Today, the kitchen lab felt less like a stranger and more like a friend. A new friend. One I’m still feeling out a bit. Much of the work during the last class was preparatory for today’s assignments: gaufrettes, bruschetta, julienned carrots. The food was simple, but the equipment was what was special. Being a passionate home cook is a great hobby, but it can get expensive.  Plus, my kitchen space is tiny. I try to avoid buying gimmicky items, and things that are only for one purpose. The lure of specialties is palpable, though. Being in culinary school means I can handle items I would never experience as a home cook. Today’s class offered me the chance to use the terrifying deli slicer, salamander, and French mandolin. Memories of medieval torture devices from my graduate studies (and Hannibal) danced across my mind.

French mandolins can be used for multiple things, but uniquely offer a tight cross-hatched pattern for a potato dish called “gaufrettes.” They look like ultra-fancy waffle fries and taste like the most expensive potato chips ever. We also used the deli slicer, which is a giant electric machine that seems like it will take off your whole arm. But, there are multiple safeguards in place so it’s actually quite difficult to hurt yourself without trying. The French Mandolin is where the real fear lies, but it was an absolute treat to handle it, knowing I likely never would again. There are so many gifts in culinary school, despite the danger (and pressure).

When I was earning my MA in Dance, friends and family would squeal, “Oh, is class like ‘Dancing With The Stars?!” After gagging on my water, I had to politely say that no, real dance study is a totally different planet. Now, I get asked, “Is culinary school like those reality cooking shows?” The answer is more nuanced. I usually say, “Not really, but….kind of?”

First, the goals are different. I’m not in competition with my fellow students. I’m in competition with myself. Sharing tools, ingredients, notes, and advice are how to survive the huge amount of information we are all processing. Also, I very much am here to make friends. I seek knowledge and community in this space. So, the dynamics among us are much more different than the delightful pettiness we see on tv. 

But, the structure and nature of the class is reminiscent of a timed, judged competition. One night, my partner and I were watching one of those high-stakes cooking competition shows with a lot of screaming and crying over cheeseburgers or something. They asked me, “Is that what it’s like?” It really is. Competition with myself is in many ways more difficult than with others. And presenting to Chef is always nerve-wracking. The kitchen is also LOUD, and needs to be. We have to shout “Corner!” “Behind!” “Open Oven!” “Hot plate!” not just because it makes us look really fucking cool (which it does), but for safety reasons. Each of us is deeply immersed in our tasks. Sneaking up behind someone who is finely dicing a carrot is a bad idea. 

We have a set end time in class. Chef announces markers like “Halfway!” or “Fifteen minutes left!” and his personal favorite, “If you aren’t in line, it didn’t happen!” If we make it to the tasting line when our cooking time is up, he will grade our work. If not, your food doesn’t count for a grade and you get a zero. 

The process of Chef’s review itself is serious, too.  It’s a profoundly intense few moments. In class, Chef grades us live, so he sits at a table with his laptop next to him. Eyeglasses balanced on his nose, he doesn’t usually make eye contact with us, but looks at his laptop. You hold your plate in your hands until he slaps his palm twice on the wooden table, signaling he is ready to review. You announce your food, “Poached eggs, Chef,” and wait. He inspects it visually, turning the plate around. Sometimes he touches or pokes at your food. He doesn’t always taste, but when he does, he reaches for a spoon in the trays next to him (still not looking at you, always looking at the food). 

Today, I was meticulous about my bruschetta. We toasted our baguette slices in the salamander (a giant broiler that is basically a Hulk version of the one in my oven at home). The heat is intense and toasting takes seconds. My roasted garlic from last class melted perfectly as I scraped the cloves across the rough bread. My tomatoes mixed with herbs and olive oil sat delicately, looking somehow light and decadent with their ribbons of basil chiffonade. I worked my ass off on those little bites. And it paid off. Chef looked them over and declared them well done. He also took a huge bite and I EVEN GOT “MMM MMM” NOISES!  “Delicious,” he said. Fuck yes.

As if the day couldn’t get any better, I finished early (HOW?) and Chef allowed me to redo my eggs over medium for a grade.  I prepped them as quickly as I could and took a deep breath, begging my tablemate not to watch. I FLIPPED THOSE BABIES!  I yelled, “I DID IT!” and even got applause from a nearby student. In my excitement, they were still underdone, but I didn’t even care. More than getting to erase the zero on my record, I managed to do one of the hardest tasks I’ve ever done in the kitchen. Which was good because these eggs are on the midterm…