The day of the final exam feels like one of those cooking competition shows, but without the cameras. The lights glare brightly above us. Tension runs high. The spoons are lined up on the wall, and for the first time mine occupies the number one spot.
I have finally arrived at the top of the spoon ladder, thanks to the snails and the dots. Lucia is under me, and Snake Eyes sits in third place. His fall, I heard, had something to do with Chef Grattard finding half a sprout inside one of his peas.
“I almost went blind,” I heard him tell one of the other guys in the kitchen. “After the first hour, all I could see was a green blob. No beginning. No end. A nightmare.” He sounded so broken that I couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. Grattard finally got to him. Snake Eyes no longer carries himself with that same cocky confidence he once had. Something in him changed.
Something has changed in me too. Even though I’ve finally gotten to where I’ve always wanted to be, it doesn’t feel the way I thought it would. That sense of accomplishment followed by mind-blowing elation is missing. Instead I feel like a cheat, like I’m taking something away from someone who deserves it more than me. The guilt has been gnawing at my insides, like a babka loaf that hasn’t had time to cook in the middle—it comes out all doughy and undone, sticky in all the wrong ways. If you take one bite, it will make you sick.
Chef Troissant approaches my station. She has been inspecting our work areas since we are not allowed to bring any notes or recipes into the final exam. Every technique must be executed from memory.
“Alors, Mademoiselle Fields,” she says, handing me an envelope. “The apprenticeship is yours to lose.”
My chest swells both with pride and disappointment. Disappointment at myself for having succumbed to the pressure in order to get ahead. What I did to Lucia was really awful. And what is worse, I never apologized. I need to change that.
I take the white envelope from her hand and stare at my name written in neat cursive. I told myself I would finish the exam, even though I had no time to prepare and even though I’m still not sure this is where I want to be.
“Best of luck, Mademoiselle,” Chef Troissant says as she begins to walk away.
“Wait,” I call out, almost tumbling over my workstation. Pâtisserie Clémentine has yet to open, but if I’ve learned anything from Chef Troissant these last three weeks, it’s that the business will be a success. She will be the kind of chef who makes others step up their game. And she will also be a great teacher, because regardless of how insane my time here has been, I am better because of her and no one else.
“I was wondering if . . . if Pâtisserie Clémentine will need an apprentice.”
Chef Troissant doesn’t answer. Instead, she looks at me—into my very soul, it seems—before the side of her lip ticks up ever so slightly. When she finally speaks, a resounding No comes out of her mouth.
“Oh, I thought maybe . . .” I mumble, my heart sinking all the way to my feet.
“My pâtisserie will not be a consolation prize.”
“No, I . . . that’s not . . .” I stumble over my words, trying to explain myself, but she cuts me off before I can verbalize a coherent sentence.
“The test is about to begin, Mademoiselle. Please return to your station.”
Of course, the moment I return to my station I know exactly what I wanted to say. That this is not where I belong. Where I belong is in her pâtisserie, learning from the best chef I know.
Grattard’s apprenticeship belongs to Lucia, not me.
I turn to my left and watch her fiddle with her knives. She has the kind of manic energy that would succeed in La Table de Lyon’s kitchen.
“Hey,” I say, touching her shoulder.
She turns toward me, pushing a strand of loose hair into her toque.
“It was great working with you these last few days,” I say.
“It was fun, yes.” She pulls on the ties of her apron, which are already tight enough.
“I wanted to say I’m sorry for what I did. I mean, with the snails. It was terrible and I feel so guilty about it. I wasn’t thinking. I just got caught up in the pressure, you know?”
Lucia nods, burying her hands inside the pockets of her jacket. “I know,” she says. “But you didn’t need that to win. You have all the talent.”
“Thanks,” I say, already knowing how I will make it up to her. “Friends?”
“Friends.”
We hug it out. And it feels like the beginning of a true friendship, one based in admiration, respect, and forgiveness.
On the other side of the room, Pippa has been watching us. I wave at her and mouth good luck. She smiles back and waves. Out of everyone in the room, she seems the most at ease. All she has to do is finish the test so she can get a certificate signed by Grattard himself. Tomorrow she will start her new job in Chef Lulu’s pâtisserie, which has just been named the best in the city. To celebrate, I’m thinking we should have a bake-off, just the kind of party a few kitchen geeks would love.
“Faites attention!”
All eyes turn to Chef Troissant. She sits alone at the judges’ table, next to two empty chairs and a big, bright red digital clock hanging just above her.
Grattard and Hugo have yet to show up. Both will arrive just as the test is winding down, to taste the quality of the dishes. I guess they’re too busy or something.
I quickly turn to Lucia and whisper, “Good luck.” She nods and says, “Buena suerte” in return.
“You will have five hours to complete the three-course meal,” Chef Troissant tells the class. “You will be judged on presentation, technique, and the ability to follow Chef Grattard’s vision.”
I glance over at Snake Eyes. I have to give the guy props for coming back after Chef Grattard’s vision turned into his own personal hell. Today, he almost looks humble. Makes me wonder at the power a pea has to break a person.
“You may begin,” Chef Troissant says to the sound of envelopes ripping open. They contain a blank sheet of paper so we can write the instructions as Chef Troissant calls them out and a scorecard with our number printed at the top.
I instinctively reach for a pen from my jacket pocket, and when she begins to rattle off the insane dish instructions, I’m ready.
“First course,” Chef Troissant says from her place at the table. “Parisian-style gratinated onions injected with onion soup. Four onion balls, very light, very fluffy, filled with warm onion broth. A drizzle of black truffle sauce with a sprinkle of thyme. A crispy Parmesan wafer balanced on top. The second course will consist of a three-centimeter-wide, six-centimeter-high medallion of grilled, soft, rare beef served very rare, very soft. Cover with truffle, mozzarella, and mushrooms, forming a white shell.
“And for the third course, a deconstructed Mont Blanc,” she says. I notice a hint of pride in her voice. This is one of the most successful desserts she has crafted for Grattard, where the components of a classic Mont Blanc are separated on the plate to form a whole new invention. I once saw a photograph in a culinary magazine with the caption “Old meets new in this remarkable creation.” Grattard took all the credit in the article. But now I know who the real person behind the curtain is—a woman, not a man.
“A caramel drizzle must run the length of the plate,” she continues, moving her hand in the air as if there were an imaginary plate in front of her. “Three dollops of chestnut purée positioned in alternating sides of the drizzle line. And at the center of the plate, one dollop of Chantilly cream, which must be topped by a praline bonbon—the most delicious bonbon. Just one, so make it exquisite.”
I grip my pen over my paper, waiting for any other instructions. But all that’s left is a heavy silence as she presses a button on the judges’ table and the digital clock begins to count down five hours.
And so it begins. The test that will determine the rest of my life.
Except the rest of my life doesn’t seem to carry the grueling intensity it once did. As I begin to peel the tiny onions for my appetizer, I think of Lala’s legacy and the love she put into every meal. And as I prepare the truffles for the entrée, I think of my baby sister and all the meals our new family will share over laughter and conversation. The Mont Blanc makes me think of Diego—the caramel drizzle and the dollops on the plate remind me of the road and the mountains we crossed on the way to Spain.
For five hours I remain in this space—a sort of protective bubble—surrounded by the memories of everyone I love. Not once do I forget an ingredient or hesitate on a technique. The dishes flow out of me almost effortlessly, until there is only about a minute left on the clock and my dishes are completely finished except for one small detail. A praline bonbon that would likely crown me as the winner. It sits on the countertop staring back at me, probably wondering why it’s not floating on top of a dollop of Chantilly, the way Chef Troissant instructed.
Next to me, Lucia is piping her cream with the fierceness and focus of a genius. All three of her dishes are impeccable, but then, so are mine. The only difference between us is that if she won, she would give herself fully to Grattard’s kitchen, while I would always wonder why I never had the guts to change course. Even if it meant letting go of everyone else’s measure of success. And even if it meant I may never get an opportunity like this again.
I reach for the bonbon and hold it gently between my fingers, but I can’t bring myself to lift it from the table. The clock is about to run out, and under its red glow sits Chef Troissant.
She’s watching me. Across the kitchen, our eyes meet and my lips form a warm smile. One that leaves no doubt of where I want to be.
Chef Troissant’s eyes narrow and her head cocks to the side. It’s a look of puzzlement, broken only by the sound of a buzzer announcing that time is up. Her eyes shift to the bonbon in my hand, which never made it onto the plate. I watch her face for a reaction—maybe anger or disapproval—but there’s nothing there. Only that neutral, emotionless expression that makes you wish her face had subtitles.
A few minutes pass before Chef Grattard enters the test kitchen with Hugo trailing behind. The three judges move to different sides of the kitchen, talking to the students, commenting on the dishes and filling out the scorecards.
My eyes narrow on the small bonbon, knowing that no matter what happens next, I made the right choice. I know this because I only feel immense relief. Like I’ve been spared from some terrible fate.
Chef Troissant is the first judge to approach my station.
“Perfect technique,” she says, marking the scorecard. Her eyes briefly cut to the bonbon and she clicks her tongue. “Too bad that bonbon didn’t make it onto the plate.”
I stand up straighter, jut my chin, and gather my courage. I have nothing to lose, so I say, “I would like the opportunity to train in your kitchen. I would work hard and learn as much as I can from you. But if that is not an option, I still know that this, here, isn’t what I want. I want something more.”
“More?” she asks, mildly surprised.
“I want to enjoy doing the one thing I love.”
“I don’t need an apprentice.” Chef Troissant picks up the bonbon from the table and puts it into her mouth.
Inside, I’m crestfallen, but I don’t let it show. In addition to all the life-changing culinary lessons, Troissant taught me to keep my emotions in check. If you have to fall apart, do it when no one can see you—over very expensive champagne.
She jots down a few things on her clipboard, and without taking her eyes away from the paper says, “I need a chef’s assistant. We begin pastry trials in two weeks. We will open in two months.” She looks up to meet my gaze and gives me just the slightest smile. “Chef Fields.”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing.
A nervous yes jumps out of my mouth, but what I really want to do is hug this woman. Chef’s assistant! Me!
“I have only one question,” I say, my head turning toward Snake Eyes, who is getting a talk-down from Hugo about the consistency of the white foam shell over his beef medallion. “Are you hiring any of these self-declared kitchen gods?”
To my surprise, and that of everyone else in the kitchen, Chef Troissant bursts out laughing with an uninhibited cackle. Her shoulders shake with mirth and her head falls back.
“Not a single one,” she says, handing me my scorecard.
The dessert score is so low, given the missing bonbon, that I know I’ve succeeded at losing the apprenticeship.
I’ve never felt so happy to fail.