This is not a typical “Get Cooking” column. It does offer a recipe, which you always should expect; however, in the main, I hope more to inspire than to instruct. Itap that time of year.
This is a story about food, to be sure, but it aims to feed the soul.
The woman working the door led Egan to his table, a two-top, and he took the seat facing the wall.
“Anyone joining you tonight, sir?” she asked. “No,” he said.
Egan liked dining by himself. He’d bring the magazines he wanted to read, maybe the unopened mail. To Egan, being alone was OK, but dining alone was paradise. To sit at table and be properly served, to make of the snowy plane of the tablecloth and glimmer of polished glass his little world, that was delicious.
He was a regular at this restaurant, as much a fixture as the lacquered mahogany and brassstudded leather banquettes, the gleaming silver service and waiters in long white aprons that brushed the tops of their shoes.
He ordered the soup of the day because he always did and, tonight, a plate of sweetbreads. He chose a well-priced Savigny-Les-Beaune that the waiter informed him was the last one in the bin.
By and by, the woman who worked the door returned. “I’m terribly sorry to bother you, sir, but we’re just about a full house, as you see. Would you be so kind to have another single diner sit with you? We’d very much appreciate it.”
“Crap,” Egan said to himself.
He’d been barely two pages into a short story and he wasn’t keen on sharing the Savigny-Les-
Beaune.
“Sure, of course,” he said, because he’d been taught to be a good guy and because he knew that the woman who worked the door remembered favors.
There, off her elbow, was his gatecrasher — nearly as tall as the season’s Christmas trees and as loudly dressed. Egan let go a sigh.
“Hey, thanks,” said the other man. “I’m Desmond. Nice to meet you.”
“Egan. Welcome to our table.”
Desmond ordered onion soup au gratin and a pork schnitzel. He told Egan that the Savigny-Les-Beaune was a splendid idea.
Though Egan was peeved, he also was patient. Most especially, he was curious. (He liked privacy, after all, because it more efficiently focused attention.)
Egan and Desmond talked about the usual things at first, where they worked, their hometowns, about their families. Chitter-chatter, for all it is disparaged, is that gentlest of probes under another man’s skin. In sufficient and disciplined amount, it is able to exfoliate a personality.
To his surprise, Egan was instantly taken with Desmond. When Desmond spoke, he looked straight at Egan; when he listened, he loosely shuttered his eyes, as though he were chewing on what Egan was saying.
Plus, Desmond was quite the character, well worth the look and listen. He talked terrible potty mouth, and alluded as easily and as effectively to The Byrds as to Bellow. He ate slowly, not because he was meditative but because, when he spoke, both his hands flapped like fans.
Because they both knew food and wine, they talked about their dinner. Egan was perturbed that he could find little really good, affordable Burgundy, but allowed that this Savigny was pretty tasty.
Desmond had asked the kitchen to top his schnitzel with two fried eggs and he popped open each in turn so that the sunny centers, still runny, oozed their deliciousness over the crispcoated meat.
Egan said that egg yolk spoiled any wine, much less this fine red, and Desmond agreed. So Desmond sipped less than Egan and Egan thought that that was just fine and a happy pretext for citing old saws.
They agreed to finish dinner with cheese, something that they both offered at home dinner parties but rarely ordered out, restaurants not being in the habit of stocking cheese carts.
“Whatever you have,” said Desmond to the waiter, “some goat cheese from the salad list and a wedge of Gorgonzola from your steak sauce recipe. A cut-up apple, some more bread — and a knob of butter.
“You know,” he said, turning to Egan, “a little butter on the bread first, then the cheese, my God itap terrific.”
In the end, after the waiter put down the check and they disposed of it, Desmond stood up, brushed the crumbs from his lap, shook Egan’s hand heartily and bid him a happy holiday.
For a moment, Egan sat back in his chair that faced the wall, closed his hands over his lips and mulled over, in what room was left in his breast, how pleasant it was to have been interrupted that night by the woman who worked the door.
A very nice Christmas present I let happen, he said to himself.
Pork Schnitzel
From foodnetwork.com, recipe from Family Circle Magazine; 6 schnitzels
Ingredients
- 6 boneless top pork loin chops, about 2 pounds total, cut ½ -inch thick, trimmed of fat
- ½ teaspoon salt
- 1/3 cup all-purpose flour
- ¼ cup dried bread crumbs
- 1 egg
- ¼ cup milk
- 3 tablespoons oil
Directions
Place chops between 2 sheets of waxed or plastic paper. With meat mallet or rolling pin, pound to 3/8-inch thick. Sprinkle both sides with salt.
Measure flour and bread crumbs onto separate sheets of waxed paper or shallow bowls. Whisk together egg and milk in bowl. Lightly coat cutlets in flour, shaking off excess; dip in egg mixture, then into bread crumbs, pressing crumbs to coat.
Heat oil in large nonstick skillet over medium-high heat. Working in batches, add cutlets to skillet; cook, turning once, until golden brown, about 3 minutes per side. Remove cutlets to warm platter. Serve immediately.
