I love this photo. I'm brimming with hope and talent. A young filly at the gate.
I walked out of third-year university and into a restaurant. I was a good student—told by two profs I should write. But something on the side was quickly turning into everything.
The way my hand rests on my hip, the stains on my apron, and a too-big men's chef jacket parachuting out the sides.
Confident.
The photo was taken in the 45-minute window between services on Saturday night. Late night fun, then rest, on the horizon.
1985.
The gateway to apprenticeship. The first French kitchen.
On the frontlines of the second wave of women moving into a man's world.
One night André Donnet passed me a morsel of sweetbread. I'd watched them tumble golden and crisp into sauce au morilles—goodbye buttery sizzle. As he spoons them into a puff pastry shell, no golden drops of sauce fall on the plate—miracles all around me. The croustade's and all their crackle were my job.
I tasted the sweetbread.
Every day a new wonder.
Hit the bell, and then the green sprig of chervil.
I walked out of third-year university and into a restaurant. I was a good student—told by two profs I should write. But something on the side was quickly turning into everything.
The way my hand rests on my hip, the stains on my apron, and a too-big men's chef jacket parachuting out the sides.
Confident.
The photo was taken in the 45-minute window between services on Saturday night. Late night fun, then rest, on the horizon.
1985.
The gateway to apprenticeship. The first French kitchen.
On the frontlines of the second wave of women moving into a man's world.
One night André Donnet passed me a morsel of sweetbread. I'd watched them tumble golden and crisp into sauce au morilles—goodbye buttery sizzle. As he spoons them into a puff pastry shell, no golden drops of sauce fall on the plate—miracles all around me. The croustade's and all their crackle were my job.
I tasted the sweetbread.
Every day a new wonder.
Hit the bell, and then the green sprig of chervil.
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