Like Chef Martinet cared what Rosie did with her friends. But that was part of the story of this burger, too, so Rosie told them. Chef Martinet was busy cutting the burger in half with surgical precision. The meat, at least, seemed to be cooked correctly—the pink of medium rare was what Rosie had wanted.
“Did you make this brioche yourself ?” Chef Laurent asked.
“Of course, Chef,” Rosie answered. She’d done the dough yesterday so it could rest in the fridge overnight, and had gotten up early today to let it rise for three hours before baking. It had literally been a two-day process, but the nod of approval Chef Laurent gave her made it all worth it.
They had only taken a couple bites of each dish, but Rosie didn’t read anything into that. By this point, they must have tasted, what, seventeen three-course meals? It wasn’t possible to take more than a bite or two of each. Okay. Time for dessert. This was where Rosie would really prove herself. Hopefully.
“My mom hates to cook,” Rosie said. “But every time she’s had to go to a potluck, she brings one thing. A trifle she makes, with brownies and pudding and candy and whipped cream.” Rosie had plated her dessert into two glasses—she was pretty sure they were champagne coupes—and the two chefs poised their spoons at the rim of the glasses. “This is my version of my mom’s trifle. Made with moelleux au chocolat, chocolate mousse, vanilla whipped cream, and chocolate feuilletine between each layer.”
Rosie loved moelleux au chocolat. The internet seemed to translate it as molten chocolate cake, but every moelleux au chocolat Rosie had had in Paris wasn’t like a molten chocolate cake at all, but like the richest, fudgiest brownie on the planet. Which made it the perfect base for her trifle. And then the feuilletine, Rosie thought, would give the same crunch as a Kit Kat. The M&M’S were the only thing she’d discarded. There really was no substitute for an M&M.
“My goodness!” Chef Laurent covered his mouth with his hand and giggled. Actually giggled. A fifty-something chef with enough James Beard awards to fill up the whole cafeteria giggled. “This dish . . . it makes me feel like a boy again.”
Rosie’s heart soared. She’d done it. She’d taken home and love and childhood and Mom and Dad and herself and put it all on the plate, and they could taste it. This dessert, especially—it was pure Rosie. And it wasn’t that Rosie couldn’t do fancy things, or complicated things—yes, she was still embarrassed about her fail with the cheesecake for Dish of the Day, but she felt confident that given another opportunity, she could knock that out of the park—but she wanted to bake things that felt more like her. Simple, maybe, but comforting. And so delicious you’d want to lick the plate.
Chef Martinet put her spoon down with such force, it banged on the table and Rosie jumped, startled. Rosie had seen Chef Martinet disappointed before—many times. She’d seen her exasperated. But she had never seen her look so angry.
“Where have you been all semester?” Chef Martinet asked.
Rosie didn’t know what to say. She wasn’t even sure what, exactly, Chef Martinet was asking.
“The girl who cooked this meal—that girl has not been in my kitchen for the last four months.”
Rosie stared at her, dumbfounded. She liked it, then. She must have liked it. Rosie didn’t know why, exactly, that was making her so mad, but she liked it.
“Your bread and pastry is excellent,” Chef Laurent said. “The biscuit, the brioche, the dessert—all very impressive. I think you can challenge yourself a bit more with your savory elements. I look forward to tasting your next meal in the spring.” He held out his hand again, like he had at the beginning of the meal, and as Rosie shook it, she was so proud of herself she felt like the buttons on her chef’s coat might pop right off. And she knew Mom would be proud of her—Rosie couldn’t wait to call her tonight and tell her all about her meal. And she knew Dad would have been proud of her, too.
Your next meal in the spring. Chef Laurent thought she belonged here. That of course she would be here at the end of the year. And he’d be tasting her food once again.
“You still cannot poach an egg precisely,” Chef Martinet said. Rosie deflated a little. “The meat was underseasoned and overcooked, and that dessert was . . . fine. I admit: I like your dessert.” Was that a smile?! Was Chef Martinet smiling?! Rosie couldn’t have been more shocked if Chef Martinet had bounced out of the room on a pogo stick. “You have much to learn, but I think it will be good for you to learn here.”
