From Sis to Man

Last weekend, I started over.

I moved from Brooklyn to Manhattan and I got a new job. I began Level Three at the French Culinary Institute and I bought new knives – sharp knives. Good knives. In the matter of a few days, my life has been turned completely upside-down, and what’s more, it’s gotten ten times harder.

Oh, I should be clear. I chose this new path – I applied for a kitchen job, I hurtled myself head-first into debt for an apartment of my very own. I made the decision, the commitment to be better (to be so much better) in my studies at FCI. I still haven’t figured out why I did this, and though I have plenty of time to ponder it on the 6 AM commute to Columbus Circle, I’ve been using that time instead to memorize the recipes for poulet roti, boeuf bourguinon, cote de porc. When I figure it out, I’ll let you know too. But first, a story.

—

When I was moving last weekend, packing up my boxes of inconsequential junk, I stopped by DUB for a coffee. DUB is a savory pie shop in Windsor Terrace, where I lived, and I liked to go there not so much for the meat pastries as for the expertly pulled, generously poured coffee. It was 7:15 in the morning, and my movers (were they really mine?) were en route to a small storage closet in upper Manhattan. I wanted a coffee. I needed a coffee.

“A latte please,” I said to the man behind the counter, whom I like but do not know. And then, for good measure, “A moving-day latte.”

“Aw, you’re moving?” he said, in proper inflection. I’m not entirely sure my face registered in his memory, but he displayed proper sadness nonetheless.

I watched as he brewed thick, dark espresso.

“Yeah … sort of. I mean yes. Yes, I am moving. I just don’t know where yet.”

“What a bummer; we’ll miss you around here.”

I smiled and reached for the latte. He gave it to me without a lid, so I could admire the milky heart he’d drawn in the top. It was round and fat on top, leading down to a thin, sharp point that faded into black. I put my lips on the edge of the cup and drank a little coffee without mussing the milk.

“Thanks. Thanks a lot,” I said with a big, flirtatious grin.

“See ya, Sis.”

As I stepped into the sunlight, I giggled. Sis? I hadn’t been called that since I was in grade school, and that was by my sister! Sis seemed awfully antiquated. Still, I liked it. It was cute, and sweet, and made me feel special. Despite the chaos rapidly developing in my peripheral, it made me feel like Rochelle.

—

I really like my new boss. He’s worked in some prestigious, influential restaurants, and he has a great mind for organization and planning. I admire and respect him, and when I watch him handle a knife, I feel nothing but inspired and jealous. Plus, he does cool chef-typical things, like calling a quarter of a pineapple a “fillet” and yelling “AM I THE CHEF HERE? Because if I’m not, I’ll walk out right now!” I really want to impress him, but even more so, I want to find myself at his level of technique.

After a slightly unpleasant incident this week with wonky fruit platters, I’ve been extra careful to move around the kitchen with precision. “Is this what you were looking for, Chef?” I ask. “Will you taste this vinaigrette?” “What do you want me to work on, Chef?” For the first time, I’m saying “Chef” because he’s really my boss – and for the first time, I’m making food that matters, because it’s going to that elusive group known as the people.

For the first time, I don’t want to be identified as overly feminine, lest people take my food less seriously. For the first time, I’m realizing what it means to be a woman in the kitchen. And sure, I’m not an important woman in the kitchen, but I feel the huge, disappointing difference between my coworkers and myself, like a gap, like a hole in my heart, like a collapsed soufflé.

I’m trying really hard to improve, but miracles don’t happen overnight. I’m still a kitchen spaz. I still walk around sometimes, overwhelmed at the myriad of tasks to be done, with my arms hanging oddly at my waist like a raptor. (I call these my raptor arms, and if you ever have the opportunity to work with me in a kitchen, keep an eye out for them.) I still fuck up a julienne now and then, and it’s still hard to make a perfect salad dressing without tasting it seventeen times.

So when my Chef thanked me today as we packed up, saying “Good job – thanks, man,” my heart dropped then leapt with a strange and curious intensity. Man! He’d called me man! I disregarded the “good job,” because I knew that it wasn’t really true. But man, oh man, did it feel good to be one of the boys.

Back in the women’s locker room – which I shared with no one – I yanked on a sweatshirt and sneakers for the commute home. I paused briefly, studying my nails, short and clean. Out of habit, I brought a hand to the side of my face and felt for makeup. None. And I didn’t care.

What did matter to me, that Friday as I left my new job, was that I had made a passable vinaigrette, segmented a grapefruit with precision, and that my chef had called me “man.” As I walked to the 6 train, I scowled at strangers, letting them feel my fatigue. Wasn’t it just weeks ago that I sat on the subway, coyly playing with the hem of a sundress? Wasn’t it just weeks ago that I elicited smiles from young men all over the city? Now, if a suit walks toward me at work, my kitchen uniform merits a slight frown, or worse, an uncomfortable wayward glance. But I don’t care. Because I am learning to use knives and hot pots and make incredible, intelligent, careful, classical, intricate food, and all they can ever hope to do is eat it.

I approached the subway platform and sighed. The train was held up, and the crowd of people waiting had grown frighteningly large. I threw my bag to the gritty floor and crouched next to it, welcoming the stretch it brought my thighs. To my right stood a beautiful girl in high heels. I stuck out my bottom lip and nodded, silently commending her for impeccable style. But I wasn’t jealous, because I had something better. I had a Japanese knife, and it was tucked safely next to my sharpening stone.

The night before, at school, Derek had grinned wickedly and said that he wouldn’t be surprised in the least if I became a cook.

I thought about this and shook my head and felt my heart beat heavily. This new me was unfamiliar and unsettling, but I wanted to know her better. I wanted to like her.

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