The World in My Kitchen (16 page)

A few days later, we were back in New York, and I contemplated all I had seen and learned during those two weeks traveling in France. The chefs I had visited had served us smaller portions than the usual ones served in New York restaurants. Garnishes had changed. Fresh edible flowers were now used as garnishes, and the plates were very large and often made of glass instead of china. Soufflés, salty or sweet, were made with no flour, and flavored oils were drizzled on vegetables. Steaming and poaching, it seemed to me, were now the rule. Fresh fava beans, tiny artichokes, shredded leeks, snow peas, and sugar snap peas were the vegetables of choice. Desserts had also changed. For the first time, I ate an oriental persimmon mousse topped with pomegranate juice in a French restaurant. Gone were the heavy cakes; they were replaced with strange tasting ginger sorbets or ice creams flavored with black pepper. Jean-Georges made potato chips with beets and served pig cheeks as a main course. Oriental vegetables appeared in menus, and sesame seeds seemed to be in every dish. Slowly my own way of cooking changed. As I was now teaching in Brooklyn, I often, after work, walked across the Brooklyn Bridge into Chinatown. I would shop there for our evening meal. I discovered that Chinese butchers carried, as I had seen in French open markets, wild ducks, tiny quails, very young chickens, and thins slices of beef or pork that one could cook in a few seconds. Vegetables in Chinese grocery stores were always seasonal and very fresh. Asparagus were thick and tender; there was tiny bok choy, snow pea leaves, and sweet potato leaves that were better than the regular supermarket spinach.

Every night I experimented with new recipes. I started to consider every aspect of a dish: color, texture, overall presentation, as well as the star attraction, taste. I began jotting down recipes I had developed, like a stuffed lemon braised with tiny pearl onions or Brussels sprouts rolled in sesame seeds. Very soon I had a stack of them. I wanted to write a new cookbook. This one would contain my very own recipes and would be based on the way we lived. I wanted to write for the working parents who, when they came home, were faced with children clamoring for dinner and no time to spend on long arduous recipes. I really believed that there was no reason why a working woman or man could not turn the kitchen into a place for high adventure. I knew it could be done.

My book would be called,
Colette Rossant’s After Five Gourmet.
“After Five” because most people left their workplaces at five. I suggested in my book that they shop on their way home and give themselves two hours to prepare and serve dinner. Recipes would be classified by ingredients and time. You could prepare hors d’oeuvres in less than fifteen minutes with ricotta and fines herbs on toasted round bread or a mushroom flan. There were recipes for beef, chicken, or fish that took thirty minutes to overnight depending on the time you had on your hands. At that time I was teaching at St. Ann’s. I was in charge of organizing exchange programs abroad for our students and heading the foreign language department. I had ten teachers to help and many problems to solve. I was running a household and helping my own children with their homework. Despite all these responsibilities, I managed to serve dinners every night following the principles of this new book.

The After-Five Gourmet
came out in the fall of 1981. While the book did not become a bestseller like the food processor cookbook, I believed it was the best cookbook I had ever written. I still believe it today.

For the next three years, although I continued to write articles about food and do restaurant reviews, I just didn’t think I had another cookbook in me. But one morning, I received a call from a friend. Her daughter was getting married, and to my friend’s dismay, she was marrying into a very orthodox Jewish family. Although my friend was Jewish, her family was secular and disliked traditional Kosher food. Furthermore, most of her daughter’s friends were also nonobservant.

“Colette, you have to help me. You must devise the wedding menu and prepare it in the hall’s Kosher kitchen, where the wedding will take place.”

“Impossible; I can’t. I know nothing about Kosher cuisine.”

“I will give you the name of a rabbi; he will help you and teach you what you can and cannot serve. You will invent new dishes. I know you can do it. Please, Colette, don’t let me down!”

During the next few weeks, I trotted down to the Jewish Seminary to talk to the rabbis there about my menu, and what I could serve and what I could not. The major challenge for me was that I could not use any dairy with the meal. I had never cooked without butter or cream.

For a few weeks, I worked in the kitchen, buying meat and poultry at Kosher butchers. I had discovered in Chinatown a new bean curd, very light, very creamy. So I went back to the Seminary to ask if the rabbis thought I could use bean curd.
Was it Kosher? Could I serve it at a meal that included meat?
A few days later, I received the answer: Yes, I could replace cream in recipes with this bean curd.

I went back to work, and by the end of the month, I had a menu ready. It was approved by the bride and her mother; I wrote down the recipes for the catering kitchen and waited anxiously for the big day.

The wedding day finally came. After the traditional ceremony, drinks were served, accompanied by cherry tomatoes filled with my own versions of chopped chicken liver and mushrooms stuffed with baked salmon and capers. At this point, though, there was too much excitement for anyone to notice the food. Then we all sat down to dinner. Some eyebrows were raised when the appetizer arrived: stuffed smoked salmon with asparagus puree, followed by a veal pate on a bed of endives.

