Bad Home Cooking

Mi paella primera

"I really like your sunglasses."

The checkout clerk and I were talking shades. "Those look great. I usually just buy mine at the gas station."

"I used to, too, but the boyfriend won't have it," I said, slipping the expensive fancy-ass designer shades back behind my ears.

"I see," laughed the clerk. "That's who you're making the paella for."

"It's who I'm attempting to make the paella for," I said.

"Oh come on, it'll be fine."

"On no, it probably won't." I smiled sadly. Should I tell her about my blog? Naw.

"I'm sure he'll love it."

"Well," I said, "I suppose I'll get points for trying."

"You'll become the paella master!" she said, bagging up the last of the ingredients, on which I spent $60. For that much money, I could get a hell of a paella, prepared by a professional, with an appetizer AND wine. And this very night, too.  If I were a woman with more sense.

But I'm not that kind of woman.

Check this space tomorrow...

Toot Sweet

Some things just can not be rushed.

Other things go best with planning. Or a few minutes of thought before execution. Or barring any of the above, a recipe.

I didn't really have any of that Sunday night when I dove, ill-equipped, into the lamb tagine idea. I did have some lamb, thoughtfully provided by the Flamenco guitarist, whose idea this was in the first place.  "Where's this lamb tagine you're always promising me?" he said, late in the languid afternoon. I muttered the standard excuse of not having any lamb and was duly pulled off the couch and driven to the market.

Now I had the ingredients at least. Pre-marinated kabobs! And I had some Kalamata olives. And some onions, and some baby carrots, and some chicken stock. And a lemon.

What I didn't have was a recipe. It was getting late, and turning the computer on to Google lamb tagine was almost more than I could muster. Besides, I had some vague notions about what goes into a lamb tagine already. Not concrete ideas, mind you, but a loosely-sketched out melange of ingredients I hoped would miraculously blend together and fill my kitchen with heavenly aromas from the Levant. Underneath this hope lurked the thought that I could just improvise, and be rewarded for my bombastic creativity with something really yummy and impressive.

Who do I think I am? Christina Bess?

The tagine itself didn't turn out un-edible. In fact, it was....well it turned out better than could be expected for someone of my experience working without a recipe on a short notice. But as always, the details were many, and flawed.

Let's call this one, Toot Sweet Tagine, shall we? Here's what we put into it:

Two skewers of lamb kabob, purchased because there were no other lamb chunks available. These are already marinated in a tangy asada sauce, and probably should have been grilled. Please note that by using kabobs marinated for the grill, we have already compromised the Middle Eastern taste we're going for.  I know. I KNOW!

half an onion, sliced into big chunks
four garlic cloves, roughly chopped, because we're like that
two handfuls of baby carrots
half a cup of raisins
handful of slivered almonds
about 8 Kalamata olives, sliced in half
some honey
a slice of lemon or two
chicken stock to cover
some paprika
some salt, some pepper

Are you following me down the path to disaster? 

OK. Brown the kabobs in some olive oil, then remove from the tagine. Saute the onions for a bit, add the garlic, then the carrots. Add some sweet paprika. Saute, saute, saute.

Dollop some honey over that stuff.

put the lamb back in and add chicken stock...not quite to cover....but enough to generate some steam.

Throw in the raisins and almonds.

Cover and let simmer for a while. I don't know how long.

Throw in the olives when you're ready to really descend to the point of no return.

At some point you will have overcooked the lamb until it's dry. You will notice that the aroma is not what it could be. Not that it's bad in any way. It's just not "OMGWhatisthat?"

Make couscous using only chicken stock.

Offer your children some lamb. Offer to wash the sauce off. Ignore their wide-eyed lamb imitations. "Baaaa! Baaaa! Maaaa-myyy, don't eeeaaatttt meeeee!" Wonder when they got indoctrinated about mutton products. Make them hotdogs instead.

Serve in festive plates, with nothing else as side dish or garnish.

Get really defensive when asked by boyfriend whether you were domestically disinclined in your '20s.

Pour yourself a large, sparkly alcoholic beverage.

Now. The gruesome details: Toot Sweet Tagine is not terribly bad. But it's way too sweet. And the melding of sweet and savory, honey and paprika, raisins and olives, I suspect wasn't ever going to work. Or maybe it would work in more capable hands. And I should have made the couscous with just water and butter to make it less heavy, to better counteract the sweetness of the lamb in its sauce.

