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eating. It was dreadful. The duck had been destroyed with heat, and then destroyed some more. It was desiccated and leathery, flavorless and tough. I watched as the others ate and screwed up their faces into expressions of complete distaste.
    I took another bite, then sawed at the duck, and started getting pissed off.
    “Whoever did this,” I said, “is a jackass.”
    “Yeah,” Adam said. “This is pretty shameful. I can’t eat this.” He pushed it away.
    “I agree,” Lombardi said. “What would happen if you took it back to the kitchen and told them it sucked? Would they give you anotherentrée or something? Isn’t that actually the responsible thing to do in this case? Shouldn’t they know how bad it is?”
    I took one more bite. I started gathering steam. “Fuck that. How could they not know? But seriously—what were they thinking? What were they doing?”
    “Fucking it up, obviously,” Brookshire said.
    “Okay, listen—” I started. I heard Brookshire mutter,
All right, here we go …
    “No—listen. Consider a duck—”
    Someone said, “Consider that you’ll be screwing up the duck in a few weeks, so don’t throw stones too hard.”
    “Bullshit,” I said. “Who doesn’t love a duck?” People at the table next to us turned to look. “They’re cute, they’re cool to watch. They’re tasty. And—damn—this duck once walked around. It was happy. It enjoyed itself. And look at it now. This creature truly died in vain. A pointless, useless death.”

4
    T HE ACADEMICS WERE DONE . I’d gotten an A– in Gastronomy, an A in Culinary Math, an A in Food Safety, and a B+ in Product Knowledge.
    I stood in the hallway outside the dining room, talking to Adam. He had been appointed—no one was quite sure how—interim group leader. This meant he was the liaison between the instructors and the rest of us—about fourteen or fifteen—who’d be in the morning meat class—the first class where we’d get our hands dirty, the first in which we had to be in uniform. Depending on the group and the disposition of the leader, the job could also mean that Adam functioned as a motivator, a counselor, a giver of instructions. This is what Adam wanted. His appointment as group leader was, however, only temporary; there’d be an actual election when the basic skills classes started. Adam was breaking this down for me when he stopped in midsentence and gestured with his chin toward a man in the school’s instructor’s uniform coming toward us. The man stood over six feet, capped with a head of white hair. His hands, you noticed immediately, were massive. His face was weathered and kind. There was something weary, or sad, at play around his eyes. He looked like a fairy-tale grandfather. As he passed, he nodded and smiled at Adam.
    “That’s Sebald,” Adam said.
    Hans Sebald would be teaching our Meat Identification and Fabrication class, a seven-day crash course on the fundamentals of beef, pork,lamb, and chicken. I knew from his school bio that he had been a butcher his entire life and was considered a master.
    “What’s the story?” I asked. We all asked a lot of questions about the instructors. We wanted some hope, I think, that he or she wouldn’t be monstrous.
    “Supposed to be a nice guy, but you don’t want to cross him. He’ll eat you alive if you fuck up.”
    “Is there a single chef here who doesn’t get described in exactly the same way?”
    Adam shrugged. “I’m going to send out an e-mail, but be prepared. Watch the required-viewing video online this weekend. Bring your chef’s knife, boning knife, and a steel to class on Tuesday. Full uniform.” He brightened. “We’re going to be deboning a hind shank and tying a roast beef.”
    I saw the list of others in the group when Adam sent his e-mail. I had hoped that everyone I ate lunch with would be in the class, but that didn’t happen. No Brookshire. No Carlos. But Lombardi would be there.
    Nelly was out running errands that