Basic Week Nine

Summer officially has about one month left, but all of the back-to-school hubbub on top of the mildly cool Paris weather makes it seem over.  Speaking of back-to-school, two things that you won't find in any section of school supplies in French stores are college-ruled notebook paper and pencils.  Instead, students take their notes on something akin to graph paper (because who doesn't want vertical lines running through all of their writing?) and use only pens (pencil is hard to read, particularly on graph paper, and they provide students an excuse to make errors).

Anyhow, this winding down of summer leaves me feeling a bit nostalgic or like something important has passed me by, and at times I even find myself in tears while browsing through such sites as Facebook.  Don't misunderstand me - I love seeing the photos of everyone's summer fun, but they do make me get a little lump in my throat.  It's ironic because I hate to be hot and sweaty and I spend most summers greatly anticipating the fall, but I've always loved living in a city that has four seasons.  One often appreciates simple pleasures only when they are no longer available, such as:

• Cookouts.  Outdoor grilling is forbidden in France, remember?  Hamburgers, hot dogs, s'mores, potato salad, coleslaw, watermelon, chips, sweet tea, lemonade - they're all better when eaten outside while sitting on a lawn chair and trying to balance a flimsy paper plate and Dixie cup on your knees as you shoo away the flies.  Better yet is the time spent just idly chatting in the shade as you watch the kids, admirably resilient to the heat and humidity, endlessly playing until the sun goes down and the fireflies light up the night to a chorus of crickets, cicadas, and bullfrogs.  [Which reminds me: After I previously bemoaned  the lack of fireflies here, a friend sent me a video of her yard at night with the fireflies and evening "songs," and I watched it probably a dozen times.  As I showed it to a British girl at school who had never heard of fireflies, she asked, "What's all that noise?  How do you sleep through that?" I could only answer with, "How do you sleep without it?"]
• Pools, lakes, beaches, and water parks. I may not love to swim but nothing beats the smell of coconut sunscreen lotion or the feeling of plunging into cool water just as you feel your body reach its melting point.  Tubing lazily through Helen, Georgia, taking long rides on a pontoon boat, watching the nieces and nephews doing underwater handstands, cannonballs, Marco-Polo, and all of the stuff that you enjoyed as a kid, catching that first salty, fishy whiff in the air as you approach the beach, being mesmerized by your feet sinking deep into the sand as the ocean waves lap around your legs, and taking the best nap ever after your post-swim shower in a room cooled by a glorious invention known as "air conditioning" - these are a few of my favorite things.
• Baseball.  True, I spend maybe 10% of my time watching the game (if it's a really good one) and the rest of my time chatting with friends or buying the obligatory hot dog and ice cream in a baseball cap bowl (or in more recent years it was Chick-fil-A Ice Dream in a cup with chocolate syrup), but I would always snap to attention for "The Star-Spangled Banner," "Sweet Caroline," and, of course, "Y-M-C-A."  Staying until the end of a game was the exception, not the rule, because who goes for the game?
• Family vacation.  Every summer of my life included at least one big trip either with family or to see family, and most often it included both.  Sure, eight to twenty-four hours straight in a car or a week in a hotel or cabin with your loved ones can have its challenges, but I wouldn't trade the memories that each of those times brings for anything.

Monday

My second "opportunity" as a basic cuisine class assistant was this week.  My first week we had only two practicums, but this week we had five, with four of them being at 8:30 in the morning.  Being an assistant isn't rocket science, but it does require that you come to class 20 minutes early to make sure that all of the ingredients are ready, running out of class if something is missing or runs out, and staying afterwards to make sure that the room is clean and the leftovers are put away.  Not a big deal, of course, because I'm always the last one out anyhow, but those interruptions tend to make me... last-er.

We began our week bright and early Monday morning in a cuisine practicum with a substitute chef, Chef Strill, who had recently retired after 12 years of teaching at Le Cordon Bleu but who was willing to step in for the many other chefs still on vacation.  He was the gentlest, sweetest, most patient chef that we had to date, and I instantly liked him and regretted that we'd have him for only a short period of time.  What I haven't figured out is if I do better with chefs that I like more, or if I like chefs more when I do better; nonetheless my pork medallions, mustard sauce, and pommes Dauphines all turned out well - for once my meat was cooked just right (although leaving pork with pink in it went against everything that I had ever learned).

Slightly pink pork, pommes Dauphine, and mustard sauce

That afternoon Chef Strill led the demonstration on cutting and sautéeing chicken, making homemade gnocchi, and poaching fruit.  Perhaps it's because the only "vegetables" that we ever make seem to be potatoes, but the side of Italian-style vegetables containing zucchini, eggplant, red peppers, and onions was probably my favorite dish that we've made so far.  Now if they could just discover broccoli...

Sautéed tarragon chicken with Italian-style vegetables;
gnocchi; Italian meringue with poached fruit

Because I was free after 3:30 and I would be in classes from 8:30 AM until 9:30 PM for the next two days, I took the rest of the afternoon to do a little necessary shopping up in the ninth arrondissement.  While there I passed a store that caught my eye, Maison du Miel ("House of Honey").  Any store with pretty little jars lining every shelf and display window will catch my eye.  Several months ago I listened to my mom and aunts talk about their favorite types of honey (e.g., clover vs. orange blossom), but up to that point I thought that all honeys were created equal, or at least tasted the same.   Boy, was I wrong - one taste of the lavender honey and I wasn't sure that I could ever go back to old grocery store versions again.  To top it off, the very friendly cashier gave me a piece of honey candy as I checked out - a hard outside that dissolved into a soft, sweet center.  Oh, la la!

Lavender honey, just perfect atop leftover brioche

Tuesday

The day began with Chef Strill again in the cuisine practicum.  My tarragon chicken needed to be a little crispier and the Italian vegetables were okay, but I was back to the old problem of a poorly reduced sauce.  Being the nice man that he was, Strill just smiled and said, "But not too bad!"  Our basic cuisine written exam was at 12:30 so I used my lunch hour to eat some of the not-too-bad meal while I studied.

This exam felt a little easier than the pastry written exam, although I still found myself scratching my head on several questions such as "With what meat would you associate a Bordelaise sauce?"  I can't complain about the written tests, though, because they are translated in both French and English which means that they have to be a million times harder for the Asian students and other nationalities.  Even with my French language background I'm not sure that I could have succeeded if the tests had been only in French.

Chef Vaca led the 3:30 demonstration on hot fish terrine, scrambled eggs, and Bavarian cream.  While terrines are growing on me, fish terrines are still somewhat repulsive.  What sane person would come up with the idea of making a mousse out of fish?  Except for the dessert, this demonstration was probably the least appetizing (although I did come away with some good egg-scrambling techniques).

Hot fish terrine; Scrambled eggs & smoked salmon; Bavarian cream

That evening we made the Pithiviers (Three Kings' Cake) and Sacristains (twists made from leftover puff pastry dough) from Friday's demonstration.  Puff pastries are not particularly difficult, but they do require that the dough and butter stay at just the right temperature of coolness.  At home this wouldn't be a problem - one could make the dough and do a turn or two, chill it for a few hours, come back and do another turn or two, chill it again for a couple of hours or overnight, and then roll out the pastry.  In the span of a class period, though, where your pastry has to be in the oven within an hour and you're working in a warm kitchen, it's almost impossible.  Somehow everyone's cake turned out okay, though, and Chef Tranchant seemed pleased overall.

Chef Tranchant insists that our final products be put in a straight line;
my Pithiviers and Sacristains

Wednesday

Morning came too soon, and it was definitely too early in the day to be making fish terrines.  The practicum seemed like it would be easy because it was our only dish (aside from the accompanying sauce).  The Istanbul chef showed up, though, and I went into automatic "uh-oh" mode.  He's a yeller, but unlike Chef Cotte he's not the makes-you-laugh kind of yeller because he never cracks a smile.  His face is perpetually a dark shade of red that makes him appear constantly angry (although it does tend to go purple when he gets really mad), and his eyes are deeply bloodshot, like his whole head is about to explode.  I can't say that I'm sorry that he'll be with us for only a month.

Because I took care of sending up the food from the basement, the other class assistant took over the job of dividing the spinach leaves for lining the terrine into seven bowls, which would have been fine... except that we had eight students.  I only discovered the mistake because I was the eighth person to reach the point where we needed the spinach.  Feeling bad about his error, the assistant grabbed a bowl and walked around the counter, grabbing spinach from everyone else's bowls despite some protests (practicums can bring out a lot of possessiveness).  Still, my bowl ended up containing just a pithy amount of spinach and few leaves large enough to line a mold well.

Chef was actually understanding about the lack of spinach and told me to continue on with what I had.  For one rare moment we even had some downtime in our cuisine class as we waited for our terrines to finish baking and the atmosphere was almost relaxed.  I finished my sauce, got my plate warmed and cleaned, organized my tools to be able to plate immediately, and waited, happy not to be rushing for once. Finally students began removing their terrines from their ovens and molds for the final presentation.  Mine was the last to finish but I tested it for doneness and all seemed well... until I flipped it out of the mold.

The contents of the mold splayed across my cutting board, a mound of mushy white fish mousse with the two strips of salmon jiggling sadly on top.  I considered trying to plate it anyhow, perhaps make my own genius invention and call it "hot fish pudding," but gave up the idea after about one second of contemplation.  Chef was evaluating another plate and had not yet noticed me although the other students were saying helpful things like, "Oh, no!" and "What did you do?"  One girl whose plate had already been evaluated did whisper, "Would you like to use my terrine? He's going to fail you!"  I was touched by the gesture although it felt slightly unethical so I turned her down (not that I didn't consider it for a second, although I wasn't sure how I would hide the hideous mass covering my cutting board).  I put my hot, clean plate back in the cabinet and said, "Um, Chef?  I'm ready."

Istanbul chef was pretty calm about the whole thing and still tasted it and my sauce.  He decided that the problem was probably that I hadn't used enough egg whites.  He ended the class congratulating everyone on successful terrines ("... with the exception of one," pointing in my direction) and dropping the warning to "respect the recipe."  Normally that rule applies only to pastry - using exact measurements and ingredients - but this dish was an exception in cuisine.  Except that I had respected the recipe, measuring out the whites to the exact milliliter.  Often I have the problem of respecting the recipe too much in cuisine (I feel like there's a Rodney Dangerfield punchline in here somewhere).

The other class assistant had put away the leftover food in the basement kitchen after class for the past couple of days because he always finished first, but Istanbul chef wouldn't let anyone leave the class early; therefore, I volunteered to put the food away.  The usual basement kitchen chef, the Filipino one, directed me just to set the bowl of fish and salmon in the fridge when I asked what to do with it.  Walking into the fridge, I unloaded the butter, egg whites, fish, and leftover herbs like we always do and turned to leave when Chef Bogen walked in (the chef who lectured me on dish rags and how to properly store my knife).  He began frenetically grabbing and dropping items on the shelf saying, "You need to organize this, wrap the herbs properly, and clean, wrap and label the fish.  Just because you didn't make the mess doesn't mean you should ignore it."  I was at a loss for words for a moment, not realizing that there was a mess to begin with - it looked exactly like it always did.

I brought the fish and herbs out, uncertain of what I should do with them.  He grabbed some parsley, shaking it in my face and saying, "See? You wrap the top with the ends exposed and put them in the water."  Simple enough.  I then looked for a place to wrap fish that wasn't in the way of the people preparing lunch for the staff.  Finally finding an empty counter, I pulled out some plastic wrap before Bogen popped back in, saying, "Move - I'm working in that space."  Carrying the fish around on the cling wrap I wandered awkwardly around the kitchen, looking for another open space that wasn't occupied by people preparing lunch for the staff.  My final location was atop a cardboard box, or rather inside the box because it didn't have a lid.  Having succeeded in wrapping the fish and herbs properly, I walked back into the fridge and studied the shelves, trying once again to guess what Bogen wanted me to do.  Finally I arranged all of the blocks of butter and bottles of egg whites into perfectly neat and stacked rows that would be decimated before the 12:30 practicums began and snuck out of the basement, avoiding running into Bogen again after having broken some record for the longest class assistant post-practicum duty ever.

Disgruntled, I spent my lunch hour reading rather than eating (my fish terrine was in the trash) before heading to Chef Vaca's demonstration on filleting and sautéeing sea bream, braising guinea fowl, and deep-frying puff pastry (yes, please!).  He made the guinea fowl into some sort of wonderful concoction layered with sausage, "bacon," carrots, onions, and cabbage - nice comfort food after a rough morning.

Sea bream fillets with fennel; guinea fowl; deep-fried pear puffs

The pastry demonstration afterwards was with Chef Tranchant.  He made bûche pistache-chocolat, a Christmas "log" pistachio sponge cake with layers of chocolate ganache and a hard chocolate coating, followed by a Genoa cake, an almond sponge cake covered in almonds (what else?) and powdered sugar for a sort of Christmas in August feel.

Bûches; Genoa cakes

Practicum with Tranchant followed immediately afterwards and our only assignment was to make the bûche.  Still on a roll from the morning's cuisine practicum, I somehow lost "respect" for this recipe and ended up running out of ganache for my cake layers, and I still needed some extra reserved for the decorations (I suspect that I accidentally used the measurements for the imbibing syrup which were less than half those of the ganache). It didn't seem like a big deal, though - I would just have thin layers and I could borrow some ganache for the decorations from students who had used the correct measurements.  I carefully slid a couple of spatulas under my log to take it to the chocolate coating station set up in the middle of the counter... and promptly dropped it on the floor.

I let out a sort of scream that caused several students to jump and Tranchant to raise an eyebrow.  Miraculously my cake appeared undamaged (we had them in the freezer prior to coating to firm them up), so after a moment of reflection (my internal conversation went something like this: "Am I supposed to throw it out?  Trim some edges? Start over?  I can't lose another recipe today... not on my watch!") I reached down, picked it up off of the floor, and continued to the chocolate station (oh, yes I did!).  It looked perfect with the smooth coating covering it, so once again using my two spatulas, I carefully picked it up off of the wire rack and swiveled to place it on the presentation board.

Poor Yin-Li.  She had a long day as well and had the misfortune of being situated next to the very busy chocolate station, so I couldn't get mad when she simultaneously backed up into me, knocking my cake off of the spatulas and top-side down onto the counter.  I managed not to scream this time and soon a couple of other girls were helping me get the cake back onto the coating rack to add some additional coverage before Chef Tranchant noticed.  Meanwhile, Yin-Li was apologizing profusely and awkwardly flailing her arms in an attempt to help me as I tried to reassure that it was okay.

Working to get all of our bûches in a row; my (slightly soiled) bûche

And it was - my cake looked and tasted decent in the end (yes, I ate it after it fell on the floor.  Don't judge - see previous posts about lowered hygiene standards).  I'll probably never know how Tranchant evaluated me unless they give us a breakdown of our final grade, but I actually found the class quite enjoyable. We have a good camaraderie in our group, and although Tranchant can be hard to read, I like him a lot and, as it turns out, he has a sense of humor.

Jade, M.J., Tranchant, and me; Tranchant decided to switch roles

Thursday

The female Korean chef was in charge of our fourth 8:30 AM cuisine practicum that week.  I went into class feeling good about this one because I had typed up and reviewed all of my directions the night before and printed them out at school that morning.  It turned out to be an effort in futility, but at least it revealed that my cuisine struggles aren't simply a result of disorganization.  It wasn't the worst practicum ever (and a far cry from the day before), but I still finished last, my fish was overcooked, and my sauce had too much cream (at least my fennel was done well).

Packing up my stuff after class I tapped my pocket to feel for my little flash drive that I had used to print out my recipe.  The patting became a little more frantic when I didn't find it and I realized that I must have left it in the USB port.  Running down to the computer lab I blanched when I noticed that it was no longer in the computer, so I bee-lined downstairs to the receptionist desk to ask if anyone had turned it in.  Nobody had.

As I began remembering everything that was on it a sick feeling grew in the pit of my stomach and my palms began to sweat - photocopies of my driver's license and passport, all of the registration documents and letters for the school, several years of tax returns, a list of my passwords to things such as email, bank, and credit card accounts, and photos - years and years of photos.  I spent the rest of my lunch hour on the school's agonizingly slow computer, changing as many passwords as I could think of, starting with the most detrimental ones first.

The time came to go to my last class of the day.  I sat through Istanbul chef's demonstration on goat cheese and vinaigrette salad, wiener schnitzel, homemade pasta with tomato concassée, and chocolate and orange mousse, but I could hardly concentrate as my mind churned over everything else that might be on that flash drive.  It wasn't backed up because it was my back up from the last computer that I got rid of.  For a moment I thought that I was going to get physically sick and all that I wanted to do was run home to continue securing all of my online accounts.

Still had the presence of mind to take a photo: Wiener schitzel with pasta and
tomato concassée, goat cheese salad, chocolate mousse, and orange salad

That is exactly what I did as soon as class dismissed.  It was, thankfully, the last class of the day, so after checking the computer lab and receptionist desk one last time, I ran home and spent the next two hours changing every password that I knew was on the flash drive and several that probably were not. I began to calm down a little when I finished and felt that nothing had been compromised yet, but I spent the rest of the evening mourning the loss of my photos and praying that somehow I could recover everything.

Friday

Friday was a French bank holiday which meant that we had no classes.  Because I stayed up so late the night before I slept in late and woke up surprisingly refreshed.  A heavy and somewhat ominous feeling that comes with the knowledge that one's privacy has been totally violated still hung over my head, but I decided that worrying about it wasn't going to change anything.  Instead I washed and ironed all of my uniforms and organized more recipes in preparation for final exams next week.

Saturday

Upon arriving at school that morning I once again checked at the receptionist desk and in the computer lab, hoping that someone intended to turn it in for me but simply forgot, perhaps remembering when he or she changed clothes and checked the pockets.  Nothing turned up and I headed to my pasty demonstration where Chef Tranchant made Alhambra for us, a chocolate cake with chocolate ganache layers and a chocolate coating. He used the leftover cake batter and ganache to make a tasty strawberry and raspberry concoction and we had our second lesson on decorative roses.  I set a new personal goal for Monday's practicum to 1) master the marzipan rose and 2) keep my cake off of the ground.

Alhambra; Chef's own invention

We rounded out the week with our fifth cuisine practicum, making the wiener schnitzel, pasta, and tomato concassée with Asian chef.  It was our last time with him which was kind of sad, but he's moving on to become the head chef at a restaurant in Paris.  It was also my last day as the class assistant, a responsibility that I was more than happy to give up.  I loved this dish in theory but struggled with the pasta.  We didn't use the pasta machine as we learned in the demonstration, but instead we rolled it and sliced it all out by hand.  The concept was simple enough - just roll the dough very thin, roll the ends inward like a scroll, slice the "scroll," and unroll the pasta noodles... except that my noodles wouldn't unroll - they just remained stuck together, breaking off as I attempted to unravel them.  Eventually I was painstakingly unrolling one noodle at a time until I had just enough to make one plate serving. I threw the rest of my dough in the trash. 

The tomato concassée had too much tomato paste and the noodles were a bit of a mess, but one out of two of my veal chops turned out okay.  Actually, I had it for a late lunch when I got home and thought that it was quite a tasty dish, technicalities aside.

Sunday

It was a day for reflection after church this morning (well, reflection and washing my bed linens because I didn't have time yesterday). The last full week of classes before exams this semester hit like a freight train.  During some of the rougher patches (and even in the smoother ones) I found myself questioning whether I'm ready to hit repeat in a couple of weeks only at a more intense level - whether I'll even be able to handle the greater challenges ahead.  Even if the final exams don't go well, the probability of passing in both Basic Cuisine and Basic Patisserie is fairly high... it's just that I had imagined the basic level being more of a sprint than a hobble/crawl across the finish line.

Cuisine especially is throwing me for a loop.  Out of 28 practicals so far I can count on one hand how many times I left class feeling like I had done really well, and maybe two of those times felt like a slam dunk.  I don't have enough hands to count how many big mistakes I've made, how many times I finished last, or how often I've watched a chef turn up his or her nose at almost everything on my plate.  The start of each new practical finds me hopeful and excited but usually ends in frustration and confusion about what went wrong.

Ironically, though, I'm doing better grade-wise in cuisine than in pastry even though the latter feels a bit like recess.  I made a 90% on the cuisine written exam and 79% on the pastry, and I learned this week that my fifth-placed mid-term ranking in cuisine wasn't relative to our group of eight but to the entire class of about 50 people.  The news would have been exciting if it were based on my awesome culinary skills, but a lot of the weight comes from perfect attendance (or rather the imperfect attendance of students with better skills).  I wanted my success to come from amazing performances, not from good behavior.

I justify this mindset by telling myself that if this is the field in which I will be earning a living for the rest of my life then I should be really good at it.  While that's true, if I'm really honest with myself then I know that a bigger issue is my pride.  Watching other students get high-fives or even hugs from the chefs and seeing beautiful plates done better than (and long before) mine can stir up some jealousy that's not consoled by thinking, "At least my grade is higher."  It's a little painful and revealing to ask myself the question, "Why am I really disappointed with my progress?"

Not surprisingly, my devotions this week happened into I Corinthians 10:31: "Whether therefore you eat or drink, or whatsoever you do, do all to the glory of God."  That's been my problem - I'm getting frustrated because I've been working for my own glory.  Just in the simple act of food preparation my motive has been, "Look at me!" rather than "Look at my God!"

Switching that motivation doesn't mean that I'll suddenly become a better chef, but it does mean that my attitude over successes and failures will change.  Maybe that's why I've not been able to do terribly well in the kitchen - God knows that success would only elevate my pride while failures force me to become more introspective and push me closer to Him, and maybe it is in that humbled position that I can have the best influence and testimony to the people around me.

Basic Week Eight

Not to be repetitive, but time is flying by here.  When I first began my plans to come to Le Cordon Bleu a year in advance it seemed as if it would never really happen or that it would take half an eternity.  When I did finally arrive in Paris I was so homesick and frustrated with Paris living that I wasn't sure that I would survive the ten days before classes began. Now heading into the ninth week of school with exams and advanced levels of classes looming ahead I feel as if I need to pull some sort of emergency brake just to freeze time for a bit and allow myself to breathe.  That said, this week was relatively light and easy as workloads go...

Monday

Although we had Chef Jordan for a theory class before, it was the first time that he ever gave us a demonstration.  Each chef seems to have his own quirk or focus, and it turned out that Jordan's is appearance.  We've had the same uniform regulations since day one, but this was the first class in which they were strictly enforced.  Jordan stood at the door with his arms folded, turning away students with wrinkles or stains on their jackets or hair not pulled back or missing neckerchiefs, telling them that they had five minutes to fix the problem.

A lecture on orderliness and behavior ensued before the somber-faced Chef Jordan began his Pear Charlotte, a ladyfinger cake filled with a creamy mousse and diced pears.  Homemade ladyfingers was a skill that I looked forward to acquiring - my last attempt had been several months ago while making tiramisu before coming to Paris.  They looked absolutely nothing like Jordan's masterpiece.

Chef Jordan's Pear Charlotte

The class continued smoothly until about the last five minutes when a student made the fatal error of taking out her cell phone.  Jordan demanded that she leave the room.  While I tend to feel some embarrassment for students when this sort of punishment happens (particularly because 90% of the class doesn't have the maturity not to turn around and stare at the offender), I've yet to see a student not make it worse for himself or herself.  In this instance the girl stayed seated as if she didn't believe that he was serious, then she tried to argue her case to the translator, and finally when the chef glanced up and asked why she was still there, she stormed out with a "Sorry, chef."  Jordan had the final word, though, when he had the translator take attendance again to make sure that the student was marked absent (and consequently, not allowed to attend her practicum).

Tuesday

Chef Bogen began our day with a demonstration on roasted duckling, oysters, and an orange Cointreau soufflé for dessert (when a student asked why the school used Cointreau in so many recipes, chef explained the very scientific reason: the president of the school is André Cointreau, an heir of the Cointreau "empire" which, incidentally, owns most of the school).  It was, quite possibly, one of the worst demonstrations ever, leaving many students speculating on the sobriety of Bogen.  I tried taking good notes on the duck preparation because it would be in our practical, but I eventually gave up attempting to follow the other dishes after it appeared that the chef forgot that we were even there.

Oysters and orange soufflé (roasted duck not pictured)

After lunch a somewhat more composed Bogen delivered our last basic theory lesson on vegetable cuts, sauces, and soups before the Grand Diplome students proceeded on to their pastry practicum to make our Pear Charlottes with Chef Cotte.  It was my first encounter with the man since Saturday's cuisine practical fiasco, but things went much more smoothly.  The ladyfingers were surprisingly simple (arm-numbing whisking aside) and Cotte even praised my marzipan leaves which made me think that there may be hope for the decorator in me after all.

My Pear Charlotte

Wednesday

We were with Cheff Cotte again in the morning where he was demonstrating how to make Mogador, a chocolate mousse cake with raspberry jam accents.  He did some fancy little chocolate garnishes during the downtime of waiting for the mousse to firm up.  These "extras" are often a look into our future lives as Intermediate or Superior pastry students where decorating and presentation will take center stage.

Mogador and fancy chocolate garnish

After class dismissed I had about four hours to kill, so I used the opportunity to go home and get some study time in for the written patisserie exam on Thursday.  It wasn't my first attempt at studying for the exam, but it was the first time that I managed to do so while staying awake.  Knowing how to study was the greater issue - I knew that we would have terms from our glossary but the rest was something of a mystery, so I simply began going through my recipes and typing out the directions from my old notes.

Chef Bogen was waiting for us in the roast duckling practical that afternoon.  Normally I like getting the same chef in practical as we have in demonstration because we can count on consistency, but it was our first time in the kitchen with Bogen and we had heard many rumors about how he conducted his classes.  Plus he seemed to have sobered up a good bit.

He actually was fairly patient and helpful, but he has a reputation for demanding orderliness in the practicals.  He began the class by scolding us for coming into the kitchen and starting without him, a habit that we had formed with other chefs, and then he gave us a breakdown of our steps and his expected timetable for each one, ending with the admonition to always keep our stations clean.  Thus began a terrible practical.

Chef would stop our work to call a "family meeting" (hint: always take pots off the stove in case said meeting stretches into 5 minutes) or come by our stations and have conversations with us about our organization.  At one point as I was working with about three pots on the stove, he came by, pulled the de-boning knife from my utensil tray, and placed it in the spatula/rolling pin drawer below.  He proceeded to tell a story about how much he paid for his chef's knife in school and how well he took care of it.

While I appreciated the story, I couldn't understand the moral and my onions were burning.  From day one we learned to store all of the clean knives and utensils that we would need in an aluminum tray.  Leaving a knife in one of the drawers was counter-intuitive because another student could cut his or her hand while reaching in to get a spatula or the roll of parchment paper (and let's be honest - I would be the most likely person to do it).  I also wasn't sure why he singled out the de-boning knife when my tray had about six other knives and utensils in it.  With a confused look on my face I asked, "Do you want me to keep my knives in the drawer?"  He simply gave an exasperated shrug and rolled his eyes, replying, "Do whatever you want," and walked away.  I thought for a second, pulled the knife back out of the drawer, and continued working.

After several more pauses, we ended class far outside of Bogen's timetable, my duck, radishes, and onions were overcooked, and for once I had over-reduced (rather than under-reduced) my sauce into a demi-glaze.  While everyone walked out a little downtrodden, I kind of appreciated Bogen.  As basic students we get a lot of passes from chefs, but he was attempting to prepare us for the next two levels.  Spots on the stove or poorly placed knives (when I figure out what that means exactly) could one day be the difference between passing and failing.

The Grand Diplome students had to rush upstairs smelling of sweat and duck fat to join the freshly-pressed pastry-only students who were already in the process of making their Mogadors with Chef Tranchant.  We caught up, though, and chef declared that all of our cakes were a success.  Basic pastry always feels a million times easier when it follows a cuisine practicum.

Thursday

The basic pastry written exam was... difficult.  It contained only about fifty questions and they were all either multiple choice, true/false, or matching, but very few covered the areas that I had studied.  Most of my time was spent on learning cooking terms and studying things like types of meringues or differences in pastry doughs.  Many questions centered on really specific details that I never thought to learn, though, such as, "What is the ratio of cream to sugar in Chantilly cream?" or, "At what temperature do you bake a genoise?"  In our final exam they will give us the ingredient list which contains exact measurements and the chefs have always controlled the ovens in pastry practicums, so these were details that never crossed my mind.  The written exam is only 10% of our final grade, though, and I believe that I knew at least 50% of the answers with great certainty.

A demonstration on beef stroganoff was scheduled for the afternoon, but I had instead my appointment with the OFII (French Office of Immigration and Integration) to get my carte de séjour, a sort of residency permit that the government requires in addition to the student visa.  It is the only absence that the school excuses because one cannot negotiate appointment times with the French government, apparently.

The process was simple enough - I handed over my passport, proof of an apartment lease, and a passport photo - and they gave me a sort of physical consisting of weight and height measurements, an eye test (my left eye failed miserably but they couldn't understand my explanation of optic neuritis), a chest scan to ensure that I didn't have tuberculosis, and a game of 20 Questions with a very friendly doctor. The purpose of the whole ordeal is to make sure that I won't have any trouble getting back into the country should I decide to leave it when my passport stamp expires after 90 days.  A few stamps and signatures later, I walked out the door a completely legal temporary French resident.

Even though it was an excused absence, I really hated missing my class because 1) I paid a lot for it, 2) we can't attend the practical class if we miss the demonstration, 3) the dish is one of the ten recipes listed for the final exam (we draw a recipe on the day of the exam, kind of like a lottery but without any winners), and 4) I really wanted some beef stroganoff.  No amount of pleading with student services could get me into the practical although they were not willing to guarantee that I  would not have to do this recipe for my exam.  I really hate the expression, "That's not fair!" but I had to bite my tongue to keep it from coming out of my lips right then.

Friday

On the bright side, I was able to sleep in on Friday morning after a week of 8:30 AM classes every day.  A little part of me still felt bummed that my classmates were making a meal without me, and when I did finally arrive at school at 12:30 and they told me that they had Chef Vaca for the first time and that everyone did great and that it was the easiest and fastest dish EVER I felt a little more bummed, but I'm almost over it.  I comfort myself by assuming that I would probably have done something to slow everybody down.

Vaca was doing this demonstration on clams, pork medallions in charcuterie sauce, and pommes Dauphine, an odd but tasty mix of deep-fried potatoes and choux pastry.  For dessert we had fresh raspberries and strawberries covered in sauce and ice cream.  The pork was, of course, served slightly pink (apparently the only meat that the French cook to well-done is chicken).

Pork medallions and pommes Dauphine; clams; more clams;
fresh fruit dessert with ice cream

We topped off our week with an afternoon demonstration revisiting puff pastries.  They differed slightly from the apple turnovers/palmiers in the turning of the dough, although for the life of me I couldn't tell the difference in the final result.  Chef Cotte loaded us up with Pithivier (or King's Cake), Dartois, Sacristains (twists), "Country-style" bread, and his own special creation of an apricot tarte.  Everything but the sacristains were loaded with almond cream, naturally.  Next to pastry cream it's the French go-to filling.

Pithivier, dartois, sacristains, apricot tarte, and  country-style bread

Saturday

Having my first Saturday off since school began, I of course chose to use my free time... to go to a kitchen store.  Dehillerin isn't just any kitchen store, though - it's stuffed full from floor to ceiling with every kind of pot, pan, dish, and utensil in every size and shape imaginable, all at surprisingly reasonable prices (and I got 10% off with my student ID).  I managed to keep to my list, though - a fish scaler, fish bone tweezers, a 20-cm ring mold, and tongs.  Gretchen, a lover of kitchen doo-hickeys as well, joined me at the store before we went in search of lunch.

For once I had researched restaurants in advance and found a Mexican place that had good reviews (always taken with a grain of salt - I don't recall a mass of Mexican immigrants in Paris but the reviews did mention chipotle, something some of my chefs have never heard of).  What I didn't realize was that it was in a rather sketchy neighborhood where Gretchen and I stood out like sore thumbs, and when we finally reached the location we discovered that like 60% of businesses in Paris, it was closed for the month of August.