Also, I'm not entirely clear on how this all cooks differently in a tagine. Couldn't I have cooked it up in a pot? Isn't a tagine a slow-cooker of sorts? It was Sunday night and I didn't have time for that. I wanted to use the tagine, though. It's pretty. I want to utilize it more. But I don't understand its secrets.

The flamenco guitarist ate most of his dish. He didn't rant. But he complimented politely. And he ate. Which is more than I can say for me. I found the dish altogether too cloying. Again, not bad, just way too rich.

Next time: Think. Or use a recipe. Or hell, just go to Greenblatt's for takeout.

Mistakes were made: Spaghetti cacio e pepe (with cheese globs)

Practice makes perfect, yes? Except maybe not in my case. Better advice for me might be: Quit when you're ahead.

The April 25th L.A. Times Food Section featured a simple recipe that caught my eye. Spaghetti with crushed black pepper and pecorino cheese. It sounded just right. The writer, Leslie Brenner, raved about its delicious simplicity.

So I tried it on myself, to impressive results. I ate it out of a big bowl on the couch in front of the TV one night. And it was good. But if you make and consume something delicious by yourself, does it count? Do you get credit for having made something extraordinary? If a tree falls in the forest.....

No way, baby. I wanted credit for this superb new pasta dish of mine. I have a great need for almost constant validation.

Enter Tony, my ever-willing guinea pig.  A little gun shy around spices, I showed him the article before embarking. I've made it before, I told him. And it's a lovely, creamy, cheesy, elegant pasta dish with a little kick of pepper. Tony nodded happily. He was starving, he said. And game. 

First mistake: Never boast. Not when you're a Bad Home Cook. It merely attracts the attention of the Kitchen Gods, who then collect above your stove, waiting for the fun to start. By feeling cocky in my ability to recreate this dish, I'd already set the stage for disaster.

Here's the recipe: From the new cookbook, Lidia's Italy: 140 Simple and Delicoius Recipes from the Ten Places in Italy Lidia Loves Most, by Lidia Matticchio, who apparently now has a cooking show of similar description.

Salt for the pasta water

2 tablespoons whole black peppercorns or more to taste

1 pound spaghetti

1 1/2 cups freshly grated pecorino cheese, or more to taste.

Bring a big pot of slated water to boil. Meanwhile, grind the peppercorns very coarsely, preferably crushing them in a mortar or spice grinder.

Warm up a big bowl for mixing (you can apparently use some of the pasta water for this...?) Cook the pasta until al dente, then quickly lift if from the pot with tongs. Let it drip briefly, then transfer into the warm bowl.

Immediately scatter a cup of the grated cheese and most of the ground pepper into the pasta, and toss. As you toss, sprinkle over spoonfuls of hot water from the cooking pot to moisten and amalgamate the pasta and condiments.

Could this be any easier?

Alas. There were ominous signs that this wouldn't reach its full potential right from the start. No sooner had I started to pull out the pasta with the tongs than I realized I'd forgotten to salt the water.

The kids were running in and out. Tony was telling me something about work. The kitchen iPod was playing something fun. All standard Monday-evening fare. But apparently I can't hold a conversation and cook at the same time. Not even something simple, like pasta. I didn't even have a glass or two of wine to blame.

I plopped the pasta into a big bowl I hadn't bothered to warm because, frankly, I didn't know how. I threw in a tablespoon of crushed peppercorns and 3/4 cups of grated cheese.

Second mistake: Get fresh ingredients. Black peppercorns and grated pecorino and Romano cheese from Trader Joe's are arguably better than table pepper and Kraft Parmesan in a can, but they're no match for the real, whole foods. I could have gone to Bristol Farms and bought a $7 bottle of peppercorns to grind in my mortar, and an $10 wedge of imported pecorino. But would it have improved the end result? Not in my case.

Tony tucked into his bowl. "Ooh. Peppery." He's a wimp when it comes to this sorta thing, so I tried a swirl myself. Ouch. Peppery.

"Sorry about that," I said.

"No, no, no problem," he said, taking another mouthful.

He chewed. "Well, it's got a real kick, doesn't it?"

"Yeah, that's a kick all right."

Third mistake: No sense of proportion. My proportions are always off. I didn't cook a pound of pasta, per the recipe, so the other measurements were off. I used too much pepper. And not enough cheese. Or maybe too much cheese. Who the hell knows?

