- Cheek kissing. Not being the touchy type, at first I would visibly cringe when I saw someone coming in for the dreaded bise; however, once I figured out that the greeter's lips rarely make contact with the victim's, er, recipient's face, it became less intimidating - more like an air kiss. Now I accept the greeting much more easily, although I've yet to make the first "move." When I do, though... Watch out, America!
- Using the word "toilet" instead of "bathroom." Admittedly, I still giggle inwardly whenever someone says something like, "My brother is in the toilet," but I've found that people don't look at me as strangely when I ask for directions to the toilet instead of to the bathroom.
- Disregarding germs. Paris is a germ-infested city, particularly if you set foot into a metro station, but it doesn't seem to bother anyone. Actually, America might be the only germaphobic nation in the world. I watched a student with a can of soda the other day trying to finish it off before class, so he passed it around to about 4 or 5 other students to take a swig. There was a time when seven students plus a chef sticking their testing spoons into my sauce would have caused me to throw the whole batch away, but now I just box it up for later. I even ate a croissant that a chef had bled on, but I'll get back to that later.
- Not smiling. I no longer have to remind myself not to smile at cashiers or someone whom I pass on the sidewalk - it just comes naturally. That's not to say that I never smile anymore, but it's reserved mostly for people with whom I'm already acquainted or for humorous situations.
- Eating butter with everything. Unless I can find something equivalent to what they have here, I will have no choice but to give it up.
- Ignoring my hair. When you have to wear your hair up six days a week and cover it in a cap for much of that time, "styling" is something to consider only on Sundays. The other day I wore only my bangs down instead of pulled back for the first time in weeks because I didn't need to wear my cap, and no less than four students asked what was different about me. One girl insisted that I must have colored my hair and just looked skeptical when I said that it simply lacked a headband or bobby pins.
- Defining what constitutes "dirty." Do the math: the school gives us three jackets, two pairs of trousers, three tea towels, three neckerchiefs, three aprons, and two hats. This past week I sweated through five greasy cuisine practicums and two pastry practicums along with several demonstrations in rooms with poorly-functioning air conditioners. Often my only free times to do laundry are Saturday evenings and Sunday (one load of wash takes 2.5 hours, then clothes must hang for at least a day to dry). Obvious stains are about the only things now that necessitate a change in uniform, and even then if it's just on the front panel of the jacket then the button snaps can be switched, aprons can be turned inside-out, and tea towels can be refolded.
It was another busy week, with 45 hours of classes, 33 of those being within the first three days.
Monday
Monday brought with it a moral dilemma when a girl whose locker is close to mine asked if she could borrow one of my chef's jackets just for her morning class. Obviously I had extras because I arrived at school with my bag loads of clean, pressed uniforms, but I didn't know her and she wasn't in any of my classes. With such variable schedules we could go for days without running into each other. But then I thought that if I forgot part of my uniform and risked an absence, I would hope that someone would bail me out, plus I have trouble with the word "no," so I handed her a jacket. Plus there's that large bag of sharp knives in my locker if things get "difficult."
Chef Vaca led a demonstration on roasting and braising red meats and more vegetable turning. The braised beef was actually quite nice - more like tri-tip - but the roasted sirloin was a bit too close to it's pre-deceased form for my taste. The French have only four cooking levels for meat: bleu (raw; lit. "blue"), saignant (rare; lit. "bleeding"), à point (not exactly medium, but more like "just right"), and bien cuit (well-done). Most Americans, however, would consider the French version of "well-done" to be closer to medium or even medium rare. The French would consider the American version of "well-done" to be... sacrilegious.
In the cuisine practicum immediately following lunch we tried our hand only at the roasted sirloin and puréed potatoes with Asian chef. In true American form I overcooked my meat (I thought it was rare; he said it was medium-well at best) and under-mashed my potatoes. The French version of mashed potatoes is closer to the consistency of grits with plenty of cream and, of course, butter. We also began our beef bourguignon marinade so that it would be ready for cuisine practicum the following day.
The next event of the day was simply listed as "Stag" on our calendars, and we soon discovered that it was an information session about internships after/if we get all three certificates (basic, intermediate, and superior). In the intermediate level we will submit our applications and in the superior level the chefs will decide who will qualify based on their performance and proficiency in the French language. Internships last for two months after graduation and Grand Diplome students can choose cuisine, pastry, or both.
