Of Silver Spoons and Silver Palates

The Vinaigrette Fallacy

Every generation puts its own spin on vinaigrette. But this unassuming 1982 recipe featuring raspberries — well, it changed things.

As a kid who grew up eating frozen fish filets and spaghetti with Ragu^©, salads were not on the menu. We preferred our veggies Bird’s-Eye-style: thawed out, and preferably in medleys. But even I, a culinary moron, knew that there must be flavors beyond the tartar sauce packet that came in every Gordon’s box. I knew about French Dressing. I knew about au jus. I knew there was food out there that didn’t include the heating directions on the package. Food of class and distinction, like the fabulous life I had in mind for myself. Unbeknownst to me, that life had something that I didn’t even know existed: vinaigrette.

I wanted more. Much more. But I was ill equipped.

My tastebuds were late bloomers; tangy and zingy were not flavors my tongue even recognized. My mother often said: “There is such a thing as too much garlic” if anything contained garlic. Which is why one lonesome, papery head sat in a dusty cup on our kitchen windowsill; it was so shriveled it could no more chase a vampire away than flavor a sauce. Like forbidden fruit, it would stay off limits as long as my parents’ idea of ethnic food was a can of LaChoy Chop Suey. We weren’t even sophisticated enough to cut our pizza into triangles. My family carries the quiet pain of that shame to this day.

But, thank god, the 80’s arrived. And the very moment I began to glimpse a new future — ascending into my coolest MTV self in iridescent eyeliner and pointy flats — a new food paradigm made its way all the way to our suburban Chicago Kroch’s and Brentano’s. It was a cuisine I shall call Boomer Gourmet. It was at once aspirational, down to earth, and snobby AF. It made a promise to a generation of social-climbing, status-seeking sophisticates: herein lies good food. It was The Silver Palate Cookbook, a chart-topping culture buster. Overnight, it back-burnered the either-or definition of home cooking: too fussy or too lazy. Just like me, it wanted more. The authors, Sheila Lukins and Julee Rosso raised an audacious new bar. It was all fresh ingredients and unique combinations, things you had to demand and seek out in a casually entitled way. Lukins and Rosso defined it as “a quest of excellence.”

“There is a sense of adventure, the redefinition of personal preferences. The curious become the passionate seekers of the new, the better, the best.”

The Silver Palate, forward

I doubt that my parents — who were not baby boomers, and were obviously uninterested in “the best” — cared much about this book when it was given to them as a gift. But I found myself reading it, probably while eating a bowl of cereal; I was smitten by its playful line drawings (by Lukins) and its startling flavor aesthetic.

Starting with that Raspberry Vinaigrette.

Hell, I didn’t know there was more than one kind of vinegar. And although I knew what the words Crème Fraîche meant (I took French, duh), I had no idea you could make it (p. 339). The mystery of this recipe was immediately undone by its simplicity. With zero cooking experience, I could make this shit myself. More importantly, I suddenly had a driving need to eat raspberries and salad. If I was going to get sophisticated, I had some catching up to do.

I was being held back; a point that was reinforced when, in response to a dinner I made for my parents, my mother said, “You know, there is such a thing as too many vegetables.”

Rosso and Lukins were inspired — nay, called — to write this book for people like them: important people. But even more so, busy jugglers who loved food.

“There were school schedules, business appointments, political activities, art projects, sculpting classes, movie going, exercising, theater, chamber music, concerts, tennis, squash, weekends in the country or at the beach, friends, family, fundraisers, books to read, shopping that couldn’t be avoided, and, last but not least, trying to prepare creative, well-balanced meals daily and an occasional dinner party at home. It was much too much.”

The Silver Palate, forward

Holy shit! I thought my parents – who raised six kids and worked full time and ran a summer stock theater company on the side – were busy. If I was going to be a successful striver and know my caviar from my roe (p. 33), I was going to have to up my game. I wanted to be a part of the magical world of Silver Palate – a world that existed somewhere on a street called Columbus Avenue, apparently surrounded by geraniums – and I would need to push myself beyond my bowl of Captain Crunch to get there. I’d have to accept nothing less than the best.

Soon enough, I conjured a cinematic fantasy of what a Silver Palate life looked like:

“Unforgettable Perfection: the Raspberry Vinaigrette Story”

Scene 1:

We open on a dark green Saab speeding down a beachfront road. Kenny Loggins’ “Heart to Heart” picks up steam in the background. Tall grasses blow, the sun shines. The Saab turns into a long driveway, leading to a shingled Southampton mansion (white trim, purple hydrangeas). The car screeches to a halt on the gravel driveway and a grown up version of myself hops out of the car. I’m late – I’ve made a pit stop to pick up some live lobsters and a few more bottles of “extra dry” white wine. I’m in tasteful white linen and brown Frye boots. This is my fantasy, I can wear what I want.

Scene 2:

I rush inside, the party is in full swing. Cocktails are being served in my fabulously furnished living room, Kenny Loggins is now singing live in the corner. I mingle with my guests in the manner of a Nancy Meyers movie – we’re all light hearted and sardonic. All of us intellectual equals: Nora Ephron, Carl Sagan, Diane Keaton, Elliot Gould, Alan Alda, Meryl Streep, Tom Hanks, Eddie Murphy, and Harrison Ford. We talk about the movies we’re making, the theater we’re producing, the novels we’re writing. The conversation sparkles.

Scene 3:

Dinner is served in tasteful splendor! I’ve prepared a triumphant Rosso and Lukins menu: Miniature Lamb Kebabs and Ceviche for appetizers; surf and turf entrees of Lobster and Tarragon with Pasta, and Ragout of Rabbit Forestiere; an assortment of mousses and tarts for dessert. But even with all of this perfection, it was the fresh greens with Raspberry Vinaigrette that the guests would never forget.

I’m sure my parents didn’t miss their copy of The Silver Palate when I took it to my first apartment sophomore year in college. It sat on my shelf for years before I could afford the “excellence” necessary to make a single recipe, but my Silver Palate fantasy continued to creep into my thoughts — always getting further away, more unattainable. I did everything the authors described: I became a New Yorker, a busy juggler wrapped up in multiple, very important activities. I over-scheduled, I strove hard. I demanded excellence. And, like a witless fool, I took to heart perhaps one of the most exhausting and thankless undertakings of all: making “creative, well-balanced meals daily.” Lukins and Rosso did not make my life more sophisticated. They certainly didn’t make it easier. Raspberry Vinaigrette is just a recipe of course, but it was also a false promise. They raised an impossibly high bar that — for all my Gen X attempts — only succeeded at making me an accidental boomer. That is to say: never excellent enough.

There is one recipe, however, that I can never part with from The Silver Palate. It’s the one I found folded up and tucked inside, written in my father’s handwriting. It’s Beef Subgum. It calls for flank steak, peppers, celery, and two cans of water chestnuts. And not a single clove of garlic. I’m sure it was delicious.

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Can you make Chicken Marbella in your sleep (p. 86)? I can! Did this cookbook find its way into your life? TELL ME!!! xox