The Catskill Chronicle

By Jude Waterston

Hors d’oeuvres: small savory appetizers served before the meal, customarily with aperitifs or cocktails. They are usually bite-sized and can be hot or cold. Hors d’oeuvres may be in the form of a fancy canapé or as simple as a selection of crudités.

Cocktails: any of various mixed alcoholic drinks consisting usually of brandy, whiskey, vodka or gin combined with fruit juices, soda or other liquors and often served chilled.

I have vivid memories of my parents’ cocktail parties. My dad greeted the guests at the front door. He kissed the wife and, more often than not, the husband, too. These were my parents’ closest friends: a handful of couples who, throughout the nineteen-sixties and early seventies, entertained each other with good conversation, laughter, cocktails, and hors d’oeuvres. It was a civilized practice, leisurely evenings that began around six in the evening and ended about nine or ten when the last couple strolled out the door and into the night.

In the early evening, my mother was busy in the kitchen, gingerly lifting hot, flaky triangles of savory spinach pies, called spanikopita, from a baking sheet and placing them on a colorful ceramic serving platter. Tiny meatballs simmered in a sweet and sour sauce; stuffed mushrooms were baking in the oven; and a variety of cheeses were set out on a handmade wooden board brought back from a trip to Portugal. Another wooden vessel was filled with Ritz and Triscuit crackers.

In the living room my dad clapped his hands together softly and asked the assembled group, “What’ll you have to drink?” Whisky sours were popular and my father reveled in his job as consummate bartender. I loved to watch him concoct a drink. He cracked the ice by hand, placing a cube in his left palm and breaking it into jagged pieces with a flexible gizmo with a weighted convex  base that was made specifically for the purpose. A couple of precise raps yielded a handful of ice chips that he threw into a tall measuring glass he used as a cocktail shaker. In went a couple of ounces of rye or bourbon, a small amount of powdered sugar, and fresh lemon juice. Rather than shaking the mixture, my father favored a long-handled spoon and would vigorously stir the drink until it frothed slightly. He covered the top with an aluminum strainer and poured the contents into a glass.

Next he winked at me as he reached for the maraschino cherries floating in a viscous scarlet-colored liquid. He pulled one out by the stem and popped it into my waiting mouth before digging in for another to garnish the drink. I didn’t chew the cherry until I had sucked on it to extract as much sweet liquid as I could. Then I quickly chomped and swallowed as I followed my dad into the living room to watch him present his creation. “Perfect drink as always, Nat,” was the usual pronouncement upon first sip.

My sister and brother and I were expected to say hello and chat a bit with all of the guests, which was no chore, as we knew them well. One was our pediatrician, another our dentist, and yet a third our ophthalmologist. On occasion I was offered a taste of an old fashioned or whisky sour and felt terribly grown-up until the harsh booze went down my throat, and I sputtered or gasped to my great embarrassment. My mother allowed us to sample the delicacies she’d spent hours preparing, and then we were whisked out of the room to leave the adults in peace. Many a night I fell peacefully asleep to the sound of tinkling glasses and bursts of laughter.

Some four decades later, I find myself hosting cocktail parties with as much enjoyment as I witnessed in my parents’ home when I was a child. My years as a bartender and self-taught chef allow me a comfort zone in which to work, and I look forward to inviting our pals into the weekend home I share with my sister, Janet. After thirteen years up here in the Catskills we have surrounded ourselves with a small, close-knit group of friends with whom we feel at ease. I like the idea of presenting a variety of small dishes creatively plated and laid out on a large coffee table, served alongside an expertly poured martini, Rob Roy, or gin and tonic and spending a few hours schmoozing, sipping wine or cocktails, and sampling savory tid-bits.

The other night, Marci and I, working in our separate homes, prepared a feast of little dishes for our friend David’s birthday celebration. Marci’s offerings included large cremini mushrooms stuffed with a mixture of chopped mushroom stems and cooked shrimp, bread crumbs, garlic, fresh thyme and basil; a  delicious grilled pork tenderloin that had been marinated in a mixture of soy sauce, dry sherry, honey, rice wine vinegar, orange juice, shallots, rosemary, and minced ginger; as well as a perfectly ripe wedge of brie and an interesting cheese called Morbier, a dusky streak of ash running through its center. I made Pakistani chicken patties spiced with cumin, cayenne pepper, coriander, turmeric, garam masala, and cilantro served with a cooling cucumber and yogurt raita dipping sauce; tri-colored sautéed bell peppers with capers, garlic, and balsamic vinegar; and a Spanish tapas dish of mussels marinated in a vinaigrette of sherry vinegar, extra-virgin olive oil, capers, red onion, chopped pimiento and fresh parsley served in their sleek black shells. Mixed olives, Monchego (a tangy Spanish sheep’s milk cheese), whole wheat bread sticks, and semolina bread with fennel and golden raisins rounded out the meal.

David arrived with his frisky and always ravenous dog Kumba who I immediately plied with a chew stick, knowing her predilection for stealing human food. As we settled into comfortable arm chairs in the softly lit living room, I couldn’t help thinking about the difference between my parents’ cocktail parties and those my friends and I have shared over the years. No animals graced my mom and dad’s parties, but ours seem to always include a few four-legged revelers, brought by friends and happily greeted and accepted by Janet and me.

Once, Kumba consumed an entire dish of plump smoked oysters and at various other get-togethers she has partaken of crackers smothered with artichoke and cheese dip; silky slices of procuitto di Parma; pitted olives, and any other number of savory appetizers. Then there was the time Chloe (Marci’s dog), in the blink of an eye, polished off a chunk of brie, a slab of mustard-seed studded gouda cheese, and a dozen thin slices of sopressata, a dry-cured salami. And there have been other dogs snatching human treats from the table. I was fondly recalling them when Janet got up to refresh her drink. As she headed into the kitchen, Kumba took the opportunity to quickly grab the half-eaten stuffed mushroom and slice of bread smeared with brie that was on her plate. “Salute!” I said to Kumba, raising my glass high, and then I turned to toast my dear friends.

Marinated Grilled Pork Tenderloin

3 (3/4 to 1 pound) pork tenderloins
1/2 cup soy sauce
1/2 cup dry sherry
1/3 cup honey
1/4 cup rice wine vinegar
1/4 cup vegetable oil
2 tablespoons fresh orange juice
1 1/2 tablespoons minced fresh rosemary
1 tablespoon minced shallots (or garlic)
1 1/2 teaspoons minced fresh ginger

Trim the tenderloins of all fat and silver skin. Place them in a shallow baking dish large enough to hold them without crowding.
Combine the soy sauce, sherry, honey, vinegar, oil, and orange juice in a medium bowl, whisking until well blended. Stir in the rosemary, shallots, and ginger. Pour the mixture over the tenderloins. Cover with plastic wrap and allow to marinate at room temperature for 2 hours (less is ok).

Preheat an outdoor grill or indoor grill pan.

Remove the pork from the marinade, shaking off any excess. Place the tenderloins on the grill and cook, turning frequently, for about 18 minutes, or until an instant-read thermometer inserted into the thickest part reads 155 degrees F. Transfer to a platter and allow the meat to rest for 10 minutes before carving.

Meanwhile, place the marinade in a small saucepan over medium heat and bring to a simmer. Simmer for 10 minutes, or until slightly thickened.

Slice the pork into 1/4 inch-thick slices, spoon the hot marinade over the pork. Serve with a tossed salad.