He coughed a little. He cleared his throat. Finished the water in his glass. Looking like a man who's taking it like a man, he raised his fork for another go. Then he stopped short.

"What is this?" Tony pointed at a lump in the bowl.

"It's cheese."

"I thought it was a piece of chicken or something."

"No. There's no chicken in this dish. Just pasta, cheese and pepper."

"Oh." He put down his fork.

Crickets.

We sat quietly. Each of us carefully inspecting the table in front of us. 

"I guess some of the cheese didn't melt right," I admitted.  "So. I guess that's just a cheese globule. Or something."

"Oh."

Fourth mistake: Learn how to make a decent cheesy sauce using hot pasta water and the cheese you've sprinkled over the pasta. This can't be hard. It's just basic chemistry. This is probably one of the first things they teach you in Italy.

Silence had descended on my kitchen. Nobody was eating anything. I had completely botched the simplest recipe in the universe. Again.

"Look," I said. "I can just boil some more water and make you plain pasta with some sauce."

Tony shook his head violently. "Oh no! No! Really. I'm almost full."

"But you were starving when you got here."

"You know, honestly? I'm eating lighter these days. This is fine." He dabbed his lips with his napkin and pushed the bowl away.

I thought about offering him him some of the microwaveable butternut squash cubes I'd made my kids eat earlier, but thought better of it.

More bread? Tea? Rolaid? He looked at me almost in relief. "Some tea would be nice, thanks."

With lots of honey, to coat the pepper.

Fifth mistake: Always have a backup. If I'd made that tortilla Espanola like I'd considered doing that afternoon, I would have had an effective and pleasant way of saving face. As it was, I've decided that I'm NOT going to be discouraged. I'm going to be pissed off enough to try this simple, three-ingredient dish again. And again if necessary until I get it down.

But I think I'll need another guinea pig.

Oh my Cod

As I opined in my last post, the very fact that I'd even attempt something like a cod cake is testament to the virtues of Mark Bittman's brilliant "How to Cook Everything." They're really not too hard, but you need to have the correct ingredients, and you need to have a standard of calm and quiet in the home so you can concentrate. There are several steps you can trip up on.

I'm finding that a primary problem of mine is pressure. I tend to announce my intentions of cooking for another, and that's when I choke. I have a big problem cooking for people. Not my kids. They don't count. In fact they'd be happier if I stopped cooking for them altogether and just fed them breakfast cereal for dinner. I mean other people. Friends. Tony. My Dad. Those close to me who, like anyone, are delighted to accept the offer of a meal and probably expect a taste sensation or at least something edible put before them on a nice plate. I have the nice plates. It's the edible, tasty part that I can't promise.

I don't remember why we were talking cod cakes, but about a month back I got it in my head to cook up a batch again. I haven't made cod cakes since I left Berkeley in 2003. "Oh, I can make a mean cod cake," I bragged to Tony one night, dimly remembering my one or two dumb-luck successes. "You'd love my cod cakes." Before I knew it I was on the docket for that Friday night. Dinner at home. Cod Cakes on the menu.

The first order of business was getting the salt cod. Back in Berkeley I had access to the famous Berkeley Bowl, with its six different kinds of organic endive and 34 varieties of peaches. It sold small loafs of salt cod in a shrink-wrapped package in the freezer section. All you had to do was soak it overnight; change the water three or four times, and by the next afternoon you had cod ready to cut up and cook.

All I have now is a Whole Foods, which is like Berkeley Bowl's skinnier, better-married sister. It's got half the stuff at twice the price but it sure looks prettier. It has salt cod, but it's flat, unpackaged, and kept in a barrel, I suppose to preserve its rustic feel. I supposed they would fill out upon soaking. I had Tony bring down three fillets later that week.

The big day came and typically I wasted time drinking wine and dancing around until it was 5 and time to start dinner for the kids. I put pasta on for them and started the potatoes.

For cod cakes, you mix the cod with mashed potatoes, dredge in bread crumbs and then fry.

First mine-field: Make mashed potatoes. The Bon Appetit magazine I get (but still don't know why) had a Thanksgiving special section that included an article called "Mastering Mashed Potatoes." It promised a four-step process to perfect mashed potatoes. "What's the secret to light and buttery mashed potatoes? It's all about using the right techniques in the right order."

