Aldea is blue and gray, clean and vertical.  The already-tall ceilings seem to reach even higher as a result of the long, thin lines that echo throughout the restaurant.

We took a seat at the chef’s table and chatted with the cooks.  I could never work in an open kitchen, I thought, watching them firing dishes, filling tiny brown eggs with foam.  They looked so cool and collected, I almost laughed as I imagined myself running around like a maniac on display.

“I could never work in an open kitchen,” he said.

“Oh thank god, I thought it was just me!”  We swapped reasons why (my general lack of skill and composure; his desire to “really freak out if need be”).  We ordered cocktails.  Mine consisted of Plymouth, sage, ginger, orange blossom water, lemon – snowy white and sweet as can be.  Dare I call it the new Cosmopolitan?  (I think I will, just so that awful pink drink can be retired.)  He sipped on calvados, chai-infused vermouth, apple cider foam.  The cocktail list is an intriguing start to an intellectually-charged meal.  Nothing is simple, but everything is familiar.  His cocktail was both wintry and warming.

The first dish to arrive was that small egg – topped with foam – but underneath that were a few salty, flaky spoonfuls of salted cod and black olive.

After that: toast.  Toast, topped with cauliflower cream and immodestly large pillows of sea urchin.  We split it in half and he gave me the bigger piece.  I swooned.

I winced a bit at the sight of pork belly – past experiences with the stuff have left my mouth oily and stomach angry.  This small square was just a bite and blissfully meaty.  Ah-ha!  So this is why people go nuts for pork belly, I thought as the flesh flaked away like brisket.  Sandwiched between apple – a thin slice on top, a sticky, sweet dab below – I easily forgot all past pork transgressions committed.

Two terrines: the rustic duck and pork was coarse and mild, and while I wouldn’t have expected it to be paired with a muscat wine gelée, the two played together quite nicely.  ”I love rustic food,” he said, and while I did believe him, I couldn’t help but find humor in the fact that the food he creates nightly in his restaurant is perfect, precise.

I almost squealed in delight (actually, I might have) at the arrival of a foie gras terrine.  As the soft pink square was set in front of us, he leaned in and put his hand on my knee.  ”Didn’t you say something about wanting this for breakfast the other day? Foie and brioche?”  I giggled into his shoulder.  Indeed I had – lovely of him to remember.  I’d said it more in a wistful-fantasy sort of way, but was now pleased as punch to be eating the creamy liver spread on golden-brown toast with maple syrup.  (The inclusion of maple syrup is an encouraging nod to validate my odd cravings.  Foie gras is a breakfast dish, after all!)

And then we got our appetizers.

Shrimp alhinho was fiery and spicy, topped with a tumble of dried chile threads.  We talked about plating at that point, because it is important, and he explained that a sloppy plating job was what really caused him to lose his cool in the kitchen.  Angry chefs are intriguing. I wanted to see it! “Pretend I just put an ugly plate on the pass,” I begged, my eyes twinkling.  ”Yell at me.”

He straightened up and grabbed the bread plate. He motioned toward the picholine olive roll and cocked his head.  ”Really?  Really?” He looked at me and narrowed his eyes. “Are you fucking serious about this?  Rochelle … this is not even close to what I’m looking for.”

I gave a pretend pout and dissolved into laughter.  He shook his head and made me promise never to work in his kitchen.

Matsutake mushroom broth included an egg that’d been poached in a circulator – a method of cooking that never ceases to fascinate me – and thin rounds of salty chorizo.

Plates of monkfish were reminiscent of pastis and bouillabaisse, scented with fennel and served with a bowl of black rice so brimming with umami, I found myself taking fork after forkful, both happier and hungrier than the bite before.

Plates of hanger steak and duck rice were the last to arrive, and though we shared everything, I have to admit I was pleased the rice, black olives and duck cracklings were placed before me.  I almost wouldn’t have swapped out of lusty greed for duck fat, but the boneless short ribs that accompanied his steak were too meltingly soft to pass on.  A smoky potato puree made me feel almost sorry for the mounds of boring mashed potatoes I’d met over the Christmas holidays.

For dessert, we chose chocolate and caramel.  Caramel: an apple-cinnamon compote was nice, but paled in comparison to the quenelle of graham cracker ice cream it sat next to.  Graham cracker ice cream!  Chocolate: a passion fruit puree wound its way around the plate, creating a sweet path for candied hazelnuts, gianduja crisp, passion fruit sponge cake.

Petite fours and espresso were nibbled at, and as we lingered over the pistachio madelines, we watched the cooks clean.  One of them had a stack of quart containers a mile high.  He, knowing my affection (okay, weird obsession) for the plastic take-out tubs, politely asked for a clean one, which he presented to me as though it was a bouquet of flowers.  As we buried our noses deep into it, trying to guess what spices and secrets it once held, I smiled inwardly and thought about how much better anise was than roses.

And yes, I kissed him good night.

I was a vegetarian for seven years, and during that time, I ate tofu, wrote impassioned pieces on both the benefits of vegetarianism and the cruelties of animal consumption, protested foie gras and even worked at PETA.

When I made the decision to really engage in the culinary world, I began eating meat again – slowly at first, and then with increasing hunger and greed.  I went from picking at chicken breasts to demanding that piece of bacon (the fattiest), that cut of venison (the juiciest) that lamb chop (the biggest).  There was something so primal and wholly satisfying about eating not just meat, but offal as well, and I wanted it on my plate, in my hands, in my mouth.

Last night, when I walked into class at the French Culinary Institute, I found a roasting pan of marrow bones waiting.  My instructor had ordered them at my request – I wanted to prepare and serve them for our class buffet this Saturday.  They were thick and heavy, caked with detritus, blood, sinew and meat.  They looked delicious.

After simmering them and extracting the marrow, I cleaned them with my knife, scraping down the  bone until they gleamed clean milky-white.  It was sweltering in the kitchen, and I was working furiously to prepare them all.  My cheeks blushed a brilliant shade of pink, prompting a classmate to ask if I felt all right.

I brushed a fringe of stray hair off my forehead with my wrist.  “I’m great,” I said with a smile.  “It’s just hot and these bones are very dirty.”

Roasted Marrow Bones

• 10-12 marrow bones
• 2 tablespoons capers
• 1 cup parsley leaves
• 2-3 shallots
• Juice of 3-4 lemons
• Extra virgin olive oil
• Coarse salt
• Panko bread crumbs, toasted

Soak the bones in cold, very salty water for 20 minutes to degorge them.  Remove, place in a large pot and cover with clean salted cold water.  Cover the pot and bring to a boil as quickly as possible (a slow boil will leach out too much fat).  Once boiling, reduce the heat and simmer for 2-3 minutes.  Remove a bone and shock it in an ice bath; attempt to remove the marrow.  If it slides out easily, shock the rest of the bones.  If not, give them a minute more in the hot water.

To remove the marrow, run a small paring knife around the bone and tip it upside down.  It should fall right out.  Keep the extracted marrow in a bowl of cold water while you scrape at the bones to clean them (this is for presentation purposes, of course.)  Place the bone on a cutting board and run the knife over the sinews, scraping away at the debris until it comes away.

Remove the marrow from the water and place in a food processor.  Pulse until very finely chopped, then add a bit of olive oil – just a bit – until the marrow emulsifies.  (It will look like creamy butter; indeed, Derek observed that marrow is “God’s butter,” whatever that means), then fold in the shallots (chopped finely, then sweated in oil), parsley (also), capers (also), and salt and lemon juice to taste.

Put the mixture into a pastry bag and pipe back into the bones.  Top with bread crumbs and roast in a hot (450-ish) oven until the marrow is hot and oozing.  To serve, scoop the marrow out and slather over extra bread.

“Bye,” I said in a very small and once-again shy voice.

He arranged his face into a quiet grin and repeated me.  “Bye.”

We were pulling into the station, but we weren’t there yet, so I lifted my face up to him, leading with expectant eyes.  My mouth was smiling when he kissed it again, and I pulled him down further by the strings on his sweatshirt.  Further down into me.

When the doors to the train opened, I waved wildly and tried to show him how happy he made me, how much I was going to miss him.  He started to walk away, and I was starting to get used to the idea that he really, truly had to leave when he stepped back in and kissed me one last time, his thumb and index finger cupping my chin so very slightly.

—

When I met him one evening this week, I knew that we wouldn’t be kissing.  Not that night, not ever again.

