I finally got to try Sawarto’s curry! He made curry the first week of basic, and I missed it. People have talked about it ever since, and I have been dying for it. Yesterday, his entire practical group only used half of their tenderloin, and gave the rest to him. He proceeded to use the three kilos of gorgeous beef to make an Indonesian beef and potato curry, Chinese black pepper beef, and a chicken and asparagus stir-fry. All the meat and produce had been pilfered from the baskets at school (except the chicken, which I was thrilled to provide). I know that taking food from the school was wrong, and that if anyone attempts this in the workplace it is certain to result in termination, but sweet Lord, that was some good food, and a more proper destination for that beautiful meat than being poached. Jen made garlic noodles, too, and they were the perfect accompaniment to cut the heat in the curry.

I wanted to take a picture of the fruits of Sawarto’s labor, the tender meat, the colorful veggies, and the glossy sauces, but as soon as that stuff hit the table, it was gone. No one could get a shot of anything. It was some of the best food I’ve ever had, no joke. The beef was so tender it melted. You could taste every ingredient he used. I expect big things from him in the future.

So many perfect things just got ruined today, and I’m pretty disappointed about it. I didn’t have class until 3 today, so I decided to take full advantage of a gorgeous morning. I went to St. Germain to the Village Voice bookstore and bought lots of books and a New Yorker. I then went for a complete indulgence and ducked into the Starbucks around the corner. I took my foo-foo, completely un-French coffee to the tiny tables that line the sidewalk outside. It’s essentially like sitting on top of whoever sits next to you, the tables all touch. Nonetheless, I was in heaven drinking my latte and reading the New Yorker, which had an article by David Sedaris, to my sheer delirium. Then the lady sitting next to me ruined everything by getting up and abandoning her half-eaten muffin on the table next to mine. Within seconds, five angry pigeons swooped in and began fighting each other for the leftovers. I tried to shoo them away, but they wouldn’t be deterred. Is it really so hard to throw the muffin stump away? I hate pigeons, all birds, really, and that just ruined my morning.

So then I went to school and we were going to make boeuf à la ficelle. The chef took out a beautiful beef tenderloin and lovingly cut it into filets. He then proceeded to poach them in consommé (diluted beef broth) along with all the vegetable sides. Nothing is more disappointing than watching a gorgeous, red-marbled piece of beef go grey in urine-colored broth. I almost cried. In their defense, it was very tender and we made a nice sauce, but poaching steaks? Wrong. Just plain wrong.

Today was a long day in the kitchen. This morning in pastry, we made fig shortbread with a pistachio crème anglaise and this chocolate wafer thing that the chef deemed a “cocoa arabesque.” This lesson and the last one we did are the Cordon Bleu’s pastry department’s so-called plated dessert portion. I am very used to plating cuisine items, but I am green with desserts. I wasn’t terribly pleased with my plate and I don’t think the chef was either, but he didn’t have anything too negative to say. P.S. Don’t expect me to make fig shortbread for you anytime soon…it’s not very good.

In cuisine, were made lobster with risotto, zucchini blossoms, and vanilla-scented fennel purée. I am a huge fan of vanilla in savory dishes- it’s a really great contrast to pork, grains, and, as I now know, fennel. My plate is a little busy and a little messy. We had the new chef. He’s come from the Ottawa school, and he has an ego the size of Canada. I really dislike him. To make a hectic practical even worse, Canada chef had a photographer following him today. Our kitchens are not very big to begin with, and a cameraman trying to get a good shot is a huge liability. I resisted the urge to burn him every time he invaded my station. I got through okay, but I am hoping not to have this chef a lot. He searches for little things to criticize instead of being helpful or constructive. For example, he dug through my bowl of brunoised (tiny cubes) zucchini for a full minute until he found three pieces that were not exactly the same size. “They need to be regular,” he said.

Oui Chef.

