The best meal I ever ate….

April 8, 2009

 In the South, it is typical for someone to say, referring to a meal, “It was the best meal I ever ate.”   Some people say this with regularity.  Not I.

The “best” are when you remember them long after, as you read a book and something comes to mind, the remembrance of a sunny day in France at a world famous restaurant, or when being entertained at someone’s home.    The food comes to mind in a rushing vision, simultaneously with the watering of your mouth.  Or you remember standing in front of a fire place, talking with someone, the background music repeating in your mind.  Sometimes the conversation comes up – others laughter rocking around the room of people, happiness so present. 

And so I tell you about three wonderful occasions, all in one weekend, that were all “the best meal I ever had.”   I leave it to you to determine which made me happiest – or if it was all three.

The first was a grand occasion, a party at the British Embassy.  Our invitation came about because the British Ambassador came to Charleston during the Democratic primary and we hosted him and some aides in a very informal manner – shrimp and grits, if you must know.   We were going to Washington and they were having a party at the same time. 

 I was totally thrilled to be invited – to see the Andy Warhol painting of Queen Elizabeth and other famous art, to meet the Television news stars who live and broadcast from Washington, to meet some ritzy people whose name I have seen in gossip columns, and, best of all, for my husband to meet some people who are interested in the same legal issues he is working on for another book.  I was totally happy to be there, and as the first event in the weekend it made the whole trip worthwhile, we thought. I was so excited I don’t remember a thing I ate, but know it was all good.   I picture the room, the side room where the hot tea was served, the bartender who knew exactly what I drank when I returned the second time, the silver platters of food borne to us with gloved hands. 

The second occasion was at the home of a young woman who had lived with me when her parents, good friends, were sent to Africa with the Foreign Service.  She had come to stay three weeks, and wound up there several years, through a year or two of college.   I love her like a bonus daughter.  But I rarely get to Washington, and she has never been to Charleston, so I have missed seeing her regularly.

 That weekend we tried to find a time to rendezvous outside of her home, but nothing fell in place.  Finally she asked me to come for a soft-boiled egg as she had to feed her small son lunch.  It pleased me no end to be invited, as I could see him as well as her.  And her mother could drop by later as well. 

Like so many people do – foolishly, I might add—she made some disclaimers. “It won’t be anything like your meals,” she said,” You know I’ve never been a good cook.”  (She is a ballerina and mostly ate yogurt when she lived with me.)  What did I care?  I can eat anytime.  And so I went.

 “This is my specialty”, she said.  I stood and watched while she boiled the egg – big bubbles of water surrounding the eggs, just exactly what the books say you SHOULDN’T do – and toasted the lovely brown bakery bread she keeps for her family.    Amazingly, the eggs were perfectly cooked – soft yolks just lightly melting into the toast, the whites firm but soft enough to float onto the plate.  My second piece of toast cut charmingly in triangles, butter soaking into the holes of the bread.    I gobbled my meal up, and wiped my plate clean. (Literally.)   With great contentment I drank hot tea and ate butter cookies for hours, talking, sharing old memories, hearing stories of hers, and watching the boy play with his toys, until her mother arrived for more tea and conversation.  Her husband arrived and the afternoon was complete.  Never, it seemed, had I had such a delicious lunch, or such wonderful company.  I left with belly and heart full.

That night we would up in a food writer’s home, David Hagedorn of the Washington Post, who writes an amazing entertaining column.  My husband didn’t know any one there.  (I only knew half the people – the three writers.)  Everyone was so warm and friendly to him I didn’t have to make sure he was happy and could just relax and enjoy myself and eat.  Ah, the food.  The food was memorable.   Cheese straws that crisply crunched.  A soup made with such a sturdy broth it needed no thickening, hesitating briefly on the tongue leaving only flavor and warmth behind.   Duck and duck comfit followed.  Our host had tested many duck recipes over the previous weeks, and so had a host of duck stock frozen to be defrosted and enhance our meal.  There is no sense getting those recipes, because the ingredients are not available to ordinary mortals, in such quantities and prepared with such skill and innovation.  What magic.  Just speaking of it to you makes it comes to mind. 

 Finally, the dessert.  I have made many peach cobblers in my life and don’t mind saying it is nearly my favorite dessert.  I never get tired of it.  I also thought I had tried every variation – brown sugar, white sugar, large pans to get as much crust as possible, ginger in filling and crust, on and on.  But David is extremely talented and clever.  He, too, particularly likes the crust, which is buttery and crunchy on the outside, soft on the inside.  So he changed the recipe in a totally unique way. He halved the crust ingredients and added them to the original, making one and one half times the crust.  The made the whole thing in an iron skillet in the stove, and cut and served it like a cake. ( For the recipe go to:  http://projects.washingtonpost.com/recipes/2009/03/18/peach-apricot-cobbler/  ) He used dried apricots with the peaches.  What a sneaky way to bump up the flavor.  Brilliant!!!

I swooned when I wasn’t kicking myself for lack of originality and flair.  All in all it was one of the best meals I have ever eaten in a home.  It was fabulous.  We left with vivid memories of food that haven’t left us.  I revisit it frequently.

Now, you tell me – which was my favorite?   The soft-boiled egg , because it was given with such affection and love as the very best the cook could do – her specialty? The glamorous party the likes of which I will never see again?   The phenomenal meal that cannot be replicated, no more than the fascinating, lively conversation?

 Email me with your vote at dupreenathalie@aol.com!