Everything Tastes Better Fried
A ray of sunlight hits my face, and I’m instantly wide awake. My only thought is to run downstairs to check on my crêpe cake. Enough time has passed for the pastry cream’s moisture to redistribute into the crêpes. This cake can only go from perfect to legendary.
I take off my apron as I walk down the stairs, trying to detangle the strings around my neck from the rat’s nest that is my hair. Note to self: take off apron before going to bed.
Not only did I manage to leave part of my hair attached to the apron, I also stink—like day-old coagulated chicken fat and sour wine.
Second note to self: take a shower.
When I reach the bottom of the stairs, I’m startled by the laughter coming from the kitchen. Oh no! No! No! No! My mind goes blank as I leap across the hallway. For the love of me, I can’t remember if I put a do not eat sign on the cake.
I swing the kitchen door open so hard that it slams against the wall.
The laughter goes silent as someone screams—a blood-curdling scream that sends goose bumps down my back and arms. It takes me a moment to realize the deranged sound is coming out of my own mouth.
I practically vault from the door to the kitchen island, where Papi and Diego are eagerly tearing into my cake.
“Put it down,” I scream, reaching for Papi’s fork. I rip it from his hand and take away his plate. “What are you doing?” I also take Diego’s plate and pull the fork right out of his mouth.
“Hey, I’m not done,” he complains, trying to get his plate back.
“You touch this plate and I swear to God, the meat cleaver is coming out.”
Diego retreats. “Okay . . . Good morning to you too,” he says, standing to refill his coffee cup.
“Isa, honey, what’s wrong?” Papi’s looking at me like I’m the crazy one. Doesn’t he realize what they’ve done?
“It’s ruined,” I wail into my beautiful cake, now missing two big slices. “It was perfect and now it’s ruined.” I take in deep, slow breaths. Tears sting my eyes. I’m not going to cry. Not in front of these two.
“For such a fancy cake, I thought it tasted pretty good,” Diego says from across the kitchen.
“This was my special assignment,” I say through gritted teeth, clenching and unclenching my hands to prevent them from swiping the smudge of pastry cream at the corner of his mouth. “You ate my homework.”
“You should have put a sign on it or something,” he says offhandedly.
I may rip his head off.
My fingers grip the sides of the island until my knuckles physically hurt. One of the veins on my neck is throbbing so hard and fast, it may actually burst.
“Sign? Sign? You see this pile of crêpes?” I point at the plate sitting in the middle of the island and a white paper with the words EAT ME written in big, bold letters. “Eat me!” I call out, waving the paper in the air. “There’s a sign. Why couldn’t you eat these?” I want to cry so badly. I really do. But I don’t have time for tears. I need to fix this. Fast.
“Those don’t have the cream,” Diego says, stirring sugar into his cup. “The cream was the best part.”
“Honey, why don’t you make another one? You still have an hour. Diego can borrow the car and take you to the restaurant.”
I stare at Papi for a hot second, wondering how a person can be so clueless.
“It took me seven hours to make this cake.” That’s all I say, because I’m afraid if I try to explain anything beyond that, my head will literally explode.
“Sweetheart, did you get any sleep?” he asks, pouring a cup of black coffee that he sets in front of me. I don’t dignify it with an answer. I take a big gulp from the mug and then go into full-on cake-fixing mode.
I trim what is left of their slices and squeeze them back inside the cake. Slowly, I remove the damaged top layer. With it, goes the perfect crust I created a few hours ago. I drop it onto a plate in front of Diego, where it lands with a splat.
“You can eat this. There’s no fixing it.”
Diego pushes the plate forward and gets up. “I’m good,” he says, walking out of the kitchen with his mug of coffee. “I’ll be out front when you’re ready to leave.”
“Do you need help?” Papi asks, but he’s so close to the door he practically has one foot in the hallway.
Yeah, fine, leave, I scream inside my head. Like you left Lala’s house the day of the Blessed Pies. Like you left us in Chicago after your affair. Every time things get too difficult, you just leave. “No, thanks,” is what I actually say, turning away from him to deal with my cake. Alone.
If I replace the top crêpe layer and re-caramelize the cut-up side, I may be back in business. I dig through the pile of discarded crêpes and pull out a decent replacement for the top. Thank goodness I left some pastry cream in the fridge, mostly because I was too tired to clean out the container.
I daub some cream on top of the cake and gently rest the replacement crêpe on top, all along ignoring the sinking feeling that it looks as bad as the gallery of deformed mille crêpe cakes online. I also ignore the fact there is not enough pastry cream to fill the gaping hole created by the bites Diego and Papi took. I ignore all of these things, because I don’t have time to think. The clock has once again jumped forward, and if I don’t hurry, I will be late for class. Meaning, the cake won’t be sitting on her station as Chef Troissant walks in. Meaning, I might as well pack up and go home.
My fingers dig out handfuls of sugar and I sprinkle it on top and on the sides of the cake, making a mess everywhere.
I pull out my blowtorch and pray there’s enough butane gas left to finish the job. The flame goes out with a sputter the moment I’m done caramelizing the cut-up side. I toss the empty gas can into the garbage, along with what is left of the former crêpe topper. My heart breaks as I watch the caramel splinter inside the garbage can.
The almost-repaired cake sits on the island, laughing at me. This version most definitely does not radiate its own light. Instead it is sucking all the light—like a black hole, or canned vegetables.
I step back and draw all the oxygen out of the room in one long inhale. My head turns from left to right, searching for an angle from which the cake looks as good as it did last night. But such an angle does not exist.
I write DO NOT EAT in all caps on a piece of paper. Then I run up the stairs back to my room, peel off my dirty uniform, apply some deodorant, change my underwear, and wriggle myself into a clean chef’s coat and pants. My hair gets pulled into a bun. It’s so greasy you could fry an egg in it. I don’t give myself a second look in the mirror as I walk out. It’s not worth the extra pain. I know how I look—like someone who is about to get her butt handed to her.
“Can you please go faster?” I’m in the passenger seat, cradling the cake on my lap. “And watch out for the potholes.”
“It’s rush hour,” Diego says, changing the radio to a Spanish music station playing a Latin reggaeton song. He hums the lyrics and taps his fingers on the steering wheel to the beat of the music.
The dash display announces the singer’s name is Maluma and the song is “El Perdedor”—translation: the loser. How very appropriate.
“Can we listen to something else?” I ask, propping the cake against a pillow on my lap. It’s the best shock absorption system I could conjure in a hurry.
“What do you want to listen to?” he asks.
I shrug, staring out the window. Outside, it’s one of those idyllic French summer days with its bright blue, cloudless sky and seventy degree temperature. I sort of wish it were raining.
“Something not about being a loser,” I say.
Diego smirks while shaking his head and turns off the radio.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing,” he says.
The car inches forward, but we get stuck at a red light. I wonder if I should get out and walk.
“Why are you doing all this?” he asks, glancing at the cake on my lap.
“What do you mean, why?” My voice comes out edgier than I intend.
“What do you mean, what do I mean? Why are you doing it?”
“Because I enjoy it,” I say simply.
“You enjoy being on all the time?” he asks in a cynical tone.
“I’m not on all the time,” I snap.
He glances at me, eyebrows raised.
“For your information, this has been my dream for as long as I can remember. Three Michelin stars. One is the beginning. Two is not enough.”
“So, let me get this straight. You don’t sleep. You don’t shower. You scream like a crazy person because someone had the wrong slice of cake. And this is supposed to get you stars. Did I get that right?”
My face goes hot at the shower part. Do I really smell that bad?
“Whatever,” I say. “Sometimes you have to make sacrifices to get what you want.”
We finally get a break in traffic and the road opens. We cruise through four green lights. La Table de Lyon is ahead, within walking distance.
“All I’m saying is, if you really enjoyed this, you would be happy. You don’t look happy to me,” he says, pulling up to the curb.
I open the door and step out of the car, balancing the cake in my hands.
“Thanks for the ride,” I say, slamming the door shut.
I am happy, I tell myself—over and over again.
When I finally arrive at the test kitchen, everyone is huddled over the center island. I set down the cake on Chef Troissant’s station and walk over to see what’s going on. There’s murmuring and a collection of somber faces.
“What happened?” I ask Pippa.
“It’s terrible,” she says, shaking her head. “Chef Bernard Martin, the owner of Le Illusionaire, committed suicide.”
I gasp. “What? How? His restaurant is one of the best in the world.” I’m shocked by the news. Mom and I used to watch his TV series, where he traveled to remote places around the world and talked to people about food and culture. The best part of the show was Martin himself. He was honest, humble, and unguarded, and the people he spoke to responded in kind. “Great food,” he used to say, “is but a conduit for deeper human connections.”
“Is the news online?” I ask.
“It’s just starting to cross some news feeds. That guy knows someone who works in Martin’s kitchen,” Pippa says, pointing at a tall, blond student—a quiet Belgian guy, who seems uncomfortable with all the attention he’s now getting. “It’s a senseless tragedy, if you ask me.”
Lucia joins us. “Did you hear?” she asks.
We nod solemnly, and suddenly my stupid crêpe cake doesn’t seem that important.
“Is that your mille crêpe?” Lucia asks with astonishment. I move out of the way so she can get a better view of my little disaster. “What happened?”
“A Spaniard happened.” I sigh, then turn to Lucia and add, “No offense.”
“None taken,” she replies, amused.
“It’s not that terrible,” Pippa says. “I’m sure it tastes amazing.” Her amazing sounds like she’s trying too hard to say something nice.
“Why did he just eat the middle?” Lucia asks, holding back laughter.
I elbow her gently. “You guys, it’s not funny!” But still we laugh, trying to release a little of the tension and sadness. We get some disapproving looks from the rest of the class. Pippa tries to shush us, but then she glances back at my cake and starts laughing again.
“I’m so sorry,” she says, trying to control herself. I’m laughing along in a demented fit of hysterics, fueled by stress and lack of sleep.
When we all catch our breath, we debate ways to fix the sinking middle—where the soul-sucking hole is located.
“What if you plate a slice?” Pippa proposes. “Maybe drizzle caramel sauce on the plate?”
“And some berries?” Lucia suggests.
“Is it that bad?” I ask, painfully aware of the answer. I can’t believe Diego did this. God, sometimes he makes me want to wring his neck!
“I’ll get a plate,” Pippa says, already moving across the kitchen.
“Caramel sauce and berries—I’m on it,” Lucia tells me. “Don’t worry, Isa, we’ll fix it.” She gives me the saddest lost puppy look before disappearing into the walk-in cooler. I hate that look. It’s the look I saved for kids back in high school who signed up for a culinary elective because they thought it would make a nice hobby. Because they thought it would be an easy A.
“Incroyable!” Snake Eyes stands next to me, chest puffed out and arms akimbo. This guy loves taking up space. “It’s like you’re trying to lose on purpose.”
I stare at him, incredulous, like my face has hit the floor and he’s kicking me in the teeth.
“Did I do something to you?” I spit out the question. It seems to catch him off guard. He blinks a few times, then grins and says, “You don’t do anything to me.” His eyebrows tick upward slightly, as in Did you get that double meaning, sweetheart? Today, though, I ain’t having it. It’s already been an awful day, and class hasn’t even started.
“Why are you such a jerk all the time? Do you hear yourself? What is your problem?” I move away from him and try to refocus on the crêpe cake. Where the heck have Pippa and Lucia gone?
“My problem is that you don’t belong here,” he says very matter-of-fact. “Grattard is the standard for excellence. This,” he says, tapping his creepy long fingers on the table next to my cake, “is not excellence.”
I open my mouth to tell him where he can put his excellence (and his finger), but then I glance at the cake and all the fight leaves me. He’s right. This is not excellence.
“Hey, Legrand, I think the butcher delivered a pig’s head with your name on it. It’s sitting in the cooler, in case you were wondering,” Pippa says, pushing him out of the way.
Snake Eyes’s lips curl into a snooty sneer. “Tell me now, did you Brits invade India just to steal their cuisine, or was that a side benefit? I guess mushy peas and fish and chips weren’t enough, huh?” He doesn’t wait for Pippa to respond before walking away.
“Wanker,” Pippa mutters after he’s gone. “I’ll make him a special Jamaican jerk. Extra hot peppers.”
“I’ve never had Jamaican jerk, but I do love fish and chips,” Lucia tells Pippa.
“Everything taste better when it’s fried,” I say. “Maybe we should dunk the cake in the fryer.”
“That would be so American,” Pippa teases. We all snicker.
I drizzle caramel sauce on a plate in a loop pattern around the edges.
“Is it true they fry whole sticks of butter at carnivals?” Pippa asks.
I snort and nod, remembering the time Lala took me to the Kansas State Fair, an otherworldly medley of carnival games, farm animals, and every kind of fried food known to mankind. It was a miracle people didn’t drop dead on the sidewalk from a heart attack.
“Have you ever tried the fried Oreos? I’ve always wondered about those,” Lucia says.
We transfer a slice of cake to the plate and strategically position a few berries.
“You guys should come over sometime—we can have a Friday Fry-a-Thon or something,” I say. I can’t remember the last time I had friends over. During most of high school, there wasn’t really anyone I wanted to hang out with that much. I’m actually excited when Lucia says, “That would be awesome!”
“I’ve been dying to make my auntie’s fried chicken,” Pippa says. “She uses pork lard—like the real deal. It’s out-of-this-world good. You know, if you don’t mind the whole clogged artery thing. Sometimes I want a sensible home-cooked meal. You know?”
“Yeah, those are the best.” Lucia passes me a handful of berries to finish decorating the plate. “I miss my mom’s cooking. She makes a killer arròs negre. It’s like a paella, but we use squid ink to turn the rice black.”
We take a step back and admire our work.
“Much better,” Pippa declares.
“Ah, the moment of truth,” I say, watching Chef Troissant enter the kitchen, trailed by a tall, hulking man in a chef’s coat.
We all scatter back to our stations.
Chef Troissant and the other chef stop short of the apprenticeship area. He is talking down to her, literally. Chef Troissant’s head barely comes up to his shoulders. Her face is even more rigid than normal, and her shoulders are pulled back so tight her back might snap.
When she enters the room, she doesn’t even notice the mille crêpe cake.
You have got to be kidding me.
“Faites attention!” Her voice is even more tense than usual. How is that even possible? “Please welcome Chef Augustus Legrand, Meilleur Ouvrier de France.”
Oooohs and ahhhhs instantly fill the kitchen. Even I squeak in amazement. A real-life, flesh-and-bone MOF stands in front of us, someone even rarer than Michelin-starred chefs.
My eyes narrow on the colors of his chef’s collar—blue, white, and red. It’s all I can see. Wearing that striped collar is considered the ultimate recognition of excellence.
The MOF award is given only in France and only to French citizens. (Thank you, Mom!) It is a competition held every four years, with the French president himself handing out the medals along with the lifetime title. The grueling preparation process takes years. Some chefs spend their whole lives chasing after the award, only to end up in tears when they fail. Grown men crying is a thing in the MOF world. Earlier this year, when I was bingeing documentaries on Michelin stars, I heard a chef say that the MOF competition is not about doing the best that you can, but about doing the absolute best that can be done—the ultimate quest for perfection.
“Alors, Chef Legrand will be teaching today’s class, at the request of Chef Grattard,” Chef Troissant says in a flat tone.
At the second mention of his name I glance at Snake Eyes. He’s standing tall with his arms tightly crossed over his chest and his chin inched upward. It is obvious to me—and everyone with a pair of eyes—that Chef Legrand is his father. This should be interesting.
Chef Troissant turns to leave but pauses midstep when she sees my cake. She doesn’t idle by the table; instead, she grabs both the plated slice and the cake and takes them into her office. She shuts the door and pulls down the shades.
“Bon! Who is ready for fun?” Chef Legrand scans the room. His face is one big smile, and his arms are open wide as if he’s trying to take us all in. “Today, beautiful day. Why stay inside, I say. Let’s find l’inspiration! Come along. We must waste no time.” And with that, he leaves.
We look at each other, wondering if it’s okay to follow him out the door, outside the restaurant. But when Snakes Eyes goes after him, we quickly follow. I mean, if a MOF tells you he’s gonna show you where to find l’inspiration, you follow him to the ends of the earth.