During our walk through the sketchy neighborhood, though, we had passed a place that had an incredible aroma wafting from it - a sort of spicy scent that set our tongues to watering - so heading back in that direction we started to sniff the air for it and came upon a little hole-in-the-wall (quite literally - it was hardly more than short counter outside under a window) Turkish restaurant.  We hopped onto some stools and both settled on chicken in a flour wrap with fries and spicy sauce, then we watched as the cook hand-rolled out our wraps before sliding them into a sort of pizza oven.  My empty stomach may have been coloring my judgment, but it was the best sandwich ever.

Strategically placed chicken to tempt passer-bys

Fully satisfied, we visited a few more kitchen stores, stopped at a café for ice cream, sampled some macarons and rose petal marshmallows from Ladurée ("fully satisfied" doesn't last forever), and headed down to the Seine to see the popular Paris Plage, a beach setup that the Parisians do every summer (probably to give all of the people who are off for the month of August something to do).

"Beach" along the Seine

Basic Week Seven

Having been in Paris for almost two months now, I've noticed myself starting to pick up a few habits that I will have to break upon my return to the states:

• 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.

Roasted sirloin cooked saignant with puréed potatoes; Braised beef

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.

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.

Basic Week Six

This week was the fullest one by far as class schedules go, so I'll just dive right into it:

Monday

It felt a bit like a holiday with only one class at 3:30 in the afternoon.  We rounded out last week's lessons on forcemeat by making stuffed chicken breasts au jus with turned mushrooms.  Stuffing chicken with chicken feels a bit presumptuous, but after pureeing the latter chicken with eggs and cream it created quite the tasty concoction.  Mushroom turning was disastrous (apparently mastering the technique requires more than watching a YouTube video or observing Asian chef), my chicken was slightly under-cooked, and, as usual, my sauce needed more reduction.

Tuesday

The morning began with Chef Pascal whipping up several types of tartelettes, little pies that can be filled with all sorts of goodness from fruits to creams to chocolate and everything in between.  Lemon was my favorite, tasting almost like a lemon meringue pie, but I couldn't complain about the other varieties.

Lemon, orange, apricot, chocolate,
almond cream, and pear tartelettes

After a brief break we went straight to our cuisine demonstration on rabbits and led by Chef Lesourd.  Our expressions must have revealed the slight horror that accompanies cutting up rabbits, particularly when the heads are still on (rabbit meat must be sold with the head to verify that it is indeed a rabbit as opposed to, say, a cat).  The fact that they were already skinned with the ears chopped off took away from the cuteness factor, but they had incredibly large, terrifying eyes.

Lesourd took a moment to explain that as heads of the food chain (as he put it), we shouldn't shy away from any meat.  Some animals are raised solely for consumption and would not have existed otherwise.  Rabbit farms provide a way of living for a lot of people, and even the controversial method of making foie gras keeps an entire village in business.  His speech didn't make the prospect of cutting up a rabbit any more appealing, but at least it removed some of the guilt factor.  For kicks he threw in a few flavored custards that, sadly, we ran out of time to sample.

Rabbit with potatoes and mustard sauce, mixed
vegetables, and custard with Lesourd's "personal touch"

The strangest element of the demonstration was the translator.  He was the only male one that we had ever had, and he hailed from Great Britain.  He said "wabbit" instead of "rabbit" all during class.  At first I felt sorry for him, thinking that it was a speech impediment until I noticed that he didn't have trouble with any other "r" words; after that it was just annoying.  He also seemed to have some form of Tourettes that caused him to shout out quotes from movies in really bad impersonations.

Our cuisine practicum immediately followed the demonstration, and Chef Lesourd was in charge of our group.  Cutting the rabbit was surprisingly simple as if its body were made for meat cuts, but somewhere along the way I still fell behind everyone but one other girl.  Then I proceeded to make a near-fatal error.

The class shared one blender that chef wanted us to use for finishing the sauce, so when the other six students ahead of me finished with it I began to move my ingredients - the reduced rabbit stock, mustard, and whipped cream - toward the blender.  Forgetting something, I left the station for a minute and then returned and dumped everything into the canister.  The eighth student suddenly popped up by my side asking, "What are you doing?!?"  When I had turned away she had poured her rabbit stock into the blender before going to get her other ingredients, but because the canister was already dirty from previous uses, I never even noticed that it wasn't empty.

For a brief moment we just stared at each other, dumbfounded, before I began profusely to apologize.  She tried to be cool about it although I could sense her irritation, and I couldn't blame her.  Finally I told her just to dump the rest of her ingredients in with mine.  The final result was far too runny; whether my stock or her stock was the culprit hardly mattered.  Chef had warned us against reducing the sauce after it was mixed because mustard shouldn't be boiled, but we had no other choice.

I split the sauce into multiple pots to speed up the reduction because now we were really far behind, and when one of them began to boil she took it to her own stove to complete.  Chef reprimanded us for boiling the mustard as he walked by our stoves and pointed out the time again saying, "You're behind!  Your plate had better be very, very good!"

Finally I got the meal plated, centering the prettiest cut of rabbit in a neat circle of sautéed potatoes and spooning the sauce around it.  Lesourd tested the potatoes and said that they were good, then said that the rabbit was good, and even the rabbit gizzards skewered on a rosemary twig that I remembered to cook at the last second were done well.  Finally he took a spoon and tested the sauce directly from the pot.  He said, "Did you taste your sauce?"  I thought I had, so I feebly replied, "Yes?" and he said, "And what did you think?"  I took my spoon and took another taste before responding, "Not bad... Too salty?"

Chef slapped me on the shoulder and said, "No, it's very good!"  Then he announced to the class, "THIS is what the sauce should taste like!  Come try it so that you will know next time," and the whole class filed by my station to taste my sauce.  He praised the other girl's sauce as well so that in the end her annoyance with me was replaced with a high-five and "Way to go!  We did it!"

Not to toot my own horn because it was all completely a fluke or a miracle, but Chef said that you can know a great sauce when you see the customer using his bread to mop up the rest.  I have been buying baguettes to eat with the leftover rabbit solely for that purpose (eating sauce with a spoon or licking the plate feels inappropriate).

Backing up a little, one sad note to the week occurred at the start of our cuisine demonstration.  A Student Services representative interrupted the class to notify us that one of the demonstration assistants, a Chinese girl who just graduated last semester, was killed on Wednesday when a Metro train hit her after she slipped and fell onto the tracks.  I didn't know the girl personally and had seen her only in two or three demos, but the news shook up everyone in the room.

For the rest of the week I thought about that girl - about how she, like most students, probably had big plans for her future with a prestigious diploma fresh in hand.  As I age I become more aware of my own mortality, far more when I was in my teens and twenties, and yet I still fall into the trap of assuming that I have at least x amount of time to live.

