Haresh Shah
Happiness Is A Piping Hot Croquette
Art directors are a breed unto themselves. Crazy as they come. Crazy as in creative crazy, in positive sense. They are normally temperamental, egocentric and a proud clan. Starting with the Godfathers of them all, Art Paul and Tom Staebler of the U.S., Rainer Wörtmann of Germany, to Milan Hlaviček of Czech Republic and Andrzej Pągoski of Poland – these masters of the visual communication are also the purveyors of good taste, dressed in their own individual style, be it the beat up pair of blue jeans, or wrinkled khakis and equally as wrinkled shirts and jackets. Or the designer suits and long fancy rain coats. The category in which, the first Dutch art director, Dirk de Moei falls.
Always impeccably dressed in his light crème suit and his longish off white trench coat, his trademark tortoise shell red framed glasses with inquisitive and confusing looking set of smoky green eyes peering through tinted lenses, Dirk is flamboyant, no taller that 5’9”(175 cms), his rusty brown hair isn’t too long, nor short, his round face makes him look no different than Mr. middle of the road from the planet earth. The man of good taste in clothes and food and he carries the most expensive Smythson of Bond Street, thick as a paperback address book, he is the man about town. To the editor-in-chief Jan’s (Heemskerk’s) somber personality, he is the fleshy one of the duo that arrived in my Chicago office in early 1983, to learn the ropes.
As opposed to the editors with whom I discussed and disagreed on the ideas of the overall content, I often butted heads with the art directors. Lucky for the editors that in most of the cases their texts were in a language I couldn’t read or understand. But I could see clearer the graphic ideas of the art directors and have an opinion of my own. And I would have ideas of my own to contribute. Art directors also being an emotional bunch and extremely possessive of their talents would resist the most. When Dirk came up with the re-designed front of the book pages, splitting two or more rubrics on the same page instead of devoting a page each to Music, Books, Films and other sections, he was up against resistance from me. That’s altering the basic design and the format of the classic Playboy. My job it was to preserve and guard them.
‘We neither have as much material, nor space and ads like the US Playboy to afford that kind of luxury. While the U.S. Playboy has an average of 230 + pages every month, we would l have about 130.’ Dirk throws a bewildered look in my direction.
That logic of his did it for me. Those pages looked nice, if a bit cluttered like a small Dutch house, where every single centimeter has to be judiciously utilized. The steep stairs with an incline only a slightly more than a stepladder against the wall, every nook and corner had to be used in the most productive way. Furthermore, his improvised design gave more editorial flexibility. Made imminent sense. In the end we would agree on a compromise, and from all our disagreements, the magazine benefitted the most. I thought of Dirk a couple of weeks ago when I saw the grand old dame The New Yorker’s, front of the book pages similarly split after 83 years of publication. Dirk did it with their issue # 0.
There was rarely animosity between us and we got along famously at and outside of the work. Dirk was also the man about town and would be often consulted as to where we should go out for dinner.
So it is no wonder that Dirk wants to introduce me to the best of what Holland has to offer in terms of the culinary excellence. One evening, he picks me up from the hotel with his live-in squeeze Ans and we drive into the Dutch countryside to the restaurant de Hoefslag in Bosch en Duin. It is awarded no less than two Michelin Stars and its cuisine is known to stack up to any
I am flattered and I am curious. Really looking forward to it as Dirk builds it up how exquisite and exclusive the place is – not to mention how expensive! Soon as we walk in, Dirk and Ans are fussed over by the co-owner, chef Gerard Fagel who ran the restaurant with his brother Martin. We are given a prime table in the middle of the restaurant that allows us the generous panoramic view of the ample space that the dining room occupies. A bottle of champagne appears without being ordered and while the chef and Dirk are babbling away excitedly in Dutch, catching up, Ans and I look at each other like Alice and Alex in the Wonderland.
The dining room is spacious and airy. It’s lit just right with enhancing and highlighting plants and other inanimate objects. I am presuming that this is Ans’ first time also, from the way she surveys the place, as if in awe.
Now my memory is a bit fuzzy on the exact details of the meal we consumed over the next two or so hours. What I remember clearly still is that the appetizer contained of a diminutive quail egg topped with a spot of glistening Beluga caviar, resting on the bed of exotic looking mix of lettuce, and somewhere along the meal, no bigger than a Kennedy silver dollar in diameter and about two inches (5 cm) thick Filet Mignon crowned on the mound of various accoutrement and revolving bottles of champagne all through the meal. All served on shiny white plates, a smaller one nestled into a large service plate. Every course visually enhanced by the chef’s artistic skills.
It was a multi course meal and I am sure there were wine pairings. None of which I remember. But just to give you an idea, I have had my son-in-law Carlo Lamagna, who is currently the executive chef at one of Chicago’s top, Benny’s Steak House and was sous chef at the elite, known for its earth to table cuisine, North Pond, frequented by likes of Ricardo Mutti and Gérard Depardieu, make up the following sample menu of that night now thirty years later.
MENU
Amuse – trio of melon with balsamic and basil
1st course – vichyssoise, black truffle, chive baton
2nd course – quail egg, beluga caviar, frisee, garlic vinaigrette
3rd course – foie gras torchon, sauterne Gelee, brioche crouton
4th course – lobster poached in vanilla butter, celeriac puree, wilted spinach, sauce américaine
5th course – petite filet mignon, pomme puree, roasted chantrelles, marchand di vin
intermezzo – beet granite
6th course – vanilla creme brulee, mascerated raspberries
Yum! Or like the Dutch would say: lekker! We are properly wined and dined and are buzzing pleasantly with the champagne circulating through our veins like the chemicals scurrying in slow motion roller-coasters through the test tubes in a science lab, with bubbles and all. The only way I can describe it is: we’re feeling no pain as we say our thanks and goodbyes to the chef and the restaurant.
As we’re driving back in near silence, Dirk’s Alfa Romeo Sports is gliding along the tree covered roads and snaking towards Amsterdam, I hear Ans shuffling in her back seat and leaning forward.
‘So, did you like the meal?’
‘Of course. It was exquisite. Nothing like I have ever tasted before.’ And then I turn my face sideways to look at Dirk. He’s wearing a smile of satisfaction. Then I turn around and face Ans.
‘But you know? I’m still a bit hungry!’
‘You are?’ She doesn’t come out and say what I read on her face.
‘Aren’t you?’
‘To tell you the truth, yes, I am a bit too.’ I hear a not very happy grunt coming out of Dirk’s throat.
Just having vocalized what my stomach is telling me, gurgling, I come out and say what I am thinking.
‘You know what?’
‘What”?’
‘A fresh hot chicken croquette with mustard would taste really good right now!’
‘I think so too,’
‘Let’s stop for one. My treat!!’
What I see clearly on Dirk’s face is utter disgust at us two ungrateful creatures. And yet, he suddenly exists the dark avenue we have been traveling on and within minutes is pulling up at an all night automat. At the first bite of the piping hot croquette, both Ans and I feel we died and went to heaven. Dirk refrains from having any.
He has just plunked down hundreds of guilders on wining and dining us.
© Haresh Shah
Illustration: Celia Rose Marks
SISTER SITE
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Next Friday, October 18, 2013
MY FATHER’S SECRET STASH
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