Hungry Woman in Paris

by Josefina López

  Françoise passed out a flyer announcing the “Get to know your classmates” gathering Friday night at an English pub. Someone complained that they wouldn’t go because they were in Group B and had a Saturday morning class at eight-thirty a.m.

  When all our paperwork had been turned in we were escorted to the courtyard, where we were each handed a uniform, a lock for the locker, a professional knife kit, a weight scale, a mesh bag, and plastic containers in which to transport our cooked food. After we collected all our new belongings the women descended to the basement to the women’s locker room and the men climbed up to the men’s locker room. I raced down to the basement to be one of the first to get a locker. I blamed the fact that I had nine siblings for my competitive spirit. When I was growing up, Friday evenings were very stressful, because that’s when my parents bought groceries for the whole week. That’s when the good food arrived: the fruit, the desserts, the tasty stuff I assumed rich people had every day. In our house, if you didn’t stuff yourself with the good food or strategically hide the Twinkies, pan dulce, or apples under the iceberg lettuce, come Monday you were stuck eating Spanish rice and beans for breakfast, lunch, and dinner the rest of the week.

  I rushed over to a corner of the locker room with a nook that allowed for privacy and space. There was even a chair near to the top locker I chose. The American girl with the ponytail arrived behind me and asked me if the locker next to mine was taken.

  “No, that one is not taken,” I assured her. I quickly changed into my uniform but had trouble putting on my red tie. I was about to ask the American girl if she knew how, but I saw she was having trouble opening the plastic bag to get her uniform out. I stuck out my hand and introduced myself.

  “Hi. My name is Canela. I’m from Los Angeles.”

  “My name is Basil, but you can call me Bassie. I’m from Connecticut,” she said, shaking my hand and half-looking at me. I tried stuffing my things into the tiny locker and then decided to bring everything with me, just in case I needed it. I struggled past the aisle filled with half-naked women attempting to make their uniforms look better than white-and-red potato sacks.

  I walked into the demonstration room again and sat in the center seat in the front row. If I didn’t sit in the front, my mind would wander to dimensions unknown to me. Throughout my schooling I would get lost in fantastic adventures until my teachers called out my name and dragged me back down to my boring reality.

  I waited a few minutes, and the thirteen other students in Basic Cuisine entered the room and scattered themselves throughout. Chef Sauber walked in, and his male assistant brought in a tray with vegetables. The English interpreter sat on a stool to the left of the chef. He introduced himself as Henry from London, and reminded us that both the Basic and the Intermediate Cuisine classes would be translated, but the Superior Cuisine course would not be translated.

  “Hint, hint: learn French by the time you get to Superior or all this will sound like Greek,” Henry advised us. Henry was not great-looking, but he had a scruffy, lovable feel to him that made you forget he had suitcases packed for a long holiday under his eyes. Chef Sauber got in front of a stove with a giant mirror above it, angled so that everyone could see the burners and counter where he was going to demonstrate his cooking techniques. Chef Sauber welcomed us and told us he was responsible for the Basic Cuisine class.

  “Zis is how you tie it,” he said in his accented English, demonstrating how we were to fold our table napkin–looking thing and wrap it around our neck like a man’s tie. The students copied him, almost everyone getting it down except for Bassie and a Japanese woman sitting next to me. Chef Sauber opened his knife kit, which included several knives and small tools. He explained how every knife had its special use. Our kit included a cleaver, chef’s knife, slicing knife, boning knife, serrated knife, small paring knife, carving knife, and sharpening steel. Chef Sauber demonstrated which knife was to be used for cutting meat and which was for the fish. A few tools specific to pastry were also part of the kit. He picked up his sharpening steel, just like the one in our kits, and told us it wasn’t that great, but it did the job. He confided that if we still had money left we should get a real knife sharpener. Chef Sauber sharpened his knife and reiterated that we must never walk around with a knife pointed outward because in a kitchen with lots of people running about it was very dangerous. He advised us to mark our knives with nail polish or a permanent marker because everyone had the same equipment and it would be easy to misplace our tools.

