Beaten, Seared, and Sauced

by Jonathan Dixon

  I had been scheduled to take my practical on the second-to-last day of Garde-Manger, so I used extra time during the week to study. And get nervous.

  Liz was scheduled to take it two days before me, in the afternoon, after class. The next morning after she’d gone, Liz stood unpacking her knives and tools when I came to our station.

  “How’d it go?” I asked.

  “Shut up.”

  “No, seriously—how’d it go?”

  “Seriously—shut the fuck up.”

  I changed the subject. Later, I asked around: Liz had failed. She hadn’t told anyone why, and no one knew. She’d have to take it again a couple of weeks later. Liz was a solid cook, and I thought this was a chilly omen.

  The night before my practical I stayed up until almost 1:00 getting my menus in order and going over and over the oral questions. I was up four hours later for class. I was incredibly nervous for the entire day.

  At 2:00 in the afternoon, I arrived at the practical kitchen, along with the five others who’d be taking the test that day. I knew three of them from class. The kitchen was pretty small: a few equipment racks, a pair of refrigerators, shelves of ingredients and sanitation supplies, and six workspaces with six burners each and a small, reach-in fridge (a.k.a., a lowboy) below them. There were no sinks at any of the stations. Each work area was segmented from the others with a blue-tiled barricade.

  I was prepared for every and all contingencies: I had all the possible recipes written out, a timeline for each of the possible menus, “shopping lists” with all the possible ingredients. My stack of index cards was about an inch thick.

  I was very much hoping I would not have to make hollandaise, one of my least favorite things to do. And if I could avoid making salmon—one of my most hated foods—I’d feel okay about it.

  The start times were staggered by fifteen, twenty minutes or so. If you’re the last to go, you would have been waiting for nearly two hours before being allowed to start cooking.

  We were given a tour for thirty minutes, and then loosed to go exploring, just to see where everything was. The instructor, Joseba Encabo, a gentle-seeming Spaniard with a soft voice and an occasionally impenetrable accent, called the first student over. It wasn’t me. But as I walked by I caught a glimpse of his clipboard and noticed my name was last. I felt unsteady on my feet from exhaustion and suspected this would be a long, long afternoon. I wasn’t able to tell what the menu would be, but as the time passed and the others began cooking—one person got the roast chicken with mashed potatoes, gravy, and consommé, another (mercifully) got the salmon and hollandaise, also with a consommé—the possibilities got narrower.

  An hour passed. I spent that time walking through and observing at a distance, from time to time bumping into Encabo, who was doing the same thing. He’d stop, watch from over someone’s shoulder, staring at a pile of scraps or dirty utensils or pans. He’d watch how they stirred, how well they seared a piece of meat, and then make a mark on a paper on his clipboard.

  The next-to-last person was called, a young woman I’d never seen before but whom others seemed to know. She did not appear to be a favorite of any of them. They muttered about her being incompetent and unpleasant. Apparently, this was her third time taking the test. She was assigned a shallow-poached fillet of fish. This meant that I knew exactly what my menu would be: beef stew, mashed potatoes, sautéed green beans, blanched root vegetables, and a beef consommé. I had never had much trouble with consommé—it always just seemed to work for me—but I’d witnessed others make a mess with it.

  “Hey, Jonathan,” I heard. “Come here a minute, please.” Encabo told me he was making a switch. “Forget the consommé,” he said. “Do a cream of cauliflower soup instead.”

  Then he started asking me questions, each one worth a few points: “What are the five mother sauces?”

  “Velouté, béchamel, tomato, espagnole, and hollandaise,” I said.

  “Good. And can you tell me what an emulsion is?”

  I was anxious to get cooking and found my mind suddenly slippery. “Uhhh … when oil and a liquid are forced to coexist.”

  “What does that mean, ‘coexist’?”

  Words failed me. “When the oil molecules are forced to bond with the other molecules …” I was interlocking my fingers to illustrate this.

  “But what holds them together?”

