36. Epic Failures

There’s just no way that you can be a cook and not have failures in the kitchen, especially if you’re adventurous. Eric is always trying new recipes or trying to recreate something he has enjoyed at a restaurant. Apparently, that’s what real cooks do. To be clear, I would never attempt to cook without a recipe. I fail in cooking even while following the directions closely, so why tempt fate?

Eric has a policy to never try new recipes with guests, with the only exception being when he hosts “Group Cook”. Group Cook is his way of experimenting with new recipes by engaging friends to cook and taste with him. He assembles a menu of untested dishes (usually from a stack of recipes torn out of magazines) and then invites four to six friends and assigns each (or in pairs) a recipe and their own prep station. He organizes all the ingredients needed for the dish, along with all preparation tools and then the “owner” prepares his dish. Once prepared and ready to eat, no matter what the order they come up, the dishes are plated and eaten together and critiqued first by the “owner” and then by all others. It is understood by all involved that any bad dish is entirely the fault of the recipe. Group Cook is everyone’s fail-safe way to try new recipes and not be personally responsible for the outcome. Plus, it’s a great way to share an evening with friends. At least that’s what I hear. Group Cook only occurs while I’m traveling. It’s because I don’t cook and, presumably, wouldn’t contribute to the experience. I suppose it is true, and so I am okay with this. It would be like inviting someone to play baseball when they don’t enjoy the game. And Group Cook is decidedly not for spectators. I have enjoyed the leftovers however, but only with the successful recipes. Some of them have not even been worth refrigerating. But let’s move on to some failures!

On rare occasions, Eric will try out a new recipe for a really good friend, especially if it appears to be low risk. Our friend, Nancy was once invited to lunch and Eric decided on a fried okra salad accompanied by a creamy tomato soup with clove that some food writer had raved about. As he was preparing it, Eric began to fret that it didn’t taste right, but I convinced him to just serve it anyway, since we were among friends. Nancy was the first to taste the soup and she froze mid-sip, calmly put her spoon down and said, “I can’t eat this”. Eric and I both tasted a half spoonful of the soup as well, and we both had to agree that it was hideous and completely inedible. Something like soup made with clove chewing gum. Somehow the clove bulldozed itself forward in the nastiest of ways. Nancy and I burst out laughing. Failures can be hilarious. Unless you’re the cook, of course, and then they’re just nightmares. Hey, nobody died or even got sick, and now years later we still recall the episode and launch into hysteria. Well, Nancy and I do.

And then there was Eric’s attempt to make Tater Tot Hotdish. To his credit, he did this just for me. I love hotdish. I love the idea of it, the name of it and the taste of it. Almost every kind of hotdish makes me happy. For those of you outside of Minnesota, a hotdish is essentially a casserole. But it doesn’t taste as good when you call it casserole, and it certainly becomes a little uppity. Think of hotdish like a po’ boy. If you call a po’ boy a “sandwich” it loses its magic. Anyway, Eric received a recipe for Tater Tot Hotdish from our friend Vickie with the warning, “Under no circumstances should you alter the recipe” (she knows Eric). Undeterred, Eric decided that the dish would be improved by adding some fresh thyme. And then, rather than topping the dish with a tumble of tater tots (as instructed), he neatly organized the tots into anal-retentive rows. The dish was presented to my sisters for dinner and after looking at it they asked, “What is it”? Then they tasted it and asked, with screwed-up faces, “What did you do to it”? Embarrassed, Eric pleaded that it was just the addition of thyme, and after shocked astonishment was first expressed, laughter ensured. Poor Eric. He had the best of intentions, but he made the mistake of attempting to elevate a revered classic outside of his vernacular. He did make a second attempt at Tater Tot Hotdish 10 years later and this time added (with my blessing) a layer of cheese to the top before baking. He sent a picture to my sisters and received the response, “What did you do to it this time”? In defense of my sisters, an invitation to dine with Eric is a coveted invitation. Other failures have been less spectacular. Like the fried chicken that didn’t smell “right” and after being summarily tossed, I was quickly dispatched to Popeye’s for replacement parts. The guests pretended politely not to notice, but we confessed anyway. And Popeye’s fried chicken is a real crowd pleaser. And, of course, in our kitchen there is routinely the sound of smoke alarms going off. Smoke alarms that apparently are designed for the occasional light smoke found in northern kitchens, but not the routine exuberant smoke found in southern kitchens when someone makes a roux or fries something up. Our neighbors know from experience that when they hear the smoke alarm in our house, Eric is likely cooking Louisiana favorites and it’s worth stopping over to ask if everything is alright in hopes of an invitation for dinner. Eric has adopted the practice of baking pie first thing in the morning, just in case it fails, so he would still have time to bake a replacement pie before dinner. His pies never fail, but he knows how important pie is to me and my family, and he also knows that dessert is the final act of a meal and you never want to fail at the end of a show. It’s the memory that your guests take home with them.

