Hungry Woman in Paris (27 page)

I
n the kitchen my biggest fear was cutting myself, so when I saw Alexandros chop up his bones with his cleaver and nearly chop
off his left thumb, I thanked God it wasn’t me. He didn’t hit the bone, but he carved enough of a cut that he had to go to
the emergency room for stitches. Every time I would need my bones chopped up I would ask Akiva, who used to be in the army
back in Israel, to do it for me. He took so much pleasure in doing it that I was convinced he had experience clubbing people
the same way. Akiva, who had finally learned to respect the imaginary border between us, had a soft heart and dreamed of being
a chef so he could provide for his little girl back in Israel. He missed her a lot, and the thirteen weeks he had been in
Paris with only a little French and with even less money was taking a toll on his heart. Only when he was drunk would he show
it, but I tried not to get too close to him because he also got frisky when he got drunk.

As the days continued I kept looking at the final recipes, doing a countdown like a prisoner waiting to be released from a
ten-year sentence. All the recipes started to look and feel the same; how many times could we do guinea fowl? I was so tired
from nearly three weeks of cooking nine hours a day that I couldn’t care less about making the guinea fowl in a bourguignon
sauce.

“Didn’t we do this dish already in Basic?” I asked Bianca, but she was nervous about the written exam in a few days. Bianca
still reminded me of Chicken Little, always waiting for the culinary sky to fall apart. That girl was so nervous and insecure
about everything. No matter how bad I did, Bianca was always more disorganized, lost, and just plain worse. She was always
asking for advice and begging for help. Pepa had taken her on as a mentee and looked out for her like a mother hen. I felt
sorry for Bianca—how could she possibly be worse than me?

Chef Tristan was unlucky enough to finally get stuck with our class—the Le Coq Rouge orphans abandoned in the second- floor
dungeon. We were the orphans because our class was always given the leftover food. Why this was, no one from the school ever
explained. Chef Tristan was a stern man with sad eyes and dark circles under them. He had dark hair and a beautiful mouth.
He wasn’t handsome, but he had a manly presence that demanded respect. When he would address me I would shake in my skin and
be aroused by his masculinity. I couldn’t look him in the eyes because I felt he could see my naked soul. I quivered in my
shoes, but I smiled every time I presented a dish. I’d learned to enjoy the sensation.

The day we were making the guinea fowl bourguignon I bunched up my leftover bacon into a ball and threw it into the sauce.
What the hell, I figured. We’re not doing brain surgery; it’s just food. I’d gotten to the point in my cooking where I knew
that no matter how much you mess with the recipes, it always comes down to the taste. Of course, taste is subjective. What
I thought was delicious and would be a best-seller at a restaurant in California wasn’t necessarily what the French chefs
considered delicious in Paris. So who the hell cares about pleasing the chefs? Ultimately, I have to please myself. Isn’t
that what self-esteem is about?

I presented the plate to Chef Tristan, expecting him to hate it. He tasted my sauce and looked up at me, licking his lips,
savoring the flavor. I wanted him to take me right there on the counter. I could picture us on the marble surface having thrown
off all the food to make room for our sweaty bodies, struggling to remove our stupid rooster-looking cooking uniforms. In
my fantasy all the students would still be there cooking, oblivious to us making nasty and passionate lust sauce.

Chef Tristan tasted my sauce for a third time and said,
“Magnifique! C’est parfait!”
He said it was perfect. He gave me a score of five and said,
“Excellent travail, Chef.”
This was the first time I had scored a five, the highest possible grade, and been called “Chef” by any of the chefs. I blushed
and walked away all proud of myself. I’d begun cleaning my tools when Chef Tristan told Alexandros, who was being judged,
that his sauce was good, but not as good as mine. He announced to everyone in the class that so far my sauce was the best.
Dick smirked and continued packing his tools. I instantly turned all shades of red and lowered my head. Even with my newfound
self-esteem, I had a problem accepting compliments—fighting is easy; winning is hard. Blanca congratulated me and I said thanks.
I did my best to ignore Dick, not wanting to allow someone like him to ruin my moment.

Two weeks before the final exam we were given the list of all the ingredients. There were three that were absolutely required:
artichokes, fava beans, and lamb. This time around we would also create an original recipe that demonstrated our cooking skills.
I studied the list and came up with so many possibilities. I decided on something easy but delicious and unique. I was going
to stuff the lamb. Maybe mix some mushrooms, pine nuts, crème fraîche, and then use port to make a sweet sauce. Is there an
alcohol that has mint in it? I wondered. Probably, but not one we had in our kitchen. I wanted to add mint to the lamb because
it goes so well with it, but they weren’t going to give us mint if it wasn’t on the list or already in the kitchen. They were
giving us red and green bell peppers and onions, so I planned to mix them and cook them together in a
tian
… maybe a tomato confit too. The confit stuffed with artichoke and basil would be so simple and tasty. I was more excited
about this final than I had been for anything else in the class.

Wow, maybe someday I really could be a chef, I thought to myself. My mind wandered off to the future and I saw my dream restaurant,
made to look like a rose garden. I imagined being the chef in my own kitchen, making exotic dishes with pomegranates and mangoes
and figs and kiwis. It would be a nonsmoking restaurant and I would change the menu every season. I would have little tables
for women’s purses that would go under the main tables, and candies to take home in little boxes at the end of the meal. I
would make rose-petal-covered tamales
de foie gras
… Wait a minute: that’s like fat covered in fat. It’s a recipe for heart attacks and lawsuits.