Interns may be working 16-hour days for six days a week, usually doing the most grueling jobs until they can prove themselves. They aren't paid anything and have to be able to cover their own living expenses. Employers will sometimes treat them like dirt, taking advantage of the free employees who have little repercussion. Of course, most internships are in Paris and all of them are only in France.
Before coming to Le Cordon Bleu I had tossed around the idea of trying for the internship but never really gave it serious consideration. As I sat in that meeting, though, I was struck with the most overwhelming desire to do it - both in cuisine and pastry - in spite of the knowledge that it would probably be some of the hardest months of my life. The experience would open up so many more doors than a simple little diploma. My desire goes beyond just a resumé enhancer, though - working in a Paris kitchen and/or pastry shop for two months would boost my confidence in starting a career back home. It has become a part of my daily prayers.
I didn't get my jacket back.
Tuesday
It was a twelve-hour class day, but nine of those hours were in demonstrations. The first six were solely focused on making croissant and brioche dough. Both breads require rising time, so the first three hours covered dough preparation while the second three hours involved shaping and baking the pastries.
From the croissant dough Chef Pascal was able to make croissants, pain au chocolat, apricot pastries, and cherry pinwheels. From the brioche dough he made multiple sizes and variations of bread as well as raisin buns. As if that weren't enough, he took all of the dough scraps, rolled them out in sugar, and baked them in a large pan. Our "sample" plates were amazing.
The afternoon and evening classes consisted primarily of the demonstration and practicum for cooking the beef bourguignon. Because we had already done most of the meat preparation the previous day, we dedicated the majority of our time to turning potatoes, peeling pearl onions, stemming button mushrooms, and cutting bread into croutons. I've come to terms with turning vegetables - my technique could use plenty of improvement but they're less terrifying - and tiny mushrooms are a pain but go quickly; however, the pearl onions are my newest nemesis. Peeling one onion takes 30 to 60 seconds because they have to be perfect, so when I have to do ten to twenty onions, it turns into a huge ordeal that can make or break the whole class.
Despite the tediousness of the onions, I was keeping on track with the rest of the class until my sauce started dragging me down. For one thing, I had added too much water and not enough flour during the braising and the reduction was taking forever, but it also had a sort of sour or rancid flavor as it reduced. I noticed a student next to me using sugar to solve the flavor issue and I followed her lead. In an attempt to speed me up so that he could go home, Filipino chef came by and started adding butter to finish my sauce. Finally I was able to plate my dish and watched anxiously as the chef tasted everything. The meat was good and the vegetables were cooked well, but he just nodded when he tasted the sauce. Looking up he addressed the rest of the room with, "This is how I want your sauce to be. Everyone come taste it!" My success again felt like a bit of a fluke, but I was inwardly beaming.
Still no chef's jacket...
Wednesday
The day was sort of a reverse of Tuesday with nine hours of practicums and three hours of demonstration. The first six hours were in the kitchen making our croissant and brioche pastries with Chef Cotte. It was our first practicum with Cotte although his name was already familiar to everyone ("notorious" might be a better word). Cotte is a big man who likes to shout a lot as he stares wide-eyed at us through his glasses. It's not necessarily scary shouting because maybe half the time he is being funny, although I'm never 100% certain when that is his intention. He's also known to break frequently into "I like to move it, move it!"
I was the pastry class assistant along with one of the boys, which meant that chef yelled at us a lot more. During something that I was apparently doing wrong, chef stood next to me hollering in my ear, "What did I say? Four, five times I tell you this!" My problem is that even when the chef's tell us to do something in English, it's so broken that I don't understand or worse, I misunderstand, but I can't exactly explain it to the chef that way. Instead I just replied with "Sorry, chef - I misunderstoood. Oui chef." But then he gave me a friendly slap me on the shoulder which made me think that he wasn't actually angry.
