Mission: Cook! (37 page)

In a line at one end of a spacious, majestic, wood-carved party room stood my guys, George, George, and Ruben; a lineup of skinny, gray-T-shirted kids I called “the Knowlton Boys,” and in front, a rather stern-looking young Scotswoman who introduced herself as Christina. She was the events manager for the mansion and made it clear that it was her job to keep me on point and to make sure that I didn't louse up dinner for her precious clients that evening.

I shook her hand, greeted my men, and assessed the lads who would comprise my cooking crew for the day. They were five in number and looked as if they'd been pulled out of their bunks and ordered to assemble for firing squad duty, and were wondering which end of the rifles they'd be on. They reminded me of myself when I first started cooking in the Navy. I took a moment to reassure them as best I could and hurried everyone into the kitchen.

Christina gave me the nickel tour. It was a good-sized kitchen with space for prep, cooking, and staging. It looked as if they had enough ovens and burners—I would have to find out how well they worked as I went. I gathered my team around me and went through a quick checklist of what was on hand and what we needed to buy. I had a few thousand dollars to spend, given me by the show, and was determined to maximize the value of every penny. I picked out one of the Knowlton Boys and grilled him for ingredients: “Have you got English cucumber? Thyme? Duck? Parmesan cheese, risotto, onions, skewers,
stone-ground mustard?…”—in all a list of about twenty items. He did well under fire and gave me the answers I desperately needed.

Ruben, one of my personally trained chefs, had been given me as a runner for shopping. I barked out a list for him that included sun-dried tomatoes, cannellini beans, strawberries, potatoes, and sweet corn, among many items, and kicked him out the door. I started on a menu with George and George.

These guys have been with me for a long time; they know what I need, and I think I know their strengths and weaknesses even better than they do themselves. This challenge was tailor-made for them. I assigned them to start work immediately on a killer selection of hot and cold appetizers. Little George would do a Sesame Chicken Saté with Peanut Sauce, Goat Cheese Tartlets, Shrimp and Crab Cakes, and a Beef Tenderloin with Red Onion Marmalade; Big George would put together Brie with Strawberries, Roasted Duck with White Bean Ragout, Sea Scallops with Guacamole, and Tuna Tartare in a Cucumber Boat Topped with Black Caviar.

I pounded out the entrées: Seared Mahimahi would be paired with Saffron Risotto and Mango Sauce; I would do the chicken roulade; the vegetarian dish would be Roasted Vegetable Crepes with Roasted Red Pepper Sauce; for dessert, we'd serve Tahitian Vanilla Crème Brûlée; and for the toast I would do a variation on a Kir Royale, a champagne, orange juice, and cassis cocktail layered to look like a sunset in champagne flutes.

I figured I would just lay Fred and forty-nine of his closest friends flat out with Center-Cut Dry Aged Prime Filets with a Blue Cheese Crust, served with a Sweet Corn and Potato Hash and a Merlot Reduction. I got on my cell phone to Esposito's in the Italian Market in Philly and ordered fifty of the best (and most expensive) steaks they had, to be delivered asap.

Then we went to it. When I'm working, I take very little direction from the TV people. Our camera and sound guys are brilliant, and they somehow manage to stay out of the way without missing a single moment. Wrapped in a cocoon of concentrated effort, I started to feel for the first time that we were going to be able to get this done.

The first real curveball I had to manage was having a cadre of basically untrained kids trying to follow my directions. I had all of about fifteen minutes to figure out how to deploy them, what their relative skill levels were, and how to whip them into a team. Their first assignment was to peel six hundred pieces of asparagus. I have a very specific way I like to do that. I showed them that I wanted them to peel until the “white” showed on the stalk, and to take that up to the tip. That leaves a beautiful white spear with a bright green tip after
cooking and makes a very nice presentation on the plate. They had done nearly the whole six hundred when I checked in on them…and they had only taken the peel halfway up the stalk. I took a couple and cut off the bottom halves, which had the effect of completely eliminating the peeling they had accomplished thus far. Their faces fell as they realized I was making them start from scratch. When I saw the wind come out of their sails, I yelled: “Do it right or go and be a cabdriver…don't give me
garbage
or you're gonna get it back!” I didn't talk to them that way because I'm a mean guy or because I was upset—I said it to give them a shot of adrenaline, to challenge them, to make them mad enough at me for the moment to take it out on the asparagus and get the job done even faster this time around.

More minor catastrophes occurred: the ovens never quite worked properly, the exhaust fans only worked intermittently, so it got hotter and hotter; we triggered what we thought was a fire alarm and nearly abandoned the kitchen—turned out that the timer on the braiser had been turned on accidentally and no on knew how to turn it off. When she wasn't breathing down my neck at every turn, Christina had to burn the phone lines all over town to find someone who would deliver black caviar. Ruben came back from the shopping without any fresh corn for the potato hash, which really burned me. We scrounged up some canned corn, which I perked up by dicing in some sweet, fresh rhubarb and caramelized onion. My beautiful steaks got delivered only in the nick of time and nearly got overcooked whilst finishing in the unruly ovens. And somebody burnt the beef stock.