Yes, I should still work towards future goals, but how much more should I work towards making each present moment count towards eternity?  Martin Luther said, "Even if I knew that tomorrow the world would go to pieces, I would still plant my apple tree," but he also stated that,"There are two days in my calendar: This day and that Day," the latter referring to the day that we will all stand before God.

Wednesday

It was the first 12-hour class day for the Grand Diplome students - two three-hour demonstrations sandwiched between two three-hour practicums.  Our second such day would occur on Friday.  We remind ourselves often that if we were working in a restaurant we would expect just as many hours and much harder work, although I'm not sure that it makes us feel any better.

Chef Tranchant was waiting for us bright and early in the morning to begin our tartelettes.  We were making only two types, the orange and chocolate ganache, and we were to do the latter recipe in pairs of two.  It was the first "team effort" recipe, and I was happy to end up with M.J., a woman from New York who is close to my age and who works at about my same level and pace, if you know what I mean.

Although I had rolled out my dough too thickly and broke one of my shells, the tartelettes turned out quite tasty and M.J. and I worked well together.  I did learn that if you ever have to flamber (torch) anything, such as the top of an orange tartelette in order to caramelize the sugar, you shouldn't do it on top of parchment paper.  Fortunately I managed to snuff out the flames and dispose of the paper while the chef's back was turned and before any smoke alarms went off.

Five of my tartelettes (fortunately the presentation
board didn't hold room for #6).

A pastry theory class followed the practicum at 12:30, and Chef Pascal taught us everything that we could possibly ever hope or want to know about flour and yeast.  He mercifully finished in 90 minutes, leaving enough time before our next class for some people to run out and grab a late lunch.  I decided that it wasn't worth the effort to change out of my uniform and instead read a Kindle book until our 3:30 class.  Have I mentioned my love for modern technology - how I can at any given time pull my phone out of my pocket and have a library book right at my fingertips?

Chef Lesourd walked the cuisine students through fish poaching, hollandaise sauce, and "cocquette" turned vegetables.  "Fish" and "turning" are two words that now make me cringe, and I'm coming to the point where I almost hate fish.  Aside from an unsatisfying flavor, the splinter-like bones that I am never able to remove entirely are quite upsetting.  I have flashbacks to my life in Cyprus when Loula, my landlady/housemate, would boil fish at least once a week.  The effort to eat an entire fish involved pulverizing each bite inside of my mouth with my tongue for several minutes before swallowing to ensure that I wouldn't catch a splinter in my throat.  Some folks say that I tend to eat quickly (or everyone else just eats really slowly), so fish night was particularly maddening.

Hake steak with Hollandaise sauce
and turned vegetables; grilled trout

Filipino chef led our practicum after the demo and my food was just okay.  I tried some of it myself and agreed, ruefully pulling a bone from my mouth.  Batter-dipped deep-fried fish, though - now THAT is something that I could get excited about.

Thursday

After the prior full day, Thursday was quite relaxed with only a demonstration in the morning.  Chef Pascal made caramelized pear and almond tarts with a meringue top, and he used the rest of of the dough to make little "boats" filled with caramel and almonds.

Pear tart; Caramel-almond boats

Although the latter dessert looked pretty nice, the thought struck me that I never see pecans in French pastries - almonds are almost always the go-to nut.  Finally I decided to ask chef the reason and he explained that it's simply a matter of cost - pecans are considered a "high" nut and would be used only in fancy or expensive pastries.  Right then and there I knew why I could never live in France permanently: How could I even consider moving away from my hometown where pecans are so abundant that they lie rotting in the streets?  What would life be without pecan pie, butter pecan ice cream, pecan pancakes, pecan pralines...

The only event scheduled for the afternoon was a mid-term update of our grades for Basic Patisserie.  Two of the groups were in this time slot for a total of 28 students, and we each waited in the winter garden as one student at a time was summoned upstairs to meet with Chef Pascal and a translator to go over the results.  The names were in alphabetical order by first names which meant that most of the Asians were last because their names tend to start with either X, Y, or Z.  K got me fourth place in line.  I wasn't exactly nervous, although the four flights of stairs to the unairconditioned meeting room left me breathless and sweaty.

Pascal slipped the paper in front of me showing that I had a 3.359 out of 5 possible points.  2.5 is passing, so I might have been a little less deflated if the class average weren't 3.459.  Below average... What a daunting thought.  The next paper showed the evaluation grade for each practicum, and as I suspected, the infamous Moka was my downfall (no pun intended), with a grade of only 2 but a weight above several other practicums. In an effort to make me feel better, chef said that we had an exceptional group because the other class averages were around 3.1.  In other words, I would be at the top of the class in the more deplorable groups.  He threw in one last kind word, though, saying that for all of the classes in which he had worked with me, he thought that I was doing a very good job.  Pascal has really grown on me.

That afternoon I visited Bouygues, the telecom store from which I bought my six-month prepaid phone card, to find out why my card had expired after only one month.  My natural guilt complex made me fairly certain that I had done something wrong and that I would have to throw out another large sum of money to fix it.  The first guy discussed it with another guy who discussed it with some woman who appeared to be their manager.  They finally all agreed that I ran out of minutes.

"No," I explained again in my best French, "I received a message saying that my account would expire on the 22nd.  I had €38 left on my account until the 23rd, and then it dropped to €0."

Girl: "Yes, if you used all of your minutes then it would expire."  [She walks away.]

Me to guy still standing there: "But I didn't use them. It expired first; then my balance dropped to zero" [showing him my text message warning stating the expiration date].

Guy: "Did you use the rest of your minutes?  That would make it expire."

Me:  "No.  I had a €38 balance remaining until 11:59 PM on the 22nd.  At 12:00 AM on the 23rd I had €0.  I didn't use all €38 in that time."

Just at the point where I was fairly certain that I had lost the battle, they suddenly began communicating with me in English, and finally the guy got on the phone with their customer service.  I sat reading my Kindle book for half an hour while he listened to hold music.  Finally, a voice came on the other line, they exchanged a few words, and just like that my minutes returned.  Being good French people they never actually apologized or stated that it was their error, but I was so happy that I thanked them profusely (and probably apologized to them).

Upon returning to my apartment and looking up my account online, I saw that the expiration date had been pushed to... October 21, only four months from the time that I purchased the card rather than six months, but I figured that one battle per day was all that I could handle for now (plus there's a good possibility that I'll use up my minutes before then anyhow).

Friday

This 12-hour class day consisted of two practicums sandwiched between two demonstrations.  The first demonstration was a sort of continuation of the theme from Tuesday, with Chef Bogen showing us three new fish preparations.  Like one of our earliest practicums, we would be filleting a flat fish in addition to turning more potatoes.  Hooray.

