Under the Table (2 page)

There were twenty-four of us in all, twelve men and twelve women, and as students filtered into the auditorium, I wasn't the only one checking everybody out. I was one of the only people wearing something other than jeans, and I was definitely the only one in high heels. Most of the male members of my class were wearing jeans and T-shirts, and not in the Euro, artfully disheveled way I was familiar with, but in the I-just-rolled-out-of-bed-and-put-this-on way, like they might be late for a monster truck convention somewhere. The girls were all wearing jeans or skirts with tops in varying degrees of trendiness. One girl was rocking the whole seventies thing—Dr.
Scholl's, polo shirt, Farrah Fawcett waves. She looked cool. Another was wearing a loose knee-length skirt with a surfer tee and hemp bracelets—total West Coast laid-back chic. I was the only one who seemed to be trying so hard that even my clothes were embarrassed.

I knew I should be paying more attention to the instructions we were being given in this lecture, the first in our three-hour orientation session before classes were slated to begin. But I was still nervous, and feeling more uncertain that I had made the right decision quitting my job to pursue my dream. But I definitely wasn't the only twenty-something here—most of the class looked like they were in their late twenties or thirties, probably looking to do something a little bit different than the nine-to-five grind they had been doing since college. That made me feel a little better—I was being daring and following a different path, but here were a bunch of other people just like me. There were a few people who were older than the rest of us, and a couple of students looked like they were fresh out of high school. Well, if my dreams of being a chef didn't work out, at least I could fall back on my actual college degree. I wondered what these youngsters would do if there was a chef recession, but I guess no matter what, people need to eat.

I tried to focus on what was being said from the podium on-stage. There were directives on what could and could not be worn underneath our school-issued uniforms and on personal grooming. Men were expected to shave every day, and women were expected to keep their hair up and out of harm's way at all times—not just to keep it out of the food, but also to keep it from becoming tangled in the industrial-grade machinery we would be working with. I thought of getting sucked into the chomping jaws of some giant sausage grinder and shuddered. I brushed my own long blond bangs out of my eyes and wondered whether I should just lop it off for the duration. Hands and fingers should always be scrupulously clean; no jewelry would be permitted—not even wedding rings.

No problem there,
I thought to myself. I had never been the sort
of person to wear a lot of jewelry, and while Michael and I were perfectly happy, I didn't think wedding bells were going to be in our future anytime soon. Maybe ever. Michael was in his late thirties, never married, and hadn't ever had a really serious girlfriend before I moseyed into the picture. I had always vowed that I would wind up a little old spinster with lots of cats, tending a huge vegetable garden and canning my own jam.

For a few minutes I was so lost in my thoughts, mapping out my heirloom tomato patch and refining my recipe for tomato jam—perhaps some balsamic vinegar for zing, and a vanilla bean for comforting spice—I forgot to listen to the lecture. I came back to earth with a thud, just in time to catch the rest of the instructions about proper grooming. The nails should be trimmed very short and always be free from dirt and grime. There could be no polish on the nails, either. It was too prone to flaking and falling into the food. What a disgusting thought. Well, I had no fears on that front—my nails had always been woefully short, despite my attempts to pamper them with rich moisturizers and the occasional manicure.

There was one more thing: absolutely no perfume or cologne could be worn in the kitchens at any time. This last restriction seemed a trifle strange—who cared what we smelled like as long as we smelled good? But after some thought, it made sense. We were going to be learning to be classically trained chefs, and true chefs use all five of their senses to cook with. Perfume merely blunts the sense of smell of the wearer and those around her, without adding anything to the food. I thought wistfully of my bottle of Chanel No. 5 perched on the dresser at home. I would pass it on to my mom, who always seemed to smell better in it anyway.

I had been making conscientious notes throughout our lecture, more out of habit than a real need to remember the things being said—we had received a large orientation packet with copious quantities of paper, most of which was a straight regurgitation of what was being said, word for word. I could hear some of the students
in the rows behind me whispering back and forth. A few of them obviously must have known one another already, and I cursed myself for giving in to my good-girl tendencies and sitting in the front row—I was already missing out! After several firm, very intimidating lectures from various chef-instructors warning us that the next six months would be harder than we had ever imagined (my highly active imagination automatically kicked into overdrive, dreaming up visions of finger amputations, grueling trials by fire—literally—failing the practical exam, and other horrific situations that might be in store), we were given a bit of a breather by Rose, head liaison between the students and the rest of the support staff and chefs. One by one, she called us to the front of the room, where we each received a large black duffel bag containing our new uniforms: two side towels, two neckerchiefs, two pairs of checked chef 's pants, and two chef 's jackets embroidered with our names and The Institute's logo over the breast pocket.

Back at our seats, the sporadic whispering broke into an excited buzz as we eagerly dug into our duffels and ran our hands over the nifty things inside—it was even better than Christmas, and even though everyone's uniform was identical, we enthusiastically held up our own jackets and oohed and aahed over each other's. I whipped around to see everybody else with identical grins—the same one that was no doubt plastered all over my own face. They were giving us real chef 's jackets; it was almost like we were real chefs! (Little did we know.) While I couldn't say I was superexcited about wearing pleated-front polyester blend pants every day for the next six months, I was thrilled with my chef 's jackets. There it was, in black and white: my name, in tasteful block embroidery. There really was no going back now—I was going to be a chef like my heroes: Jacques, Julia, Mario, Alice.

The awe and wonder of the voyage we were all embarking on lasted another half hour. We had one more intimidating lecture about the consequences for not obeying various school regulations.
I hoped they were joking about being disemboweled with a boning knife and fed through the industrial Cuisinart, or being boiled alive in one of the schools fifty-gallon stockpots, but even a day's suspension from school and automatic ineligibility for class honors was enough to scare me. (My good-girl tendencies again.) Then we were released to find our way down to the small reception held in our honor in the school's restaurant. Burdened by our bulky duffel bags, we herded together in several large groups, sticking close to the walls and trying to stay as far away from the instructors as possible. One of the instructors, a very handsome, very tan ringer for a young Johnny Depp, wearing the most gorgeously starched and snowy white uniform I had ever seen, brought a tray of hors d'oeuvres over to the group of frightened students I was currently clinging to.
Helllooo there,
I thought to myself, before remembering my darling Michael and the school's strict regulations against fraternizing with the instructors.

Offering the tray around, the chef introduced himself as Chef Paul. He would be our pastry chef in Levels 3 and 4. I was suffering from a major attack of shyness and looked everywhere around the room instead of directly at him. Chef Paul seemed to sense the nervousness in all of us and he laughed gently at us.

“Don't worry about me,” he said. “I'm a total pussycat. Worry about some of them over there.” He gesticulated toward a group of chefs clumped together by the bar. They looked like a malevolent cloud bank—all puffy white shirtfronts and frowns.

“Here, have a cheese puff.” Chef Paul pushed the platter under my nose. “You'll be making thousands of these little goodies soon enough. Enjoy them while you have the chance.”

I detected a definite twinkle in his eye, so I took one. “Good,” he said. “Now go brave that bar and get yourself a glass of wine. The other chefs won't bite.”

I took a deep breath and heeded his advice, putting down my bag and making a beeline to the row of red and white wine bottles
lined along the polished wood of the bar, hoping to snag a glass of white before I could attract the attention of the chefs lurking far too close for comfort.

I was soon joined by my future classmates. Once we had managed to get a glass each of the very nice Chablis (not too dry, with a hint of crispness, just what I needed to quench my nervous thirst), we started to get to know each other, peering at each other's name tags and discussing where we lived and what we had done before chef school.

While there were plenty of people from New York, many students had come from distant parts of the country and even the world to attend class here. Imogene, a petite brunette in a stylish outfit, was a suburban mother from just outside the beltway loop of Washington, D.C. Despite her youthful appearance, Imogene's two girls were almost grown, and at a little past forty, Imo had decided that for her next career, she would become a professional chef.

Philip was a native New Yorker from Long Island, and had recently quit his job as a very successful bond trader on Wall Street. His office had been in the World Financial Center, and as Philip watched the events of September 11 unfold from his window, he realized he wanted to spend the rest of his life doing a job he loved, not one he loathed. I would have pegged him as a fellow New Yorker—his Levi's were Capital E brand, and I thought I detected that his artfully scuffed loafers were Prada. His plain white T-shirt looked softer than my precious 500-thread-count sheets and definitely didn't come in a three-pack from Fruit of the Loom.

Before I could get to know Philip any better, he was enveloped by an exotic foreign woman whose long black hair and pouty lips set off a flawless café au lait complexion. Her makeup was perfect, but I noticed a faint fan of lines around her eyes, and while she was swathed in the smallest pair of Paige Premium Denim jeans I had ever seen, something about her stance proclaimed she had been around the block a few times and was probably closer to forty than thirty. The
enormous Kelly bag she hitched casually over her arm was real, and I salivated over its vintage gorgeousness even as she used it to expertly elbow me out of the conversation. Who knew vintage bags packed such a wallop? That was definitely going to leave a mark—I would have a couture bruise. I caught her name as she coyly whispered it to Philip's chiseled pecs, “…call me Mimi.
So
pleased to meet another student with a bit of class.” I guess my outfit (and all the agonizing I had done over it) hadn't cut the mustard!

Amanda, the girl with the surfer tee and hemp bracelets, was indeed from Southern California and had the trademark laid-back lifestyle and speech pattern. Working in public relations had been “a total downer” for her, and she had decided to try living on the East Coast and making a go of her hobby of cooking before she turned thirty. “I mean, one meal at Chez Panisse and I was like totally blown away. It's like
beyond food
food.”

Angelo was a New Jersey native, and had graduated from the Fashion Institute of Technology with a degree in graphic design. After an unfulfilling stint at an ad agency, Angelo realized his creativity needed a different outlet, and had turned to food, interning at several well-known restaurants in the city before deciding to get his culinary degree. His tight T-shirt didn't quite cover what looked like a massive tribal tattoo, encircling one massive bicep (more like a whole
jamón serrano
than an appendage), and the ring through his nose heavily accentuated his bull-like physique—his neck was as wide as my waist—with his heavy Jersey accent making him seem even more like a tough guy. Fashion was definitely not what I would have expected from such a tough customer, but his blue eyes were very kind, and he swirled the wine around in his glass with a practiced motion of his massive, meaty paws. It turned out he had gone to high school with the retro seventies chick—her name was Jackie. Her long brown hair, big brown eyes, and the way she absolutely rocked her super-low-cut jeans made me think I had just met the class bombshell. When she mentioned that she used to work for the
Yankees and still got tickets from the organization, I was certain. Jackie was a total man magnet. This was her second round of food education: she had recently completed a course in food styling at the Institute for Culinary Education and was doing an internship in the prop department at the Food Network—the Holy Grail for the rest of us.

Off in a corner, a middle-aged biddy had managed to corral Dean Jacques Pépin and seemed to be asking for his autograph. Her flat midwestern vowels were making mincemeat of the melodic French syllables he uttered, and I clearly heard her referring to her “world-famous green bean casserole Franceeese.” (Apparently, canned pearl onions provided the “Franceeese-ness.”) I tried not to stare openly. My hero Jacques Pépin was being mauled by a future classmate of mine. I wondered if she had dreamed about eating him, too—it looked like she was trying her best to gobble him up right now.

I looked around at the other students populating the room. Most of them had stowed their duffels and detached themselves from the walls to mingle, have a glass or two of wine, and corner the quickly disappearing noshes. They certainly seemed to come from all walks of life. Where was I going to fit in? I sipped the rest of my wine, thought about the office job I had so recently left behind, with all the comforts of the cubicle life—limitless Internet, endless coffee, and free paper clips. I hoped I had made the right decision. I saddled myself with my duffel bag, suddenly heavy with uncertainty in addition to uniforms that would have to be hemmed and dry-cleaned, and headed out into the June afternoon in downtown Manhattan.