When a plan comes together

Last fall I started looking around for a partner because I felt I'd taken my wee company as far as I could on my own. I considered just hiring somebody but I didn't believe I had the money to do it and, besides, I wanted the somebody else to be as invested emotionally and financially as I. So I wanted a partner, a person who'd take over the kitchen/production part of the business and allow me the time to focus more on what I'm good at. Well, what I'm better at.

I searched the archives of a catering forum I belong to (catersource.com) for information on partnerships and the one bit of important information I came away with was that partnerships are like marriages and they shouldn't be ... arranged.

I pursued a sushi chef I know, whose integrity (both personally and professionally) had always really attracted me but he had different ideas for his future so that was that. Forgetting what I'd learned on catersource, my desperation had me dialing the number of another chef, whose superlative skill with vegetables, frugality and uncompromising standards had provoked my admiration, even though I knew that he hated a monster chunk of catering reality: the schlepping. He said he'd think about it but the next time we spoke we both wisely pretended the first call had never happened.

Then a surprising thing happened. In February, Angus, the man who'd been working with me as my gig chef for almost two years, suddenly expressed an interest.

"But you don't like risk," I said.

"My wife thinks it's a good idea too."

"But you don't like risk," I repeated.

"Not gonna think about it."

In March we consulted an attorney and even paid her for a written agreement but there really is no formal relationship yet. The informal relationship is as follows: We both work our butts off week after week and get paid less than we deserve, in anticipation of wonderful future things to come.

Here's the reality: I sell the jobs, I create the menus, I do the client meetings and vendor days, I am FOH at our tastings, I work up the prep schedules, I write the pull lists, I design the events, I coordinate with all the other vendors except our suppliers, I manage the staffing, I update the blog, facebook and website and I pay the bills. But I haven't cooked a lick in months and, in the last six weeks (our slow, sultry mid-summer season), I haven't worked one gig.

I was at the kitchen on Tuesday, waiting for a potential client who'd called to say they'd be a little late. My partner and I were sitting at the table, waiting to put the pancetta and parmesan gougères back in the oven so they'd be freshly baked and heartily perfuming the kitchen when the family arrived.

"I'm bored with the menus," I said, apropos of nothing. He's a man of few words so he used none but gave me a sideways look. "I know, I update them all the time," I continued "but they feel stale to me."

"I guess you'll have to work on that," he answered, and got up to put the gougères back in the oven.

Friday I joined Mom and Dad for one of our cocktails-on-the-beach evenings we try to do once a week and they asked how it was going, though not with the same urgency they'd asked that question a couple of years ago. "I want to work on the menus, they're a little stale."

The thing about cocktails on the beach is that the gulf wavelets, the sun, the sweet breezes, the scotch, all conspire to soothe us, so a little time went by before I continued. "But, it's going great. We're booking well for 2010, Angus is handling everything to do with the kitchen and I'm doing all the other stuff. So," I continued, "I'll probably work on the menus next week. It's pretty cool having the time to do it."

And that's when Mom piped in. Mom who'd thought going out on my own was the worst possible decision, who'd fought with me about my reasons (I mean, really, artistic freedom?), who, with Dad, had given me the 5K it took to install the hood vent and return air systems in my kitchen, who had, in the last four years washed more sidetowels, aprons and t-shirts than anybody seven decades on the planet should have to wash, said, "Well, that was the plan, right?"

Parmesan and Pancetta Gougères

1 c milk
4 oz butter cut into cubes
¼ t salt
1/8 t pepper
1 c flour
4 lg eggs at room temp - maybe 5
¼ lb finely grated parmesan
¼ lb finely minced cooked pancetta

1. Set the oven to 400 degrees.
2. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper.
3. In a saucepan heat milk, butter, salt and pepper over medium heat and bring to a boil.
4. Immediately remove from the heat and add all the flour in at once; stir briskly for 1 minute.
5. Return to heat and stir with gusto until the mixture begins to film the bottom of the pan.
6. Remove from heat and allow to cool for three minutes, then add the eggs, one at a time beating well after each addition. You have added enough egg when the mixture forms a slowly falling "hook" when you lift a bit of it from the bowl with a wooden spoon. If it doesn't, beat the fifth egg and add a little at a time until the batter says that it's done.
7. Add the parmesan and pancetta and beat until completely incorporated.
8. Use the gougères mixture to secure the parchment to the cookie sheet by putting a smear of it under each of the four corners of parchment paper. Then drop the batter by spoonfuls (or pipe) about ½ inch apart. If you pipe them or if they have "sharp" points after loading on the cookie sheet, be sure to press the points down softly with a wet finger to keep them from burning at those points while baking. You can freeze them or bake them immediately. If you intend to freeze them, put them straight into the freezer; once frozen they can be stored for a couple of months in a zip-lock bag.
9. Bake them (from the freshly prepared stage or frozen) for 10 minutes at 400 degrees then reduce the temp to 350 and bake until golden brown, about 20 minutes.
10. Serve warm