Rosie beamed. Maybe Chef Martinet hadn’t said, Rosie, you have earned your place here, in so many words, but Rosie heard it, nevertheless.
“Now that I know you can cook so much better than I’d thought, I will be much harder on you.” Chef Martinet sniffed. Harder on her? Rosie couldn’t even imagine what that was going to be like.
But she didn’t have to imagine.
Because she’d be here, in the kitchen, next semester.
“Rosie Radeke,” Chef Laurent said, like he’d just remembered something. “I know why else I know your name, now. I remember your application.”
First of all, Rosie couldn’t believe that Chef Laurent himself had actually read their applications. And she definitely couldn’t believe he remembered hers.
“The way you wrote about cooking,” he continued. “It was . . . extraordinary.” Extraordinary? Rosie had always considered herself to be profoundly ordinary. But she was starting to think that in order to do extraordinary things, you had to believe that you were extraordinary, too. “I can taste all of that in your food. You cook with your heart, and that is a very a good thing.”
That was exactly what Rosie had done. She had cooked with her heart, her whole heart, every bit of herself.
And it was a very good thing.
Henry had hoped his last few moments in the kitchen before serving his meal to Chef Laurent would be tranquil. Calm. Maybe even reflective, as he put the finishing touches on his meal. But no, they were none of those things. They were awkward.
It was the alphabet’s fault, really. And whoever had decided they were going to serve their meals in alphabetical order. It was that person’s fault, too. Because Bodie Tal came right before Henry Yi, and as they worked silently in the prep kitchen upstairs, Henry felt like the two of them were singlehandedly redefining the concept of an awkward silence.
Henry still didn’t know if Bodie actually ever had feelings for Rosie, or if it had all been in his head. But if it was all in his head, then why was this silence so awkward? Or was Henry making it awkward? Or imagining that it was awkward? Maybe Bodie was standing over there cool as a cucumber, and Henry was projecting awkwardness onto him.
“Henry!”
Rosie burst through the swinging doors of the kitchen, her braid flying behind her like the tail of a kite. He barely had time to put down his spoon before she launched herself into his arms, and she was hugging him, and laughing, and kissing his face all over, and then she let out some kind of weird snorting sound that was maybe crying, but not sad crying, because she was so clearly happy.
“Eh-hem.” Madame Besson coughed delicately from the doorway. “Bodie Tal, you are next.”
Rosie and Henry sprang apart, but she grabbed his hand so they were still connected. He snuck a quick look over at her, and she was blushing, but grinning from ear to ear.
“Yup. Right. Yeah,” Bodie said, but didn’t move toward the doorway. “So, this is a thing.” Bodie gestured vaguely at Henry and Rosie.
“Yeah, it’s a thing. A new thing.” Rosie was blushing maybe even more than she had been before. She was clearly struggling, as if she couldn’t figure out what it was she wanted to say. Then she looked down at the dish in Bodie’s hands, and her face softened. “Are those cannelés?”
“Yeah. Yeah, they are.” With his free arm, Bodie scratched behind his ear—self-consciously, Henry thought. “Cannelés with cinnamon ice cream and salted caramel sauce. Kind of like a profiterole meets a cannelé.”
“That sounds really good,” Henry said.
“Oh. Uh, thanks.” Bodie looked as surprised as Henry felt by what he’d just blurted out. “Thanks, man.”
“They do sound really good, Bodie,” Rosie said, so gently that Henry felt like it couldn’t just be about cannelés.
Definitely wasn’t just about cannelés. Henry looked back and forth from Bodie to Rosie, and he thought he saw something soften in Bodie’s face, too. Maybe Bodie had really liked her. Maybe Rosie had even liked him, too. But Henry found he was no longer jealous of Bodie Tal. Rosie was holding his hand, not Bodie’s. And that was all that mattered.
“Bodie Tal,” Madame Besson said again, from the door. She helped Bodie carry his plates out, and then they were gone.
“So they liked it?” Henry asked.
“Yes,” Rosie said, and Henry didn’t think he’d ever heard a more triumphant yes in his whole life. “They more than liked it. I think. Well, they liked it enough, and that’s all that matters. Because I’ll be here. Next semester. For sure. So we—”
“Rosie.” Madame Besson was back in the kitchen. “You need to leave the kitchen. Now.”
