Ulysses Brown
I didn’t know Ulysses Brown for very long. Before I took a class at the CIA this April, I had my knife sharpened. Ulysses was in the book, a mile from my house and across the street from a friend. He was a compact black man, 68, who’d been a chef in California and at Smith College until he retired. He sharpened knives and small tools and we chatted about cooking and chefs. He said he was hanging a beef tenderloin for a couple of weeks. He told me he’d call me to let me know when he was serving it.
I said Sure not really expecting anything. After a couple of weeks, he called. We went over the day after my article about the CIA came out. He’d had some dizziness so a number of the guests were helping cook the different courses. I went to work on the trifle he wanted for dessert. Aside from the beef tenderloin, there was gumbo, steamed crawfish, salads, and more. Ulysses sat in the living room as we ringed the room and ate. I mowed into the crayfish, ate a couple of beef ribs, was lucky enough to get some gumbo. Everything was good. The trifle turned out well. My wife made two more trifles over the next week, she was so taken by the idea.
Ulysses was a good guy and a good cook. I kept meaning to go back, using some sharpening as an excuse. Now I can’t. Requisat in pace, chef. I’ll miss ya.