Brill fillet with turned potatoes and lemon sauce; salmon; sole

After a brief lunch break we headed into our pastry practicum with Chef Olivier (formerly referred to as Chef Mahut) to make the caramelized pear tarts.  Except for in the first couple of practicums where chefs were trying to learn our names, we don't have assigned stations in the kitchen.  After the first few classes students tend to pick out their permanent spots, though, kind of like a church pew, so you can imagine the tension when the Ukrainian girl found an Asian girl in "her spot" across from me that afternoon.

My guess is that after the Asian girl (AG) got her evaluation grade, she thought that a more ideal location in the kitchen might help improve her performance.  The Ukrainian girl (UG) said, "This is my spot!" to which AG replied, "I here now."  Nonplussed, UG responded with, "But I have been here all the time! After five week you move into my spot?" AG, without breaking stride in her preparation, just repeated, "I here now."  UG stood blinking at her for a moment before taking up the now vacant location next to me.

Despite the turf wars, the class went well and Olivier praised us for good organization and teamwork (apparently he missed the little quibble at the beginning).  Because we finished relatively early, he gathered us around to talk about the final exam.  We'll all have to make the same pastry tart recipe, and in addition to that we will be drawing one of ten possible recipes from previous practicums right before the exam.  It will consist only of the ingredients, so we must pull the method of preparation from our memory.  The more worrisome part is finishing in under 2.5 hours - every minute over the time limit is a two-point deduction (the final is 100 points).

Lots o' tarts

We jumped straight from the pastry practicum to the cuisine practicum with a visiting chef who works at Le Cordon Bleu in Istanbul.  Many of the chefs are taking a three to four-week vacation in August with the rest of Paris, meaning that we will be seeing some new faces around the school.  This chef was on the slightly scary side, but I kind of liked him. He would roll his eyes and yell a lot, and he chewed up and spit out one of the younger boys who has trouble controlling his tongue and attitude, but he was very blunt in a helpful sort of way.

The miracle in this class occurred when I was one of the first people to finish my plate, but instead of feeling excited I kept wondering what important thing I had forgotten.  It apparently came as a shock to other students as well.  Luis, who usually finishes first or second, thought I was just getting a plate out and offered to help.  I said, "No thanks, I already presented." "You're done?" "Yes." "You already showed the chef?" "Yes."  "You mean you presented?" "YES!"

As it turns out, I remembered everything; however, my fish filleting was terrible, which I already knew right from the start when chef pointed it out.  The fillets turned out too tiny and ended up over-baking.  The sauce at least was good, but that only prompted a "Too bad" from the chef.

Turkish chef also pulled us up after class to talk about the cuisine final exam.  Like the pastry final, each student will pull one of ten recipes from a hat to prepare within 2.5 hours.  One interesting difference is that we can't present our plate any more than five minutes early - even if we were to finish in two hours we would have to wait 25 minutes to present, which could cause problems in keeping the food warm.  We aren't allowed to talk to other students during the exam and we can't ask the supervising chef any questions, nor can we bring any notes with us.  To say that I'm a little more concerned about this exam than the pastry one would be an understatement.

The day ended in a cuisine demonstration with Chef Vaca. It started late because of some confusion over which floor we were supposed to be on, and Vaca, who's usually pretty good-natured, was anything but happy.  The translator even came out into the hallway before letting us enter the class to say that we all needed to enter quietly and be on our best behavior.  "It's for your own good," she warned.  The mood lightened up considerably as class got underway, though, and we were treated to some of the tastiest food yet in a cuisine demonstration.  

Braised veal with croutons and a fried egg;
Jumbo fried shrimp; Cherry cake

By the time that I arrived back at the apartment it was almost 10:00 PM.  Even though my next class wasn't until 12:30 on Saturday, I felt so tired that I set my alarm for 10:00 AM as a precaution and crashed into bed after a quick shower.

Saturday

About 15 minutes before my alarm went off I woke up after having slept almost ten hours.  It felt so good.  Back at the school we made jumbo fried shrimp, tartar sauce from homemade mayonnaise, and egg soufflé from a demonstration several weeks ago.  This practicum was unusually relaxed and even enjoyable, probably because both recipes were fairly simple and we had the little Korean lady as our chef.  By the end of class we were just standing around waiting for our soufflés to finish baking as we chatted about different cuisines from our home countries. The Argentinian and Spaniard were expounding the virtues of chipotle peppers which our chef had never heard of.  As if the scarcity of pecans weren't bad enough, the French don't understand chipotle??

Late in the afternoon I met up with Samia, a French lady from my church who lives in Saint-Denis, after some confusion over metro stops due to manifestations (unlawful protests) shutting several down.  Heavily armed policeman were at ever station and lining the streets, but the Parisians hardly gave them a second glance. She gave me a brief little Paris tour to such places as the Église St Paul and a lot of other spots that I was too tired to remember before we stopped for banana and Nutella crepes.  Although Samia knows some English, she stuck to French in an effort to help me learn it better.  I appreciated the effort, although three hours of listening to and talking in French can be mentally exhausting.

St Paul

Sunday

After church I came home and unwittingly took a long nap, a more and more common occurrence these days whenever I sit down.  It was, indeed, a day of rest.

I'll end this post by sharing something that struck a chord with me this past week.  Often I've heard people say that they don't enjoy reading through the bible or that they don't see the value in it when compared to more selective reading, with I and II Chronicles being two books that they most often site as less important because of the genealogies.  But I think that these people are missing some important nuggets of learning hidden in those passages.

Take, for example, something I read in II Chronicles 16 a few days ago.  The story is about a great and godly king in Judah, Asa, who was more zealous for the Lord than many of his forefathers, and the Lord rewarded him richly for his faith.  In his later years, however, he forgot the Lord's past faithfulness and deliverance, and his decision to rely on his own wisdom and the king of Syria rather than on the Lord to deliver him from a difficult situation was his downfall. When a prophet points out his error, Asa just gets angry and locks him in prison.  Finally, he develops a disease in his feet, but "even in his disease he did not seek the Lord, but sought help from physicians."

This passage highlighted again for me the the importance of constantly reminding myself of God's faithfulness by reflecting on His word and on my own past experiences.  The danger of forgetting happens when we become complacent.  It's often gradual, like I'll be on a spiritual "high" for a while, then it gradually fades, and suddenly I look back with some shock and pinpoint dozens of situations where I cut the Lord out entirely from my decisions.

So going forward this week, I want to remember the Lord's faithfulness.  I don't want to bring in the Lord as an afterthought when I've exhausted all other efforts first.  I don't want to get stressed or anxious over any situation, regardless of the size.  I want every event in my life to be preceded by seeking the Lord's face first so that in every outcome I can recognize His hand.