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inkstains Challenge 18. "Bubbles"I never quite understood what he had against me and my restaurant. For the seventh time in a row, J. Robertson Cobb, restaurant reviewer for the local weekly, gave me a bad review. People always asked me if I knew what the J stood for, I always said either “jackass” or “jerkface” depending on how charitable I was feeling at the moment.
The logical part of me said the frequency of the reviews really couldn’t be helped—there were only three restaurants in our town, four if you count the diner—they did the dining and entertainment reviews to fill up the fact that there wasn’t much going on in our town. What I couldn’t get was why he never found anything good to say about the service, the food or the wine.
“It’s probably karmic debt, Chef, “ Gina, the line cook, said. “You probably did something bad to him in a past life and that’s why he hates you now. Not your fault. I mean, not you now, but ya know what I mean.”
I guess it was as good an explanation as any, but it didn’t explain why he picked on everything. I had the proper credentials: graduated from the Culinary Institute of America with proper colours, did my externship with several Cordon Bleu chefs with the requisite number of Michelin stars, emerged from said externships with glowing recommendations as well as job offers, all of which I turned down to take over my father’s restaurant when he had a stroke. The restaurant couldn’t be faulted either: the walls of my office were papered with letters from visitors, magazine cutouts of reviews from critics and chefs , and even a commendation from a couple of U.S. Presidents and visiting ambassadors. Sure, I know that was grandpa and dad’s work, and I could let it go.
What I couldn’t understand was why he picked on everything else, including the wine. That was what pissed me off so much. Our wine cellar was our family’s pride and joy, after all. My grandfather built it by hand, brick by brick, and then filled it up with the best he could find and afford, while my father after him built on the collection Gramps had started until it became what was now known as the best in the state, maybe the region.
The first time J. Robertson Cobb came to the restaurant was after a football game (State made it to the semis) and simply I served him what everyone else was having: steak, ribs, roasted corn, and beer. On the house. (It was the first time State made it that far.) He looked like he was having a good time. According to the review, he didn’t. The service was slow, my steaks were overdone, the ribs were underseasoned, and apparently, the corn wasn’t fresh enough. Oh, and the beer didn’t have enough foam. The. Beer. Didn’t . Have. Enough. Tiny. Little. Bubbles.
Looking back, I may have been wrong to treat him as one of the regulars, but hey, I didn’t believe in special treatment. Everybody gets the same thing: the best.
Unfortunately, it seems my best wasn’t good enough.
“He’s been at this a lot longer than you’ve been cooking, son, “ my mother said, when I complained. “You’ll just have to do a better job. “
“I was top of my class at CIA!”
“ You can’t taste a trophy, “ she answered laughing, as she fed my father a spoonful of corn. My father mumbled something, and she smiled. “He says it’s actually very good.”
“See?”
“Just do a better job next time, “ she said. Sigh. Okay.
For the appetizer, I served a simple pizza topped with Ossetra caviar, with a sauce of apple, lemon and black pepper. He took a bite and set it aside, and motioned for the next course.
The salad was a rosette of scallops, Belgian endive, Perigord mushrooms served with a mache made with the best from my mother’s wonderful garden. The scallops were cooked perfectly—the kitchen had gone through a couple of pounds of them just trying to get his plate right.
I had been about to serve the fish course when he called me over. “The mache is bitter, “ he said. “And you gave me the wrong wine. Too acidic.”
I tasted the Pinot Grigio. There was nothing wrong with it. At this point, I figured he either had impaired tastebuds, and gave him the extra dry (which is actually sweet, go figure) Domaine St. Michelle. “Not enough bubbles, “ he said. “Did you open it wrong?”
Normally, I would have lost my temper and just thrown the old fool out, but Mother was watching, shaking her head. She went to the table, engaged him in conversation while I went to the kitchen to cook. And hide.
When I read the review, it said that the fish was dry, the meat was tasteless (I apparently used the wrong cut) and my dessert was just too sweet. He added a little note at the end that said as I was young, it was all forgiveable, maybe I would do better next time. He’d give me another chance.
Right.