When the main course came along, a shoulder of lamb with Japanese
shiso
leaves served with a julienne of young vegetables and fresh noodles in a mushroom sauce or fresh whole red snapper stuffed with fennel, I heard murmurs. Just before the dessert, toasts were made by family and friends; then the rabbi who had officiated got up, and after toasting the bride and the groom, called for a round of applause for the cook: “This was the best wedding dinner I have ever had!” said the rabbi as he raised his glass to me. Everyone relaxed and joined in. I had succeeded. The wedding dinner had been a strictly Kosher meal. It had been elegant, light, and very much “Nouvelle Cuisine.” By the time dessert was served, a tower of tiny baked choux filled with a raspberry puree and enveloped in a net of spun sugar, dozens of wedding guests approached me asking for recipes.

A few days later, I received a call from an editor at Arbor House, a small publishing house in Manhattan. “I was a guest at the wedding you catered,” he said. “I was very taken by your work and would like to talk to you about doing a Kosher cookbook.”

When we met, he told me that there was a tremendous religious revival taking place across the United States. Many young Jews were tracing their roots and yearning for family, tradition, and a sense of belonging, but with added sophistication. The newly observant people knew what good food was; they were au courant when it came to eating. Their knowledge of wines was impressive, their taste in food refined, yet they had an unwavering determination to respect Jewish dietary laws, and this is where I came in. “I want you to write a cookbook expressing the ‘new Jewish cuisine.’ ” We are a small company, and I cannot give you a large advance. I can pay you for the recipes and give a larger than usual share in the profits. This book will be a great success.”

Why did I agree to these terms? I don’t know, probably for the challenge of creating something new. And so I went to work. Every week I sent recipes to the Jewish Seminary, to be sure that there would be no mistakes. The book was published in the spring of 1986, and we all waited to see the miracle of everyone rushing to buy the book, but this failed to happen. My Kosher cookbook was too untraditional, especially facing the new revival of orthodoxy.

The press ignored the book, the public did not buy it, and the publisher went bankrupt. Once again I had lost! I swore I would never again write another cookbook.

However, the future proved me wrong. In the next few years, because of my travels and my adventures, I would write three more cookbooks, two memoirs, and the book you are reading now.

T
ravel had become one of my passions.
Every winter I would dream of places to go when school was over. I wanted to see the world, and I wanted my children to share in my experiences. In fact, Jimmy and I traveled mostly with the children; but sometimes it would just be Jimmy and I.

One summer we went to Guatemala with our four children, camped in cheap motels, and discovered the great wonders of the Mayan cities. Another trip took us to France. Once there, I convinced my mother and stepfather that a trip to Spain would do wonders for my mother’s rheumatism, so Jimmy and I drove the two of them over the Pyrenees. One summer, Jimmy was invited to Rio de Janeiro and Sao Paulo in Brazil, to give a series of lectures. I insisted he take me with him, saying that I spoke the language and that I could translate for him. “What about the children?” he asked. “Lucy,” my faithful housekeeper, was my answer.

Jimmy and I went to Brazil for three weeks, leaving the children with Lucy in East Hampton. The trip was fascinating. I loved the town of Manaus on the Amazon, with its markets and old colonial buildings. I thought that Brasília, the new capital, had fantastic architecture, but was too empty and grandiose. Then we visited Rio de Janeiro, with its lovely beaches, and went on to Sao Paulo. Jimmy was lecturing at the university, while I roamed the markets that were run by Japanese immigrants or strolled on Sao Paulo’s main streets, stopping at small stands selling delicacies that I had not tasted since I had left Cairo. Sao Paulo had a large Arab population, and the city smelled of cumin and garlic. I was in heaven.

I came back enamored of South America. The summer had been a success; Lucy and the children loved East Hampton, so the following year, at Lucy’s urging, we went to Colombia for a visit. We stopped first at Cartagena, a teeming colonial port, then went on to Lucy’s village of Santa Catarina where we became acquainted with her big family, including her son. The village was quite poor. Most of the houses were made of mud, except Lucy’s house, which towered above the others and was made of brick. All the money she earned taking care of us went to her family and the house. We all sat in the garden, told of how wonderful Lucy was, ate mangoes and plantains, and then laden with presents for Lucy and the children, we flew to Bogotá, Villa de Leyva, Popayán, and Medellín.

By now, times were difficult. New York was in the throes of a serious recession and Jimmy’s office had lost several important projects. Marianne was starting her first year in college; Juliette was a senior in high school and applying to colleges. Cecile was a junior and Thomas was about to enter the fifth grade. In a year we would have two children in college, and we were both quite worried. Money would be scarce, and the colleges my children were applying to were very expensive. I looked for more freelance work and Jimmy, hoping to sell some of his drawings, searched for a gallery that would show his work.

