Yesterday, I was tasked to do personal cheffing at a Manhattan high end household. The regular chef had to attend his son’s graduation and I was a sub. (I presumed this house chef had appeared in Food Network’s Master Chef since I saw it written on his chef coat at the staff room while I placed my purse on the chair and changed to my own coat).
Anyway, I prepared 2 meals which consisted of beef stroganof sans mushroom, mashed potatoes instead of the pasta and green beans for the Mister. For the missus, it was grouper fillet with brown rice and green beans. YOu’d think that being rich would be fancy dandy--but no! The simplest is always the best---but they just have househelp for that flair.
Needless to say….at about 6:30, the housekeeper was all dolled up in her clean crisp dark blue maid’s garb that had white bleached laced trimmings on the collar, and sleeves. She looked radiantly different from her daily daytime uniform.
My meal was cooked and had been warming up in the oven. At exactly 7 pm, the couple was seated in the dining room, table set with polished silver and fine china, and the candles lit. It was showtime.
I plated the meals for the housekeeper to serve. And while they ate, I transferred the extra food to their individual silver dishes and covered in foil to be placed in the warmer , just in case the couple asked for seconds which they did.
While they were having dinner, I was cleaning away in the kitchen, restoring everything as I had found it when I came. At exactly 7:30, the missus stood up, went to the kitchen and thanked me for a lovely dinner. I smiled.
The ambience of that dinner was silently elegant, with only the sounds of the housekeeper’s footsteps when she serves or the ringing of the electronic bell when the missus would summon her. Even I took pains in not creating any sound from the kitchen, lest the boss questions the noise.
An hour later, I was back in my apartment. I live with two men (my hubby and son), and as I entered it, tools were on the floor , on the dining table was a bottle of wine and a half filled glass. A half cut of sushi burrito on its paper container was so inviting, while the music of Jason Miraz filled the lighted apartment. Somewhere in one of the rooms I heard a call, “the queen is here!”
I plopped on my favorite spot, placed my feet on one of the dining chairs and started munching on the burrito and sipping the wine, oblivious to whoever were its owners.
Regardless of how one lives either of elegance and sophistication, which I experienced an hour or so ago,.....or one that is having a semblance of organized chaos, home is home is home ---wherever your world is.
a sculpture of Pablo Picasso's pregnant lady
