As the class settles into its comfort zone, the gloves are off.
We spend the first week of each new class gradually breaking in our chef instructor. We give the instructor ample time to prepare. We allow the instructor the opportunity to buffer his or herself against the onslaught that inevitably comes. We construct a thin veneer of professionalism that cracks and finally comes apart.
Back in skills, it took some time for our worst traits to surface, but surface they did. In butchery, it was two weeks before we loosed our ravages. In garde manger, the pretense was discarded almost from the time we stepped into the kitchen. Now in baking and pastry, we've saved Chef Susan from the worst of our behavior until now.
Before I continue, I want to reinforce that we are a strong class. We get shit done and, by and large, we do it well. Every instructor we've encountered has mentioned our cohesiveness and our production. We are an advanced bunch and, to a man, we work together.
That said, we are a mean gang of teenagers hyped up on ego. In class, the profanity can get downright nasty in a blink. It's all in fun, and it's rare that anyone gets bent out of shape, though that gives the impression that anyone cares if someone gets bent out of shape.
Overt, loud, crass jokes regarding sex, religious affiliation, political slant, whatever, are all fair game. By way of example:
Zach (Jewish, 23, hysterically good sport): "Chef, can we flavor the butter creams with something other than vanilla?"
Chef: "Such as."
Loud voice from the back: "Something Jewish?"
Class falls apart.
The Jewish jokes have become so common place that Zach has taken to using a star of david to mark his product rather than his name. Red calls Zach Hebro.
One student brought in a car magazine that had a number of fleshy centerfolds tucked into its pages. During yesterday's lecture, Jason, sitting at the front of the class, placed the magazine, opened to a particularly risque pose, in such a way that Chef Susan could not see it, but the entire class could. The laughter was barely contained as Jason would turn to the back row crowd and make a lewd gesture, cock and eyebrow, then return his attention to pasty creams and cake.
I really can't in good conscience post the worst of our conversations, but they invariably focus on the sexual nature of food and man.
We are children with knives. We are either the culinary world's future worst nightmare or I'll be horribly disappointed.
This week we have slogged through chiffons and butter cream frostings. It's gone well, though my inexperience with baking is showing. I'm putting out decent product, and I've no doubt I'll maintain my 4.0, but I wish I had a bit more time to refine the techniques in school rather than at home.
Today is our final. Friday is a free day. We'll be responsible for production - we'll be making cookies - but I fear for Chef Susan. We are already out of control. Given a day that won't be graded, all hell could break loose. It should be a blast.
We spend the first week of each new class gradually breaking in our chef instructor. We give the instructor ample time to prepare. We allow the instructor the opportunity to buffer his or herself against the onslaught that inevitably comes. We construct a thin veneer of professionalism that cracks and finally comes apart.
Back in skills, it took some time for our worst traits to surface, but surface they did. In butchery, it was two weeks before we loosed our ravages. In garde manger, the pretense was discarded almost from the time we stepped into the kitchen. Now in baking and pastry, we've saved Chef Susan from the worst of our behavior until now.
Before I continue, I want to reinforce that we are a strong class. We get shit done and, by and large, we do it well. Every instructor we've encountered has mentioned our cohesiveness and our production. We are an advanced bunch and, to a man, we work together.
That said, we are a mean gang of teenagers hyped up on ego. In class, the profanity can get downright nasty in a blink. It's all in fun, and it's rare that anyone gets bent out of shape, though that gives the impression that anyone cares if someone gets bent out of shape.
Overt, loud, crass jokes regarding sex, religious affiliation, political slant, whatever, are all fair game. By way of example:
Zach (Jewish, 23, hysterically good sport): "Chef, can we flavor the butter creams with something other than vanilla?"
Chef: "Such as."
Loud voice from the back: "Something Jewish?"
Class falls apart.
The Jewish jokes have become so common place that Zach has taken to using a star of david to mark his product rather than his name. Red calls Zach Hebro.
One student brought in a car magazine that had a number of fleshy centerfolds tucked into its pages. During yesterday's lecture, Jason, sitting at the front of the class, placed the magazine, opened to a particularly risque pose, in such a way that Chef Susan could not see it, but the entire class could. The laughter was barely contained as Jason would turn to the back row crowd and make a lewd gesture, cock and eyebrow, then return his attention to pasty creams and cake.
I really can't in good conscience post the worst of our conversations, but they invariably focus on the sexual nature of food and man.
We are children with knives. We are either the culinary world's future worst nightmare or I'll be horribly disappointed.
This week we have slogged through chiffons and butter cream frostings. It's gone well, though my inexperience with baking is showing. I'm putting out decent product, and I've no doubt I'll maintain my 4.0, but I wish I had a bit more time to refine the techniques in school rather than at home.
Today is our final. Friday is a free day. We'll be responsible for production - we'll be making cookies - but I fear for Chef Susan. We are already out of control. Given a day that won't be graded, all hell could break loose. It should be a blast.
