The World in My Kitchen by Colette Rossant Read Free Book Online Page B

haricots verts I was used to, and I hated iceburg lettuce. At first we went out to dinner, but very soon this became too expensive, so I started to cook. One night we decided to invite over for dinner Jimmy’s old friend, Gabriel Sedlis, an architect from Europe who had come to the United States after the war. He had been Jimmy’s classmate at Harvard. I still can remember the first dinner I prepared because I had to comb the neighborhood to find what I wanted. I made a cucumber salad with plain yogurt, garlic, and mint. Fresh mint was not easily available then in local supermarkets. I finally found a small store run by an Italian woman, who had fresh herbs growing on her windowsill. She agreed to let me have some. I also bought some chuck steak to make my own hamburgers and served them with a green peppercorn sauce; I made a puree with canned artichoke hearts using my new blender, a present from my mother-in-law. The puree was good though if too thin and slightly watery, since I had overdone the blending. But no one complained. For dessert, I made my first apple mousse, which was a great success, because I had just discovered how wonderful Macintosh apples were.
    My reputation as a good but somewhat bizarre cook began with this dinner. As time went by, I became more adventurous and went beyond my westside neighborhood to shop.
    One day, Jimmy announced that he had invited another old friend from Harvard for lunch the following Saturday. “Don’t make anything too French or too strange,” he said. “I haven’t seen him in several years, and I don’t really know what he is like.” Not too French? I decided to make an omelet, a salad, and a cake for dessert. I had been attracted by boxes of luscious cake mixes and learned that you could make a cake by just adding water and baking it in the oven. And so I started with the cake. When the cake came out of the oven, it looked nothing like the picture on the box. I had not understood the directions and had ended up baking the chocolate glaze and using the cake mix as the glaze. That cake ended up in the garbage can. As I prepared the omelet, I remembered Jimmy’s request. I decided, that to make it not too French, I would add some ketchup, which would give it an authentic American touch. The friend was charming, but the lunch was an unforgettable disaster. When I brought the “American” omelet to the table, Jimmy looked astonished as he stared at the disgusting grayish-orange mass. Not knowing what to do, I immediately started to talk about my total lack of cooking experience, hoping that Jimmy’s friend would forgive the horrible meal. The friend smiled as he played with his food. Jimmy looked grim, and as I was getting more and more nervous, I endlessly chattered away. As he was about to leave, he looked at me and said that he hoped I would enjoy discovering New York’s restaurants. We never saw that friend again, and Jimmy made me promise to never attempt to make what I thought were American dishes.
    During the week, we ate simply, shopping only at our local supermarket, but on weekends, we explored downtown and the Lower East Side. Our first stop was often the Essex Street market. The market was alive and bustling with people. The meat stands were run by Italian butchers. There I was able to find fresh chickens, rabbits, lamb, and cuts of beef or veal I could recognize. The vegetable stands offered at least three types of salads green, and I could satisfy my desires for a tender lettuce (which I learned very quickly was called Boston lettuce, reaffirming my strong belief that Boston knew good food) or escarole. There were bright red tomatoes, fresh string beans (maybe not as thin as the French ones but still quite good), large Italian eggplants, bitter sorrel, and broccoli. I often bought broccoli in attempts to prepare this uninspiring vegetable in a more imaginative way. With the broccoli, I made soufflé, tried it in a soup with turnips, or served it steamed and