Single Man Cuisine

December, 2004

Last weekend, I broke down and tied the fitted green plastic tarp over the Char-broil.

Now that I’m arriving home from work in the cold and dark, I have to concede that grilling season is officially over. Grilling is the only form of cooking where I really feel competent, and I never tire of the steaks, burgers, swordfish steaks, pork chops, shrimp en brochette and vegetables en Reynolds Wrap that come effortlessly off the grill during the temperate months. Once the tarp goes over the grill, my standard of gustatory living takes a serious hit.

I do know how to make a few decent meals indoors, but the effort—and especially the cleanup—seem so much more onerous than the warm weather alternatives. If I go to the gym after work, I get home at six-thirty or seven with little Emeril-style enthusiasm for culinary adventuring. I know, by the way, that the George Foreman Lean Mean Fat-grilling Machine is supposed to be easy to clean, but for me it somehow requires a half-roll of paper towels, burned thumbs, near-electrocution, a grease-strewn countertop, and a clogged sink.

If I’m not resolute, I begin to descend into the despairing depths of single man cuisine. It starts innocently enough. There is a Boston Market in the supermarket on the way home, and it is so easy to go in for a "quarter white meat chicken meal with two sides." Then one day while I’m there, I’ll pick up a frozen Boston Market dinner, or perhaps several. Once the frozen food lid is off, there may be no turning back. Soon, I’ve got a freezer full of Stouffer’s lasagna and a cabinet full of Dinty Moore beef stew. When I finally hit bottom, I’m standing over the sink eating Kraft Macaroni and Cheese…out of the saucepan.

I have to force myself to fight dietary indolence. I make clam chowder that is so good I can’t believe I really made it. It leaves the kitchen a disaster, but it’s good for several nights—worth the mess. I must confess, however, that I am well known at the take-out counters of a number of local restaurants. When I call La Paloma, I don’t even get to order or identify myself. When the hostess hears my voice, she says, "El Saltillo?" When I walk into Great Chow, the counterman turns and orders General Gao. And at Captain Fishbones, the barmaid smiles and says, "Fried oysters and a salad, right?"

I may be predictable, but at least there’s diversity in my predictability.

April, 2005

I have already admitted to the paucity of my culinary efforts during the cold and snowy months. Spring, however, has arrived. Daffodils are blooming, mockingbirds are trilling, and best of all, the cover is off the grill.

It took only two days for me to make my first dietary faux pas. Sitting at Easter dinner at my (very Catholic) sister’s, I commented, “I grilled my first steak of the spring the other day.”

“Oh, yeah?” she responded. “When?”

“Friday. Man, did it taste good.”

“Friday? Friday was Good Friday, you reprobate. Can’t you even try for one day?”

This year, Grill Cover Removal Weekend was punctuated by a visit from my brother John, up from DC for a conference. When he stays with me, he often stares balefully into the food cabinet and refrigerator, shaking his head and rolling his eyes. “Do you have any coriander?” he’s likely to ask. Coriander. Not bloody likely.

“I have pepper,” I answer.

“I’ll just have a Coke, then.”

“I have Dr. Pepper.”

“How can I make a Cuba Libre with Dr. Pepper?” he smirks.

“It doesn’t matter. I don’t have any rum.”

Not this time, though. This time I stocked the larder to the point where even my brother had to admit that it sort of resembled a normal food supply. I even made a pot of my one signature dish, clam chowder. As he went for his third bowl, he told me I needed another specialty equally as appetizing.

“Like what?” I asked.

“How about risotto?”

“Why risotto?”

“Haven’t you noticed that women always order risotto? You’ll be a guy with a swimming pool who can make risotto. Risotto is a chick magnet.”

“A chick magnet? How would you know? You married the only woman you ever dated.”

“Yes, but she’s a good one. But you--you need risotto.”

Thus two middle-aged Irish brothers began blundering about the kitchen and the grill. As John boiled the rice and sautéed the asparagus, I grilled steaks and chopped up Portobello mushrooms, Vidalia onions, and red bell peppers. To any outside observer, our prospects for success were dubious at best.

Nevertheless, we sat down to a feast of asparagus risotto and New York sirloin smothered in mushrooms, peppers, and onions that was the equal of any meal I’d ever eaten. We were astounded by our own accomplishment. And I even had rum this time.

“I thought there’d be enough risotto for you to save,” said John, “but it appears to be just about gone.”

“Well,” I answered, “you only made us eight servings. We’ll know better next time.”