  God? Destiny? “Uhhhh … another medium? Something in which the two incompatible molecules are suspended?”

  “Maybe you mean a ‘stabilizer’?”

  “That’s exactly what I mean,” I said with confidence.

  “And how is an emulsion formed?”

  “You … you …” I put my hands to work for demonstration purposes. “You beat the hell out of it.” I whipped my hands around. I was seriously tired.

  He looked like he was pondering the nuances of the word “hell.” “Okay,” he said after a moment.

  Thus it went for a while. He gave me a 100 on this part of the test. And I was given the go-ahead to start cooking.

  I immediately preheated the oven to 375.

  There were a few ingredients stowed in the lowboy: some cubed beef, green beans, a turnip. That was about it. I looked at my menu cards—stew, vegetables, potatoes, consommé—and then rocketed over to the storage fridge and commenced scavenging: small carrots for the root vegetables, a rutabaga, a whole lot of butter, red wine, and ingredients for the consommé: ground chicken (there was no ground beef), eggs, a few plum tomatoes, and so on. I grabbed potatoes to mash. There would be other things I’d need, but I could get them later on.

  About ten minutes had passed.

  Beef stew and soup both take a while. The soup could just sit on a back burner, so I figured I’d start it first. I started making the raft for the consommé: a rough chop of the onions, cutting up the tomatoes, separating the eggs. I beat the eggs and folded the other ingredients in. I went back to the fridge to get some stock. And it occurred to me that I had just made my first error.

  “Forget the consommé,” Encabo had said. “Do a cream of cauliflower soup instead.”

  Fifteen minutes had passed. Fifteen minutes had just been squandered. Nothing I’d prepped for the consommé could be salvaged for anything else. I toyed with the idea of just going ahead and making a consommé, but decided that could backfire. It hurt, but I tossed the ingredients.

  Five students had gone prior. The pots and pans at the dish sink had piled into a small Everest. I would need a few of them, because there weren’t that many left on the shelf. One of the first people to go had finished and was beginning work on the pile. I told him which ones I needed and he said he’d take care of me.

  I then made my second big mistake, the one that would truly come back to bite me on the ass. I didn’t get that at the time, though.

  The base of a cream soup—broccoli, cauliflower, mushroom, whatever—is velouté, a sauce made of a roux and a stock. I had noticed that there was no espagnole sauce in the storage fridge. Espagnole sauce is a crucial component of the CIA’s beef stew recipe. It is something of a pain in the ass to make if you’re in a hurry. I was starting to be in a hurry. You need mirepoix, tomato paste, a brown roux, and stock. I’d deal with it in a minute, after I got the velouté going.

  I looked at the clock and, man, a lot of time had passed. I started making a roux, enough for the velouté, working on a higher heat than I really should have. But I got it done, and added the stock bit by bit. I felt I was regaining that time. I let the sauce simmer.

  I cranked the heat under a large sauteuse, poured in the oil, and started browning the beef. As it browned, I worked on mirepoix for the espagnole, and skimmed the velouté. Once the meat was done, I deglazed with the red wine, poured in the stock, added a bay leaf, brought it to a boil, and put it in the oven. I’d gotten the time back. One hour, forty minutes to go—more than enough, way more—to finish everything else.

  I cooked the mirepoix until it caramelized. I spooned in th
e tomato paste and let it turn a nice, rusty red. I added the stock, pushed it to the back burner, and let it simmer. The espagnole was under control. I started boiling water for the cauliflower, cut it up, blanched it, shocked it, and set it aside. I did the same with the green beans in another pot. I fabricated the vegetables. I was in great shape again. For a few minutes I just stood and watched things steam and bubble, entranced by all the alchemy I’d just worked. I went to skim the espagnole and noticed there wasn’t much flour rising to the top. I skimmed the velouté. I got the blender and made the cream soup. It was really good. One hour and ten minutes to go. I thought it was strange that there was still nothing to skim on the espagnole, but not strange enough to keep me from pouring it in with the already-simmering stew. I’d skim it later. An hour to go. I’d mash the potatoes last minute. I had the beans and the root vegetables set for a quick stay over the heat with some butter, salt, and pepper.

