I set my tool bag down, tip my granny cart back to its resting position, brush the city off my face, and ring the bell. It is two hours before the guests arrive. My client opens the door, clearly grateful that I do exist - that I did show up - and studies me for a second. I always wonder what image they had of me after only chatting with me on the phone or email. I bet it’s very different than my grinning, artistic, fake-redheaded appearance. Were they thinking gorgeous Giada would arrive? Or, god forbid, some female version of Chef Curtis Stone?
I bet the granny cart throws them for a sec - because it seems like there should be a higher form of transportation for a professional chef and caterer. I’d like to be effortlessly wheeling a stainless steel fridge into their apartment, but New York elevators being what they are… my granny cart is the only way to go. They show me into the kitchen and I survey the immaculate area. Oh, this poor little room doesn’t even know what’s about to hit it. I thank my client, pull a few bags from my cart, and crank the oven on full blast. It’s go time.
The menu for this cocktail party is a progressive pass, which means that, while all the apps are easily eaten while standing, they will become more and more filling as the evening progresses. We’ll start the pass with something light, like a bruschetta with drunken fig paste, fresh ricotta, and red pepper flakes; or nori handrolls filled with an edamame, spring pea puree and topped with avocado mousse and pickled ginger.
No one goes to Francois Kirkland’s house for dinner. Friends go there to dine.
Steve Plotnicki and 
There are times when I scrutinize my outfit before I leave the
house, and find it absurdly, compulsively over-accessorized. It’s
then, as I grab my keys and prance out with red sneakers, mismatched
bracelets, and a brooch shaped like a turnip, that I’ll find myself
thinking of her. Subtlety, in many things, is often advised; but I,
heeding Anne of Green Gables, rarely listen. If at a dinner party,
after I’ve gone on and on to someone about a book they’ll probably
never read, ignoring every attempt they make to escape me, she’ll just
appear in my mind. And often, when faced with a moral dilemma, like
whether to leave the last bite of pie for the person I’m sharing it
with, or to request that my upstairs neighbors stop rollerblading on
the hardwood floor, I’ll ask myself:
