::: George Christy ::: From the Beverly Hills Courier

ÒHi, dis is Wolfgang. Call me back at dis number.Ó Wow, thought pastry chef Sherry Yard, who was working at the Catahoula restaurant in the Napa Valley. ÒI figured my friend BobÕs back in New York, and has gotten really good with his impressions. Forgetting it was 1 A.M. in New York, I woke him up, and annoyed Bob said he hadnÕt called. Puzzled, I played back the message, and dialed. ÔGood evening, Spago,Õ announced the voice. I hung up. It had been Wolfgang Puck, not a prankster. Why was he calling me? I couldnÕt sleep, phoned again in the morning. Wolfgang asked when I had my day off, which was the next day, said that he was looking for a pastry chef. ÔOkay, den I see you tomorrow.Õ I wanted to say I have no resume or plane ticket, but before I uttered a word, his assistant Patty had already booked me on a 9 A.M. flight out of Oakland.Ó Sherry met Wolfgang at the original and beloved Spago on Horn Avenue in West Hollywood with its wraparound windows facing Sunset Boulevard. ÒI was scared É the kitchen looked like the inside of a submarine. I brought some laminated cards with illustrations of my dessert creations that I had drawn and colored. ÒWe talked about our love for the guest, and the environment he creates in the kitchen, which is one of family, love and passion. We chatted about our favorite foods, his love of ginger and other spices. I told him of my passion for working with the farmers of California, and he told me stories of Provence and LÕOusteau de Baumaniere, the restaurant in Les Baux where he cooked. ÔWhen can you start?Õ he asked. That was October, and I knew that in January IÕd go to Los Angeles, where the job of Spago pastry chef waited for me.Ó In her splendid book, Desserts by the Yard, written with Martha Rose Shulman (and from which we quote liberally here), Sherry reveals all this and more, along with her huge cache of exclusive lipsmacking recipes. Truth to tell, just reading them is exciting, as are her countless secret tips. To know Sherry is be in the company of sheer delight -- her youthful friendly spirit and rose-pink glow enchant all who meet her. She recalls stories about her childhood in Brooklyn with her Irish family in the neighborhood known as Gerritsen Beach. ÒDad Bill was a firefighter, Mom Ann taught me that if you can dream it, you can do it, but Dad added Ôwith hard work.Õ Mom didnÕt like cooking, our vegetables always came out of a can, although we did sit down to a family dinner every night. Manners were of the utmost importance, and my three sisters and I helped set the table. When I became old enough, I prepared my parentsÕ after-dinner Chock Full oÕNuts instant coffee. This was the moment I lived for each night É and if there is any foreshadowing of my destiny as a pastry chef, the coffee ritual was it. ÒI have almost no memory of homemade desserts. We rarely even had a sweet. On special occasions, we were treated to cookies or birthday cakes from LeonÕs Bakery. In high school, I worked part-time as a dental assistant, and on my days off I sold hamburgers at McDonaldÕs. I became a receptionist, then a research grants associate with my own office and a hefty salary. But all the while I was a frustrated baker, though I never baked. I finally enrolled in a technical college, headed to New York where I was hired as a cigarette girl at the posh Rainbow Room, and a month later, waited tables, but I kept my eye on the kitchen. I asked for a transfer and found myself working alongside Albert Kumin, one of the most gifted pastry chefs IÕve met and my first true mentor. ÒNew York restaurants were exploding during the Õ80s with great young chefs Ð Daniel Boulud, Jean-Georges Vongerichten, David Bouley, Michael Romano, Charlie Palmer. I was hired to assist pastry chef David Blom at Montrachet, which was Drew NieporentÕs beautiful, intimate restaurant in Tribeca, where I learned about intimate fine dining, the art of plating desserts in a closet-sized kitchen. That training transformed me from a pastry chef into a dessert chef, a distinction defined by oneÕs skill in presenting desserts on the plate. ÒIn 1989, San Francisco was booming with women chefs Ð Alice Waters of Chez Panisse, Judy Rodgers of the Zuni CafŽ, Joyce Goldstein of Square One, Barbara Tropp of the China Moon CafŽ, and there were women pastry chefs. Michael Mina, whoÕs now world-renowned and who IÕd worked with in New York, suggested I come out to San Francisco and be his assistant at Aqua, which was scheduled to open in a few months. I didnÕt know a soul in California, but I sold my car and most of my belongings and bought a round-trip ticket. The night before I was due to leave, Michael called to say there wasnÕt a job for me. ÒMichael wasnÕt happy about my bunking with him, but I slept on his couch for a night. The next day I hit the ground running, and was hired by chef Jan Birnbaum at Campton Place, where we worked long shifts, catering to worldly travelers Ð breakfast, lunch, afternoon tea, dinner and twenty-four hour room service. I even baked dog biscuits, and that recipeÕs in this book, since guests were permitted to bring pets. I stayed four years, before being coerced by Jan to join him at his new Catahoula restaurant in the Mount View Hotel in Calistoga, where I learned about pairing food and wines. The hotel was the oldest in Napa, so I spent weeks in the archives of the San Francisco Public Library researching recipes in cookbooks from the 1800s and the turn of the century to add to the menu, and youÕll find a chapter with some of them. Like the delicious apple butterscotch grunt, which is the noise you make after eating an entire dessert. Actually, gruntÕs another word for crumble or crisp. ÒAnd then came Spago, named by composer Giorgio Moroder Ð Spago translates as string in Italian. Nothing to do with food Ð just a catchy name. That January in 1994 was the rainiest season Los Angeles had seen, and that same winter the Northridge earthquake fell on Martin Luther King Day. I wondered if I would last a year. But being in Spago was like attending a social event night after night. We catered to every whim Ð I have diaries with pages devoted to guests and their families. Birthdays, favorite sweets, allergies, likes and dislikes. Hundreds of notes, and youÕd recognize the names. From Leonardo DiCaprio to Madonna. We cater glamorous parties, and the Governors Ball after the Oscarcast where I create Oscar statuettes for the guests Ð nobody leaves without one. It may be made of chocolate, but itÕs an Oscar nonetheless. ÒI knew that I was going to be fine at Spago, when Suzanne Pleshette, after devouring a dessert, called Wolfgang over, and said he finally got it right, then looked at me and shook her head. ÔI got one thing to say to you. Bitch, youÕre going to make me fat.ÕÓ Relax, Suzanne. An occasional dessert from SherryÕs book wonÕt make you fat Ð it makes your life worth living. Online at www.bhcourier.com.