  The dish sink was still mounded, and there was no place to take my dirty dishes. I tried to neaten the dirty pans at my own station as best I could. I wiped down what I could around the stove. Leaving the mess was mistake number three.

  With forty minutes to go, I checked on my stew. I pulled it out and pulled the top from the pot. It looked watery. I tasted it. It tasted thin and almost acidic. Something had gone amiss.

  It hit me just then: I had never gotten around to making the roux for the espagnole. I’d just forgotten. This was the root—the bedrock—of the problem. There was a significant paucity of flavor and texture to the stew. The forty minutes suddenly seemed very short.

  I could make a roux, I thought, and get at least a twenty-minute simmer, maybe a few minutes more. I turned the heat to high under a pan, added some oil, and went off to get more flour. The flour went into the pan, and I whisked it into the oil. I should have done it in increments. I also should have paid more attention and not turned my back to deal with the potatoes, because it took just a few moments for the roux to burn beyond salvaging. As I tossed it out, I realized too that Encabo had been watching me for the past ninety minutes. I had no idea what he’d seen.

  I looked over at him and he was looking back at me. I might have just imagined it, but I think I saw him—very slightly—shake his head in a sort of rebuke. Something unpleasant bloomed in my stomach.

  I needed the quickest possible fix here. When Encabo was busy evaluating one of the students who’d just finished, I dashed to the fridge and the dry storage. I took a bottle of balsamic vinegar, a bottle of soy sauce, a rind of Parmesan, and some cornstarch. I put a good shot of balsamic into the stew, followed by a few dashes of soy sauce, and then the rind. Soy and Parmesan add depth of flavor—what the Japanese have dubbed umami—and I thought I’d get some sweetness from the balsamic. I left it on the stovetop and brought it to almost a boil. The meat was not going to be that tender, but …

  I got the potatoes in the boiling water. I was really pushing it, timewise.

  I made a slurry of cornstarch and water, and, with fifteen minutes to go, added it to the stew. It thickened immediately. It still tasted off. I dumped in an immense spoonful of butter. It tasted passable.

  Ten minutes to go. I speared a fork into one of the potato quarters and it felt done. I dumped them into a colander, put them into a food mill and started turning. That solitary potato piece was the only one of its brethren that had fully cooked. I scraped off the usable parts of the other potatoes and found I had about a serving’s worth. I turned the mill again, with great vigor, and squeezed another quarter portion out.

  I mixed in the hot cream and the softened butter. I seasoned the potatoes and realized I simply did not have enough for the two servings I was supposed to present for evaluation. I eyed the cream of cauliflower soup, pondered my situation, and dumped a large ladleful of the soup into my potatoes. I mixed quickly, tasted—actually, they were fairly tasty—and put them into a pastry bag. I piped them onto the plate in one of the silly curlicue designs the CIA seems to like.

  It was just about time to be evaluated.

  I plated the stew, one small serving on each of two plates. I cranked the heat under the root vegetables and then under the green beans. When I saw there was some activity, I plated those, too. I carried two cups of soup to a surface near the evaluation table. I had put the plates into the oven to heat up, and I took a side towel, grabbed the side of it, and carried the food over to Encabo’s desk. I was thirty seconds early and I took slow, shuffling steps. When I reached the instructor, he was still evaluating the young woman who’d cooked right before me. The thirty seconds passed. Then thirty more passed. Then a minute, and then another.

  I wasn’t quite close enough to hear what was being said, but the woman did most of the talking. As she spoke, she gestured a lot with her hands and kept worrying her fingers.

  I had been waiting for four minutes at this point, and she showed no signs of stopping. I could tell my food was cooling. Now I was pissed.

  And she kept going. It became obvious she was arguing with Encabo. He bore an expression of solid patience, an almost kind look, and made no effort to cut her off.