I can read. I can follow a simple to-do list. So I figured I should be OK. I boiled the potoes for the prescribed time. I "dried them out" by stirring them in the saucepan for "about two minutes," per the instructions. I added the butter. Finally, I mixed in the liquid. The instructions said the milk must be warm so that the potatoes don't become gummy or cold. Check.

What it didn't mention was that you need to pour the milk in a little at a time. I only remembered this after dumping in all the milk at once.

So I had fairly runny mashed potatoes. So much for fool-proof techniques. Bon Appetit should hire me to stupid-proof all their recipes.

Next step. The Cod. Unfortunately, the salt cod floating in water in my refrigerator had not lived up to its promise. I pulled off the skin and was left with two thin flaps of rubbery fish. I cooked it in hot water, which only made it more rubbery. I cut up what I had as best I could and mixed it with my mashed potatoes.

Third step: Dredge in bread crumbs. Because I am detail-challenged, I hadn't bought bread crumbs. I ran out to the store and found some stuff called Panko, Japanese-style bread crumbs. These actually worked great because they're bigger than standard bread crumbs.

Fourth Step: Fry up. Frying is dicey. I don't eat a lot of fried foods and the very act of dumping half my olive oil into a pan caused me great pause, not to mention eye-twitching. I wondered if I shouldn't be using another sort of oil that might pair better with fish, but such instruction was not noted in the recipe.

The frying went off without incident, but throughout the entire cooking process I was vexed by constant fear of failure, anxiety over how I could save face if the meal went horribly awry and Tony was forced to call out for Chinese instead. I felt I didn't dare improvise, such as take a chance with a different cooking oil, for fear I would ruin everything. As it was, with the sloppy mashies and the disappointing cod, I didn't know how things would turn out until I took my first bite.

Tony arrived, bearing Manchego cheese, olives and bread from our favorite place in the world, Say Cheese in Silverlake. My kitchen looked like Hurricane Katrina had stopped by for a quick bite. He set out the goodies and I fell on them without a thought to etiquette, sitting there in my stained apron. When I recovered my senses, I served up the cod cakes without garnish, and realized that I'd failed on the fifth step as well: You can't serve a dish in a vacuum. The cod cakes tasted fine, but I'd prepared nothing to go with them. They became simply another appetizer. Only they'd taken a lot out of me.

Tony seemed to understand. He poured me a big glass of wine and ate his cod cake con mucho gusto, singing its praises with his mouth full.  I agree that they were edible, but with better cod and a thicker potato they could be so much more. I was once again reminded that learning how to cook was very much like learning how to dance flamenco: You have to learn the steps before you can concern yourself with artistry.

And so with me you get a cod cake on a plate. But you don't get the meal.

Tortilla y ya!

Originally published in August 2006

I did it. I nailed the tortilla. Or at least I made a version of it that both tasted great to me and impressed a flamenco guitarist who grew up on the real thing.
Here's how I did it:
Four small to medium Yukon potatoes, washed but not skinned. Cut in half, then again, then sliced from there.
One medium onion, sliced
two garlic cloves, diced
a cup of oil. Olive oil is fine, but corn oil is more flavorful it seems.
Six eggs, lightly whisked.
A dollop of milk.
A bit of chopped parsley. A tablespoon at most.

Heat most of the oil into a NONSTICK SKILLET. If you don't have a non-stick skillet, your tortilla won't turn out. I don't know how women in Spain did it before this invention, but thank God I live in the plastic age.
Add the garlic and onions - saute for a bit, then add the potatoes. Stir once or twice to cover the potatoes in oil, then don't touch again. Cover
Ccook for about 20 minutes. Don't brown. But a little brown is always ok.
Drain the potatoes. I remove them with a slotted spoon.
Whisk your eggs with a dollop of milk. Add salt and pepper to taste.
Add the remaining oil to the skillet and return the potato/onion mixture. Pour the eggs over this and stir once or twice to cover the potatoes. Don't forget to add your parsley.
Cover. Watch.
As it cooks, shake the pan a little every now and then to make sure the tortilla isn't sticking to the bottom.
When the eggs are almost cooked, (mostly solid except for a small pool of runniness on top) take a plate, put it on top of the pan and FLIP that tortilla. Slide it back into the skillet and cook on the other side. Five minutes or so.
Return to the plate.
Let cool for ten minutes.
Pour your glass of wine, break out your crusty bread, and make merry.
Buen Provecho. Or however you spell it.

