Since Isoline Left

by RICHARDSON WRIGHT

RICHARDSON WRIGHT is the editor of House and Garden, an expert cook, and the proprietor of a distinguished cellar.

ISOLINE had many virtues and only one fault. She was obliging and cheerful. She said — and evidently thought — that we were the nicest people she ever worked for. Her uniforms were immaculate, and she could do things to shrimps that almost made us shrimp-addicts. Her hot rolls fairly floated from oven to table. But she had an immoderately exact sense of time. When we said dinner at seven, she thought we meant seven. Cooktails had to be gulped en route to the dining room. We were slaves to her chronological exactness.

It was not this, however, that caused us to part. With reluctance we joined the growing company of those who look facts in the face. Isoline fell victim to monetary apprehension, if you know what I mean. She left still saying we were the nicest people, and so forth.

The sixteen-year-older offered to undertake breakfasts. Luncheons didn’t count, as each fends for himself. With noble abnegation of her leisure, my wife claimed dinners as her contribution. And so, with one

less mouth to fill and one less cheek to write, we entered on our Trumanian Gastronomy. There’s no fixed policy. You make it up as you go along. You never know exactly how any dish is going to come out.

My answer to all culinary questions is “Let’s. Why not!” As official sampler and taster, I sit pontifically in the kitchen rocker sipping cocktails while my wife takes off on flights. She used to be a paleographer and loves working out puzzles. Dinner comes when it is ready. Time means nothing. But, unreconstructed Republican though I am, I must concede that this new regime has added perceptibly to our cuisine.

As most everyone knows, a demitasse of strong black coffee poured over a finishing steak makes a far richer juice. One night a bottle of red wine stood in the kitchen, being roomtemperatured. My wife eyed it curiously, the way she used to look at medieval manuscripts. “Let’s try a little of this on the steak,”she said. “Why not!" said I And in addition to the coffee she splashed a dab of the wine. We drank the rest of it to celebrate having attained a gastronomic achievement.

A dusting of dry mustard mixed in with a fork, we discovered, brings the most unpalatably reticent boughten mayonnaise to the front.

As I had planted far too many string beans, they began to pall on us. Chopped fried onions cooked with them proved no solution, nor did the addition of chopped bacon and hits of lettuce. Then, for no reason whatever (though she may have found it in an old German manuscript), my wife slivered a mess of beans fresh from the garden and marinated them for half an hour in salted and peppered red wine and olive oil. These were then put into an iron pot with a heavy lid, with enough water to keep mixture from burning. Thus transformed, those string beans had the delicate flavor of artichokes.

Veal being cheaper than lamb, which had never fallen in price, we ventured on it for a Sunday dinner. In the orthodox fashion, we spiked it with garlic. There happened to be lying handy a tube of anchovy paste. My wife follows the estimable rule that whatever her hand finds to do, she does it. So the roast of veal was rubbed with anchovy. It needed no apologies.

All advancement in culinary variety comes from getting bored wilh the same old flavors. So a casserole of leftover meat, simmered in a French crockery pan, was given a roof of corn bread, thereby affording a plenitude of “soppors” and a new combination of flavors to boot.

Cream cheese mixed with eggs as they are being scrambled adds to the bulk, for which we are grateful in these days, and furnishes smoothness and extra quality to the dish.

With sour cream, one of our standbys. we have to use subterfuge. The youngsters, on seeing it poured into a concoction on the stove, openly proclaimed their dislike of it. After that we slipped it in when they weren’t around. This, I believe, is practicing the wisdom of the serpent, but the net result approximated angel food. The youngsters agreed that it was.

Though we go heavy on sour cream and mushrooms (by the way, that’s a combination worthy of any gourmet’s palate: mushrooms skillet-broiled in butter with a dollop of sour cream mixed in at the end) — though, as I was saving, we go heavy on these, on herbs we’ve gone light ever since an herbalistic hostess offered our palates the indignity of fresh rosemary soup. Wine, too, must be applied with a gentle hand. It should be there, but make no open declaration of its presence. Such wisdom is better learned by trial and tasting, as all Trumanism must be learned. If it doesn’t work, don’t try it again.

One of our favorite quick-luncheon dishes came into being by this trialand-tasting method. It bears the name of Turtle Hill omelet, for it was in the kitchen of our Cape Cod house we fell on it. Now, by all the gods of gastronomy, a folded flat cheese omelet is no accomplishment to brag about. Cubed sharp Cheddar dribbled down the middle of the egg when it is stll soft is the usual procedure. On the shelf above the stove stood a slim green bottle of capers. Onto the cheese went a line of capers. Cheese plus capers folded into an omelet and brought to table bubbling will bring joy to even a misanthrope.

For these various accomplishments most of the honors should go to my wife. My only contribution — the licking of a hot spoon — has not yet ruined what gourmets call the taste buds. Most rigid taste buds, those of mine. Never for a moment have they relented their objection to Brussels sprouts in any form.

But, while passing out the honors, I cannot play ringtoss with the head of the sixteen-year-older who gets breakfast. His limitation is exactly the opposite of Isoline’s — he can’t sense time. Fruit juice, coffee, and toast are no hurdles to him. But as for boiled eggs, time is a variable quantity. One day, three minutes to him mean four; the next, they mean two. Finally, in desperation I declared that something ought to be done about breakfast before it became a lost art. That did the trick, that and an eggboiling sandglass. I am hoping some day to induct that lad into the mysteries and ultimate delights of kidney stew for breakfast.

Along in mid-June our cuisine is benefited and our figures ruined by (he conjunction of abundant eggs and abundant raspberries. All we have to buy for our favorite dessert is fresh macaroons. Lay custard on successive layers of macaroons soaked in sherry, alternating with sugared raspberries. Continue the layering until it

reaches the top of the dish, if you know a good thing when you taste it. Set the dish in the refrigerator to chill.

These gastronomic efforts have made a radical change, strange as it may seem, in our reading habits. For years, I read aloud in bed at night while my wife pursued her production line of sweaters and socks for her grandchildren. Three volumes of Bleak House saw a cable-stitch sweater finished. And the output of Argyle socks from Trollope was unbelievable. All that highfalutin literature has gone. Now we read cookbooks, greedily mouthing the recipes. Next day we try them.

Occasionally, of a Sunday, Isoline drops in to cook the dinner, just for old time’s sake. We lay aside our fortitudinous efforts and relax. Once again her hot rolls floal to our plates. Once again we munch her shrimps with undisguised delight. She still says we are the nicest people she ever worked for. And we feel the same about her.