Kobi had ten of us over to his gorgeous Marais apartment for an Isreali lunch. It was such awesome food- and all of it is stuff kids would eat and that I could easily teach them to make. I have been promised more lessons, since the only one I got was rolling and frying falafel. Some of the best cooking I’ve seen in the past six months has been in my friend’s kitchens. What amazingly creative people. They all claim it’s just what they eat everyday at home. I want to eat at their homes all the time.

Kobi’s only error was asking Michael to pick up bread on his way. The he found the pictured bread and couldn’t pass it up. Got to love the Marais!

Example of bad French service:
I was having lunch with friends on a beautiful sunny day on Ile St. Louis, a decidedly touristy area. We got our food and I reached for the ketchup. I began to loosen the cap and it shot off the bottle and ketchup sprayed all over me and the lady sitting at the table next to me. We were both in complete shock. I kept apologizing and she said it was no big deal, but then the waiter came over and made a big fuss over her. He brought her water and a cloth napkin (she was wearing all black) and made sure she was okay. Did she need a new plate? A new drink? He walked right past me and my ketchup splayed turquoise sweater. Did I mention she was French? I had to ask for more napkins, which were tossed on the table and I never received one word of concern from the staff. Hurumph.

Example of funny French service:
My friend Shannon was having lunch alone in the Marais, the Jewish/gay neighborhood, at restaurant that was wall-to-wall male couples. Her server kept chatting with her and asked where she was from. When he found out she was from the States, he said, “Oh, my name is Geronimo, like your Indian chief!” When she asked for the check, he said she couldn’t leave. When she asked why he replied, “You can’t leave me alone with all these men!” Now, I’m thinking that is a pretty good line. I would fall for that one. Shannon stayed and when she did get her bill, it had a blank sheet of paper with it, to write him a note so he wouldn’t be “lonely.”

Could you date someone named “Geronimo?” Think of the bedroom complications…

I’ve been a bad blogger, I know. I’m going to try to get back on the horse. The World Cup and a sudden heat wave in Paris zapped my motivation. Here’s my update:

1) I feel like I’m in basic all over again. It’s not that were doing anything difficult, but I am in a slump. I haven’t been happy with anything that I’ve made since the first week. I turned macaroons in to brownies yesterday (they are not at all similar, I have no idea what went wrong short of a magical elf intervention in the oven). I am hoping that this turns around. Today.

2) I am a fan of World Cup soccer. It is so much fun to watch and even more fun to watch in a pub, surrounded by other LCB students from around the world. I have my eye on Brazil (duh), Germany, and England. I’d love to think that the home team was going to make a showing, but it’s pretty dubious at this point.

3) I’m addicted to cherries. I eat about 500g (that 1 lb to you and me) a day. They are crisp, tart, and sweet all at the same time. Somehow here they are so much better than at home.

4) I dreamed last night that we got our “panier” for the Cuisine final. For Superior cuisine, they give you a basket with certain items in it and you create a dish based on these ingredients and certain parameters. I dreamed that my class’s panier contained hot dogs, buns, nacho cheese, all the makings for chili (except chili powder) and popcorn. In the dream, I was panicked because a) how was I to make chili without chili powder and b) of course this basket screamed chilidog, but then everyone else was going to make the same thing.

I’ve never eaten a chilidog in my life. How disgusting can a food get?