Tortilla Española Take Two

Originally published in June 2006

I feasted on Antonio de Jerez's tortilla all week. I had three pieces when it was still warm. That next morning I reached into the fridge and ate it cold, con mucho gusto. I brought a large piece to my neighbor Tamlyn, who often brings me portions of her delicious and soul-satisfying soups and ragoux and who I knew would appreciate this delight. I fed off that beautiful tortilla for several days, until there was nothing left but a few crumbs. And I ate those, too.
And then it was gone. I stared at the empty plate and felt...alone. Insecure. I had the same kind of general sinking feeling I get when I drink the last of my Two Buck Chuck. "Oh no. It's gone. Now what am I going to do?"
Then my daughter started putting the pressure on for me to get her some Pop Tarts. Not Trader Joe brand pop tarts, but the real stuff, in all their chemical preservative goodness. I was hungry. I wanted tortilla. Then I had a brainstorm.
If I'm at Ralph's, I thought, I can just get the ingredients for tortilla and give it another try. It's easy, right? It won't take long.
I can make my own tortilla and eat it tonight!
So the girl got her Pop Tarts (S'more Pop Tarts...igg!) and I procured the necessary items to try, once again, my own tortilla. Thanks to the thoughtful and very good-looking Tony Triana for the list. To be safe, I replicated even the brand names.

Three tablespoons Mazola corn oil (that's what Antonio de J. uses, apparently. Not olive oil)
one and a half Paul Newman organic russet potatoes
one bunch Italian parsely
5 eggs

I peeled and chopped one medium potato, which was much smaller than the russet potato I used on my first attempt, so I added a second, smaller potato.
I fried these up gently in my cast iron skillet, stirring often so they wouldn't stick. I didn't want to let them brown either, just soften.
I added just the tiniest big of chopped onion.
I whisked five eggs in a glass measuring cup, added salt and black pepper.
I chopped up about a fourth of a cup of parsely.
I found a pan I felt sure would mold the tortilla into a pleasing shape, and I oiled it up well.
I drained the extra oil from the potatoes, and transferred them to this new pan.
I added the eggs and the the parsley.
I watched. I jostled the pan so it wouldn't stick. I used my spatula to loosen the sides.
When I felt it was firm enough, I put a plate over the top and flipped the whole thing so that I could cook the other side.
And here's where it all went to hell.
Most of it stuck to my pan. The part that didn't both crumbled and dripped onto the plate.
With no form left, there was nothing to do but scrape it all back into the pan and cook it up.
That's when I realized my many mistakes.
To wit:
- I don't have any sense of proportion. My potato-to-egg ratio was embarrassingly off, to significantly worse results than last time.
- Wayyyyyyy too much parsely.
- structural problems. It stuck to my pan, even though I oiled it and kept it all moving and the result was gloppy chaos. There are some foods that simply must meet a basic aesthetic standard and a Spanish tortilla is one of them. Antonio's was round and firm, like a cake almost. It's pleasing to look at. You can't wait to cut into it.
I'm still very far from my goal. I have the ingredients, but only the vaguest idea of how to combine them properly.

The results of this round: Crap. A potatoe stir-fry with some egg and some parsely.

Viernes Alegria

Originally published in June 2006

Tony actually did it. He paid cash money to Antonio de Jerez to make me a tortilla española. But he wasn't allowed to stay and watch this alchemy, oh no. He brought over all the ingredients, two expensive German beers and one crisp new Jackson but was then sent away. He returned a few hours later to receive the perfect, hot tortilla.
"She really wants the recipe, Antonio. Won't you tell her how you do it?"
"I don't think so," said Antonio. He handed Tony the results of his clandestine labor. "And make sure you bring the plate back."
So Tony brought this beauty down to me, still warm under tinfoil. You can see that it's a flawless piece of art. And it tasted every bit as perfect as it looked - lofty, but dense. Slightly salty. Chewy. Filling. Perfecto, eh? But after careful inspection, we realized we were no closer to its secrets.
Stay tuned...

