Old Money (featuring Roast Vegetable Stuffed Polenta Cakes)

A white-gloved hand reached out to open my door as I finished punching the tip into the backseat card reader.

The uniformed man, wearing a chauffeur’s cap with a leathery brim, extended his hand to assist with my exit from the cab.

“Oh, thanks. It’s cool. I got it.” I said, immediately followed by a shameful head shake at my Upper West Side nonchalance.

There was nothing casual about this 5^th Avenue address. It bled old money.

“I’ve got some bags in the trunk, but I can get ‘em.”

“No, ma’am, we’ll take care of that for you,” and he started unpacking my catering bags full of food, platters, and equipment onto a bellhop cart that had magically appeared on the sidewalk.

The echoey marble floors and ornate corniced molding of this building’s lobby did not remind me of the peeling, striped, beige wallpaper in the lobby of the building where I grew up. Nor did the helpful welcome desk attendant remind me of the superintendent of my building, whose response to most requests was, “It’s not my job”.

“I’m here to see Mrs. Pinklebottom. Oh, wait, actually I’m meeting Mr. Kanderpants upstairs first.” (names have been changed)

I had not technically been in communication with Mrs. Pinklebottom, the hostess of the party I was about to cater, but rather, her private assistant, Jerry Kanderpants. He had set the guest count, arrival time, and menu. I think he found me through an online search. He said that his boss has never hired the same caterer twice.

“Yes, ma’am, one second,” the man raised his handset and punched a small black button on the shiny console of apartment numbers and correlating nubs. I was led into a small, tapestried elevator with a metal gate that was slid closed by another charming steward. My bags were mysteriously waiting for me when I arrived at the penthouse apartment.

My imposter syndrome always screams the loudest when I am standing in front of my client’s door. As my knuckles raise to knock or my index finger extends to the bell, I can only see my faults.

On this day, a butler opened the door with a snicker, and I felt my panic confirmed.

“Hello, I’m Alison. I’m the chef for tonight’s event.” My fear had pitched my voice so high that I sounded like a little girl.

“Hmmm, yes,” his voice was low and nasal, which I interpreted as judgment, correctly, I think. “The kitchen is through here.”

I peeked over his shoulder into the stately living room overlooking Central Park. From this top floor, you could see clear across to the West Side, and I paused for a millisecond to appreciate my hometown.

I was quickly whisked away from the view into a series of back hallways leading to the kitchen. This large room had been renovated with a nod to historical accuracy. It was not grey and smooth like so many kitchens I have cooked in. The wall paint was Swiss Coffee colored, thick, and textured from decades of coats upon coats. There was a Viking stove and a modern dishwasher, but the subway tile was authentic and pristine, as was the cabinetry.

Jerry Kanderpants, the assistant, appeared through another hallway.

“Alison? I’m Jerry. It’s lovely to finally meet you in person.” He was thin and wore tailored slacks and a flattering blue designer sweater, which I bet he had in every color. His mannerisms were a combination of systematically formal and can-you-believe-this-life eyeroll, which he shifted between without warning, making me constantly uncertain of where I stood with him. “We have guests in an hour and a half,” he said sharply, followed by a frown.

“Fantastic!” I replied with a big, cheery grin. I’ve dealt with this kind of pre-party frown many times. The doubt that clients have for me in that hour before the party starts lingers like toxic smog in the kitchen, but my imposter syndrome was gone by this point. My confidence rose like a big fan blowing the space clear. My voice dropped to a serious business tone, “My staff will be here in half an hour. We’ll be ready to go when everyone arrives.

“Okay…” he sang with a challenge and exited the kitchen.

Oven on, cold food in fridge, parchment on sheet pans, platters unwrapped, squeeze-bottled sauces lined up, flower adornments onto serving platters, cocktail napkins fanned, reference menu out, staff arrived.

What happened next is hard for me to describe because I sank into myself. I fell into the autopilot mode of someone who is so well-versed in the dance that she no longer thinks of the steps. It’s the same every time, though the menu and venue are different.

This was a whirlwind of smells, and tastes, and colors, laughter and cursing, frustration and relief. My team moved as one in the kitchen and individually on the party floor.

“They love the food!” exclaimed one server.

“Sure do,” said another.

