Cooking as Fast as I Can (14 page)

I needed a part-time job to pay expenses and help with my student loans, and landed one in the Tavern at the Beekman Arms. The inn bills itself as the oldest continuously operated hotel in the nation. The adjacent restaurant continued the colonial theme, with overhead beams and an open fireplace, and served butternut squash soup, braised short ribs, and Atlantic salmon. The place was owned by renowned chef Larry Forgione, one of the founders of the New American
Cuisine movement, which was exploding across the culinary landscape. My boss was an executive chef named Melissa Kelly. She was my kind of woman, enthusiastic and creative, a cheerful perfectionist. I'd never worked for a woman before, and we got on like a house on fire.

Since Hannah and I returned from Europe and I landed my job at Amerigo, she enjoyed hearing about my culinary antics and became interested in how the front of the house worked. She thought she might like to try her hand at restaurant management one day, and when there was an opening for a waitress at the Beekman, I suggested she apply, and they hired her immediately. You'd be hard-pressed to find a female student who hasn't spent a stint waitressing, and for this reason we tend to think it's a job pretty much anyone can do. Anyone can do it well enough to keep from being fired, but to excel at service you need to be mentally organized, quick on your feet, and unflappable, and Hannah possessed all of these skills. We made enough money to pay the bills and also tour around the Hudson Valley on our few days off. We were happy.

In the summer between your first and second years at the Culinary you're required to do an externship, the idea being that nothing furthers a culinary education more than a few months in a real-world restaurant kitchen. My ambition was on fire after the success of my first year, and I wanted to extern in Manhattan. New York was the culinary capital of the world and no other place would do.

I landed a spot with Anne Rosenzweig, who was all about giving female chefs a shot. She was chef-owner of the celebrated Arcadia, one of the hottest restaurants on the Upper
East Side. She was one of the first to champion so-called American cuisine, which she served with a cheeky twist. I just loved it. Her club sandwich was a lobster club made with roasted vegetables, bacon, and lemon mayonnaise, and was big enough for two people to split. Her Caesar salad was made not with ho-hum romaine, but with then-exotic arugula. She served corn cakes topped with crème fraîche and rack of lamb drizzled with pomegranate juice. What impressed me most was her flair for plating a dish, her feeling for colors, shapes, and textures. Many years later, when I competed on
Iron Chef
and I would smoke the competition with my creative plating skills, I remembered Anne.

Working in her tiny kitchen felt like joining the cast of a movie. I worked under Linda, the daytime sous chef, a hard-ass straight out of some New Jersey industrial town whose accent was so strong I could hardly understand her. The other sous chef was a Moroccan man named Medhi, the hardest worker I'd ever seen. He was a devout Muslim and fasted on the required holidays, working the grill all day long, the sweat pouring off him, but never taking even a sip of water until sundown. I was constantly worried that I'd have to call 911 when he passed out from dehydration, hamburger spatula in hand.

Hannah stayed in Rhinebeck. She wasn't keen on living in Manhattan, and who could blame her? The plan was for me to live in the city during the week and come home on the weekends. I found a position as a live-in cook for an older couple who worked as journalists. I had my own quarters in a doorman building on Park Avenue. I thought I was set, living the life in New York, New York.

For the first few weeks of my externship my hosts were out of the country, covering some big story somewhere or other, and I
had the run of the house. I missed Hannah. I may as well confess it now: I'm a spoiled titty baby. I don't like being away from home, away from my partner, sleeping in a strange bed with the always-weird sheets—why are the sheets of others, no matter the thread count or expense, always unsatisfactory?—and the not-quite-right pillows. Sleeping alone. I didn't like it then and I don't like it now, although I've had to adapt.

But in 1994, I still struggled with being out there alone in the world. I was determined to suck it up. How could I be a bad-ass, world-class chef if I couldn't be away from home? I was like the grown-up version of the third-grader who begs to be picked up from the slumber party because the thought of not sleeping in her own bed is terrifying.

I was able to keep it together until the journalist couple came home. I realize my room and board was predicated on my being their cook, but in less than a week, in addition to having me make breakfast, lunch, dinner, and any number of random snacks, they were also leaving their dirty laundry in a basket in front of my door.

That was it. I quit on the spot and moved back to Rhinebeck, joining the ranks of suburban commuters, taking the train five days a week into the city from Poughkeepsie. I wound up enjoying myself. I had to be at the restaurant at 8:30 a.m., so I had to catch the six o'clock train. I'd grab a coffee and the newspaper, and have that hour and a half to myself to relax and collect my thoughts for the day. Once I arrived I'd hop onto the subway and be at Arcadia in a matter of minutes. At the end of the day, on the way home, I would head back to Grand Central, grab a cold Heineken and the
New York Post,
and sit back to enjoy the quiet time on the train. Even though I thought it was compulsory to do your externship in
the city, I found a sweet rhythm in the life of a commuter, and I remember it as a happy time.

That fall, Nancy, one of the six women in our class at the Culinary, was awarded a “scholarship” to spend a day with Julia Child at her home in Cambridge. Coincidentally, Nancy was Melissa Kelly's aunt, and was a little older than the rest of us, perhaps in her late forties. She was medium height, athletic, and lively, with a thatch of salt-and-pepper hair, maternal in a “you go, girl!” sort of way.

The day with Julia included lunch and the chance to watch her film an episode of her PBS series,
Cooking with Master Chefs
. Julia was always ahead of the curve, and this show, where Julia traveled around the country cooking with top chefs from every region (in the companion cookbook, Julia interpreted the recipes on the show for the home cook), could have sprung from the Food Network brain trust just last week.

Nancy was allowed to bring a guest, and after class one day, as I was putting away my knives, she came up to me, told me about her prize, and said, “I can't think of anyone else who would appreciate an afternoon with Julia more than you.”

I practically keeled over with joy. I hugged her so hard she claimed she saw stars.

Chicago chef Rick Bayless was Julia's guest on the show that day. They filmed in Julia's kitchen on Irving Street in Cambridge, with its extra-high counters, the only concession she'd made when she remodeled. Otherwise, it didn't look a whole lot different from my mother's kitchen on Swan Lake Drive, with its double oven and nothing-special refrigerator. Despite her wealth, Julia never wanted anything special—read “professional”—in
her kitchen, because she never wanted to alienate her devoted audience of regular home cooks.

I'd never watched anything filmed before. Julia, in her hot pink blouse and purple scarf, was an old pro, asking Rick Bayless pertinent questions and effortlessly leading him on to the next step. Rick had a lot of brown hair and schoolboy glasses. When we sat down to lunch at Julia's kitchen table, covered with a practical wax-coated tablecloth, I suddenly felt shy. She was just as she had been at the book signing—interested, engaged, twinkly eyed—but I was sure she wouldn't remember me. How many thousands of people did she meet in a year?

“I'm sure you don't remember me, but I met you at a book signing in Natchez. Mississippi. I was the girl from Jackson who asked you about becoming a chef. You said go to the CIA, it's the Harvard of cooking schools, and that's what I did. I'm graduating in a few weeks.”

“Oh, of course, that's splendid!” said Julia, seeming to mean it.

Did she remember, or was she just being polite? I prefer to think that she'd seen something in me, and it made me feel good knowing I hadn't let her down.

In early 1995 I graduated from the Culinary Institute with honors, at the top of my class. Twelve years later, I would be invited back to give a commencement speech.

ten

January 18, 1995

Dear Mademoiselle Cora:

We regret to inform you that we are unable to offer you a position with us at this time. As has been our policy since our doors opened seventy years ago, we do not allow women into our kitchen. Nevertheless, we wish you the best of luck in your future endeavors.

Sincerely,

Monsieur X

I
t was the eighth rejection I'd received in as many days. I'd painstakingly composed a letter describing my accomplishments and goals, assembled clippings from the Culinary Institute newspaper highlighting my achievements, collected glowing recommendations from my most exacting instructors, and mailed my application to ten of France's top three-star restaurants.