic is good,” said Bruce. “Look at how we’ve cleared the car!” He stretched luxuriously across an entire seat. I stretched out too and, wrapped in fumes of garlic, slept most of the way home. I was eager to see Doug; for the first time in weeks I felt almost normal.
* * *
Doug was gone. “He said to tell you he went to Seattle,” Nick told me. “He said he’d be back in a few days.”
“But he was too busy to even come to Truckee!” I exclaimed.
Nick shook his head. “All I know is that some woman called to say there was a project up there he might be interested in.”
“A woman?” I asked.
“Yes,” he replied.
“Do you find anything suspicious in the suddenness of this trip?” I asked. Nick studied me silently for a minute. “Would you care if there was?” he asked at last.
* * *
The few days stretched to a week. The week turned into a second. “What are you doing?” I asked. He was studying the wind patterns for a wind harp; he had an idea for a rain piano, but he needed to test the wire; he might do something at the Space Needle. The answers were too specific, as if he had written them down before dialing. As the days went on, I found it increasingly difficult to persuade myself that his trip was strictly business. It served me right, I thought, and I asked no questions.
But now that Colman was out of my life, I could not ignore what was happening with Doug. We had once spent every minute together, but we now led separate lives. I suddenly missed him very much. I wished he would call. I sat staring at the phone, willing it to ring. When it did I grabbed it, sure it would be him.
“Hi, honey,” I said happily.
The deep voice was not Doug’s. “It’s Les,” it said. “I want you to come for dinner.”
Trying not to sound too disappointed I asked, “When?”
“Now,” he said. “Right this minute. This guy I met at a film festival in upstate New York is preparing a banquet at my house. He’s an incredible Chinese cook. I think you’ll be amazed.”
I had work to do. My article wasn’t finished. I was wearing overalls, and my hair wasn’t combed. I didn’t feel like seeing anyone.
“Come,” urged Les. “This guy cooks food you’ve never tasted before. You won’t be sorry.” I hesitated some more, and I heard murmuring in the background. “Alice says to tell you that Chinese food requires a lot of garlic and I might have to film it.”
“Is she going to be there?” I asked.
“Of course,” he said, as if it were impossible to imagine any food event in Berkeley that did not include Alice.
* * *
“Where’s the cook?” I asked when Les led me into the kitchen. He indicated the stove with his chin, and I saw a tall man with a mop of curly brown hair pouring oil into an enormous wok. “This is Bruce Cost,” he said.
The man smiled wanly down at me, and I was disappointed to discover that he was not Chinese. He seemed harried and distracted, and I was sorry I had come. It hardly seemed worth missing a deadline to eat Chinese food cooked by some white guy from upstate New York. I was glad that I hadn’t bothered to change for the event.
“Can’t you get any more heat out of this stove?” the cook asked. Les leaned over and peered at the burner. He fiddled with the dial. “You’ve got it all the way up,” he said. “It doesn’t go any higher.”
“You need a bigger flame for Chinese food,” insisted the tall cook, looking miserably into the wok. “I don’t know if this is going to work …”
Oh no, I thought, he’s already making excuses. I was trying to think of a graceful way to make my exit when the guy went to the refrigerator, pulled out a platter covered with light amber-colored squiggles, and handed it to me. I recoiled; whatever it was looked horribly like rubber noodles. “Why don’t you take that into the living room and pass it around,” he said. It was not a question.
I glared at him, but I took the platter. “What is it?” I asked.
“Jellyfish salad,” he said. “I was planning to serve it with shrimp toasts, but this puny flame is going to take a long time to get the oil hot enough for the shrimp. I think I’d better serve those people something now. Chop up some of that cilantro and put it on top before you take it in. It will look nicer. See if you can find some little plates, too.”
I didn’t know how I had become the designated helper, but I was in no mood to fight. I opened the nearest cupboard and found some plates. “How many people are you feeding?”
“I told Les to invite a dozen.”
“Do you have chopsticks or something?”
“In the bag over there,” he said, pointing to a table cluttered with groceries. “There’s a cleaver too.”