We wiped down platters as they returned to the kitchen empty, and then reloaded for another pass. Again and again and again until the very last guests had gone. Dishes were washed and dried, counters scrubbed, floors swept.

When she appeared in the doorway, it was as if the Queen of England had arrived. All the clocks stopped. This was my first time meeting her. She was tiny and ancient, with shiny pearls and tight grey curls.

“Ahem,” she paused for effect, and my crew and I quickly stood at attention.

She walked through the room, inspecting counters and cabinets. Then the fridge. Then the oven. We’d cleaned it all thoroughly. I felt confident.

“Hello, Alison, nice to meet you. Your food was excellent, except for the mini cheeseburgers, which I did not enjoy.” She paused for effect. My stomach sank. “A true lady would never open her mouth that wide.”

She turned on her heel and exited the kitchen.

We were never asked to return.

I’ve had a lot of feedback over the years, but I’ve never had it specifically refer to how wide a lady will open her mouth.

I think of her all the time. Her unhappy husband, too. Ha.

In my defense, mini cheeseburgers are the last thing I would have put on this menu. I wouldn’t serve sliders to the Queen either. Not only do they require a certain willingness to open your mouth, but they’re too casual for this old-money crowd. I bet that Jerry Kanderpants chose them to make the caterer look bad so he could look great in a party planning power grab.

I should also say that a few months later, when I catered Frank Bruni’s book party, Danny Meyer came back into the kitchen specifically to tell me my mini cheeseburgers were outstanding.

But there’s always room for improvement; it’s a work in progress. My job is bigger than creating great-tasting food. For example, I choose a shrimp size that is filling and doesn’t need to be double-dipped. I cut down the amount of chopped spinach in my spanakopita because so many guests wound up with it in their teeth at parties. I pipe a single round of frosting onto my cupcakes so that you get frosting and cake in every bite, never one without the other. I pay attention.

I recently had a client request an appetizer menu with no dips. She wanted everything to be grab-and-go. No problem, I said and got to work on a few incredible one-bite bites.

Here is my favorite:

Roast Vegetable Stuffed Polenta Cakes

Makes about 20 rounds

Ingredients

• 5 garlic cloves, minced

• ½ red onion, chopped into ¼ inch pieces

• 1 red bell pepper, chopped into ¼ inch pieces

• 1 portobello mushroom, chopped into ½ inch pieces

• 2 Tomatoes, sliced into rounds

• Olive oil

• Salt and pepper

• A splash of balsamic vinegar

• 1/2 cup of polenta

• 2 teaspoons of salt, divided

• 1 tablespoon of olive oil

• 3 tablespoons of Parmesan cheese

• 10 basil leaves

1. Preheat the oven to 425 degrees.

2. On a parchment-covered sheet pan, place the chopped red onion in one corner and the chopped bell pepper in the other corner. Sprinkle each vegetable with a quarter of the minced garlic and toss with a big glug of olive oil, salt, and pepper. Roast in the oven for 15 minutes.

3. Add the chopped portobello (which doesn’t need to roast as long) and toss it with olive oil, garlic, salt, pepper, and a splash of balsamic. Lay the tomato slices next to the mushrooms and sprinkle with the remaining garlic, olive oil, salt, and pepper.

4. Return the pan to the oven and roast for another 25 minutes.

5. Bring 1 1/2 cups of water with 1/2 teaspoon of salt to a boil. Whisk in 1/2 cup of polenta and cook on a medium heat for 5 minutes, stirring occasionally to make sure it doesn’t stick to the bottom of the pot. After 5 minutes, take the pot off the heat, stir in 1 tablespoon of olive oil, another teaspoon of salt, and cover. Let it sit for 2 minutes.

6. Chiffonade the basil. Stir the vegetables, basil, and the parmesan into the cooked polenta and then spread the polenta onto a greased sheet pan, forming a 3/4 inch thick slab of polenta.

7. Let cool for 2 hours.

8. When ready to serve, turn on your broiler. Cut the polenta into bite-sized pieces (I use a round cookie cutter). Spray the bottom of a sheet pan with cooking oil and place the polenta pieces on it. Spray the polenta bites too, and place them in the broiler. Broil for 3 minutes a side and then serve hot or at room temperature.

And here I am making these on KATU’s show Afternoon Live: