Surviving Chef X
A version of the following will appear in this week’s Syracuse City Eagle.
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It’s Thursday night, and we’re supposed to be cooking eggs. We’re supposed to be making omelettes, poached eggs, baked eggs and boiled eggs. We’re not. It’s 10:30 on Thursday night, and Chef has decided that he’d rather we make pastry dough for Saturday’s class. I doubt any of us have read the lesson in advance – I’ve just glanced at it – and we’re all flustered and tired as we stand at attention at our stations.
“Flour, sugar, salt! Then we cutting in zee butter! Then we adding zee egg! Then we adding in zee water but NOT IF WE DO NOT NEED IT!” Chef barks, presiding over us in front of a large marble table.
I repeat the directions in my head; the order is of utmost importance. Flour, sugar, salt, butter, water if needed. Got it. Flour, sugar, salt, butter, water. Got it.
I grab my ingredients and pour the sifted and measured flour into a heap on the stainless steel table. I add the sugar and salt, mixing them together with my hands. Flour, sugar salt.
I reach for an egg, crack it and pour it into the middle of the dry ingredients, just like Chef showed us.
My partner looks to her right, at my station. ”Weren’t we supposed to add butter before the egg?”
My heart drops. ”Motherfucker,” I mumble under my breath, doing my best to separate the egg from the flour. ”What do I do now?”
“Ask him?” She offers, concentrating on her own dough. ”Maybe he can tell you how to fix it?”
I snort. Yeah, right. Ask him. Why not just tie my own noose in a knot right now? I furiously cut cold butter into the flour, praying that I can sabler the mixture before Chef sees the streaky egg shoved to the side of my station.
Too late. He skulks by the table, his eyes darting around, passing my dough and then quickly returning to it.
“WHAT HAPPEN HERE?” He wants to know.
I pause, lift my hands from the dough. It’s sticking in my fingers, so I hold them an inch above the table. My mouth opens and closes a few times. I want to slap him, the overworked gluten sliding across his cheek as my hand makes contact. I want to throw my arms in the air and break down into tears. ”I don’t know Chef, I made a mistake. I made a goddamn mistake,” I want to say.
Instead I lie.
“The egg spilled.”
He looks at me skeptically.
“It got knocked over. I’m doing the best I can.” I keep working my dough, avoiding eye contact, though I can feel his breath on my neck.
He raises his eyebrows, pushes the broken egg further from the half-finished dough, and commands me to continue. He watches for a few minutes before striding off.
To my right, Winston starts snickering. It’s funny to him because he’s not in trouble. I shoot him an exasperated smile. It’s funny to him now, but sooner or later, we all mess up. And Chef X will be there.
“The secret,” I think, as I wrap my salvaged dough in plastic, “is not to let him get to you.”
As I place the dough in the refrigerator, I notice a series of small cracks. I sigh and rest my hands on my hips. ”And to do the best you can.”