Hell's Kitchen

            by Andrea Morris

 

            The train’s gentle rumble lulled the rest of my group to sleep.  Not me, though. I was too excited to sleep.  After all, we were about to go to Institute Paul Bocuse in Lyon, France, and I could not wait.  Of course I’d also enjoyed (for the most part) the four-week language school and home stay, but this was the reason that I had told myself and the program director that I could learn two year’s worth of high school French in seven months of weekly tutoring.  By the second week of our trip it became obvious to everyone that I had seriously overestimated my knowledge of the language.  Communication with my host family had consisted mainly of hand motions and present-tense conversations punctuated with frantic flipping through the dictionary. The language teacher had taken pity on me and gave me extra tutoring at first, only to tire of my sentences consisting mainly of pauses and “um”s, and soon stopped calling on me in class.  But everything was about to change:  we were going to cooking school, and I already knew how to cook more than just grilled cheese and pasta.  In fact, I was the only one in my group of twelve who had worked for a catering company.  I was sure that our chef instructor would see this, and I would no longer be the underdog. 

 

Lundi 25 juillet 2005

            The school was the prettiest place I’d ever seen.  The entrance, meeting rooms and dining rooms were in an old chateau with rolling green lawns, flagstone walls and stained glass depicting French war victories and golden-winged angels.  The arched doorway was flanked by a quirky statue of a butler, made entirely of metal kitchen tools and holding a platter where Paul Bocuse’s photo perched.  He looked very stern, very dignified, and very French.

            Underneath the chateau was a beautiful, perfectly humidified and air conditioned wine cellar.  Displays of the specific dirt types for the different grapes sat between the endless racks of wines, and a map of the grape varietal regions loomed in front of the small tables where we had a wine tasting before meeting our chef-instructor for the next five days.

            The numerous kitchens at the school occupied a stark compound, just shorter than the chateau and strategically placed so that we couldn’t see it from the main entrance. With white walls and linoleum floors that echoed with every footstep, these hallways lacked everything that the other building had.  So what? Just look at all these beautiful, gleaming, professional kitchens. I could see some culinary students steadily working away, studying stocks and yeast, rolling out pasta and browning chicken.  The walls contained so much knowledge, and I wanted to learn it all.

            My group filed into our gleaming third floor kitchen.  Next to a white board with a lot of French words scribbled over the surface stood a stocky man in a double breasted white jacket and checkered pants.  A ribbon of France’s red, white, and blue flag adorned his collar, marking him as one of the most honored chefs in France.  His face was small with polarized features – big nose, substantial ears, and tiny eyes.  We stood shoulder to shoulder to introduce ourselves.

            I was the only one shorter than Chef Bertrand Muci, so he took extra time to look down on me through his beady brown eyes.  “Why are your pants rolled up?” is how my best friend in my group, Jesse, translated his greeting to me, though the length of his phrase and his tone told me that he had thrown in some less mild words as well.  I hadn’t thought that the uniform store’s refusal to carry short-legged pants would be an issue, but apparently it was.  The same went for the extra long sleeves and too wide shoes.  I would roll the pant legs to the inside for the rest of the week. 

            After this first encounter, in which my classmates all received a polite “bonjour,” we were instructed on safety, cleanup and how the equipment worked.  All the appliances were pretty familiar to me except for the electric stove tops.  I had only worked with a gas flame stovetop before, and these were not the electric ones to learn on.  The flat electric burners had plus and minus buttons instead of knobs, green and red flashing lights, and they would instantly shut off if any liquid touched them, though skin had no cooling effect on them.  I could tell that we were not going to form the kind of companionship that I had with my friendly Kitchen Aid stove back home.

            Following our French kitchen introduction, we got to work on our first meal, Saucisson Brioche (sausage wrapped in bread), and Oeuf a la Neige (poached egg whites in custard sauce).  My assignment for the day was to drop the balls of whipped egg whites into simmering water and then put them into bowls of custard sauce for the dessert.  Fine, I thought to myself, this may not be as exciting as the group making the brioche, but tomorrow, it’ll be better.  

