Pat Hitchens Bonow

Robert Hitchens’ earliest meals came from his mother’s pinched Depression-era larder in New Jersey.  As a teenager, he shared uninspired but calorie-dense platters with farmhands in Kansas.  It was not until the 1950’s that he learned to eat, selling advertising for NBC Radio.  Contracts were sealed with the aid of two-hour-plus business lunches along the bistro-packed blocks traversing New York’s Manhattan Island-- an international smorgasbord for client entertainment and the education of his palate. 

I wonder about the first time Daddy furrowed bushy brows and looked a lunchtime chef in the eye.  As a child I couldn’t always decipher his intense expressions; what would a midday cook summoned to the dining room have expected?  “This,” I picture Daddy booming, finger pointing at the remains of Boeuf-a-la-something, adding with theatrical pause “--was superb!  Superb!”  What the client thought, I have no idea. Soon after, I imagine Daddy following his reviews with follow-ups.  “Is this browned under gas?” and “Where do pros buy cookware?”   Commercial-grade saute-pans began appearing at home, also carbon-steel knives and whisks.  The Joy of Cooking acquired new spatters. Having learned to eat, Daddy would now cook.

Mother didn’t mind; she found cooking boring -- and my father had a gift!   The kitchen was the boyhood chemistry set he never had; he loved sniffing spices or watching bubbling butter and flour joust in a pan. Mother favored Baroque kitchen music; my father whistled.  She had measuring spoons; he trusted the palm of his hand. 

“CREPES ROBERT” did not belong in Mother’s recipe box.  It offers no expertise in crepe-making, nor Bechamel, referring the reader elsewhere.  Beyond “FRESH pepper,” Daddy avoids inhibiting cooks, free to smash, slather, and smother – also fold, add dollops, even nestle – as interpreted.

CREPES ROBERT never tasted the same twice, but they were always good.