The Catskill Chronicle

By Jude Waterston

I met my chef friend Dennis over a dozen years ago when I was bartending in the Village. He entered the bar, striding mightily, and before he had reached a stool, ordered a bottle of Heineken and a shot of Wild Turkey. “Yo!” was his greeting of choice. His husky, booming voice matched his amazingly large frame, ample paunch, and huge head. The thick sterling silver hoop dangling from one ear would’ve made a bull blush.

He immediately began talking to everyone at and around the bar, and it quickly became clear to me that this guy didn’t edit a thought in his head. Each and every one was verbalized. Luckily, a good deal of what came out of his mouth was funny. As I got to know him better I saw, too, that he was generous and big-hearted. And most important, once again in my life I found food a common denominator. Dennis and I could talk about food for hours. And over the years we shared many intriguing and exciting meals.

He called me one early Sunday morning. “Yo, girl, I’m in the mood for some oysters,” he announced. “I’m in,” I replied without hesitation. “I’m not talking Blue Point or Wellfleet. I want variety. I want me some nice Kumamoto, Malpeques, Hog Islands, Belon. Let’s go to the Oyster Bar in Grand Central Station,” he said. “Pick me up at five,” I answered.

Befitting his less than subtle nature, Dennis leaned on my apartment buzzer for a good ten seconds. “I’m coming!” I yelled into the intercom. We took the train to 42^nd street and walked south to Grand Central Station. Neither of us had been there since the station’s renovation, so we spent a few minutes taking in the grandeur before looking for the Oyster Bar. When I asked someone for directions he said, “They’re closed on Sundays, and besides, they’re on strike. You’d have to pass a guy dressed as a huge rat to get through the door if they were open.”

“I’m dying for some oysters,” Dennis moaned dramatically. He grabbed my hand and led me out of Grand Central as I tried in vain to think of where in midtown Manhattan we could get a large selection of oysters. “Let’s head back downtown,” I suggested. “Let’s have a drink,” Dennis countered, pulling me into a nearby bar.

Over our drinks Dennis told me (and everyone within earshot) about a recent cooking event he’d participated in called the Beast Feast. He and a slew of other chefs spent four days preparing the indigenous bounty brought in by hundreds of hunters from all over the country. Wild salmon, caribou, venison, squirrel, and alligator were just a few of the things they tackled. “We even cooked the balls of some animals!” Dennis bellowed. At this, the guy sitting a couple of stools down burst out laughing. When we looked over at him he said, defensively, “I’m a cook, too.” This brought on a new burst of enthusiasm from Dennis and eventually, after he had grilled this young line cook from the prestigious Café D’Artistes about what kind of oysters he’d worked with, I pried Dennis away to head back downtown to a restaurant in Soho called Aguagrill where he and I had once shared over a dozen different kinds of these raw mollusks.

We arrived at Aquagrill and found it packed with well-heeled customers. There was a twenty to thirty minute wait at the oyster bar and a longer wait for a table. Disappointed, but determined to find us some shellfish, I suggested we head to the Village to a little place on Cornelia street called Pearl. “They don’t have a large variety of oysters, but they’ll have one or two kinds, and they have steamers and the best lobster roll in town,” I said persuasively. We made a right off Bleecker Street onto Cornelia and approached Pearl. I could tell from twenty feet away that it was unlit. “Closed Sundays,” Dennis muttered bitterly.

Luckily, Cornelia Street is lined with terrific restaurants, and we peered at the menus in the windows of a few until we came to a tiny French place, Le Gigot, that I’d always wanted to try. “They have oysters,” Dennis yelled as he opened the door and pushed me inside. “Do you have a reservation?” a waitress asked us curtly. “No, no, we’re starving and we gotta eat,” Dennis said in his usual blunt and earnest manner. “Well, we have only these two tables available,” the waitress said uninvitingly. She indicated two small metal tables sitting side by side. Each was the size of an open dinner napkin. Dennis was too big for the place, but undaunted, he pushed the tiny table forward to allow for his generous girth and asked for menus.

We decided to share a bunch of appetizers and started with a half dozen oysters on the half shell. They were so good that Dennis immediately demanded, through a mouthful of crusty bread smeared generously with rich French butter, another half dozen. His obvious passion and curiosity about what part of France each ingredient came from eventually melted the heart of the waitress, and she enthusiastically answered his onslaught of questions. The house even took the time to split a charcuterie plate we ordered next so that Dennis was given the sausages and country pork pate that I didn’t fancy, and I got the duck rillettes and chicken liver pate. Each plate was garnished with tiny cornichons and pickled okra slices. It was accompanied with wonderful hot French mustard and more bread and butter. We next had tender garlicky escargot, followed by stewed calamari in a rich, spicy tomato-based sauce. Each dish was perfectly prepared, and we discussed its merits in depth. That ritual was what made our sharing of meals so special to me. I finished the last of my wine and looked contentedly at Dennis. “Well, we got our oysters and then some,” I murmured happily. Pushing himself up from the table he nodded, then added, “What’s for dinner? I could use a steak.”

We settled instead for a nightcap at the bar of a Greek restaurant around the corner from Le Gigot where Dennis insisted on ordering himself a plate of marinated octopus and one of grilled shrimp for good measure. I sipped my scotch and thought about what we’d gone through to get a few oysters. I shook my head in amazement. Dennis smiled contentedly and handed me a shrimp.

Grilled Shrimp

Serves 4 – 6

2 pounds jumbo shrimp, peeled and deveined

1/3 cup extra virgin olive oil

1 tablespoon finely grated lemon zest

2 tablespoons lemon juice

2 tablespoons minced fresh parsley

2 tablespoons minced fresh chives

1 teaspoon salt

Place the shrimp in a bowl and add the next six ingredients. Toss to coat, cover, and refrigerate for one hour. Do not marinate longer or you will alter the texture of the shrimp. Prepare the grill in time for a white ash to form before cooking. Alternately, you can cook the shrimp on a lightly oiled ridged stove-top grill. When ready, thread the shrimp onto skewers. Do not overcrowd. Grill shrimp until just opaque in center, turning once, about 2 to 3 minutes per side. Slide shrimp from skewers and mound on a platter. Serve immediately.