“Tell me about it later.” Henry squeezed Rosie’s hand. She was safe. She’d be here next semester, and Henry was so happy for her, happy for her in a way he didn’t know that it was possible to be happy for another person. She rose onto her tiptoes and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek.
“For good luck,” she said. “Not that you need it.”
“Rosie,” Madame Besson warned.
And then Rosie disappeared, too, and Henry was alone in the kitchen. The last meal of the day. Chef Laurent and Chef Martinet had tasted their way through nineteen three-course meals today, and now, it was his turn. Henry tried not to let the weight of that settle on him. Or the weight of Chef Martinet telling him how perfect he’d been all semester, minus his Dish of the Day flops. Or the weight of Dad’s expectations. And his need to prove Mom wrong. And the fact that he had to show Chef Martinet that he could cook something that was really him.
All semester, Henry had never seriously worried about being asked to leave the École because of his food. He’d been worried about Mom making him leave, and he was still worried—some of his grades were hovering close enough to the B mark that waiting to get the grades back from his final exams was going to make Christmas break agonizing—but he’d never worried about Chef Martinet kicking him out. Until now. What if he’d produced another set of bland dishes, like all of his Dishes of the Day, and she decided she’d had enough?
“Henry Yi,” Madame Besson said, startling Henry when she appeared in the doorway. “They are ready.”
They were ready. So he had to be ready. Madame Besson picked up his appetizer and entrée, and he carried his dessert out of the kitchen and into the cafeteria.
“I have all your cookbooks,” Henry blurted out when he first saw Chef Laurent. “I’ve seen all your shows. I just—I love you, man.”
Did I just tell Chef Laurent I love him?!
He could have said, I respect you. He could have said, I admire you. He could have said, Sir, you have had a profound impact on my life in the kitchen and on my desire to become a chef. But instead, Henry had said, I love you.
“Henry is one of our most promising students,” Chef Martinet said, saving him. “His work all semester has been excellent.”
“We have saved the best for last, perhaps?” Chef Laurent said, smiling.
And Henry smiled back. But that was exactly the mentality he had feared most walking into this room. How could he not be disappointing, if that’s what they were thinking? There was no way he could measure up.
You already made the food, Henry.
Dad. Henry could hear Dad’s voice in his head, as clearly as if he had spoken aloud. Wildly, Henry looked up at the ceiling, wondering if he would see a cartoon of Dad’s face up there, made out of stars, like when Mufasa sent Simba some encouragement from the beyond in The Lion King.
Dad—imaginary Dad—was right. Henry had already made the food. There was nothing else he could do now.
“For our first course, we have Italian beef mandu,” Henry said, gesturing to the plate with the two little dumplings and the dipping sauce. Boy, now he really felt like was on Top Chef, explaining his menu to a panel of judges. He half expected to look past Chef Laurent to see Tom and Padma. “Mandu is a traditional Korean dumpling. I wanted to make a dish that reflected my Korean heritage and the place I’m from—Chicago.”
“Chicago!” Chef Laurent exclaimed. “Excellent food city. You get your deep-dish at Lou Malnati’s, I hope?”
“Yes, Chef,” Henry said. Obviously. “I incorporated the traditional flavors of an Italian beef sandwich into the meat in the dumpling filling and made a giardiniera dipping sauce. Giardiniera is a Chicago thing—pickled vegetables,” he said quickly, answering Chef Martinet’s confused expression.
“Giardiniera is good on everything,” Chef Laurent said. “And this is no exception.” His mandu had disappeared already. “This dumpling is fantastic. Familiar and wholly new at the same time. I understand why even Chef Martinet has praised you,” he added, chuckling.
Chef Laurent liked his food. Holy crap. He couldn’t believe it. Chef Laurent liked his food. Dad was going to freak.
“Very nice.” Chef Martinet nodded at him, approvingly.
He could do this. He was doing this. Buoyed by confidence, Henry gestured to his entrée.
