As the saying goes, the direct path to a guy's heart is through his stomach. An Aussie guy I had an unhealthy obsession for brought up the idea of throwing a dinner party at his place a year ago. "What should I make for your dinner party?" I eagerly offered my homemaking services. "You mean our dinner party," he countered. I glowed.
We decided on leg of lamb—a classic family-style roast with prewritten gender roles of the man of the house ceremonious carving meat table side. Invites were sent and a date set. Only one problem: I've never made lamb before. I grew up in America where lamb was not a staple, nor industry.
I somehow thought if I could deliver the perfect meal he would magically love me. I drove myself insane crafting the perfect meal; Nights were lost studying cookbooks; I even bought the Jamie Oliver DVD box set. One episode showed butterflied leg of lamb, but in my fantasy dinner party, rather our fantasy dinner party, I imagined carrying out an entire leg of lamb to the table. Arg. Frustrated, I write to Jamie Oliver posting my dilemma. I was surprised his staff came back with a recipe.
I ran this recipe by Richard Ekkebus at the two-Michelin starred Amber. "Well you can't serve an Aussie that. Jamie's a Brit, Aussies do it differently." He proceeded to roll out a recipe for the perfect leg of lamb which involved professional kitchen equipment and lots of anchovies. I'll never be able to recreate this at home.
I buy additional legs for test runs. I set off my smoke detector multiple times smoking and marinating oysters for our starter course. I procured artisanal ice from Antarctica for welcome drinks. This was going to be the dinner party of dinner parties.
On my way to pick up tomatoes I ordered from Sicily the phone rings, it's him, "Hey, how's it going?" "Everything's good, looking forward to our dinner party," I said coolly. "I made a test leg of lamb last night." Shut up! Shut up! Too much information. "Wow, really?” He said. Awkward pause. “When I was a kid my grandmother would roast a leg of lamb, it was one of my favourite memories growing up." Fuck. "She would put-" at that precise moment a roaring city bus crosses my path. "Wait, what did you say?" I said half panicked. He mumbled his grandmother's list of ingredient again but I still couldn't get a clear connection through the city roar. The forces were against me. I loudly asked a third time like someone using a mobile phone for the first time believing he would hear me better if I yelled. I finally said, without meaning to: "I'm sorry I can't understand your Aussie accent unless I see your lips move."
“You want to win this guy right?” my chef friend said four days, and two overcooked legs of lamb, to showtime. “Forget the anchovies, forget the bacon, forget everything. Keep it simple. Fresh mint sauce, rosemary, roast potatoes, and gravy. You can do this. You know how to make head cheese for god's sake."
"I think I'm just too nervous and I'll fuck it up," I was going to cry.
“It’s cute how worked up you get. How about this, my kitchen will prepare everything for you. You just need to pop it in the oven." This was so cheating, but it was so brilliant.
No one really cooks from scratch anymore, we think we cook, but all we really do is assemble the parts and we call it cooking. I considered his offer. "You sure you want to be with a guy that drives you this crazy?" the chef asked. All the best ones are a little crazy, I thought. But I didn’t want to be crazy and a cheater, so I turned down my way out of roast lamb hell.
The night before the dinner I packed a hand-carried bottle of bourbon from the Kentucky, grey salt shaved from the salt banks of Gemunden (Germany), herb rub from Borough Market (London), and a bottle of aged balsamic vinegar bought at auction, and a recently purchased gravy bowl in the shape of a duck.
I took a day off work to get ready for this fated night. I remind myself to take deep breaths as I was getting my hair/nails/makeup done. Just one more stop at the tailors then I’ll head over to his. My phone receives a text from my beloved: Problem. Need to reschedule. Sorry. “What?! My scream silenced all the blow dryers in my blast radius.
I threw the lamb in the freezer, and speed-dialed my girlfriends for a night of consolement. Between glasses of bourbon, I turned up the oven, ditched the sauces and cooked the most honest meal to ever come out of my kitchen. It was made with tears, disappointment, and relief, not crazy psychotic behaviour. And then we feasted.
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