How to Archer (13 page)

I was supposed to write an introduction to this section. But the title seems pretty self-explanatory. And also I didn’t feel like it.

I generally eat out. I know, I know, I’ve heard all the arguments against it: it’s a waste of money, you have no control over how much salt and saturated fats are in restaurant food, and you can’t be sure you’re eating locally. But, if I may, let me respond to each of those arguments:

1. Expense account.

2. I’m pretty sure that any chef in any restaurant with at least two stars in the
Guide Michelin
knows how much salt and saturated fat is supposed to go into my exquisite meal.

3. Kill yourself.

I also consider myself an adventurous diner: for example, occasionally I like to seek out rickety shacks way out in the swampcountry where you get to eat barbecue and/or catfish with genial black people.
⁸⁹
But normally I prefer to dine only in the finest restaurants of New York, Chicago, the Orient, France, and the nicer capitals of Europe. The only problem is that, with a lot of the very finest restaurants, especially if they have only very recently opened to smash reviews, it can be very difficult to get a reservation. And it may surprise you to learn that dropping the name Sterling Archer, the world’s greatest secret agent, doesn’t necessarily secure one a table.

Which is why I have perfected a method of reservation-making with which I am always assured of getting not just any table, but the very best table: the Abracadabra.

Start by calling (or having your valet call) that hip new restaurant everyone’s raving about. Oh, the restaurant will probably have two reservation lines: one number for rich, glamorous, beautiful people in the know and a second number for people like you. Usually the second number isn’t even connected to an actual phone, and it will just ring and ring on your end. So you need to get your (or your valet’s) hands on the first number, For people who matter.

Call that number and tell the young woman on the other end—who you can just tell is not only ridiculously hot but also impeccably dressed—that you wish to make a reservation for Friday night at nine o’clock. After her eyes roll audibly, tell her you’re calling from Capitol Records, and that you wish to make a reservation for Steve Miller.

“The
Steve Miller?” she asks, sitting up a little straighter.

“And a stunning female companion,” you reply.

“Friday at nine it is, sir. Does Mr. Miller have any food allergies the chef should be aware of?”

“No, but he’s a bit over chefs who feel like they have to turn everything into a foam.”

Then, Friday night at nine (or whenever: they’re not going to release your table), show up at the restaurant with your stunning female companion and tell the equally stunning hostess
⁹⁰
that there should be a reservation for two under your name, Which is Steve Miller.

Then allow yourself to be led to the best table in the entire restaurant, where you will be served a fantastic meal, fawned over, and possibly asked to explain what a pompatus is.

I know what you’re asking yourself: How could this possibly work? When they see you, they’re going to know that you are not, in fact, Steve Miller. Well, also ask yourself this: do you know what Steve Miller looks like?

No, you don’t. Nobody does. He could be standing right next to you on the subway platform, playing “Jungle Love” on a custom Stratocaster with his name inlaid on the fretboard in mother-of-pearl, and you still wouldn’t know who he is. Because as far as you or anybody else knows, Steve Miller is a big blue space-horse with a mane made out of orange space-flames.

But
everybody
loves him.

And
nobody
is going to make an ass out of himself (or especially herself) questioning the bona fides of a man claiming to be the original Gangster of Love. Because chances are if they didn’t lose their virginity to “Rock’n Me,” they lost it to “Wild Mountain Honey.”

Now, obviously the Abracadabra is geared toward white men.
⁹¹
It won’t work if you’re a woman. I can’t think of a female multiplatinum recording artist you could use in lieu of the Space Cowboy, but it doesn’t really matter: if you’re a woman you’re probably not reading this book. If you’re a black guy, your best bet is probably Peabo Bryson.

Sometimes, albeit rarely, I don’t feel like going to all the trouble of getting all dressed up and going out for dinner. When this happens, which is rarely, I get all dressed up and stay in for dinner. Breakfasts I’m usually home for, unless I’m on a mission, Same thing for brunch. Same thing for this new thing people are doing called dunch. But I never—
ever
—eat lunch at home.
⁹²

But the great thing about dining at home, if you’re me, is that you live in well over four thousand square feet of a richly appointed penthouse overlooking Central Park (not including almost 900 square feet of terrace, paved with flawless Pennsylvania Bluestone), so you know the ambience is going to be nothing short of smashing. The other great thing is that—again, if you’re me—you also have a valet who, having lived through the Siege of Ladysmith, knows how to whip up an incredible meal—often with remarkably few ingredients on hand, and also often at a moment’s notice.

Because a moment’s notice is normally all I give the creaking old fiend.

And so here—for the first time ever, and only because I can’t really see a downside to sharing this information with you people—are Sterling Archer’s favorite recipes.

Happiness, thy name is Eggs Woodhouse! Each bite is a symphony of flavor: the fresh eggs and creamy sauces the percussion, the delightful Pata Negra ham the brass, both content to give the strings and woodwinds, the Périgord truffle and Beluga caviar, their respective solos. And the maestro who created this magnificent triumph, and who brings it to the stage each morning—accompanied by a pitcher of Bloody Marys, wheat toast with lemon curd, and a slice of melon—is none other than my loyal valet, Woodhouse.

