Under the Table (28 page)

“Here, Darling. It's a little present from me, a thank-you for putting up with me so long.” I was speechless. Ben grinned his sly grin and said, “Don't let Chef see it, though. I nicked it from the storeroom for you.”

Looking at the shiny package in my hand, somehow I knew what it was. The smell was a big tip-off, too. One of the canned truffles, all for me.

As I served shavings of truffle over gently scrambled eggs, garnished with a dab of whipped cream spiked with a hit of icy cold vodka, at a posh party I threw after graduation was over, I thought of Ben, and my very first experience with truffles. Love at first sight—or sniff.

A
s we began our fourth and final level, there was a tangible sense of excitement in the air. We were so excited to finally begin our last level (and to have made it through the hell that was Level 3), we were primed to party. Level 4 would be the most challenging level we would face—the dishes we would be preparing for L'Ecole were extremely complicated, with sometimes as many as three or four dozen intricate steps involved in their preparation and presentation, though the recipes themselves had become little more than a simple list of ingredients—we were expected now to know not only what to do, but when, where, and how to do it. Every day would be a test run for our final exam; suddenly the specter of the final, and graduation, loomed large in our future, a mere few months away. But for now, we were just thrilled to be finished with Level 3, out from under the meaty thumb of Chef Robert and back to the familiar, barking demands of Chef Pierre. It was time to celebrate. It helped that we moved to Level 4 on Halloween. The fact that Halloween is one of the biggest parties of the year in the streets of New York was just a boozy bonus.

However, we would need to receive our final marks for Level 3 from Chef Robert before we were at last free to celebrate. A lot of the high spirits and hijinks were due to nerves—it hadn't been the best level for anyone in the class, and we were all nervous to see who would be top ranked after the trials and tribulations we had all undergone. I couldn't imagine that I would have done well during this level, after all the personality clashes I had with Chef, and especially my personal sentiment of being unwilling to buckle under
to his vicious taunting. I was very proud of the fact that Chef Robert had never made me cry. I was in the minority, even among the guys. While I had performed well, and my skills had gotten more and more proficient during this level, I was certain that there would be some way for him to dock my grade. Perhaps five points would be deducted for excessive feistiness.

So while I wanted badly to know how I stacked up against my peers, I wasn't anxious to hear my name called in that high-pitched, heavily accented voice and to stand before my little nemesis and hear exactly, in detail, how I had fared. There were also more than a few people whose worries had less to do with how well they would do and more to do with how narrowly they would manage to pass (or not) through the level. Chef Robert had been known to hold more than a few students back in Level 3, some more than once even, until they were judged acceptable to go on to the most advanced level. While several of us sharpened our knives and discussed how we could have improved on our specials throughout the six weeks, there was another, more desperate band of students hovering, chatting quietly among themselves, comparing one failed exam paper after another.

When at last my name was called, I could feel my steps dragging as I approached Chef and his open grade book. Making sure that my hat was straight and my uniform unwrinkled and relatively unstained, I stood before him, twisting my hands together, waiting. He made me wait, too, drawing out his greeting into the longest “Well, well, well” ever produced by any stage villain.

Then, utter shock. I had gotten a 95, tying for the highest marks in the class with Marita the quiet vegetarian and Angelo. I couldn't hide my smile from Chef Robert, who immediately reverted back to character with a sneer and a cutting comment—“Don't let it go to your head, Meeess Darleeeng. You are a long way from being a chef still.” Chef called everyone by their last names, like a prep school instructor, but he added a “Miss” to some of the female students. I couldn't help feeling like it was somehow insulting, as if I was one of
those women who asked for special consideration just because I was female, the ones who did girl push-ups in gym class. I was just one of the guys in class—chef first, person second, and female somewhere way down the list. But even that irritating “Miss” couldn't bring me down—I would never have to hear it again after today. I was on top of the world! And Tucker and Ben were right behind me in the rankings with 93s. We were coming into the home stretch, neck and neck, and Level 4 was definitely going to be very interesting.

