Under the Table (23 page)

Chef ceased his ministrations to the fillets and raised his hands to give more breadth and emotional range to his indignation. “Idiots! Morons! Boobies!” he raged, as errant scales flew through the air and then settled gently on our chef 's jackets like iridescent, slightly fishy snowflakes. At last, the fillets were deemed by Chef to be acceptable and we were able to move on to the actual cooking.

Cooking in the sense that for this first run-through, as with all the other recipes, Chef would cook and we would watch, gape-mouthed like country bumpkins at the state fair, making notes of the correct way to do things, which often had little in common with the recipe steps we had all carefully copied down on our index cards and memorized the night before. Chef Pierre felt strongly that a recipe was a fine way to list ingredients and amounts, but it had little to do with technique. Technique was learned by watching and doing, not by reading.

Chef brought out four large sauté pans and explained that since the timing of this dish was so important, we would be using two sauté pans to prepare the fish and two to prepare the
beurre noisette
sauce—a slight change in how the classic recipe is prepared.

Traditionally, the fish is cooked in the hot pan until its skin is crisp and browned. It is then flipped for a brief moment or two to ensure the flesh is cooked through on both sides, and then removed from the pan and left to rest on a warmed sheet pan or hot plate while the sauce is prepared in the recently vacated, but still sizzling, hot pan. Because we would be making more than one or two servings of trout, we would break down the preparation into two separate pans so that we could be both more efficient in preparation and have more control over the ingredients as they crept toward
doneness, a key advantage for this dish.

Without further ado, once two pans were hot, Chef tipped a mere whisper of vegetable oil into each and then, as the oil began to shimmer, a sure sign that it was searing hot, with lightning speed Chef dredged the fillets one by one in seasoned flour and slid each carefully into the waiting pans, making sure to shake the pan gently after each fillet hit the hot surface. By shaking the pan gently, Chef was making certain that the skin was not sticking to the hot metal. This way, the fish would cook, and the skin would brown nicely in the vegetable oil with no fear that it would tear or be left behind entirely in the pan when the fish was done. As he used both hands to gently prod one fillet while sliding another expertly into the second pan, all without even the smallest splatter of oil, Chef kept up a running commentary on what we should be doing, what we should under no circumstances be doing, and what would get us thrown out of the midterm for doing to the dish.

As all the fillets neared doneness, he segued smoothly to the second set of pans he had waiting on the back burners. He didn't say a word, but merely by grabbing Ben's chef 's jacket in a death grip and handing him the fish spatula, Chef charged Ben with overseeing the final moments of the fish preparation and we huddled over to watch Chef make the
noisette
.

Making
noisette
is hard, making two batches of it in stereo on two different (highly temperamental) burners while explaining the whole process to a bunch of neophytes is even harder, but one wouldn't know it by watching Chef. Like a conductor leading a difficult and headstrong orchestra, Chef used his hands to guide chilled hunks of butter into the pans, bring up a timid flame, and draw out two long sustained arcs of kosher salt and pepper that fell like the last gentle notes of an aria over both pans. All the while, he explained his every move to us, even occasionally humming snatches of song under his breath as encouragement to the sauce.

Without taking his eyes from his work, Chef began shouting
orders: “Hot plates! Warm the potatoes! Is the fish finished cooking? Where is the garnish?”

We fled like ants before a rainstorm, scurrying around the workstation, fetching and carrying and making certain the last-minute preparations were ready. The potatoes, all exactly seven centimeters long and turned into perfect little footballs, were immersed in a pot of boiling salted water on the back of the stove to warm before being plated with the fish. Ben pulled the pans full of cooked fish fillets off the flame, and Junior lined a sheet pan with paper towels to blot any lingering oil while the fish were arranged on the tray skin side up to rest.

