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The school was tucked away on a small street in Little Italy. Its entrance was wedged in between restaurants that both promised the "Best Brick Oven Pizza in New York." I opened the door and gave my name to the receptionist, and it wasn't long before I was called through into the training kitchen.
When I opened the door, I gasped. Spotless swathes of stainless steel gleamed in the light from large windows. There must have been space for at least thirty trainees here, but I knew that today there would only be a few of us sharing the space. It was everything I’d dreamed of, and yet it was completely unfamiliar, all at once.
"Welcome, Miss O'Neil." A woman in chef's whites approached me with a clipboard. "I'm Martha. I’ll be tasting your food and interviewing you today along with two other colleagues. Let me show you to your station."
"Great to meet you," I offered, shaking Martha's hand and hoping that my own wasn’t too sweaty.
We walked past three other potential students who were already prepping their ingredients. They looked so young, fresh-faced, and eager. I couldn't help feeling a little self-conscious. I was definitely the oldest person in the room. Plus, they all looked so determined. Was I determined enough?
"Here you are," Martha said, gesturing to the last empty station. "Now, I note that you haven't requested any specialist equipment or ingredients today. Is that still the case?"
I nodded.
"Excellent. Let me show you the ovens and the burners."
I tried my best to focus as she explained the controls of the ovens. They were similar to the ones I'd used at The Tortoise, but they had a few extra functions, like a steam setting to improve the crustiness of loaves, and a maximum temperature of up to eight hundred degrees.
"Any questions?" Martha asked.
"No. I'm good to go," I said, swallowing the lump in my throat.
“Great,” Martha replied. “By the way, the judges will be watching you while you work in the kitchen. Try not to worry about that—just do your thing.”
Do my thing.
The sounds of chopping knives and whirring mixers filled the room as I began to prepare my equipment and ingredients. I focused on each task, letting the familiar motions ground me. My hands knew what to do—they had done this countless times before.
But what exactly was my thing? I wasn’t sure anymore.
I wondered if Cole was thinking of me right now. Whether he was nervous for me. He probably wanted me to do well so that I'd get out of his life. After all, I was a silly kid to him. Ten years younger, and a distraction from the actual important things in his life.
As I thought about this, I started to feel stronger. This was my best chance at happiness. Maybe my only chance.
"All right, let's do this," I whispered to myself, rolling up my sleeves.
***
The three-hour bake-a-thon flew by in a whirlwind of chopping, cooking, sieving, rolling, and mixing. Everything went according to plan, more or less. All that remained was the riskiest part of the process: the flip.
I rested my hands on the edge of the tarte Tatin's pie dish.
"Come on, El, you've done this a million times," I muttered under my breath. I gripped the dish and prepared myself.
Nearby, a mustachioed interviewer watched me impassively, his pen poised to jot down notes. The scrutiny was seriously off-putting.
"Time's almost up!" called the head judge from across the room.
"Now or never," I whispered, praying the tarte had cooled enough. With all the confidence I could muster, I turned the dish over quickly, then tapped the bottom with my wooden spoon. It felt good, as though the sticky apples were pulling away from the tin.
Thank God!
When I removed the tin, the heavenly scent of caramelized apples filled the air. The crust looked crisp and the apples looked just caramelized enough. I glanced over at my other dessert. The deconstructed cotton candy cheesecake certainly looked a lot more modern and fancy than the tarte. I hoped that both items presented together showed the two different skills I was capable of: classic technique versus imagination.
I felt my pulse pounding in my temple as I adjusted the plate, wiping away a trickle of stray caramel.
The three judges hovered nearby, noisily scribbling down notes in their little red books, making me feel like an experiment under observation.
"All right,” I said with a deep breath, “I’m ready for evaluation.” With trembling hands, I placed the cotton candy cheesecake next to the tarte, silently praying that they would both be well-received.
