The Worst Meal in 40 Years

On the first night of Hanukah Tom and I had the worst meal we had eaten in the 40 years of our marriage.  Well, since we threw most of it down the garbage disposal, I’m exaggerating to call it the worst “meal”. Following is the story:

I’m a good cook, of the Russian Jewish variety, with lots of Italian and a bit of Chinese wok thrown in.  I love to make hearty, meaty dishes that must cook for a few hours, so that if I forget the exact minute to extract them from the pot or oven, it doesn’t make any difference.  I don’t bake, poach, make desserts, prepare anything delicate or cook any fish but pan-broiled.  I don’t bother with recipes that have ingredients I can’t pronounce or find at Gelson’s or Trader Joes.  I make the best brisket on the planet.

Tom studied chemistry, doesn’t normally cook much, and is a bit OCD — obsessive compulsive disordered.  About a year ago, he bought this gizmo, a “sous vide” cooker, which featured a very large plastic container and several other incomprehensible pieces.  He started cooking steaks and lamb chops in it, the only dishes he ever prepared.  “I’m experimenting”, he announced happily as he shoved the cooker into the pantry closet, taking up much of the limited space.  I swore: “OK, it's your game, do what you will, but I’m not using it or cleaning it."  And I never have.

Sous vide, in French, means “under vacuum” which says that the food is sealed in a plastic bag, to cook with all the air removed. The bag is submerged in water raised electrically to a low temperature and cooked much longer than conventional time.  The use of the bag, the water bath, the minimal temperature and the extended cooking time results, God willing, in superior taste, texture and aroma.  I can only say it looks very weird to see a thick steak in the container surrounded by gurgling water but, in fact I can swear that it produces the best steaks I’ve ever tasted.  No kidding….

Tom is gleeful in explaining to me the details: “The fan at the bottom circulates the water, keeping it hot. I suck the air out with a straw.  A rare steak cooks for an hour.”  He is beyond eager and he begins reading recipes and figuring out his upcoming adventure.  Then he discovers the 40-hour brisket.  “Forty hours?” I shriek.  “That can’t be.  My divine brisket cooks for 3 hours and it’s perfect, juicy, flavorful and tender.”  He insists the brisket that’s submerged for a day and a half, oh yes, and then continues cooking in the oven for another 3 hours, has gotten the best reviews on a website that caters to dozens of brisket-obsessed chefs. 

I warn him that when he puts it in the oven, I will jump on a plane to Hong Kong and arrive back home just in time for dinner.  Or I will use a sleeping bag on the kitchen floor for 2 nights, in case something scary happens with the electricity and the whole machine explodes.  He thinks I’m wacko, of course.  I take neither path.  Periodically, I check in on the brisket but I can’t see anything happening, and I just hear a soft hum from the fan.

We tell various friends what Tom is doing.  Our funny friend Carole says: “Anybody who embraces this idea needs help. What could possibly happen at 40 hours that you wouldn’t get at three hours?"  Steve says: “Tom’s got more time on his hands than he should.”

So on Thursday night, the beginning of Hanukah, and the optimum holiday dinner of brisket, it emerges from the long bath.  It looks to me like a dead chunk of animal that we’ve seen on the plains of Tanzania.  But I’m hopeful, and Tom is worked up. Tragically, he’s having trouble getting the big knife to pierce into it.  Finally, he succeeds in cutting a small piece off the side and we bite.  It’s tough, tasteless and reeking with salt. And it still must cook for another three hours in the oven. 

 “What is going on?” I wail.  “I can’t imagine,” he wails back.  “I followed the prize recipe exactly.”  We both make an instant decision to laugh through this, instead of getting upset.  It’s only meat, although more money than I like to think about. We call our friend Eddie, a master chef, desperate.  He says: “Slice it very thin, make a gravy of the juice, red wine and beef broth and stick it in the oven for an hour.” 

We still have hope.  To no avail.  The brisket emerges from the oven but is hopeless.  Hopeless.  After it cools, we put it down the garbage disposal, and settle in for our Hanukah supper of Haagen Daz peanut butter ice cream.  There are two cuts for brisket — one is perfect, the other should never have left the cow. Tom admitted, “I think I chose the wrong one.”

We realize this has been a special event: “Even with all our travels through the third world, eating tarantulas in Thailand, and sheep innards in Africa, we’ve never had anything that tasted so vile,” we agreed, howling.

The next day Tom announces that he is going to try it again, using a different recipe that calls for 25 hours of cooking instead of 40. “It’s an experiment”, he insisted.  “This time I’ll get it right.”  I’ve said nothing.

MY MOTHER WOULD HATE THIS BOOK is now available in hardcover, paperback & eBook on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, or order through your local bookstore.

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Check out my website and blog for stories and more: www.marciaseligson.com

“Marcia Seligson is one of the funniest, most original, and irreverent people I know, and her book carries all those qualities. She can make anything funny, from a Peloton bike to a 40-hour brisket cookery. And she can be touching, deep, and bracingly honest. My advice to readers is make sure you have unbroken time ahead when you pick up this book. Each time I did, intending to read for ten minutes, an hour went by before I looked up. And I’d laughed out loud at least twice.” Sara Davidson, Writer NY Times bestseller Loose Change, Head writer for Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman