Running Out Of Thyme

RUNNING OUT OF THYME

“Jasmine, we’d like to have a dinner party. A casual, sit down affair in the dining room.”

I’m Jasmine, and I’m a personal chef. I was talking to the Gena Roberts, one of my best clients.  She’d called so that we could set up a date for her soiree and set a menu for the event.

“For how many?” I asked.

“Not many,” said Gena. “Maybe twenty.” Pause. “No more than fifty. I’ll let you know.”

I sighed inwardly. Fifty was not “not many” for me. I usually work alone, and knew that I would have to hire some kitchen help. But, Gena was a great customer and I would make it work.

“Great,” I said. “Are you going with the Ruby as the event planner?”

Ruby Rose (yup, that’s her real name) had been Gena’s go-to planner every time that I had cooked for her. In fact, I had worked with Ruby so often that we’d become pretty good friends, and had recommended each other’s services to our clients.

“Ruby Rose isn’t available for the weekend the I’m looking at.” She sighed audibly. “I asked her to suggest other event planners, and she texted me the information for six planners, but they are all unavailable.  It is difficult finding another planner who can do as good a job as Ruby Rose.”

I smiled. Gena had the habit of using Ruby’s full name every time she referred to her—like Sara Jane or Mary Anne. Except Rose was Ruby’s surname—like Smith, or Jones. It was quirky, but cute. Gena must have liked the sound of the alliteration.

I knew why Ruby wasn’t available—she was on maternity leave. Levi had been born a week ago, and Ruby had decided to take two months off to be with her new son full-time. After that, she and her partner, Monty, would take turns staying home with him.  

I hoped that Gena made a good choice with her party planner. There was nothing worse than working wth a clueless planner who, because they worked at the front of the house, believed that they were the boss of me. Ha! More than once I’d had to point out that the kitchen was my domain and they needed to stay the hell out of my way.  

I went back to my phone call with Gena. We discussed dates. I always liked working for Gena. While rich enough to have a dining room that can easily seat fifty comfortably, and having a fully kitted-our commercial kitchen that I would kill for, she was down-to-earth and pretty easy to get along with. No airs, no talking down to the “help,” no tantrums, no screaming, no death threats. She was what I referred to as a platinum customer. And that was why I always tried to accommodate her, if at all possible.

“I think that I would like to make a themed menu,” she said.

“Okay,” I said warily. “What did you have in mind?”

I have had mixed results with themed menus. Menus highlighting the foods of a particular region or country, or those for established celebrations usually went well. The client has a vision, and I helped create it using food.

But not always. Once I had a request for a black and white themed menu—all the food hat to be either black or white, no other colours. The only protein that is white is fish, and it’s not pure white. Plus, black and white food is ugly. Not quite whites paired with not quite blacks make for a ghastly plating. Eventually, I persuaded the customer that it was not a good look. I had to go so far as to make a plating of white fish and caviar, wth sides of cauliflower and black rice, as an example, the clients suggested menu. Once presented with the plate, she quickly changed her mind. It was very unappealing, visually. Dodged a bullet with that one!

Another customer wanted a garlic themed menu. Sure, you can put garlic in almost everything, but the question becames do you really want to? Everybody’s breath would be hella bad. When I pointed that out, he host and hostess quickly changed their minds. 

But now, Gena was talking themes. I held my breath, hoping for the best, preparing for the worst.

“I’d like it to be thyme-themed.”

Time? Or thyme?

“Um,” I said, “like clocks, or the herb?”

Please say herb. Please say herb, I chanted in my head.

“The herb of course. My youngest son, Jeremy, is part owner of an organic thyme farm. They sell all manner of thyme—dried, fresh, infused in oils, potted thyme plants, essential oils, scented products, medicinal drinks. He’s looking for investors, so his father and I agreed to host a dinner for a number of potential money people. We would like the menu to reflect the benefits of cooking with thyme. Each course needs to have a thyme-based food.”

That was not too bad of an idea. I could get behind it. Thyme was pretty versatile.

Gena continued. “But I don’t want it to be too obvious. We can’t have the investors tired of the taste of thyme by the end of the meal. I need you to curate the best recipes for showcasing the the different flavour profiles for thyme.”

I said that I would get on the menu planning right away, and provide her with a tasting menu in the next week. The party was three weeks away, so there was no time to waste. Ha! Thyme pun!

“Oh,” Gena added. “Jeremy will be providing all of the thyme. Whatever you need, just let him know.”

