Ode to Joy

Just how joyful is The Joy of Cooking?

by Drew Lazor

"If you can read, you can cook."

That was always my grandfather's motto. And he was one hell of a chef: In his day, he was the only gentile in the state of Connecticut to give the local Jewish bakeries a run for their bialys. He insisted his prowess was purely procedural — all he did was follow the recipe. But was it really that simple? Could a guy with no culinary training still crank out good food? More importantly, could I?

To test Gramps' theory, I obtained the 75th anniversary edition of The Joy of Cooking. Originally written by Irma Rombauer, no book has been more influential in grooming home chefs — the tome calls its first incarnation "the greatest teaching cookbook ever written." My mission: Throw a dinner party featuring Joy dishes ruthlessly selected by food editor Ashlea Halpern and copy editor/staff foodie Trey Popp. My menu: potatoes stuffed with sour cream and caviar; creamed spinach; a chocolate souffle; and WASPy Beef Wellington, a pastry-wrapped tenderloin coated in foie gras and Duxelles.

Those heartless bastards.

It was clear from the beginning that the "kitchen" in my one-bedroom apartment was not ideal for this undertaking. My stove is 16 inches wide; my counter is the size of Reader's Digest. I asked to borrow the kitchen of a good friend; she happily obliged — after all, she was hosting an America's Next Top Model finale party, and there would be plenty of people on hand to sample my food. She even offered me gameday encouragement via text message: "On BBC on Demand, there is a Gordon Ramsey thing about Beef Wellington. You are FUCKED dude!"

Step one was locating the ingredients. But what the hell is cream of tartar? I had a 10-minute staredown with a jar of tartar sauce before realizing it was a powder used in baking. At Di Bruno Brothers, caviar goes for upward of $200 a can, and foie gras runs around $60 for five ounces. Iron Chefs toss this stuff around like Bullseye BBQ sauce at a drunken tailgate, so I'd foolishly assumed it'd be more affordable. (A quick trip to Joy's massive "Know Your Ingredients" section helped me pinpoint cheaper alternatives: I 86'ed the caviar for salmon roe and replaced the foie with pre-packaged duck paté.)

CAVIAR DREAMS: At Joy's recommendation, salmon roe was substituted for caviar in these sour cream- and chive-stuffed potatoes. : jenelle campbell

The night before the party, I boiled the spinach and added red bell pepper, onion, garlic and lemon juice. Easy. More challenging was making Duxelles, a French sauce comprising mushrooms, scallions, sherry and heavy cream. But suddenly I understood the joy of Joy — the book broke down the multistep recipe concisely, outlining everything from dicing the mushrooms to what part of the scallions to use (the white base holds the most flavor). I'm still not sure how to pronounce Duxelles, but I'm sticking with "DUKES-shells," using Frank Dux, Jean-Claude Van Damme's character in Bloodsport, as a point of reference.

As I loaded everything into my car on the big day, I realized the Wellington recipe called for a cup and a half of Duxelles, and I had only made half a cup. After whipping up some more, I worked on the coating for the Wellington's meat. Combining the paté, Duxelles and sherry in a bowl produced a gray, goopy substance that looked like the stuff that comes out of the baby in Eraserhead. The recipe stated that the beef had to be completely slathered, and then covered with puff pastry. By the time I had finished forming the meat's doughy exoskeleton, my Welly resembled a Dodge Caravan made of unbaked bread. The book approved using excess dough to create decorative "leaves and scrolls"; I adorned mine with snakes, stars, diamonds and peace signs. It was one NIN symbol away from looking like my seventh-grade binder.

On to the next challenge: the chocolate souffle. Based on the complexity of the tips I received (don't open the oven/look at it directly or it'll collapse, whisk your egg whites to seven times their initial volume, etc.), you'd think I was splitting the dessert atom. I threw bittersweet chocolate and butter into a glass bowl, then slowly melted it in a large skillet of simmering water. It was time to tackle the eggs: three yolks, four whites, separate bowls. A simple process, but I couldn't keep the whites completely yolk-free. This came back to haunt me as I beat the whites, some sugar and the cream of tartar together with an electric mixer. It was supposed to be forming "soft peaks" as it thickened, but the mixture remained thin and watery. I tried again, paying closer attention to separating the eggs, and achieved brilliant peaks.

Lady Wellington beckoned. A temperature test logged the meat at 140 degrees. I was so happy I disregarded the fact that it looked like it had just re-entered earth's atmosphere. The final phase was baking the souffle. After cooling the oven to 375 degrees, I popped it in and subconsciously performed the Stations of the Cross. Thirty minutes later, the souffle had risen at least four inches.

After Top Model ended (go on, Cari Dee!), a half dozen or so hungry reality TV junkies descended upon my just-plated delights. The spinach was gone in minutes. The potato appetizers didn't go quite as fast — roe's not for everybody, including me. Cutting open my ugly Welly revealed that it was finely cooked, with the rarest meat toward the middle. The once-frightening paté mixture lent an earthy flavor to the beef.

The most surprising result was the souffle. Although it lost height sitting out, the super-rich, chocolatey flavor remained intact. The souffle's velvety texture, not unlike gourmet brownie batter, made for an airy respite from the heavy main course. One friend grabbed a chunk with her bare hand and scarfed it, which I took as a good sign.

Grandpa was right: If you can read, you can cook. My dishes would be laughed out of a Restaurant School classroom, but they still helped me achieve my overall goal: making a meal that didn't induce vomiting.

(drew.lazor@citypaper.net)