In the second half of class when we began to form our dough, chef came by to correct the way that I was rolling my croissants. A bright streak of blood suddenly appeared on my dough. Chef looked at his cut finger, cursed, and continued to roll my croissant, leaving another spot or two of blood before plopping it on the tray. Removing it from the tray seemed like a bad idea with him watching, and it got mixed with my other croissants in the post-baking shuffle meaning that I've already eaten it or that I will in the next two days. Perhaps eating the tainted croissant will help me develop super-chef powers... or I am now a vampire.
The afternoon demonstration was on marinated raw salmon, poached meat, rice pilaf, and sweet yeast dough. The salmon was not to my liking at all - the texture made me gag a little - and the veal stew and rice were one of the more bland meals that we've tried so far, but chef's sugar tarts were quite nice. Bogen is a hard chef to follow in demonstrations, but he is an artist when it comes to plating and presentation.
Asian chef led our practicum that followed the class. We had only to do the veal stew and rice pilaf with more button mushrooms and those cursed pearl onions. My successful sauce streak ended with this class. While it was seasoned well and had a good flavor, I had made the fatal error of over-heating it on the stove and cooking the eggs in it, creating a sort of grainy texture.
On a happy note, I finally ran into the girl that had borrowed my chef's jacket on Monday. She looked almost as relieved as I was to return it. It actually did look clean and I could've used a fresh jacket after everything that I had put my uniforms through over the past three days, but some inkling of germaphobia still rested within me and it went home with the dirty clothes.
Thursday
After a crazy start to the week, I had the blessing of being able to sleep in on Thursday morning. Only one class was on the day's schedule, but at 12:30 we had to meet Chef Vaca for our basic cuisine mid-semester evaluation update. This one concerned me more than the pastry evaluation, but my score, though not great and only slightly better than the pastry evaluation, ended up being a little more than the class average. Actually, most students in my class were above average (another student informed me that I was ranked fifth out of eight), making me wonder if they were also factoring in the two girls who stopped coming to classes about four weeks ago. Whatever - I'll take it.
Chef Vaca had us again in the demonstration where he made a Flemish pie from leeks and stinky cheese (little French cuisine trivia: a "tarte" is a pie without a top crust while a "torte" is a pie with a top crust). He followed that with grilled tournedos cooked rare, medium, and well-done and a Béarnaise sauce (another thing that I've learned is that the "-aise" sauces are typically types of emulsions - mayonnaise, hollandaise, Béarnaise, etc.). As a special treat he made some incredible frozen mocha parfaits, just perfect for an uncomfortably warm classroom.
Friday
Our one class for Friday didn't start until 6:30 in the evening. I used the free time to give the apartment a good cleaning and to organize my budget spreadsheets for August (yes, the plural spreadsheets - I now have to keep one for US dollars and one for euros). I pulled up FaceTime with my mom later in the afternoon to bemoan my issues with a soon-to-expire library card (they extended my membership to the end of the year after I applied the, "If at first you don't succeed, keep contacting different people until one of them helps you" principle). Much to my surprise and pleasure, my sister and all six of her kids were visiting at the time, giving me the opportunity to chat with everyone. Have I mentioned how much I love FaceTime?
That evening the female Korean chef asked us to grill our tournedos in the three styles as chef had done - rare, medium, and well-done. She would then ask us which steak was which style before she cut into them to test. All of mine ended up being overcooked again despite the feeling that I had nailed it. The Béarnaise sauce was just okay but lacked enough herb flavor, but the fries were pretty good and I polished off all of them between the kitchen and my locker for dinner.
Saturday
Classes didn't start until 12:30 on Saturday so I slept in a little late and then pattered around the studio in my pajamas, poaching practice eggs for breakfast and washing the linens. Thus was my state when the doorbell rang at 9:00 AM. Peering through the peep-hole I saw that it was the mailman holding what I knew had to be the box of my winter shoes that my parents had shipped, and the French don't leave boxes at your door without a signature. I waited a second until I didn't hear the voice of other tenants in the hallway before quickly opening the door a crack, signing my name, grabbing the box, and slamming the door shut again. At least I'll have something to wear on my feet in a few weeks!
Saturday's demonstration and practicum centered on sautéed veal chops with, "grandmother-style" garnish (sautéed "bacon" lardons, button mushrooms, and potatoes and caramelized pearl onions). Chef Vaca also made a heavenly mussel soup and a type of strawberry shortcake - shortbread rolled with toasted pistachios and hazelnuts, then topped with layers of cream and strawberries and drizzled with caramel sauce and balsamic vinaigrette for a surprisingly good combination of flavors.
Chef Cotte was in our cuisine practicum that followed because he apparently fills in for both pastry and cuisine chefs who are on vacation. He began yelling right away, but we felt a little more comfortable with him after already surviving the croissant ordeal. The dish was "quick and easy" according to him and we should be finished by 5:00 PM - 90 minutes. Theoretically he was right - it should have been easy - but he went through a repeat of shouting "What did I say? Four.. Five times I tell you! You understand English, no?" in my ear. This time I was feeling more harried and replied with, "Sorry, chef - I don't understand your English!" He responded with a sort of slow-motion count-off on his fingers of what I was supposed to do, his wild eyes glaring at me.
When it came time to mix some yolks for my sauce thickener, I realized that only two eggs were left (I needed four). Normally the class assistant would have to get any missing ingredients, but chef sent me to find more (he might have thought that I was the assistant). I went next door where equally harried students just stared at me when I asked if they had extra eggs. Afraid that Chef Bogen was about to slaughter me for interrupting his class, I finally had to go three floors down to the basement kitchen. By the time that I returned my classmates were starting to plate their dishes, so I worked frenetically to catch up.
Chef Cotte wanted only two ovens on rather than all eight of ours to keep the room from getting too warm, and I had three saucepans to reheat in the oven. The only preheated one available to me was across the room and I could fit in only two pots at a time. Switching out pots I made the all-too common mistake of grabbing the handle of one of the saucepans that I had just pulled from the oven to carry back to the dishwasher after I had emptied its contents into another pan. I got about one step from the oven when my brain communicated to my hand that the handle was scorching hot and I sent the pan clattering across the floor. Running cold water over my hand did little to help because the temperature from the faucet was tepid at best. I grabbed some ice from the dishwashing room and attempted to hold it over my blistering palm while trying to begin my plating.
A minute later, Cotte, noticing that I was acting strangely, said, "What's the matter with you?" I held up my hand and said, "I burned myself," and, much to my horror, I felt tears welling up in my eyes. He stared at me for a second and then yelled, "Do you want me to help you? DO YOU WANT ME TO HELP YOU?!?" I mustered a pathetic "Oui, chef," before the tears started spilling down my face.
By now the whole class was watching, so he yelled for someone to bring him vinegar and butter, then yelled at someone because they actually brought him butter ("I asked for vinegar! Why you bring butter?"). He poured the vinegar over my hand before soaking a paper towel and wrapping up my palm. It eased the pain for a few seconds and I was actually laughing at him and myself, but as most women will understand, once the waterworks started I couldn't turn them off... for the rest of the evening. It was as if the lack of tears over the past two months culminated into some hormonal explosion and the hand injury was just a trigger mechanism.
I finished plating my meal and told the chef that it was ready, then I stood sniffling and wiping my eyes and nose with the towel around my hand as Cotte critiqued my dish. The veal chop was cooked well, but the potatoes were too crispy and, not surprisingly the sauce was cold and not reduced enough. Chef gave me some final advice to put more vinegar on my hand when I got home, then he patted me on the back and said something like, "You're a good person." I sniffled my way through boxing up my leftovers and cleaning my area. Everyone had left by the time that I finished, so I grabbed my boxes to leave... and dropped them, dumping the grand-mère garnish all over the floor (at least the lid to the veal chop stayed on).
For a moment I just stared at that beautiful garnish that I never got to taste and had so looked forward to eating when I got home, and then I did one of those semi-hysterical laughs, then I cleaned up the floor. My classmates were already changed and sitting around a table in the winter garden when I did the walk of shame past them, knowing full well that they would later tell the story to others about "the old lady in our class who cried." It was pouring rain as as I left but its coolness felt almost like a blessing after the last three hours despite my soaked flats trying to slip off of my feet for the mile-long walk home. That night I nursed my wound with more vinegar and some Solarcaine that I didn't even realize I had packed, and by bedtime my hand hardly hurt and my tears had subsided.
Sunday
On Sunday morning I had the privilege of talking to Fred and Ruth Coleman who had been conducting a music seminar at the church all week. Fred has been the music director and Ruth has been the pianist at my church in South Carolina for the past eight years, yet it was the first time that I had ever actually met them (my family is back-row organ siders while the Colemans stay closer to the piano, obviously). It reminded me of meeting Bob Jones, Jr. - despite attending Bob Jones from K5 through college, our first personal introduction didn't occur until after graduation when I was teaching at the Logos school in Cyprus and he came to visit his old friend who had helped found the school.
This next week promises to be a little more relaxed with fewer hours in the practicums, but we begin written exams on Thursday. Those tests shouldn't be too difficult, but hopefully I sufficiently drained all of my tear ducts and re-stabilized my emotions enough to survive the practical exams when they begin in two weeks. I don't think that I like this new, unpredictable crying thing.
Chef Vaca led a demonstration on roasting and braising red meats and more vegetable turning. The braised beef was actually quite nice - more like tri-tip - but the roasted sirloin was a bit too close to it's pre-deceased form for my taste. The French have only four cooking levels for meat: bleu (raw; lit. "blue"), saignant (rare; lit. "bleeding"), à point (not exactly medium, but more like "just right"), and bien cuit (well-done). Most Americans, however, would consider the French version of "well-done" to be closer to medium or even medium rare. The French would consider the American version of "well-done" to be... sacrilegious.
 |
| Roasted sirloin cooked saignant with puréed potatoes; Braised beef |
 |
| My rare sirloin, or the French version of medium-well to well-done |
The next event of the day was simply listed as "Stag" on our calendars, and we soon discovered that it was an information session about internships after/if we get all three certificates (basic, intermediate, and superior). In the intermediate level we will submit our applications and in the superior level the chefs will decide who will qualify based on their performance and proficiency in the French language. Internships last for two months after graduation and Grand Diplome students can choose cuisine, pastry, or both.
Interns may be working 16-hour days for six days a week, usually doing the most grueling jobs until they can prove themselves. They aren't paid anything and have to be able to cover their own living expenses. Employers will sometimes treat them like dirt, taking advantage of the free employees who have little repercussion. Of course, most internships are in Paris and all of them are only in France.
Before coming to Le Cordon Bleu I had tossed around the idea of trying for the internship but never really gave it serious consideration. As I sat in that meeting, though, I was struck with the most overwhelming desire to do it - both in cuisine and pastry - in spite of the knowledge that it would probably be some of the hardest months of my life. The experience would open up so many more doors than a simple little diploma. My desire goes beyond just a resumé enhancer, though - working in a Paris kitchen and/or pastry shop for two months would boost my confidence in starting a career back home. It has become a part of my daily prayers.
I didn't get my jacket back.
Tuesday
It was a twelve-hour class day, but nine of those hours were in demonstrations. The first six were solely focused on making croissant and brioche dough. Both breads require rising time, so the first three hours covered dough preparation while the second three hours involved shaping and baking the pastries.
From the croissant dough Chef Pascal was able to make croissants, pain au chocolat, apricot pastries, and cherry pinwheels. From the brioche dough he made multiple sizes and variations of bread as well as raisin buns. As if that weren't enough, he took all of the dough scraps, rolled them out in sugar, and baked them in a large pan. Our "sample" plates were amazing.
 |
| Croissants, pain au chocolat, apricot pastries, cherry pinwheels, variations of brioche, and raisin buns |
The afternoon and evening classes consisted primarily of the demonstration and practicum for cooking the beef bourguignon. Because we had already done most of the meat preparation the previous day, we dedicated the majority of our time to turning potatoes, peeling pearl onions, stemming button mushrooms, and cutting bread into croutons. I've come to terms with turning vegetables - my technique could use plenty of improvement but they're less terrifying - and tiny mushrooms are a pain but go quickly; however, the pearl onions are my newest nemesis. Peeling one onion takes 30 to 60 seconds because they have to be perfect, so when I have to do ten to twenty onions, it turns into a huge ordeal that can make or break the whole class.
Despite the tediousness of the onions, I was keeping on track with the rest of the class until my sauce started dragging me down. For one thing, I had added too much water and not enough flour during the braising and the reduction was taking forever, but it also had a sort of sour or rancid flavor as it reduced. I noticed a student next to me using sugar to solve the flavor issue and I followed her lead. In an attempt to speed me up so that he could go home, Filipino chef came by and started adding butter to finish my sauce. Finally I was able to plate my dish and watched anxiously as the chef tasted everything. The meat was good and the vegetables were cooked well, but he just nodded when he tasted the sauce. Looking up he addressed the rest of the room with, "This is how I want your sauce to be. Everyone come taste it!" My success again felt like a bit of a fluke, but I was inwardly beaming.
Still no chef's jacket...
Wednesday
The day was sort of a reverse of Tuesday with nine hours of practicums and three hours of demonstration. The first six hours were in the kitchen making our croissant and brioche pastries with Chef Cotte. It was our first practicum with Cotte although his name was already familiar to everyone ("notorious" might be a better word). Cotte is a big man who likes to shout a lot as he stares wide-eyed at us through his glasses. It's not necessarily scary shouting because maybe half the time he is being funny, although I'm never 100% certain when that is his intention. He's also known to break frequently into "I like to move it, move it!"
I was the pastry class assistant along with one of the boys, which meant that chef yelled at us a lot more. During something that I was apparently doing wrong, chef stood next to me hollering in my ear, "What did I say? Four, five times I tell you this!" My problem is that even when the chef's tell us to do something in English, it's so broken that I don't understand or worse, I misunderstand, but I can't exactly explain it to the chef that way. Instead I just replied with "Sorry, chef - I misunderstoood. Oui chef." But then he gave me a friendly slap me on the shoulder which made me think that he wasn't actually angry.
In the second half of class when we began to form our dough, chef came by to correct the way that I was rolling my croissants. A bright streak of blood suddenly appeared on my dough. Chef looked at his cut finger, cursed, and continued to roll my croissant, leaving another spot or two of blood before plopping it on the tray. Removing it from the tray seemed like a bad idea with him watching, and it got mixed with my other croissants in the post-baking shuffle meaning that I've already eaten it or that I will in the next two days. Perhaps eating the tainted croissant will help me develop super-chef powers... or I am now a vampire.
The afternoon demonstration was on marinated raw salmon, poached meat, rice pilaf, and sweet yeast dough. The salmon was not to my liking at all - the texture made me gag a little - and the veal stew and rice were one of the more bland meals that we've tried so far, but chef's sugar tarts were quite nice. Bogen is a hard chef to follow in demonstrations, but he is an artist when it comes to plating and presentation.
 |
| Veal Stew & rice pilaf; marinated salmon; sugar tart in a "nest" made from caramelized sugar strands |
Asian chef led our practicum that followed the class. We had only to do the veal stew and rice pilaf with more button mushrooms and those cursed pearl onions. My successful sauce streak ended with this class. While it was seasoned well and had a good flavor, I had made the fatal error of over-heating it on the stove and cooking the eggs in it, creating a sort of grainy texture.
On a happy note, I finally ran into the girl that had borrowed my chef's jacket on Monday. She looked almost as relieved as I was to return it. It actually did look clean and I could've used a fresh jacket after everything that I had put my uniforms through over the past three days, but some inkling of germaphobia still rested within me and it went home with the dirty clothes.
Thursday
After a crazy start to the week, I had the blessing of being able to sleep in on Thursday morning. Only one class was on the day's schedule, but at 12:30 we had to meet Chef Vaca for our basic cuisine mid-semester evaluation update. This one concerned me more than the pastry evaluation, but my score, though not great and only slightly better than the pastry evaluation, ended up being a little more than the class average. Actually, most students in my class were above average (another student informed me that I was ranked fifth out of eight), making me wonder if they were also factoring in the two girls who stopped coming to classes about four weeks ago. Whatever - I'll take it.
Chef Vaca had us again in the demonstration where he made a Flemish pie from leeks and stinky cheese (little French cuisine trivia: a "tarte" is a pie without a top crust while a "torte" is a pie with a top crust). He followed that with grilled tournedos cooked rare, medium, and well-done and a Béarnaise sauce (another thing that I've learned is that the "-aise" sauces are typically types of emulsions - mayonnaise, hollandaise, Béarnaise, etc.). As a special treat he made some incredible frozen mocha parfaits, just perfect for an uncomfortably warm classroom.
 |
| Grilled tournedos with Béarnaise sauce, turned artichokes, and potatoes pont-neuf; Flemish pie; frozen mocha parfait |
Friday
Our one class for Friday didn't start until 6:30 in the evening. I used the free time to give the apartment a good cleaning and to organize my budget spreadsheets for August (yes, the plural spreadsheets - I now have to keep one for US dollars and one for euros). I pulled up FaceTime with my mom later in the afternoon to bemoan my issues with a soon-to-expire library card (they extended my membership to the end of the year after I applied the, "If at first you don't succeed, keep contacting different people until one of them helps you" principle). Much to my surprise and pleasure, my sister and all six of her kids were visiting at the time, giving me the opportunity to chat with everyone. Have I mentioned how much I love FaceTime?
That evening the female Korean chef asked us to grill our tournedos in the three styles as chef had done - rare, medium, and well-done. She would then ask us which steak was which style before she cut into them to test. All of mine ended up being overcooked again despite the feeling that I had nailed it. The Béarnaise sauce was just okay but lacked enough herb flavor, but the fries were pretty good and I polished off all of them between the kitchen and my locker for dinner.
Saturday
Classes didn't start until 12:30 on Saturday so I slept in a little late and then pattered around the studio in my pajamas, poaching practice eggs for breakfast and washing the linens. Thus was my state when the doorbell rang at 9:00 AM. Peering through the peep-hole I saw that it was the mailman holding what I knew had to be the box of my winter shoes that my parents had shipped, and the French don't leave boxes at your door without a signature. I waited a second until I didn't hear the voice of other tenants in the hallway before quickly opening the door a crack, signing my name, grabbing the box, and slamming the door shut again. At least I'll have something to wear on my feet in a few weeks!
Saturday's demonstration and practicum centered on sautéed veal chops with, "grandmother-style" garnish (sautéed "bacon" lardons, button mushrooms, and potatoes and caramelized pearl onions). Chef Vaca also made a heavenly mussel soup and a type of strawberry shortcake - shortbread rolled with toasted pistachios and hazelnuts, then topped with layers of cream and strawberries and drizzled with caramel sauce and balsamic vinaigrette for a surprisingly good combination of flavors.
 |
| Sautéed veal chop with grand-mère garnish; mussel soup; strawberry shortcake |
Chef Cotte was in our cuisine practicum that followed because he apparently fills in for both pastry and cuisine chefs who are on vacation. He began yelling right away, but we felt a little more comfortable with him after already surviving the croissant ordeal. The dish was "quick and easy" according to him and we should be finished by 5:00 PM - 90 minutes. Theoretically he was right - it should have been easy - but he went through a repeat of shouting "What did I say? Four.. Five times I tell you! You understand English, no?" in my ear. This time I was feeling more harried and replied with, "Sorry, chef - I don't understand your English!" He responded with a sort of slow-motion count-off on his fingers of what I was supposed to do, his wild eyes glaring at me.
When it came time to mix some yolks for my sauce thickener, I realized that only two eggs were left (I needed four). Normally the class assistant would have to get any missing ingredients, but chef sent me to find more (he might have thought that I was the assistant). I went next door where equally harried students just stared at me when I asked if they had extra eggs. Afraid that Chef Bogen was about to slaughter me for interrupting his class, I finally had to go three floors down to the basement kitchen. By the time that I returned my classmates were starting to plate their dishes, so I worked frenetically to catch up.
Chef Cotte wanted only two ovens on rather than all eight of ours to keep the room from getting too warm, and I had three saucepans to reheat in the oven. The only preheated one available to me was across the room and I could fit in only two pots at a time. Switching out pots I made the all-too common mistake of grabbing the handle of one of the saucepans that I had just pulled from the oven to carry back to the dishwasher after I had emptied its contents into another pan. I got about one step from the oven when my brain communicated to my hand that the handle was scorching hot and I sent the pan clattering across the floor. Running cold water over my hand did little to help because the temperature from the faucet was tepid at best. I grabbed some ice from the dishwashing room and attempted to hold it over my blistering palm while trying to begin my plating.