  Today’s lesson would be simple. He was going to demonstrate which pans and casseroles to use for what purpose; then we would learn to make stocks and a vegetable soup.

  The first stock we would be taught was chicken stock. Stock is the strained liquid that results from cooking bones. It’s the basis of most sauces and it’s what gives dishes extra flavor and juice. Chicken stock is made up of a pound and a half of chicken bones, with two cups of mixed vegetables that include onion, celery, and carrots roughly chopped. You boil the vegetables in six quarts of water and throw in two garlic cloves, six peppercorns, and a bouquet garni.

  “The bouquet garni is a French chef’s little secret,” confided Chef Sauber as he lovingly wrapped thyme and bay leaf together with celery and parsley and put them inside a leek as if it was a miniature taco. He tied up the leek taco with cooking string, leaving a long, loose end, and turned it into a bouquet. “This is what truly gives the stocks and sauces flavor,” translated Henry.

  Today would be a short and easy day, to give us time to take in all the information. Making rustic soup was an opportunity to learn to cut vegetables.

  Chef Sauber turned on the electric burners and explained that all the stoves in the school were electric for safety reasons. He warned us against leaving pans on the burners after we had turned them off, because even though they were turned off it would take an average of ten minutes to cool down—or to heat up to the assigned number. He advised us to set up our system in a way where the hotter settings on the burner would be in the front and anything left simmering for a while could be placed farther away from us. But we could do it however we wanted to, as long as we didn’t burn our food. He assured us that almost anything in cuisine could be corrected except for burning something. He told us, “Cuisine is more of an art, and pastry is more of a science. In pastry you have to get all the details and steps right or things don’t rise.”

  Chef Sauber grabbed a tray of uncut vegetables and picked out a celery stalk. He demonstrated for us how to set up the planchette—a plastic cutting board—by getting a paper towel and wetting it and placing it under the planchette to secure it to the counter.

  “We will be cutting vegetables in four different ways,” translated Henry. “The proper way to cut and the technique we prefer to teach is one in which you fold your fingertips in and the knife barely touches the back side of the fingers. When the knife comes down it slides alongside the back of the fingers and the knife is permitted to move forward only by the back side of the fingers. That’s how I can look away and not cut myself.” Chef Sauber looked up at us and cut quickly, showing off his technique. Everyone oohed and aahed, like children watching a magician.

  “Mirepoix is a mixture of vegetables cut into large dice, used mostly for aromatic flavor. For our soup we will be cutting our vegetables in two ways: brunoise and paysanne. Brunoise is cutting vegetables into two centimeters and paysanne is cutting vegetables into sticks or triangles, then thinly slicing them into three-centimeter segments.” Henry translated effortlessly while checking me out. I looked away, trying to take legible notes. You would think that since I was a journalist my handwriting and note-taking abilities would be developed, but I was having trouble keeping up and understanding my own writing.

  Chef Sauber toasted slices of baguette and put them on a small platter next to the soup in a large soup bowl.

  “Et voilà!” the chef announced as he finished his demonstration. Everyone applauded. A few of the students got up
and took pictures of the soup. The soup was then taken away by the assistant and distributed into tiny paper cups for everyone to have a dégustation—a taste. I drank from the cup and tasted the magnificent soup.

  It was now lunchtime, and we were allowed one hour to eat. I wandered around the neighborhood. I didn’t know the Fifteenth Arrondissement very well, so I walked for a while, until I came across a tiny boutique shop that looked like a café. I was about to go in but I saw no customers. I was also not confident that my signs and gestures would get me a nice lunch. There were shelves all along the walls, but instead of books there were wine bottles. On a few of the walls were paintings of green and red grapes and maps of all the wine regions in France. At the very far end sat a man reading Le Monde and drinking a glass of wine. Later I would come to know the owner as Jérôme, a former businessman who got burnt out and started this wine bar, called C’est Ma Vie, to bring knowledge of wine and joy to his customers. I decided that on another day, when I was brave or had a friend who could speak French, I would return.

  After lunch I went to my locker to put away my purse. I put on my little red cap, which had a tip higher on one side and made us look like roosters. Perhaps a bit more sophisticated than that, but you get the idea.