The table was a mess—the whole kitchen was—and I found myself trying to clear a space large enough to chop on. As I did, it occurred to me that I had not even seen who else was at the party, and I put down the cleaver and wiped my hands. “I’ll just go say hello,” I told him. “I’ll be right back.”
“No,” he said imperiously. “Get the cilantro chopped and those plates out there. I have to feed them something. There’s some journalist Les invited, someone he thought might help me find work. He said she didn’t want to come, and I don’t want her to go hungry. So just get the stuff out there and say hello while you pass the platter.”
“Okay,” I said resentfully. Lost in my own thoughts, I barely listened to what he said, but I’d heard enough to understand that I was trapped. I chopped cilantro, liking the astringent scent of the delicate leaves, and sprinkled the cool greens over the squiggles. Then I picked up the tray and took it into the next room.
Most of the guests were people I knew from the Pacific Film Archive, which was right next door to The Swallow. Bruce Aidells was there too, and I was glad to see him. Alice came up, gave me a quick squeeze, and lifted the platter from my arms. “I’ll pass this,” she said. “It’s jellyfish, isn’t it? Here, try some.”
The salad was very fine, clean and vaguely crunchy, with a sesame tang. As I took a second bite Alice gave me a little push toward the kitchen. “I’ll take care of this,” she said. “Why don’t you go back and get to know Bruce.”
“I’ve already had that pleasure,” I muttered, but I was on my way. I found him, looking more harried than before, dropping shrimp toast into the wok.
“I loved that salad,” I said, trying to be nice. “It was really, really good.” He gave me a cool look and said, “Of course it was,” as he plunked another pale square into the hot oil. “These will be good too.” He watched impassively as the little raft submerged and then floated to the surface. He stared at the surface, waiting for the toast to turn golden before snatching it from the oil.
“I see you got the fire hot enough,” I said.
“Not really,” he said with a trace of bitterness. “Virginia Lee, who taught me to cook, would not approve. But we have to make do with what we have. Go find a plate or something to put these on.”
When I returned with the plate he handed me the slotted spoon and said, “Take them out when they turn golden. Pass them while they’re still hot. I’m glad you’re here; I have so much to do.”
“What else are we having?” I asked.
He lifted the lid off a big wok, and an intoxicating aroma came drifting up to us. “Pork belly,” he said, displaying a rectangle of meat simmering in a dark liquid studded with ginger, scallions, and star anise. “I’ve stuffed it with a mixture of its own meat chopped with pine nuts, and I’m cooking it in soy and rock sugar. Then we’ll have a simple roast chicken. Steamed flounder with ginger and scallions. Baby bok choy with mushrooms. Nothing fancy. But the pork belly is so rich you can’t serve anything elaborate.”
“It sounds great,” I said, wondering how much of this feast I was expected to cook.
“I’ll show you what to do with the mushrooms when you’ve finished that,” he said. “I’m grateful for your help.”
He obviously thought I had come to assist him, and it seemed rude to tell him I was only a guest. Besides, he needed the help. I decided to consider it an opportunity. “How did you become a Chinese cook?” I asked.
“I read an article about Virginia Lee in The New York Times and decided to take a class with her. I was working for a big corporation, living in upstate New York, but something made me drive into the city that first time,” he said. “And then, I don’t know, it just felt right.”
“Love at first sight?” I meant to be ironic, but he did not laugh.
“Exactly! I felt that I had finally found what I was meant to do in life.” As he talked I could imagine his teacher’s regal presence and understand his growing obsession with the classes. “And so,” he finished up, “I began to do some catering. That’s how I met Les. I catered the food for a film festival in Rhinebeck, where I live.” He corrected himself. “I mean, where I used to live. I’ve just moved out here.”
“You moved out here, just like that?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said simply. “I quit my job. It seemed to me that if there was anyplace in America for someone who wanted to devote himself to food, Berkeley would be it.”
“I guess so,” I said.
“But it’s true!” he said. “Look at this. Les invited me over because he thought this journalist might somehow help me. And he introduced me to Alice Waters; he wants her to give me a job.”
“Are you that good?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said, as if it were a simple statement of fact, not boasting. A shrimp toast came bubbling to the surface and I turned it over, watching the oil foam around its edges.