That was good news. Now I didn’t need to source the main ingredient myself. We ended the call, and I got to work. After scouring the internet and my cookbooks, I came up with a very satisfying menu—appetizers and cocktails, soup, salad, main course, dessert, cheese plate. I was excited! There were more recipes than I realized that used thyme as one of the main ingredients.

I decided on four different appetizers—lemon thyme bruschetta, baked goat cheese cigars with honey and thyme, thyme pomegranate infused goat brie with parm-thyme crisps, and rosemary-thyme meatballs. Although I do not tend bar, I was in charge of creating two thyme-based signature cocktails—one was a white wine spritzer infused wth fresh thyme leaves. The second was a pink grapefruit Paloma with spicy thyme simple syrup. Gena hadn’t mentioned whether or not Jeremy’s farm made a thyme-based simple syrup, so I’d have to check wth him.

 The soup course was gong to be carrot and thyme soup with homemade thyme sourdough toast fingers. The salad course was gong to be a melange of greens wth a thyme-based vinaigrette dressing. The main course would be grilled salmon lightly seasoned with a rub of spices including thyme, with roasted veggies and crispy garlic and thyme potatoes. For dessert, a choice of homemade lemon-thyme sorbet with summer berries or sautéed pears wth thyme and hand-churned vanilla ice cream. I thought about a thyme-infused ice cream, but nixed the idea—too much of a good thing.

As I reviewed the menu wth Gena over the phone, she seemed a bit reluctant to include all of the thyme-based foods in one meal. I assured her that thyme was a very versatile but mild herb that lends itself to many uses. I suggested I could whip up a tasting menu for her, and we arranged for her to visit me in two days. I contacted Jeremy, and arranged to have all kinds of thyme in all kinds of forms delivered to my kitchen for the testing—fresh, dried, liquid. Thankfully, he did make a simple syrup, so I could also make the cocktails.

Tasting day came, and Gena brought Jeremy along. They were both thrilled with the food, and Gena agreed that the thyme was subtle, not at all overwhelming. There were a few changes—no thyme crisps, just regular crisps, Pacific salmon as opposed to Atlantic salmon, and adding blueberries to the berry medley with the sorbet. Both liked the signature cocktails. And they both agreed that there was no reason to have thyme-based coffees or teas at the end of the meal. In the meantime, Gena had finalized the guest list, and told me that there were thirty-two guests, so plan for thirty-six.

As soon as they left my kitchen, I started assembling ingredients, and calculating the amounts needed to feed thirty-six people. I hired five kitchen line staff for the day of the party. I would be there overseeing the process, and acting as my own sous chef. Most of the menu had to be made on-site on the day of the dinner, so I arranged to have deliveries made directly to Gena’s home early in the morning. I double- and triple-checked the thyme order wth Jeremy, and he assured me the thyme would be delivered on time, pun intended.

On the day of the dinner, I arrived by six a.m. My crew were expected by eight. I planned to start the bread first, and while the loaves were rising start the stock for the soup. Gena, of course, had a blast chiller, so I also hoped to make the sorbet and ice cream early Jeremy promised to have the thyme delivered by 6:15 a.m. I had my fingers crossed.

He was as good as his word, and the delivery arrived at 6:15 a.m. There were so many different types of thyme that they filled an entrire corner of the walk-in cooler. And, in addition to my thyme, he also delivered fifty small potted specimens, fifty bars of thyme soap, fifty small bottles of thyme-infused olive oil, fifty small bottles of thyme and lavender essential oils, and fifty jars of thyme-based hand balm for the guests. In addition, he delivered a swack of small branches for the table centrepieces. The earthy smell of the thyme permeated the kitchen.

My crew arrived on time and we were working hard. There were a lot of things that couldn’t be cooked until right before service, but did all the prep that we could, checking things off the list as we went along. Bread was baked, berries were cleaned, potatoes and carrots were peeled, meatballs were mixed, salad dressing was prepared. Everything was gong swimmingly until eleven o’clock. That’s when the planner arrived.  

“I’m Cher, like the singer,” she announced, strutting into the kitchen, looking around. “I’m the event planner. Who’s in charge here?”

I sighed. She was going to be one of those planners. “That’s me. Jasmine DeCarlo, chef.”

She literally looked me up and down. “I see,” she said. “Well, what is your schedule for the kitchen? My people have to get in here for set up.”

I looked at her and shook my head. “No, they do not. The kitchen is off limits for everyone but my crew until serving starts. Nobody comes in without my permission. There is a very well-stocked butler’s panty that has all the place settings, cutlery, and linens. Gena will instruct you as to which set of China she wishes to use. I’ll take you there, if you want.”