But before Level 4, there was tonight. I wasn't planning on spending all night with my compatriots—they were going to see the Halloween parade through the West Village, a debauched annual spectacle that I could do without, especially on a school night. But we would begin, as we did almost every afternoon, at Toad Hall. I loved going to Toad with my pals and the chef-instructors—it was fun to mingle with the teachers when they let their hair down. I remembered that long-ago day in June when we had first gone to the bar and were too timid to mingle with the other students or chef-instructors. Now we joked and teased our old instructors and bought drinks—they looked almost normal in their street clothes, and even though they all began by sitting together at one large round table, soon they were in the thick of things, shooting pool, doing shots at the bar, playing quarters at the long back table, or just chatting with the clumps of students filling the dimly lit space. By the time our merry little band walked the few blocks to the bar, the place was already jumping. And with outsiders—people who manifestly were
not
chefs. They were taking up
our
tables, drinking
our
beer, chatting with
our
bartender!
Halloween is so overrated,
I thought to myself, as I pushed my way through the hordes and up to the bar. Five pitchers and two rounds of shots for everyone followed me back to our table.

Soon we expanded our table space to a vacant one nearby and invited our chefs—Paul, Hel, Pierre, Jean, Mark, Tina, and even Cyndee—to join us. After they congratulated us on making it through the level, talk quickly turned to who would be wearing what kind of
costume that evening. Chefs are not overburdened by any sense of decorum, and most of the costumes described by the students and the teachers seemed to hinge on a high level of nudity—not enough to get arrested, but enough to turn heads, even in this town. As Ricki described the black rubber halter she was planning on wearing as a goth vampire, Tucker spotted a fresh tattoo on her lower back. I had seen it recently in the locker room, and while some of Ricki's many tattoos seemed excessive, I couldn't help but feel that this one was actually really cool. It was a tattoo of a sauté pan. It seemed to perfectly sum up how chef school had left its mark on all of us.

This was also Ricki's first time back at Toad with all of us in a month. While I hadn't asked why Ricki suddenly started disappearing after school, ditching our now-ritual Friday afternoon drinks at Toad, Imogene had. Since the end of Level 1, it seemed that Ricki had been hitting the kamikaze shots pretty hard, and they had been hitting back. Apparently, after one too many drunken phone calls to her boyfriend back home in Tennessee, Ricki had realized that the partying was getting out of control and had decided to take a break. But here she was again, a drink clutched in her hand like the rest of us. The stress of working in the kitchen was hard on us all, and drinking was an easy way to ease the tensions after a long day. Maybe it was too easy for some of us.

Regardless, Ricki's new tattoo caused a major ripple effect, and soon, all of my classmates were in various stages of undress, showing off their ink and explaining a certain tattoo's significance to the rest of us. I felt like I was at a show-and-tell session at a biker convention. Angelo was secretly covered in tribal tattoos, from his shoulders on down, eventually ending with several wrapped around his meaty calves. Wayne was brilliantly shaded—every square inch from his right shoulder down to the inside of his right wrist was covered in a beautiful collage of tropical flowers and blue waters.

Imogene's tattoo was probably the most awe-inspiring—despite her super stereotypical suburban life inside the Beltway, Imo rode
a Harley in her spare time and had an enormous, beautiful tattoo of angel's wings that covered her entire back, from neck to waist, shoulder to shoulder. Chef Tina had a tiny tattoo of a brioche on the inside of her ankle. Even Chef Chris had a large tattoo on his shoulder, a remnant of his college days in a fraternity.