But it’s not failed individual dishes that haunt Eric. It’s when entire meals are deemed a failure. And we have only experienced this once. To be clear, it was the failure of a guest to appreciate the effort it took to prepare a meal and create a memory; it was not the failure of the cook. It was Thanksgiving, and the guest was Eric’s uncle. Eric went to great effort to create a meal drawn from favorite family recipes and deliver an experience that would be familiar, cherished and memorable. Instead, each dish was met with disapproval and compared to some other memory. Each presentation was criticized as being inappropriate, including the turkey that, according to the guest, should have been delivered whole on a platter rather than sliced on a plate. I was furious throughout the meal by the lack of appreciation for the effort made to prepare a meal of memories and love. Eric was heartbroken. Let’s face it, families can be complicated. Because this family member’s health was failing and his ability to enjoy food was compromised, I can only surmise that each bite was a reminder of his former vitality, and of memories that were fading. His present was painful, even when it was being filled with the company and love of other family members. In a strange way his criticisms were, at least in his mind, a final ceremony of instructions to pass on the traditions of one generation to the next.

That night, Eric was sullen and deeply hurt, and it got worse the next day when he heard additional critiques from his uncle. So, in the true spirit of a host, and with undying commitment to his family, Eric planned a new menu for a luncheon before his uncle was going to depart. Eric’s special menu was not one of family traditions, but rather of new possibilities and hope. The menu consisted of Portuguese dishes that Eric knew well and had experienced during his many travels to Portugal. It turned out to be a glorious meal, and every course was not only a triumph but also deeply appreciated by his uncle. As Eric had hoped, every memory of the failed Thanksgiving meal was eclipsed and replaced by exciting new tastes that Eric had prepared for him. The conversation was lively and the mood was light.

Those two meals taught me many lessons. They taught me to always be an appreciative guest no matter how I am feeling about my life. They taught me that food is a powerful connection to our past and everything that both comforts and haunts us. They also taught me that food has the capacity to deliver hope and convey love in a world that can sometimes feel hopeless and loveless.

And finally, they taught me that there are no real failures in the kitchen when the meal, no matter what its final outcome, is recognized to be the gift that it truly is.

Camarões Salteados

This has become one our favorite appetizers. It is based on the many versions of garlic and shrimp starters that I enjoyed in Lisbon on so many extended business trips there. The Portuguese often serve this dish in individual ceramic ramekins that are baked in the oven, but I like the look of the shrimp on a plate, surrounded by the lusty sauce they have cooked in.

We have served this to most of our friends and to all of my family members, and it has been universally liked, especially by my brother. When we were living in New York, I had my brother and his partner Jack over weekly for a Thursday Soup Night. It was always fun, and most of the soups were well received, but the most memorable meal was when I first introduced them to Camarões Salteados. I had made a Portuguese cilantro soup to follow the starter, but that was lost on my brother after having eaten the shrimp. He absolutely loved this starter. From then on, no matter what I would plan for dinner, he would always ask me ahead of time, “Are you going to make that shrimp starter again?” High praise.

The recipe below is very straight-forward, and the only way to fail is to use chilies that are too hot, accidentally burn the garlic or overcook the shrimp. But if you have the right ingredients and are vigilant during the very quick cooking time, it will always come out nicely. The tumble of bay leaf and chili pieces are rather beautiful on the plate, but be sure to remind your guests not to eat them. This really is yummy, and I urge you to try it. I promise you won’t fail. ~Eric

1/3 cup olive oil
5 tbsp butter
8 dried red medium-heat chilies (i.e. Chile de Arbol)
8 bay leaves, broken up coarsely
8 cloves garlic, sliced thin
Flakey sea salt for garnish
18 raw jumbo shrimp, shelled and deveined (a must)
3 tbsp chopped fresh cilantro (or parsley)
Fresh country bread for sopping up sauce

1. Pre-heat 6 salad plates.

2. In a large frying pan, heat the oil and butter over moderate heat.

3. Add the broken bay leaves and cook for 3 to 4 minutes, stirring occasionally.

4. Break up 1 to 2 red chilies into small pieces and add to pan, then add 6 whole chilies.

5. Add the sliced garlic and two generous pinches of sea salt and stir until the garlic just begins to take on some color, but well before they become brown, or they will turn bitter.

6. Add the shrimp and stir to cook. It only takes a moment of cooking for them to turn pink and have some of the edges take on a bit of golden color, and then they are ready. Overcooking will make them tougher.

7. Nestle 3 jumbo shrimp in a pile on each heated salad plate, and then spoon on a generous amount of the seasoned cooking oil, including the garlic, bay leaf and chili pieces and one whole chili pepper each. You want enough seasoned oil and butter sauce on the plate to be able to sop up with bread. Trust me.

8. Sprinkle some chopped cilantro over the shrimp as garnish and then be absolutely sure to add some flakey finishing salt, and everyone will be happy.

9. Serve with the country bread.

Serves 6