 

Mardi 26 juillet 2005

            With the extra material neatly safety pinned and concealed on the inside of my sleeves and pant legs, I eagerly walked to the kitchen with my classmates.  Today was a new day, another chance to prove I belonged in the program. 

            After going over the day’s menu, Tarte aux oignons (onion tart), Dos de sandre a la lie de vin (fish in wine sauce), and Clafoutis aux abricots (apricot cake), we received our assignments.  My friend Jesse and I would be making the cake.  As we slowly halved and pitted our way through the crate of sweet fruit, I couldn’t help but be a little bitter.  Why couldn’t I have gotten fish?  I know fish, I’ve cooked it so many times.  I looked over as the people preparing the fish severed it into uneven pieces.

            As Jesse and I melted butter for the cake batter, I had my first scuffle with the stove.  The butter began to brown while I was stirring it, which meant it would begin to burn in about thirty seconds unless the stove was turned off.  Luckily, Jesse came to my rescue by pressing some buttons to turn the heat off – a skill which had apparently been taught during our introduction.  

            During lunch, we told Chef Muci about ourselves.  I listened in fear as my group mates gave detailed descriptions of their families, interests, and what they wanted to be when they grew up.  Then it was my turn.  “Je m’appelle Andrea. J’ai deux soeurs et j’aime danser et cuisiner.  Je voudrais etre une chef,” I said slowly. My speech was followed by an awkward silence as the chef raised his eyebrows into his receding hairline. The next speech began.  My cheeks burned and I knew that my fate, in his mind, was sealed.  My cover had been blown; he knew I didn’t speak French.

 

Mercredi 27 juillet 2005

            Jesse and I entered the kitchen behind everyone else.  “Bonjour Jessica.  Comme ca va?” Chef greeted merrily, his wrinkled mouth forming a smile.  “Tu es tarde,” he turned to me.  This was not true, since we had clearly come in on the heels of the rest of our group.  Not a good start, but I’ll just have to work harder and I’ll be fine.

             I was finally assigned to make the main course: Sauté de veau a la graine de moutarde (veal with mustard).  This was bad news.  At home I swore off mammals and poultry, and though I had hesitantly eaten meat while in France, I had rarely cooked it.  I didn’t understand Chef’s hurried French instructions the first or the second time through, so I was forced to stand, attempting in vain to prevent my face from flaming up as it had the day before, as he called the class around to watch me struggle with cutting the pink meat into the correct portions before he grabbed my knife and gave a class demo, finishing with, “Vu? C’est facile, non?” 

            “Oui, chef,” my classmates chorused. I hung my head and finished cutting the meat while he stood over my shoulder.  The French seem to have different ideas about personal space.

 

Jeudi 28 juillet 2005

            Just don’t mess up.  I repeated my new mantra to myself as I sidled into the kitchen, neither first nor last on purpose.  I smiled weakly at the white board where the day’s menu was written.  Filets de rascasse en croute de parmesan (fish in cheese crust), Petites legumes (little vegetables), and Salade de fruits de saison (fruit salad).  You know he won’t let you do the fish after yesterday’s disaster, the voice in my mind told me, but I couldn’t help but hope.

           “Aujord’hui, tu vas couper les legumes,” Chef handed me a peeler and knife and pointed at a pile of carrots, zucchini, celery and onions.  Peeling vegetables is not the reason I signed up for this program. But if I can get it done fast enough, maybe he’ll let me join the group making fish.  A few minutes later, chef strode over to my gray counter.  “Vers toi,” he scolded, “n’eloigne pas toi.”  After my raised eyebrow, he mimed peeling a vegetable towards himself, rather than away, like the way my mom had always taught me.   I slowly slid the red peeler towards my chef jacket, struggling with the foreign technique.  “Cet n’est pas lisse,” he spat, pointing at the ridges marring my carrot where the peeler had slipped. It’s going to be cut into tiny cubes.  Nobody will be able to notice without a magnifying glass.  He spun on his heel to go praise another group member, Rose, on her excellent parmesan grating skills.

