——————

A plate was flying toward me, so I ducked.  “No sugar!” hissed Dieter, the headwaiter.  “No….sugar!”

That was the night I mixed two soufflés – whip, fold, stir, I know how.  I smiled when they left the kitchen and nearly choked when they came back wrong. When one orders a $17 dessert, one can expect sugar. I’d been an intern for fourteen days at this five-star restaurant – and between two botched soufflés and one smashed plate, I assumed I had about fourteen seconds left.

Second-year culinary students did internships, and this was the one for me – a place famous for gracious service and the second mortgage you’d need to eat there.  There were a thousand city kitchens but I’d fought for this spot, and lobbied to win.  It was plum, an expensive organic plum of a chance, and on the first day I laced my Doc Martens, tied back my hair and jumped.

Jumped fast, and fast was good.  When you are the only woman in a cramped kitchen of men, it’s like working on a nuclear sub.  Down in the lockers I learned to grab two towels, an apron, and get the hell out. In the darkest corners of the walk-in, I whistled loud and carried a peeler.

And on the line, I was invisible.  “I’m here,” I told Mario, the pastry guy, “let me do something.”

He gave me a case of club soda and a stack of chargers, and I spent the day buffing Limoges. When I went for new plates, the dishwasher leered. He was a sulky, strung-out French cousin of a saucier’s cousin, but he smoked with the bakers and drank with the chefs.  I prayed for a tragic scalding at the sink.

Though my shift started before noon and dragged past midnight, I began showing up early, when the produce arrived.  Chef – the chef – would climb through the alley on wooden crates, pinching herbs and squeezing fruit.  Safe behind the ovens, the pastry guys whispered and mocked.

“Oh yesss…yes, we must kiss the ass of every strawberry.  Mwah!”

If I joined in - strawberry ass – ha ha, that’s good! – they turned and went back to work.

Without leadership and dying to be led, it occurred to me that Chef himself should be my teacher.  He’d be flattered by questions, enchanted by curiosity, why yes, he’d say, but of course you are most natural.  So much talent for one so young.  And your shiny nose, tres chic. One morning I stood with my little notebook, watching him snap dough into onion tarts.

“Is that pate brisee?”

“For you it is NOTHING.”

“Creme fraiche?”

“Go to hell. MOVE.”

Thanks, mon ami!  I started stealing into the tiny fish kitchen, scaling three-foot tunas that hid me from view.  In twenty years Alejandro had gone from dishwasher to fish boss – let’s see Le Dish Cousin do that – and his manner was shockingly kind.  “They won’t let me do anything over there,” I whined, “they hate me.”

“You’ll make it.”  Elbow-deep in sea bass, he yanked out some guts. “You will.”

Certainly I could make it as a plate shiner.  Not counting club soda, I hadn’t touched an edible in seven working days. But just ten minutes before dinner on the eighth, Mario grumbled “you plate tonight.”

My head swam.  Desserts…now.  Plate.

On the line.  That’s what I wanted, right?  I’d  watched them all week, the battery of sauces and garnishes, tart shells and torches and berries.  I test-plated a poppyseed tuile on the sly and it shattered to the floor.  I kicked the pieces under the counter.

When the dessert rush hit I was nauseous. Tickets poured in and Mario barked orders while I frantically tore mint leaves, piped swirls, curled chocolate.  Line work requires the hustle of a trader, the fight of a bull and in my case, a skin of steel that I did not have.

“Move, MOVE!” Dieter snarled.  “I will not SERVE this SHIT!” For a man who resembled a cadaver, he was surprisingly alive.  “Why so slow, PIGS?”

“Yo estoy solo!” Mario yelled.  I am alone.

I spoke decent Spanish.  I’m on the line and he says he’s alone.

“I’m trying!” I wiped my hands and grabbed the next plate.  “Look, I’m on it!”

Thirty-seven desserts later, I was given a five-minute break and flew down to the locker room, drenched and shaking on the…ashes.  Every cook, waiter, and busboy topped this floor with Marlboro butts.  Maybe if I just started smoking.

I threw up over a trashcan.  Then I sat on the floor, pressed my face on a locker and cried.

Four minutes later I was back on the line.  I drove down empty Lake Shore Drive at two a.m. each day and returned at ten a.m. the next.  My body found a new brand of numb; even my skin hurt from the daily rounds of try, scream, fail.  Maybe I did not have what it takes.  Maybe I did not want what it took.

For two weeks, every man over twelve and under eighty welcomed me with open arms – hairy arms.  Each night I worked between three dripping necks, boasting in three languages over my head what they’d like to do with me, for me, to me.

The day that Dieter fired a sugarless soufflé at my head I untied my apron, hung it on the peg and walked out to the night.