“Hi,” I said, offering the coy look I’d been keeping just for him.

He smiled too, but not as wide as he had the week before.  We started to walk, and as we fell in step together, I reached for his arm.  His hands were pushed deep into his pockets.  I ran my fingers down the length of his shirt, but he didn’t free his hand.  My hand knocked against his wrist.  My heart dropped.  My stomach hurt.

“So,” I said, pointing to his head.  “What’s going on up there?”

“Rochelle …” he kept walking, holding dearly to the fabric of his pants. 

I nodded to myself.  I knew what he was going to say.

“I don’t think I can do this anymore.”

I nodded to him.  That meant that he knew he wouldn’t do this anymore.

“I understand,” I said, letting my hands wander to my own pockets.  That was half-true.  I understood the fact that he should feel that way – but not why he did.

“You’re … great,” he said, pausing to look at me for the briefest of moments.  “You’re wonderful, actually.”  I smiled to myself and him.  Attraction is a glorious thing, and I appreciated, at that moment, its blinding power.  It was nice to be thought great.

He continued.  “But she …” his voice trailed off.  He said her name.  “She is so … good.  To me.”

I nodded again, hiding my eyes under the brim of my winter hat. 

“I understand,” I said like a broken record, like a liar.

We stood on the corner, silently deciding whether or not to descend into the subway, whether or not to further hurt each other and the people around us.  The wind picked up and pushed my hair off the nape of my neck.  It was very cold, and though I wanted to bury my face into his collarbone, I just said “Well, let’s go down.”

We found a bench and sat next to each other.  I drew my feet underneath me but didn’t lean on him. 

We sighed so much, so loudly.

We moved to the train when it arrived.

He talked about how exciting, how different our time together was, and I listened.  He talked about how awful he felt, how sad and angry, and I listened to that too.  In the past, I’d had trouble articulating all of the excellent things I wanted to say to him, but this time, both my mouth and mind were dry.  What was I feeling?  What would I say?  I couldn’t discern any emotion, except for a small, sharp twinge in the left corner of my abdomen. 

I had eaten too much that night – sauce americaine by the spoonful, tart apple slices coated with apricot glaze, short ribs cooked en sous vide, chicken skin stuffed with duck and seared in more fat, perfect creme anglaise and later, a creme anglaise ice cream.

We sat for a few minutes more and then he spoke in a voice so gentle, I almost didn’t hear it.  “I don’t know.  I just want to curdle.”

Curdle?  Like a hollandaise?  I moved my head in agreement.  I felt curdled on the inside too.  But it was loud in the station and we were being so quiet with each other that maybe I was wrong.  Maybe he hadn’t said that at all.

As his stop inched closer, I thought about kissing him – one last time, for good measure, for goodbye, because it would feel so nice and so bad.  I didn’t. 

“Well, it’s been real,” I said with a smirk and a salute, to let him know that I was going to be okay – that I was going to be just fine.  He groaned – whether it was out of upset or amusement, I shall never know – and stepped out onto the platform.

I straightened my shoulders and searched for him hidden in the throng of passengers.  I couldn’t find him, so I sat alone on the train, thinking about my stomach.  It hurt quite badly, but as the car rumbled on down the tracks, I could feel the pain move steadily up my chest.

Okay, what am I making today?  Poulet Roti Grand-mere.  Roast chicken, grandmother style.  Oh god.  Not again.  I’ve made this six times already.  It.  Is.  So.  Boring.  And long.  And involved.  And all of that stupid garniture.  Garni-churrrr.  I want to go home.  No I don’t.  I want to go out to eat.  But not chicken.  Maybe a fried egg.  With breadcrumbs.  Mm.  I should go to Savoy.  Definitely.  I should do that tomorrow.  No, I have to work late tomorrow.  My life is no fun anymore.

Well, at least chicken is easier than the stupid lemon tart.  Or the barramundi.  Okay, chicken it is.

Better get my mise en place all set.

Let’s see.  I need a chicken.   Better get to the low boy now so I can pick out a good one; last time my bird’s neck was broken.  Wait.  If I get it now, I’ll have to keep it under my station over ice.  I don’t have enough room for that.  Wait on the chicken.

Get all of the stuff for the jus.  Then get all of the stuff for the garniture.  But that doesn’t really make sense, does it?  I need vegetables for both things.  Maybe get all of the vegetable first, then put it into separate bowls at my station?  That’s a good idea.  Well, since I’m up here, I might as well get butter.  But butter and oil go together, and I need them both, so I’d better not just get butter.  Hee hee!  What a great sentence.  I love consonance.  I should remember this, so I can write about it later.  Don’t get the herbs yet.  Even if I wrap them in a towel, Chef will yell at me.

Oh, no.

I forgot to bring a knife up.  How am I going to get the butter I need?  It’s in a huge brick.  Would it be the worst thing in the world if I took the entire block back to my station, portioned it out and brought it back up?  It’d only take a minute.  No.  Someone else will need it.  Well, here’s a spoon.  Right-o, scooping butter with a spoon.  I hope Chef doesn’t see me.

For once, for the love of god, don’t forget to soak your pearl onions in warm water.  I really need a lot of square bowls for this recipe.  Get a few small ones, and a big one to put your peeled potatoes in.  GET THE TRUSSING STRING!  YOU ARE GOING TO BE MAD AT YOURSELF IF YOU HAVE TO GO BACK FOR THAT!  GET WINE AND STOCK, TOO!  Stop yelling.  Get your stuff.

Okay.  I have everything I need for the next five minutes.  Ready, go.

Cut the bacon first.  No, first remove the rind.  Now cut it into lardons.  I loooove lardons.  Definitely cut some extra for snacking after they’ve cooked.  I know the recipe says to blanch the bacon, but that’s stupid.  Put it on the fire.  NO.  Put the pan on the fire.  Heat it.  Add oil.  Add bacon.  You need fat to render fat.  Dumbass.  Sizzle.  Yum.  I love that sound.  Pay attention.  Practice sauteing your bacon, because you do it like a spastic moron.  Hold a towel at the base of the pan, push all the protein to the lip. Jerk your hand back.  Okay, maybe not that much.  That hurt.  Hot oil.  Try again.  Not bad.  Chef was watching.

Bacon’s done, drain.  Reserve the fat and use it to saute your mushrooms.  Ah.  Right.  Mushrooms.  I’ll need to peel and quarter them.  Okay, then.  Do that.

That didn’t take too terribly long.

Sauteing mushrooms!  Look at me go!  Look at how nifty my pan-jerking skills are!  Where is Chef when I’m doing a good job?  Jonny deglazes his mushrooms with wine.  That’s not in the recipe, but maybe I should too.  Well, I forgot the wine, so I guess I won’t.

Drain the mushrooms.

Peel the pearl onions.  This is really hard.  Why is it that the second skin will never come off without taking three more layers of flesh?  Now they’re tiny.  You know, I knew I was going to forget parchment paper.  Go get parchment paper.  It’s on top of the convection oven.

OH MY GOD, THE CONVECTION OVEN IS ON AND I JUST LAID MY ENTIRE ARM INTO IT.  That is going to leave a really bad burn.  That stinks.  No, that’s awesome.  I want a hot burn to show off.  Make mental note to show all the boys in class once it colors.  Sweet.

Make a cartouche out of parchment paper.

Put pearl onions in pan.  Where is the pan?  Oh.  Used it for the bacon.  Should have gotten two.  I KNEW I HAD TO GET TWO.  Should I start my chicken?

Get new pan.  Put pearl onions in, along with butter (good thing I got it!), water, sugar and salt.  Use more water than last time, because the onions were drastically undercooked.  Put on fire.  Put on cartouche.  Whoops, cartouche flew off and is burning.  Make new cartouche.  Try not to freak out.

Time to start the chicken!  Go to the low boy and pick one out.  Forget a bowl.  Go get a bowl.  Go back to low boy.  Get chicken.  Go to station.  Forget to wash chicken.  Go to sink.  Wash chicken.  Dry chicken.  Take out bag of innards.  What do I save for the jus?  Heart?  Kidney?  Liver?  What do I throw away?  Wait, which one is the liver?  I don’t think I’m supposed to use kidneys, or liver.  Heart?  Heart sounds good.

Time to clean and ready the bird.  Show off awesome knife skills during manchonner.  Too bad no one’s looking.  Well, my partner is now that I just spewed some cartilage onto his cutting board.  Sorry.  Get sani-solution soaked cloth.  Wipe cutting board.  Continue attacking chicken.  Wipe hand on side towel.  AUGH, NO, WHY DID YOU DO THAT!?  Take off towel.  Remember to toss it and get new one.  No food poisoning tonight; not on my watch!

Season bird, then stuff a lemon in its butt.  Parsley and garlic wouldn’t hurt either.  Truss it up.  Season again for good measure.

Get a pan really smoking hot.  Too hot.  No!  Burned the oil.  I need to pour off the oil.  I don’t  have an extra bowl.  Walk to the dishwasher station and dump it in the waste container.  Start again with the oil.  I need a meat fork.  I have a meat fork.  Okay, here we go.

Browning chicken!  Um, my pan is smoking.  Is that okay?  Probably not.  Keep going anyway, because I care but apparently not that much.  Is that bad?  Does that mean I’ll never be a good chef?  Probably not.  But it isn’t a good habit.  Make mental note to change all bad habits, including overspending on cab rides.  But the subway sucks!  And cabs are so nice and quiet!  And I usually have all of my bags and equipment with me!  That tool bag is so heavy.  I need a knife roll.  I don’t have the money to buy a knife roll.  But I apparently had the money to go out for two (okay, two and a half) beers last night.  Bad Rochelle.

Um.  Pay attention to your chicken.

Fully browned?  Nice.  Get new pan, because the oil is completely black in this one.  Nice.  Not.

Rub bird all over with butter, put in oven, start stopwatch on wristwatch.  Check it after twenty minutes.  Don’t let it get past 140 degrees.  Check it after twenty minutes.

Start jus.

Brown the bones (I really do want a knife roll), then brown the mirepoix.  Burn the mirepoix.  Ah, man.  That wasn’t in the recipe.  Discard burnt things.  Start again, this time with only vegetables.  This is going to be one sweet jus.  And not in the good way.  Make mental note to add chicken carcass later.  Maybe that will help.  Maybe not.

Start cutting potatoes into cocotte.  Good.  I like this part.  Quiet, calm.

Wait.

Check the chicken.

125.  Not yet.

Resume cocotte.  I want water.  I should go get some.  No.  I should stay at my station and do my cocottes.  Good.  Discipline is important.  Hum.  Mind going blank.  Is this what Chef means when she mentions the tournage zone?  How many do I have done?  9?  Need at least 4 more.  Go, go, go!

Check the chicken.  Done.  142.  Not bad.  Remove, put on rack.  Look at time.  An hour to plating.  Freak out.  It was WAY TOO EARLY to cook the chicken.  Cover with aluminum foil and hide under station.  Make joke to partner about chicken-shaped parcel hidden behind my carrots.  Hope that Chef didn’t see.  Know she did.

Hey, didn’t I burn my arm earlier?  Whaddya know, it’s red and scorching!  Try to conceal excitement.  Loser.  Masochist.

Well, I kind of have a bit of time left.  Go through cocotte again, perfecting any rough edges.  There are kind of a lot of rough edges.  Or am I just being too picky?  TRICK QUESTION, THE ESSENCE OF A FRENCH CHEF IS AN OVERLY PICKY NATURE.  Stop yelling at yourself.  But do make it perfect.  Make everything perfect.

… I don’t really believe in perfect.  I embrace imperfection!  Ha-ha!  Good, because this jus is really, really sweet.

Break down chicken.  Nice.  Looks good.  Add carcass to jus.  I remembered!  I want a knife roll!  I want a glass of water!  My underwear is wedged inside my butt!  My shins are sweating!

Put garniture on half-sheet pan, along with chicken breasts.  Put legs back in oven to finish cooking; they’re a bit red.  I’m pretty freakin’ awesome!

My arm hurts.  Strain the jus.  Still sweet.  Fuck it.  Chop parsley.  OH MY GOD THE POTATOES.

Boil potatoes.  Boil, boil, boil water.  HURRY UP.  No, don’t boil.  Simmer.  Simmer, simmer, simmer water.  HURRY UP.  Okay, drain.  Air dry.  Into the pan with a shitload of oil!  Brown those fuckers!

Wait.  Put that thought on hold.

Place plates and garniture in oven.  Everything has to be warm.

Return to potatoes.  Drain oil.  Add a ton of butter.  Put in oven.  Clean up station.

Stop thinking.

Clean up station, wipe everything down.  Remove plates.  Arrange in logical pattern.  What is logical?  Two-and-two.  Remove chicken.  Put chicken on plates.  Chicken doesn’t go on plate first.  Remove chicken.  Pour jus on plate.  Now chicken.  Now garniture.  Remove potatoes from oven.  Put potatoes on plate with bare (albeit gloved) fingers.  Oh.  Potatoes are a bit hot.  A lot hot.  Burn fingers.  Arrange potatoes in proper triangle pattern.

Ready?  Set?  Go.  Start to bring plates up to Chef.  Turn around.  Forgot the parsley.  Say to island-mates “I FORGOT THE PARSLEY!”    Put parsley in jus, hope it looks like it was mixed in originally.  Present plates.  Go back to station.  Start cleaning.  Try to stop thinking.  Fix wedgie.  Feel marginally better.

Go back up to Chef’s table.  Find out everything I did wrong (it’s a lot).  Eat 7 pieces of bacon and 8 pearl onions to make self feel better.  Surprisingly, it works.  Ready self for next class: it’s lemon tart.

There are three macarons to be had, and I suggest we start with vanilla because comparatively, it’s the most boring.

It’s simple, but not boring.  He takes the first bite, then turns the cookie around and guides it into my mouth.  The first thing I feel is the squish of the vanilla cream against my tongue.  I bring my teeth down on the meringue and feel it crack and split.  I lick my lips, retrieving any stray crumbs and motion for him to have another piece.

“It tastes like Christmas snow,” I say, and I mean it.  I’m not afraid or embarrassed to use simile like that for him, because he cares about food just as much as I do.  The cream is very sweet, and it’s perfectly smooth.

He picks the next cookie, and in the dark we can’t tell what it is until we taste it.  It’s fig balsamic, and I like this one even better.

“Figs are my absolute favorite thing in the whole world,” he says.  I grin, because this sounds both slightly suspect and familiar.  I like figs too, a whole lot, and I tell him this.  He seems to like them more, which is fine.  He has a much firmer grasp on raw ingredient than I do – my tastes lean toward elaborate meals, multiple courses, a dining experience.  He appreciates such things but prefers food over dramatics.

We try the pumpkin macaron and it tastes just like it’s supposed to.

He asks what my absolute favorite food is, and what I would choose if I could only eat one thing for the rest of my life.

“Aren’t those the same thing?” I want to know.  He says they’re not, then gives me his answer.  I understand what he means.  I think real hard about what I’m going to say, but can’t come up with a good response.  In fact, the more I mull it over, the more I realize that I like eating much more than I like food.  I don’t tell him this, because he’s feeding me the last of the harvest-flavored cookie, and I’m trying to get every bit from his fingers.  This is the sort of thing I like.  I like this much better than the macaron.

“This is fun,” I say, pressing my cheek to his chest and running my fingers up and down his arms.  He sighs.

“I am an awful person,” he says.  “I am an awful person to be with.”

I nod.  I am too.  “I am too.”

“No, I mean it.”

I nod.  I do too.  “I do too.”

He continues, and when he speaks, he takes his arm off my waist.

“Sometimes, when I talk with people on the phone I get so annoyed, so angry that I hold the phone out away from me and I mouth the words ‘SHUT UP!  SHUT UP!  I DON’T CARE!’  He shows me what he means, expanding his arms the length of the mattress and waving his hands.  His face is angrier than I’ve ever seen it.

I understand this.  I have done this.  I have done this recently.  But I don’t know how to tell him without sounding contrived, so I just nod.

“I get moody,” is his response.

“I might lie and say I’m busy, but really I’ll just be home drinking, alone.”  The confession comes easily and feels good.  I’m on a roll now.

His voice quiets.  “Me too.”

I flick a crumb from the blanket and watch it fall to the floor.  I want him so badly.  I don’t care if he tells me to shut up on the phone.  I talk too much anyway.  His honesty feels cleansing.  And even though talking with him is the easiest thing I’ve done in a long, long time, I don’t know how to tell him this.

I think about it for a while, and then I don’t have to because his mouth and hands are on me, firm and warm.  I let him kiss me in spite of all his warning, and I am taken to a place where the hardest thing is just crisp meringue, where the figs are fresh and milky.

Before I could turn around, I heard a distinctly French voice whisper hurriedly.  “Put this underneath; it is zee carrot top.”  I smiled as I swiveled my body around, and I wasn’t at all surprised to see Chef X scurrying back to his students in level five. 

I took a quick moment to admire the bushy green leaves wrapped in plastic before turning my attention back to the lemon.  Peler a vif.  I’d cut off the top and bottom, then gently separated the skin and pith from the flesh with my paring knife.  Now I was working the tool in and out between the membranes.  The supremes that popped out would be used as a garnish for skate sauteed in clarified butter and dressed with a beurre noisette, capers, croutons, parsley.  Chef X taught us how to peler a vif this summer, and it seemed so long ago that I stood at my station in level one, willing the knife to work, the segments not to become mangled.  It seemed so long ago that I took the train back home to Brooklyn, crying because Chef was so mean, so unfair, because class was so hard.

Well isn’t it funny, I said to Derek and Krista, showing them the greens.  Wasn’t that nice, I said.  Don’t you miss him, I asked, and they had to admit that they did.

Last night at the French Culinary Institute, we made fresh pasta, risotto, rice pudding and potato gnocchi. These are all things I loved to eat before I started at FCI – all things I used to make for myself on a regular basis. (You may remember a certain infatuation with arborio rice …) But since enrolling, I’ve adopted a sort of disdain for all foods not French. Maybe it comes from Chef X, who says “Ze Ee-tal-ee-ans” with about the same inflection one might use to talk about “Ze mass murderers” or “Ze butter-haters.” Every lesson that includes a hint of Italian flair comes with a disclaimer: “That is ze way of ze Ee-tal-ee-ans, I don’t very get it.”

So anyway, yes, I’ve eliminated pasta and rice from my diet – not by way of low-carb fads, but simply because, I figure, why eat penne when you can eat a steak with sauce choron?

But I think Chef has a fondness for pasta and rice, because no matter how much he’d deny it, I saw a certain calm wash over him as he worked spinach dough in an electric machine. I might even go so far as to say that pasta’s his thing.

Suffice it to say, then, I very much wanted to impress him with my risotto. Risotto was my thing! It’d been so long since I’d made one – would I remember how? As I toasted the rice in butter and saffron, I let the steam from the simmering chicken stock waft upwards. Oh yes. I remember. This is easy.

When my rice was done – soupy, but not overcooked, soft but not mushy – I checked my recipe card. Stir in parmesan cheese, butter and creme fraiche. Creme fraiche? That wasn’t very Italian. And yet – totally brilliant. Why hadn’t I thought of that before!? The tangy, creamy smoothness would bring something butter and parmesan just couldn’t on their own. I added a generous amount and lifted a spoonful to my mouth. Good god, it was delicious.

I plated my dish and brought it up to Chef, who, try as he might, couldn’t find a negative thing to say. I wanted to enjoy it, but I’d already stuffed myself to the gills with pillows of gnocchi and diced pancetta. I scooped it into a quart-sized container to bring home. I’d bake arancini with the leftovers! Arancini would make a beautiful dinner, along with a bed of romaine and radicchio. And don’t start the freaking out, but I might even pair it with a French wine.

“I fixing hole in the wall; it is emergency,” she said, her voice almost shrill, dripping with guilt.

Oh, I was livid.  Immediately, I called to mind all of her previous wrongdoings, the apartment’s many shortcomings.  There was the front door – broken since I moved in, the sporadic lack of hot water, the toilet that didn’t flush for a week, the mold lurking behind the shower tiles.  I poked my head into the room and watched her pass my rabbit’s cage. 

“HI!  HI HI HI!” she said, leaning down to the bunny.

It was time to move.

I spent all morning and afternoon today looking at apartments in Manhattan.  I was never really a Brooklyn kind of girl – and with a new job waiting for me in the most stylish borough*, it seemed like a good fit.

I looked at scads of apartments, all studios and all decidedly tiny.  My (least) favorite was a fifth-floor walk-up, devoid of decoration or design, save a pen-scrawled sheet of looseleaf, taped to the wall above the stove.  It read: “Give into the fear, give into the dark, the desperation and depression.  Make them feel it.  Make them feel the fear.”