In The Presence of Greatness

Originally published on 31 October 1999

A gourmet chef once told me that I was a pretty skillful gourmet cook. That was about twenty years ago. Of course, that remark went straight to my head and I began to fancy myself as a great cooking master worthy of admiration and awe.

As time passed, my culinary skills improved. I would scoff at the guest chefs on the morning talk shows and their pathetic attempts at producing uncommon fare. "Mere pedestrian crap!" I would scream at the TV while preparing a lovely marinade for something or other. "Junk food for the masses!"

Yes, I was proud of my stovetop savoir-faire, my consummate mastery of spoon and spice. Few would doubt my abilities when sampling my art. To hear the moans of pleasure was music to my ears. My ego runneth over. My head became bigger than my enormous belly. I was a god of gastronomic delights!

Then Rinaldi’s Mom came to town.

First were her breakfast muffins. Sort of a cross between Scotch Eggs and Yorkshire Pudding, they are pure heaven. (The recipe has been promised to me when she wins the contest that she has them entered in.) The next day it was sweet rolls, the likes of which I hadn’t tasted in quite some time.

Who the hell is this Mrs. Rinaldi? How DARE she attempt to humble me in front of my co-workers, the very people I feed in order to nourish my own ego! I looked around the room at the faces of these people. They were pitiful with their oohs and ahs and laudatory comments. Disgusting displays of shameless pleasure. I was appalled!

Then, the piece de resistance! The culinary coup de gras. Pasta with sausage and peppers. One bite and I was instantly transported to Boston’s North End. I was reminded of some of the finest Italian restaurants I had ever been in.

Tears of pure joy welled up in my eyes and then it hit me…I was in the presence of greatness.

My skills seemed to pale suddenly and I found myself making those moans of pleasure that I so arrogantly thought only I deserved. Yes, my narcissistic bubble had been burst by a young sailor’s mother, in for a week-long visit. A retired chef from New York City, Rinaldi’s Mom had shown me that although I may still be a pretty fair gourmet cook, I am NOT all that my ego would like to believe I am. I began to wish she would stay here longer. I was disappointed that she did not cook on her last night here. I offered to put her up at my house. She had taught me that there is always more to learn and there is always someone out there to prove it to you.

I think I could still take her two out of three in a chili cook-off, though.

That’s this week’s Sandwich. I think I’ll have mine with a little humble pie.

Eat hearty, folks!

© 1999 Michael D. Jacquard