Dubious Success

The Fine Art of the Backhanded Compliment

Once about ten years ago, while I was still in grad school, I ran into one of the professors in the hallway. I'd taken a few classes from her. This particular professor, despite being brilliant lecturer, was plain to the point of extreme anonymity. She would have been the ideal criminal—no witness would ever be able to recall any details about her appearance. She wore no make-up or jewelry and draped herself in shapeless garments of brown, beige, and grey. On this day, for the first time that I could remember, she wore a bright summer dress, her hair was up, her lips were red. She was even smiling, probably at the realization that she looked good.

Perhaps because I was accustomed to her typical Witness Protection Program appearance, I took a step back and said, "Wow, Doc, you look great."

She gave me an owl-eyed look in return and said nothing. Something clouded her expression—anger, irritation, embarrassment? I couldn't quite parse the expression, but I had clearly said exactly the wrong thing. After an uncomfortable silence, I made some excuse or other ("Gotta go grade some papers.") and hurried off.

I wondered what I'd said to insult her. Did she think I was hitting on her? Even if I found her attractive (I didn't), I knew she had no interest in men. Was that it? Was it just the fact that I'm male? Were men not allowed to compliment her? Was it a matter of protocol—student/teacher fraternization?

"Wow, Doc, you look great."

A few weeks later, one of the other grad students, a close friend's fiancée, complimented my appearance. "Don't you look nice today."

And then I understood. Don't you look nice today. It's the today that's the deal killer. That's the element that fills out and ultimately bursts the compliment: Don't you look nice today—unlike most days when you look like you should be carrying a cardboard offer to work for food. Gosh, I had no idea you could look like a civilized adult.

Wow, Doc, you look great. I think it was the Wow that defeated my good intentions. Wow seems to say, "Incredible. Unbelievable. I'll be damned. Who could have imagined? What a shock to see you not looking bland and shlumpy."

A compliment to someone you know usually implies a negative observation. That turtleneck looks great can imply that you should wear clothes that hide your ugly neck.

That jacket looks really sharp, might be saying, it hides your bubble butt.

Even a simple, Nice shirt, seems to say, compared to all that crap you usually wear.

Mother's Day

So good intentions as paving material and best-laid plans and all that. What has any of this to do with Mother's Day?

This Mother's Day, I wanted to do something special for Princess V. With my particular skill sets, something special comes down to a choice of food or poetry.

I opted for food: brunch, dinner, and dessert. For brunch I prepared Eggs Benedict and mimosas; for dinner, saumon en croute with Dijon dill whipped cream; for dessert bosc pears poached in red vermouth.

Everything went well (well, not counting the aftermath of over-indulgence). Princess V was pleased. Dinner got raves. Dessert got raves. I got raves.

All's right with the world.

So why do I feel guilty?

Why am I asking you? I know why I feel guilty. Brunch, dinner, dessert—I do that much on most Sundays. Oh, sure, champagne for the mimosas was a minor splurge, as was reducing an entire bottle of vermouth for the pears, and I did put some effort into making the salmon pastry look right. Still. Seems like I should have done something a wee bit more Bang/Wow.

I mean, when Princess V is at her staff lunch this week and the other ladies are bragging about the gifts their husbands got for them, what can she say? "I got dinner"?

Saumon en Croute with Dijon Dill Whipped Cream and Tomato Vinaigrette
(serves four)

dramatis personae

vinaigrette
four medium tomatoes (mixed variety and color)
one shallot, thinly sliced
two tablespoons fine chiffonade of opal basil
three tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
two tablespoons white balsamic vinegar
salt
black pepper

saumon en croute
one medium leek (about 1" diameter) thinly sliced, white and light green parts only
one tablespoon olive oil
one pound of salmon filet
salt
two puff pastry sheets
one egg white

whipped cream
one pint heavy whipping cream
two tablespoons Dijon mustard
one tablespoon finely minced dill

quality of ingredients

Tomato vinaigrette is a perfect match for the richness of salmon with cream. Over the years, I've served dozens of variations on this very simple, satisfyingly tart and sweet salad. This time, my local market had red, yellow, and orange tomatoes on the vine, so I combined slices from one red, two orange, and one yellow to make the salad. Whatever tomatoes you find, be sure they're firm, bright, and ripe.

If you can't find opal basil, sweet basil will suffice.

In Flesh for Fantasy, I extolled the virtues of sockeye salmon. For this meal, I was fortunate to find my local fishmonger well-stocked.

Always select leeks with the largest possible white portions—at least three inches.

Use fresh dill. Dried dill will make the whipped cream smell stale.

preparation notes

At least an hour before beginning preparations, put the mixing bowl and mixer whip in the freezer.

Mix or stack the tomato and shallot slices and the chiffonade. Emulsify the vinegar and extra virgin olive oil. Cover the tomatoes with the emulsion. Salt and pepper the vinaigrette to taste and chill the salad in the refrigerator until you're ready to serve.

In a sauté pan over a medium flame, heat to shimmering one tablespoon of olive oil. Add the leek slices and a pinch of salt, and sauté the leeks until soft (about 10 minutes). Transfer the sautéed leeks to a bowl to cool.

Preheat the oven to 400F.

Remove from the salmon filets any pinbones, the skin, and the brown flesh. Your puff-pastry can be as simple as a rectangle or as complex as you like. The obvious choice is a fish, but nothing says you can't make your pastry look like a grizzly bear, kraken, Harley-Davidson, or Angelina Jolie. Pick something you know you can draw. If the shape is something more complex than a rectangle, you'll need to cut the filet into pieces to make it fit the pattern. Place the filet or filet pieces on a sheet of parchment paper and draw the outline of your pattern around the filet, leaving a half-inch allowance on all sides. Remove the filet pieces to a plate and cut out your pattern. Roll out your puff-pastry sheets and cut out two sheets according to your pattern.


Cover a cookie sheet with parchment paper and transfer one of the cut pastry sheets to the parchment. Arrange the salmon on the pastry. Cover the salmon evenly with the sautéed leeks. The leeks will act as an insulating layer and help slow the cooking of the salmon enough to finish the pastry without drying out the fish. This is why the leeks have to be cool—if you used them straight out of the pan, they'd start cooking the salmon. Place the second cut sheet of puff-pastry atop the leek-covered salmon. Pinch together the edges of the two pastry sheets to seal in the salmon. With a sharp paring knife or pastry knife, score in any details you want to show (scales, fin rays, gills, an eye, claws, fangs, spokes, gears, nostrils, pouty lips, whatever).

Bake the salmon for twenty minutes or until golden brown. With a quick-read thermometer inserted through a scoring mark into the thickest part of the fish, verify that the fish is at least 120F.

Combine the cream, mustard, and dill in the chilled bowl and whip the ingredients to stiff peaks.

Slice the salmon into two-inch-wide sections and serve with individual bowls (ramekins) of the savory whipped cream.