“Up next,” Henry said, “we have a play on steak-frites. Steak-frites was the first French food I ever had, at a restaurant down the block from ours, back home in Chicago. My dad took me there.” Henry remembered the first time he’d been there, squeezing into the tiny tables, the rare steak and the crisp fries, the smell of garlic and butter, the sense that food could transport you far from Damen Avenue. “I’ve put my own spin on it by using a bulgogi marinade and kimchi butter on the steak, and instead of fries, those are deep-fried batons of garlic mashed potatoes.”
This was one of his favorite kinds of dishes. From the outside, it looked like a traditional steak-frites, with its melting pat of butter on top, and fries that were thicker than usual but still shaped like fries. But then you started eating, and the flavors were different, and the fries were a totally different texture than what you were expecting.
“Aha!” Chef Laurent said after he bit into his potatoes. “How clever this is!”
“The steak is perfect.” Chef Martinet held up a bite on her fork—Henry could see the exact shade of pink he’d hoped for. “The potato batons are inspired. And I like your butter very much.”
Henry wondered if Chef Martinet had ever had kimchi before. She went back in for two bites of steak with butter—something she did so rarely—so she must have liked it enough.
Dessert. It was the simplest thing he’d done. Hopefully not too simple.
“My sister, Alice, is a really picky eater,” Henry said. “But there’s only one food she really loves—the hot fudge at Margie’s, this ice cream shop in our neighborhood. So I made this dessert for Alice. Banana ice cream with hot fudge sauce and peanut butter brittle.”
“Your heart is not in this, the way it was in your other dishes,” Chef Laurent said. “But it is very well executed.”
“The ice cream is smooth, the hot fudge is very well balanced, and the crunch of the brittle is a nice touch.” Chef Martinet put her spoon down and dabbed her napkin delicately at her mouth. “Well done.”
“I think we have indeed saved the best for last,” Chef Laurent said, and it took everything Henry had in him not to blurt out I love you again.
“You have surprised me today, Henry,” Chef Martinet said. “Nearly all of your dishes this semester have been perfect, but these are the first that have shown me who you truly are.” She smiled. Henry couldn’t believe it. It actually took him a minute to register that that was what she was doing. At first, he’d thought her face was itchy, or something. “I look forward to seeing more of you next semester.”
“Excelle
nt work.” Chef Laurent stood up and extended his hand, and then Henry was shaking Chef Laurent’s hand. “I believe this was my favorite meal I have ever eaten at the École.”
Forget freaking out. Dad was going to have a heart attack when Henry told him what Chef Laurent had just said. Henry would have to make sure Dad was sitting down.
And Mom . . . Henry wondered if she would have rather he’d failed. If she’d been hoping Chef Laurent wouldn’t like his food, and that Henry would come home to Chicago ready to apply to all the colleges on Mom’s list, abandoning his plan to attend culinary school. He’d like to think she wouldn’t actively hope he’d fail, but if he was really honest with himself, he wasn’t sure. But he hadn’t failed. He’d triumphed.
“Um, Chef Laurent?” Henry said. “Would you mind talking to my mom real quick?”
If Chef Laurent thought this was a weird request, he didn’t show it. As Henry pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and dialed, he thought Chef Martinet might have raised an eyebrow, but she didn’t say anything.
“Allo?” Chef Laurent said into the phone. “Ah, yes, Madame Yi! This is Chef Laurent. I am here with your son! No, he is not in trouble.” Chef Laurent chuckled. Of course that was Mom’s first thought. “Henry has just served my favorite meal I have ever eaten at the École. I’m sorry? Yes, favorite. I said favorite,” he enunciated carefully. “Your son is exceptionally talented. You must be very proud.” Henry couldn’t even imagine the stunned silence that must have met that remark. “I believe he has a very exciting career ahead of him. Perhaps a stage at one of my restaurants this summer, no?”
A stage at one of Chef Laurent’s restaurants?!? Henry’s heart stopped. To work in a professional kitchen, alongside Chef Laurent . . . it was more than Henry had even dared to hope for.
“She wants to talk to you.” Chef Laurent was holding out the phone toward Henry. He took it.
“A stage, huh?” Mom asked. Henry was surprised by the softness in her voice. “It sounds like you’ve done very well, Henry.”
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