Hungry Woman in Paris (14 page)

Blanquette de Veau à l’Ancienne
Traditional Veal Stew

1.2 kilograms boned veal shoulder

80 grams carrots

80 grams onions

100 grams leeks

1 celery stalk

2 garlic cloves

1 bouquet garni

salt, peppercorns

3 cloves

ANCIENNE GARNISH

250 grams button mushrooms

200 grams pearl onions (about 20)

20 grams butter

1 lemon

salt, pepper

SAUCE

White Roux

30 grams butter

30 grams flour

500 milliliters of the
blanquette
cooking liquid

150 milliliters whipping cream

Thickening Agent

50 milliliters whipping cream

2 egg yolks

RICE PILAF

Half an onion, finely chopped

30 grams butter

200 grams long-grain rice

1 small bouquet garni

salt

Cooking liquid: One and a half times the volume of rice (water or chicken stock or a mixture of half of each)

I swear I had sharpened my knives, but I could barely cut through the veal. It was taking me so long to cut the meat into
morsels I wrapped a third of it in paper and threw it into the garbage when no one was looking. Yes, there were people starving
in Africa and here I was in Paris wasting meat. I prayed to God for forgiveness and to remove all the guilt. If my mother
were to see me she would have reminded me how hard my father worked to put meat on the table. I would have argued with her
that the meat was only for the men so what did I care, but there was no time for a feminist debate now. I had only a few seconds
to finish preparing the meat before I had to add the carrots, onions, leeks, celery stalk, two garlic cloves, bouquet garni,
and salt, peppercorns, and three cloves to the pot of water with the veal chunks. While the meat was cooking I started on
the mushrooms and onions. I looked up at the clock, calculating the good hour it would take to cook. There was no room for
error. I made the rice with no problem following my notes.

An hour passed and I took the meat off the burner. I put my feminist pride aside and asked Rick, who was next to me, to please
help me with the heavy pot of water so I could remove the chunks and vegetables yet save some of the boiling liquid. I hated
asking anyone for help, but I was not strong enough to pick up that hot pot. I thanked him, but he was too busy making the
fish dish to wait around for compliments on his chivalry. I set aside the cooking liquid for the sauce. I tried to make the
roux. I forgot the steps and threw the flour into the cooking liquid with the melted butter and whipping cream. The flour
popped into little globs when it hit the liquid and I gasped, holding in a scream.

Down to only ten minutes. I decided to pass the sauce through the colander to remove the globs. I threw tons of butter and
salt into the sauce, hoping to salvage it. It ended up tasting like milky, buttery water. I looked around to see how the others
were progressing. Ale was decorating her dish with carrots, a minute away from presenting her entrée platter to the chef.
With five minutes left I splattered the veal mixed in the white sauce onto the platter and threw in some carrots. I compared
my presentation to Ale’s and realized I had forgotten to include the rice pilaf. I grabbed spoonfuls of rice and tried cupping
it into little domes, but because I hadn’t planned ahead the rice fell apart, like a sand castle being stolen away by a wave.
I had one minute left when I announced to the chef I was finished, and he covered it up with plastic wrap and wrote my number
on it. He announced in French, with Rick translating, that time was up and that whoever was not finished would have points
taken away for every minute they were late. Bassie, Janeira, and an older American woman were still ten minutes away from
finishing. I cleaned my knives and wiped the sweat off my forehead. Bassie asked me for a hand with her pot, and I did my
best to help her. I gave her some of my rice when the chef wasn’t looking and she ended up being only five minutes late.

I sat in the courtyard and took a few minutes to breathe. When I was doing investigative reporting, I had been chased by gang
members, shot at, harassed by drug dealers, and threatened by men from every ethnic group, but this was the best adrenaline
rush of my life.

“So how did you do?” asked Henry, undoing the red tie of his translator’s uniform.

“Awful, but I finished on time,” I admitted.

“Hey, it’s just Basic. Once you get the fundamentals, it gets easier,” he reassured me. “What dish did you get?”

“The
blanquette de veau
—”

“You don’t need to know how to make that dish, it’s not all that great. Stupid dish,” he said arrogantly.

“Have you ever cooked it?” I asked.

“All the time. I worked as a sous-chef here for many years before I told those frogs to go fuck themselves. They wouldn’t
promote me to chef because I’m not French and I hadn’t studied to be one.”

“Why is it that English food has such a bad reputation?”

“Have you ever tried English food?”

“Hmmm, no, not really…” I said honestly, trying to remember the last time I’d gone to an English restaurant.

“It’s hard to get respect from French chefs when you’re British.”

“Do all chefs go to cooking school here in France? How come there are no French people at this cooking school if it’s supposed
to be the best one in the world?”

“Yeah, that’s what the marketing people wanted you to believe… French chefs either work their way up, inherit the restaurant
from a family member, or go to real cooking schools just outside of Paris. This school is for foreigners.”

I nodded and instinctively reached for my imaginary journalist’s notebook to write a mental note: Don’t ever again believe
what you read in a beautifully designed brochure.

There was a minute of silence as Henry looked at me with his puppy dog eyes.

“I’m sorry about the other night. I thought you were enjoying yourself and then I guess you freaked out—”

“No, I’m sorry… That was pretty immature of me to run out like that… I guess I got shy…” I lied.

“You? Impossible, not you… I think you liked it too much and don’t want to admit it,” Henry smirked, putting his arm
around me. “Let me be your guide to your erotic zones. I’ll help you find your G-spot and anywhere else you didn’t find with
your ex-fiancé,” he boasted.

“I don’t need you to be my guide,” I interjected. I was too proud to admit I could learn a thing or two from Henry.

“Your mind may be saying no, but your erect nipples are saying yes,” he whispered into my ear.

I got up and grabbed my knife kit. Henry’s perceptiveness disturbed me and I wanted to get away.

“So what are you doing next week, since you’re off?” Henry asked.

“I have no money,” I confessed, “so I guess I’ll stay home and—”

“Maybe you can come with me to London. I can take you to a decent English restaurant.”

I looked at him, wondering if I’d have to have sex with him in exchange.

“Yes, you’ll have to have sex with me, but only if you want to… ” he said with a wicked smile.

I debated whether to get dressed up and make a big deal about completing Basic Cuisine. I couldn’t imagine any chef finding
pleasure in having to taste my cooking final. I pictured an old retired chef making the face of a baby who’s just eaten spinach
when he tasted my dish to score it. Shaking the image from my head, I slipped into a dress and swore I’d be happy for the
winners.

Since this was a crash course, there were fewer students than usual and the graduation took place in the courtyard. The pastry
students were the first to be given their diplomas and awarded first through fifth place. I was convinced Ale would win first
place for our class. Chef Sauber presented our diplomas in alphabetical order. To my great dismay Ale got fourth place and
Paolo, the Portuguese guy in Group A, was awarded first place. Rick came in fifth. I was happy for him, but wondered how he
could have come in fifth when he’d been absent for one class. As bad as I was, I was never late or absent. Judy, a perky blonde
from Seattle who came in second, had also been absent from a class. It didn’t make sense that they were awarded a place if
they’d been absent. When Paolo went to accept his diploma, pin, and first-place certificate, Becky whispered to Bassie and
me that he’d had a couple years of restaurant experience. After I received my diploma and tried to look at the photographer
with a smile, I read my scores and felt worse. Then I remembered my promise and tried to be happy for those who really wanted
to be chefs. Getting a place meant that a serious student could end up getting a nice internship. If I’d have gotten first
place it would have been a nice ego trip, but I wasn’t planning to do a
stage
—internship—at some fancy restaurant with three Michelin stars that would be the springboard to a fabulous and exciting career
as a chef.

At the end of the graduation ceremony our tiny class of fourteen students took a photo and drank champagne. I pigged out on
the dessert trays and tiny appetizers. Henry stopped by to congratulate us and flirted with anyone who would flirt back. Chef
Frédérique also stopped by between his classes and thanked me for the bottle of tequila I’d left on his desk earlier that
morning. I had debated whether I should do that, but I’d said in the thank-you card that I was giving it to him so he could
experiment with it and try making sauces with the tequila; I’d written that just in case my letter was opened by anyone in
the administration. I thanked Chef Frédérique for his kindness and he said he was very “touched” in French and let his hand
linger on my shoulder, caressing me slightly. He looked at me with longing in his twinkling eyes. I started turning red and
made the excuse that I had to go to the ladies’ room. He said it was nice having me as a student but he was leaving the school
to work full-time at a three-star restaurant. I took his phone number and he said he would save the tequila and maybe I could
call him and we could drink it together. I shyly agreed and ran away before anybody could hear us conspiring to meet. Bassie
was already in the bathroom and started talking about Chef Frédérique.

“He was always flirting with me,” complained Bassie. My jaw dropped and I tried to nonchalantly say, “He was? I never saw
him flirting with you” without revealing how jealous I was.

“Oh, yeah, I considered telling the administration,” she said, making a big deal out of it. “He has a Peruvian girlfriend
and here he is flirting with me!” Oh, great, he has a girlfriend, I thought to myself. I felt like such an idiot. Man, he
had me. Okay, give it up to the French: they know how to seduce and they do it so well. I guess I won’t be drinking tequila
with him after all. I liked Bassie, but that minute I hated her for ruining my little fantasy. I tore up the piece of paper
with Chef Frédérique’s phone number and flushed it down the toilet.

When I returned to the graduation party, people were already leaving. I exchanged addresses with Ale and Rick and I was about
to tell Janeira about the onion, but she was too busy complaining about her stove, saying that it didn’t work properly and
that was why her veal didn’t get cooked all the way. Janeira was not returning for Intermediate, so I would never have to
see her again or hear her complain, ever. Bassie, Paolo, Roger, Becky, and me were the only ones coming back for Intermediate
and, hopefully, Superior, with the hopes of getting our grand diploma before Christmas.

Later that night some of us gathered to celebrate together one last time. Bassie was drunk and hitting on Rick. He was a gentleman
about it, but when she went to the bathroom he flirted with me. Becky came and sat next to us.

“Rick, is your girlfriend coming to join us?” she asked with a big smile. Rick smiled back at her, knowing she was just trying
to cock-block him. My throat was hurting and, as much as I wanted to see what Rick’s girlfriend looked like, I decided to
go home and rest. Bassie decided to go home too and was threatening to walk. Although St.-Germain-des-Prés seemed pretty safe,
I walked with her to the taxi stand while she rambled on about how Rick really wanted her—too bad he was returning to the
States tomorrow. I borrowed money from Bassie for the taxi. I was grateful to have her as a friend. I was probably as drunk
as she was, but even in this state I could sympathize with her delusions and still kick some ass if I had to. Not that growing
up in Boyle Heights, a barrio that people thought was rough, had prepared me for that. I just knew I could look pissed and
intimidate people. Plenty of men had told me so, but the brave ones with substance usually made it past the stare.