Of all the days for Papi to try to be Super Dad, why did he pick today? And why did I let him?
This morning Papi decided it was time for a father-daughter breakfast in some out-of-the-way pâtisserie. “It’s the best in Lyon,” he kept repeating. But when we got there, all I could do was stare at my pain au chocolat and take a few sips of my café crème. My stomach churned with anxiety and anticipation for the day ahead. By the time we left the pâtisserie, traffic had reached its peak.
My irritation was worsened due to the fact I didn’t get enough sleep thanks to a recent string of kitchen nightmares. In the final one, I served Chef Grattard a plate of undercooked pasta. He walked the plate to the trash bin and tossed the whole thing in, fork and all. “Chef Boyardee makes better spaghetti than this!” he screamed. I woke up drenched in sweat.
Our car finally pulls in front of the restaurant, and I tumble out.
“Good luck, honey!” I hear Papi say as I shut the car door.
My chest tightens as I take in the bold, gold letters that read La Table de Lyon. I stare at my reflection in the lettering, still not believing my insane good luck.
Papi says luck favors the prepared. That’s me, the girl who’s spent the last three years training for this moment. After-school culinary courses, weekend jobs at any mom-and-pop restaurant that hired teens, and a million test recipes from a million different cookbooks—all for this moment.
I force the door handle down and enter. I’ve seen countless photos of this dining room, but none did it justice. The black-and-white checkered floor glistens under my feet. A massive gold chandelier hangs from the middle of the room, an unusual contrast to the modern aqua-and-yellow armchairs surrounding each table. Floor-to-ceiling windows adorn the sides of the room, bathing everything in sunlight. It’s the most beautiful restaurant I’ve seen in my whole life.
And now I’m a part of it.
“You’re late,” a disembodied voice calls out in French. My breath catches in my throat. I search the room and find a short, stocky man waving from the back of the restaurant. “Hurry, now,” he spits. I jog to meet him, trying to explain there was traffic, but he holds up his hand and shushes me. “This is not my problem,” he says while leading me through a narrow hallway and down a flight of stairs. We pass several security cameras as we walk. I get the impression I’m being watched at all times.
“Through there,” he says, pointing to a set of stainless steel double doors before returning upstairs.
I smooth down my hair and walk the twenty feet to the doors, sweaty and disheveled. This is so not how I imagined beginning my first day in Chef Grattard’s kitchen.
I’m the last one to arrive. Fourteen overachieving teenage cooks from all over the world—forming a rainbow of cultures and colors—turn to look at me as I burst through the swinging entrance.
I force down the urge to be sick.
As I step into the test kitchen, I immediately notice two things: the room is freezing, and the other students have gathered around a stainless steel island in the middle of the room. Everyone is already dressed in the same uniform—a white chef’s coat, white apron, white toque hats, and gray pants. I didn’t realize we would have to wear a toque—a staple in traditional high-end kitchens. I’ve never worn one, but really, how hard can it be to keep that tall thing on your head?
My uniform sits alone in a pile at the center of the island. I edge my way between two tall, lanky guys and reach for the change of clothes, ignoring the multiple sniggers and stares.
“You must be Isabella,” a girl says. She has a British accent and the looks of a Paris runway supermodel—even in her uniform. She towers over me, and her glowing ebony complexion is something generally found on magazine covers.
“I go by Isa,” I tell her, rubbing my arms for warmth. I swear the temperature has dropped a whole ten degrees in the time I’ve been here.
“We were wondering if you were gonna be a no-show.” She extends her hand and says, “I’m Pippa, nice to meet you.”
I shake her hand and mean to say, “Nice to meet you too,” but what comes out is a nervous, “Do you know where I can change?”
“Ah, you’re the American. Right. All business, I see,” Pippa says, a warm smile still on her face. Behind her someone snickers. She glances back. Her eyes roll when she sees the source of the noise—a tall blond with pale white skin and ice-cold blue slits for eyes.
“That’s Bruno, but I say we call him Snake Eyes,” Pippa whispers.
Snake Eyes’s feet are firmly planted on the floor and his arms are crossed over his chest. I notice he’s the only one carrying pens and a thermometer in his sleeve pocket.
I stand a little taller, trying to remember if I brought a thermometer.
“Changing room is through that door,” Pippa says, pointing toward a hallway at the back of the kitchen. “There are lockers in there for your stuff.” I thank her and walk-run in that direction.
My clothes come off as if they’re on fire. Then I tumble into my uniform, almost tripping on my pant legs. Even though it’s Arctic cold, my armpits are sweating buckets, making me second-guess if I remembered to put on deodorant this morning.
I try to calm myself by repeating one of Chef Grattard’s pillars of excellence: “Technique is not enough. Only passion guarantees greatness.” I tell myself I have tons of passion—passion out the freaking wazoo.
With one reassuring breath, I turn to glance at my reflection in the mirror. Big mistake.
Huge. Freaking. Mistake.
A child wearing an adult costume stares back at me. Are you effing kidding me?
The pants are saggy, the apron almost touches my feet, and the coat sleeves are way too long. The toque only adds to the cartoon character I’ve become. Did I order the wrong size?
I pull the back of my collar forward, trying to catch a glimpse of the tag—it reads 42. I attempt to do the US conversion math in my head. Twelve! Three sizes too big. I might as well be wrapped in a potato sack.
“It’s fine,” I tell myself between clenched teeth. “It’s perfectly fine.” I nod at my reflection and lift my head. I shove my things into the locker and join the others. I will deal with the uniform after class.
Do. Not. Freak. Out. Isa.
As I walk back into the kitchen, I ignore the incredulous stares and the hand that flies over some guy’s mouth to conceal a snicker. And I especially ignore Bruno, aka Snake Eyes, who is outright laughing into his closed fist.
Never in my life have I ever wanted a do-over day so badly.
I stand next to Pippa, half hoping I can hide behind her. She gently elbows my side and says, “They got my size wrong too.” I smile back, but I can see her uniform doesn’t look like a potato sack. It hugs her in all the right places like she stepped off some culinary uniform fashion show.
“As I was saying,” Snake Eyes says, giving me a sideways glance like I interrupted some great speech. “My father is a MOF.”
“They’re like culinary gods,” another guy interjects.
“Father says the Michelin inspectors are all about consistency . . .” Snake Eyes drones on about the workings of the inspection process like he’s an expert. Most of the students hang on to every word, except Pippa and me, and a third girl who’s off to one corner, absorbed in a set of knives. She has a tiny frame, dark hair mostly hidden under her toque, and the same olive skin tone as Diego.
“That’s Lucia,” Pippa says, following my eyes. “She’s from Catalonia. She won some teen cooking show on TV. Apparently, she’s a big deal in Spain.”
“Really?”
Pippa shrugs. “I found a clip on YouTube, but it was in Catalan. She seemed pretty badass, though. The quiet but deadly type.”
My pulse picks up. No one said I’d be competing against the son of a MOF and a Catalonian teen star. Suddenly, all my preparations seem downright inadequate.
After a quick scan of the room, I realize we’re the only girls in the program.
That’s until the double doors open and a woman dressed in full chef garb walks in.
Everyone goes silent.
“Welcome to La Table de Lyon,” she says, standing at the head of the island. She sets down a clipboard in front of her. “I’m Chef Sabine Troissant, Grattard’s executive pastry chef. I teach the summer program.”
Snake Eyes moans loud enough that everyone can hear him.
“Is there a problem?” Chef Troissant’s lips are pressed into a thin line, and it must be noted her uniform is definitely not a potato sack. Her chef’s coat is impeccably pressed, spotless, and correctly fitted, with her name embroidered in royal blue letters over the left front panel. And her light brown hair is neatly placed under her hat, not one hair out of place.
“Je suis désolé, Chef Troissant,” he says in the perfect French of a native speaker, but anyone can hear his apology lacks conviction. “I was told Chef Grattard himself would be teaching,” he adds.
I want to say I was told that too, but there’s no way I’m siding with Snake Eyes.
“I’m teaching,” she says, pausing to give him the cold stare of death. Her piercing gray eyes make her gaze even more menacing. “We received one thousand applications from fifteen countries this year. This is the only international program of this caliber. Someone would be more than happy to take your place. The wait list is very long.”
Snake Eyes nods and doesn’t respond, though the smirk plastered on his face speaks for itself.
“Alors, let’s get started. I will speak English, but some terms cannot be translated.” Chef Troissant flips through the papers on her clipboard. “Bon,” she exclaims, clapping her hands together. “First lesson: the French omelet. I will demonstrate. Then you will have three minutes to do it yourself. Your work stations are behind you.”
An assistant rolls in a cart equipped with a countertop burner, utensils, and ingredients.
My shoulders relax and I unclench my hands. I’ve been making French omelets since I was a kid. This should be easy.
“Please—you shouldn’t even be here if you can’t make an omelet,” Snake Eyes mutters to a guy next to him. “I guess some people need to learn the proper way—not that overcooked egg travesty they make in America.”
I want to grab an egg from Chef Troissant’s table and smash it on his head so he can get the full effect of the American version. Instead, I step closer to the demonstration table and listen.
“The herbs: chives, tarragon, parsley, and chervil,” she says, cutting them with a precision that only comes with years of experience. “Three eggs. Break the egg flat, like this.” She cracks the eggshells on the table and drops the contents into a bowl. “Don’t break the yolk. You will introduce bacteria.” Chef Troissant pauses, squinting in my direction.
“No notes!” she spits. “You must remember this!”
I instinctively search my hands but come up empty. My head turns from side to side—the same as everyone else—and I realize she’s talking to the girl behind me, Lucia from Catalonia.
Lucia fumbles while trying to put away her notepad and drops her pen in the process. I bend down, pick it up, and give it back to her. She doesn’t look at me, but I can see her face is beet red. She mumbles a nervous mix of gràcies, gracias, and merci and takes two steps back.
“I believe the instructions were very clear,” Chef Troissant says. “No personal items are allowed in this kitchen. No notebooks. No cell phones. No anything. Comprende?”
Everyone nods. My hands fly to my pockets to make sure I left my phone in the locker.
Chef Troissant continues with the demonstration, beating the egg mixture with a fork. “Very important—add salt and pepper. Beat your eggs,” she says. “You don’t move like a wet mop. Move quick. Really beat your eggs.” Her hand is moving so fast it’s like some kind of superpower. My wrist hurts from watching hers.
She adds butter to the hot pan and swirls it around. “Bon, I mix with one hand and shake with the other hand. Make the smaller possible scrambled eggs. Very tender. Very scrambled. We will break the mixture on this side. Bring the two lips together without letting it brown. Wet in the center. Very important.”
My head is spinning. She’s rocking the pan back and forth at lightning speed with one hand while she scrambles the center of the omelet with the other. Her fork moves around the pan like it’s all part of one unit.
I thought I knew how to make a French omelet but turns out I’ve been doing it wrong all along. My stomach drops to my feet. Is this what we’re expected to do in lesson one? I try to remember the last time I made a French omelet, and for the love of me, I can’t. I can’t even remember how it turned out. I think of Mom teaching me how to move the pan around, but her movements were akin to a slug’s compared to this. I struggle to remember anything I learned at the French cooking course I took back home—the one that got me accepted here—but my mind goes blank. It feels like the world’s heaviest cast iron pot has fallen in my stomach: I’ve forgotten how to make a stupid French omelet.
“Bring the lip back. Make a nice half moon. Bring up and fold. Wet in the center,” Chef Troissant explains, but she might as well be speaking Mandarin. My armpits start to sweat profusely, to the point that it doesn’t matter if I put on deodorant or not.
“Let it set. Bring it to the edge. It has to be beige in color. Slightly wet in the center. Et voilà! The French omelet,” she exclaims, presenting her dish.
My lungs collapse inside my chest. I must have blinked or something because I missed the part when the omelet went from the pan to the plate looking like it jumped out of a page of Thuriès Gastronomie Magazine.
“Now please take your stations. You have three minutes.”
I step behind my work station. My legs feel as if they’re made of gelatin. I move a few things around, waiting for Chef Troissant to give us an official start.
“They may have margarine in the back if you prefer,” I hear Snake Eyes say. He’s taken the station right next to mine. I bite the inside of my cheek and count to ten in my head.
“What do you call this margarine? I Can’t Believe It’s No Butter?” he asks, laughing at his own dumb attempt at a joke.
“For your information, margarine is a French invention,” I spit back, ready to launch myself into a Napoleonic history lesson.
“Of course, but it was meant for the lower class,” he says, staring me down over the bridge of his pointed nose. “Your people ran with it.”
I’m left with my mouth open as Chef Troissant calls, “Faites attention! Everything you need is on your work stations, including an identifying number. No names. Only numbers.”
Mine is thirteen. Great. Does anyone have a black cat they wish to lend me? Or a ladder I can stand under?
“Your three minutes start now,” Chef Troissant announces.
My ingredients all blend into a blur. The other students—including Snake Eyes—move around me at freakish speed while I’m swimming in a sea of molasses.
I mangle my herbs with a knife that is too big for my hand. I crack the eggs over the bowl but realize I skipped the first step: turning on the stove. The pan is as cold as a body dumped into Lake Michigan. In a panic, I let my eggshells fall inside the bowl. I turn on the range and dump in a spoonful of butter that sits lifeless in the pan.
“One minute and thirty seconds left,” Chef Troissant calls out.
What happens next can only be described as an out-of-body experience. I watch myself from somewhere in the ceiling as I plunge my fingers into the egg mixture to fish out the shells, then beat the eggs like I’m a human stand mixer. Meanwhile, something is burning. It takes me a moment to realize it’s coming from my station. The butter has turned black inside the pan. In a panic, I turn so fast that my stupid toque flies off my head and lands on Snake Eye’s station. I swallow a scream.
Snake Eyes doesn’t even reach for it. He only stares at the white pleated thing in absolute disgust.
“Can I have my hat back?” I say, trying to regain control of my pan’s temperature. I turn down the flame to a minimum but it’s still smoking.
Snake Eyes lifts my hat with a pair of tongs and dumps it on my station. “They sell clamps in the hardware store,” he grumbles. Then he coughs dramatically, waving the air in front of his face. “Do you need an extinguisher?”
I open my mouth to tell him exactly what I need, but he obnoxiously turns his back to me.
His omelet is almost finished and he’s getting ready to plate. It looks as good as Chef Troissant’s.
I wipe off my pan and put in more butter. This time it melts into a nice creamy foam. I pour in my egg and herb mixture and swivel the pan around … but nothing happens. There’s no cooking. No “very tender. Very scrambled.” The pan is now too cold. And there’s no way I’m serving a plate of salmonella to this woman. I turn the flame all the way up.
“Fifteen seconds. Time to plate,” she calls out.
I fold the omelet and drop it onto the plate, then sprinkle some herbs over it as garnish.
“Time’s up,” she says.
I stare down at my dish. It’s an all-American omelet with fully cooked eggs and the telltale golden crust. And what is worse—if that’s even possible—I forgot to add salt and pepper.
Chef Troissant stops at each station, individually inspecting every student’s dish. She takes one bite of the omelet, then passes judgment.
“Bon,” she says to Snake Eyes. His face sparkles like he won the lottery.
She then moves to my station. I scramble to balance the toque on my head. I hate hats!
I badly want to say something. How great it is to be here. How I’m looking forward to the next three weeks. How excited I am about the two-day pastry intensive course offered at the end of week three. It’s world-class!
But I don’t say any of this. Her no-nonsense approach to my dish stops me cold. She picks up the plate and cuts a piece of the omelet with the side of her fork but doesn’t bring it to her mouth. Her left eyebrow shoots up as she returns the plate to the table and moves on to the next station. To my left, Lucia from Catalonia has also managed a textbook French omelet. It looks smooth as silk, even better than Snake Eyes’.
I want to fall through a big, black hole in the kitchen floor—and take my overcooked eggs with me.