There are those milestones in life, those days when the universe says yes. All too often, I celebrated them alone. When my first novel was published, for example. (I hang the term bittersweet on everything I do for good reason.) As a young man I often looked at the sky and asked “What good are these (delicious) moments, when I have no one to celebrate them with?” My family was decades in the making, and I had to be patient.
Last Saturday, we served plate after plate of my food - paired with some of the very best wine made in Georgia. I woke every morning leading up to this day with my heart thumping out of my chest, as I shopped and prepped, made checklists, made schedules, trying to predict every curve ball. Most important, I had the help of a sous chef, and friend. Nino was a calm and funny presence on the long day that we spent in that kitchen. Tireless and curious, and made of pure granite.
All during the day, N was checking in with me and I had only forgotten a container of alucha (tiny, sour green plums native to Georgia). She and V brought them to us, before the guests started to arrive. I had promised V that she could help me plate, but of course a nine year old can have ideas that flit away like birds through open windows so I did not ask her. All the same, she explained in no simple terms that she would handle the fourth course, a cheese plate and probably the third course, a complex char siu pork with a series of garnishes, a brunoise of preserved lemons I had been fermenting at home for the last few weeks, a brunoise of radish, and sections of that alucha, briefly blanched then pitted then dressed in a simple syrup that took the intense sour edge and rounded it off, still crunchy and tart. Last, a generous drizzle of a chile crisp I concocted from sumac, smoked anise, four kinds of Mexican chile and so much more. All of this on a bed of black rice, and black beans from Rancho Gordo in California. I know, it is crazy - but there we were plating it. Everyone throwing down. Nino, plating the base, me slicing the meat with this samurai knife I finally got to use, V sprinkling the garnishes, occasionally swearing like a sailor, having the time of her life. And the plates went out, and the wine for this course was an amber Mtsvane from Doctor Eko Glonti, a wine fit for royalty (Lagvinari is served in many Michelin restaurants) and he was there smiling and watching it all, and it was honor to bring him a plate.
But then it was already time to dive into the cheese plates and more fresh dishes hit the counter and we are slicing into Georgian Guda (not all like Dutch Gouda) and the membrillo I made from Georgian quince two days ago, wobbly and fragrant, the grapefruit supremes dressed in wild thistle honey and black pepper from Africa, and V takes the tweezers from me and plates them all, laughing her ass off, telling me she got chili oil on her clean white shirt, but that it is ok. And now she has tweezers on the plum mostarda, mustard seeds smiling back at us, and now the almonds candied with smoked paprika and guiajila chile and smoked Maldon salt, and Nino is snipping off perfect leaves of ombalo (something like Georgian thyme, but really just its own thing) as she places them just so and the plates go out again in a flurry, because the dinner has been dragging on for hours and the guests are terribly patient, but they know we are going as fast as we can.
The night grows long, and V is unflagged. She is smiling like she just robbed a bank, and I understand in this moment how unlonely a triumph this is, and those old sad days in the East Village were just a prelude to now, and now is all that matters.
Tonight is hers, as much as mine.
I say a few words in the big room about the dish, and the wine. V stands next to me, a tiny whirlwind pausing with her hands shoved in her pockets. N raises her eyebrows because I need to tell everyone that V did most of the plating and she leans against me, as the faces shine, as the guests clap and we drink it all in.
Missed your post Monday, I was in Atlanta for the Innman Park Festival, my favorite art festival to attend. For one thing, you're in Innman Park, surrounded by Houses built in the very early 20th century, big Gothic things with secret passages running through some of them. The streets are shaded by overhanging trees, there's bands playing, food cooking, color everywhere. I think we both had weekends that affirm life a bit eh?
Sounds like more than one member of the family has found a calling.