Rosie looked away from Yumi’s station, her eyes roaming around the room. This was, by far, the nicest kitchen she’d ever seen in her entire life. The only other professional kitchen she’d been in was at the Cracker Barrel where Mom worked, and that was a cramped, windowless expanse of chrome, dominated by the industrial oven and its adjacent trays of cooling biscuits, and the huge dishwashing station that churned out an endless supply of clean plates. Unlike at Cracker Barrel, there was just so much space in the kitchen here at the École. And it was so bright! The windows all along one side let in light that warmed the cream-colored walls and reflected off the gleaming copper pots and pans that hung from every available surface. Rosie wondered what was in the giant stainless steel fridges, and in each of the jars and containers nestled into the built-in shelving on the walls. One wall had the largest spice rack Rosie had ever seen. Another had more kinds of flour than the whole baking aisle at the Walmart back home—she saw all-purpose flour, cake flour, bread flour, pastry flour, doppio zero flour, and something darker, probably buckwheat. Rosie wished she could run over and open the tubs, and rub the flour between her fingers. She’d never seen or felt doppio zero in real life, but knew it was supposed to be the secret to tender pasta. Next to the flour was something she wanted to explore even more—sugar. Granulated sugar, caster sugar, confectioners’ sugar, pearl sugar, cane sugar, demerara, turbinado, muscovado, light and dark brown—Rosie’s mind boggled at the possibilities of all the different things she could make with these sugars, how each choice would fundamentally alter the nature of whatever she baked: change the crumb structure, the color, the texture, everything.
“Attention, étudiants.” A woman in chef’s whites, older than Madame Besson—maybe about Rosie’s mom’s age—walked to the front of the room and clapped her hands twice. The conversational murmur immediately died down. “Bienvenue à l’École Denis Laurent. I am Chef Martinet, and when Chef Laurent is away, I run the École Denis Laurent.”
Chef Laurent was away? Rosie’s heart plummeted to the bottom of her gut. How could he not be here? She had assumed she’d be learning from him, not from this stern-looking woman with deep frown lines etched around her mouth. Rosie tried to hide her disappointment, but she felt a wave of loss, of uncertainty, of fear that maybe this wasn’t the right place for her. She had decided to apply because of Chef Laurent. What if this whole thing had been a mistake? Was she going to cry?! No. Of course not. That would be ridiculous. Out of the corner of her eye, Rosie saw Clara looking at her curiously. Stop it, Rosie, she told herself. Rosie looked behind her, away from Clara, blinking, trying to get it together.
She locked eyes with a guy at the back of the room and choked on a gasp. Because it wasn’t just a guy, it was Bodie Tal. Bodie Tal. He must have registered her recognize him, because he winked. Rosie quickly looked back up at Chef Martinet.
Bodie Tal. Rosie had never had posters of CW stars or pop singers hanging up in her locker, but even she could admit she’d always had a bit of a thing for Bodie Tal. Which was, admittedly, a weird celebrity crush, since Bodie was definitely more of a celebrity in the food world than in the general population. It was no coincidence that the issues of People magazine Rosie splurged on just happened to feature articles on Bodie in the kitchen with his dad, noted “bad boy of baking,” superstar pastry chef Dash Bray. Dash had never married Bodie’s mom, Israeli model Sendi Tal, but he was obviously a big part of Bodie’s life. Rosie had seen Bodie many times on Dash’s Food Network show, Cake Bomb, and as a guest judge on Cupcake Wars, Cake Wars, and Kids Baking Championship. Rosie knew enough about him to know that he loved cream cheese frosting, but he didn’t like American buttercream, and he wasn’t impressed by cakes that looked amazing but didn’t have solid flavor profiles or the proper texture. In short, she knew way too much about him. He’d definitely become more notorious in the past couple months, though, because of the controversy surrounding the ad campaign he’d done for Calvin Klein, modeling with his dad. A lot of family decency groups had been really upset that a sixteen-year-old had been modeling something so revealing. She’d seen Bodie Tal in his underwear! His very small underwear. And now, here he was, standing behind her. Winking.
