Fat Saturday

As the two singles among a group of long-established couples, Rachel (my former Moveable Feast partner) and I had several handicaps: the first, that together we weren’t very creative. I actually can’t recall who came up with our “Mardi Gras” inspired menu, but I have a nagging feeling that it was Becca.

(10 minutes later)

Yep, it was Becca. A quick look through my emails confirm that she not only suggested the theme, but also sent links to three of the six recipes we would include on the menu. Though it appears that most of our work was done for us, I recall it still took Rachel and me weeks to create the menu, even with Jason’s relentless nagging. I’ll chalk it up to nervousness about topping the first feast.

Handicap two: That Rachel and I didn’t share the same bed, much less the same zip code, meant that the second feast would once again take place at Casa Nath/Campbell. Thus far this feast wasn’t very “Moveable,” was it? So, Becca and Jason, a belated thank you to you both for letting us borrow your pots, pans, plates, silverware, home, computer for the playlist, bathroom, water and utilities, cleaning supplies, probably some good bottles of wine, and your ideas.

Handicap three: I always think I'm the boss in the kitchen, and clearly, that's not so. As we set out to Creole fry our chicken, I distinctly remember being relegated to dish washing as Rachel stood over the fryer. But maybe that’s a good thing, as my frying experience was limited to only ingesting fried food. But with Jason’s experienced hand and our “Cajun Injector” fry oil, the chicken turned out delectable.

Other notable dishes included Jason and Becca’s near-professional quality crab cakes (another oversight: Rachel and I hadn’t realized how expensive crab for 12 people would be. Again, sorry guys.), Cara and Rick’s crispy calamari, and Adam and Jen’s perfect gumbo. Rounded off with Elise and Philip’s rice and beans (which no southern meal is complete without), the meal was a fatty, carby, oily success. I knew we had something special when Jenny pronounced, “There isn’t a vegetable anywhere on my plate—and I love it.”

But the best was yet to come. I’ve never been to the South, and I’ve come to conclude that it’s simply another world full of secrets I know nothing about, but desperately want to learn. One such secret is King Cake. A Mardi Gras tradition, King Cake is decorated with the customary purple, green and yellow icing, and—get this—always includes a hidden ceramic baby. No joke, look at the recipe. It calls for “1 ceramic baby.” I recall receiving this “ingredient” with confusion and annoyance, then shrugging it off because once I sent the menu out, the baby was Jenny and Ethan’s problem, not mine. Miraculously, they FOUND A CERAMIC BABY (somewhere in Silverlake, naturally), and the cake was authentic and complete. We decided whoever was fortunate enough to receive the piece with the baby would either choke, or be the next host. Luckily it was the latter, and Rick received the lucky piece.

On to Chez Franson/Underwood!

la crise de foie

Jason laid in bed, sick to death with what the French call la crise de foie - a crisis of the liver. It had been a long evening, and even longer night. It started at a small table at La Closerie des Lilas on the boulevard de Montparnasse. We began the night with oysters, crab mexicaine, and a carafe of Pouilly Fuisse. Next the waiter brought a steaming bowl of moules frites, resplendent in garlic, butter, and parsley. As the last little moule emerged from its shell, the voice of Edith Piaf wafting in through the summer breeze, the idea for a moveable feast hit us like thunderous clap of lightening... Right. That didn’t happen at all (aside from maybe la crise de foie).

The supper club is one of those ideas that no one can claim ownership over. Get a group of friends together, everyone cook something, eat it, etc. - that’s been done since the beginning of time practically. Having just started our second tour of living in LA and looking for a way to create a close social circle here, we appropriated the idea of having a monthly dinner with friends from Jason’s far more cultured relatives in San Francisco. Add to that our obsession with Ernest Hemingway’s A Moveable Feast (we nerds have read it a few times apiece), and there you have [los angeles] is a moveable feast supper club.

As we dreamed it up, a moveable feast would be a monthly supper with friends who shared our obsession with butter food. Each month someone would host the supper, create the menu, and assign the recipes. BYOB et voila!, a fine time to be had.

The first supper club was, naturally, French. All the recipes came from Julia Child’s Mastering the Art of French Cooking. Well, all except Jenny and Ethan’s delicious appetizer, which was not planned for (neither were Jenny and Ethan, but thankfully Cara and Rick saw fit to introduce us all to their adroit cooking skills and delightful company). Except for absolutely luscious gratin dauphinois, the balance of the dishes showed that we were collectively a little wet behind the ears. The aigo buigo, a garlic soup that is supposed to enrich the soul, fell victim to Jason’s poor recipe copying skills, but was nearly saved by tons and tons of butter. The chicken took forever to cook, and by the time its too-pink legs were served, the haricots vert a la maitre d’hotel had gone cold. And for some reason the dish in which Cara and Rick made the clafoutis burst into a million pieces (gremlins!), but they quickly whipped up a replacement.

Despite the culinary setbacks, the night was a resounding success. It’s amazing what many, many bottles of wine and whiskey will do. But because of the fine company, the real star of the supper club, we were all hooked. After a fierce game of drawing straws, Libby emerged as the victorious host of the next supper. We couldn’t wait.