A minute later, Cotte, noticing that I was acting strangely, said, "What's the matter with you?" I held up my hand and said, "I burned myself," and, much to my horror, I felt tears welling up in my eyes. He stared at me for a second and then yelled, "Do you want me to help you? DO YOU WANT ME TO HELP YOU?!?" I mustered a pathetic "Oui, chef," before the tears started spilling down my face.
By now the whole class was watching, so he yelled for someone to bring him vinegar and butter, then yelled at someone because they actually brought him butter ("I asked for vinegar! Why you bring butter?"). He poured the vinegar over my hand before soaking a paper towel and wrapping up my palm. It eased the pain for a few seconds and I was actually laughing at him and myself, but as most women will understand, once the waterworks started I couldn't turn them off... for the rest of the evening. It was as if the lack of tears over the past two months culminated into some hormonal explosion and the hand injury was just a trigger mechanism.
I finished plating my meal and told the chef that it was ready, then I stood sniffling and wiping my eyes and nose with the towel around my hand as Cotte critiqued my dish. The veal chop was cooked well, but the potatoes were too crispy and, not surprisingly the sauce was cold and not reduced enough. Chef gave me some final advice to put more vinegar on my hand when I got home, then he patted me on the back and said something like, "You're a good person." I sniffled my way through boxing up my leftovers and cleaning my area. Everyone had left by the time that I finished, so I grabbed my boxes to leave... and dropped them, dumping the grand-mère garnish all over the floor (at least the lid to the veal chop stayed on).
For a moment I just stared at that beautiful garnish that I never got to taste and had so looked forward to eating when I got home, and then I did one of those semi-hysterical laughs, then I cleaned up the floor. My classmates were already changed and sitting around a table in the winter garden when I did the walk of shame past them, knowing full well that they would later tell the story to others about "the old lady in our class who cried." It was pouring rain as as I left but its coolness felt almost like a blessing after the last three hours despite my soaked flats trying to slip off of my feet for the mile-long walk home. That night I nursed my wound with more vinegar and some Solarcaine that I didn't even realize I had packed, and by bedtime my hand hardly hurt and my tears had subsided.
Sunday
On Sunday morning I had the privilege of talking to Fred and Ruth Coleman who had been conducting a music seminar at the church all week. Fred has been the music director and Ruth has been the pianist at my church in South Carolina for the past eight years, yet it was the first time that I had ever actually met them (my family is back-row organ siders while the Colemans stay closer to the piano, obviously). It reminded me of meeting Bob Jones, Jr. - despite attending Bob Jones from K5 through college, our first personal introduction didn't occur until after graduation when I was teaching at the Logos school in Cyprus and he came to visit his old friend who had helped found the school.
This next week promises to be a little more relaxed with fewer hours in the practicums, but we begin written exams on Thursday. Those tests shouldn't be too difficult, but hopefully I sufficiently drained all of my tear ducts and re-stabilized my emotions enough to survive the practical exams when they begin in two weeks. I don't think that I like this new, unpredictable crying thing.
What a packed week! It's almost impossible to comprehend this life of yours--phew! I'm exhausted just reading about it.
ReplyDeleteI can't wait for you to come home and see you air-kissing at church! :-) What fun! (And what will your hair look like? Who knows?) At a restaurant, I see you ordering raw meat with a side of butter. (Is that even on the menu?)
"You're a good person"--I'd substitute the adjective amazing there, but it's a start, Chef.
And your hand? I found myself struggling to see the screen as I started tearing up: I am so sorry! I'm glad Chef helped you--AND I'm thrilled that you found that medicine in your belongings. God provides all we need--even before we need it. Wonderful answer to prayer!
Your world is fascinating, and you are courageous. Thank you for providing yet another glimpse into this astonishing adventure you're undertaking. I'm wholeheartedly enjoying every moment.
Hi! I found out about your blog from our mutual friend Beth. I have to admit I've been faithfully reading your blog since I found out about it. I love your detailed descriptions of your experiences. I had to comment when I saw that you were a "back row organ-sider" at HP. I was too for 6 years! I moved in 2012 and have been attending a different church, but I am quite familiar with that organ side. Thanks for another great post. Hope everything continues to go well for you!
ReplyDeleteHow interesting! I probably saw you some at HP, then. :) Thank YOU for the kind comments. :)
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