Tortilla Española Take One

Originally published June 2, 2006

The first time I ever ate the simple Spanish dish known as Tortilla I was in a restaurant in New York City with my agent and my editor. They told me this place made a killer tortilla so I went ahead and ordered it, wondering in my stupid Southern Californian way about how I liked homemade tortillas as much as the next Mexican but did they really constitute a meal? Anyway, the lovely potato and egg pie that arrived in front of me set me straight. Fast forward about ten years. My agent and editor, along with any alleged publishing potential I may have once had, have dissolved into the sinkhole of time.
And yet. And yet. The tortilla abides. I cling still to that dream. So simple it’s silly. Egg and potatoes. Add whatever you want, it’s still a cheap and nutritious meal. Peasant cooking, really. Comfort food. Starchy. Filling. Good hot or cold, they’re ubiquitous in Spain, where they come in all textures and shapes and grace the counters of tapas bars high and low.
It’s one of those dishes that everyone knows how to make. Except for me.
I’ve got a thing about simple dishes. I want to master them. I want to be able to make good miso soup, or a dal that brings tears to the eyes. I feel like I should be able to whip up the simple but cockle-warming dishes that anyone’s grandma can make. And yet, it’s the simplest recipes that most elude me. My inattention, my many distractions, coupled with wretched self-esteem in front of the stove, foil my best intentions, no matter how elementary the recipe is in front of me.
This is my journey, though. Step onto the road to failure and fail, big time, until I at last get it right. It's kinda fun when you think of it this way.
And nothing is more fun than trying to wring a basic recipe out of a bunch of flamencos who don't really know and wouldn't be able to remember anyway even if they did.
I’d been told that Antonio de Jerez made the best Tortilla in Los Angeles. If you’re into flamenco and you live in Southern California, you might have heard of him. But since you probably aren’t, and so haven’t, he’s a singer, from Jerez de Frontera, Spain. Been here since the mid -70s. Now in his 50’s. About this tall and bitter, and very close-mouthed when it comes to disclosing the secret to his outstanding, perfect tortilla.
I had it at a party once, and indeed, it was an extraordinary thing. Cool, cut into slices that you could eat out of hand or wrap in bread. The fresh, chewy, ever so slightly salted taste of egg cooked with potato. It was hugely satisfying with a salad. If I’d been left alone I could have eaten the whole of it by myself.
I asked him for the recipe. He laughed and walked away.
After a trip to Spain in which I ate a lot of tortilla, but only one, in Granada, that matched his own, I redoubled my efforts.

I pinned him at the bar of a crowded Pasadena restaurant where he was gigging with Tony. "Antonio!" I call. I notice he cringes and tries to turn away.
"What do you want?"
"I want to make your tortilla. How do you do it?"
“I don’t know. It’s hard to explain.”
“C’mon! Tell her,” said his girlfriend, Maria-Jose.
“I can’t! I don’t really know. It’s different every time.”
This is standard Gypsy tact for squirming out of being pinned down on anything. Ah, but I was a journalist for years and years. I can counter squirm.
“Let’s say you have one medium potato,” I say. “How many eggs? Four?”
“More like two. Maybe Three.”
“Three eggs for each potato.”
“…er, yeah, I guess.”
“What about four eggs?”
“Too many.”
“So three eggs then. Firm?”
“I guess.”
“Yes? No?”
“Yes.”

So I used five eggs because that’s what I had left, and what’s the sense in leaving yourself two eggs in the fridge?
And I used one and a half russet potato because just one potato didn’t seem quite enough to counter five whole eggs. I peeled them and chopped them, doing my best to create orderly, proportional squares.
Olive oil. No idea how much. Enough to fry potatoes in.
A little tiny bit of onion.

