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“WE ARE MAKING ZEE APPLE TART TODAY,” Chef yells to me and the other few students who’ve arrived early.  ”You do NOT use your books or notecards, and you have 70 minutes.  We doing this in addition to our génoise, so HURRY UP.”  

I throw my knife bag on the lowest shelf of the table and roll my eyes so hard, I’m half-surprised they don’t stick back in my skull.  I don’t want to be doing this, especially when I was so looking forward to class tonight.  This isn’t fair.  This sucks. 

I sift 200 grams of flour into a bowl, and thank my partner when I see she’s portioned out 100 grams of cold butter for me.  This time, I get it right.  Flour, sugar, salt, butter, egg yolk, water because I need it.  It comes together well, but it’s at least 80 degrees in the kitchen, and the dough soon becomes unmanageable.  Everyone’s does.  I do the best I can, wrap it in plastic and leave it in the refrigerator to chill.  

Apples are next.  We have shitty ones today; as I peel them naked, they reveal nasty bruises.  Oh, well. Core, halve and cut into large chunks.  I peek at Derek’s station and see his apples have been cut to a perfect macédoine shape.  He’s so good.  That was smart; they’ll cook faster and more evenly.  Oh, well.  I throw an overly generous amount of butter into the pan, along with sugar and water, cover it with a cartouche and push it onto the flattop.

“MOVE, MOVE, MOVE,” Chef yells.  ”I want your génoise cake IN THE OVEN by 7 o’clock!”

Génoise cake.  I’m supposed to whisk together eggs and sugar over a bain marie until they reach a temperature of 110 degrees, then take it off the heat and whisk it until the bottom of the bowl feels cool and the mixture triples in size.  I start whisking, my face growing wet and steamy from the direct heat of the stovetop.  I can’t seem to incorporate enough air into the eggs, so I keep whisking until Chef walks by, grabs my bowl from the heat, slams it on my cutting board and says “Your eggs are starting to scrambling.  Make again.”

I shove the overcooked mixture on the shelf next to my knives, crack three new eggs and start again.  Two minutes in, Chef walks by again.  He sticks his finger into the bowl and comes out with a tiny fragment of shell.  ”Make again.”  He doesn’t even look at me; he doesn’t have to.

I don’t want to cry, so I don’t, but the force with which I bang my bowl against the compost container is frightening.  Who am I, why am I so angry?

I start again, this time cracking each egg in a mise cup to check for shells.  I whisk them into the sugar, moving my wrist in a circle so as to incorporate the most air possible.  I am whisking so hard, leaning so close to the stove, beads of sweat form on my forehead and roll all the way down my cheeks, like tears.

110 degrees.

I remove the bowl and whisk again, over my cutting board, the sweat pooling on the backs of my thighs.  This sucks.  I hate this.  I can’t tell if my eggs have tripled in volume, but I fold in the sifted cake flour anyway – the batter reaches 3/4 up the walls of the pan when I pour it in, so I guess it’s okay – and push it in the oven.  

A quick swipe of my station with a wet rag, then a dry one.  I have to roll out my dough for the apple tart.

Emily can tell I’m having a bad night, so she gets a rolling pin for me.  ”Thanks,” I say, tossing flour onto the tabletop.  We unwrap our dough, butter our rings.  My dough is just about ready – I never seem to let it relax, rest enough – so I place it on top of the flour, sprinkle it with more, and begin rolling.

It is too hot in the kitchen to breathe, let alone make a tart.  My dough breaks and cracks when I unroll it into the pan.  As this happens, Chef walks by.  He looks at the dough, then me.  ”You have flour all over your face, you know.”

“That’s not really what I’m concerned about at this point,” I snap, running my palm over my forehead for emphasis.

“Okay, we fixing it.”  He grabs the dough, forms it into a quick ball, rolls it out, wraps it around my pin, unwraps it, and says “You do the rest.”

“Thanks, Chef,” I mutter.

“I know you hate me now, but that’s okay.”

“I don’t hate you.”  I look up at him.  ”I hate myself right now.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that, so he doesn’t say anything, just walks away.

I mold my repaired dough to the pan, decorate the edges, dock it with a fork, wrap it in plastic, write my name on it, and put it back in the fridge.

The apple compote is finished, so Emily and I combine ours in a bowl, and cool it over ice.  It’s not time to check on my genoise yet, so I work on cleaning the spattered egg from the stove. Some students are still working on their dough.

At 7:15, Chef yells again.  ”You take your apple tart, and you throwing it in the trash.”

I can’t help myself.  ”No …” I say, my voice soft and protesting.  I was going to use the tart as a dessert for when my mother visited.  I don’t want to throw it out.

“Why?” I ask.

“You are all moving too slow.  We do not have enough time to do this.”

Around me, students are walking to the compost, their shoulders hunched and faces pulled into frowns.

I shove the apple compote into a take-out container, pull the dough from the ring, wrap it in plastic once more, and put it all in the fridge.  I’ll make it at home.  I am not having fun.  

It’s time to check on the genoise, so I take it from the oven.  It looks terrible; flat as a pancake and dense as stone.  I could throw it like a frisbee, if I wanted to.  Correction: I do want to.  If I was crazy enough to.

I’m madly, deeply frustrated.  I want to take off my uniform, to dump a bucket of ice over my head, to drink glass after glass of vodka.  But it’s only 7:30, and I have three and a half hours to go.

I take a deep breath.  

The secret is not to let him see he’s gotten to you.