It was the same story the next four times. Change the vegetables, the spices, the fish, the meats—it didn’t matter. They were all recipes for disaster, according to the damned old man. And the wines. I think that was what pissed me off more. I served him the best my grandfather’s cellar had to offer AND IT WAS STILL ALL WRONG. Bad wines, he said. Bad wines. Damn it. Bad. Wines.
Shoot down my cooking, fine. But don’t insult the wines.
Gina’s theory was that I just didn’t make him feels special enough. Wut? “He’s obviously a lonely old man, “ she said, while making me a crispy duck skin sandwich. “Shooting your stuff down and making you work hard is his way of feeling special. “
“You’ve been reading too many self-help and relationship books.”
“Doesn’t mean I’m not right, “ she said. “Just do better next time.“
Good thing the sandwich was good, or I might have thrown it at her.
The night before his next visit (by this time I was getting good at predicting his review rotation) I stayed up all night trying to figure out the menu of his next meal. Special treatment, is it? Fine. Let’s give him and his impaired tastebuds something special.
It was obvious he was a little numb to saltiness, since he always made sure to point out that I underseasoned meats and fish. I scooped up a little more Ossetra caviar, put it in a puff pastry and made a nice, creamy eggy, salty quiche for the appetizer, which I paired with one of my dad’s lighter Chardonnays. No response, but I thought I saw him smile. On second thought, it might just have been gas.
I almost skipped the salad, since I also realized the old man was sensitive to bitterness in vegetables, based on his previous reviews. But I had to give him a full five-course menu, and just to make sure I didn’t miss out on anything, I made a porcini, artichoke and truffle salad, generously piling on foie gras shavings and bacon bits. (Yes, I know this salad isn’t supposed to have bacon, but he didn’t complain.) “The truffle froth on top is nice, “ he said, and I smiled. “But a little thin, “ he continued. “Not enough froth. “ I tried to keep the smile on as I poured him the Sauterne, but damn. “Is there something wrong with this Sauterne?”
“Not enough bubbles?” I asked, smiling.
“Never mind, what’s the next course?”
“For the seafood dish, “ I said, waving the server over, “ I have a beautiful chili King crab on a bed of fettucine with a sauce of oysters, crab roe and crisped duck skin. “ A hundred million calories, most of them bad cholesterol. Yes. I saw him rub the back of his neck, a sure sign of hypertension, as he cleaned the plate. I poured my dad’s best Gewurstzaminer and he asked grumpily why I didn’t give him a red, despite the fact that the “flavors” were “robust enough to take a red. ”
“It’s still crab, “ I answered, and he shook his head disapprovingly. “And the Gewurtzaminer has just the right amount of sweetness for the spice.” Also? Red wines prevent heart attacks, but I didn’t tell him that.
“Next, “ he said.
“For the meat course, what I have is a lovely bacon-wrapped foie gras stuffed in quail, which, in turn, is stuffed into a goose, which is in turn, stuffed inside a roast suckling pig, with a light truffle-plum sauce with a side of Oysters Rockefeller. And because it’s special, just for you, I opened my father’s best Cristal Brut.” 1990. It cost my father almost $20,000 the Methuselah.
He was halfway through the course when, as I expected, he clutched his chest and groaned. He fell onto the floor, his face red. It seemed to be a heart attack. I dialed 911 calmly, described his symptoms and then put down the phone, waiting for the EMTs to arrive. I looked down. He was waving to me, obviously wanting to say something. I bent down to hear what he had to say. “The Cristal, “ he groaned. “It’s flat. Not enough bubbles.” Bubbles. Goddamn bubbles.
He lost consciousness after that, just as the EMTs came in.
My mother was the one who gave me the bad news that night. “It wasn’t a heart attack,” she said.
“Stroke?”
She shook her head. “Heartburn. Probably because the meal was so rich.“
Goddamn bubbles in his stomach. Damn, damn, damn. And I'd tried so hard.
I promised my mother I’d visit him in the hospital the next day, and I did. He was semi-conscious, and the attending nurse explained that he still had to be kept for observation as the whole ordeal may have elevated his blood pressure somewhat.
A phone outside rang, and the nurse stepped out for a moment, leaving her tray by his side. Bubbles. Always not enough bubbles. Fine..
I took the syringe and injected one perfect bubble into the vein throbbing at his neck, then went home to enjoy what was left of my father’s Cristal.