I review the menu I will prepare for the romantic dinner for two. It’s a surprise birthday gift from wife to husband. I cook for parties of two about once a year. I’ve prepared meals for engagements, special birthdays, and anniversaries that have been so beautiful they’ve been life-changing for me as a chef. Those parties of two often become regular clients who hire me to cook for all the big events in their lives.

“I should warn you that some people are very shocked when they come home to find an unexpected chef in their kitchen,” I had warned the wife via email the day before.

“Oh wow! I don’t anticipate anything like that at all! He’ll be thrilled! I can’t wait!”

“Fantastic! It’s going to be spectacular!!!”

In the email language of personal cheffing, the more exclamation points you use, the calmer everyone feels.

At 6:00, after unloading three bags of food, serving platters, and cooking utensils, I ring the bell.

I inhale quickly when a lanky teen with long, straight, jet-black hair, kohl-rimmed eyes, and fingerless gloves answers the door. Then I chuckle, longing for the high school days when my sense of style could make a stranger gasp.

“I’m the chef.”

“Oh, yeah. Come on in,” the goth babysitter sounds intentionally disinterested, grins at my shock, and lets the door swing open while balancing the child on her non-existent hip. “We’ll be upstairs.”

This is my first time in this house, this complex, this particular Portland burb, but I know exactly where to go. These houses are all the same: entranceway with shoes lined up, stairs to the right, living room straight ahead with 2 couches and a widescreen, open kitchen with a little island, and small dining room beyond it. They are always spotless and straightforward, varying only in the family’s choice of Crate and Barrel or West Elm decor.

I know the couple will be home in one hour so I carefully unpack, preheat, refrigerate, simmer, and then unsheath my knife onto my cutting board for any last-minute finessing. The wife said she couldn’t put table settings out beforehand, for fear she’d ruin the surprise, so I snoop and find tableware and glasses that I fill with icy fridge door water. I lay the menus I’d printed earlier on top of the place settings.

20 minutes earlier than planned, I hear a key in the door.

She sings out, “Hi Alison!” when they enter the kitchen through the side door.

He walks in, eyes wide open, momentarily balancing himself on the counter, obviously very confused.

“Hi, I’m Alison, and I’ll be your chef tonight. Happy birthday!” I’m all smiles because that’s my job.

He is not disarmed by my charm.

“What the fuck is going on?” He says to the wife, in a secretly abusive suburban husband sort of way.

The wife extends her arm in a graceful Vanna White introduction manner. “This is Alison and she’s a chef and everything’s fine and she’s going to cook us dinner!”

“Hey!” I add perkily with a toothy smile, trying a more casual approach.

As I said, this kind of surprise is genuinely hard for some people and he’s like a bear discovering an intruder in his den. He’s an average-sized Abercrombie white guy in his mid-30s and he has a rage that I can tell is a frequent guest in their home. At that moment, his eyes are wild, his wife is humiliated, and I hate my job. If it were just cooking, it would be a piece of cake.

Normally I’m catering for a larger group so I’m with my team of trustworthy cohorts.

Not tonight. Tonight, it’s just me vs. Grizzly.

He throws his jacket somewhere, swings an arm wide to open the fridge for a beer, and I realize that he’s pretty drunk already.

“Want one?” He begrudgingly offers as he slumps onto a stool at the kitchen island.

“No thanks. I got myself some water.” I point to a glass of ice water from the fridge door.

“We have bottled water y’know. If you don’t like the kind in the fridge there’s two other kinds in the garage.” I picture his two-car garage jam-packed with single-use plastic water bottles and feel lonely in my conscientiousness.

“No thanks. You’re a little early, but I’ll have your appetizers out shortly!”

“Oh, it doesn’t matter,” the wife replies, making me feel unnecessary.

“I also wasn’t sure if there was a wine or beer that you wanted me to serve with the meal.”

“We have plenty of both.” She says, sounding suddenly furious, not answering my question, and walking upstairs. There is a pause that feels endless.

“How are you doing tonight, sir?”

“I’m a little freaked out, to tell you the truth.” His voice is deep and hard. “We had some drinks with some friends and I didn’t know you were coming. I had a… my brother-in-law… he… well, he cooked here one time and he cooked for hours and made a huge mess all over the kitchen!” He points to the spotless white cabinets and counters.

“I understand. I’m a professional though and I promise I won’t leave your home until the kitchen is spotless.”

“Oh, sure.” He randomly gestures at the oven and almost falls off the stool. “Hey, what kind of music do you like? SIRI, PLAY “DROP KICK MURPHEY’S!” The music jettisons out of the kitchen speaker with so much volume and bass it almost knocks me down. He laughs at me.

Shakily now, I turn to the wall oven to retrieve the bacon, corn, white cheddar gougeres, and lemon arancini and place them on the serving platter next to the goat cheese and drunken fig jam crostini.

Hearing the wife descend the stairs I fan some cocktail napkins and ask, “Would you like me to set the appetizers up here?” pointing to the corner of the kitchen island where her husband is teetering. He has opened another beer so we are not only off to the races, we are rounding another corner.

“Yes, that’s perfect. Oh wow! This looks so beautiful, Alison!” She sits next to him, whispering something that makes his lazy lids widen a bit. He pops a fried risotto ball in the roasted garlic aioli and nods with joy.

Keith Urban warbles through the speaker.

They whisper to each other. All I hear are consonants and exhales. Heads shaking in disagreement. He is upset about me and also about the baby who is wailing now.