Saturday class sucks no matter how you look at it. I was trying to be as positive as possible on my way to school today, thinking at least I get this practical over with, and I can sleep in with a clear mind on Monday morning. As I turned the corner to school, I noticed that there were quite a few people standing outside, more than the usual smokers. The school was still locked up. This was not concerning to me, as I come early, but then I noticed that many of the chefs were standing outside too. Then I saw the reception staff. What the hell was going on? I was chatting with my assistant friends, and they asked the chefs, “Who has the keys?” Here’s how fucked up things are in France: the cleaning guy, hired from an outside company, has the key. The director also has one, but she wasn’t answering the phone. Two people in the whole school have keys. I understand not giving out a lot of keys, but that’s ridiculous. Here’s the next ridiculous part: the cleaning guy didn’t show up until 9:15. Class starts at 8:30, and most people are there by 8. I did have a momentary excited feeling, like a school kid who thinks that they can go home if the teacher is more than 10 minutes late for class. The stupid part is, I waited. Why am I so obedient? The other stupid part is that almost no one showed up to class from my group. Panos and I were the only two from our group of eight at school before 8:30. Two others ended up coming, but there were a lot of no shows. Four people skipped class today, which made it a lot easier to work. The chef was really nice to us: he brought us coffee and filleted the fish for us to make up for the lost 45 minuets. The recipe was not wonderful, though, so I still wonder, why did I stay? Next time, I’m leaving.

Have they gone soft in pastry? They used to be the biggest bastards, pulling out all the stops to make everything complicated and miserable. We were all sure that Superior would be the worst. Today, were made a chocolate tart topped with fresh raspberries. A blind baked pâte sablé, a demi-cuit chocolate filling (melted chocolate, melted butter, sugar, eggs), and fresh berries. Where was the whisking egg whites by hand? The setting four mousses in 80-degree heat? The screaming? The tears? What’s gone wrong in the world?

There was also a cuisine demo where they made the most expensive appetizer know to man, and were talking expensive pocket book and calorie-wise. My ass spread just watching it being made. The chef took fresh fois gras, chopped it up, and blended it with eggs, cream, and milk. He baked this heart-attack-in-liquid-form and called it a flan. He served in with blanched asparagus and a morel mushroom cream sauce. Asparagus, morels, and fois gras. Eggs, cream, and fois gras. Talk about your triple whammies.

Cuisine has become exciting! Today we had two cuisine practical, and they were both great dishes, dishes that I would eat and/or serve in a restaurant. Is this an indication that the end is near and that the real world looms ahead? Gulp!

The first dish we made today, as indicated by the photo was a John Dory fillet (one of my favorite fishes) pan seared with tandori spices. It was served with mango/papaya wild rice and sautéed spinach. The sauce was a blend of Indian spices, exotic fruit and fish stock. I was proud of my sauce to begin with, and then the chef saw it before I even had plated anything and said, “Your sauce is perfect.” Chefs rarely dole out compliments like that before plating, and this chef was a saucier (sauce chef). They are the pickiest about sauces, so I was ecstatic. Hooray for yummy fish with actual flavor beyond butter and cream!

Secondly, we made lamb chops with a ham, mushroom, and truffle crust. The crust was held together with a mornay (thicker than béchamel) sauce and was good enough to eat alone. The sides were roasted green bean bundles held together with bacon, and artichoke chips. Artichoke chips are my new secret weapon- they are so good, they’ll make you weak in the knees. I would tell you how to do them, but then where would my weapon be?

They are easing us back into the routine. Our first cake is the Baba au Rhum, a bread-like cake that is soaked in citrus syrup and then filled with pastry cream. I put about 1/8 of the required rum because the rum at school is an instant hangover kind of bad. It’s not my best use of a piping bag, but it’ll do.

Now in Superior, no translations are provided. This doesn’t seem to be a problem yet, but I can tell it will be for a few people, who really don’t speak ANY French. I decided that I need to concentrate in class and I ain’t translating shit for nobody, bitches! Frankly, I know these non-French speaking people and I don’t feel bad for them. Not to be a bitch myself, but, hey, you’ve been in France for six months people, if you needed to take a lesson or two, you should have. I have endless admiration for this guy Sawarto from Singapore. He got here and he didn’t speak word one of French and he also seemed pretty inept at interpreting body language and mime. He’s been taking lessons, and now he is understanding 100% and even asking his own questions in French. Way to be motivated, my friend. I wish they had ditched the translations at the beginning of intermediate; it may have weeded out some bad apples.