  I started tapping my foot. Then I shifted my weight from one foot to the other. I kept putting my plate down and picking it back up. I slapped a stuttering rhythm against my leg. I cracked my knuckles. Six minutes late now. I had a sudden vision of upturning my food over her head.

  Encabo turned and looked at me. We made eye contact and he held it. The woman turned to follow his line of sight and I saw that her eyes were red and watery.

  She’d failed. This was her third time.

  Everyone else who had finished was at work cleaning the kitchen.

  Abruptly, the young woman stood, turned, and walked with quick steps over to the kitchen door. She gathered her stuff and walked out.

  Encabo watched her leave, then motioned me over. I sat and slid his plate toward him.

  “My food’s cold,” I said.

  “Yes, I’ve kept you waiting. My apologies. It couldn’t be helped. I know you were ready, so no penalty. Now,” he said, reaching for clean utensils, “let’s see what we have here.”

  He took a bit of the stew. He chewed for a moment and looked up at me. He smiled, but it seemed rueful. He took a bite of the potatoes, then another. He nodded to himself. He took one forkful each of the root vegetables and the green beans. He tasted the soup. Then he pushed his plate away.

  “So, Jonathan.” He leaned back and crossed his arms behind his head. He still seemed kind, almost friendly, but I was beginning to detect a slight hue of pity to his bearing. “What happened here tonight? I watched you at the beginning of the test and you were so efficient. I thought for sure you would ace this. But something … something went bad, no?”

  “Yes.” He waited for more, but I couldn’t think of any way to elaborate.

  “Well,” he said, finally. “What went bad?”

  “I … I … I burned something. I had to start it over and I never got the time back.”

  “Yes, you burned your roux.” Shit. He had seen that. “Also, your station looks like a pigsty. Why didn’t you take your dishes to the sink instead of just leaving them?”

  “There was no room.”

  “Then why didn’t you put them on someone else’s station? Someone who was done? No room? What kind of answer is that? That’s just silly. Come on.”

  He stared at me. I figured this was, in essence, a rhetorical question. I shrugged. He held the stare.

  “All right then. Your stew is terrible. This is … it’s … edible. That’s about the best I can say and that’s not saying very much. The meat isn’t quite tender enough. Your braising liquid is thin, sour. This is not what I want to eat for dinner. Not at all. But I very much like your potatoes. Your vegetables are cooked perfectly. Really perfectly. But I cannot get past this stew. Edible. Passable, but that’s it.”

  He tallied up my score and wrote it down on a piece of paper that he slid across the table to me. I looked. I had pa
ssed. Not by much of a margin, but I passed. I felt no sense of triumph, no sense of accomplishment. Every piece of me, every cell, felt flushed with mediocrity.

  “Thanks,” I said, and stood up. He shook his head.

  “You have talent,” he said. “But this was disappointing.” He pushed his plate to me. “You have quite a mess to clean up. Get started.”

  I walked back to my station. One of the others came up to me. “How’d you do, Jonathan?” he asked.

  “I passed.”

  “What did you get?”

  “I’d rather not say. I passed, though.”

  “You pissed?”

  I thought for a second. “Yeah, I’m pissed.” I grabbed some dishes and started carrying them to the sink. “Not at him, though.”

  The next morning was the last in Garde-Manger. We emptied the refrigerators of our things, scrubbed them out, froze extra sausages, put terrines in storage, wiped down the room, and took our final. I found it difficult because I’d expended most of my recent time preparing for the practical. I couldn’t remember, right then, the basic ingredients for a whitefish mousseline or the technique for putting it together. I couldn’t recall the essential difference between nitrites and nitrates.

  I was the first one done. Kowalski shook my hand and told me if I ever needed anything—any advice, a recommendation, a lesson on how to make guanciale at home—to get in touch. I was slightly sad that I wouldn’t be there the next day listening to the Dead and grinding foie gras for a terrine. Actually, I wouldn’t be back at school at all for a long time. I was way overdue with my externship; five points had already been automatically deducted from my externship grade by that afternoon. I really needed to land a gig.