Cooking as Fast as I Can (31 page)

If we could have just switched roles for two weeks, we would have appreciated each other. She would have gotten out into the world, felt the freedom of being able to just walk along and swing her arms, to put on a T-shirt unadorned by spit-up on the shoulder or weird stains. She would have also seen that while I had some time to myself on the plane, and late at night in my hotel, the rest of the time I kept a packed schedule, racing from meeting to show to demo, with as many phone calls as possible jammed in between. Always exhausting and only occasionally enjoyable.

After Nash finally settled in we never regained the rhythm of
our relationship. We were exhausted, hormonal, and stressed. We were grateful and happy we'd fulfilled our dream of creating a beautiful family, but we were both running on fumes.

I had everything I'd ever dreamed of—an interesting and thriving career in the culinary world, a beautiful wife who was both friend and lover, four healthy children, a house overlooking the ocean in the prettiest city in the nation—and yet I'd never felt so depleted. I beat myself up about it. How could I be so tired when this was surely the happiest time in my life? One night I was in my hotel room, having sought temporary relief in the little bottles found in the minibar, and played a game with myself, trying to think when I'd been this exhausted. I came up blank.

My mission had been to be the best chef, the best restaurateur, the best Iron Chef, the best boss, the best wife, the best mother, the best Cat—and it was killing me. I'd gotten to the place I found myself because I was convinced I was iron, but clearly I wasn't.

I would drink myself into a teary stupor, lie on the bed hugging the pillow as if it were my baby, and cry. At first my milk would leak when I thought about Nash, but then too much time passed when I was unable to feed him and my milk dried up.

Sometimes, if the minibar wasn't as well stocked as I needed it to be, I went down to the hotel bar to hang out with the crew, or if I was filming
Iron Chef
, my sous chefs. One drink became four became five.

In early 2010 I received a phone call from Father Alex Karloutsos, head of the Greek Orthodox Archdiocese of America, asking if I would accept an invitation from the White House. The
President and Mrs. Obama were hosting Greek Prime Minister George Papandreou at a Greek Independence Day celebration, and they were hoping I would be available to cook for a party of 350 dignitaries and guests.

“Of course! Absolutely. Sign me up!” In my memory I was shouting like a demented person. Which I pretty much was by then.

I was given permission to bring Zoran, now almost seven, as my guest. I also brought two Greek American sous chefs from Kouzzina to help prep. I was delirious with gratitude and honor. I got teary-eyed thinking about my grandpa Pete opening his diner in Greenville all those years ago, choosing to call it The Coney Island because it was the most American name he could come up with. I wish I could reach back in time and tell him the news, that his own granddaughter would one day be cooking for the president.

I gave up precious sleep to labor over the perfect menu, which would have to be the Menu of my Life.

Cold Plates

Salt-Roasted Beet Tartar with Skordalia on Crostini

Basque-Rubbed Grilled Chicken Thighs in Lettuce “Gyros” with Sumac Onions and Avocado Tzatziki

Olive Oil Roasted Eggplant with Peppers, Tomatoes, and Capers

White House Arugula, Pomegranate, and Spicy Cashew Salad with Lemon Vinaigrette

Greek Salad with Toasted Garlic, Heirloom Tomatoes, and Banyuls Vinaigrette

Chickpea Fritters with Romesco Sauce and Cornichon

Oysters on Ice with Cucumber Ginger Mignonette with Lime Dust

Hot Station

Toasted Sesame Meatball Skewers (Beef and Pork) with Harissa Yogurt

Fishermen's Stew (Scallops, Shrimp, Clams, Mussels, Fish) with Ouzo Butter

Baby Lamb Chops with Feta Chimichurri Sauce

Crab Cakes with Roasted Garlic Yogurt with Dill Pollen

Mini Pastitsio with Béchamel and Roasted Tomatoes

Crisp Spanakopita “Spring Rolls” in Baked Phyllo, with Herbs, Spinach, and Feta

Black Truffled Orzo with and Spring Herbs

Desserts

Rolled Pistachio Baklava

Loukoumades with Honey Drizzle

Kourabiedes Greek Wedding Cookies

Finikia Honey Glazed Nut Cookies

Mini Chocolate Pudding Cakes with Chantilly and Fresh Berries

The morning of the event I met Cristeta Pasia Comerford, the White House executive chef. She had taken over the job after Walter Scheib, my old
Iron Chef
nemesis, had resigned in 2005. We hit it off immediately. We were both petite women who'd stumbled into first female White House chef and first female Iron Chef respectively. Cristeta also had an Iron Chef battle under her belt. She was paired with Bobby Flay, and they fought Emeril Lagasse and Mario Batali in Battle White House Produce (in which they prevailed, 55–50). She gave me a quick tour of the surprisingly small kitchen she normally worked in, and the bigger navy kitchen where I would be working that day.