It seemed like I was the only person in class who was not sporting a tat or at least an interesting piercing somewhere unexpected. The tattoo demonstration became even wilder when the bartender sent an extra round of kamikaze shots our way, to congratulate us on moving on to Level 4. Pretty soon, the pool table had been pressed into service as a runway, as chef after chef and student after student jumped up and did a bump-and-grind to the thumping music, stripping off clothing to give everyone a tantalizing peek or full-on gaze at their tattoo. There were tattoos of Asian calligraphy, tribal bands, initials, ankhs, moons, hearts, flowers, naked chicks, and every variation in between. More interesting were the tattoos of chef knives, spoons, even a whisk. There were tattoos of a head of radicchio, a red-ripe tomato, even an elegant rendering of a single stalk of asparagus. I began to fantasize about getting a tiny tattoo of a strawberry on my hip bone, something sexy but culinary. I was definitely feeling left out—even my old partner Tucker, in addition to the names of his wife and kids, had inked “Born to Braise” on his bicep.

Since I had nothing to show off other than the nicks and burns I had acquired in school, and was feeling like a nerd, I decided to head back home. I read the recipes for the upcoming six weeks of classes and wondered which ones would be on our final exam. The streets of SoHo three floors below became more and more noisy as dusk and then darkness fell. I wondered what the other kids from class were up to and scanned the faces in the background of the nine o'clock news story on the parade to see if any of them seemed familiar. None of them did. I hoped they had managed to stay out of trouble and looked forward during class tomorrow to hearing what they had gotten up to.

I didn't have to wait that long, it turned out. At 2:15 in the morning, my cell phone began to ring. It rang over and over again for ten full minutes before I finally gave in and picked up. It was Amanda and Tucker and Jackie and Ravi and Junior and Angelo and about ten more people from class. Tucker and Amanda were trying to lure me out to meet them for one last drink. I toyed with the idea for a brief moment, and asked them where they were while I stalled for time to make up my mind.

“Scores!” Tucker crowed jubilantly. Scores is a well-known strip club on the East Side of Manhattan.

“Really?” I asked, somewhat taken aback. Because Scores is considered pretty high end, for a strip club, it was extremely expensive, way out of range for most of my classmates—all but a few of us were fiscally overburdened by the enormous weight of our student loans. “Really?” I said again, unable to picture that motley collection of almost-chefs making it past the gargantuan bouncers at the front door.

“I gotta go,” Tucker said, practically shouting into the phone. “Jackie bought me a lap dance! You really missed out, Darling. We wish you were here!” With that, the line went dead.

I went back to bed, but it took me a long time to fall asleep. My classmates were getting tattoos and staying out all night partying with strippers. While I wasn't exactly tearful to be missing out on some of the fun—I couldn't afford a lap dance from a stripper in any of the seedy topless bars that line the West Side Highway, let alone one at Scores—I did feel as if maybe I was missing out on something. What was it? Tattoos, piercings, strippers, booze—all my classmates seemed to be consummately badass, just like the best of the bad-boy chefs. I was starting to remind myself of Julia Child—a competent chef, a successful chef, but not really a very sexy chef. Much as I was loath to admit it, sex appeal had become a big factor in the kitchen, as in every other industry. I didn't know how I would stack up.

I
was lucky enough to begin my final level of school in the pastry kitchen. This meant that I would actually get to go through the pastry rotation twice. Which meant twice the desserts. Chocolate-orange brioche pudding. Coconut and banana crisp. Crème brûlée. Pear tarts. Warm chocolate cake with espresso crème anglaise. Yes, Level 4 was shaping up to be quite delicious.

This would also be the first time I would be working with a full brigade—there would be five of us. This could be good or bad. Working in a smaller group had certainly been harder, but I felt that it had also been more fulfilling. We had weathered many storms in our little group of four and had managed to sail through regardless. Even saddled with the burden of babysitting Penny all the way through Level 3, we had managed. Now, I had a new group—Tommy, Jared, Wayne, Amanda. And, of course, me. I am not a bully, by any stretch of the imagination. But the kitchen is still a man's world, and I wanted to make it very clear who would be wearing the checked chef 's pants in this group. We would be the best damn group ever to plate our creations for L'Ecole. And there would be no shenanigans.

