“Please shut up,” Mebel moans, and just at that moment, the door opens and Gemma, the pretty blond girl that Mebel was standing next to in class, walks in.
“Sorry!” Gemma says, freezing in the doorway. She’s wide-eyed like a tiny furry animal that’s just heard the caw of an eagle. “Uh, I’ll go.”
Oh, great, Mebel thinks.She thinks I told her to shut up.“No,” Mebel says hurriedly. “I not talking to you. I talking to myself.”
This does not have the desired effect of soothing Gemma. Now she looks genuinely worried. “Um…okay, well, I’ll give you the space you need to, uh, converse with yourself.” And with that, she leaves the bathroom.
“Tsk.” Mebel scowls at her reflection. All in all, not a wonderful start to the day. She really needs to get things under control. “Deep breaths, Mebel,” she mutters to herself. She takes a deep inhale.Look on the bright side, she tells herself,at least the bathrooms in here are kept obsessively clean.As they should be, in a culinary school. She takes a couple more deep breaths, then brushes down her Hermès uniform and corrects her posture before leaving the sanctuary of the bathroom.
The next class of the day is what’s technically known as the “lab work.” Chef Clarke explains that the first half of the day is devoted to lectures, and the second half will be spent doing actual, practical work.
“Welcome to Culinary Fundamentals,” he says to the class when everyone is present. “This is your introduction to the basics of cooking theory and technique. Knife skills, basic concepts, techniques for basic protein and starch and vegetables and all that fun stuff. I’m not going to stand here talking though. I’ve done enough of that today. I want you to take out your chef’s knife. The nine-inch one, yes, that one.”
Finally, Mebel thinks. She’s had just about enough of Chef Clarke droning on about safety, and she is raring to get to work. She slides the knife out of its holder and grips it firmly. This is her time to shine.
Well, in actuality, the only knife Mebel has held in the past few years was a butter knife at breakfast and a steak knife at dinner, but how hard can chopping vegetables be, anyway?
Chef Clarke points to a large bowl next to him, which is full of potatoes. “You will be chopping these babies. When you come up here to collect the potatoes, you also need to collect one of these boards.” He picks up a square board on which are differently shaped pieces of wood. The borders of the board have been marked with measurements, like a ruler. “This is your chopping guide. Memorize it. Today, we are going to be working on the cube, chop, and dice. That’s these three cubes here. Your potatoes need to be cut to these precise measurements.” He points at three different wooden cubes on the board. “Understand?”
There is a chorus of “Yes, Chef.”
“Right, please come up and collect your board and your potatoes. Twenty potatoes a person.”
Mebel struts from behind her workstation to the front of the classroom. To her irritation, the other students ahead of heraren’t falling over themselves to let her go to the front of the line. In Chinese culture, young people are taught to always give way to their elders, and it would be unthinkable for someone her age to stand in line behind these twenty-something-year-olds.Still, she reminds herself,you are no longer in Asia, and as they say, when in Rome, wear Versace.And so she waits patiently and graciously (which for Mebel means not glaring at the other students and telling them that their ancestors are disappointed in them) until her turn comes.
“Here you are, Mebel,” Chef Clarke says.
Mebel tries not to wince at the use of her first name. Chef Clarke looks like he’s in his fifties, which must mean he’s in his forties, and really, he should be calling her Big Sister at the very least.When in Rome, she reminds herself. God, how she wishes she were in Rome.
Twenty potatoes make for a surprisingly heavy load. Mebel grunts as she lifts her bowl and nearly topples over. The bowl thumps back on the countertop. Heads turn, and once again, she is the subject of everyone’s stare.
Come on, Mebel thinks.Do not let me down now.She does Pilates, for heaven’s sake. But Pilates is different from, well, what can only be described as menial labor. The words “menial labor” very nearly send Mebel over the edge. How far she has fallen!
Chef Clarke peers over the counter, down at her feet, then says, “Er, Mebel, are you wearing high heels?”
Mebel smiles primly. “These are Louboutins.”
“Right. Well, in the kitchen, we wear comfortable footwear. Sneakers. Shoes that allow you to be on your feet for six consecutive hours.”
“Six consecutive hours?” Mebel cries.
“At a minimum. Some places will require you to be on your feet for eight, ten hours. You may end up taking double shifts, which—”
Mebel laughs. “Oh, no. I won’t take double shift. I won’t even take one shift.”
Chef Clarke looks blankly at her.
“I am not going to work in restaurant.”
“Right. Then can I ask why you are here?”
“To win back my husband. I learn to cook white people food for him, and he will see that he make mistake.”
“White people food,” Chef Clarke murmurs, as though in a daze.
“Yes, authentic white people food, taught to me by you. A white person.”
“Er, right. Yes, well, that is me.” He laughs weakly and tugs at his collar. “Uh…well. Might I suggest that even though you don’t have plans of working in a restaurant, you should still consider changing your footwear?”
