Under the Table Read Free Page B

walls and trying to stay as far away from the instructors as possible. One of the instructors, a very handsome, very tan ringer for a young Johnny Depp, wearing the most gorgeously starched and snowy white uniform I had ever seen, brought a tray of hors d’oeuvres over to the group of frightened students I was currently clinging to. Helllooo there, I thought to myself, before remembering my darling Michael and the school’s strict regulations against fraternizing with the instructors.
    Offering the tray around, the chef introduced himself as Chef Paul. He would be our pastry chef in Levels 3 and 4. I was suffering from a major attack of shyness and looked everywhere around the room instead of directly at him. Chef Paul seemed to sense the nervousness in all of us and he laughed gently at us.
    â€œDon’t worry about me,” he said. “I’m a total pussycat. Worry about some of them over there.” He gesticulated toward a group of chefs clumped together by the bar. They looked like a malevolent cloud bank—all puffy white shirtfronts and frowns.
    â€œHere, have a cheese puff.” Chef Paul pushed the platter under my nose. “You’ll be making thousands of these little goodies soon enough. Enjoy them while you have the chance.”
    I detected a definite twinkle in his eye, so I took one. “Good,” he said. “Now go brave that bar and get yourself a glass of wine. The other chefs won’t bite.”
    I took a deep breath and heeded his advice, putting down my bag and making a beeline to the row of red and white wine bottleslined along the polished wood of the bar, hoping to snag a glass of white before I could attract the attention of the chefs lurking far too close for comfort.
    I was soon joined by my future classmates. Once we had managed to get a glass each of the very nice Chablis (not too dry, with a hint of crispness, just what I needed to quench my nervous thirst), we started to get to know each other, peering at each other’s name tags and discussing where we lived and what we had done before chef school.
    While there were plenty of people from New York, many students had come from distant parts of the country and even the world to attend class here. Imogene, a petite brunette in a stylish outfit, was a suburban mother from just outside the beltway loop of Washington, D.C. Despite her youthful appearance, Imogene’s two girls were almost grown, and at a little past forty, Imo had decided that for her next career, she would become a professional chef.
    Philip was a native New Yorker from Long Island, and had recently quit his job as a very successful bond trader on Wall Street. His office had been in the World Financial Center, and as Philip watched the events of September 11 unfold from his window, he realized he wanted to spend the rest of his life doing a job he loved, not one he loathed. I would have pegged him as a fellow New Yorker—his Levi’s were Capital E brand, and I thought I detected that his artfully scuffed loafers were Prada. His plain white T-shirt looked softer than my precious 500-thread-count sheets and definitely didn’t come in a three-pack from Fruit of the Loom.
    Before I could get to know Philip any better, he was enveloped by an exotic foreign woman whose long black hair and pouty lips set off a flawless café au lait complexion. Her makeup was perfect, but I noticed a faint fan of lines around her eyes, and while she was swathed in the smallest pair of Paige Premium Denim jeans I had ever seen, something about her stance proclaimed she had been around the block a few times and was probably closer to forty than thirty. Theenormous Kelly bag she hitched casually over her arm was real, and I salivated over its vintage gorgeousness even as she used it to expertly elbow me out of the conversation. Who knew vintage bags packed such a wallop? That was definitely going to leave a mark—I would have a couture bruise. I