On Monday, I’m the first one to arrive at Chef Troissant’s kitchen. It’s the start of week three and the pressure to excel is mounting.
If my spoon is still at the bottom of the rack, I want to be all alone when I see it.
I stand in front of the rankings, drawing deep, long breaths. “Thirteen,” I murmur, scanning the bottom of the rack. It’s not there. I step forward, searching for those two numbers, one and three written together.
When I finally find it, my first reaction is to raise both fists into the air and repeatedly jump.
I laugh and jump. Jump and laugh. Both fists still raised, I twirl in a big circle and extend my arms in triumph.
Number thirteen has jumped to the middle of the rack. Halfway there.
Yay, me!
This could only mean that she loved Mom’s coq au vin and my mille crêpe cake. I would hug Chef Troissant for this, but I’m guessing she’s not the huggy-huggy type, so instead I hug myself. And my spoon jump also means I got serious points from Chef Legrand and my “exceptional” pasta dish.
I bask in my own sense of achievement as I don my uniform—which I finally traded out for the right size—and tie on my apron. I pin my hair into a bun and position the toque over my head, not a hair out of place. I gaze at my reflection in the mirror and stand a little taller. Today, I look the part of a winner.
The other students slowly fill the kitchen. Everyone’s first stop is the spoon rack. The reactions are a jumble of gasps and murmurs in various languages.
I take to my station and methodically work in silence. I sharpen my knives and refill my spices—first the fleur de sel, then the pepper mill. The tiny black peppercorns flow into the container one by one until it is full. I screw the grinder back on tightly and adjust the coarseness mechanism to fine, the way Chef Troissant likes it.
Lucia and Pippa arrive together ten minutes before the start of class. Pippa and I exchange a nod from across the room. She gives me a thumbs-up when she sees my spoon has jumped to sixth place. Her spoon is right under mine. Lucia’s remains in first place and Snake Eyes’s in second.
“We have to go out again,” Lucia says as she approaches her station. “We didn’t get to dance.” She pulls her apron over her head and smiles. “That was kinda crazy, huh?”
“Um-hum,” I say with a nod.
“I promise I’m not usually like that.” She half smiles awkwardly.
Like what? An overpossessive, maniac drunk idiot pawing all over Diego? A spiteful wench, giving me backhanded insults? Or a sloppy drunk getting us kicked out of a club?
Lala used to say, “If you don’t have anything good to say, mejor no digas nada.”
I nod, then turn to my mise en place. “I’m kinda busy here.”
“Oh, sorry,” she says, turning to her station and suddenly very focused on retying her apron strings.
When Chef Troissant makes her big entrance, I’m ready. In fact, I’m more than ready.
“Alors, today we will commence preparations for the final examinations that will take place in one week,” she announces. “The final exam counts for fifty percent of your overall scores.” She waits for the nervous whispers to die down. “Today we will prepare one dish so you understand the process. I will give you instructions, which you must follow precisely.”
Her helper hands every student a pencil and a blank sheet of paper.
“This is a very traditional method of examination. The dishes are technically demanding, and you have a set time to prepare your dish,” she explains. “Half of the challenge is craft. The other half is mental. Who will break under pressure?” Her eyes bore into the class, but I feel like she’s only watching me.
I will not break under pressure. My jaw tightens and I grip the pencil hard between my fingers.
“You will have two hours to prepare a first course. When time is up, your dish must be plated and ready to be judged. Alors,” she says, “fricassée d’escargots.”
I transcribe her instructions verbatim, feeling like I’ve been training for this moment for two weeks.
“Plate four escargots on a thirty-centimeter moon plate. Position three oignon perlés blancs in the moon center. Top with one red chanterelle mushroom. Add four pieces of lardon positioned between the escargots—no more, no less. Pour four spoonfuls of fricassée broth over the escargots. Finish with a five-centimeter slice of chargrilled baguette balanced on the red chanterelle.” She pauses and scans the room. Half the students’ faces are stricken with panic. A silent prayer hangs in the middle of the room: Please repeat the instructions.
But all she says is, “Alors, you may begin.” Then she turns and walks away, a sadistic smile on her lips.
I read the instructions five times before my scribble and the mishmash of languages starts to make sense.
“Did she say to use beurre blanc?” Lucia whispers. “After the four escargots . . . I didn’t catch that.”
I stammer. A tiny voice in the back of my mind says, “three white pearl onions,” but the words don’t form aloud. Instead, I give her a silent nod.
“Weird. She wants white butter sauce on a fricassée?”
I shrug and press my lips tight against each other. My stomach churns with guilt but I ignore it.
“Then I’ll make the best beurre blanc she’s ever had,” Lucia says. I watch her walk toward the pantry with the confidence of champions—a confidence I’m about to strip away.
What are you doing?
I put down my knife and consider telling her I was mistaken. This is no way to win, I tell myself.
But the remorse lasts all of half a second. I think of how insignificant she made me feel last night. “You want to be like everyone,” she said—the worst insult you can hurl at a chef. And then she practically threw herself at Diego.
My Diego!
Okay, Isa. Dial it back. Where the heck did that come from?
You need to keep your eye on the prize: the apprenticeship. NOT Diego.
I glance at the spoon rack and see the shiny first place position staring back at me—daring me not to make it mine. One year in a three-Michelin-starred kitchen and the consummation of everything I’ve been killing myself for. It will be absolute proof I have the chops to make it as a chef—even if I wasn’t born in France to culinary royalty.
Whatever it takes.
So I ignore the unease and stuff down the guilt. Now is not the time to be a Goody Two-shoes.
Whatever it takes, I repeat to myself as I slice into the chanterelles, feeling like they’ll turn my hands red.
The two hours given for the assignment fly by. We all work in silence in a kind of tunnel vision that only adds to the sense of isolation in this kitchen.
When the time is up, we set our dishes next to our numbers on the kitchen island.
Lucia’s face drops as she notices the broth on everyone else’s plate. She glances at me, and I look away.
If she asks why I didn’t correct her, I could just say I misheard the question. It was an innocent mistake—it happens, right? I mean, the kitchen is such a noisy place. She can’t expect me to have perfect hearing, for crying out loud!
“What is this?” Chef Troissant picks up Lucia’s dish and probes it with a spoon. She dips the tip of her spoon onto the white butter sauce on the plate and brings it to her mouth. “Beurre blanc?” she asks to no one. “Whose dish is this?”
At first no one says anything, but after an unbearably long pause, Lucia raises her hand.
“I want everyone to taste this,” Chef Troissant instructs the class. “Alors, everyone, bring your spoon. Have a taste.”
Lucia’s face goes from terrified to pleased. Her cheeks have taken on a rosy glow. My face probably looks green by now—I feel so nauseous.
I hesitantly take the plate and taste the sauce, then pass it on to the next person. The thick butter drops like a bowling ball inside my stomach.
I glance at Lucia. She reminds me of one of those sacrificial virgins about to get tossed into a vat of scalding water. I want to preemptively apologize, but what could I possibly say?
Hey, sorry for sabotaging your dish. But let’s face it, you had it coming. Not much of an apology, I guess.
“Everyone had some?” Chef Troissant asks the class. “Bon, please, Mademoiselle García, tell the class when exactly did the broth for le fricassée d’escargots change to beurre blanc?” Chef Troissant pauses long enough for everyone to sense the air around us has stopped moving. “Is this the Spanish version?” she asks disdainfully. “Or did you come up with this all on your own?”
Chef Troissant waits for an answer, but Lucia is stunned into silence. The glow on her face has transformed into a sheen of sweat.
Chef Troissant clicks her tongue as she picks at the plate, moving pieces of food around. “And where exactly are your three white pearl onions? Did the snails eat them?”
Snake Eyes snorts into his hand.
At this point I wish I could become invisible.
Lucia’s eyes cut in my direction, a move that is not lost on Chef Troissant.
“Mademoiselle Fields cannot help you this time,” Chef Troissant snaps. She steps closer to Lucia’s station and slowly enunciates, “Three oignons perlés blancs in the moon center. Was that not clear enough for you?”
“Je suis désolée,” Lucia mumbles, her bottom lip quivering.
“If you cannot follow my instructions, you will not succeed in this kitchen. I don’t care how well you can cook. Do you understand?” Chef Troissant takes Lucia’s plate and tosses the whole thing—plate and all—into the garbage bin. My worst nightmare.
My mouth fills with saliva and I honestly think I’m going to puke. I suck in a deep breath and then another, and another.
“If I ask for fricassée d’escargots with three white pearl onions, I want a fricassée d’escargots with three white pearl onions. In any kitchen, you would be fired. In a three-Michelin kitchen, the chef would put your head through that wall,” she spits.
The silence that follows is deafening.
Chef Troissant steps in front of my dish and asks, “Should I even bother with yours?”
My legs wobble under me, and my stomach is so queasy I can barely look at my own plate.
Chef Troissant grabs a snail shell between her fingers and pulls out the escargot with a fork. She brings it to her mouth and chews.
“Good depth of flavor,” she says after she swallows.
“I did a quick wine and garlic marinade,” I manage to explain. My back is so stiff, it feels like it’s made of quick-dry cement.
Chef Troissant pushes aside the chargrilled baguette to uncover the three white pearl onions and the chanterelle mushroom in the center of the plate. If she is pleased by my presentation, she doesn’t show it.
She takes a spoon and tastes the broth. “A little more salt next time,” is all she says before moving on to Snake Eyes.
When she is done scrutinizing our dishes, it becomes evident only Snake Eyes and I followed the full instructions. Everyone else lost marks on taste or presentation. But it was Lucia who got the worst of it by leaving out an ingredient and forgoing the broth.
At the end of the day, I snatch a glance at Lucia. I can almost feel how hard she is trying to hold it together.
You need to say something.
Before I let myself make that mistake, I rush out of the kitchen, tear off my uniform, and chuck it into my locker. I shut the door and rest my forehead against the cold metal surface. My eyelids shut tight, wincing at a sudden ache in the pit of my stomach.
You need to say something.
Behind me, someone enters the locker room, clapping slowly. I turn around to find Snake Eyes ambling toward me.
“Well done,” he says, pressing his shoulder against my locker.
My eyebrows furrow in confusion.
“I underestimated you,” he adds.
“What are you talking about?” I zip my backpack closed and get ready to leave.
“Drop the act. You know what you did. I heard the whole thing.”
Snake Eyes towers over me, forcing me to look up to meet his eyes.
“First you pretend to be her friend,” he says, “and then, when she least expects it, you plunge the knife into her back.” He laughs—a dark, harsh laugh coming from somewhere deep inside of him as he mimics the act he’s just described. “I can’t wait to see what you have in store for me.”
“Please, don’t flatter yourself,” I say, throwing my bag over my shoulder.
“Just know that what goes around, comes around,” he says like a curse as he exits the locker room.
I follow him out, where Pippa is standing by the door.
Her face is crumpled into what I can only guess is disappointment. She looks away when she sees me, turns around, and leaves.
It dawns on me then: I’ve become Barbara.
I am the devil.
I’m going to be sick.
What have I done?