The Souffle That Didn’t Flop

Eating Well Is The Best Revenge

by Diana Farr Louis

ATHENS, Greece—(Weekly Hubris)—11/22/10—Way back in the 1960’s, Oh Best Beloved, I was a young mother living in Manhattan. At the time of this story my son was three and we were both in sore need of a nursery school. But shame on me, we’d spent the summer in Greece and I’d forgotten to reserve a place in an institution of lower learning. Then, as now, the right kindergarten had a stricter admissions policy than any prep school or Ivy League college.

Come September, all doors were barred. What was to be done? I’d even managed to find a part-time job, working three days a week at City Hall. I really needed somewhere to park my little offspring, nannies being even more expensive than nurseries.

Sitting on a bench in Riverside Park, I shared my problem with other mothers as we watched our kids dig in the sandbox. “I think there’s a vacancy in David’s class at Shearith Israel,” said Caroline. “He’s very happy there. The head teacher studied with Maria Montessori in Rome.”

David was P’s best friend. His mother was a Gentile, his father a Jew. The idea would not have occurred to me, but presented with it, why not? If they’d have us—an agnostic WASP and her Greek Orthodox son.

Mrs. Waltuch was surprised but welcoming. She had a kind face and a rather distinguished air of Mittel Europa about her. “If you are sure you don’t mind, then we certainly don’t,” she smiled reassuringly.

And so P went off to school in the grand synagogue on 70^th and Central Park West with David every day and came home with songs about Pharoah and the Plagues—“One day when old Pharoah was sick in his bed, there were frogs on his bellybutton and frogs on his head”—and Maccabees—“I want to be a Maccabee but I am only three.” And other arcane subjects I never knew existed. But he was happy and, therefore, so was I.

Until the day Mrs. Waltuch announced that she was coming to lunch. “It is our policy,” she announced in her slight German accent, “to see what kinds of homes our children have. And I like to have lunch with the mothers and get to know them better. Because, we want them to be a part of the school. Over the year, every mother must prepare something with the class for Friday’s Shabat. Don’t worry, a tuna fish sandwich will do.”

But tuna fish sandwiches didn’t seem adequate. So I made my guest what I’d make for any ladies’ lunch in those days: a cheese souffle and a nice green salad with avocado and arugula, and a bottle of chablis.

The good woman nearly fainted with surprise. “Never, ever, in all my career, have I been served such a lunch,” she declared. “Usually we sit in the kitchen and eat sandwiches, or canned soup, or hot dogs—Kosher, of course. But this, this is magnificent. And this, My Dear, is what you are going to make with the class on Shabat.”

“But, Mrs. Waltuch, souffles are delicate,” I protested. “It won’t survive being beaten by 20 kids. I might not survive.”

But she would not take no for an answer and, a few weeks later, I arrived with P at school on Friday morning. We’d drawn up a grocery list, so all the eggs, cheese, butter, flour, and milk had been delivered. And she’d rounded up an impressive number of egg beaters, bowls, graters, and wooden spoons.

Before we started to cook, we made chefs’ toques and paper aprons for all the kids, and then I explained what we were going to do. We separated the class into teams for beating, grating, stirring, and even mixing the butter, flour, and milk on the burner. I might have been back at Cordon Bleu, we were so organized.

OK, the eggs got a bit overbeaten, grated cheese sprinkled the floor, small clouds of egg fluff adorned hair and sleeves, while almost everyone sported daubs of flour.

Finally, we took turns gently folding the meringue into the yolk-milk-cheese mixture that had already been divided between two enormous Pyrexes. It was ready for the oven.

Mrs. Waltuch and I led the parade of small children into the elevator and down to the synagogue kitchen in the basement. Some kind soul must have preheated the giant oven. Then, back upstairs to wash up and set the table—this was a Montessori School, remember: the kids did everything themselves. And back down to retrieve the souffles half an hour later.

By some unaccountable miracle, both had risen way above the rims of their dishes. Both were ethereally light, golden enough to pose in a magazine. They could have won prizes for appearance as well as taste.

But would the children eat them? Did any kid dare to try their wonderful, gravity-defying masterpieces?

Of course not. Only my own little boy, to whom souffles were no mystery, tucked into his helping.

The others refused point-blank. Maybe if they had flopped, the kids would have been less intimidated. Less afraid of the unknown. I wonder if they are still munching on tuna fish sandwiches.

This column is dedicated to Mrs. Waltuch and all my Jewish friends who have welcomed me into their warm kitchens.

Recipe

That souffle recipe was probably copied meticulously from Julia Child’s Mastering the Art of French Cooking. I haven’t made one in ages but, if I were going to give a light ladies’ lunch today, I might make this very easy “Cheese Pie Without Trousers” (Tiropita avrakoti) from my first cookbook, Prospero’s Kitchen. The recipe comes from Kephalonia, whose inhabitants are often referred to the wittiest, brightest and most eccentric Greeks. (A “trouserless pie” is one without a crust.)

4 tablespoons softened butter

3 eggs at room temperature

2 cups (220 g) feta cheese, crumbled

2 tablespoons kefalotiri, Romano or Parmesan cheese, grated

½ cup (120 ml) strained Greek yogurt

½ cup (75 g) sifted all-purpose flour

1 teaspoon baking powder

Preheat the oven to 450°F (230°C). Beat the butter until pale and fluffy and add the eggs one at a time, beating well. Add the remaining ingredients and beat until thoroughly mixed. Pour the batter into a buttered 10-inch (25-cm) baking tin and bake for 10 minutes. Lower the heat to 400°F (205°C) and continue baking for another half an hour or until the top is invitingly gold and crisp.  Enough for 6 servings.

You can experiment with this, using different cheeses or beating the egg whites separately for lightness. Mrs. Waltuch might not have been quite as impressed, but it’s a lot easier than a souffle.