If you really want to get me wound up, try seeing if you can slip a burnt stock past me before service. Stocks are foundational. Start with a bad stock and you can have the best piece of meat in the world and the meal is ruined. I popped my cork for a couple of minutes, but never really found out what had happened to it. With the invectives of Taffy Jones and Michel Roux ringing in my head, I shouted for new ingredients and had Little George reassemble the stock I was going to use for my reduction sauce. Happily, everything got done and everyone pulled together as a team, and we made it through to the cocktail hour.

The guests began to arrive. Platter after platter, dish after dish of hors d'oeuvres took off from the stainless-steel front prep tables, like F-18s off an aircraft carrier. In the meantime, I had to design separate platings of every dish we were making for the cameras to photograph for beauty shots in the back of the kitchen. The bridal party arrived and seemed to really enjoy our opening salvo. Paula looked radiant. Her parents were beaming. Fred even managed a few minutes to see us in the kitchens and reveled in the proceedings. He left to
rejoin his bride, and we returned to incinerating the sugary tops of the crème brûlées with our blowtorches.

Then the real dance began. Though Knowlton Mansion is a very successful catering venue, they have no hot boxes on the premises. In a hotel, all of the dishes could have been plated and stored at the perfect temperature well before being required at the tables. This allows me to plate the dinners when
I
am ready. Here, every plate needed to built individually at the moment it was called for, when the
servers
were ready. So, if a table of eight calls for three chickens, two fish, two steaks, and a veggie, then and only then could you plate them and send them out the door.

I assembled every Knowlton Boy, the dishwasher, George, and Ruben and formed an assembly line, with me at the front barking orders. Christina expedited, calling out dishes as they came up. George would pipe hot potatoes out of a pastry bag, the other George would give it a drizzle of white truffle oil, I would lay on a fan of sliced chicken roulade, then it would move down the table, get a sauce, get a garnish, and fly out the door. The beef would start on a ring of potato hash, I'd top it with the crusted fillet, slide down the line, sauce, garnish, on to the next, over two hundred times in a little over twenty minutes.

Then the moment of truth arrived. It was time to serve the bride and groom. Just earlier I had donned my chef's whites, the jacket I wear when I serve the president. I built their dishes, fish and beef, both high, tight, clean, and centered, and carried them out into the ballroom. To a thunderous ovation, I laid down the plates before them, wished them well, and strode away. I have seen their reactions since when I watched a rough cut of the show. I hope that Fred always gazes at Paula with the look of pure love that lit up his face when he bit into that steak.

Back in the kitchen, as cleanup began, I assembled the Boys. I was truly moved by how well they had performed that day. Here I had come thundering into their kitchen with a full production crew, my men and my demands, and they took everything I had to dish out and triumphed. I gave a little speech of thanks and it was from the heart. To my surprise, I turned around and saw that the unyielding Christina had burst into tears. She had not only personally done a terrific job that day, but had seen “her boys” grow through the experience right before her eyes. I went over and gave her a hug and we all broke into a round of spontaneous applause. Dinner:
Accomplished.

And that's our show for now. Variations on some of the recipes for the entrées prepared for the pilot appear elsewhere in this book. Here are recipes for four of the hors d'oeuvres for
your
next party (or wedding!).

Preheat
the oven to 325 degrees. Using your 1½-inch-diameter cutter, cut the sliced bread into 6 circles and put on a baking sheet. Toast the brioche circles in the oven for 3 to 5 minutes until golden brown.

With a rubber spatula, fold together the cream cheese and chopped chives, and place in a small pastry bag with a star tip.

Pipe out about ½ ounce cream cheese and chive mixture onto each toasted brioche circle. Cut off the top of the strawberry, slice in half lengthwise, then cut each half into 3 wedges. Cut the ½ wheel of Brie into 6 triangle wedges. Place 1 wedge of strawberry and 1 wedge of Brie standing up on the cream cheese. Place 1 parsley sprig on top of each.

Heat
the olive oil in a nonstick pan over moderately high heat. Season the scallops with salt and pepper, and cook for 1½ minutes on each side, or until golden brown.

Using a fork, coarsely mash the avocado with the lime juice and garlic. Stir in the onion, cilantro, and Tabasco to blend. Season with salt to taste.

Trim the crusts off the toasted bread and cut the bread into 4 triangles. Spoon 1 tablespoon of guacamole on top of each toast triangle. Place a scallop on top of the guacamole.