The Great American Gourmet

There was a time when any red-blooded American boy in his right mind wanted to grow up to work hard so that he should have lots and lots of money for diamonds for his poppet’s fingers. Then, after the day’s work, our boy would sit in the parlor, lending tone to the establishment, while the poppet fussed for him in the kitchen. To the suggestion that he should cook himself, or even lend a hand, his reactions would range anywhere from blank disbelief at this aspersion on his masculinity to leaving home in a marked manner to find solace elsewhere.

Alas, things have changed. Few of today’s lads, brawnier though weaker in mind than their forebears, want to set up railroad empires or preside over Wall Street conclaves. They would rather grow up to be gourmets, and worse still, of the do-it-yourself kind, training themselves from early teen age on. Instead of spending their money at Tiffany’s, they will invest it (and I am quoting from the New York Times) in “a cooking center under a handcrafter copperhood combining the romance of an open woodburning fireplace with the built-in convenience of an electronic oven, a charcoal hibachi and flipover grill.” There, using the strength bred into them by gallons of fresh orange juice and the best meat, they will hoist heavy cookbooks and whip up little wine-drenched dishes redolent of herbs plucked at dawn, all by way of being charming to their innamoratas.

NH

About the Author

Nika Hazelton

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There was a time when any red-blooded American boy in his right mind wanted to grow up to work hard so that he should have lots and lots of money for diamonds for his poppet’s fingers. Then, after the day’s work, our boy would sit in the parlor, lending tone to the establishment, while the poppet fussed for him in the kitchen. To the suggestion that he should cook himself, or even lend a hand, his reactions would range anywhere from blank disbelief at this aspersion on his masculinity to leaving home in a marked manner to find solace elsewhere.

Alas, things have changed. Few of today’s lads, brawnier though weaker in mind than their forebears, want to set up railroad empires or preside over Wall Street conclaves. They would rather grow up to be gourmets, and worse still, of the do-it-yourself kind, training themselves from early teen age on. Instead of spending their money at Tiffany’s, they will invest it (and I am quoting from the New York Times) in “a cooking center under a handcrafter copperhood combining the romance of an open woodburning fireplace with the built-in convenience of an electronic oven, a charcoal hibachi and flipover grill.” There, using the strength bred into them by gallons of fresh orange juice and the best meat, they will hoist heavy cookbooks and whip up little wine-drenched dishes redolent of herbs plucked at dawn, all by way of being charming to their innamoratas.