I picked out my apron days ahead of time, choosing the one of four I own that would make me look altruistic, "Boston Rescue Mission" emblazoned on its chest, and hopefully be a bit of an icebreaker if anyone thought to ask about it. I was nervous. Very nervous. I went to bed earlier than usual the night before, having printed up my parking pass and written out directions. And yet, and yet, somehow I still managed to get out the door late. I wanted to look cute, mature, professional. How to pull that off on a Saturday morning? And why the pressure? Because I was testing out my desire to do this for real, to go back to school full time with the goal of becoming a chef.
I drove at breakneck speed across the state line and into the city of Providence, onto the campus of Johnson & Wales University (JWU). Scrambling across the frozen tundra of campus quad, I headed for the building marked The Friedman Center which turned out to be locked and the wrong building since I was supposed to be in The David Friedman Center, which is entirely different, of course. By the time a very handsome chef-instructor let me into the kitchen classroom, I was 25 minutes late. I had missed all of the lecture portion except the tail end of why not to buy pre-brined meat (sold by weight so you're getting less meat and more water, and the meat will not absorb whatever seasoning you use because it's already bloated).
Stopping at the first work station with an open spot, I glanced up to find I'd be cooking with two men, each in their early 40's, give or take. One had taken several classes at JWU and the other was a newbie like me. As we put on our 12-inch tall paper chef hats and covered the small talk essentials, the head chef and his assistants brought recipes along with a sheet pan covered in the ingredients each team would need to each station. Together, Louis (RI corrections officer for 19 years), Bob (screen-printing business owner) and I made Wanton-Tang, Fried Spring Rolls, and a Flank Steak and Pepper Stir-Fry. The chefs wove between cooking stations, correcting students' techniques and encouraging them to deviate from the recipes. The woman at the workbench behind me had gone for the show-off dish... she started with a whole fish, gutted and seasoned it and then fried it up, taking care that the heat didn't get too high and make the fish eyeballs burst.
As we started to wind up our recipes, the chefs started bustling even faster about the kitchen and into the dining room, setting up a buffet of our dishes. I settled down at a table with my cooking partners and we sampled the nine or ten dishes that had been prepared that morning. My mouth salivates now, thinking of the spicy mushroom soup made with a shrimp and chicken stock, the rice-coated fried shrimp and more. I wouldn't say I drew a full conclusion about my fitness to attend JWU for credit, but I did have a delightful time of getting to know the kitchen-classroom setup and cooking with others as passionate about doing so as I am. A particular delight was talking briefly to the high school senior boy who is earnestly trying to decide if he's culinary school-bound in the fall. But I'll keep you posted as I work through the decision myself!