Onion? Everything starts with an onion, remember.
But oh yeah, not every time.
“No! No onion!” Tony is alarmed when I ask him this over the phone. I don’t tell him that as we speak I am already sautéing an entire medium onion, chopped.
“So never any onion?”
“No!” he says. “OK, maybe just a little bit, for flavor. “But only the tiniest bit.”
Damn. I don’t know why I’m listening to Tony exactly, since I don’t think he’s ever turned on his own stove much less attempted a tortilla. But he grew up on his Dad’s tortilla, so presumably he knows a bit more about its making than I do. And I need a roadmap of some sort, so I take his advice. I spoon most of the onion into another pot, telling myself I’ll use it to make lentil soup later on that night. In my skillet, I leave only the “tiniest” bit.
Next I throw in the potatoes, and cook them up. But I don’t stir them enough or else I didn’t use enough oil, because as they cook they stick to the bottom of my skillet.
I whisk up the five eggs and add them to the mix. Then I put the heat on medium and watch.
There are always secrets with the simple dishes, I’m discovering. How much of this in proportion to that. How long to cook, and on what heat. When to turn, when to stir. Little details not ever articulated or written down in the cookbooks that will trip you up at every turn unless you know enough to intuit them.
“You’ve got to cook it just so,” Tony had warned me. “You don’t want to undercook it, but you don’t want to overcook it, either.”
“Well how long, exactly? What does that mean?”
“I dunno. You have to ask Antonio.”
I watch the tortilla bubbling in my skillet. I'll just have to guess when it's done.
There are also equipment requirements for a good tortilla, I’ve discovered. A simple iron skillet, medium sized, will allegedly do the job, but for me anyway, it’s not the right tool for the gig. Maybe there’s a special “tortilla” skillet – I imagine there is, since the high-end kitchen market is there to meet even the smallest of needs with an expensive and beautiful pan. Anyway, I don’t have such a pan. Only my two cast iron skillets, found at flea markets long ago, that have served me well so far and will be one day passed forward to whichever kid expresses the most interest.
Another tool I lack – a more flexible spatula, so I can get in there and flip that thing. Apparently that’s the challenge of tortilla for most people – the intact flipping of the thing. Tony told me that his Dad used to use the lid of the pan, so I duly try it and, no surprise, fail miserably. It had not yet cooked enough to retain a solid shape. A quarter of the tortilla oozes out onto the lid while the remainder sticks to the skillet. I curse myself bitterly as I dig at it with my spatula, and eventually manage to flip the tortilla, in two pieces, onto its other side to cook. Truly. I just suck the big dog in the kitchen. I’m not worthy of the apron I wear.

And so it sits. My first tortilla Española. In two steaming pieces on a square yellow plate. The top is burnt black, but not exactly scorched. I’ve done worse. Still, I wonder if I shouldn’t just throw it out now and save face. I decide to let it cool first.
Fifteen minutes later I decide to taste it. When I fall on my face, I like to wallow in the pain for a little bit. I’m funny like that. Not only did it look like crap, no doubt it was inedible too. Oh, the suffering. So I cut off a little slice, away from the burnt bits.
It’s chewy. Eggy. Potato-y. It’s not inedible at all. In fact, it’s kind of yummy. I eat another slice.
The girl walks through the kitchen. “What’s that smell, mom?”
“It’s my tortilla.”
Silence.
“Wanna try some?”
Basically I bribe her, promising her fame and fortune on this very blog if she tastes it and tells me what she thinks. She slowly comes around and agrees.
She inspects her piece carefully. She smells it. She takes the smallest nibble. Chews. Considers. She takes another, slightly larger bite (this indicates success already in my book). She takes a THIRD bite and pronounces it “OK. But you burned it.”
Yeah, yeah. Of course I burned it. “But you liked it enough, didn’t you?”
She shrugs, pops the rest into her mouth, and flees my kitchen.
Later on Tony comes over and agrees to try my tortilla. Imagine the hubris! My serving my first tortilla to a guy who grew up eating his Spanish father’s tortilla. I understood where I was on the tortilla totem pole. Would I deign to present this as an actual meal? Not me. To make clear that this was a taste test and not a meal, I handed him a piece on a napkin. Granted, Tony’s prone to forgiving my every fault, but in this instance of ethnic pride, I think he’d tell me if it sucked. The prospect of my total failure perversely excites me. At least I’m on the road to learning. He takes a bite. I search his face for the horrible truth: It's an abomination.
He raises his eyebrows and shrugs. “Actually not so bad,” he says. “A little heavy on the potato maybe.”
“You’re just saying that,” I say.
“No.”
I decide that the proof will come if he takes a second piece. He doesn’t. But he does take a second bite of his first piece. And that, my friends, is not a small battle won.

Lessons learned from this, my first summit attempt:
Less potato. Balance the egg to potato ratio.
Fry the potatoes in a separate skillet to prevent burnage.
Pam that damn skillet up like a greased pig. My next tortilla should pop right out of there.
Cook a little longer over a medium flame. Since I didn’t really time it this first round, I can’t say how much longer that would be. I will try to intuit.

Stay tuned for Tortilla Española, Take Two. The plan is, we’re gonna pay Antonio de Jerez to make one, then we’re going to take it home and dissect it….