Stephen M. Hannemann

Leaving the dusk of a warm autumn evening, a man entered the neighborhood café, escaping the din of a busy street. From the small open kitchen, the chef turned from his prep during a lull in the action and welcomed his visitor with a smile. Coming forward, his smile broadened and his head cocked in analytical scrutiny. “You look like you could use a glass of wine,” he offered.

“Do I look that bad?”

“No, I just thought you could use a glass of wine.” The chef’s voice resonated warmth and comfort like his renowned brandy cream sauce.

The chef poured the wayfarer a glass of Bordeaux with a motion to follow him to the kitchen. “Come stand over here and visit while I work.”

Red wine wasn’t one of man’s favorites but after a taste, he remarked, “This is a nice wine. I usually don’t drink red wine because it gives me a headache.”

“That’s because you probably drink cheap red wine – or too much cheap red wine.” The chef smiled and looked again at his guest. “You hungry? I have a great piece of Silver Tip New York strip – I could whip you up a Mushroom Madeira steak to take the edge off that headache you won’t get.”

Uncomfortable, the man protested, “I didn’t come in to mooch a meal, I. . .”

The chef interrupted. “Hey, I had a cancelation and it’s already out, just sitting here.” Without further conversation he began preparing the meat.

A new student to the culinary arts, the man counted this as a rare gift. He had begun experimenting with cooking two years earlier and, now in the melee of a divorce, cooking became more of a priority. To be able to watch this master would indeed be a treat. Within minutes the man had a sumptuous, steaming plate of flash-fried beef, smothered in sautéed mushrooms in a Madeira butter sauce, with lightly sautéed fresh asparagus and baby reds. Indescribable sensations danced on his palate as he savored each bite while complimenting the experience with more of the fine Bordeaux.

About the time he finished his last bite, a party of six paraded through the door and the waiter immediately seated them in the upstairs dining room. A few minutes later, the waiter returned with dessert orders from patrons finishing their meals, and a ticket for six entrees.

With the dessert orders filled, the magic began. One man. Six meals. Up at the same time.

Grilled salmon with a raspberry reduction.
Two New York pepper steaks with brandy cream sauce.
Grilled sea scallops topped with cream caper sauce.
Rack of lamb.
Coq au vin.

It all began slowly, with the chef looking at the ticket, his face passive, his demeanor calm. He checked his mise en place, then walked to the cooler, returning with the fish and meat. Next, the courtship of ingredients, the trimming of tallow from the rack, the filleting of the salmon, all performed with a comfortable economy of motion. The man watched in rapt fascination as the well choreographed ballet gained momentum. The commingling aromas of searing meat and lightly grilling fish and reductions and sauces filled his senses. The drama of the flambé and the crescendo of activity as the chef spun and dealt six plates onto the warm table and began arranging the vegetables and garnish like an artist mixing colors on his palette.

At one point the man moved closer and asked if he could be of assistance. The chef responded quickly, “Yes! Stay out of my way.” Wounded, the man began to leave. The chef turned and caught the man’s arm. “There,” pointing to an area near the coffee service. “Don’t leave. We have a bit more wine to drink,” he added with a smile.

With the last of the entrees being arranged with care, sauces and reductions applied, the ballet quietly came to an end. Transferring the meals to a tray, the chef toweled the plates to remove any evidence of a finger print. Then in a loud but calm voice proclaimed, “Six top.” Forehead glistening, he turned to the man and asked with a broad smile, “More wine?”

Two hours later, after the dinner guests had departed, the kitchen cleaned and the prep for the morning breakfast complete, the man and the chef sat on the dining room stairs and relaxed with more wine. Their conversation was sparse with prolonged silences. It didn’t seem to matter. It caused no discomfort. About 3:00 am, and after what seemed a long lull in conversation, the man offered an observation. “I have dined in most of the restaurants in this town and there are some fine ones – a lot fancier, in fact. but I have never tasted better food in any of them. What is your secret?

The chef didn’t have much of a reaction but seemed to muse the question. After a few long moments, he glanced sideways at the man with a satisfied humility. “I have a recipe,” adding nothing further. The man, although not satisfied, knew the chef had given his answer and knew not to press for clarification.

Over the next few months, the man continued periodic visits. He insisted on paying for any meals and wine. Well, most of the wine. After a couple of visits, when the chef looked a little too busy, the man again asked if he could help, and received a decisive no for his effort. He returned to his vantage point by the coffee service and never asked again.

About six months had passed since the first visit and the man again entered the little neighborhood café and took his usual place. On this night, however, the little restaurant bustled with a full dining room and, in the vernacular of restaurant speak, the chef was nearly in the weeds. The man had been there for just 10 minutes when a local winery owner, a friend of the chef, entered with a party of ten and announced, “I’m having a birthday party!” The chef quickly greeted his guests, informing them that the restaurant was slammed. “No problem – we’ll wait,” they chimed in unison. The weeds just grew taller. The man saw the chef’s composure erode as he turned back to his kitchen. The man thought it might be a good time to make a graceful exit. But the chef grabbed a fry pan, turned and thrust it into the man’s hand and said, “I need four mushroom appetizers and four pepper steaks to start that group. We’ll serve them what we want – family style.” The dumbfounded man stood mute with a look of consternation. “I’ve seen you watch me, you know what to do,” the chef said with fire in his eyes.

With equal portions of elation and trepidation, the man took the fry pan and went to work. For three and a half hours the two men worked side by side with the barest of spoken communication. The man anticipated the chef’s every need and made trips to the walk-in and pantry. He worked the sauces and blanched the vegetables when the chef’s hands were occupied. They worked as one, as if joined at the hip, as if they had worked side by side forever. And somewhere during the dance, their spirits met.

Now, the winery owner didn’t come to the party empty handed. Along with his nine guests, he brought two cases of wine from his private cellar. With every bottle opening the chef and the man were treated to some of the finest wines from around the world. For the man, the evening could not have held more magic.

Around 11:00 pm, the party wound down. By midnight, the guests had departed. And by 1:00 am, the kitchen was clean, and the two men once again sat on the steps and shared more wine. The man could hardly contain his excitement for all that had happened and all that they had done. With his heart full and his body tired, the stairs seemed a quiet place, a place for contemplation and sparse conversation. The man finally broke the silence.

“Thank you.”

“For what?” the chef asked.

“For the gift of working with you. The experience of being part of your creations and sharing in the people’s joy and appreciation.”

The chef smiled and nodded and closed his eyes again. After a moment, he rose and walked back to the kitchen. He returned a minute later and handed the man a meal ticket.

“What’s this?” he asked, looking at the blank order ticket.

“Turn it over. It’s my recipe,” he confided with his warm smile.

The man turned the green piece of paper over and read the four solitary letters,

L O V E.

Comprehension flooded his spirit. In that moment, the man understood the passion that drove the chef to work seven days a week. It wasn’t money. It wasn’t notoriety. His love of creating and sharing, his culinary gift, providing a memorable dining experience for his guests – this is what fed his soul. The gift of joy, providing an hour or two of pleasure in people’s day has fed and strengthened the spirit of Chef Michael Anderson over the years. In turn, he continues to bless all that enter his little neighborhood café.

If you ever travel to Portland, Oregon, you won’t want to miss a culinary blessing. Visit Café du Berry – 6439 S.W. Macadam Ave. – Portland, OR 97239

For reservations 503-244-5551.

Live well

Stephen

©2009 Stephen M. Hannemann – All rights reserved