Plating

The first time I had an inkling of plating — and how totally and completely I did not “have it” — was a dinner party a dear graduate student friend of mine, Bryan Washington, and I threw for some of our colleagues. The premise of the party was simple. We were so fucking tired of seeing the same people and hearing the same discussions about the pros and cons of deconstruction over and over again. So each of our friends was charged with bringing someone to the party whom no one else would know. Our dear friend CAJ actually came within a whisper of bringing Maurice Sendak, but that’s another story.

Anyway, here I am making Julia Child’s Lobster Thermidor, cooking a 5 lb. behemoth in what was probably only a 3 liter pot. Total mayhem. Julia Child by the way knows her shit. When she specifies a 2.5 qt sauce pan and you only have a 2 quart sauce pan on hand, you’re fucked. Anyway. The lobster finally gets cooked. The sauce is tasting pretty awesome. And the recipe calles for me to decoratively plate the dish with some cut parsley. I toss a few tidbits onto the plate, kinda like a pinch of salt being tossed on a football field. Bryan takes one look at this ridiculousness and with all of his grande dame dramatics, pushes me out of the way and takes what looked to me like a whole bushel full of the herb and tosses it helter skelter on the lobster. It looks fucking gorgeous.

It’s funny how these seemingly trivial moments make their mark on you. In this particular picture, I’m actually drawing upon plates my mom had especially made for me for my wedding. I love these dishes, each one handmade and unique. And the idea of starting my plating with the aesthetics of the plate itself: Bryan, who passed away recently, would be proud of his handiwork.