When there were enough he piled the hot, sesame-studded tidbits onto a tray and shooed me out the door. “You have to make them eat them while they’re hot,” he said. “But come back quickly, because I want to show you what to do with the pork kidneys.”
“I hate kidneys,” I couldn’t help saying.
“Not these you won’t,” he said confidently. “You’ve never had them like this. With the Chinese method, if they’re done right, they’re pure texture. But you have to soak them and soak them and soak them, changing the water constantly, until all the blood and flavor have been leached out. You’ll see.”
I was dubious, but I said nothing, and when I came back to the kitchen he showed me how to roast Szechuan peppercorns for the salad. I’d never seen them before, and I marveled at the little red pods and the deep, spicy scent that got more intense as they cooked, rising up to prickle at my nose. “When the peppercorns are so fragrant you almost can’t bear how good they smell,” he said, “they’re done. Then you scatter them across the top of the kidneys. They’ll be the first course.”
“And then?”
“Then we’ll have the fish, because it cooks the fastest. Come look at the flounder I bought.” He opened the refrigerator and held out a big, flat, clear-eyed fish.
“How did you know where to buy fish in a town you had only just arrived in?” I asked.
“Oh,” he said blithely, “I just went to Chinatown.”
“And how did you know which fish to buy?”
“Buying fish is easy in Chinatown. Any Chinatown. You just get the most expensive thing they’ve got. The Chinese figure their customers know what they’re doing. And the chickens there were fabulous. Look at this!” He held out a chicken with a very brown skin.
“How did you find one with brown skin?”
He laughed. “It doesn’t have brown skin. I rubbed it with soy sauce. It makes it more flavorful. We’ll put the chicken in when we take the kidneys out to the table. It cooks very quickly too, or it will if I can get the oven hot enough.” He opened the oven door and stuck his hand in. “It’ll do, I think.”
Bruce’s infatuation with cooking was so infectious that I felt my mood improve. I liked watching him work; he was too tall for this kitchen, but he had an economy of motion that made him seem fluid, like a musician. He moved as if he were meant to be here, as if each of these tools fit comfortably into his hand. His imperious manner was irritating, but in spite of that I found myself liking him. “Isn’t it scary, just giving up your old life and making a new one?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said simply. “But I got married young and had children young. It’s now or never. If I don’t do what I really want to now, I never will.”
It sounded familiar. I wished him luck. After a while I asked, “Do you want a job with Alice?” I asked.
“You like working with her, don’t you?” he inquired. He leaned back and added magnanimously, “By the way, I’ll put in a good word for you. She promised to find me someone good to help me out, and I’ll be happy to tell her how well you’ve done.”
“Thanks,” I said, suddenly understanding who I had to thank for this. “Have you met the journalist yet?”
“Oh no,” he replied, “I don’t like to meet people like that when I’m cooking. I’d much rather hang out in the kitchen with you.”
* * *
I waited until after dinner to tell Bruce that he had been hanging out with a journalist. The timing was right. His food had been so extraordinary that Alice asked him to cook a special dinner at Chez Panisse. The publisher of The Garlic Book asked him to write a book on ginger. All I asked him to do was cook another meal for me, but I really didn’t have to ask. By then we were friends. One meal in Berkeley had already changed his life.
* * *
“Chinese food?” asked Colman the next day, when I told him about the meal. “Now you want to write about Chinese food? Could you please just finish the garlic article before we discuss that?”
“It’s almost done,” I promised. “The dinner’s tonight.”
“I wish I could be there,” said Colman.
“I wish you could too,” I replied. But as I said it, I realized I was only being polite. Garlic had worked its magic, and it was not Colman I wanted next to me at Alice’s big-deal dinner.
But Doug was still in Seattle. He didn’t think he was going to make it back in time. Not even for a spectacular meal at Chez Panisse.
* * *
The wine was strong. The garlic was pungent. A great flamenco singer named Anzonini Del Puerto, another citizen of Berkeley, sang his wild, lonely songs as the familiar garlic haze descended upon the table. Before long the entire room was giddy with garlic euphoria.
