Cooking

It's so much more than just about eating...

Bruce

On the occasion of my wife’s 50th birthday, I decided to surprise her with a wholly unexpected gift. I arranged for our son and daughter-in-law to fly from South Africa to our home in Alabama. Covid-19 travel restrictions were still haphazard, so a visit from family was not even on the radar. But there would be an additional surprise. Traveling with our kids would be my wife’s best friend, Rosalind—affectionately known as “Ros.”

If you look up “glam” in the dictionary, a picture of Rosalind is sure to be next to it. Before I knew her very well, I made the mistake once of serving her wine in a plastic cup when all glasses were taken at a dinner. She looked at me as though I had just stepped on her big toe. She then addressed me in the familiar: “Matthew…are you joking?” Only my mother ever called me by that name…and only when she was annoyed. I was justly rebuked and ran to wash a glass.

You cannot blame Ros. She was from very good stock. Her mother, Jillian, was a marvelous hostess—a Grande Dame whose home could grace the cover of Southern Living any time of the year. She was the kind of person who drank Champagne in her garden while watching her grandchildren play among the beautiful flora of her little piece of paradise at the southern tip of Africa. In the evening, she’d retire to the bar at her lodge with her husband Brian, then sit by the fire holding a glass of something red and smoking thin cigarettes.

Jillian’s Christmas Eve dinners were legendary, and securing an invitation was more coveted than any state dinner in South Africa. We had the pleasure of being invited to her last, before cancer carried her away too soon. Though her struggle with the disease was real, and the chemo had its way with her, she would not be bested on Christmas. Dressed in her finery, complete with wig, Jillian held court—the undisputed monarch of her house and the hearts of all around her table. And the dinner was rich! No expense spared.

With such a mother as an example, you can understand my concern that Rosalind’s first dinner in the American South be a good one.

No offense to any of the fine restaurants in my hometown—which we would subsequently frequent during the course of Ros’s visit—but none were suitable for what I had in mind for the inaugural feast. This meal must be exceptional and exquisite.

In my mind there was no question who should cook the meal. I called Bruce Byrd.

Bruce, like me, had left the sleepy confines of Enterprise, Alabama, in his youth to go off and see the world…only to be finally boomeranged back to the same stomping grounds of his childhood. But Bruce did not waste his time “abroad.” He became a gourmand.

Bruce is also a fighter and not averse to a challenge. A well-timed near-fatal heart attack led his doctors to discover a bad case of liver cancer, which was not great news for a man in his sixties to hear. The prognosis was not good, but Bruce wasn’t impressed, and has, of this writing, continued to surprise—and outlive—his oncologists. He did have to make some compromises. After 50+ years, he stopped smoking. But even though the meds wreaked havoc on his appetite, they did not remove Bruce’s taste for dirty Belvedere Martinis with blue cheese-stuffed olives. And the loss of appetite did nothing to blunt his passion for cooking. If he couldn’t eat, he’d still cook and enjoy the meal through the experience of others.

I informed Bruce what I was up against, and he didn’t blink. “Oh, don’t worry about Ros. I’ll take care of her. Just come to my home; I’ll feed y’all there.”

I told Bruce I had found a shop in San Diego that carried one of Ros’s favorite South African sparkling wines. I ordered six bottles. As for the other booze, Rosalind was bringing her own. Some people travel with their medications and dietary supplements. Ros brings wine and gin.

“I know she’ll have a nice red with her,” I informed Bruce, “and we’ll have some good gin for pre-dinner cocktails.”

“Good,” replied Bruce. “Then I’ll make a dessert to go with the Champagne at the end.”

A couple days later, Bruce and I met to discuss his menu.

“Here is what I suggest,” Bruce began. “You can mix the gin and tonics while I prepare the first course. We’ll start with a Caesar salad—homemade dressing, of course. I’ll then follow that with crab cakes with chipotle remoulade. To go with the red wine, I suggest a pan-seared filet mignon with béarnaise sauce, roasted asparagus, cipollini onions, and goat cheese mashed potatoes. We’ll end with chocolate truffle cheesecake with chocolate ganache, and, of course, the Champagne. My home has a floor plan with the dining room open to the kitchen, so y’all can eat while I’m cooking. We’ll use my best china.”

“That sounds amazing, Bruce,” I replied, still slightly dazed from the description. “How much should I budget for this?”

“Well, I’ll send you the shopping receipts for the ingredients, but the cooking is my birthday gift to Jennie.”

The table setting would be for five. My wife, Rosalind, my mother (Mimi), myself, and, of course, Bruce. Mimi and Bruce had been to high school together. She was also a favorite of Rosalind. The plans being made, we only had to wait for the day to arrive.

It was fortunate that the event took place. I thought the surprise of our children walking through the door would send my wife into shock. I’m sure her cries of jubilation could be heard in the next county, so Bruce knew when to pre-heat his oven. But this initial shock was compounded considerably when, five minutes later, Rosalind walked through the door.

Having exhausted our supply of facial tissues, we decided to sit on our front porch and drink a bottle of celebratory Champagne. I informed the ladies what was in store for them at dinner, and we counted the minutes until evening.

Bruce lives is a modest 1950s brick house a mile from our home, and as soon as we stepped inside his home, Rosalind knew she had met another friend for life. The table setting and decorations were worthy of St. Jillian Smith herself. Bruce welcomed us in and showed me where to fix the cocktails. Drinks in hand, we toasted the evening and many happy returns for my wife. The eating then began.

I’ve already recounted the menu, so there is no need to rehash. Needless to say, the dinner was long and full of “mmmms” and “ahhhhhs,” and expletives reserved for approbation, not reproach. Bruce ate little during the evening, as expected. His feast was mainly being in his kitchen and painting art on the canvas of our appetites.

Cooking is a gift—literally. It is a language understood by every culture on earth, although it is unique to each cook. Cooking is poetry we write when words fail us. It fills empty spaces unreachable by metaphysical dogmas. It is often the only religious sacrament practiced by skeptics, for it entails a form of ritual sacrifice primarily for the benefit of others.

Is it any wonder that an “endangered pleasure” and mark of a civilization in decline is the diminished role of cooking in daily life? Many fast food advertisements say it best: “Who has time for cooking?” But it should be the reverse. Most things we do outside of cooking should be in support for the times when cooking takes place, because that’s when some real, visceral work of human flourishing takes place. There is a reason we associate certain dishes with our best memories and relationships.

I’ve written on this before, but consider the last meal requests of death row inmates. How many order ostrich carpaccio or foie gras? In other words, how many think to themselves “I’ve never tried this before and I guess this will be the only time I get a chance?” No, most order things like fried chicken, or just a big bowl of eggs and grits. Why? Because eating that fried chicken is associated with perhaps the only happy memories that poor soul had during his troubled childhood.

Cooking involves giving. And giving is one of those things which separates us from the beasts. How many pigs wait for one another when the swill is poured? Removing cooking from calorie consumption is just another step in our social devolution. “Who has time for cooking?” The question should be “who has time for anything else?” When checking the timer on an herb-crusted roasted chicken once again becomes as important to us as checking our Tesla stock, we’ll know we’re in recovery.

We’ll be at Bruce’s table again.

Ros and Bruce