ourselves.
Party time came and we were ready—we hoped.
First there were hors d'oeuvres: microscopic canapes of smoked salmon,
cucumber and caviar; Dimitri's chicken liver mousse with diced aspic;
little barquettes of something or other; deviled eggs with fish roe; a
lovely pâté en croûte with center garnishes of tongue, ham, pistachio and
black truffles, and an accompanying sauce Cumberland I'd lifted right
out of my CIA textbook. Our crown roast was no problem. It was the
blanquette that filled our hearts with dread and terror.
But God protects fools and drunks, and we were certainly both foolish
and drunk much of the time.
Things went brilliantly. Our coliseum's walls held!
The crown roast, decorated with little frilly panties on each gracefully
outward-arching rib bone, looked and tasted sensational. We were given
a standing ovation by the dazzled guests and grateful client.
When we next showed up at our old kitchens for our weekly gloat, our
heads were too big to fit in P-town's doors. We were already planning on
hunting bigger game. We had newer, more sophisticated, even richer
victims in mind for our learn-as-we-go operation. In New York.
SECOND COURSE
WHO COOKS?
WHO'S COOKING YOUR FOOD anyway? What strange beasts lurk
behind the kitchen doors? You see the chef: he's the guy without the hat,
with the clipboard under his arm, maybe his name stitched in Tuscan
blue on his starched white chef's coat next to those cotton Chinese