            Half an hour later, hands sore from gripping the too-large handled knife, I was finally ready to begin sautéing my petites legumes.  I ladled the golden olive oil in the pan and then had a stare down with the stovetop.  Still mystified by the flashing lights, I tapped Jesse on the shoulder and she quickly did the fancy button pushing.  I added the 1/8” by 1/8” cubed vegetables to the pan, grinning at the familiar sizzle as they collided with the hot oil.  Soon, my colorful mix was tender and ready to be plated.  Ten points for me!  Moments later, a skinny plume of smoke rising from my masterpiece sent a shiver done my spine.  I tried to push the pan from the burner, but as I realized the countertop was too buried under other half-prepared dishes to fit another pot, my fingers brushed the surface.  Shit. An angry red blister shined between my pointer’s fingernail and knuckle.  After a few seconds of scanning the ever sterile looking kitchen, I saw Chef Muci teaching Rose and Jesse how to catch raspberries in their mouths.  With a march-like gallop, in order to keep my shoes on my feet, I hurried across the black and white checkered floor.  Maybe in your panic, you’ll suddenly be able to speak well.  So I opened my mouth and waited for the French to pour out.  “Ahhhh!” was all I could muster, as I pointed my throbbing finger towards my poor vegetables.  Rose broke into fits of giggles at my ridiculous exclamation and Jesse became very concentrated on washing a strawberry in the stainless steel sink as I stood, my mouth still open as I tried to remember vocabulary I had never learned.

            Chef sprinted towards my now unmistakably smoky work area with an angry “Non!”  Defeated, embarrassed, nervous, and burned, I tried to help clean the pan, but he dismissed me with a flick of his hand and the French version of “go sit in the corner.” 

            Most of my vegetables were fine, but I didn’t want to eat them after seeing Chef Muci’s angry glares in my direction.  You have one more day here.  Do not end your trip like this. The sense of competition I thought I had left behind when I quit organized sports suddenly switched back on.  Tomorrow would be mine.

 

Vendredi 29 juillet 2005

            Chin up, I marched into the kitchen and glanced at the white board: Soupe a l’oignon (French onion soup), Raviole de brandade de morue (salt cod ravioli), Tarte tatin au beurre de caramel (apple tart with caramel sauce).  Between Chef Muci’s French instructions and Jesse’s whispered translation, I gathered that we’d all do the ravioli together because they would take a long time to prepare.  As he laid out a square of fresh pasta dough, spooned some filling in, and sealed it closed with egg, my heart skipped a beat.  I know this! This is the first thing I learned to make for catering.  Granted, at catering they had chicken and beans in them, were deep fried and served with guacamole, but filled one pasta-square, filled them all.

            We were each given a stack of pasta squares and a pastry bag of filling.  I lay my squares out in a four by five grid pattern on the counter, squeezed the filling onto each one, and sealed my raviolis into twenty neat little triangles before looking around at my fellow chefs-in-training.  Rose had salt cod smeared on her sleeve and most of her work area.  Jesse was placing a single square down, filling it, sealing it, and starting the process over again.  No wonder she has only made three.  Inefficiency reigned supreme as the rest of my classmates followed suit with egg everywhere, uneven triangles spilling their filling, and more salt cod on the counter and themselves than in the ravioli.  I went back to my assembly line.

            Grid, grid, grid. Fill, fill, fill. Seal, seal, seal. I had a rhythm playing as I began my fourth round of ravioli.  “Andrea,” chef’s voice came from inches behind me.  He can’t have found something wrong now. His eyes swept over my still spotless counter, my pile of plump ravioli, and my struggling peers.

            “Oui, Chef?” I batted an eyelash.

            “Laves les vaiselles.”  He pointed to the sink filled with dishes. 

            “But I still have pasta to fill.”  My French failed me so I pointed to my grid of pasta squares. A few of my friends stopped pretending they weren’t listening and put down their pastry bags to watch.

            “Les vaiselles,” he repeated, louder this time.  I walked over to the sink and picked up the sponge.  “Travaillez!” he ordered the now completely frozen and eavesdropping group.  Following his command, they immediately went back to work.

            I looked up after scrubbing a few pots.  He was inspecting my pasta, searching for an air pocket or a gap in the seal.  He turned to me.  Our eyes locked. I met his controlled gaze with a poker face of my own.  Forehead creased with shame, he looked towards his feet.