She sneaked another look at him. His eyes, the same gray-blue as his dad’s, were even more striking in real life. His hair was buzzed, showing off the high cheekbones, strong jawline, and full lips he’d inherited from his model mother. And he’d pushed the arms of his chef’s jacket up to reveal the full sleeves of tattoos Rosie had obviously seen in his underwear ad. Were sixteen-year-olds even allowed to get tattooed? Was that legal? Or did laws not matter when you were basically culinary royalty? Wait a minute—wasn’t he Chef Laurent’s godson? Rosie was pretty sure she’d read that somewhere. She must have still been staring, because Bodie Tal mouthed at her, “Pay attention.” But he smiled right after, so she knew he was joking. Bodie Tal. Joking. With her. Rosie blushed and vowed to focus on Chef Martinet from now on.
“We will now watch a video that will introduce you to life at the École,” Chef Martinet announced. So Rosie had definitely missed the welcome speech. Great. Chef Martinet had probably thanked everyone for bringing their knife kits. “Madame Besson, you may play the video now.”
Madame Besson, seated at the back of the room, reached up to dim the lights, just as a South Asian girl in chef’s whites bustled in the door by Chef Martinet, her thick black ponytail bouncing as she hustled past.
“Sorry, sorry. Terribly sorry,” she muttered as she made her way through the aisle of tables, a deep blush rising in her cheeks. Rosie cringed on her behalf as every single student stared.
“Punctuality is, of course, to be expected at all times.” Chef Martinet wasn’t even looking at Rosie, and still, Rosie shivered. “Lateness is disrespect. And I will tolerate no disrespect in my kitchen.”
Rosie shifted even farther to one side of her bench, trying to indicate, wordlessly, that there was more than enough space for the girl, who threw Rosie a grateful look, then slung her knife kit onto the vacant station.
“Madame Besson, the video. And the windows, please.”
“What a fantastic way to make a first impression,” the girl mumbled as shades lowered simultaneously over all the windows. Stirring music played as the École’s logo illuminated the whiteboard. “Bloody brilliant. Mum threw a wobbly at St. Pancras and I missed my train. And now the ground will probably swallow me whole because this has got to be a waking nightmare.”
“Threw a wobbly?” Rosie whispered, keeping her eyes straight ahead on the video, hoping that Chef Martinet wouldn’t catch them talking. Still photos of Chef Laurent in the kitchen, surrounded by teen chefs, bounced across the screen, and Rosie wondered idly why he’d been here with them but wasn’t here now.
“Shrieking, wailing, rending of the garments. Dad had to physically restrain her at the end there so I could make a run for it. Couldn’t bear to let her baby go, that sort of thing. Being the youngest of five is a bloody nightmare.”
“I’m one of five!” Had she been too loud? They both froze, their eyes darting around the room. Rosie waited for heads to turn, for an admonishment to come from Chef Martinet, but nothing happened. Everyone was still focused on the screen, where Chef Laurent was tasting something with a wooden spoon. One of five! Rosie couldn’t believe it. She so rarely met another one.
“Really? Wicked! Where are you?”
“Right in the middle. Number three.”
“Ah.” She nodded. “My sister Maryam’s always saying that’s the worst, but I think being the baby has some distinct disadvantages. I’m Priya, by the way.”
“Rosie. Nice to meet you.” They shook hands under the table. A low murmur of giggles rumbled through the room—on the video screen, Chef Laurent appeared to be playing soccer in the courtyard with a group of students. Somehow, Rosie was having a hard time imagining Chef Laurent participating in something like that. He took his work in the kitchen way too seriously to mess around wi
th something as trivial as sports.
In fact, Rosie knew Chef Laurent was opening a restaurant in Hong Kong—he’d been blogging about it for weeks. Maybe he’d be back after that, filling the kitchen with his famous laugh, and the sour-faced Chef Martinet would be just a distant memory.
“Hopefully this isn’t a seriously creepy question,” Priya whispered, “but is there any chance you’ve got a pink rabbit sitting on your bed?”
“I do.” Rosie probably should have been embarrassed that Priya had seen Bun-bun, but she didn’t care. The ball of anxiety about who her roommate would be untangled itself and vanished in an instant.
“Dorm Room 304E?”
“304E,” Rosie confirmed.
“Wicked! Oh, this is going to be such a treat. Back home I share a room with two of my sisters. Having only one roommate is utter luxury.”
