Welcome to My Magic Dinner Party
Come one, come all, come hungry. Take home my best recipe: beef cheeks bourguignon.
Hello, hello! I’m so glad you made it from here, there, pretty much everywhere. The spell worked after all: Open your fridge. Forget the shriveled half-lemon, the plastic tub of hodgepodge that will taste no better now than it did five days ago. Close your eyes, and presto: You’ve arrived at my place in downtown Toronto. I’ve been cooking up a storm for you and everyone else in our virtual tribe who’s in the mood to break bread together.
Come in, Mexico. Come in Sweden. Come in, Japan, England, 49 U.S. states and quite a few Canadian provinces. Don’t be shy, Toronto. Just because you could have taken the streetcar doesn’t mean you aren’t a gift to the party of my dreams.
Only yesterday I wouldn’t have dared take this on. I’d have had a zillion reasons why this dream could never be. It’s not as if the Four Seasons has lent me their ballroom and a brigade of white-coated minions calling “Yes, chef!” to my every command. My galley kitchen accommodates one distractible cook. My knife skills approximate a kindergartner’s work with safety scissors and construction paper. My stove takes its time getting kinda, sorta hot. Then there’s the great conundrum of a pot big enough for the teeming abundance of it all.
O me of little faith. The old me, I mean. The new me is that old dame with a cauldron of bubbling secrets and the longest spoon in the world.
Take a good sniff. Chilean cab, garlic, pearl onions, beef cheeks simmered to melting perfection. Magic made it happen. I hope you’re hungry—magic made enough for second helpings of my signature dish.
Italy, is that you? Australia, I knew you’d come. Did someone just say “vegan?” Magic and I have you covered. Tongue-of-fire beans coming up, with plenty of sage and rosemary. They’re even better cooked with a Parmesan rind, but I promise you I didn’t cheat.
I’ve been telling stories my entire conscious life—to my mother, who proudly took dictation; to myself on my green satin bedspread; to the readers of various magazines, in voices not always my own; and for the past 11 months here on Substack, with you. At first I knew who you were. We’d met on Facebook, at school, in some long-ago job. Maybe we were friends in the so-called “real world.” Several thousand subscribers along, I wonder who most of you are. Your comments, if you leave them, are a rough charcoal sketch of yourselves. Week after week, I serve a story I hope will nourish and delight you.
But what if I could watch you stick a fork into a few hours’ worth of my marketing, chopping, stirring and tasting? As my father used to say, with a glint in his eye, “Wrap yourself around that.”
Real things happen between us, you and me. The encouragement you offer might be the warmest words of my day. When I shared some sad news about my beloved dog and muse, you told me, with a sense of ceremony, about animals you’ve mourned. You showed up for me, and your presence was a consolation. Mary Oliver wrote, “Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.” Mary had her hands on our shoulders.
I don’t think Mary cared much for cooking. It competed with the urgent work of writing her inner vision. She wrote in an essay, “My responsibility is not to the ordinary, or the timely. It does not include mustard, or teeth. It does not extend to the lost button, or the beans in the pot.” If I could forget the beans in the pot (or the beef cheeks, as the case may be), perhaps I’d write more and better. It’s not a sure thing, though. After a day inside my word-weaving mind, it steadies me to inhale the sharp tang of an onion as the half-moon slices fall around my knife.
Soon I will feed you.
In the touchstone books of my childhood, kids walked through a tollbooth or a wooden wardrobe into a realm of enchantment. They befriended a sand fairy, pocketed a coin that made wishes come true (but only by halves; magic can be mischievous). What my teacher wrote on the blackboard seemed nowhere near as real as those journeys. I’d like to open my fridge door and travel somewhere wondrous. Even more, I’d like your fridge to transport you to me, to all of us. I’m with Norman Juster, who said in The Phantom Tollbooth, “So many things are possible just as long as you don't know they're impossible.”
My husband and I own exactly eight dining chairs—the upholstery a bit weathered, to put it gently. One or two are no longer friendly to aging butts. Magic will take care of that. Any second, the room will expand to wrap you all in conviviality.
Will whoever brought lemon tarts please raise your hand? A thousand thank yous for the bounty of my favorite dessert. You left the bakery with no more than a dozen, but I doubt you’ll be surprised to see a thousand lemony beauties arrayed for everyone’s delight.
You can’t head home without a little gift, my recipe for the beef cheeks, adapted from Melissa Clark’s Classic Boeuf Bourguignon, in her amiable and trustworthy book Dinner in an Instant. Melissa uses chuck; I prefer slower-cooking cheeks. They’re divine with potatoes (either mashed or parboiled and roasted in duck fat) and green beans with a scattering of grated Parmesan. My pickiest friend calls this dish the best stew she ever tasted. Trust me: Nobody argues with Audrey.
PRESSURE-COOKER BEEF CHEEKS BOURGUINON
Serves 4 to 6, depending on appetites
3 pounds well-trimmed beef cheeks, cut in half
2 1/4 tsp kosher salt, plus more as needed
1/4 tsp fresh-ground pepper
3 ounces diced pancetta
1 chopped onion
1 sliced carrot
2 T flour
2 minced garlic cloves
1 tsp tomato paste
2 cups red wine (I use Chilean cab)
1 bay leaf
1 large sprig thyme
8 ounces pearl onions
1 T unsalted butter
Pinch of sugar
8 ounces cremini mushrooms, chunked
1 Parmesan rind (optional, for a hit of umami)
Chopped parsley
In a skillet, cook the pancetta until crisp, and set aside. Season cheeks with salt and pepper; brown in the rendered fat. (You could do all this in the pressure cooker, but I find a skillet faster and easier.) Remove cheeks and cook the onion and carrot until they soften.
Stir in the flour, garlic, tomato paste and remaining 1/4 tsp salt, and cook till fragrant. Stir in the wine and bring to a simmer for a couple of minutes.
Dump everything into the pressure cooker with the bay leaf, thyme sprig, pancetta and Parmesan rind, if you have one (I keep a little stash in the freezer). Cook on high for 40-45 minutes and allow pressure to release naturally.
Meanwhile, prepare the pearl onions. You’ll have to skin them first. Melissa doesn’t tell you to cut a little cross in the ends and give them five to 10 seconds in boiling water; the skins will slip right off (thank you, Julia Child). You then simmer them, covered, till tender in butter, salt, pepper, a pinch of sugar and a little water. Raise the heat and cook them uncovered until they brown.
Brown the mushrooms in a skillet. Do not crowd them, or salt them until they look nicely caramelized. (It took me at least 50 years to learn that mushrooms will sweat and fail to brown if salted too soon.) Melissa throws her mushrooms in with the onions, but I like some texture in my mushrooms.
The cheeks will render lots of liquid as they cook. You want them tender but not shreadable. When they’ve reached that point, remove them with a slotted spoon and let them sit while you reduce the sauce. Don’t even think of doing this with your cheeks in the pot, overcooking.
Add your mushrooms and onions to the pot and strew with parsley. Inhale the mingled aromas. Sigh with pleasure. You’re going to make some lucky diners very happy. And it will seem like magic.
So, friends. What’s on this week’s conversational agenda? Favorite dishes to cook for friends? The real benefits of virtual relationships? The conflict between creative work and everyday tasks like cooking? If you could bring one thing to my magic dinner party, what would it be? The one offering I fancy, since I do not bake, is lemon tarts. But I’m always open to surprises.
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I make a mean lemon square and fabulous key lime pie. May I come to the party, pleeeeeze?
Vegan here, thanks for the invite! I look forward to adapting this incredibly rich and comforting recipe in some way and I will think of you gratefully when I do!