Wrapped up in fumes of garlic, we ate galantines of pigeon, duck, and quail with garlic mosaics. We consumed more wine as several whole baked fish, gorgeously wrapped in puffs of garlic pastry and drizzled with lobster butter, were paraded around the dining room. Platters of spring lamb were brought out, surrounded by three garlic-infused purées. We washed the meat down with oceans of deep, dark Zinfandel. Then there was an arugula salad laced with goose fat and garlic-rubbed croutons, followed by poached figs in more red wine, with garlic meringues. And more wine. By the time Les set up his camera and filmed each of us talking about why we loved garlic, I was slurring my words.
But I stood before the big fireplace at Chez Panisse, stuck a flower behind my ear, and looked earnestly into the camera. I had no idea of what I would say.
And then it came to me. The article was going to be good, and I felt at peace with myself. I did not miss Colman and I did not miss Doug. “If everyone ate more garlic, the world would be a happier place,” I said.
At that moment, I believed every word.
LA VIEILLE MAISON SOUP
Robert Charles was very proud of this recipe. No wonder. Once you’ve tried his variation on the classic French onion soup, you’ll never go back to the original.
1/2 stick (1/4 cup) unsalted butter
6 large onions (about 3 1/2 pounds), chopped
4 large garlic cloves, chopped
salt and pepper
1 teaspoon all-purpose flour
2 cups dry white wine
4 cups chicken broth
1 teaspoon dried thyme, crumbled
4 large eggs
1/4 pound Gruyère cheese, grated
1/4 cup heavy cream
Preheat the oven to 325°F.
Melt the butter over moderately high heat in a heavy, ovenproof 8-quart pot until the foam subsides. Cook the onion and garlic in the butter, adding salt and pepper to taste and stirring, until the onion is softened. Stir in the flour and cook, stirring, for 1 minute. Add the wine, broth, and thyme and cook the soup at a low boil, uncovered, stirring occasionally, for 15 minutes. Cover the pot and bake in the middle of the oven for 2 hours.
Ladle the soup into 4 individual earthenware crocks or ovenproof bowls (about 1 1/2-cup capacity) and whisk an egg into each. Sprinkle the tops with cheese and bake in the middle of the oven until the cheese is melted, about 10 minutes. Remove the crocks from the oven and spoon 1 tablespoon cream over each serving.
Serves 4.
DOTTIE’S SPINACH
When I asked Les for his favorite garlic recipe, he gave me this one. I don’t even know who Dottie is. I do know, however, that her recipe will make your house smell like garlic for days, and that the fumes will precede the casserole to the table.
2 pounds (about 3 10-ounce bags) fresh spinach, coarse stems removed
1 stick (1/2 cup) unsalted butter
2 onions, chopped
salt and pepper
1 head garlic, peeled and chopped
1/2 teaspoon cayenne pepper
12 ounces cheddar cheese, grated
2 cups fresh bread crumbs
Wash the spinach well and drain it in a colander. Put half of the spinach, with water clinging to its leaves, in a heavy 6- to 8-quart pot and cook over moderate heat, covered, stirring occasionally, until slightly wilted, about 1 minute. Add the remaining spinach and continue to cook over moderate heat, covered, stirring occasionally, until wilted but still bright green, about 1 minute more. Drain the spinach in a colander. When the spinach is cool enough to handle, squeeze it dry in small handfuls and chop finely.
Preheat the oven to 350°F.
Melt the butter in a large, deep, heavy skillet over moderate heat until the foam subsides. Cook the onion in the butter, with salt and pepper to taste, stirring, until softened, about 8 minutes. Stir in the garlic and cayenne and cook, stirring, until the garlic is softened. Add the spinach and cook, stirring, for 2 minutes. Add the cheese and cook over moderately low heat, stirring, until the cheese is melted and all the ingredients are combined well. Season the mixture with salt and pepper and spread in a well-buttered heavy 1 1/2- to 2-quart shallow baking dish. Sprinkle the top evenly with bread crumbs and bake in the middle of the oven until golden brown on top and bubbling, 20 to 25 minutes.
Serves 6 as a side dish.