The Rating Game

What happens when a young man first cooks for his mother? As Daniel Lewis discovers, the roles might be reversed, but you can't erase your childhood.

This is a year of firsts for me. I moved out of the bachelor pad and in with my girlfriend. Quit my job to pursue a new career. And for the first time in my life, I cooked dinner for my mother. The latter was the most nerve-wracking of all.
When I rang Mum to invite her over a couple of weeks back, she was thrilled. But I wasn’t convinced she knew the full story.
“I'm cooking,” I added.
There was a pause. Memories of me bringing home appalling concoctions from home economics class were no doubt swirling around her mind. Surely he couldn't reproduce that quiche from sixteen years ago?
“Okay, I look forward to it.”
The line went dead. Even within that soothingly familiar voice, those last words had a sinister undercurrent. Mum was worried. So was I.
I asked my girlfriend for help.
“You cook for me all the time,” she said. “You'll be fine.”
It was easy for her to be blasé. She hadn’t been the smart-ass kid who spent much of his childhood rating his mother’s meals.
Monday night, roast. Potatoes not up to usual standard. Seven and a half.
Wednesday, chicken stir-fry. Too much zucchini. Eight.
Friday, lasagna. Excellent, although a little bland. Some chili wouldn't have gone astray. Eight and a half.
There were never any tens, as that would mean there was nothing to look forward to, or for Mum to work towards. And, conversely, no fails. We still wanted to eat the next night.
Worse still, none of this was lost on my little brother, 13 years my junior, who continued the tradition long after I'd left home. Countless hours sweating over hotplates; another decade of narrowly missing that elusive ten. And it was all my fault. It was time for me to be the grown up, to face the music.
The big day beckoned. Footscray market was mobbed, the range of produce imposing. I just wanted tomatoes. Stall after stall, amid endless rows of vegetables, were variations of the trusty staple: Roma, gourmet, wild, beefsteak, heritage. All shapes and sizes. The little Italian grocer laughed heartily when I asked if cherry tomatoes were suitable for cooking a sauce from scratch. She pointed in the direction of the vine-ripened variety, gave a quick rundown on how best to cook them before waddling away with a shake of her head.
So, to the vine-ripened stand. Must admit, there is something aesthetically pleasing about those with the leaves still intact. I'd remembered an episode where Jamie Oliver baked some with herbs and oil before tossing them through pasta. It looked easy, and he even had time to entertain his guests while cooking, not to mention having them in fits of laughter afterwards. I threw half a dozen in the basket, added a few Romas for good measure. Then I stocked up on cooked prawns, herbs, bread, cheese and fresh pasta.
Back in the kitchen, I lathered the baking tray with olive oil, placed the tomatoes down, chopped the garlic and chili. A shake of salt and pepper. The juice of a lemon.
The doorbell rang during my chopping frenzy. I nudged the baking tray to a position on the bench where the tomatoes glistened in the late afternoon sun. I delayed the final preparations as my girlfriend showed Mum, my sisters and brother-in-law around the house. With Mum settled on a bench stool with a drink, I applied the finishing touches.
She sipped away, observing. Finally, she said: “Well, don't you look the part?”
My girlfriend ushered everyone to the courtyard dining table, where my brother-in-law’s jokes and Mum's laughter could be heard amid the clink of wine glasses and rapid conversation. Just like in Oliver's Twist.
In the kitchen, the tomatoes were blistered and cooking down. I tossed through the prawns. Added basil for flavour and colour. Everything was transferred into the pasta and tossed evenly. I wiped my brow and finished the beer I'd started an hour before. The sober chef.
I marched out with fresh bread and a bowl of freshly grated parmesan. A final drizzle of oil and out went the main. I served Mum first and waited for her reaction. If she was surprised, she hid it well.
“Restaurant standard,” she said, a look of genuine pleasure on her face. “Eight out of ten.”