input about what would be prepared, the instructors expected the students to create their own specialty entree or dessert. A dozen master chefs tasted the samples, and if up to their standards, added a select few to the menu for a week.
Her mother’s Russian Torte made the cut as a featured dessert. When Antonio, her supervisor, told her she got the seal of approval, she about peed her pants. Even though the school focused on international cuisine, she didn’t know whether the worldly experts would accept a homemade recipe. Her family had taught her everything about ethnic-inspired cooking and baking, compliments of her grandfather’s Greek heritage and her grandmother’s Russian background. The earliest memories she could recall were of her toddling along at her mother’s side, mimicking her actions in the kitchen at home and at her grandparents’ restaurant. Mama would pick up her and Kat from school, drive them into Houston to Stavros’s, a four-thousand-square-foot dining establishment and catering service, and after they filled their tummies and finished homework, assumed their roles as little helpers. Kat couldn’t care less and often goofed off, hunkering down behind the register building towers out of wrapped silverware or shredding menus to paper mache glasses and mugs. But Maggie delighted in the grown-up atmosphere and took her job seriously. Over the years, the complexity increased from setting orders on trays when she was in kindergarten, to dressing Greek salads throughout her primary grades, and then assisting Mama with layering nuts and fillo for baklava and other desserts at the intermediate stage, until she advanced to chef alongside Baba and Pappous. She never stopped until she left town. Those moments were some of the best of her life. She’d cherish them forever. And now that she lived so far away, she kept her mom and grandparents close in thought with every recipe she prepared, each meal she set on a plate, and every dessert she lovingly whipped up.
“Hey, Maggie, how’s it going?”
With the temperature switched to medium, she added the duck breast skin side down to sear, then turned around to greet the familiar voice. Matt sat at one of the five chef’s tables, a two-person marble-top bar situated alongside the students’ stainless steel prep station, promising personalized attention. Designated for the apprentices whose recipes were featured, the primo spots were in high demand and often required reservations. “Well, boss man, decided to take me up on the invite, huh?”
“Oh, Mags, you know I have a weakness for that torte. When you told me it’d be on the menu, I couldn’t resist.” He patted his flat stomach. “It’s all your fault I gained an extra five pounds too. My wife doesn’t mind though. She said the extra cushioning is nice when she lays her head there.”
She snorted. “Yeah, right. There isn’t an ounce of fat on you. Sophia told me you’re a workout fiend, running five miles a day, and she has to drag you out of your home gym every night.”
He chuckled and unwrapped the bundled silverware, setting the napkin on his lap. She placed a menu in front of him, and he tilted his head to the empty stool to his left. “Can I have another of those? A business associate is joining me.”
“Sure.” After she set another down, she picked up the next ticket and prepared several more dishes. Matt asked her a few questions as she chopped and diced, sautéed and flipped, and plated a service for four. Wiping her brow with her sleeve, she reached up for a clean pan and almost dropped it as an exasperated male voice snapped from behind her.
“This place is packed. Why’d you pick it?”
Lodged in her brain for several weeks now, Mr. Stone’s guttural tenor replayed in her daydreams and in her sleep. She inched around performing a mental countdown from ten to zero, which helped cool her off when Cece pushed her buttons, and by some miracle she hoped would work in
Her mother’s Russian Torte made the cut as a featured dessert. When Antonio, her supervisor, told her she got the seal of approval, she about peed her pants. Even though the school focused on international cuisine, she didn’t know whether the worldly experts would accept a homemade recipe. Her family had taught her everything about ethnic-inspired cooking and baking, compliments of her grandfather’s Greek heritage and her grandmother’s Russian background. The earliest memories she could recall were of her toddling along at her mother’s side, mimicking her actions in the kitchen at home and at her grandparents’ restaurant. Mama would pick up her and Kat from school, drive them into Houston to Stavros’s, a four-thousand-square-foot dining establishment and catering service, and after they filled their tummies and finished homework, assumed their roles as little helpers. Kat couldn’t care less and often goofed off, hunkering down behind the register building towers out of wrapped silverware or shredding menus to paper mache glasses and mugs. But Maggie delighted in the grown-up atmosphere and took her job seriously. Over the years, the complexity increased from setting orders on trays when she was in kindergarten, to dressing Greek salads throughout her primary grades, and then assisting Mama with layering nuts and fillo for baklava and other desserts at the intermediate stage, until she advanced to chef alongside Baba and Pappous. She never stopped until she left town. Those moments were some of the best of her life. She’d cherish them forever. And now that she lived so far away, she kept her mom and grandparents close in thought with every recipe she prepared, each meal she set on a plate, and every dessert she lovingly whipped up.
“Hey, Maggie, how’s it going?”
With the temperature switched to medium, she added the duck breast skin side down to sear, then turned around to greet the familiar voice. Matt sat at one of the five chef’s tables, a two-person marble-top bar situated alongside the students’ stainless steel prep station, promising personalized attention. Designated for the apprentices whose recipes were featured, the primo spots were in high demand and often required reservations. “Well, boss man, decided to take me up on the invite, huh?”
“Oh, Mags, you know I have a weakness for that torte. When you told me it’d be on the menu, I couldn’t resist.” He patted his flat stomach. “It’s all your fault I gained an extra five pounds too. My wife doesn’t mind though. She said the extra cushioning is nice when she lays her head there.”
She snorted. “Yeah, right. There isn’t an ounce of fat on you. Sophia told me you’re a workout fiend, running five miles a day, and she has to drag you out of your home gym every night.”
He chuckled and unwrapped the bundled silverware, setting the napkin on his lap. She placed a menu in front of him, and he tilted his head to the empty stool to his left. “Can I have another of those? A business associate is joining me.”
“Sure.” After she set another down, she picked up the next ticket and prepared several more dishes. Matt asked her a few questions as she chopped and diced, sautéed and flipped, and plated a service for four. Wiping her brow with her sleeve, she reached up for a clean pan and almost dropped it as an exasperated male voice snapped from behind her.
“This place is packed. Why’d you pick it?”
Lodged in her brain for several weeks now, Mr. Stone’s guttural tenor replayed in her daydreams and in her sleep. She inched around performing a mental countdown from ten to zero, which helped cool her off when Cece pushed her buttons, and by some miracle she hoped would work in
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