“This is the first time we’ve gotten a babysitter and we’re trying to establish a little distance training,” she says softly to me.

“I DON’T AGREE AT ALL.” The husband storms upstairs to calm his son. And hopefully himself.

I don’t feel threatened, but I don’t feel safe.

Eventually, he returns, and they sit silently to salad (for her, as she is a vegetarian) and lobster bisque (for him).

“This is amazing!” he exclaims. “Best lobster bisque I’ve ever had. Hey, where’d you get this lobster anyway? When I buy mine at Safeway it just tastes like bleach.”

Now he and I are friends I guess, sharing shopping tips. And you don’t laugh at friends or humiliate them by saying that fresh lobster isn’t really a Safeway specialty… no matter how tempted you might be.

“I bought this lobster tail at Flying Fish. It’s a fish store in Southeast Portland.”

“Portland is a dumpster fire!” Now he’s shouting. “I would never go into the city. It’s just homeless people on drugs trying to steal your stuff! We don’t ever leave this area. We know we’re safe here.” He slurps his soup with defiance. “This bisque is like crack! Not that we’ve ever done crack. We’ve done some stuff but never crack.”

“Why would you say that to her?” the wife asks, looking horrified.

I consider secretly passing the wife a note that says, “ARE YOU OK??? DO YOU NEED HELP?” but he distracts me with a question.

“Do you know anything about the legal system in Canada?”

My head is cocked like a confused kitten, “Canada? Don’t think so.”

“I got a DUI in Canada after a Blink 182 show last year and I’m not allowed back in that country.”

I’ve heard a lot of things in my 32 years of cooking in stranger’s homes, but this was the most predictable.

“No sir, no, I don’t know anything about any of that.”

I turn back to the stovetop, and he won’t let me cook. I’m searing the filet for him and he’s asking me questions, talking about grilling tri-tip and baking potatoes. He’s coming over to the kitchen to point out drips I haven’t had time to clean yet. I’m roasting the stuffed portobello for her and he’s asking me what my favorite Mexican restaurant is (he offers Taco Bell). I’m roasting potatoes, and answering questions, there’s asparagus too, the sauce, the beans, the plating. I can’t catch up.

I don’t see him turn off the oven, but when I open it to bake the individual chocolate souffle desserts, the oven is almost cold. The souffles fail – I try to save them by cranking the heat which burns the tops. They are inedible. I have failed in every way because I’m terrified of this person who needs to be managed like a little boy.

When I’m done and the kitchen is clean, the wife has disappeared. He walks me out to my car even though I say aggressively no thank you. He gives me a hug that is chilling. I can tell that if I were years younger or a little more attractive it would have been more. I get into my Honda and drive away from this perfectly safe suburb. My hands shake as I hold the wheel– afraid, angry, powerless.

Hours later, I think, at least I’ll get a good tip or a rave review, as if there’s an amount of money or praise that could retroactively erase the trauma. The wife gives me neither. Not even a thank you. She just venmos the amount on the bill with the date as the comment.

You have to leave it there, you know? There was nothing more to do.

Except realize how lucky I am.

There’s a team of women who work for me as servers. They are strong, smart, and responsible. While most of the time clients are generous and appreciative, I know that my servers have plenty of stories about serving drunken, handsy, entitled asshats like this one.

It wasn’t until I was fully vulnerable that I realized how much I rely on them as my first line of defense. These women create a protective boundary around me when I’m cooking that I take for granted. Ladies, I would be nothing without you. I am beyond grateful for your 5-star service, your ability to smile in the worst of circumstances, and your solidarity.

Since giving thanks is on my mind, here’s a side dish I’ve been working on for Thanksgiving (you can watch me making them on Afternoon Live on the link below the recipe!)

Thank you all!

Hasselback Sweet Potatoes with Maple Allspice Butter

• 4 garnet red-skinned sweet potatoes, scrubbed
• 4 tablespoons unsalted butter
• 2 tablespoons maple syrup
• 1 teaspoon salt
• 1 teaspoon allspice
• ½ teaspoon black pepper
• 1 tablespoon fresh parsley, chopped

1. Preheat the oven to 400 degrees.
2. Place the sweet potatoes on a cutting board. Using 2 chopsticks, lay 1 on either side of the sweet potato lengthwise to use as a guide, and then cut 1/8-inch slices into the sweet potato, stopping before you go all the way through. The chopsticks will keep you from slicing too far.
3. Melt the butter, add the maple syrup, salt, allspice, and pepper.
4. Brush the butter mixture lightly onto the sliced sweet potatoes and bake for 30 minutes.
5. Take the sweet potatoes out of the oven and brush again with the butter mixture, this time making sure to brush the butter deep between the slices.
6. Bake for another 15 minutes.
7. Sprinkle with parsley and serve.

And just in case you’d like to make some of the other food I mentioned in this post here are some links:

Bacon, Corn, and White Cheddar Gougeres: https://awonderlandofwords.com/something-for-everyone-or-no-one-featuring-bacon-and-corn-cheese-puffs/

Lobster Bisque: https://awonderlandofwords.com/opening-the-box-in-the-drawer-in-the-safe-in-the-trunk-in-the-ocean-featuring-lobster-bisque/

And here I am making these on KATU’s Afternoon Live: https://katu.com/afternoon-live/cooking-recipes/hasselback-sweet-potatoes-with-maple-allspice-butter