I sat five minutes in the car, breathing frost in my wet, filthy whites. The restaurant window showed in my rearview mirror, catching a diner raising her glass and a man clinking it, smiling.  I yanked down my hair and sped off to the highway, thinking quitter.  You burned your fancy bridges.   Schooling was what I’d come for and schooling was what I got.  I would quit my way into a different kind of kitchen, reasoning that if this was it, what I had was something else.

I like coffee cups. That one, over there? It may or may not have found its way out of my brother-in-law’s rehearsal dinner in Falun, Sweden. It may or may not have slipped into this country wrapped in dirty jeans and a Frommer’s guide. I’m just saying that it’s here, and I enjoy it. I like holding its steamy goodness with two hands and repeating my java mantra: mellanmork, morkrost, lof-berg lila. Want some coffee, Greg? Mellanmork, morkrost, lof-berg lila. Okay – I’ll make more. Mellanmork…

And since you no longer respect me now anyway, let me add that I enjoy the company of several butter plates, wine menus, lobster bibs and one ceramic pitcher that my brother-in-law may or may not have ‘borrowed’ from my own rehearsal dinner.

Our dinner was at a Chicago tapas place – one minute the pitcher was full of sangria, the next it was in my kitchen. I know nothing.

Now I know my readers and I’m not pointing any fingers, exactly, but you just happen to be a bunch of big-time coveters. And it’s come to my attention that other artful dodgers may exist. So what is it – what’s that thing you had to have? What treasured memento…um…followed you home?

Today the topic was Last Meal.

Our family has played “Last Meal” many times – what would you eat, and how would you choose? How many courses do you get? Lilly was intrigued, so Josie quickly showed her hand.

“I would start with dim sum,” she said.

“What?” said Lilly.

“You know, the Chinese appetizers. Dumplings and stuff.”

“Oh right! I would have dumplings too. Chicken.”

Josie continued. “Then, a big sausage and mushroom pizza from Lou Malnati’s. And their salad.”

That’s my girl. The tomato-gorgonzola salad is to die for.

Lilly swung in. “Sushi,” she said, “that Crunchy Munchy roll from Yokohama.”

“I LOVE that! Crunchy Munchy is so awesome.”

“I like the Crunchy Munchy roll, ” I said, turning left, “the spicy crab is good, huh?”

Silence. Okay, shut up and drive.

“What should we drink?” Lilly said. “I love ginger ale. Not too much ice, though.”

“Yeah,” Josie said, “we should have ginger ale. Do we get an after-dinner thing? Hot chocolate?”

Lilly thought they could have an after-dinner thing. Why not? It was their last meal.

“Okay then,” said Josie. “I want a big chai latte.”

I turn up the radio, boring NPR. Wow. Precocious darlings, or spoiled brats?

“BUFFALO WINGS!” Josie screamed. “We forgot WINGS!!”

“Wings!!!” Lilly shrieked, “but with mild sauce.”

“I want mine super Buffalo hot,” Josie said, “we’re getting different meals.”

“So for dessert I want tiramisu,” said Lilly. “Isn’t that like, made from cheese?”

Yes, it’s cheese. Red light. Christ, can this meal end?

Josie picked key lime pie, “a whole one.” As we turned toward the parking lot, she wrapped it up.

“Okay. We’ve got sushi, pizza, dim sum, dessert, drinks – did we miss anything?”

“But it’s all from different places,” Lilly said, “will we be able to get all that stuff together?”

They looked at me. Oh sure, now they need me, now they need the driver because she knows the rules.

“You can get anything for your Last Meal,” I said, putting the car in park, “from anywhere. Do you guys want to hear mine? I’d have deep dish pizza too, and…”

They grabbed their bags and jumped out.

I turn off NPR. Hmm. Where can I get dumplings at 8 am?

On the plus side, the retiree overlord let us leave the condo for lunch. Werker Werker encourages dining out, you know – it helps the residents fulfill their container quota, which states that each fridge must contain at least three kinds of leftovers in styrofoam. It’s in the bylaws.

We drove over to Bob Chinn’s, a seafood paradise right here in the Midwest.

I love this place – but the name “Chinns” makes me twitch.

Everyone has a worrisome body part in mind, and mine is my chin. Most people fret about hips; I worry about the day I start sporting my great-great-grandmother’s Lithuanian chin.

Bob’s unique brand: Suburban Feng Shui meets Fisherman’s Wharf.

Why are Midwesterners so crazy about seafood? Because we do not have a sea.

Like every great joint at “the shore,” Bob’s has a daily paper menu. It offers about four thousand ways to eat crab and other sea-dwellers, and I like every single one.

Bob’s is not for the subtle eater or faint of heart. Upon being seated, your server will ask, “you want the garlic rolls?”

Um…who wouldn’t? Wait, hold on a second…

…that’s better. I wanted to give them the full TV treatment. Where’s the squeeze of lemon?

My mom orders Shrimp Vermicelli, but it’s really fantastic pad thai in disguise.

Below, my Coconut Shrimp gets served with cocktail sauce and Pork Fried Rice.

I have a weakness for coconut shrimp. Just call it the Double Lithuanian Chinn plate.

Bob Chinn’s is enormous, one of the top-grossing restaurants in the nation, and has framed stuff all over the walls to prove it.

Displaying this industry figure left me a little cold. Bob, is that all I am to you? Served No. 755,393?

I forgive you, Bob, because everything coming out of your bizarre Mid-wasian kitchen is so delicious, and the massive place has enough energy for five restaurants.

It’s delightful. But…what’s with these diners?

The first table is wary of my camera, fair enough, but what’s that lady on the right so steamed about?

Maybe she’s just stuffed and crabby.

And you know, I’ve grown sort of fond of this “casual industrial disarray” look we have going here – broken nails on bare concrete, a tiger trap of electrical cords, the masculine touch of power tools and sawdust.

But we only have a month or so (or less, fingers crossed) to go, and when we are not pondering an eternity of debt, we are thinking about rooms. Like the dining room.

I’m a chef and for me, the eating experience is key. At the same time I like my dining room to be unpretentious and cozy – it should be equally at home serving bouillabaisse or barbecue. My family loves to eat, but they are way, way past caring about chefs. They have a religion far more important, more hallowed than grand meals and much more worthy than dining room decor – Jayhawk basketball.

Our town, Lawrence, Kansas is home to the University of Kansas. It’s a fine old academic institution, but you must live here to realize that this massive school exists primarily to see the famous Kansas Jayhawks play basketball at Allen Fieldhouse – a temple of hoopsterism if there ever was one.

Josie and Greg worship – nay, live, breathe, eat – KU basketball. I went to KU myself; I met Greg there, I experienced The Great NCAA Championship of 1988 win firsthand, and I loved this town and its whack-job traditions enough to make it my home.

So in honor of the first regular-season home game Friday night, I’m setting aside my vision of transferware china and big oak tables – and ordering a round for everyone. I have found divine inspiration for the dining room, and it is at Johnny’s Tavern.

Watching “the game” at Johnny’s is serious business in Lawrence.

Built in 1910, it was a hotel, a grocery, a pool hall and a Prohibition-era gin joint before 1953, when it became the beer-soaked, burger-heaven, Jayhawk haunt we know today. Last March we sat at the same table, in the same seats, wearing the same clothes for each game of the NCAA tournament – until we watched one game at home – and lost.

I don’t think we’ll be making that mistake this year. And don’t you think this is just the right look for my cozy English room?

Romantic lighting…intimate booths…delightfully mismatched silverware – um, plasticware…

Of course, we’d have to import a few micro-mini-skirted college girls to bring Greg beer and onion rings at our old oak table. No chef needed!

And just think – no more arguments about game-viewing during meals. With something like 3 dozen screens, it’s a done deal.

Cherished family photos and wainscoting…

…well-marked path to the powder room…

…elegant wood paneling and tastefully framed artifacts!

Cigarette burns, beer stains and potato skins. What more could a girl want? Well… any Jayhawk who’s going to the NBA to make a bazillion dollars could help finance the dining room.

That would be nice.

Anyway, despite the enormous amount of crabbing and griping and sniping over this move – as in, one of us groping blindly in the middle of the night through packed boxes for cough syrup – in Kansas, there’s one thing you can count on that will always get you through.

And it’s not wheat.

It’s barbecue. Glorious drippy, smoky barbecue. “Extra moist,” my mother-in-law likes to tell the waiters, which here means “extra rich,” and that actually means “extra fat, please.”

When you think your head might pop off, barbecue is what you need. Its otherworldly deliciousness will screw your head on straight, because your mouth wants to be there for every bite.

And I’m not talking just any barbecue. We had the good fortune to (a) have my mother in from Chicago to help us pack, which she did, admirably, and (b) have her leave, which meant taking her to the airport, always a good excuse to stop by world-famous Arthur Bryant’s on the way back.

The picture above is just a beef barbecue sandwich – but with all due respect to my native Chicago’s Italian beef, Arthur Bryant’s cheerfully provides you with the best beef sandwich you will ever eat. And seasoned fries. And tangy cole slaw.

And three sauces for slathering. New Yorker columnist Calvin Trillin (easily the funniest food writer, ever) famously declared in 1974 that Bryant’s was “…possibly the single best restaurant in the world.”

Well, it’s certainly the single best place when you’re putting off going home to a half-empty house full of boxes. It was a delightful interlude…we didn’t talk about moving to the $&!#@ apartment, or if we’d ordered the handrails, or if we should pack Advil or Aleve…we just ate barbecue.

And then it was gone. Like us, tomorrow.

If you are moving, I salute you. Everything about it bites, and moving is bittersweet – but at least once in a while it’s spicy, sweet, and extra moist.