For about a dozen years now, I have cooked Christmas dinner for Mr. and Mrs. Claus. It is a small intimate affair, just the two of them, served after Santa’s big night is finished and he has returned home.
How I got the gig? I’ll tell you. I met Mr. Claus at a beard competition in Kentucky. I spotted him alone in corner nursing a glass of Bourbon, and I decided to join him. The awards ceremony was over, and he’d received third place and seemed disappointed with his showing. “My beard is world famous. Is it not?” he asked me as we drank. I could not think of anything to say. I was happy with my twenty-seventh placement, and to be drinking with Mr. Claus (I never could bring myself to call him Nick, nor Santa.)
Eventually the talk turned to our careers; him handing out gifts, me cooking for people. Then a lightbulb seemed to go off in his head, and he leaned forward in his chair. He excitedly explained how his old chef, the one who cooked while he traveled the world, had landed a show on the food network, and resigned. And how he and Mrs. Claus were in need of a new private chef. Then, to my surprise Mr. Claus asked if was interested in the job. He never mentioned pay, nor the non-disclosure agreement I eventually signed and was eventually released from, when La Presse newspaper outed my gig.
Of course, I said yes. And ever since, on Christmas eve, after I have helped tuck in the kids and kissed my wife Helene goodbye, I climb a ladder to our flat rooftop. An elf named Fred is always waiting there for me in a one-reindeer sleigh, and together we head off to the north pole.
Each year, my evening seems to unfold as thus:
Mrs. Claus warmly greets me. She offers me join her in a hot rum and eggnog (she usually had a few already), and I politely decline. Then she always makes a comment about Christmas eve being the one night of year she has peace. She will say something like, “No Mr. Claus fretting about; and no elves running in-and-out. I love them dearly, but when four or five of them are talking to him, it sounds like a gaggle of geese looking for food.”
She asks about the family and heads off to the living room, sits by the fire and gently falls asleep. I then enter a kitchen as old as the soul of an ancient tree.
Dominating the back wall is an elegant and masculine Glenwood wood-burning stove, with porcelain handles and ornate iron feet. To its right is a pile of wood; to its left, a well-worn butcher’s block. On one side of the kitchen is a General Electric Fridge from the nineteen-fifties, with chrome trim and fittings that glitter like jewelry on its deep-red coloured door and body. Beside it, closer to the entrance, is a wooden pantry with shelves that are lined with mason jars and two-tone brown pots. I have identified most of what they contain - common herbs, spices, and preserves – but the rest of their contents are otherworldly to me. On the bottom shelf, an unplugged microwave oven and an air-fryer still in its box.
On the opposite side of the kitchen is a window. From which one can see, on a clear night, a horizon divided by snow and stars. Beneath the window is ceramic basin resting on a long countertop, with its faucet and taps protruding directly from the wall. The counter’s backsplash is comprised of five large rectangular tiles. On each tile is a depiction of a scene from Mr. and Mrs. Claus’ life together. The first tile has the two are sitting side-by-side at school, the next, a joyful snowball fight, followed by a secret kiss behind a barn. The fourth has the couple exchanging vows, and in the last one, they are standing in front their north-pole home, with a small reindeer at their side.
Scattered throughout the kitchen are the pots and pans, mixing bowls and utensils. All in odd yet useful places. Garlic braids, bundles of herbs, and strings of mushrooms and peppers dangle from ceiling beams. A small wall cabinet holds a little dishware. One door leads to the front hall, and a second to the dinning room. All together, the kitchen is a mishmash of design, yet it’s remarkably efficient and easy to cook in.
I have learned over the years that Mr. Claus eats the whole night through. First it is sushi in Osaka, then a quick Shawarma in Lebanon, then he picks-up a box of chocolates in Belgium for Mrs. Claus (she gets tired of the elves’ efforts). He skips the fish n chips in London on account of his gout, but still downs a slice of pizza in New York, and finishes with two Empanadas in Santiago. Despite his snacking, he arrives home famished, and in need of a little cooked nostalgia.
Last year I started the couple with a traditional soup from Scandinavia, Norwegian ‘Fiskesuppe’. A light milk chowder, made with Julian vegetables and chunks of salmon. I add a touch of Quebec with smoked Mackerel from Ilse de Madeleine. Mrs. Claus once confessed to me that Mr. Claus has dentures problems and won’t go to the dentist to have them fixed (he hates the dentist, even gets the heebie-jeebies when he pops down their chimneys ). With that in mind, I followed the soup with a warm Braised Bison cheeks and horseradish cream, on bed of gently roasted butternut squash and leeks, cooked with sage. The soft and jammy quality of the cheek’s suits Mr. Claus’ teeth well. For the dessert, it was a Chocolate and cranberry bread pudding with a hot bourbon cream poured on top - to honour of how we met.
When the meal is done, I always try to sneak a peak of the famous couple. I often find them holding hands, at one corner of the dining room table. They appear more natural than fantastical when they are alone and at ease. Murmuring small love-jokes to one another. You’d think the jokes were a hundred years old, the way Mrs. Claus giggles and Mr. Claus laughs; a laugh that sounds nothing like the one on tv.
On my first excursion to the north, when it came time say goodbye, Mrs. Claus remained seated as she graciously passed on good wishes to Helene and the kids, and added with a smile, “See you next year.” Mr. Claus walked with me to the door. Just as I was about to leave, Mr. Claus handed me a gift: a small box, beautifully decorated. “Mrs. Claus decorated it herself,” he said with pride. “She’s a master. Now give this to your Belle Helene when you get home.”
With a firm handshake and small bro-hug, he too said, “See you next year, all the best,” and I climbed into Fred the elf’s small sleigh.
After Fred dropped me off, tiptoed into our room, and roused Helene from her sleep.
“Could you hear the reindeer’s steps on the roof?” I asked.
“No, how did it go?”
“Great, Santa gave me this for you.” And I presented her with the beautiful box.
“That is so nice of him. It is so beautifully wrapped. You didn’t wrap it, did you?” she said with a knowing laugh.
“Of course not, Mrs. Claus did herself.” I was proud to show that I knew the ins and outs of the North Pole. “Open it. I can’t wait to see what it is.”
Helene undid the bow and lifted the lid. Inside the box, resting on a blue satin cloth, as if it were a Russian jeweled Egg, was a mango. With a simple note: “A Carabao mango from the Philippines! Merry Christmas.” Helene smiled to herself and simply said, “It’s so beautiful; I can’t wait to try it” and nothing more.
The next year it was a passion fruit from Paraguay, the year after that, a soursop from the Caribbean. By year four, when a large papaya from Indonesia was greeted by Helene with the same private smile, I asked her, like a jealous husband, why Santa was giving her fruit. She laughed and said, “When I was four years old, I wrote Santa a letter. In it, I asked for one thing; fruit from all over the world.” And then she smiled at me.
From the first day I visited the north pole, there has been no food more delicious and satisfying in our home than the fruit we together eat on Christmas morning.