I should have known better.

It was only Monday and already we seemed to be running off course. There wasn't enough room for all five of us in the advanced workstation. We were just going to have to squeeze in and learn to work with one another in a space approximately the size of a toaster. This was not a good thing. Jared was at least six and a half feet tall, without his chef 's hat. Wayne was a teenager, who seemed to show
up to school at least twice a week with the distinctive aroma of herb clinging to his chef 's jacket—I had already caught him whittling one of the apples we were supposed to be using for our curriculum dessert (warm brioche bread pudding with apples and caramel) into a makeshift bong. Which was fine, but I wasn't sure how I felt about arming him with ten inches of sharpened carbon steel and turning him loose to chop candied orange peel, approximately an inch from my fingers. Tommy was a sweetheart, but he had the attention span of a hyperactive three-year-old. Amanda was our saving grace—she was patient, smart, and very petite—she could work in a shoe box if she had to. But you just can't squeeze that much flesh and ego into a small confined area without sparks flying.

The heat generated by these sparks wasn't exactly what I had in mind, however. If anything, I thought that Jared and I might have a showdown, as we both seemed to want to lead the team. But like well-behaved children who both want to play on the tire swing, we learned to take turns. No, something other than the massive convection ovens seemed to be heating up the atmosphere in the pastry kitchen.

It started with a small token of affection. It took the form of a morsel of succulent grilled quail, snatched from the
entremétier
station and carefully plated with some mâche and sweet Vidalia onions. Tommy had made Amanda a little snack to ease her hunger pangs until lunch. How sweet, I thought, and snagged a bite when Amanda graciously passed it around to the rest of us to share.

Next came an amuse-bouche of sautéed chanterelle mushrooms on a Parmesan crisp, garnished with a few sprigs of fresh chervil. Tommy had begged the Level 3 garde-manger station to make him an extra. This, too, went to Amanda, as an afternoon snack.

 

It wasn't until midweek I realized what was happening. Early one morning Tommy stole an entire baguette from the bread kitchen and spread it, still piping hot, with sweet butter. He scrambled eggs and Swiss cheese until they formed soft plump curds in a copper
saucepan we were supposed to be using to make caramel. Fresh, juicy plum tomatoes and a slice or two of prosciutto topped off the gargantuan sandwich. It was the most gorgeous love letter I have ever seen, and Amanda's eyes lit up when she saw the sweeping, mute romantic gesture sitting on her cutting board.

There was just one small problem.

Tommy was married. With children.

It couldn't be what it looked like, I told myself. True, Tommy did call Amanda “baby,” but he called all the girls in class “baby.” It was in keeping with his southern accent and his habit of opening doors and saying “Thank you, ma'am” every time someone corrected his grammar. Tommy was just an easygoing guy from the wrong side of the Florida panhandle, who had big plans for transforming the Creole cuisine he had learned cooking in Louisiana with the classical French techniques he was learning at school. The sun rose and set on his two little girls, and he often went home on the weekends to be with them. Surely he wouldn't really cheat on his wife with Amanda, not now, when we were so close to the end of school, and certainly not when they were both in my brigade!

It was easy to understand the attraction. Amanda was a California girl, with a sunny disposition that seemed to light up everything and everyone around her, even Chef Robert. She had long brown hair that was constantly escaping from the loose bun under her chef 's hat. Big brown eyes were always squinting shut with laughter. She was also as small and as perfectly proportioned as a doll—she had to trade in her standard issue ten-inch chef 's knife for one with a seven-inch blade, because her hands were too tiny to wield the larger model. For such a small person, she was roundly teased by almost everyone in class for her prodigious appetite. Amanda was always hungry, and she was forever pinching a morsel off one thing or another. If the cream cheese and walnut cake looked as if a mouse had nibbled on one corner, I knew I would find Amanda with her cheeks bulging guiltily.

