Patissier

Although I have a sweet tooth the size of Texas, patissier is probably my least favorite station.  It’s a different world than the rest of the line – it lacks that excitement, that rhythm, that push.  But patissier was the first station assigned to me at L’Ecole, the French Culinary Institute’s student-run restaurant, and so a pastry cook I am (for three more classes, anyway).

I started Level Five last night, which means that until I graduate in April (hire me!), I’ll be cooking at L’Ecole every night, rotating around the stations – canapé, garde manger, poissonier, saucier, entremetier … and patissier.

The thing about the pastry station is that it requires a certain amount of patience.  There’s no real rush, and because it’s the last course in any diner’s meal, there’s more than ample time to prep and bake.

Last night was relaxed as can be.  As I polished off a ramekin of eggnog mousse, I watched my fellow students sear scallops and wipe their dampening brows with the crooks of their elbows.  In the next room over, the folks in garde manger were getting slammed, working hard to keep up with the orders for rabbit ragout and warm petatou.  It looked like hard work, but it also looked fun.  It looked like a challenge.

Oh, that’s not to say pastry isn’t challenging.  In fact, it can be maddening.  Shaping delicate tuiles into perfect wings is enough to make grown men cry.  But as the clock ticked past 9 and I considered eating another heaping dose of mousse, I began to feel a little resentful toward the saucier station.

And then!  Chh-chh-chh! The ticket machine spat out an order.  How exciting!  Jeffrey, a classmate in Level 6, called out the order.  ”Two chocolate walnut, one creme brulee!”  That was us!  Level 6’s desserts were a chocolate-porcini brownie and a gingerbread cake – the chocolate walnut and creme bruleed apples were our creation.  ”Two walnut, one brulee,” Lacey repeated to let him know we were on it.  My three classmates and I quickly divided the tasks.  I spooned custard into the hollowed-out and baked apple half, and Thomas torched the top until the sugar formed a thin crust.  We transferred the apple to a plate decorated with a squirt of cassis syrup and blueberries, then topped it all off with two candied orange and ginger florentines.

“One creme brulee,” I said proudly, presenting it to Chef Anna, who placed it on a tray.  Meanwhile, Lacey and Evan were finishing up the chocolate walnut cakes – they looked stunning, coated in caramel sauce, topped with candied walnuts and joined by eggnog mousse nestled into that elusive tuile.

We watched Jeffrey take the tray through the main kitchen and up to the pass, and as he disappeared into the clang of pots and pans, we looked at one another and shrugged.  ”Good job,” we said, and waited another ten minutes for the next order.

By 10:30, the main kitchen was shut down and we were in the middle of our plating parade.  We did it with ease – four people on hand to plate three desserts (we included a special of chocolate lamingtons with coconut ice cream) seemed almost extraneous.  It was pretty fun, actually, working to make each plate as perfectly perfect as possible.  But at 11, when my classmates filed past us, nabbing squares of sponge cake as they went, I couldn’t help feeling a little annoyed.  We’d be in the kitchen as long as diners lingered over their pork chops and smoked rack of lamb.  True to our predictions, it wasn’t until a quarter to twelve that we trudged to our lockers.

“Pastry sucks, man,” Lacey said as I shoved my apron and whites into a duffel.

“Yeah,” I said, but as I zipped the bag I caught sight of the two miniature chocolate cakes I’d wrapped in foil to take home.  ”But something tells me I’m going to miss it when it’s over.”

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If you’d like to taste the pastries in this story for yourself, I’d be honored to invite you to L’Ecole.  The dinner service is run by students starting at 8 PM, and I’m in the kitchen every Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday.

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