“I’m just excited to shower in a place that doesn’t always smell like sweaty gym clothes.”
Priya wrinkled her nose.
“My brothers can work up kind of a stank,” Rosie clarified.
The lights flickered back on as Priya laughed. Rosie blinked.
“I hope you have enjoyed this video,” Madame Martinet said. “It has, I trust, given you a sense of what life will be like here at the École.” Rosie had missed the whole thing, and therefore had zero sense of what life would be like at the École. “I promise you, however, it will not be all football with Chef Laurent.”
A couple titters of nervous laughter.
“When will we meet Chef Laurent?” A slight guy with glasses, standing at the bench behind Henry’s, had his hand up in the air.
“Most likely you will not.” Chef Martinet sniffed. “And in the future, you will wait to be called on.”
The hand slowly lowered back down.
Most likely you will not?! At this point, Rosie’s heart felt like it had leaped free of her chest cavity and gone wandering off to points unknown, possibly to drown its sorrows in a vat of cookie dough. How could she be at the École Denis Laurent and not meet Chef Laurent?!
Was it silly that she’d expected him to be here? Maybe Rosie should have known he’d be busy with his restaurants and his TV show and his cookbooks, too busy to spend all day in the classroom with a bunch of teenagers. But she couldn’t help feeling the way she had when she’d first realized that Mom and Santa Claus had the exact same handwriting. Rosie tried to dispel her visions of proudly presenting a perfect tarte tatin to Chef Laurent and dragged her attention back to Chef Martinet, still talking at the front of the room.
“You will have your academic classes, you will have time to yourselves, but mostly, you will be here, in my kitchen, and it is here that I will get to know you. I know you a bit from your applications, of course, but I cannot truly know you until I have tasted your food. It is a failure of the application process.” Chef Martinet shrugged. “So think of this semester as the next part of your application. There is no guarantee of admittance to the spring semester at the École until you have proved yourself during the fall semester. We will reevaluate your status after our first final exam. Chef Laurent keeps only the best of the best at the École, and it is not uncommon for students to be sent home midway through the year.”
A low buzz of discontent swept through the room. Rosie exchanged a worried glance with Priya and was somewhat relieved to see that she wasn’t the only one freaking out.
“She’d chuck us out, then?” Priya whispered furiously. “Halfway through the school year? If what we put on the plate doesn’t measure up?”
“That’s what it sounds like,” Rosie whispered back. She reached into the pocket of her chef’s pants, where she’d put the wings Henry had gotten for her. Stuffing them in her pocket after she’d changed into her whites had been an afterthought, a whim, but as she turned them over in her palm, running her fingers along the ridges, she felt comforted.
“I didn’t realize we’d be cooking for our lives,” Priya whispered. “That wasn’t on the bloody application. I’m going to chunder all over this spotless table.”
From the green cast on Priya’s cheeks, Rosie assumed chunder meant vomit. And Rosie didn’t blame her. No Chef Laurent. A very distinct possibility they’d be kicked out if they didn’t measure up. Priya wasn’t the only one at their table who might chunder. Rosie clutched her wings tighter, feeling the sharp edge of the plastic cut into her palm.
Chef Martinet cleared her throat, and finally, the room was quiet.
“So today, before we begin to learn the building blocks of cooking, I will taste your food,” she said. “Madame Besson, the timer, please.”
She was tasting their food. Today. This was it. The first dish that would determine if they belonged here. That chundering feeling was rising up. Rosie rotated the wings over and over in her palm, faster and faster, and looked up to the front of the room, to Henry, but all she could see was the back of his head. And beyond his head, where the video had been before, there was now a countdown timer projected on the whiteboard, set at twenty minutes. Rosie’s heart rate started picking up speed. Good gravy. This was just like Top Chef ! Or Chopped! Or a math quiz!
“Eggs are one of the most versatile ingredients a chef has at his or her disposal.” Chef Martinet picked up a small ceramic container displaying six brown eggs and cradled it in her hands. “In twenty minutes, please prepare a classic French omelet.”
The timer clicked to 19:59, and the kitchen erupted into chaos.
