Fresh Meat: Cooking School (or Culinary Arts School if You Want to be Fancy) in a Nutshell

THIS BLOG IS RATED R FOR ADULT LANGUAGE

The uniform is hideous. Black and white hounds tooth MC Hammer pants, an immense chef's jacket, an immense apron, the most horrific black shoes ever made (very orthopedic), dish cloths attached to my waist, oh and a snazzy little bucket cap that makes me look like a penis. The petite Asian man that sold me this terrifying creation assured me that "my husband will be so happy I can coooook!" great because that's exactly why I'm doing it! How did you know??? When I first put the outfit on I cried. When I showed my friends they laughed until they cried. I was not off to a good start.

I had a horrible pit in my stomach all day because I was so nervous - so nervous I couldn't eat! A decision that would lead to very maladroit situation...

I show up, sign in, and hope that we get to have orientation in our street clothes so that my fellow classmates can see that I really am stylish and fabulous and that the uniform does not reflect my fashion sense… But no. After I signed in and was given my books I was told to go change into my uniform and go to the classroom.

So I’m lugging all this shit around and I can't find my locker and have to keep squeezing by all these people with my two huge bags filled with supplies, books, and my hideous uniform and its just really awkward because... guess what... I was in the men’s locker room! It didn't have a door nor was it labeled so how the fuck was I supposed to know! Finally a nice little man asked me if I was having trouble finding my locker and explained to me why that was... He points me in the right direction and apparently my locker is in the women's bathroom. But the door has a code and I can't get in. To make matters worse I had abandoned my bags in the men's locker room because they were too heavy and everything was turning into a big clusterfuck.

I stand there knocking on the bathroom door awkwardly until someone lets me in. The code is 673 and my locker code is 9387 and the room number is 1937373 and my student I.D number is 5427573569 and my class number is 2938842307746 and everyone says this so nonchalantly and I have no fucking clue how to remember it all. At this point I’m really sweaty and uncomfortable and wondering what the hell I was thinking. I change into my hideous uniform and it dawns on me; the uniform is the least of my problems.

I awkwardly wait in the hallway outside of the classroom and try to introduce myself to people but I feel really short in my shoes and generally uncomfortable and heinous and insecure. The older students call us fresh meat (great pun... NOT) and I get more nervous. I make three friends in my class though; two guys both named Mike, one who used to be the food manager of all the Starbucks in New York but just quit to go to school, and the other works in a psychiatric ward in New Jersey. Seriously.

We get settled in the classroom and meet the teacher, Chef James - a very handsome guy from Alabama who was a chef at Daniel before deciding to teach. I feel really short. I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the window and think about how that fucking hat is ruining my life. I cross my legs but the MC Hammer pants go up and I see my thick white socks sticking out of my pleather nurse shoes and feel like a Staten Island commuter (think "Working Girl").

The admissions guy comes in and talks for 2 hours about the hideous uniform, attendance, and other things I don't remember. I zone out. There is no break and I am seriously considering peeing my pants. He says nail polish is not allowed, and stares at me. He says hair must be "COM-PLE-TE-LY" under the hat and stares at me. He says jewelry is not allowed and stares at me. He says “CURSING WILL NOT BE TOLERATED!” and I stare at myself because I know this will be a problem... Oh and talking back is means for suspension - isn't that crazy? I'm going to need a muzzle.

Then Chef James gives his whole shpeal about ‘bama and we go around the table introducing ourselves. This is about when I decide to never complain again (in class that is, you guys will still hear it), because everyone has it harder - much harder - than me. The psych ward guy works 10 hours then commutes to school from Jersey, this other lady has the breakfast shift at a restaurant and works 4am-4pm in Queens then comes to school. Four of the twelve students were work-study students; this means that they had to work at the school for 3 hours for every hour of class they want to take. Four hours of class a day x four days a week x three hours of work = a shit load of working to take the class and I feel guilty. And short.

I prepare a speech in my head about how I love and respect food and want to know everything about it and then when its my turn I flub up and forget what I planned and spew out something about Creole cuisine? To be honest, I really have no idea what I said. Then I say I'm a Production Coordinator over here in food land and I feel so fucking thankful that I got that promotion on Friday because now I have a fancy sounding title. My stomach keeps growling and I look really dumb. And short.

Then we get our crap. Tons and tons and tons of beautiful supplies - bags and boxes and knife rolls of supplies. When Chef James is handing me my thingamajig-who-the-fuck-knows-what-it-is he sees my hands and says, "no nail polish!" yeah, I got that already but I can't talk back, remember? He tells us we have to label every piece of equipment with our name and that nothing stays on them except for nail polish. OK so no nail polish on my nails, but nail polish on my knives is fine. Wait isn't nail polish FLAMMABLE??? They're trying to kill me already and it’s only day one.

I don't really know what happened after that, it’s all a blur. But I know we ended the class with a tour of the other classrooms, you know, rooms 9756074650238 - 0873607865076 remember that because modules 9650765 will be held in room 87368172356... We end up in a class with students that are about to graduate and they show us this incredible array of food - really beautiful stuff. They each present what they made and even though it looks perfect to me, it goes something like this:

Cute little man student that helped me find my locker: "here we have mint parpadelle with a lamb ragu"
Mean man with big hat: "AND WHAT'S WRONG WITH IT????"
Cute little man student that helped me find my locker: "uhhh... but the carrots aren't chopped small enough..."
Mean man with big hat: "ANDDDDDD??????"
Cute little man student that helped me find my locker: "and uhhh..."
Mean man with big hat: "SPEAK UP, YOU'RE SMALL. NO ONE CAN HEAR YOU!!!!"
I feel really, really short.

Then we're all supposed to try what they made and even though I don't want to eat lamb or veal or any baby animals or intestinal weird shit like that, I give myself a big scoop of sweetbreads and the lamb because… well because I’m terrified of the man with the big hat. You're eating BRAINNNNNN and little innocent LAMBBBBBB.

I change and walk home, lugging all my shit in 4 inch heels and the fucking tool box that weighs as much as Star Jones pre-bypass keeps hitting my leg and leaves a tiny scratch on my new boots and I stand on the street cursing to myself. It’s really reassuring that it's only been a day and I have already started to go totally loco.

I stay up for an hour carefully painting my name onto 9746507456027436203 items and then look at my syllabus. Oh great! I have 20, yes 20, chapters to read by tomorrow!

Anyway, it was pretty terrifying but I know it will be a fun experience overall once I get into the grove of things. Plus I get to carry around this huge knife kit which makes me feel very important. I want someone to try to mug me. I don't think so pal! Wait a second, hold my immense bag of spoons while I open up my knife kit and take off the blade guard and then cut you up!!! Julienned of course...