The following year, Juliette was accepted at Dartmouth College, and Marianne transferred to New York University. Our fears were realized, we now had two children in private universities. This time fate was on our side and help came in a very unusual way.

One evening, two years later, while we were having dinner, Jimmy announced that Habitat, an arm of the United Nations, wanted an architect to go to Tanzania and review the design for the central part of the planned new capital, called Dodoma. The plan, prepared by a Canadian firm, had pleased no one. The President of Tanzania did not like it, nor did the UN experts who reviewed its design. Tanzania? Where was Tanzania? We rushed to an atlas. Tanzania, Thomas read with awe, was far away in East Africa, near Zanzibar and between Kenya and Uganda. Thomas read that Swahili was the national language, although everyone in school had to learn English, and that Tanzania had a Socialist government with a leader called Julius Nyerere. We all looked at Jimmy.
Would he apply for the job?
Jimmy looked at me. He saw in my face that I was worried. This was a winter trip, I worked, and the children were in school. “It is only for three months,” he said. We had never been separated for more than a week in almost twenty years!
Three months?
“Of course you must apply,” I said, trying to be a good wife. “It sounds so exciting.” I was petrified.

In early September, Jimmy left for Tanzania. I heard from him at least once a week.

“Are you happy? How is the work?”

“Difficult. The country is fascinating and very beautiful. There are lots of problems with the Canadians. Food is terrible, English, bland, and very little of it.”

“What problems? Are you OK?”

“Can’t explain on the phone, I will write and…”

The telephone would go dead. This happened again and again and was very frustrating. On the phone, I could never tell Jimmy what was happening here in New York. He hadn’t asked how I was or about the children, nor did he answer pressing questions, such as “the bathroom on the top floor is leaking; what do I do; who do I call?”

In late October, I received a letter from Jimmy saying that the job was exciting; the plan they were reviewing was, as predicted, not very good. He was drawing a lot; he had befriended some of the Tanzanian planners and was working hard.

A few days later he called. “Listen, I met the president. We got along; he is a very interesting man. He has gray hair like me. By the way, I don’t think I will be able to be back for Christmas.”

“What, what did you say?”

“There is too much work.”

And once again the telephone went dead.

Not back for Christmas? Had I heard correctly?
I was crushed; Christmas was a very important holiday for me. As a child in Cairo, I always dreamt of spending Christmas with my mother, but it never happened. When Marianne was born, I promised myself to always be there for Christmas, and to have a tree with lots of presents under it. Up to that day, I had kept that promise. But now without Jimmy, Christmas would not be the same. I was very upset.

Suddenly, a week before Christmas, Jimmy called and asked me to join him. He had a few days off, and he would love it if I came.
Leave New York and the children? Who would take care of Cecile and Thomas? Could I really go and leave them alone for ten days?
When I asked my oldest daughter, Marianne, who was home from college for the holidays, what she thought, she said, “Don’t be ridiculous! I will be here, and there is Lucy. Juliette and I will take care of everything. We can celebrate Christmas a couple of days before, and then you can go.” A few days before Christmas, as soon as school let out, we bought a tree and decorated it. On the evening of the twenty-second, I placed all the presents under the tree, and we all opened them the next morning. At night, bundled up in my winter clothes and heavy boots, carrying a suitcase filled with summer clothes and food, and after many speeches, hugs, and good-byes to the children and Lucy, I left via London for Tanzania. I arrived in Dar es Salaam on Christmas morning, laden with gifts that Jimmy had requested—canned pates, tuna, sardines, packages of cookies and cakes, and a bra for the wife of one of the officials in Dodoma. I had roamed New York City looking for that bra—a size 44 DD!

The Dar es Salaam airport seemed primitive; a large wooden structure, open on all sides. Luggage was carried by hand to and from the planes. After going through customs and a passport check, I looked for my luggage and Jimmy. I found neither. Women in brightly colored wraps and men in khaki-colored safari suits were moving around seemingly without purpose, unaffected by the confusion, the damp heat, the noise. In my winter coat and boots, I felt faint from the heat. What should I do if he did not show up? I knew no one here. Finally, I saw Jimmy running to greet me. “Sorry, sorry…I was in a meeting…forgot the time,” he panted. His embrace soothed me, but I had to tell him the bad news. “No luggage…it’s lost.” Jimmy looked around, found an airline official, and displaying his UN credentials, he asked for help. “No problem, Mzee Jim, we will find it soon and bring it to the hotel. No problem!”
No problem
was an expression I would hear time and time again in Tanzania.

