The Artful Diner - Dinner for Two

Dinner for Two

My father, now deceased, was an extraordinary chef. Although he rarely cooked at home, I have vivid childhood memories of visiting the restaurant kitchen where he worked: gleaming stainless steel, the apparently chaotic rush of men in white, strangely intoxicating aromas, and a host of exotic flavors that assaulted my innocent palate.

Of course, like every little boy, I wanted to follow in my father's footsteps. As I grew older, I even dabbled a bit, whipping up a bizarre variety of completely inedible concoctions. With the coming of college and graduate school, however, my interests took a decidedly different turn and my fascination with pots and pans began to wane.

Since we married somewhat later in life, my wife had never had the opportunity of meeting my father. But being quite adept in the kitchen herself, she was fascinated by my stories of his culinary prowess, as well as the accounts (somewhat embellished, I must admit) of my own early triumphs and tragedies.

She was also incredulous. "How is it possible," she inquired with just the gentlest touch of reproof, "that the heir apparent has yet to distinguish himself?"

She did, I was forced to confess, have a point. In the brief span of our marriage, my sole contributions to the domestic gastronomic tranquility had been choosing an appropriate bottle from our wine cellar and firing up an occasional leftover.

"You should try cooking once or twice a week," she urged, ever so sweetly, noting that her work schedule was significantly more demanding than my own at the moment.

"Uhh....."

I'm still not certain why I was so reluctant. Fear of failure, however, did appear to be rearing its ugly head. My wife would expect a great deal more than I felt capable of delivering, and falling flat on my asparagus wasn't exactly high on my list of priorities. A man does, after all, have his pride.

But I knew that my strong sense of self-preservation was beginning to weaken. As Valentine's Day approached, I actually found myself perusing the local Barnes & Noble and my wife's cookbook library in search of appropriate (and relatively simple) recipe possibilities. Much against my better judgment, I was planning a surprise gourmet feast. An intimate dinner a deux.

I shopped with infinite care, sequestering my bounty at a neighbor's home. On the appointed day, I left the office at noon, collected my cache, and set to work... And I needed every fleeting moment. Even the most mundane of kitchen chores suddenly loomed as inordinately difficult. But somehow, between various and sundry cursings at my own clumsiness, I persevered. By the time my wife appeared on the scene, I had showered, slipped into something more comfortable, and was doing my best to look a good deal more nonchalant than I felt.

But dinner--thanks in no small measure to Colman Andrews' incredible recipe for baked Greek lamb, a lovely '89 Chateau Pichon Baron, and a deliciously sinful chocolate mousse that owed more to good luck than to any inherent skill on my part--was an unqualified success. My wife was thoroughly impressed. I was... astounded, to say the least. The gods and, undoubtedly, my father's genes had seen fit to smile upon me in my hour of need.

That was ten years ago. I now find myself preparing an annual romantic dinner every February 14th, cooking several times a week, and poring over books and magazines in search of fresh culinary inspiration.

At first my wife was somewhat overwhelmed, perhaps even a bit intimidated by my rekindled enthusiasm. But we've settled into an easy compatibility in the kitchen, preparing meals together and thoroughly enjoying each other's company. She's grown very comfortable with my cooking. Well... perhaps a little too comfortable.

"Honey..." she whispered softly in my ear just the other evening, "I invited Alan and Susan for dinner Saturday night... What are you going to cook?"

"Uhh....."