Le Marché Saint-Antoine,” Chef Legrand declares as we arrive at Lyon’s famous Saint-Antoine Market. He had a minibus waiting for us outside the restaurant.
The ride from La Table de Lyon was a total whirlwind. My brain went frantic, scrambling to think of every question I’ve always wanted to ask a MOF. When will I get this opportunity again?
And why didn’t Chef Troissant tell us he was visiting today? I could’ve prepared. Done some proper research, instead of googling his name on my phone and speed-reading his life story during the raucous bus ride.
Everyone exits the minibus and gathers on the sidewalk, waiting for instructions from our leader. We are all practically bouncing on our heels with excitement. It’s nice to be out of the kitchen for a change.
“If you need l’inspiration, you will find it here. Bon, gather around,” Chef Legrand says, doing that thing where he stretches out his arms and joyfully grins from ear to ear. “I will give you each forty euro.” He pulls out a wad of bills from one of his chef’s coat pockets. “You must each buy three ingredients. These, you will cook for me in a dish—only three. We will meet back at the bus at noon.” That leaves us three hours to shop. Plenty of time.
We nod and return the smile, taking his money. The whole thing has a Christmas morning feel to it. As if Santa Claus himself were handing out wads of cash straight from his gift sack.
“Bon, off you go. Find it: l’inspiration!” And with that, he waves us off, into the market.
I hang back as the others disperse, eager for even five minutes of one-on-one time. This man has captured the Holy Grail of the French culinary arts. He is part of an elite group of about two hundred chefs in history, out of which only two are women.
To put my chances into perspective, in 2007, Chef Andrée Rosier became the first woman to win the MOF title since its inception in 1923. She was twenty-eight years old. Twenty-eight! Rosier began her first apprenticeship when she was sixteen, meaning I’m already a year late. That’s a lot of time to make up for.
“Are you coming?” Pippa calls out behind me. She’s standing next to Lucia, who is bent over a glorious display of tarts.
“I’ll be right there,” I call out. “Grab me a cheese tart.”
Pippa gives me a thumbs-up. I turn to face Chef Legrand, who is tipping our driver. My heart is hammering against my chest and my palms are a sweaty mess. I quickly rub my hands against my pants in case Chef Legrand reaches out for a handshake.
“Chef?” I tap him on the arm. When he turns around, I instinctively take a step back. Up close, he’s solid and broad chested with thick limbs. He’s so tall that if he were to raise his hand into the sky, I’m convinced he could catch a passing cloud. Snake Eyes seems small and scrawny by comparison despite being the tallest in our class.
“How can I help you, mademoiselle?” he asks, his face returning to the all-consuming smile.
My mouth goes dry. I clear my throat and try my best not to gush.
“My name is Isabelle Fields.” I pronounce my name with the proper French intonation.
“Oh, l’Américaine, oui?” he asks. I get the dreadful feeling Snake Eyes has been talking about me.
“Well, my mother is French, and although I grew up in Chicago—we have almost twenty thousand restaurants, you know?—she taught me how to cook from a very young age. And we travel to France at least once a year. My grandmother lives a hop, skip, and a jump away, in Nice,” I say, all in one breath. Not only am I borderline apologizing for being born in the wrong country, to one wrong parent, suddenly I’ve become the kind of person that says “hop, skip, and a jump away.” Who says that? I must sound like a total idiot.
“I guess, what I am trying to ask is . . .” My mind struggles to find the right words. Now that I’m here, at the source of the world’s culinary wisdom, I can’t seem to put into words exactly what I want to know—which is everything. I settle for, “What does it take to make it?”
He considers my question for a moment, nodding with what I interpret as amusement. If he thinks I’m some talentless, dim-witted girl, he doesn’t show it.
“Sa vie,” he finally says.
I lean forward, waiting for the explanation to his “one’s life” response, but he appears content with his two-word answer. I don’t want to come across as dense, but I need to know exactly what he means. So I ask, “What does that mean for you?”
“This is an excellent question,” he says, flashing his ultra-white teeth and thousand-kilowatt smile. “I will explain like this. In 2010, divers found 168 bottles of champagne in a shipwreck off the Finnish Åland archipelago in the Baltic Sea. These bottles were 170 years old.” He pauses for effect, as I wonder how it’s possible a sunken pirate ship relates to my question.
“The bottles sold at auction. I bought one bottle of Veuve Clicquot—a very rare bottle, you must understand this. Some eighteen thousand euro it cost me. When I received my MOF, I drink this bottle. Now, I am worthy of this champagne.” His left eyebrow is slightly raised and his head is cocked to the side. I get the distinct impression he is very pleased with his story, which has left me absolutely dumbfounded.
“But, you know . . . how did you get there from where I am”—I point at myself—“to MOF.” I point at him, as if it’s not clear who’s who. “What did you do?”
He furrows his brow. There’s virtually a neon sign on his forehead that reads, The answer is obvious, little girl—you just don’t get it.
“Your life. This has to be your life. When you are awake. When you are asleep. Never stop. Your entire life—this is what it takes to be the best. This is why people make a special journey to eat my food. They fly across continents! You must do whatever it takes. Sacrifice everything. Owe nothing to anyone. You are number one or you are a stove monkey—there is no second or third place. Understand?”
“Yes. Okay.” I nod, taking mental notes of everything he’s saying, even if it sounds a tiny bit extreme. But, I mean, what do I know? Right? My mental notes stack up until they drown out the faint voice in the back room of my thoughts, arguing this guy is nuts.
“Every day I put on my MOF title. The colors we wear,” he says touching the red, white, and blue ribbon around his collar. “We are the only chefs allowed to wear this. You see why I can drink the expensive champagne? This champagne and I are the same. Exceptional.”
I thank him, then back away slowly, feeling unworthy of even standing in his shadow.
I find Pippa and Lucia sitting on a bench, digging into a box of tarts.
“One cheese tart for the señorita,” Lucia says, handing me a pastry wrapped in parchment paper. We walk down the market path overlooking the east bank of the Saône River.
“So? What did Papa Legrand have to say?” Pippa asks.
We stop to finish our tarts and watch the parade of boats cruising along the river.
“I’m not really sure, to be honest,” I say, still pondering his advice. “Something about being worthy of a bottle of champagne recovered from a shipwreck. And giving one’s whole life to the craft.”
“Well, that’s certainly helpful,” Pippa says sarcastically.
I shrug, taking another bite of my tart while admiring the backdrop of pastel buildings and Fourvière Hill on the other side of the river. Perched atop the Hill, the Basilique Notre-Dame de Fourvière looms impressively over the city. Its white façade and four main towers glisten on this bright, sunny day.
“How are we supposed to pick only three things?” Lucia asks. “There are over a hundred vendors here.”
“We have three hours . . .” I offer.
“Actually, make that two hours and forty-five minutes,” Pippa corrects.
“That’s practically an eternity. Enough to walk around and see what inspires us,” I say, savoring the last bite of my pastry and crumpling the napkin into a ball.
“L’inspiration!” Pippa exclaims, opening her arms wide as she mocks Chef Legrand. “Was it me, or is there just something dodgy about that guy?”
“What do you mean?” Lucia asks.
“I don’t know. It’s like he was trying too hard,” Pippa says.
“Maybe it’s because we’re used to being berated by Chef Troissant. We’ve got some kind of Stockholm syndrome,” I say, and we all chuckle.
“For the record, I feel no sympathy toward our captors,” Pippa says, “and I have no sympathy for phony charm.”
“I thought he was really nice and approachable for someone with so many titles,” I say.
We stroll down the path, scanning vendors’ tables as we go. There are booths on both sides of the walkway, selling a plethora of culinary delights: sausage covered in buttery pastry dough, succulent peaches dripping in juice, giant wheels of cheese straight from the dairy farm. I stay away from the Époisses de Bourgogne and any other kind of stinky cheese.
As we walk, I take it all in—the tiny samples I collect from table to table, the cacophony of conversations in French, and the intoxicating smell of the poulet rôti carts challenging you not to buy one of their rotisserie chickens. I marvel at the construction of the carts—a masterpiece of street food cookery. A tall rotisserie wall rises into the sky holding row after row of chickens roasting in their own fat. The grease pools in a large pan at the bottom, where potatoes are cooked. Lala would love this. She may have even asked Grampa Roger to build her a roasting cart in their backyard.
We lose Pippa at an oyster stand. “I’ll catch up with you later,” she says. She’s inspecting a box of fresh-caught oysters and haggling over the price.
“Is that an empanada truck?” Lucia asks, moving toward a truck with a sign that reads Señor Carlos Empanadas. “It is! I have to get one. You want one?”
“I’m good,” I say, setting my sights on a mushroom stand up the path. “I think I found my first ingredient.”
Over a dozen varieties of mushrooms are displayed on the table. Handwritten chalk signs provide names like cêpes, morilles, and girolles. I bring a black, trumpet-shaped mushroom to my nose, fully taking in the pronounced aroma of forest, earth, and dampness. This one is called the trompette de la mort. I don’t let the name intimidate me. Instead I take it as an omen, that I’m about to kill my competition. These so-called trumpets of death are imbued with a sweet and woodsy aroma. The texture is soft enough to stand alone as a main ingredient in a pasta dish.
I ask the vendor for half a kilo. He weighs the flower-looking mushrooms and places them inside a paper bag.
“Merci,” I say as we exchange euros and he passes me the change.
My other two ingredients have to complement these beauties and be distinctive enough to grab Chef Legrand’s attention. I’m thinking a fresh pasta—a tagliatelle? I scan the booths, searching for signs of a nonna. It will take the supernatural skills of an Italian grandmother to craft the kind of pasta I need.
A forkful of real Italian pasta has a toothy texture and rich flavor. But what’s more, it makes your soul yearn for the carb-induced rapture that follows. Nothing short of this will do for my dish.
I take my time with each pasta vendor, asking questions about their methods and the quality of their ingredients. Most are lacking. Frustrated, I walk to the end of the market, where I come across a small stall with a little girl clutching a cash box. She’s adorable in a yellow dress and pigtails.
“Bonjour,” I say in greeting. She smiles and starts rambling in Italian, pointing at the pasta displayed on the table, completely oblivious to the fact I don’t understand a word she’s saying. I’m about to walk away when I recognize the one word guiding my quest: nonna.
“Nonna?” I ask.
The girl nods, slides off the stool she’s been sitting on, and runs down the row of tents.
“Wait!” I call out, but she’s gone.
Crap. How much time do I have left to shop? I check my phone. Thirty minutes—and counting. Double crap! Where did all my time go?
I hunt through the stands, desperate to find this kid, who I pray will take me to her nonna. After a few minutes, I see the girl walking back in my direction, mercifully with a grandmother in tow. The culinary gods must me watching over me today.
I follow her and her grandma to the pasta booth, regretting every second I’ve wasted today.
I ask the nonna for fresh tagliatelle, which she leisurely produces from a basket under the table. This woman is certainly not in a hurry. And it’s up to me to keep my neurosis in check and be polite. Problem is, I still don’t have a third ingredient, and I’m quickly running out of time.
I offer the nonna a few euros, but she doesn’t take them. Instead, she holds both palms up in front of her, signaling me to wait.
“I can’t wait,” I mutter in English, holding a respectful smile.
Nonna retreats to a table in the back and takes FOREVER to return. When she does, she’s barely holding on to the giant wheel of cheese in her hands. I quickly set down the bag of pasta and cross inside the booth to help her carry the thing. It weights a ton.
We gently place the wheel on the table, next to the display of pastas. When I step back, I catch the inscription on the rind: Parmigiano-Reggiano. The king of cheeses.
Thank you, Nonna! I’ve found my third ingredient.
This wheel has the Consorzio’s seal of approval—they’re like the federal police of cheeses—and the gold seal, which means it was traditionally produced, aged thirty months, and carefully inspected in and immediately around Parma, Italy. This is one of the best cheeses in the world. And the perfect complement to the ingredients I already have.
I don’t want to jinx it, but I’m feeling pretty confident about my dish.
I pay the little girl and thank the nonna for her help. I even manage “Grazie!”, one of the handful of words I know in Italian.
Not long after, Chef Legrand and Snake Eyes walk up the path and stop at a booth three tables down from where I’m standing. It strikes me that their once-sparkling smiles are now surly scowls.
Chef Legrand shakes hands with the attendant of the sausage booth and they exchange a few pleasantries. The chef asks after the vendor’s family, and the big smile momentarily makes a comeback. He orders a kilo of sausage with pistachios and pays. Meanwhile, Snake Eyes stands back, uninvolved. He mills around with his hands tucked into his pockets, staring at the pavement. I’ve never seen him look so sullen.
Chef Legrand thanks the vendor, then walks down the path with Snake Eyes, heading in my direction. I move to the side and step into a flower stall, disappearing from view behind some buckets of lavender.
Chef Legrand and Snake Eyes are engaged in a conversation I can’t hear, but from what I can see the argument looks intense. Chef Legrand gesticulates with his arms and speaks in rapid French. Snake Eyes interjects every so often, his face taking on the shade and texture of an overripe tomato. The muscles of his jaw form hard lines and deep ridges have appeared on his forehead. He says something to his dad then takes off toward the river bank, in the opposite direction.
It figures. Some people just can’t appreciate how good they have it. If my dad were a MOF, I’d be glued to his side, trying to absorb every ounce of knowledge seeping from his pores. But my dad is not a MOF; he is an investment banker turned cherry farmer. Not exactly a source of “l’inspiration!”
A truffle vendor calls out to Chef Legrand by name. They’re close enough that I can overhear their conversation.
“Just for you,” the vendor says, revealing a small basket from behind the table. He uncovers the contents and offers it to Chef Legrand. “White truffles from Alba,” he says in a low voice.
Chef Legrand’s eyes widen, as do mine. It takes every ounce of self-control I possess not to leap across the path to peer over Chef Legrand’s shoulder. I mosey around the lavender, trying to get a glimpse of the crown jewels of the culinary world, but it’s useless. Truffles are about the size of a baby potato, and the basket is obstructing my view.
“But we are not in season,” Chef Legrand says, bringing the basket to his nose.
“A rare pre-season find,” explains the vendor.
“How much?” the chef asks.
The vendor holds up three fingers. “Three thousand. Per half kilo,” he adds.
I almost choke on my own spit. I pull out my phone and do a quick currency exchange calculation. It comes out to a little over $3,300 US dollars per approximately one pound of truffles.
I think of all the things I could buy with $3K: a used taco truck off Craigslist; a round-trip ticket to Hokitika, New Zealand, for their Wildfoods Festival; an authentic Italian espresso machine (with its own view of the Mediterranean!).
“I’ll take a full one kilo,” Chef Legrand says.
The vendor carefully wraps the basket and gives it to Chef Legrand, who cradles it like he’s holding a baby.
At this exact moment, I realize I have two options. I can stick to the schedule, since by now I’m supposed to be back on the minibus. But let’s face it, we’re not leaving the market without Chef Legrand. Or I can put on my big girl panties and ask to see (and smell) the Alba truffles.
“Quien nada arriesga nada gana,” I hear Lala say. If I don’t risk making an ass of myself, I’ll never know the pleasure of holding a truffle from Alba. So I straighten myself to full height, inch my chin upward, and walk over to Chef Legrand.
For a moment, I casually linger next to him, inspecting some of the more inexpensive truffles on the table.
“Oh, hi there,” I say, pretending to be surprised.
Chef Legrand glances down at me and smiles politely.
“Looking for truffles?” he asks. “Bernard here can help you.”
Bernard shoots me a crooked smile from behind the table. “What can I get for you, madame?”
“No, I . . . I . . .” I stutter, lowering my eyes to the basket in his hands. “I already have my ingredients.”
Come on Isa, big girl panties. I suck in a deep breath and go for it.
“I didn’t mean to pry, but I overheard you talking about the Alba truffles.”
Chef Legrand considers me for what feels like an eternity. His blue eyes pierce mine, narrowing as if he’s trying some kind of mind trick. I stay very still and don’t look away, my feet planted firmly on the sidewalk under me.
“Curious little thing, aren’t you?” he mutters.
“It’s just that . . . they are so rare,” I explain.
“Yes,” Chef Legrand says with a nod. “Yes, they are.”
And then something like a little miracle happens; he passes the truffle basket into my hands. I take in a breath and peer at the irregularly shapped, knobby spheres. I bring the basket closer to my face and draw in the fragrant aroma. It’s heavenly. Earthy and nutty, slightly garlicky with a deep musk. I am holding one of the most expensive and sought-after foods in the world. I gently slide one finger over their surface, tracing the uneven texture.
“Wow,” I whisper, reluctantly passing them back to their owner.
“And the flavor . . .” Bernard muses, bringing his closed hand to his mouth and kissing his puckered fingers. “Indimenticabile,” he exclaims in Italian.
I look back at Chef Legrand, hoping for a translation.
“Unforgettable,” he says with a hearty laugh.
I laugh too, in disbelief of this turn of events. I’m hanging out in a beautiful French market, on a glorious summer day, buying Alba truffles with a MOF. How did this happen?
Back at the restaurant, we quickly get to work on our dishes. Chef Legrand explains we can use some basic items from the pantry like butter and spices, but nothing that will distract from our three main ingredients.
“The spotlight must shine on the flavor of your ingredients. Simplicity with depth—this you must learn,” he says, pacing around the kitchen.
I think of his “your life” advice and wonder if I’ll ever be worthy of drinking 170-year-old champagne. What would that even taste like?
“Bon, get to work,” he tells the class.
I fill a large pot with water and set it to a rolling boil. Separately, I plunge my trumpets of death into a cold bath to remove the grit before slicing them into delicate strands, then toss them in a hot pan with melted butter. They cook until they are soft and tender.
“Ah, beautiful.” Chef Legrand materializes in front of my station. “Excellent choice of ingredients.”
I’m thankful the heat coming off my stove masks the redness surging to my face. This is the first time since I arrived in this kitchen that a chef has said a kind word about my food. It’s nice to know someone appreciates it. And a MOF, nonetheless. It doesn’t get any better.
He watches as I drain the tagliatelle and toss it with a mixture of mushrooms and butter. I sprinkle grated nutmeg and white pepper, then coat the pasta with the Parmigiano-Reggiano until all the ingredients are integrated. My presentation is minimal. I select a plain white pasta bowl and sprinkle extra cheese on top.
Chef Legrand wastes no time grabbing a fork and digging into my dish—before I can even taste it. My heart has stopped beating inside my chest. How I continue to live and breathe defies the laws of human biology.
“Mademoiselle,” he says after he’s taken two full bites, “this deserves a glass of champagne.” He winks at me, then turns to the class and says, “Someone found l’inspiration!”
I almost pass out. A few students grunt across the room, but it only adds to the pure joy swelling inside my chest. I glance at Snake Eyes. His full attention is on a filet, which anyone can see is on its way to being overdone.
Chef Legrand passes my dish around the class and makes everyone taste it.
“Quality ingredients. Beautiful combination. Lavish and simple at the same time. I could eat this entire dish,” he says, taking another forkful.
My face is glowing so bright it could put out the sun. Newfound confidence explodes inside me. I can do this. I can get this apprenticeship. I’m so going to win.
The half-eaten pasta plate returns to my station, and I’m finally able to taste my own dish. The cheese and butter merged into a silky cream and the mushrooms add a hint of drama to the plate. Their smoky flavor is a perfect pairing with the Parmigiano-Reggiano.
Maybe my dish is not worth a special transcontinental trip, but at least it’s worth a special ride on the bus.
After everyone has left, I stay behind to pack up yesterday’s coq au vin leftovers and take them to Papi. Chef Troissant has yet to assign points on that dish or give us any clue on how we did.
On the way to the lockers, I pass her office. The door is slightly open, enough to reveal my crêpe cake sitting on her desk, half eaten. I mean, literally an entire half of the twelve-inch cake is gone. The smile I’ve been carting around since my pasta dish triumph only gets bigger.
My legs prance across the kitchen, toward the locker room so I can store my things before going home—no more sleeping in my apron.
I stop before entering. I can’t see them, but I can hear Chef Legrand and Snake Eyes arguing. Chef Legrand keeps his voice above a whisper but I manage to piece together cuillères, perdant, and embarras—spoons, loser, and embarrassment.
I peer around the corner to catch a glimpse. Snake Eyes is staring at the floor, and his shoulders are so hunched over he looks a foot shorter.
I try to recall yesterday’s spoon order, and I’m pretty certain Snake Eyes remains in second place, after Lucia. That girl may be lost in translation but her technique—dead chickens aside—is by far the best in the kitchen.
“Chef Troissant hates me,” Snake Eyes tells the chef, sounding like a whiny five-year-old complaining about his teacher. “I’m the best in this kitchen. Everyone knows.”
Holy macarons, could this guy be more full of himself?
“If you are the best, you should be number one—not second place. Second best is not worthy of my name,” Chef Legrand hisses.
“I’ll do whatever it takes,” Snake Eyes says.
“Whatever it takes,” Chef Legrand repeats like it’s the family mantra. “The Spanish prodigy is in your way. But a little bird tells me she has no classical training. How can this be? How can she be number one? And keep your eye on that American girl.”
Snake Eyes snorts in disgust. “Fields? Please, Father.”
“That girl wants to win.” Chef Legrand steps in closer. “Americans are nice until you get in their way. Then, they bring out the big guns.”
At this point I decide to take my apron home with me. Not only am I annoyed with Snake Eyes’s visions of his own grandeur, but this whole “whatever it takes” business is making me queasy. What exactly did Chef Legrand mean by it?
I’ve already surrendered most of a normal high school experience, time with my family, and romantic relationships. Is this not an indication I’m committed enough? What else is there to give?
Maybe Chef Legrand is right. Maybe I need to focus more. Be more creative. More determined. Take every and any opportunity to get ahead. Not a moment wasted.
Maybe it’s time I bring out the big guns.