We were informed that our cookie-cutter hotel, ten stories high with balconies overlooking a boulevard, had no hot water until late afternoon. I needed a shower desperately, but I had to wait, so Jimmy took me for a walk around town. The streets smelled vaguely of gasoline and fried food, but my hunger overcame my slight nausea. Jimmy said that the best food in Dar was Indian. As we sat down in an open-air Indian café, I looked at him. In the past three months, he had changed a lot. In New York, he was often tense, nervous, and worried. Today, he seemed relaxed, joyful and smiling. He looked so comfortable, so at home in this little Indian restaurant. He had lost weight and looked at least ten years younger. I smiled at him, happy to see him so well, and as I munched on tiny delicious samosas, fried dough filled with spicy meat and potatoes, I listened to his chatter. He explained that a very large Indian population had been imported to Tanzania when the English were building the East African railroad system. He had many Indian friends in Dodoma. While he ordered the next dish, a highly seasoned chicken curry, more sauce than chicken, and an excellent ice-cold Tanzanian beer, bottled in unlabeled brown glass, he told me that the calculators he had asked me to bring were for them. The Indians in Dodoma were Sikhs and were in the construction business. I learned that trouble was brewing between the Canadian team, who had developed the plan, and the Tanzanians. “Let’s have some dessert,
la specialité de la maison
,” he said mockingly. It was something that I had never seen before, bright orange twirls of deep-fried dough soaking in honey. More beer please…this was pure sugar!

Back at the hotel, there was no suitcase and no hot water. I removed my boots and my pantyhose full of runs and rinsed my swollen feet in cool water. We were going to have dinner with George Kahama, Director of the CDA (Capital Development Authority) and his wife. What about shoes? Could I at least buy some shoes? Out again, down to the main shopping street. As I looked at the shoe stores, I realized that all the shoes had five- to six-inch heels, most of them platform. I tried several pairs and finally settled on one that didn’t seem as high, and out I went, tottering as if I were walking on eggs, but certainly better off than in heavy winter boots. Kahama arrived on time, a small, charming, and rotund man, with an easy laugh, wearing an elegant safari suit. His wife was twice his size, beautiful, with a regal bearing. I realized then that the bra was for her. She was wearing a long flowing white dress, and around her shoulders was draped a yellow and green kente cloth with political slogans all over it. The effect was stunning. I told my sad story: no suitcase, no clothes. She smiled and said it would come back to me, “No problem!”

The next morning a package for me arrived at the hotel. Inside was a long, blue dress, much like the one Kahama’s wife wore. A hand-written note said that her dressmaker had made it that night for me and that she hoped it would fit me. She hoped I would find my suitcase soon. I am sure I did not look as beautiful as she did, but I was thankful for being able to change into clean clothes.

The city’s dilapidated houses, the broken sidewalks, the children walking barefoot, and the beggars all disturbed me. But I was in awe of the fish market, sprawled on a sandy beach near the harbor. Thin, shirtless men were calling out to shoppers to view their enormous kingfish, prawns, and sharks. One vendor was cooking prawns in a huge wok-like pan over an open fire. Jimmy walked by my side, at ease with the scene, explaining that President Nyerere, a Socialist leader, had transformed the country by making education mandatory and by regrouping the population into new villages, each built around a central square with a clinic, party headquarters, and a school. But the country was still very poor, and corruption in Dar es Salaam, he told me solemnly, was rampant. Nyerere hoped to change this by moving the capital to Dodoma, now a village in the country’s interior, without Dar’s constant physical reminders of Tanzania’s colonial past. Nyerere felt that setting the capital in the center would help the poorest areas in the country develop.

Back at the hotel, I called the airline for my suitcase. “No problem,” said the man who answered. “We’ll send it to Dodoma on the next plane.” That afternoon we flew to Dodoma.

Dodoma had once been a railway junction between Dar es Salaam and Uganda’s capital, Kampala. The Germans had built the railroad and Dodoma, which was then just a small junction town. Much later, the English had enlarged the station and built the hotel where we were staying. The hotel was lovely with low-lying buildings surrounding a magnificent, arcaded courtyard with flowering trees and exotic plants. There were little tables in the shade for afternoon tea and drinks. I felt as if I were part of a Masterpiece Theater series about colonial East Africa.

Jimmy told me what was happening with the new capital plans and his job. Over the past two months, Jimmy had analyzed the plans for the future capital, pointing out all its mistakes. He had also drawn a preliminary plan of his own, which had impressed Kahama, his team of young Tanzanian planners, and even the president. “Now,” Jimmy explained, “I have to resign from the job, go back to New York, and reapply as the planner for the city downtown. I will then be able to bring my own team.” What about me? “Well,” Jimmy said with excitement in his voice, “you could come with Thomas for three months in the summer and stay here with him in Dodoma. The government would give us a large house with a servant, and it would be a marvelous vacation for both of you.”