My excitement soon dwindled when I studied my schedule and realized that I was due to be an assistant along with Dick on the
fourth week. How, I asked God, could I be so unlucky? I went over to Miguel Angel, the student from Mexico, and begged him
to change slots with me. He agreed to help me out and committed to getting the supplies up with Dick; then I would clean up
and bring down the supplies. The first day worked out okay, but then Miguel Angel was late most of the time and Dick just
thought I was getting back at him for being a jerk by not doing my part. I tried to explain to Dick that Miguel Angel had
switched with me. He continued being the assistant until he came to practical pissed off. Miguel Angel was absent that day
and Dick had had to get all the supplies by himself. Akiva looked around for the tomatoes and asked Dick for them.

“I just got screamed at by the pastry chef for the mess Miguel Angel made yesterday because
he
left the flour out, and
I
had to mop it up. So from this day forward I am no longer the assistant and you can all fuck off!” Dick exploded. “I resign
being the assistant, so someone has to go get the tomatoes because I’m not doing it!” he declared.

Everyone just stared, silently calling him an asshole. I was happy on the inside thinking, There is a God: every jerk always
has a bigger jerk stomp on him. No longer worried about having to deal with Dick, I went downstairs to the basement kitchen
and brought up all the ingredients he’d forgotten. I returned to class with the supplies and everyone thanked me. When Dick
needed something, I ignored him, and he was forced to go to the basement and get whatever he needed himself. I didn’t like
Dick, but I felt sorry for him. He was indeed the Ugly American everyone hated, not just in class but all around the world.
He wanted to come in first so badly that he didn’t care to share his resources, or give a shit if everyone had enough materials
to succeed. And now the time had arrived when the others turned their backs on his needs just as he had turned his back to
theirs. How did this sad little person get through life not understanding that it takes a global village to make a good meal?

The six-hour practical exam was a good way to experiment with our recipe and learn from all the mistakes we made because we
had two extra hours to experiment. At the final we would make the same dish but everything had to be perfect and we had to
make four identical
dégustation
plates. We were also supposed to have an original written recipe with all the ingredients and a detailed plan of every step
of our preparation and technique. We couldn’t get spontaneous at the exam because we had to show that we’d actually thought
about the dishes we were making and were completely aware of everything necessary to execute them. My first attempt at making
my dish was successful, except I burnt the phyllo dough. I quickly removed it and salvaged the lamb, which came out only a
little overcooked.

“It is better to have it be undercooked than overcooked because lamb is supposed to be served pink; otherwise it’s too rubbery
to eat,” Chef Papillon warned us. He advised us to cook the meat last, so it would not be overdone or cold by the time we
served it.

I cleaned out my tools at the sink and heard Chef Papillon chastising Akiva for his lack of originality. Akiva could barely
understand French and was always asking someone to translate. My French still wasn’t great, but I felt so bad for the guy
that I began to translate for the chef.

“This dish you have made is so elementary. This looks like Basic Cuisine, not Superior. You will not be able to get your diploma
with this dish. You must create garnishes that show at least a two- or three-step process,” I translated for Akiva. He nodded
his head and grabbed his chin, trying to figure out what recipe to do tomorrow. Akiva was so fast he could work at McDonald’s,
but he had no originality. He was embarrassed by the chef’s remarks, especially since he would brag about working at the Atelier
de Joël Robuchon and the amazing things he was learning there. I was hoping that whatever he had learned he could use on his
final and save his ass.

The night before the exam I had another nightmare. This time I was doing surgery on Blanca and I was cutting her in all the
wrong places and she ended up overcooked. I woke up stressed, but I calmed down by telling myself, It’s just food!

On the day of the final we were scheduled to have a demonstration class at eight-thirty in the morning. Only six people attended
out of the fourteen. I arrived and was trying to write out my recipe while I waited for the chef to finish his demonstration,
which would become my breakfast. I originally sat in the back, thinking I could ignore the chef and finish translating my
recipe, but because hardly any of the students showed up I thought I better sit in the front and pretend like I was paying
attention. I got busy studying my recipe, which I called
agneau à la Mexicaine-Américaine,
writing down a list of all the steps I needed to execute my process. Chef Papillon gave us advice on how to write out our
recipes and reiterated not to overcook the lamb. A former graduate student gave us advice on how to keep our plates warm by
using four bain-maries and setting up our dishes on top so we could dress them strategically. None of the Spanish-speaking
students, including me, hid their nervousness; we can’t hide our feelings so easily.

In the locker room Pepa confided that she’d got her period that day, which only added to her stress. It was all going to be
over in less than five hours. She had come in first and second in the last two classes and wanted to get first place again.

“Did I have to get my period today?” she screamed in the locker room.

“Yes, God, did it have to happen to me too, today of all days?” I whispered to myself in the ladies’ room.

Everyone except for Dick and Craig decided to go to the local bar, which also served strong coffee, and fill our veins with
caffeine for the four stressful hours ahead. I took out my translated recipe and finished drawing my proposed dish. Blanca
saw that I could draw and asked me to draw her a picture too. I drew it and it came out quite polished.

“Why don’t you draw mine too? Mine is horrible,” said Pepa. She showed it to me and I tried to improve what she had. The recipes
and the drawing were important because as soon as we walked into the practical we were supposed to present them to the chef,
and once you gave over the recipe that was it.

All the Intensive Superior students waited in the courtyard; at fifteen-minute intervals, the students were supposed to come
upstairs to the large kitchen and begin the exam. Four hours later we all had to have four plates exactly alike, three for
the jury of chefs to taste and one for the photo.