We stand at rigid attention, gleaming towers of stainless-steel refrigerators and cooking ranges with impossibly tall exhaust hoods surrounding us like sentinels.
If only they would protect me from Chef Louis. He has been warned about us. I know it. Well, about Pete and me, anyway.
I slide my eyes toward Pete. I can barely see him in my periphery, standing next to that awful woman. She’s old and while not exactly cantankerous, she’s definitely out there. I can’t remember her name, but if she fires off one more movie quote, I will go ballistic.
Chef Louis approaches and my eyes snap to the front. I feel like I’m in boot camp. In a way I am, I suppose. One day left of my apprenticeship, I tell myself. I can take it, whatever this place brings, for one day.
One day. One day. I repeat it like a mantra as his breath wafts over me, smelling of onion and garlic and maybe too much wine from the night before. Either that, or Chef is imbibing too early in the day.
“You gonna be trouble, Wilson?”
I blink and try not to breathe in. “No, Sir, it is not my intention to cause any trouble at all.”
“I hope not because I will not tolerate any disruption to the Wellness Center. Chef Sanders told me about you. Yeah, you. Gordon Wilson. Gordie, isn’t it? We talk, you know.”
Okay, that sounds forbidding. Images of last summer spring to mind, when I tried to play a prank on Pete, best friend, apprentice chef here on my right, and former jail block cellmate. The prank involved an hors d’oeurve recipe gone awry, and instead of Pete consuming the grilled polenta bites laced with julienned Carolina Reaper strips, Head Instructor Chef Sanders had the unfortunate displeasure of doing so.
The fallout of that debacle practically equaled the 1,569,300 Scoville scale of pepper heat units contained in the fiery Carolina Reaper. It also almost landed me back in jail. I am now a lot more careful about pranking.
One day. One last day and I’ll be free of all this and will work anywhere I want. I have my eye on a ritzy French restaurant across town. I will be their pastry chef, a pâtissier. Images of decadent desserts flit through my mind. A bûche, with maple and a vanilla chantilly sauce. A mousseline, perhaps, or a nicely layered butternut parfait, or…
“Wilson!”
I snap to attention, mental desserts fleeing as if afraid to stick around. Did I miss something? “You won’t have any trouble from me, Sir,” I repeat.
“I’d better not. I ask for extra chefs, and he sends you three,” Chef Sanders says in a disparaging voice. “I’m not sure about the other two, but you, Wilson, look a bit… rough. I hope he doesn’t consider you his best.” He glares at the teardrop tattoo under my right eye.
“I doubt it, Sir.”
“As do I.”
I breathe a sigh of relief as he moves on to Pete. To my surprise he looks him up and down but doesn’t give him a hard time, just moves on to Kris, the other apprentice from our culinary school.
“You with these two?” Chef Sanders glowers at her.
“Oh no, Chef. All I think about all day is food, and then I dream about it all night.”
Inwardly I groan. Kris is at it again. I have no idea which movie it’s from, but it’s a definite movie quote. It must be. All her conversations have a movie quote somewhere in it and talking to her is excruciating. He is going to rip her. I find I’m sort of looking forward to that.
To my surprise, Chef Louis laughs. Laughs. If I were a betting man (and I used to be, but that’s a different story for another time), I’d say Chef Louis came out of the womb with a grimace and sour expression on his face. When did he learn to laugh?
“Julie & Julia, am I right?”
“So right! Julie & Julia, 2009!” Kris is so excited she bounces up and down on her toes, a beatific smile rearranging the lines on her worn face. “I love that movie!”
I am perplexed. I have no idea what just happened here. I hear a noise and slide my eyes toward Pete. Clearly, he’s trying not to laugh, but it escapes him anyway, a little bubble of amusement, sort of like a popping fart.
It causes Chef Louis to zero in, but not at Pete. No. He comes straight for me.
“You got something to add, Wilson?”
“I do not, Chef. Sir.” I hasten to reassure this mercurial man.
Chef glares at me a moment, then moves down the line to berate another hapless fool. There’s a total of ten apprentice chefs, three from our school.
“You get your resume sent off to Waffle House yet, Darth Tater? Oh wait, they don’t have a pastry station, do they?”
“Shut up, Pete. This is our last day. Don’t fuck it up. And stop calling me that.” I hiss the words at him, soft, so as not to arouse Chef’s ire.
“Oh, come on, Gordie,” he whispers back. “You know you won’t be able to keep your mouth shut. I’m just keeping it real.”
“Last day?” Kris asks. “This is your last day? Really? That’s great – I have another three weeks. May the Force be with you.” She stops and considers us before adding, “Star Wars, 1977. That’s in reference to the Darth Tater remark.”
I close my eyes and at this moment, I wish for a spare Carolina Reaper.
Chef Louis makes his way back to the front of the line and claps his hands. “Okay, enough. We have a long day ahead of us. The others know, but since you three are new, let’s discuss expectations.”
Yes, let’s.
“The Ancestral Center is a wellness retreat. A very upscale wellness retreat,” Chef says with a probing glance directed my way. “They support natural circadian rhythms. Blue lights, amber glasses, pink bulbs by the bedside. Firelight instead of technology after dark. Caveman cuisine. A strict Paleo diet. That’s what we’re going to give them.”
What the hell is a circadian rhythm, I wonder, but am determined not to ask. And Paleo? No grains? No starches? No carbs. How can a pastry chef create masterpieces with no carbs? Still I do not say anything. If I start, I may not stop.
Pete is not as discerning as I am, however. “Chef Louis? Um… Circadian rhythms?”
Chef Louis glowers. Hey, at least he isn’t glowering at me.
“Circadian rhythms. A 24-hour natural cycle. Part of the physiological process of living beings. People, plants, animals. An internal, sleep-wake cycle. An entrainable oscillation. Google it.”
Natural. As in, everything? Including sloths? Ferrets? Cyanobacteria? But I don’t say anything. This is my last day. I will be good.
Chef growls as Pete obediently reaches into a pocket and pulls out his cell phone. “Not now, you idiot. No cell phones in the kitchen!”
I glance at Pete as he shoves the cell back into his pocket. No cell phone, no biggie, I think. I can no longer turn on my cell phone by fingerprint anyway, as my fingertips have been pretty much destroyed, the tips either sliced off by knives or burned clean off in the last eight months as an apprentice chef. These days I must resort to retinal scans to access my phone. Thankfully my retinas have not been impacted by this career change. But no matter. I care nothing about rhythms anyway, circadian or otherwise.
“Who is the pastry chef of the three? I was told one of you makes passable desserts,” asks Chef Louis.
Somewhat timidly, I raise my hand. “Me, Sir.”
“You?” Chef Louis laughs and laughs, finding the idea extremely humorous for some reason.
I don’t find it all that funny, really.
“Well, dessert has already been prepared by young Ian there,” he says, pointing to a pimply-faced young man.
Ian looks nervous, standing at what used to be a gleaming stainless-steel counter, but is now covered in mounded platters of orange and beige disks resembling pastel flying saucers. They look like they’re ready to hover up and head right out of the kitchen. Tiny bits of carrots and nuts and something that resembles flour, but can’t be, because yeah, no carbs, litter the areas between the platters.
“Carrot cake cookies,” young Ian says, lifting one cookie up for Chef’s inspection. At the chef’s disgusted look, he lets it drop and it thuds to the top of the pile and rolls down, off the platter and falls to the floor. It makes a frighteningly dense noise.
Those aren’t cookies, I think. Nor are they cake. I’m not even sure they’re really carrot. People eat that? Is that a fair representation of Paleo?
“So, as we do not need two pastry chefs, you’ll be helping Pete here with the appetizer. Mulukhiya Soup. Think you can handle that, Wilson?”
“Yes, Chef. Absolutely.”
What’s a Mulukhiya?
“What’s a Mulukhiya?” Pete echoes my thought out loud as Chef Louis makes his way to the next station. It was always this way with Pete and me. Our thought process is always the same. We’re like twins, except I’m older than Pete. I’m also not his brother.
“I have no earthly idea. But shut up!” I say under my breath. “We’ll look it up when Chef Tyrant leaves.”
He doesn’t turn around, but from the reddened tips of his ears, I’d say it’s a fair bet he overhears our whispered conversation.
“There are printed recipes at each of the stations, along with photos of what the dishes should look like once completed,” Chef says. “Now get to work! Chop chop!”
Ten apprentice chefs scatter to their appropriate stations.
Pete and I bend over the counter at our station, reading the recipe. We squint at the photo.
“What is that?” mutters Pete.
“Not sure. Cyanobacteria lost in a circadian rhythm?”
I bend over for a closer look. Sure enough, it looks like that blue-green algae infesting the coastal waters of towns with septic tanks, farm animals, and too much fertilizer runoff. Thick, splotchy green masses, infused with teal, surround tiny islands of… I’m not sure, but I think it might be some sort of meat. They can’t be dumplings, obviously. Dumplings are Evil Carbs, derived from grains. Maybe they’re dead fish? Oh, wait. The tiny islands are duck, according to the recipe.
“We’re supposed to cook that?”
“It gets worse. The Wellness Center patrons are supposed to eat that after we cook it,” I remind Pete.
We look at each other and shrug.
What a way to end my stint as an apprentice chef. A pastry chef, no less. Paleo? Life is so unfair.
“Well, let’s do it,” I say, striving for a positive attitude.
Grabbing a large stock pot, I find the duck carcass and stuff it in, adding chicken broth and some spices. I don’t measure anything, just dump everything into the pot – no one will be able to tell what’s in there anyway. By the time we get done with it, all they’ll see is green.
“Behind!” Kris slips by, carefully avoiding the pot of steaming duck. “You’re gonna need a bigger boat,” she says. “Jaws, 1975.”
I roll my eyes at her, but she’s already gone, arms laden with carrots, celery and several bunches of greens. Kale, maybe. Or collards.
She’s right, though, as I consider the duck. I grab two more pots, yank the bird out of the first one, quickly dismember it (my favorite part of culinary work - not indicative of my former occupation and subsequent jail time) and distribute the pieces amongst the other pots. Soon the cooking range is full of boiling duck fat. The smell makes me slightly nauseous.
“What are you doing, Wilson? What is that boiling on the range?” Chef Louis appears at our station. Of course he does. Where else would he be?
“Duck, Chef.”
“Duck? Why is it still boiling?”
“Um… for the broth? For the Mulukhiya?”
“And where are the rest of the ingredients for this recipe? Or do you intend to simply serve duck fat?”
As there are no carbs in duck fat, it would qualify, right?
“Pete is handling the other ingredients, Sir. Right, Pete?”
“Coming right up,” Pete responds.
“Well. Get. Moving. This needs to be completed and plated in…” he checks his watch, “less than two hours. Where are the rest of the ingredients? Where is the taro root? The coriander?”
How should I know? It’s not my kitchen. “Is this a test, Sir?” I ask.
“A test? A test? No, you imbecile.” Chef Louis is obviously at his limit, Gordie-and-Pete-wise. Or maybe he’s upset with all of us. A few choice words erupt. He gets right up in my face. Spittle flies. “If it were a test, you would clearly flunk.”
“A census taker once tried to test me. I ate his liver with some fava beans and a nice Chianti. The Silence of the Lambs, 1991.” Kris pipes in but doesn’t look up, just smiles and chops, piles of celery and carrot heaped neatly on her cutting board. She really is in her own private 35-millimeter-film world. And Chef doesn’t laugh this time.
“Shut up, Kris!” Pete and I say in unison.
This brings her head up and she glares as she continues to chop. “You talkin’ to me? Taxi Driver, 1976. Ouch!” She cries out and grabs a side towel, pressing it against her left index finger. She holds it aloft for all to see. “It’s just a flesh wound! Monty Python and the Holy Grail, 1975.”
I’m not sure what the other apprentice chefs must think of this exchange. They are silent and still, clutching their Henckel and Hikari knives in visibly shaking fingers.
“Never mind. I want the two of you out of my kitchen! Chef Sanders can have you back. You’re worthless!”
“Look, Chef, this is our last day of apprenticeship. Please…”
“You’re fired! By the time I return, you’d better be gone,” Chef Louis says, his face beet red.
“Gentlemen, you can’t fight in here! This is the war room! Dr. Strangelove, 1964.”
“You can’t fire me. I quit!” Sic semper tyrannis. Thus always to tyrants.
“Waffle House, here we come,” Pete says with a sigh.
I remove my apron before we leave, and as an afterthought, fish a lighter out of my pocket, and set fire to the Carrot Cake Cookies. They don’t burn as much as they melt. It sets off tremendous heat and the overhead fire sprinklers go off, hissing and spurting, water raining down on luckless apprentice chefs and their half-cooked dishes.
“Yippee-ki-yay, Mother Fucker!” I say as I walk out the door. I’m dimly aware of Pete following close behind.
Kris claps her hands in delight. “Die Hard, 1988.”
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