8 May 2010
Platters
(Winning Norwegian Meat Protein Platter from the 2009 Bocuse D’or)
It was a thoroughly Willow week, and generally speaking, a good one.
The weather was on the cool side but sunny and breezy. Pleasant, after a brief swelter that prompted Leo, Big Pink’s resident Engineer to kick in the chill water feed and activate the air conditioning.
Doc was in town, and we wound up at the bar, and there was the book signing discussion that started it off. It was an intimate reception, and not being a hard-core Foodie, found the glimpse into an intense competitive discipline that showed the savagery that lies behind the cool elegance of the physical restaurant and the blood and tears that go into the creation of he food.
Friday was a Willow twin-spin. The day started with an open niche in the Columbarium at Arlington Cemetery. The marble face plate had last been opened in 1988, when the urn containing the ashes of Jim’s father had been placed inside.
He had been a Navy bugler, back in the big war, and had been good enough to have been selected to play at the funeral of Franklin Delano Roosevelt.
The niche was opened again, for the last time until this all crumbles to dust, to accept the remains of his Mom. The couple was reunited that morning, and my cousins and some old friends celebrated her life with a reception lunch at Willow.
The ceremony was quite different from the martial full-honors ritual for the Great Men and Women who are drawn on the horse caissons with the band and the shooting party. That is the way I expect to go, if the Government can still afford it when my time comes. There was one Sailor to present the urn, and the LCDR chaplain who spoke the solemn service.
He was the very same man who had presided at Admiral Rex’s ceremony, the one with all the bells and whistles, and I was gratified that his demeanor was as dignified and solemn for this smaller ceremony as it was for the lavish one.
The ceremony was short, and Ash, the world’s coolest junior cousin, said a few heartfelt words about her grandmother. Later that morning, I was seated across from her at Willow for a casual but elegant reception lunch.
We sampled a couple varieties of the elegant signature flatbread as an appetizer, and followed with grilled salmon and salads and soups and turkey sandwiches. The luncheon menu is a little lighter than the evening, though the presentation is always supber.
(Tracy O’Grady at work)
One of the topics of discussion was the KNIVES AT DAWN thing. Copies of Andrew Fredman’s book about the world’s most prestigious cooking competition were still on the Concierge desk at the front of the house, and I explained how compelling the story of the 2009 competition was in Lyon. The Norwegian team of one master chef and his sous chef assistant won the prize for two platters of protein, one meat and one fish, each with three garnishes.
It is a curious and spare way to describe what they do in five hours on stage, but that is the essence of the competition. Presentation counts for a third of the scoring, and taste the rest for the two dozen judges from around the world.
To maximize points, the platters on which the food is presented are works of art in their own right.
Tracy O’Grady represented the United States in the 2001 Bocuse D’or, and that, I said, is the mark of why Willow is so special a place. “Come with me,” I said, waggling a finger. “Here platters are behind the glass in the passageway toward the rear entrance.”
We scooted out of the booth and walked back across the hardwood floors to the corridor. Two enormous stainless platters were mounted on either side of a long glass case, with the elegant ewers and boats for the garnishes arrayed between them.
“They are works of art,” said Ash matter-of-factly.
“Tracy said they cost her $30,000,” I said with wonder. “It is really big time.”
“Tracy did not come in on the podium, but she told us the other night that she felt she was treated fairly, and the competition was one of the high points in a life. Imagine all that going on as you try to create something that is not only well cooked, but impeccable to the eye amid sizzling sauté pan, with a backdrop of screaming spectators, television cameras and with the clock ticking away.”
“Must be kind of stressful,” said Ash thoughtfully.
“Apparently it started to get crazy a couple years before Tracy’s year. The book claims supporters of the Mexican team added a mariachi band, foghorns, cowbells, and cheered wildly from the stands.
“There are no elimination rounds,” I said. “There is no time to ease into it- just one shot to cook and present two spectacular platters of food, then plate them for tasting by a jury of chefs. Tracy said there could be disaster. One guy- a very good chef, was confronted with a different type of fish than he had been expecting, and when he drew his razor sharp knife across the beautifully cooked filets, the flesh crumbled.”
“Bummer,” said Ash.
We walked back to the table, where there were no takers for the elegant pastries that Kate produces in the kitchen. We made our farewells at the table and gradually filtered out onto the street. The cousins returned to their hotel, and we agreed on a plan to meet up later.
I walked back to the office on Glebe Road, and sunk into some of the usual Friday Follies, which included the issuance of a large solicitation by he government on a classified system that we could not access since everyone had gone home for the weekend by the time it hit the wires.
I did what I could, and then decided the only way to really deal with it was a glass of chardonnay with golden oak overtones on the patio at Willow. It was almost on the way to the car anyway.
Copyright 2010 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
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