By a cruel twist of fate, however, Woodhouse doesn’t even know I’ve named the dish after him. I just say “Make me eggs.”

1 cup creamed spinach (see recipe below)

½ cup béchamel (see recipe below)

½
cup hollandaise (see recipe below)

2 poached eggs (see recipe below)

2 artichoke bottoms (Blanc d’Oran or Camus de Bretagne)

2 ounces Pata Negra ham

1 small Périgord truffle

Pinch of paprika

(Édes csemege or Csípös Csemege, Pikáns)

1 teaspoon Beluga caviar

Pinch of Kashmiri saffron

1 cup farm-fresh organic spinach

½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

¼ teaspoon sea salt (preferably sel de mer haïtien)

Cook the spinach, drain well, chop finely. Season with pepper and salt. Keep warm, while stirring constantly over a low flame until you add it to the béchamel (see recipe below).

1 tablespoon butter

(beurre d’Ardenne or Mantequilla de Soria)

1 tablespoon organic wheat flour

1/3 cup organic whole milk

1 bay leaf

4 dashes hot sauce

½ teaspoon sea salt (preferably sel de mer haïtien)

In heavy saucepan over low heat, melt—but do not brown—the butter.
Gradually
add flour, stirring constantly with a wire whisk. When all the flour is blended in, gradually pour in the milk, again stirring constantly. Add the bay leaf and simmer over low heat, stirring constantly, until the sauce thickens, Remove from heat, add hot sauce and salt, and continue stirring constantly.

Combine the spinach and béchamel sauce and keep warm, over a low flame, stirring constantly.

1 organic, grain-fed, free-range white-egg yolk

¾ tablespoons freshly squeezed lemon juice

¼ cup clarified butter (beurre d’Ardenne or mantequilla de Soria)

Sea salt (preferably sel de mer haïtien), to taste

In a separate copper-bottomed sauté pan, bring 3 cups distilled water to a simmer. Combine the egg yolk and 1 tablespoon
cold
distilled water in a nonreactive bowl. Whisk until delicately foamy, then whisk in a few drops of the freshly squeezed lemon juice. Set the bowl
over
—not
on
—the simmering water, until the egg begins to emulsify. Remove from heat and add clarified butter, just a few drops at a time, while gently whisking
constantly.
As the sauce thickens, begin to add the butter (only very slightly) more quickly until the rest is added. Gently whisk in remaining lemon juice, seasoning to taste.

1 tablespoon distilled white vinegar

2 organic, grain-fed, free-range
brown
eggs

In a separate copper-bottomed sauté pan, bring 2 inches distilled water and 1 tablespoon vinegar to a shimmer. Gently break each egg into an individual ramekin. Gently slide each egg from its individual ramekin into the shimmering water-vinegar bath and cook, occasionally spooning some of the bath over each egg, for 2 to
2½
minutes. Remove the eggs from the bath with a fine-mesh spoon.

In a separate copper-bottomed sauté pan, warm the artichoke bottoms and set aside. In a separate copper-bottomed sauté pan, warm slices of the Pata Negra ham and set aside. In a separate copper-bottomed sauté pan, gently warm the Périgord truffle and set aside. Chiffonade the Pata Negra ham. Slice the truffle—exceedingly thinly, and only ever on the bias—using a double-edged razor blade (Gillette or Wilkinson).

Place the warm creamed spinach on a warmed plate, forming a sort of bed on which the other ingredients will make love. Place the warmed artichoke bottoms on the spinach bed and place a poached egg on each artichoke bottom. Over the eggs and artichokes, sprinkle the Pata Negra ham chiffonade and the thinly sliced Périgord truffle. Ladle the warm Hollandaise sauce over the dish. Garnish with the paprika, Beluga caviar, and Kashmiri saffron. (Serves 1.)

Note: I don’t know—and I’m not sure I
want
to know!—the nutritional information for Eggs Woodhouse, but if properly prepared using the specified ingredients, each serving should cost around $130.

Like unarmed combat, personal style and airboat captaincy, the subject of women is probably another area where I am starting at an entirely different level from normal human men. Which makes it difficult—if not impossible—for me to give a normal human man, like yourself, any practical advice on the matter. That would be akin to a majestic white Bengal Tiger trying to teach you how to be more majestic. Or how to be heterozygous for a specific recessive gene.

I know you probably bought this book for advice on how to be like me.
⁹⁴
But to be perfectly honest—which I sincerely believe I have tried to somewhat be—I cannot teach the unteachable. I can (although I didn’t) teach you how to tie a perfectly knotted Pratt or Windsor. I can (although I didn’t) teach you how to increase the effective kill radius of a Claymore anti-personnel mine by almost 10 percent (there’s a little set-screw). And I can (although I won’t) teach you how to drive an airboat, and look like a million bucks plus Burt Reynolds while doing so.

What I emphatically
cannot
do is teach you how to be successful with women. For one thing, as devastatingly handsome as I personally am, I really don’t want a bunch of competition. For another thing: look at yourself.

That being said, however (and I do feel that I’ve been very honest with you), I will try.