I told myself that it was a harmless flirtation, a friendship consummated only with consommé and apple tartlets. Some people just express themselves differently—after all, was it really so strange that a chef should express his friendship with mushrooms and quail? It was nothing to worry about, I told myself. Surely I would have noticed an affair right under my nose. However, I hadn't reckoned that Amanda's ravenous appetite was for more than just food.

I admit, I was preoccupied. I had enough to handle in my own romantic situation. Michael and I had decided to get married right after chef school was finished in December. We would have a small wedding (family only) on a remote island in the Caribbean. I would get to wear my gorgeous white silk dress and Michael could wear his flip-flops—everyone was happy. But planning a wedding, even a small one, is stressful, and while I spent my evenings on long-distance calls to florists and caterers, Michael sat around watching the World Poker Tour on television. After I spent a particularly stressful week at school and ran into yet more red tape getting our marriage license from the tiny island's incredible bureaucratic maze, I was feeling particularly down. Sensing this, Michael came home early from work with a present for me. Eagerly anticipating a new silk nightgown or a sexy pair of stilettos, I ripped open the wrapping paper and whipped the lid off the box. Inside was a pair of hot pink rubber chef 's clogs. Not at all what I was hoping for. Michael, perhaps seeing the look of chagrin I tried hard to hide, quickly explained. It seemed he had spotted Mario Batali on lower Fifth Avenue, wearing a pair of these rubber chef 's clogs in his signature bright orange shade. Knowing I revered Mario, Michael had searched everywhere until he found a pair in pink. It was a very sweet, very thoughtful gesture, Michael's way of supporting me in school. I didn't have the heart to tell him they were definitely not part of the school uniform. I put them on and cooked him dinner instead. My relationship wasn't perfect, but we were trying, and we were happy.

 

We were in the middle of service, and had just gotten swamped with orders. Part of the joy of the stint spent working in pastry was its streamlined schedule. Once all the crêpes have been flipped, the tarts baked, the cakes iced, the ice cream churned, and the cookies cooled, when the crush of orders do roll in, all that's left is the plating. Perhaps just a quick
brûlée
with a plumber's torch to give tarts and custards a nice browned sugar crust, or a quick swirl of caramel, chocolate, or raspberry puree, and a garnish of fresh mint leaves or candied walnuts, and that's it. But the subtle art of plating desserts is more complicated than it seems. Learning to use the squeeze bottles of chocolate, caramel, and fruit puree was truly an art, and we spent a lot of time practicing our artistic squiggles in chocolate on clean plates. I had finally mastered making a sweeping treble clef design, after many attempts and about a thousand dirtied dessert plates, when we were slammed with the dessert orders from a large party of thirty. We didn't have enough hands to squiggle designs, plate, garnish, and carry out trays—where was everybody? Jared and Wayne were there, as always, but where had Tommy gone? And where was Amanda?

Chef Paul just looked at me and scoffed. “You poor innocent,” he said.

Just then, the heavy steel door to the walk-in refrigerator opened and out popped Amanda, followed closely by Tommy. She was re-buttoning her chef 's jacket, and he was straightening his chef 's hat, which looked as if it had been sat on and then replaced—backward.

They were smiling like two maniacs just released from the asylum.

Shit.

Still, what could I do? It wasn't my affair, literally. The burgeoning complications in the social fabric of my brigade were not enough to dim the other great joy of being in the pastry kitchen—the unrestricted access to all the yummy goodies. There was always an extra
cookie, or a tartlet that just wasn't pretty enough to pass muster, or an entire tray of ice cream that would go to waste, all there to be scarfed up by ravenous students. And sometimes not so ravenous—it seemed I could always find room, no matter what I had just eaten, for a slice of cake or just one more tuile. Or leftover crème anglaise.