  I looked at my schedule and tried to make sense of where our practical class was supposed to take place. I went to the large practical room and recognized no one from my class. An American woman with auburn hair told me our class was across the hall. The big practical room was only for the fourteen pastry students in the Intensive course.

  “What group are you in?” she asked, being friendly. I looked at my schedule and I still could not figure it out. It was either Group A or B, so I lied and said, “A” until I could confirm which group I was really in.

  I walked across the hall and saw two students in what I believed was my group. I was the third student to arrive. Punctuality was so important that you had to arrive at least twenty minutes before the chef got there to look like you knew what the hell you were doing. The other two students had already settled themselves in, picking the ideal spaces of the tiny kitchen: next to the two tiny sinks at each end of the room. I settled myself next to the guy closest to the door. We opened our tool kits and took out our knives and stirring spoon. A Korean woman with a name too complicated for me to pronounce set up across from me. I could tell this wasn’t her first time cooking because she took out her knives and everything she needed quickly and without hesitation. I smiled at her and knew if I got lost she would be the woman to trail behind. Six more students arrived soon after, and Bassie stationed herself next to the Korean woman and looked at her tools as though she were about to have a philosophical discussion with Sartre.

  Sartre could have written No Exit about the tiny kitchen in Le Coq Rouge with fourteen students all about to make one another’s life hell for the next five weeks. But why jump ahead of the story?

  A Brazilian woman named Janeira with large Chanel eyeglasses set up camp next to me. She wasn’t late, but she complained about how the waiter at the restaurant had taken forever to bring her the bill and caused her to almost be late. We all pretended to listen, but no one cared. I looked around to see who was smiling out of nervousness and who really knew what they were about to jump into. It’s just soup, how hard can it be? I thought.

  Just then the chef entered. He was not Chef Sauber. He was Chef Frédérique—in his thirties, tall, slim, juicy, just the way I like my fish. He introduced himself with a simple “Bonjour” and asked, “Qui sont les assistants?” Everyone looked at one another, not sure what he meant. We looked around for the translator and quickly realized the practical classes would not be translated. He made a comment in French and then asked a question. I couldn’t tell what he was saying, but when he raised his voice at the end of his sentence I could tell he was asking a question. Only the real French speakers responded. The Brazilian woman said she had not been told anything. A tall and athletic American guy with red hair named Rick responded that they had not been informed, but he would volunteer to get the supplies for our practice. Chef Frédérique said the assistants are usually in alphabetical order. The Brazilian woman sighed and went down to the basement, where the kitchen of the school was located, along with the freezers and the stockroom. Rick informed us that assistants were chosen in alphabetical order, so we all announced our last names; I said, “Guerrero.” It was soon discovered that Bassie was the assistant this week along with Janeira. Chef Frédérique, who spoke hardly any English, advised us to get all our pans ready and sharpen our knives while we waited for the supplies. Rick automatically became the translator for Chef Frédérique. Chef Frédérique commended him for his near-perfect French pronunciation and Rick explained that he’d gone to a French school back in New York City. His mother was a Francophile who wanted her children to also have her love of French culture.

  Bassie and Janeira distributed the vegetables to everyone by putting them in metal bowls. Two people across from each other were to share the one bowl with all the ingredients. They left the pot of chicken stock by the sink closest to the elevator, which would be used to bring the trays of ingredients from the basement to the many floors at the school.

  I grabbed a carrot and I peeled. I grabbed some celery and I peeled. I looked across to see what the Korean woman was doing. She had already peeled everything and was preparing the bouquet garni. She cut a large piece of cooking string with her paring knife. She was so precise, not afraid of cutting herself. My biggest fear was cutting myself. I was a klutz. I had five scars from knife cuts I’d made on my index finger from the various times I’d tried trimming tree branches back when I was a tomboy.

