by Jenna Weber
Helen smiled. “Well, I don’t know about all of that. It’s just hard. The only other girl in my department quit today, so now I feel like I’m all alone with all the guys. I want them to treat me the same as they would each other, but it’s difficult.”
“I know exactly what you mean,” I said. “I know it’s a totally different scenario, but there are hardly any girls in my program, either. All day long I deal with dirty jokes and adolescent boys staring at my boobs.”
Helen finished her soup by the sink and ran some water in her bowl before placing it in the dishwasher. “Yeah . . . some days I just wonder if I made the right decision doing this. I could be halfway through fashion school by now!”
To me, Helen had always seemed much more the fashion-designer type, but she was hell-bent on catching the bad guys.
“You could always play the ‘what-if’ game,” I said. “I do the same thing. If I weren’t here right now, I’m sure I would be living in Tampa and working some nine-to-five starter job at a PR agency or something. This is hard, but it’s much more interesting!”
Helen nodded. “Yeah, you’re right. I’m sure it will get easier. I’m going to head to bed—I have a long day tomorrow and feel like I haven’t slept in weeks.”
I said goodnight and headed into my room for bed as well. Every night when I got home from work, my favorite thing to do was run a hot bubble bath and soak my aching feet for a few minutes. Sometimes I read in the bath, but other times I just zoned out, letting my mind wander away from meat temperatures and kitchen-safety regulations for a little while. What would I be doing if I weren’t here right now? It all seemed to work out so perfectly, with her moving here and finding the apartment so quickly. I loved school, for the most part, and was glad that I’d made the decision to move here, but it was always interesting to think just how different life could be as the result of one decision.
Old-Fashioned Gingerbread Cookies
Makes about 4 dozen large gingerbread men
If you enjoy gingerbread cookies as much as I do, you really should try this recipe for a thick, moist, and chewy version. To make gingerbread cookie sandwiches, cut cookie dough in 4-inch circles and sandwich the cookies together with Chocolate-Buttercream Frosting (p. 15).
⅔ cup packed dark brown sugar
⅔ cup molasses
1 teaspoon cinnamon
1 tablespoon ground ginger
½ teaspoon ground cloves
¼ teaspoon ground white pepper
2 teaspoon baking soda
2 sticks (½ pound) unsalted butter, cut into pieces
1 egg, lightly beaten
3¾ cups all-purpose flour
½ teaspoon salt
Preheat the oven to 325°F.
In a large heavy-bottom pot, combine brown sugar, molasses, cinnamon, ginger, cloves, and white pepper. Bring to a boil over high heat and continue to boil for about 3 minutes, stirring occasionally.
Remove pot from stove and add baking soda, stirring to combine well (be careful: the mixture will bubble up here—just keep stirring!). Add butter a few chunks at a time, stirring to combine with each addition. Add egg and stir. Stir in the flour and salt gradually. The dough will be very soft and still warm.
Roll out the dough ¼-inch thick on a floured surface and cut it into rounds with a cookie cutter or large glass.
Bake cookies, spaced 2 inches apart, until golden and just set, about 12 minutes. Transfer to wire racks to cool. The cookies will firm up as they cool.
8
KNIVES OUT
AS I STEPPED INTO MEAT FABRICATION CLASS ON THE FIRST day, there was only one sound to be heard: the slamming of frozen meat on stainless-steel counters. The kitchen was cold enough to take my breath away. As I walked in and took my seat, I glanced up at the thermostat on the wall and saw that the temperature read fifty-two degrees. The assistant chef, a small woman who appeared to be in her late twenties, saw me looking. “Gotta keep it cold so the meat stays fresh,” she said. “You’ll learn to wear layers in here.” I nodded and crossed my arms for warmth. The chef coat that once felt thick and heavy on me now felt like a layer of sheer cotton.
“Girl, you gotta dress warmer! It’s only going to get colder in here once Chef starts pulling out the meat!” said the girl who was sitting across from me at the counter. She rolled up the sleeves of her coat to reveal another layer of cotton. “The secret is these little boys’ long underwear from Walmart. Got a four-pack for only five dollars last weekend, and they pretty much fix the problem.” She laughed and her eyes twinkled.
“I’ll have to remember that! I’m always cold anyway, but this is brutal. I’m Jenna, by the way.” I extended my hand to her as the other students started to pour in the kitchen now, most of them making jokes about the temperature as well.
“I’m Cat. This is my second time taking Meat Fab, so I know the drill. Seriously, get yourself to Walmart, or just start eating more of what we’re cooking—you’re a skinny one!” Cat laughed again, and I had a feeling we would get along just fine. Coming from Basic Skills, where I had been surrounded by adolescent boys all day every day, laughing with another girl came as a welcome relief. Diego and Frank were in the class, too, but we were no longer bound as partners and they had formed their own guys-only group on the other side of the kitchen. Despite our having formed an odd friendship toward the end of Basic Skills, I didn’t really miss them too much. Just then, Frank looked over in my direction and waved, and I smiled.
Only a few minutes later, we headed back outside the kitchen for lineup, which felt like second nature to me now. Some of the students in line had been in my previous class, but I noticed quickly that a handful had dropped out, mainly girls. A few people I didn’t recognize at all, and wondered if they, like Cat, were taking the class for the second time. We had two chefs for this class, Chef Sharmin and Chef Zoey, who had spoken to me earlier regarding the temperature in the kitchen. Chef Sharmin was a tall, lanky man who looked to be in his early forties.
“Miss Weber,” he said in a nasally voice when it was my turn in line.
“Good morning, Chef Sharmin. It’s nice to meet you,” I replied as I routinely stuck out my hands to him so he could inspect my nails.
“You’re pretty skinny,” Chef said. “I hope you’re not one of those vegetarian types.” He sniffed his nose and raised his eyes to me.
I silently thanked God that I wasn’t one of those vegetarian types anymore. While in college, I had dabbled in vegetarianism for a year, but a delicious croque monsieur in Paris the previous summer changed my diet forever. After one bite of that grilled ham and cheese sandwich, I knew I could never turn back.
“No, sir. I love meat,” I said.
Chef looked hard at me. “Good. Because I fail vegetarians. Now get in the kitchen.”
That morning we got lectured about how we weren’t at Le Cordon Bleu to learn the art of making salads and grilled cheese, we were there to perfect classical French culinary techniques. Chef went on to tell us that we were expected to taste every single thing that was prepared in the class. No rule said we had to like it, but we had to at least try it all. Our syllabus featured conventional meats such as chicken, pork, and beef but also included rabbit, alligator, frog, and oxtail. My stomach churned at the very thought of eating an actual tail, and again I was thankful that I had left my vegetarian ways behind somewhere on the Left Bank in Paris.
I quickly decided I liked Chef Zoey much better than Chef Sharmin. For starters, she was a woman, and that alone was a rarity in the kitchen. She was short and muscular, no doubt from heaving heavy pots of stock around the kitchen, and wore her light brown hair in a short, bouncy ponytail beneath her tall chef’s hat. When Chef Zoey spoke, she spoke with authority, daring any of the snarky teenage boys in class to give her attitude.
As both chefs continued to lecture, I learned that during the course of three weeks, I would memorize every part of a cow and pig and the slaughtering process that brought the steak to the
table. Some of the dishes we were to make sounded delicious, such as pulled pork with Texas coffee barbecue sauce, perfect roast chicken, and beef stew. Pulled pork was a dish I had discovered after my vegetarian stint, and now I couldn’t get enough. I loved the tangy vinegar-based sauce local to South Carolina, where I went to college, and couldn’t wait to learn how to make it myself. I figured the skill would come in handy for tailgating and football games, something Rob would love as well.
Later that morning we were again assigned groups for the rest of the three weeks, and unfortunately I was not with my friend Cat. Instead, I found myself again in a group with two guys, though this time they were my age and seemed a little more serious than Frank and Diego. Our first assignment was oxtails, and if you have never prepared oxtails before, I don’t recommend it. Eating all parts of the animal may be a status symbol in certain foodie circles, but the minute the box of tails was set down in front of us, I felt nauseated. The tails were pasty white and looked like pure fat globbed on Popsicle sticks.
I reached hesitantly into the cardboard box and picked up a stick with a gloved hand. Chef had demonstrated how we were to slice off extra fat from the tail, leaving only a small amount of meat to be consumed. I picked up my paring knife and gently ran the edge of it down the tail, scraping off a thick layer of gelatinous fat with it. Carlo and Josh, my two new partners, laughed and joked in Spanish as they, too, scraped their oxtails.
I stood with one hand clutching the tail and the other holding the laminated recipe, as I tried to figure out what the next step was.
“So, I think we just get as much fat as we can off the tails and then sear them in oil before braising,” I said. I couldn’t imagine actually eating this dish, which still seemed to be pure fat despite my desperate attempts to scrape the tail.
“This is a traditional dish where I come from,” Carlo said. “We usually serve it only on Christmas, though, ’cause it’s so rich.”
Rich is right! I thought, and proceeded to heat the oil and drop in the tails one by one. They sizzled when they hit the hot fat and smelled almost like burgers. Soon, the tails grew golden brown and the fat pooled around them in glistening puddles. While I had been working on the tails, Josh had put together a mix of sautéed mirepoix (onion, carrot, and celery) and deglazed the pan with some white wine and chicken stock. I carefully transferred the sizzling tails to the other pan, and Carlo quickly poured more stock on top.
“There!” I said. “I guess that needs about an hour to cook, so we can get all our cleanup done early.” Other students were still searing their tails and chopping onions, and I felt very glad for my fast little group. The guys went outside for their cigarette break and I started scrubbing the table. I had to admit that the oxtails smelled a lot better now, simmering with rich stock and vegetables, than they had on their own. I peeked under the lid and saw white foam dotting the top of the stock; carrots rose and fell in the bubbles.
When it was finally done and we came together as a class to taste the fruits of our labor, I brought a spoonful to my lips and paused. The cooked tails still smelled vaguely like hamburgers, and tiny bits of meat and fat had fallen off the tail and now swirled in the stew as well. It looked good. I put the spoon in my mouth and chewed. I had to admit, the flavor wasn’t all bad, but the texture of the tail was what got me. It really was just like a fat-covered Popsicle, and the meat felt stringy and greasy in my mouth. I set the bowl down and took a sip of water. At least I had tasted it.
Over the next three weeks, I worked harder than I ever had for anything in my life. I cut, butchered, and seared. I memorized all the parts of a cow and pig, and scared Helen half to death in the kitchen one night as I practiced deboning a chicken while in my pajamas around midnight. I had only a few days until my final practical for the class, where we would have to break down both a chicken and a fish completely, each in less than two minutes. Breaking down was a term used to describe the process of turning the animal from a whole carcass into edible portions. We were expected to know the different bones and how to remove them gently, with swift slits of the knife, so as to not tear the gentle flesh. Everything needed to be intact, clean, and ready to throw in a hot skillet.
Despite my hard work, I was worried about the final, mainly because my heart just wasn’t in cutting up animals. I liked to eat meat, but butchery wasn’t for me. At home, I preferred to cook simple meals like pasta or vegetables, foods that didn’t have eyes and feelings. On the wall in the classroom kitchen, a huge framed poster of the different parts of the pig stared back at me, and I couldn’t help but wonder what animals really thought as they were led into the slaughterhouse.
I knew that because I wasn’t giving it my all, my grades were suffering. The next day, Chef Sharmin called me into his office. While I sat there shivering in my long underwear under my whites, he told me that I wasn’t “putting maximum effort into the class” and that I needed to start “acting more like a real chef and less like a little girl.” I felt tears start to sting my eyes and bit my bottom lip hard. As Chef added that my grade in this class depended on the final practical exam, I stared at my cuticles.
“You got it, Miss Weber? Go home tonight and practice. I want one hundred percent tomorrow morning, or else.”
“Thanks, Chef. I got it. I really have been practicing at home, though, I swear. It just doesn’t come easy to me, that’s all.” I thought back about deboning a chicken last night at midnight. And for what? Apparently Chef still thought I didn’t deserve to be here in the first place.
The next morning, I was feeling surprisingly well rested and ready to roll. We were to start with the chicken, then move on to the fish. “Knives out . . . and GO!” yelled Chef Zoey. The chatter in the room vanished, and now all you could hear was the slicing of raw meat, tendons, and gristle. I mentally told myself to slow down and concentrate, trying to envision my diagram with all the correct knife cuts.
I made my first slice right underneath the gelatinous layer of cold skin on the top of the bird, so that I could slowly peel it away and get to work on the meat. Then, I cut deep down the center, along the top of the breastbone. I used my freshly sharpened paring knife to cut two even slits on the side of each breast, then ran my knife once again underneath each to totally remove them from the body. Feeling better that the initial slices were done, I laid both breasts, smooth side up, on the platter that I would later present to the chefs. I tried to imagine that I was back in my kitchen at home and that this wasn’t for a grade but only for a dinner that would taste amazing. I then slit the connections between the legs and the wings, feeling a little resistance under my knife. After I heard the familiar snap of the tendon that connected the wings, I was able to separate wing from thigh and use the edge of my knife to saw away all the wing meat. Finally, I sliced off both thighs and pulled out the wishbone. I was done with part one.
My knife was covered with bits of chicken fat and meat. I wiped it clean with my towel, then dipped it quickly into the bowl of sanitizer on the table while I looked around to see Carlo and Josh’s progress. They both had finished their chickens and started on the fish, which was definitely the harder of the two animals to break down completely. I glanced around at the rest of the class and noticed that one guy, an old cook from a navy ship with a don’t-mess-with-me attitude, had finished both pieces completely and now raced outside for a cigarette break. I went to the walk-in fridge and picked one of the few remaining fish. It had a bulging eye that stared at me from the bottom of the cooler. Back at my station, I held my breath and cut off the head aggressively, suddenly hating this fish and this class and wondering what in the world I was actually doing here. Midway through removing the miniscule pin bones that ran down the center of each opaque fillet, I felt like something was going wrong. I had managed to slice out both fillets, but in attempting to rid them of all bones, I’d mangled them pretty badly. I had a smear of fish guts on my starched white apron and scales wedged underneath my fingernails.
When it
was finally my turn in line to present what I had done, I showed off my chicken first. I was pretty proud of it, although I certainly wasn’t to the point of considering a career in animal butchery any time soon.
“Nice work on the chicken, Weber, but what in the world happened to the fish?” Chef Sharmin sniffed and looked me straight in the eyes.
“Yeah, I’m not sure what happened there. Maybe my knife wasn’t sharp enough . . . ” I trailed off because I knew there was nothing I could say to remedy the situation, and if I kept talking I would probably only make things worse. Chef shook his head and scribbled some numbers down in his grade book, then waved his hand to tell me he was through with me.
“Thank you, Chef,” I said and then washed my hands, hung up my apron, and stepped out of the kitchen to take a breather before the traditional “post-practical deep clean” began.
For the rest of the day, I kept finding the occasional fish scale stuck to my shoe or forearm. In the end, I managed to scrape by with a B- in the class. If I had perfected the fish the grade probably would have been higher, but I took what I could get.
Croque Monsieur
Serves 2
I like my croque monsieurs sans traditional béchamel sauce. For me, the sauce distracts from the delicious simplicity of the sandwich. Instead, I love to slather mine with Dijon mustard. Another fabulous variation is the croque madame, which is simply a croque monsieur with a fried egg on top.
4 slices white sandwich bread (preferably a day old), crusts removed
Dijon mustard
8 ounces freshly grated Gruyère cheese
2 ounces country-style ham or Virginia ham, sliced moderately thin
Preheat oven to 400°F.
Toast bread slices lightly in the oven. Lightly brush one side of each slice with mustard, then add cheese to two slices and add ham to the remaining two. Sandwich the ham and cheese parts together and bake until cheese melts, about 5 minutes.
