Beef Stroganoff? Child's Play.

     Page Sixteen.
     I do have some kind of nerve. I'm this little pipsqueak hired to be the help and suddenly I'm destroying the party food. But I do know what I'm doing in the kitchen. Don't ask me to evaluate the food if you don't want me to answer with actions not words.
     Winter: early '83. A wonderful Salon: Alpha-Omega client who I was particularly fond of hired me to be the party help at her mother's birthday party. Jenny's husband picked me up at 5PM and they acquainted me with their beautiful Shaker Heights kitchen. (Sidebar: that home is right around the corner from where I've nannied and cooked the three little princes since February, 2011.) The Beef Stroganoff was simmering upon my arrival. I was introduced to Mom, the guest of honor, and then I was told of my duties. The party got started and I washed cups and prepared salad plates. It was a modest sit-down dinner, 20-25 or so.
     Prior to serving time is tasting time. So long about 8, the guests start filing into the kitchen to sample the Stroganoff. Everyone needs to make sure that it's just so. Everyone tastes. Everyone hems. Everyone haws. 
     "Hmm. It's good but... It just needs something. Do you know what it needs?"
     "No. I don't know what it needs. Maybe she knows what it needs."
     "No, I don't know what it needs. Could it need more of this?"
     "No. I don't think it needs more of this. I think it needs more of that."
     I'm sure that NASA didn't put as much thought into the Apollo flights as was going on in this Shaker Heights home over that Stroganoff. Finally, Jenny said "Jeremy, you know food. Will you sample this and tell us what it needs?"
     I sauntered over and tasted. You could have heard a pin drop. Didn't say a word; just took a couple of steps to my right and picked up a full but opened bottle of Robert Mandavi from the gleaming countertop. I proceeded to pour most of the bottle into the Stroganoff. I then tasted again. "It's done." I declared. Jenny was white as a ghost. She tasted again and said, "That's just what it needed. Thanks, Jeremy."
     The party proceeded, all the guests were well fed and Mom had a good time. I did a fine job and Jenny gave me a large tip. She'd hire me again and recommend me to others. I was a little pipsqueak, but I do know food.

My First Caviar

     Page Eleven.
     I've been doing odd jobs since before I was born. I'm sure in one of my last lives I was a general contractor. In another past life I was a fix-it man like Emmett from the Andy Griffith Show. I also had to have been a bartender, a caterer, Doctor Doolittle, Florence Nightingale and Mary Poppins.
     The name Jeremy Gutow began floating around Cleveland Heights and Shaker Heights by the early-mid 80's as a soul who'd do anything for money. One day in November of 1987, I think, I received a phone call from a couple who lived a few blocks away. I don't remember from whom they got my name, it could have been a bathroom wall for all I know. They were having a Christmas party in a few weeks and wanted to hire me to be the party help. I'd keep the place tidy, help with the bar, stock the chips, keep the fireplace going - all the usual things. Ho hum... what a challenge. "Sure," I said.
     The husband picked me up in his BMW at the scheduled time and we drove the 5-6 blocks to the very gracious home which was slightly modest by Cleveland Heights standards. I met his wife, both were youngish and attractive. I don't remember now what they did professionally. No children.
     Let me back up slightly, I over-scheduled myself that day. I didn't have time to eat dinner and went to the party starving to death. That's a no-no, especially when talking about my appetite. My appetite is a book unto itself, a simple blog could not do it justice. And my appetite during the '80's was just over the top. I've since learned to manage it to a certain degree, though it's still rough. I've never been heavy though. Only since about 2005 have I begun filling out. I was positively skinny for my first four and a half decades. But brother did I eat. So I go to this party, where I'm the "help," starving to death.
     As they were showing me around, I noticed a large bowl that had a black mountain in it. I kid you not, they shipped Mt. Everest into their dining room and placed it in a bowl. I inquired, (I couldn't help myself.) "That's our caviar for the party. Please try some."
     I PROMISE YOU, THEY TOLD ME I COULD HAVE SOME!!! really, they did. So I had some, and more and more and more and more and more and more and more and more and more and more and more. But then, I stopped. By the time the party was over, I probably ate half the mountain. They otherwise seemed please with my job, paid me and drove me back home. But they never called me back to help them again. Don't know why, just can't imagine.
     That was my first time eating caviar. Boy does that stuff go down easy. Whew, it's good.
     I've only made that mistake once. Never again did I go to a party starving, even a party where I was a guest. I'll go hungry, but I avoid arriving ravenous. I'm too rude when I'm hungry. Oy!
     Nowadays, when I'm offered the occasional help job, I'm considered extremely good at being the help. (I better be good, it's about sixteen notches beneath my current professional level.) I will munch while working too. I know that's considered somewhat unprofessional, but I figure anybody who hires me has already heard about my work habits and appetite so they know what to expect. It's almost like I'd be disappointing them if I didn't munch. Plus the fact, everybody knows I'm a private chef, so they all want me to sample their wares anyhow. It works out. But I'll NEVER forget that mountain of caviar, really, I won't. It was sooooooo good.