I wanted a peek at the famous organic garden, and as a White House page led us outside I heard one of the guards say into his walkie-talkie, “They're going into the garden, have your sniper stand down.” Never did I imagine I would have an AK-47 bead on me while I was picking lettuce.

The meal prep was the usual blur. Even at the White House, plating a lamb chop is plating a lamb chop. Afterward, two Secret Service guys, or whom I presumed to be Secret Service guys, rushed my two chefs, Zoran, and me into a back room. They shut all the doors, glanced out the windows. Suddenly, the president and First Lady were there. Zoran reeled back, wide-eyed. They were so tall and beautiful, the president in his perfect dinner jacket, the First Lady in a gold ball gown that made her look like a goddess. We all shook hands. After thanking me for my service, he opined that the grape leaves were superb. She favored the lamb chops.

Perhaps my greatest joy that day was the presence of my parents, whom I was permitted to invite to the reception. The night had been a triple treat for them: as Greek Americans, as the parents of the chef, and as true southern yellow-dog Democrats who'd worked to elect the president.

twenty

I
n 2010, a friend of ours in Santa Barbara introduced us to hot yoga. Every class was ninety minutes long, the same twenty-six postures held for ninety seconds each and repeated twice in a controlled climate of 105 degrees and 40 percent humidity meant, I guess, to make you feel as if you're practicing yoga in India during the monsoon season. Jennifer and I went a few times and it was all right. A little boring for my taste. I felt loose and relaxed after class, if a little stupid from the heat. And this is coming from a girl who survived summers in Mississippi.

Jennifer began going regularly, three times a week. She urged me to join her for classes, but that style of yoga is all-consuming, and demands a degree of dedication I didn't possess. I was now traveling close to two hundred eighty days out of the year, had four children under the age of I can't even remember at this point, and a marriage that needed some TLC. Plus, the pressure to stay in shape and well groomed at all times, in the event a call came from a talk show or I was invited to be a guest judge that would require me to hop on a plane with twenty-four hours' notice and be presentable in HD. Tony Bourdain can travel the world looking haggard and snaggletoothed, Mario Batali can show up in his scuffed clogs and carrying twenty-five extra pounds, and Gordon Ramsey
can look wrinkly and exhausted, but female chefs are held to a higher standard. That standard being a starlet on the red carpet. All of which is to say, I could barely squeeze in my own workouts, which were by necessity short and efficient.

But Jennifer loved it. She's always enjoyed yoga, and hot yoga challenged her in a way other classes didn't. For a month or so things between us improved. Before, she'd been reluctant to leave the boys with our nanny, Christiana. I was relieved that she'd found something that gave her a reason to get out of the house, something out in the world that captured her interest. I bowed down before her fierce and competent mothering, but I believed it would be good for her to find something that was hers and hers alone.

After a few months, she began going to class five days a week, then seven. Then twice a day. Her teachers cautioned her to take it easy. Three hours a day of yoga in 105-degree heat could be bad for your health. People regularly passed out from heat exhaustion. Jennifer already had so much on her plate. She ran the household, paid the bills for my business, and took care of our four little boys. I worried that it was too much.

The next time I came home from a business trip, I had no memory of where I'd been—like dinner service and
Iron Chef
battles, all the events, conferences, seminars, festivals, appearances, consultations, panels, and talks were becoming a blur. I returned to find Jennifer sitting on the floor in shorts and a tank, stretching her legs. My heart gave a good thump just seeing her there, I loved her so. She was talking to her mom on the phone, deep in conversation. I took my suitcase into our bedroom, busied myself unpacking until she was finished with her call. I wanted to be with her, to reestablish our connection right that minute.

After she hung up I took her in my arms, suggested we get
a sitter, go out alone together to do something, anything. “We haven't been out on a date in months and I've missed you.”

She looked at her watch. “Actually, I wanted to hit that evening class. Maybe tomorrow?”

Jennifer was drifting away, further each day. One day, she asked if we could talk. Oh, honey, yes. Let's talk. Let's get it all out into the open. Anticipating her apology, I was readying my own. I needed to work less, drink less, and be there for her and the boys.

She said she'd been giving it some thought, and decided she wanted to become a hot yoga instructor. I thought that sounded terrific—until she said it would mean leaving for a nine-week intensive course.
Nine weeks away from home?