Read Online Hungry Woman in Paris by Josefina López - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Josefina López
Tags: FIC000000
Ads: Link
a.m.
When all our paperwork had been turned in we were escorted to the courtyard, where we were each handed a uniform, a lock for
the locker, a professional knife kit, a weight scale, a mesh bag, and plastic containers in which to transport our cooked
food. After we collected all our new belongings the women descended to the basement to the women’s locker room and the men
climbed up to the men’s locker room. I raced down to the basement to be one of the first to get a locker. I blamed the fact
that I had nine siblings for my competitive spirit. When I was growing up, Friday evenings were very stressful, because that’s
when my parents bought groceries for the whole week. That’s when the good food arrived: the fruit, the desserts, the tasty
stuff I assumed rich people had every day. In our house, if you didn’t stuff yourself with the good food or strategically
hide the Twinkies, pan dulce, or apples under the iceberg lettuce, come Monday you were stuck eating Spanish rice and beans
for breakfast, lunch, and dinner the rest of the week.
I rushed over to a corner of the locker room with a nook that allowed for privacy and space. There was even a chair near to
the top locker I chose. The American girl with the ponytail arrived behind me and asked me if the locker next to mine was
taken.
“No, that one is not taken,” I assured her. I quickly changed into my uniform but had trouble putting on my red tie. I was
about to ask the American girl if she knew how, but I saw she was having trouble opening the plastic bag to get her uniform
out. I stuck out my hand and introduced myself.
“Hi. My name is Canela. I’m from Los Angeles.”
“My name is Basil, but you can call me Bassie. I’m from Connecticut,” she said, shaking my hand and half-looking at me. I
tried stuffing my things into the tiny locker and then decided to bring everything with me, just in case I needed it. I struggled
past the aisle filled with half-naked women attempting to make their uniforms look better than white-and-red potato sacks.
I walked into the demonstration room again and sat in the center seat in the front row. If I didn’t sit in the front, my mind
would wander to dimensions unknown to me. Throughout my schooling I would get lost in fantastic adventures until my teachers
called out my name and dragged me back down to my boring reality.
I waited a few minutes, and the thirteen other students in Basic Cuisine entered the room and scattered themselves throughout.
Chef Sauber walked in, and his male assistant brought in a tray with vegetables. The English interpreter sat on a stool to
the left of the chef. He introduced himself as Henry from London, and reminded us that both the Basic and the Intermediate
Cuisine classes would be translated, but the Superior Cuisine course would not be translated.
“Hint, hint: learn French by the time you get to Superior or all this will sound like Greek,” Henry advised us. Henry was
not great-looking, but he had a scruffy, lovable feel to him that made you forget he had suitcases packed for a long holiday
under his eyes. Chef Sauber got in front of a stove with a giant mirror above it, angled so that everyone could see the burners
and counter where he was going to demonstrate his cooking techniques. Chef Sauber welcomed us and told us he was responsible
for the Basic Cuisine class.
“Zis is how you tie it,” he said in his accented English, demonstrating how we were to fold our table napkin–looking thing
and wrap it around our neck like a man’s tie. The students copied him, almost everyone getting it down except for Bassie and
a Japanese woman sitting next to me. Chef Sauber opened his knife kit, which included several knives and small tools. He explained
how every knife had its special use. Our kit included a cleaver, chef’s knife, slicing knife, boning knife, serrated knife,
small paring knife, carving knife, and sharpening steel.
When all our paperwork had been turned in we were escorted to the courtyard, where we were each handed a uniform, a lock for
the locker, a professional knife kit, a weight scale, a mesh bag, and plastic containers in which to transport our cooked
food. After we collected all our new belongings the women descended to the basement to the women’s locker room and the men
climbed up to the men’s locker room. I raced down to the basement to be one of the first to get a locker. I blamed the fact
that I had nine siblings for my competitive spirit. When I was growing up, Friday evenings were very stressful, because that’s
when my parents bought groceries for the whole week. That’s when the good food arrived: the fruit, the desserts, the tasty
stuff I assumed rich people had every day. In our house, if you didn’t stuff yourself with the good food or strategically
hide the Twinkies, pan dulce, or apples under the iceberg lettuce, come Monday you were stuck eating Spanish rice and beans
for breakfast, lunch, and dinner the rest of the week.
I rushed over to a corner of the locker room with a nook that allowed for privacy and space. There was even a chair near to
the top locker I chose. The American girl with the ponytail arrived behind me and asked me if the locker next to mine was
taken.
“No, that one is not taken,” I assured her. I quickly changed into my uniform but had trouble putting on my red tie. I was
about to ask the American girl if she knew how, but I saw she was having trouble opening the plastic bag to get her uniform
out. I stuck out my hand and introduced myself.
“Hi. My name is Canela. I’m from Los Angeles.”
“My name is Basil, but you can call me Bassie. I’m from Connecticut,” she said, shaking my hand and half-looking at me. I
tried stuffing my things into the tiny locker and then decided to bring everything with me, just in case I needed it. I struggled
past the aisle filled with half-naked women attempting to make their uniforms look better than white-and-red potato sacks.
I walked into the demonstration room again and sat in the center seat in the front row. If I didn’t sit in the front, my mind
would wander to dimensions unknown to me. Throughout my schooling I would get lost in fantastic adventures until my teachers
called out my name and dragged me back down to my boring reality.
I waited a few minutes, and the thirteen other students in Basic Cuisine entered the room and scattered themselves throughout.
Chef Sauber walked in, and his male assistant brought in a tray with vegetables. The English interpreter sat on a stool to
the left of the chef. He introduced himself as Henry from London, and reminded us that both the Basic and the Intermediate
Cuisine classes would be translated, but the Superior Cuisine course would not be translated.
“Hint, hint: learn French by the time you get to Superior or all this will sound like Greek,” Henry advised us. Henry was
not great-looking, but he had a scruffy, lovable feel to him that made you forget he had suitcases packed for a long holiday
under his eyes. Chef Sauber got in front of a stove with a giant mirror above it, angled so that everyone could see the burners
and counter where he was going to demonstrate his cooking techniques. Chef Sauber welcomed us and told us he was responsible
for the Basic Cuisine class.
“Zis is how you tie it,” he said in his accented English, demonstrating how we were to fold our table napkin–looking thing
and wrap it around our neck like a man’s tie. The students copied him, almost everyone getting it down except for Bassie and
a Japanese woman sitting next to me. Chef Sauber opened his knife kit, which included several knives and small tools. He explained
how every knife had its special use. Our kit included a cleaver, chef’s knife, slicing knife, boning knife, serrated knife,
small paring knife, carving knife, and sharpening steel.
Similar Books