“And who is this Gena person? “ She sad looking around the kitchen. “And where do I find her?”

I raised my eyebrow. “Your boss? The woman who hired you? Mrs. Roberts?”

She looked surprised. “Oh.” Then turned on her heels and left.

I assume she found both Gena and the scullery, because she didn’t come back into the kitchen until later that afternoon. Unfortunately, I was discussing the signature cocktails with the bartender, and I didn’t see Cher-like-the-singer enter the kitchen. I really wish I had.

“Where’s the thyme gone from the cooler?” asked BrieAnn, my meat cook, asked a little while later. “I need to prepare the spice rub for the salmon so that the flavours have a chance to infuse before I grill it.”

“In the walk-in,” I said as I tasted the soup, which was perfect.  

“No. There’s nothing in there except the twigs for the table decorations.”

I put down my spoon and marched to the walk-in. Once inside, I looked around. BrieAnn was right. Just the eight bundles of thyme branches. No fresh bunches of thyme.

“No, no, no, no!” I said.  

I grabbed a branch of thyme, turned on my heel and walked out into the dining room to find Cher-like-the-singer. I found her standing in the middle of the room, directing her minions around the room.

“Where’s my fresh thyme?” I demanded.

She looked around. “Are you addressing me?”

“Yes,” I said. “Where’s my fresh thyme?”

“I have no idea what you are talking about,” she said, turning to instruct one pour server on how to put a table cloth on a table.

“I’m talking to you,” I said, trying to keep my temper under control.  “Did you go into my kitchen? After I told you not to?”

“I needed to get the sprigs for the centrepieces. You weren’t around, so I helped myself.”

I turned to look at the closest table. And there, in the middle of the table, nicely woven into the centrepiece was my fresh thyme.

“That is my thyme,” I said, pointing at the table. “And this,” I said, holding up the small branch, “is your thyme.”

Cher-like-the-singer, looked at the branch, then to the centrepiece. “Yes, I know, but I decided that the smaller, fresher thyme would look better on the table. So I took it.”

Big breath in. “What am I supposed to cook with? I still have a bunch of food to make, and it all requires fresh thyme!”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. That, I guess,” she said pointing at the branch.

Big breath out. “This,” I said gently shaking the branch in her face, “is old and woody, harvested specifically as decoration. It is not food grade.  You need to remove all my thyme from your centrepieces right now. I’ve got a bunch of food to make.”

She sneer-smiled at me. “Oh, I’m sorry. That won’t be possible. We sprayed the centrepieces with a light glitter adhesive, so they’re not food-grade anymore.” She shrugged. “But the thyme does look amazing in the centrepieces. Don't you agree?” Smirk.

Without another word, I turned on my heel, and marched back to the kitchen, grabbing my phone as I walked.

“Jeremy? It’s Jasmine. I’ve got a bit of a problem.”

I explained the situation to Jeremy. And he came through for me. While he was still talking to me he started gathering up my needed supplies, and within a half hour, was at the back door, his arms cradling more thyme than I needed to finish meal prep. I could have kissed him.

While a little behind schedule, we pulled it off. The food was fresh and hot, and on time, and very well received. After service, Gena brought me out to meet the guests, and I was surprised at how impressed they were with my meal. More than one person asked me for my card.

Gena was all smiles. “I get first dibbs on her, though,” she joked with her friends.

Jeremy was so impressed with how well the meal had been received, that he handed me a wad of cash to be shared among my crew.  “A tip for all the behind-the-scene workers,” he told me. “And this is for you, a bonus for a job well done,” he said, handing me an envelope with five hundred dollars inside.  

Smiling my biggest smile, I said, “Thank you., Jeremy. That’s very generous of you.”

After the guests had all adjourned to the patio, and we were almost finished clean up, Cher-like-the-singer stamped into the kitchen.

“Thanks a lot!” she screeched. “You cost me thirty percent of my fee.”

I looked at her. “Not me,” I said, “You are responsible for your own fate.”

“You snitched to Mrs. Roberts. And it cost me.”

“I did not,” I said, arms crossed in front of me.

“Then who told her about the thyme mix-up?”

I shook my head. “There was no mixup. You knew you took the wrong thyme. You knew I needed it to cook with. But you didn’t care. A pretty centrepiece was more important than the food.  That is the epitome of selfish.”

“I hate you!” she screamed at me, and stomped out of the kitchen.

“Wow,” I said to the now empty room. “I think it may be thyme for her to find another career.”