Molly O'Neill
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I tried to tease the extraordinary from the mundane, and to use the familiar — the sprig of basil, the bottle of olive oil — to usher readers into social, geographic and cultural worlds where they otherwise might not go.
In "Letter From Cambodia" (New Yorker, July 23, 2001), she describes a trip that she and Sottha Khunn, then head chef at Le Cirque, took to Siem Reap in Cambodia where he grew up to "give his mother some happiness before she dies, help her finish the house, maybe cook for her and her friends one perfect meal. Better than sending orchids to the funeral."
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"They're not going to like the bass-too spicy, too bold. I got carried away."
The dish didn't look bold; it looked innocent. Sottha hadn't added the tomatoes. The butter sauce was light, and its lemony hue, combined with the pale minced chives and wild greens, was almost translucent against the white fish fillets, like refracted sunlight. Without the tomatoes, the sauce was tart and sour, the fish gentle and sweet. The scent of lemongrass erupted like a cheer over the distant, poignant memory of galangal and garlic. Sottha had done it: he had found a new balance between East and West.
The room became very quiet. The elders looked at each other as if one of their children had just won the Nobel Prize. Within three minutes, every plate on the table looked as if it had been licked clean. When Sottha saw the empty plates, he understood that he'd seriously misread the crowd. Cocsal lifted his Scotch glass and said,"Bravo!"
The three Mesdames raised champagne glasses in a babble of "Gincin!" "Cheers!" "Salut!" Sottha later told me, "It was at this precise moment that I realize exactly how stupid I am, a slave, all my life, to perfection, and for what? To be always alone? The perfect thing comes like a fortune or a war. You prepare but you never know exactly the day, and only a stupid man stands and waits."
The rest of the meal- by Sottha's standards, anyway- was anticlimactic ("Like the history of Cambodia since the ninth century," Cocsal cheerfully whispered to me). Nobody cared. Sottha brought it to the table, sat down, and ate with us. His fantasy of a formal evening became a family dinner. "What the hell," he said. "Everybody having a good time." Later, when I asked Sottha what had inspired him to leave the tomatoes out of the fish dish, he replied that it had simply been an oversight. But his mother did not agree. "Sottha did not forget the tomatoes," she said as we cleared the table. "He remembered that he did not need them."
If you lose all hope, you can always find it again -- Richard Ford in The Sportswriter