Twenty minutes was a long time to make an omelet. Except, of course, if you were in a brand-new kitchen, and you knew where absolutely nothing was. And you’d just found out that everything you cooked from here on out would be a determining factor in whether or not you got to stay at your dream school. No pressure, right?
Eggs. Butter. Salt. Pepper. That was all he needed. Henry looked at the mad crush of people thronging in front of the wall of stainless steel fridges and decided there was nothing to do but try to bob and weave his way in there.
“Henry! My friend!” Hampus grabbed Henry’s arm. “I will get the nonstick pans, yes? You will get the eggs?”
“Got it,” Henry said gratefully. “Try to see if you can find two wooden forks, too, okay?”
“Okay.” Hampus looked surprised but nodded in agreement. With a wooden fork, you could still stir the eggs as they scrambled in the pan, but you wouldn’t scratch the nonstick surface like you might with a metal fork, which would ruin everything. To make a real French omelet, the pan had to be perfectly nonstick. No scratches or dings or anything. Any imperfections in the pan showed up in the omelet.
They went their separate ways, and Henry wondered if this was how everyone on Top Chef felt. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, yes, but he didn’t feel scared. He felt ready. Like he could run a marathon or jump out of a plane. Or cook an omelet, he thought wryly. You know what? Let Chef Martinet judge his food. He could do this. He knew he could. And he would make sure there was no doubt in her mind—or anyone else’s—that Henry would be here for the second semester. Because maybe Chef Laurent would be back in the kitchen for the spring. And there was no way Henry was going to miss out on his chance to cook with Chef Laurent.
Henry finally made it up to the fridge door, ducked under the armpit of a white girl with pink hair, and managed to liberate a wax-paper-wrapped block of what looked like some very fancy butter and a carton of six eggs. Next, he ran to the back of the room, where he’d noticed a rack of spices. He grabbed a jar of large-flake salt, a wooden pepper grinder, and a small bag of white peppercorns. Henry headed back to his station, where Hampus had already placed a nonstick frying pan on his burner.
“I did not light your burner yet, Henry! But we are ready to rock and roll, yes?”
“Ready to, uh, rock and roll. Yes.” Henry found himself talking directly to Hampus’s bangs. Hampus had clipped them up, away from his forehead, so they stuck straight up like a tiny little hirsute unicorn horn, which was hard to look away from, but no. Time to f
ocus. Henry cracked three eggs into the mixing bowl Hampus had thoughtfully grabbed and began whisking them together with the wooden fork. There was no need to add milk—a common misconception—not to an omelet, and not to scrambled eggs, either. Henry thanked all of his lucky stars that he was so obsessed with Serious Eats that he’d tested out practically every recipe they had on their website, including, of course, the classic French omelet recipe. He’d had a lot of practice with this one, because it was hard, and the first couple times he’d done it, it had come out raw in the middle, and Henry never let a recipe beat him. He had to keep going back and back until he’d gotten it right. And this one he knew how to get right.
The gas flame roared to life as Henry turned the knob on his range. He plopped a thumb’s length of butter into the pan and left it there to melt on medium heat. All he needed now were eggs, a couple grinds of pepper, a few pinches of salt—always more salt than people think you should use—and he’d be ready to go.
As he waited for the butter to melt, Henry looked around. A handful of people were grating cheese at their stations. This was kind of an unfair test, actually, now that he thought about it. Sure, maybe Chef Martinet was also testing people on whether or not they knew what a French omelet was, but Henry thought that was kind of bogus for the first day—if you didn’t know what a French omelet was, you were automatically screwed. Unlike your classic American diner omelet, French omelets didn’t have cheese. And the fold was different. And, well, Henry knew absolutely nothing about the omelets of other countries. Was there, like, a Swedish omelet? Henry glanced over at Hampus’s station, but there were no extra ingredients in evidence. Maybe there was no such thing as a Swedish omelet. Or maybe Hampus just knew what a French omelet was.
The butter began foaming. Henry poured in his eggs, stirring with the wooden fork and shaking the pan. The key was to keep stirring and scraping, breaking up any curds as they started to form. Henry pushed any liquid bits to the edges, until, finally, it started to set. He took the pan off the heat, tilted it, and used his fork to fold it in half, rolling and scooting it until the edges were tucked under. But now he needed a plate. Crap. He’d forgotten a plate.
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