Tucker stood at Chef 's right hand, handing him the requested ingredients Chef snapped out. What was I busy doing? Taking notes, watching, and writing down in chef shorthand every single move Chef made so that we could all reproduce it, down to the last fingertip flutter, tomorrow. At last, we were ready, and just in time: the butter had melted, and the milk solids had settled to the bottom of each pan and were just beginning to turn brown. “NOW!” shouted Chef, and he pulled both pans off the heat simultaneously, while also somehow managing to add exactly the right amount of lemon juice to each. A swirl to incorporate it into the melted butter—Chef Pierre is the only person I have ever met who could swirl two hot pans full of scorching hot butter in opposite directions without spilling a drop—and then the lemon dice and capers were added. Another swirl, and then a tasting spoon was dipped into each pan to ensure the proper balance of seasonings, and we were ready to plate. First, two fillets were piled, again skin side up, on the plate in a pointed, pyramidal shape, and then the potatoes, precisely five, were arranged artistically in a semicircle around the trout, somewhat like a child's splayed fingers. With a large soupspoon, the
beurre noisette
was then gently napped around the fish in a generous but not unruly puddle. The capers and lemon dice would have to be counted and
arranged in an even but seemingly perfectly haphazard manner, and the fish would be gently dusted with parsley
haché
. That was it. Chef held up one of the finished plates for a moment, so that we could admire his dexterity and artistic flair. “Simple,” he said.

It was far from simple, but at least we had gotten through it, I thought to myself as I reached into the oven to retrieve my beautiful apple tart. It was almost seven o'clock and Michael was home.
Perfect timing,
I thought, as the kitchen timer made bleating noises, right on cue. Unfortunately, though the tart was ready, I was not. Still in my street clothes (what I had struggled into early that morning before heading off to class) and extremely sweaty from a long day's labor over the stove, I looked like a Gorgon. Not exactly a yummy piece of arm candy.

“Aren't you ready yet?” Michael asked, his face a frozen mask of dismay at my dishevelment, as I was still squatting over the stove, pulling the tart toward me. Galley kitchens don't even have enough room to turn around, let alone stand in front of an open oven door, so I was reduced to a prone crab-walk to retrieve things from the hot oven. This was particularly unfortunate, as I was in a hurry and not paying much attention to what I was doing. As I turned away from the heat of the open oven door to save my eyelashes and tell Michael I wouldn't be a moment, I absentmindedly slid the bottom of the tart onto my oven mitt and lifted it out of the oven.

Big mistake. Tart pans come in two pieces, a flat disk that is the removable bottom and a ridged circular ring of steel for the sides, with a lip to keep the bottom in place. When force is applied to the bottom of the pan, without any support on the sides, the two pieces will separate, especially if well buttered and floured. I still held on to the bottom of the pan, and the tart was still sitting squarely on top of it, but the very hot circular ring, freed from its anchor, slid down my bare arm to rest against my elbow, leaving neatly scalloped burns all down my arm. For a moment, I stood there, unwilling to confront
the sheer idiocy of the situation, but the tender flesh on the inside of my elbow was beginning to make a soft, sizzling sound. I knew I had about two seconds to put down the tart before my arm rebelled and dropped everything, and I really didn't want to let that happen. All that work! And it looked so pretty! What would we bring to the dinner instead? Carefully, I lowered the tart to the counter, and then removed the ring with a kitchen towel. As Tucker was so fond of saying after a vicious tongue-lashing from Chef, that was definitely going to leave a mark.

No time to work up a full-scale snit, however. We had thirty minutes to get ready and get through heavy traffic to Battery Park City. My closet does not really run to evening wear with long sleeves, but I threw a shawl over the empurpled burn marks, boxed up the damn tart, and headed downtown. We made it just in time for the tail end of cocktails.
What a good idea,
I thought,
just a quick little one to take the sting out of the burns. Nothing to distract me from my goal of going to bed early and being fresh for the exam tomorrow.
However, the vodka martini I quaffed on an empty stomach did nothing to alleviate the sting of the burns, but it did seem to cause the dinner table to sway back and forth in front of me in a rather nauseating fashion, like a ship loosed from its moorings in a savage storm. I switched to a glass of white wine or maybe two or three—anything to chill the fire spreading up my arm. At last, dinner reached its conclusion, and we were ready for dessert. My beautiful tart was passed around the table, accompanied by a small bowl of fluffy whipped cream. No one took any. Our hostess, who had shown unabashed and greatly unrestrained enjoyment of the calorie-laden spaghetti carbonara that had been served as our main course, declined dessert, saying that she was watching her figure. Even Michael passed on it, and when I turned my gaze on him in mute appeal, he merely said, “Too full,” followed by a soft belch.
Traitor.
I was heartbroken, burned to a crisp, and already working on the beginnings of a wicked hangover. I glanced at the clock, a habit from battling it so often in school,
and was dismayed to see that it was past midnight. I had to be up in a few short hours, preparing for my big day. I managed to drag Michael out the door before cocktails could begin flying once again, and we made it back uptown into SoHo to collapse into bed at last at half past one in the morning.

As I drifted off to sleep, aided with a Tylenol PM to combat the throbbing pains in my arm and in my head, I kept thinking that I was forgetting something, something very important. I ran through the steps of making a
pâte brisée
again, poaching an egg, trussing a chicken, and, of course, filleting and preparing the trout. Nope, I couldn't be forgetting anything. It was all there. I just had to relax and cook it all tomorrow. I finally surrendered to sleep, confident that just this once, the jittering little voice of warning that was my subconscious was wrong. But I
had
forgotten something.

I had forgotten to set my alarm clock.

I
was the last one to arrive in the kitchens for the midterm, breathless, sweating, and nervous. A skull-cracking hangover didn't help, either. At least I was ready for whatever came my way…I hoped. I patted down the pockets of my wrinkled chef 's jacket and pants, checking to make sure that I had everything—pen and paper to take the written test with, new kitchen timer, thermometer, ruler, and, of course, my knife kit and toolbox. My little paper chef 's hat was perched on my tender and aching head, and I was as ready as I would ever be.

As I took my place with my team, Tuck wordlessly handed me a cup of black coffee. The first sip was strong enough to take paint off the walls and did wonders for clearing my foggy brain.

“Boy, Darling, you look like shit!” Tucker said cheerfully.

“Yup, definitely,” Junior chimed in.

I am sure I did. When I finally woke up in the morning, the sun was ominously high in the sky. I lazily stretched and tried to remember what it was that I was going to do today. The realization that today was the midterm and that the clock read 8:15 was enough to send me into warp speed. Michael was still yawning and fumbling his way out from under the blankets as I threw on random bits of clothing and sped from the apartment, pelting my way through the streets of SoHo as fast as my legs could carry me. I didn't have time to stop for a cup of sorely needed coffee, but I didn't have time to worry, either. I was the only one in the locker room, and I was so frantic that I couldn't button up my chef 's jacket, my fingers trembled so badly with the rush of adrenaline. I grabbed my
knives and my toolbox, slipped my new kitchen timer in my pocket, and headed downstairs.

Thank God, Tucker had that cup of coffee. I greedily swallowed every steaming, battery acid–infused drop and felt better. It was a good thing, too. As soon as I threw the crumpled Styrofoam cup in the garbage, Chef Pierre called us to order and announced the start of the written test. This was it!

As I breezily wrote down the ingredients and procedure for preparing
pâte sucrée,
I breathed a sigh of relief. I was prepared; I could handle anything thrown at me, even the trout
grenobloise
. Which was, of course, the dish I wound up with when we finally trouped into the test kitchen and found our assigned places. I would be sharing a kitchen island with Wayne, a quiet kid from Dallas whose incredibly detailed tattoos had caught my eye at orientation. Wayne's wide blue eyes gave him an air of intelligence, as if he was taking it all in, but I quickly realized that intelligent or not, he had no idea what to do with the chicken carcass nestled in his
mise en place
tray. He was assigned the
poulet au sauce grandmère
—roasted chicken with pearl onions, lardons, and mushrooms in a rich reinforced sauce. It was a dish we had made countless times in Level 1 and Level 2, and the easiest of the dishes on the midterm. I was determined to mind my own business and let Wayne sink or swim with his chicken, and for the first half hour everything went perfectly.

The trout was paired with the apple tart, so I went to work preparing the crust, peeling and dicing the apples, and preparing the compote. As I checked things off my mental to-do list, I scanned Wayne's work area. It was a mess, with ingredients from the two dishes he had been assigned, the roasted chicken and a
niçoise
salad, littering every surface. I tried to look away, but found myself staring, fascinated, as Wayne wrestled with his chicken. He was trying to truss it, but had only succeeded in getting his fingers hopelessly tangled in the kitchen twine. I shook my head as I finished assembling my apple tart and placed it lovingly into my preheated oven. I
carefully set my timer and slipped it into the pocket of my pants. I wasn't going to forget about this tart and let it burn. As I returned to my station, I couldn't help but notice that across the aisle, Angelo had already put his tart in and was halfway through filleting his trout. I was behind! The smoldering embers of competition, like persistent indigestion, caught fire deep in my stomach, and I redoubled my efforts.

As we worked, Chef Pierre and chefs from the more advanced levels strolled around the kitchen, poking into each student's workstation, clicking their tongues and making notes on the clipboards they carried. I did my best to ignore them all, concentrating instead on each step of my recipes and making sure my station and my tools were clean and neat. I was midway through filleting my second trout when I glanced over again at Wayne's workstation. He was
still
fumbling with the chicken! It was looking a great deal more battered, and I couldn't help but wonder how much longer it could sit out on his cutting board sans refrigeration before salmonella set in. Wayne must have sensed my incredulous stare, for he looked up, and our eyes locked. His held an unmistakable message of panic and appeal. Sighing, I looked around, checking to make sure that all of the chef-observers were busy watching other students. I began miming the right way to truss a chicken, using my half-filleted trout and fish knife as props. Wayne watched eagerly, his hands suddenly more certain as he began to trim and truss the poor bird at last. I told myself that I wasn't cheating: I was merely preventing Wayne from flunking out of school.

Halfway through my silent demonstration, an alarm started beeping, its electronic shrieks muted as if buried deep in a trough of mashed potatoes. In the total silence of the room, even muffled it sounded like a shrill Klaxon alerting a defenseless populace of a prison break. I was so busy with Wayne that I barely noticed, other than to pity, briefly, the poor moron who hadn't figured out that their alarm was going off. It was only when I watched Wayne's
face go from eager enlightenment to horror that I thought to turn around. There, standing behind me, was Chef Pierre, his face set in a formidable scowl, his index finger waggling back and forth in rigid disapproval.

“No more of zat!” he barked, and then, barely concealing a grin, he added, “Darling, I think your azz eez reenging.” He was right. It was
my
alarm that had been going off for the last few minutes, disturbing everybody's concentration and alerting Chef to my little tutorial with Wayne. I could have died, but there was nothing to do but pull my tart out of the oven and keep on cooking.

Finally, it was time to plate everything up and send it all out to the judges, an anonymous panel of former students and local chefs from the neighborhood. As I arranged my trout on four plates, Chef Septimus, a big hairy Frenchman who taught the Level 4 students, orbited by one more time, to ensure I was plating properly. He stuck his bare finger in the pan of hot water where my potatoes were waiting and asked, “Salt?” I nodded yes, I had salted the water.

“You students are so timid with seasoning.
Regardez-là!
” Without even tasting, Chef tossed a large pinch of salt into the water. I was certain that the potatoes were well seasoned before Chef had added his well-meant bit of advice, but there was nothing I could do about it now. My dishes were due in the dining room, so I arranged the salty little potato nuggets, sauced it all with my beautifully brown
beurre noisette,
and sent them out.

And just like that, it was over. We banded together to wash down the whole classroom, from countertops to sinks to floors. I realized the adrenaline rush of the last four hours of frantic cooking had completely washed away any lingering traces of hangover. I was happy with my performance. There was certainly nothing I could do about it now. After Chef Pierre inspected the classroom, we were dismissed to change into our street clothes and report back to class to receive our scores. Imo and I made a beeline for the locker room, talking over each other in our attempts to tell each other about our
mornings. While I thought my embarrassment over the alarm was bad, Imo told me she had dropped her entire chicken on the floor when she was trying to put it in the lowboy refrigerator. Scooping it up, she blew on it and stuffed it in, hoping no one had noticed, only to realize that Assistant Chef Cyndee was watching her every move. Imo was certain she was doomed, but we both had to laugh over our cartoonish mistakes. We could have been extras in
I Love Lucy,
our inadvertent hijinks the stuff of comedy writers' dreams.

Back in class, we lined up and waited as Chef Pierre called each of us up to the front to give us the judges' comments on our midterm dishes as well as our grades. When it was finally my turn, Chef read the comments in his thick accent: “Trout nicely cooked, sauce nicely browned, nice flavor. Garniture well cut. Potatoes…way too salty! Apple tart nicely baked. On the whole, good job.” I
knew
it! Chef Septimus had turned my potatoes into salt licks! Chef Pierre then showed me my midterm grade: 92. It was okay, better than I thought I would do, but not as well as I had hoped. I knew that grade wouldn't put me in front of my classmates, a place I badly wanted to be. I thanked Chef and turned to go, but Chef had one more thing to say.

“You would have done better, Darling,” he whispered, pulling me close so that I could feel his breath against my ear. “I had to subtract points from your grade for helping Wayne. You know it is not allowed.”

“But, Chef!” I wailed. “I just didn't want you to fail him.”

Chef shook his head. “I wouldn't have failed him.
Pauvre petite
Darling. Do you think he would have done the same for you?” With that, Chef let me go, saying “good job” one more time as I left the room. I was so deep in thought, I almost didn't hear him. It seemed that in the merciless world of the kitchen, no good deed goes un-punished.

Mahi Mahi with Lime-Cilantro Beurre Noisette

Once I got the hang of making a
beurre noisette,
I started playing around with different flavors. On a fishing trip to the Florida Keys with Michael, I caught my very first mahi mahi—a firm-fleshed white fish that puts up quite a fight in the water but yields moist and tender fillets once you've wrestled it into the boat. This recipe is a result of that trip—I used Key limes, but regular limes work just as well.

 

8 ounces orzo or other small pasta

Olive oil

2 pounds spinach, well washed and shaken dry

Salt and freshly ground pepper

2 limes

Four 6-ounce skinless mahi mahi fillets

¼ cup all-purpose flour

2 tablespoons finely chopped cilantro

Vegetable oil or nonstick cooking spray

8 tablespoons (1 stick) unsalted butter

1. Turn on the oven to its lowest setting. Line a baking sheet with paper towels.
   
2. Bring a large pot of well-salted water to a boil. Cook the orzo according to package directions. Drain, toss with a little olive oil, and transfer to a baking dish to keep warm in the oven.
   
3. Heat a large sauté pan over medium-high heat. When it is hot, film lightly with olive oil. Add the spinach and sauté, tossing occasionally, until it has just wilted. Season with salt and pepper, transfer to a baking dish, and place in the oven to keep warm.
   
4. Juice one of the limes. Peel the other, cut the flesh from the membranes, and finely dice the flesh. Set the juice and dice aside.
   
5. Pat the fish dry with paper towels. In a shallow bowl, combine the flour with 1 teaspoon salt and 1 teaspoon pepper. Dust the fish with 1 tablespoon of the cilantro, then with the seasoned flour.
   
6. Heat another large sauté pan over medium-high heat. When it's hot, pour in a dollop of vegetable oil or spray it lightly with cooking spray (to keep the fillets from sticking). Carefully place the fillets in the hot pan, skin side down. Flip the fillets when they are well browned, about 2 minutes, and cook on the other side for about 2 minutes more—the fish will flake easily when prodded with a fork. If your fish is done before you have finished making the sauce, move the fillets onto the baking sheet and keep warm in the oven until you are ready to plate.
   
7. While the fillets are cooking, melt the butter in a small saucepan. Watch the butter carefully. It will foam up after it has melted, and when the foam subsides, it is almost ready. Once the butter has begun to brown and smells faintly like toasted nuts, pull the pan off the heat and add the lime juice. Taste and add salt and pepper as needed.
   
8. To plate: Arrange a small mound of orzo on each of four plates. Top with the spinach. Rest a fillet against the spinach and orzo and sauce liberally with the
   beurre noisette
   . Divide the diced lime among the plates and dust with the remaining 1 tablespoon cilantro.
   

Serves 4