It was Friday, the last day we would spend in pastry, and I had just finished spooning little pools of espresso crème anglaise on fifteen dessert plates. Amanda was then dotting the pools with warm chocolate, and Wayne was using a toothpick to swirl the chocolate into decorative heart shapes. Jared stood ready to add the warm chocolate cakes, and Tommy added a dash of powdered sugar before running the plates to the waiters. At its best, a brigade works like an assembly line, chefs as a series of automatons built to produce plate after perfect plate of food. I had come to the end of my row, and since these were the last plates of the day, I didn't think twice before scooping up a big spoonful of the heavenly sauce and cramming it into my mouth. Mmmm, delicious. My timing couldn't have been worse. Jacques Pépin, the grandfather of superstar chefs and dean of The Institute, was not doing a surprise inspection, as had happened in the past, but Chef Septimus was.

Chef Septimus was a big, jolly Frenchman who had a terrible temper. But when he wasn't shouting, he was marvelous. He told wonderful stories, often about his weekends spent in the woods, going bow hunting. I always imagined him sneaking through the green underbrush, dressed in immaculate chef 's whites, stealthily pushing his considerable stomach before him. It was impossible not to grin. He was also always eager for the students to try all sorts of dried game meats and sausages he made at home and brought in. Sausages were an absolute passion of his. They were always delicious, spicy and sweet with just a hint of that elusive, gamy flavor so prized by Old World chefs.

He bounded into the pastry kitchen, armed with a small plate. I tried not to look guilty.

“Here, try this.” He shoved a small, dark, wrinkled morsel at me. I couldn't open my mouth to decline the offer, since it was still full of the illicit cream. Grudgingly, I took the horrid little lump and popped it into my mouth, where it immediately began to swim around in the rapidly congealing pastry cream. It was the worst thing I have ever done. The lump was densely chewy, refusing to yield to the frantic motions of my jaws. Each bite released more of its flavor into the cream, and it was putrid. It tasted like the dead mouse I found in my kitchen cabinet smelled. My eyes teared up. Watching my reaction, Jared asked Chef Septimus what it was before chowing down on his own piece, which he was prodding gingerly with his chef 's knife.

“Dried deer heart. I killed it myself!” Chef Septimus said, his face round and happy with pride.

I swallowed. Barely.

I decided that day that matters of the heart, no matter what species they came from, no longer interested me.

Flourless Chocolate Cake

Even my terrible experience hasn't cured me of my sweet tooth, and I still relish making—and eating—crème anglaise. It goes perfectly with this chocolate cake, which is so easy to prepare I often make it when I am away from home, visiting friends. It can be made in almost any kind of container, and never fails to impress.

 

4 ounces best-quality bittersweet chocolate (the finest you can buy)

8 tablespoons (1 stick) unsalted butter, plus extra for the pan

½ cup granulated sugar

1 tablespoon rum

1 teaspoon vanilla paste

3 large eggs

¾ cup unsweetened cocoa powder

Pinch of ground cinnamon

Pinch of salt

Confectioners' sugar, for garnish

1. Preheat the oven to 375°F. Butter an 8-inch round cake pan, line the bottom with a round of wax paper, and butter the paper.
   
2. Chop the chocolate into small pieces. In a double boiler, melt the chocolate with the butter, stirring until smooth. (I will occasionally do this in the microwave because it saves time and dishes.) Remove from the heat and gently whisk the granulated sugar into the chocolate mixture. Whisk in the rum and vanilla paste. Separate the eggs, and add the yolks to the chocolate mixture and combine. Whip the egg whites to soft peaks, and gently whisk into the chocolate mixture. Sift the cocoa powder, cinnamon, and salt over the chocolate mixture and whisk until just combined.
   
3. Pour the batter into the pan and bake in the middle of the oven for about 25 minutes, just until the cake has formed a firm crust.
   
4. Let the cake cool briefly in the pan on a rack, then invert it onto a serving plate. Remove the wax paper and dust the cake with sifted confectioners' sugar.