I was feeling very smug this afternoon – I had taken all the ingredients for tonight’s dinner out in plenty of time. I even went so far as to measure everything out, and have it all ready to start cooking and assembling: the shallots were peeled and chopped (they are so hard to peel), the garlic was minced, the tomatoes diced, and even the pasta measured out and sitting on the tray with everything else. It’s called mise en place, doncha know, and all the great chefs do it.
I decided to have an appetizer at around five o’clock: smoked salmon on cucumber rounds. Then, I thought, why not a martini to go with them? I had just bought a bottle of vermouth (when Julia Child isn’t dowsing things in brandy, she’s pouring glugs of vermouth into everything). So, instead of a G&T, why not a martini? I got out the martini glass and put some ice in it to chill. Then I went back to assembling the salmon canapes.
As I was reaching for the minced green onion to sprinkle on the salmon, my elbow hit the martini glass, knocking it over so it shattered on the counter, all over: the tomatoes and shallots, the garlic, the salt dish, and even the raw pasta. Splendid. Everything had to go. There weren’t that many pieces, but I couldn’t afford to miss a sliver in the Maldon Sea Salt flakes, or clinging to the linguini.
I don’t know what to blame: the fact that many will say alcohol is the root of all evil, or the stupid concept of mise en place. All I know is that tonight’s dinner is now some lentil soup out of the freezer, and my pre-dinner cocktail is a glass of tonic water (I’m sulking).