One of the most common questions I get at work, when it does slip that I’m a sommelier (crisis on confidence there at the moment so it’s not the most public thing I put out about myself on the floor, but we’ll see how this goes), is how exactly I got into wine. The story usually goes the same way- that I got into wine sideways through a love of cooking. Why not going into being a cook and a chef then? Because I cook to relax, to entertain, to be creative and free. Making it work would ruin that, or at least put a burden on it I don’t think I’d like (maybe that’s tied to wine now, who knows?) So wine became a vocation, and cooking remained a peaceful little corner of my life.
How’s that worked out for me?
Well, I’ve had two wonderful little meals with two of my best friends in the past two weeks. One was in Minneapolis, in which I did very little of the actual cooking beyond chopping potatoes and bringing wine (hey, I never said I still don’t love wine). They did most of the actual cooking, but it was the experience here that I desire to recall in perpetuity. I think that’s more of the understated effects of knowing how to cook, and having friends who know how to cook: the community. We listened to our friendship playlist (what, you don’t have those? Or do you? Please share!), we reminisced about the other times in the past we’ve spent cooking together (good, and so… so bad (to this day I don’t think either of us can stand the thought of bison wellington)). They have a distinctly different philosophy of cooking than I do at that, more outcome-focused than overall aesthetic (we bicker about plating, by which is meant a snide comment shared one way and then immediately put down with “But does it taste good?”), but those results to speak for themselves. Through the process we sipped demi-sec champagne out of mugs. We sang “Non-Stop” from Hamilton in duet (why do they think they’re the smartest in the room, and why do I write like I’m running out of time?) The result? Roast chicken with creamy, buttery mashed potatoes, and a bottle of a zinfandel-blend from a winery we both knew and loved. A welcome reunion to almost two years apart, and a continued affirmation of the power of just cooking with someone you love as healing, restorative, essential.
The second meal I’ve had recently was with a friend who I see fairly regularly. This one was my show, and my pleasure. Entertaining is an art, and cooking for someone has nearly as much of a different kind of joy as cooking with someone. This one was tonkatsu with a quick slaw and rice. I also made crème brûlée, because what else was I supposed to do with the extra eggs I bought by mistake? I spent the hour before they arrived breading and double-breading the pounded-thin pork chops. The sauce was some blend of soy, Worcestershire, and oyster sauce with a couple dashes of togarashi. I waited to actually fry the pork until my friend arrived, because there are few more satisfying things than watching, together, the crust evolve from pale to crispy, inviting golden-brown. It’s not a particularly fancy meal, but it is one of my favorites, and a common one in my dinner rotation because it is both cheap and provides plenty of leftovers (tonkatsu sandwiches, little bit of soy and mayo and hot sauce, cabbage, A+ stuff right there). My parents ask me to make it a lot when I visit them, or its close cousin from Europe.
She in turn brought beer and chocolates, the latter a belated birthday present. We watched my favorite movie (The Grand Budapest Hotel), which she enjoyed despite not normally liking Wes Anderson (a sin we shall forgive her for).
God, I don’t know if there’s anything that better explains my drive for a romantic, aesthetic, slightly melodramatic existence than admitting I enjoy Wes Anderson movies. But that’s another blog post.
These days, I don’t get to do as much cooking as I’d like. There’re a few reasons for this, obviously. The nature of restaurant work means that, more often than not, I’m arriving home a little too late to actually have the time for the more elaborate meals I enjoy making (but, let’s be honest, I am not above the sudden 1am pesto gnocchi). More and more of my friends are spread far across the country, and even those near will always have scheduling problems. The joys of growing up, of responsibilities, right? I still cook for my family whenever I visit them, or as often as I can. Holidays are usually my wheelhouse entirely.
But I remembered, as I pounded and breaded those pork chops, audiobook in the background, a glass of sherry (listen, I’m a mess, we know this) sitting dutifully on the counter near me, just why I had so loved doing this in the first place. Obviously, there’s a meditative aspect, there should be in anything avocational. The rhythm and patterns and lessons (most of which self-taught, I will admit), the familiarity when you’re making something you’ve made a dozen times before. Cooking is, if anything else, hopeful.
Why?
Well, do it right, and you’re going to make someone happy. Even if you’re just cooking for yourself, pull it off and you’ll be happy. For a little while, at least. But then, isn’t that just it? A little while. Even happiness.
Still, I can’t think of a better reason to do anything.