Under the Table Read Free Page A

There could be no polish on the nails, either. It was too prone to flaking and falling into the food. What a disgusting thought. Well, I had no fears on that front—my nails had always been woefully short, despite my attempts to pamper them with rich moisturizers and the occasional manicure.
    There was one more thing: absolutely no perfume or cologne could be worn in the kitchens at any time. This last restriction seemed a trifle strange—who cared what we smelled like as long as we smelled good? But after some thought, it made sense. We were going to be learning to be classically trained chefs, and true chefs use all five of their senses to cook with. Perfume merely blunts the sense of smell of the wearer and those around her, without adding anything to the food. I thought wistfully of my bottle of Chanel No. 5 perched on the dresser at home. I would pass it on to my mom, who always seemed to smell better in it anyway.
    I had been making conscientious notes throughout our lecture, more out of habit than a real need to remember the things being said—we had received a large orientation packet with copious quantities of paper, most of which was a straight regurgitation of what was being said, word for word. I could hear some of the studentsin the rows behind me whispering back and forth. A few of them obviously must have known one another already, and I cursed myself for giving in to my good-girl tendencies and sitting in the front row—I was already missing out! After several firm, very intimidating lectures from various chef-instructors warning us that the next six months would be harder than we had ever imagined (my highly active imagination automatically kicked into overdrive, dreaming up visions of finger amputations, grueling trials by fire—literally—failing the practical exam, and other horrific situations that might be in store), we were given a bit of a breather by Rose, head liaison between the students and the rest of the support staff and chefs. One by one, she called us to the front of the room, where we each received a large black duffel bag containing our new uniforms: two side towels, two neckerchiefs, two pairs of checked chef ’s pants, and two chef ’s jackets embroidered with our names and The Institute’s logo over the breast pocket.
    Back at our seats, the sporadic whispering broke into an excited buzz as we eagerly dug into our duffels and ran our hands over the nifty things inside—it was even better than Christmas, and even though everyone’s uniform was identical, we enthusiastically held up our own jackets and oohed and aahed over each other’s. I whipped around to see everybody else with identical grins—the same one that was no doubt plastered all over my own face. They were giving us real chef ’s jackets; it was almost like we were real chefs! (Little did we know.) While I couldn’t say I was superexcited about wearing pleated-front polyester blend pants every day for the next six months, I was thrilled with my chef ’s jackets. There it was, in black and white: my name, in tasteful block embroidery. There really was no going back now—I was going to be a chef like my heroes: Jacques, Julia, Mario, Alice.
    The awe and wonder of the voyage we were all embarking on lasted another half hour. We had one more intimidating lecture about the consequences for not obeying various school regulations.I hoped they were joking about being disemboweled with a boning knife and fed through the industrial Cuisinart, or being boiled alive in one of the schools fifty-gallon stockpots, but even a day’s suspension from school and automatic ineligibility for class honors was enough to scare me. (My good-girl tendencies again.) Then we were released to find our way down to the small reception held in our honor in the school’s restaurant. Burdened by our bulky duffel bags, we herded together in several large groups, sticking close to the