  I cut my carrot into long rectangles and then I tried cutting them into paysanne and brunoise pieces. Chef Frédérique walked around smiling and telling us we were all doing well. I took my onion and started cutting away. It didn’t quite end up looking like the onion Chef Sauber had cut up. Chef Frédérique watched Arthur, a small-framed guy who looked like he was in the closet. He admired the way Arthur handled his onion and commended him on his precision cutting. Chef Frédérique pointed to my onion and said to the class that we shouldn’t cut our onion like that. I was the bad example for the class. My jaw dropped in embarrassment and I tried to hide my onion. Seeing my discomfort, he put his hand on my right shoulder and smiled. He winked at me to show me he was only joking.

  “Je plaisante,” Chef Frédérique said apologetically. I think he meant it, but he probably thought I was a delicate American student who should be treated with soft baking gloves. I didn’t know if I should smile or apologize, but he proceeded to massage my back and said, “No problem,” in his limited English to put me at ease. When I finally looked up at him with a smile, I continued with my onion and made the best of it. As I cut the onion I fought back the tears. I think I was so moved by his touch because it reminded me of how long it had been since a man had caressed me. At that point it had been at least four months since Armando had had sex with me. He had stopped making love to me a long time before that.

  I continued cutting my onion until I couldn’t stand my watery eyes. I wiped my eyes and thought to myself, I want to be touched again and again and again.

  Just then Janeira screamed. She had cut her finger and had to let everyone know it. The chef pointed to the first-aid kit in the hallway.

  I proceeded to remove the ends on the haricots verts. After doing a few green beans I decided to cut off the ends by doing it to the whole bunch at once. This, I thought, was smarter than one by one.

  I saw an old onion, partly rotten on one side, abandoned on the marble counter in front of me and looked around to see if it had an owner. Everyone was done cutting his or her onion, it seemed, so I figured it was there for the taking. I cut off the rotten part and was about to cut it in half. I couldn’t remember if you were supposed to cut it horizontally, then vertically, or the opposite. I put it back in the center of the counter and figured, It’s just soup. Next
time I will get it right.

  Janeira returned to the practical room with practically her whole hand bandaged. She reached for her onion and inspected it.

  “Who did this to my onion?” she demanded, wanting to shed someone else’s blood. I was about to say something when Chef Frédérique shot me a look. I kept silent, and we both smiled. I looked down and said nothing. He told Janeira that it didn’t matter how the onion was or who did what. She had more than enough onion to finish her soup. Janeira complained in Portuguese, saying how could there be thieves in such a refined school, loud enough so that anyone who understood Spanish or French could figure out what she was saying. I felt so ashamed of myself for messing up my onion, stealing someone else’s onion, and then not admitting to it. It reminded me of the times my mother would rub a chile pepper on my mouth for lying and swearing when I was a little girl back in our pueblo in Mexico. She did it so much that I began to love chiles and hot food. My mother stopped doing it when she saw me salivating just before she was going to punish me. She just cursed me by saying, “When you have children, I hope they do the same to you.”

  I told myself that after we graduated from Basic Cuisine I would confess to Janeira, give her a gift, and apologize to her for taking her onion.

  “Allez, allez,” Chef Frédérique said to encourage us to work a little faster. The Korean woman asked the chef in French where the soup bowls were located. He went to the pastry practical room and came back with fourteen soup bowls. Everyone grabbed one and a few of the faster students proceeded to fill up the soup bowls and present them on the standard white plates, which they’d found in a cabinet above the sink, next to the cooking wines and spirits.

  Another student, Martin, a lanky American with thinning hair, called the chef over and said he was ready. Chef Frédérique went over to him and set up his grading station on the center of the counter between Martin and Bassie. He tasted Martin’s soup and said it was “bonne.” Martin smiled and turned to the side so the chef could inspect his ID badge and get his name right. Chef Frédérique wrote a score in the roster. Martin proceeded to clean up, and then Rick and the Korean woman presented their soups. One by one everyone took his or her plate to the chef. He tasted mine and said it was too salty. I didn’t want to admit that I’d added salt and forgotten to taste it. He took a spoon and swirled the soup. He uncovered an haricot vert with the tip still on it. He pointed it out to me and told me to pay attention to all details. I wanted to tell him it was his fault I was distracted. How could I concentrate with a wet vagina? But I saved my excuses and nodded, practically bowing to him after he was done. I turned to my side and he inspected my ID.