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“I’m afraid not. I’m still trying to work out if this conversation is really happening or not. How’d you get this number?”
He chuckles. “Fair enough. Listen, a friend of mine sent me a portfolio for you. Photos of meals you’ve concepted and cooked. I have to say, I was impressed. You’ve had no formal training, is that right?”
“That’s right,” I answer, still feeling a beat behind and off-footed in this conversation.
“Then I’m even more impressed. Can you come in this morning?”
I’m out of bed and pacing, unable to contain the nervous energy. “For what?”
“A try out. I want to see what you can do. It’s my understanding that you have a full-time job you’re committed to, but cooking is a passion. You can’t just ignore it, especially if you have natural talent. Come in and show me what you’ve got. We can talk from there about what I can offer you if you’re interested.”
“Is this a prank?”
He laughs outright now. “No.”
“Who sent you my portfolio?” I don’t have an actual portfolio so whoever sent him my info must have cobbled together a few random pictures and sent that. But why?
“That question is irrelevant if you’re staying home. You coming in or not?”
I don’t even take a moment to think about it.
“I’ll be there in an hour.”
Exactly an hour later, I walk into the darkened restaurant and back towards the kitchen. It won’t open for a few more hours so it’s completely absent of staff milling about and preparing for the night.
In the back I find who I assume is Luca in an all black chef’s outfit, doing food prep. It’s rare to see a head chef doing his own prep instead of handing it over to a prep cook and it seems to speak to his character. Across the island from him are another set of knives and a cutting board.
He lifts his head when he hears me come in and looks at me. “Novak?”
“Tristan,” I correct. The last thing I want is my fake identity associated with this.
He wipes his hands on the apron at his waist and walks up to me, dapping me up. “I’m Luca.” He turns, pointing at the cutting board. “Why don’t you get set up there and help me prep. I want to see your knife work.”
I pick up the utility knife amongst the set, running my thumb over the sharpened edge. These are top of the line and similar to the ones our chefs had access to back home.
Luca hands me an onion and two cucumbers and I get to work, quietly chopping under his watchful eye. When I’m done, I nudge the cutting board forward between us.
He nods and tips his chin at another station where bowls and a few ingredients are laid out.
“Do you know the French mother sauces?”
“Yeah. The velouté isn’t my specialty.”
He nods again. “Okay, go ahead and make me a béchamel and a hollandaise.”
Pure adrenaline and excitement electrify me as I move over to the other station. I’m trying to tamp it down, to mitigate my hopes since I don’t know what the outcome will be even if I nail these two sauces. But I’m galvanized more in this one morning than I have been in four months of teaching at RCA.
When I’m done, Luca leans over and dips the back of the spoon in the béchamel. He tastes it, looking at me thoughtfully before going back for a second pass. Then, he moves on to the hollandaise.
Finally, he puts his spoon down and looks at me, giving me yet another nod, this time more decisively. That nod pulls a pleased smirk out of me.
“Not bad at all. You have raw skill, lots of it if this is what you can whip up without having trained under anyone. I have just one more thing I want you to try – you ever made fresh pasta?”
My smirk widens. “A couple times.”
“Make me some, whatever kind you want.” He tilts his head to the right and my eyes follow the motion. “Pantry’s that way.”
I head in and come back with all the ingredients I need for egg yolk ravioli. It’s what our chef was teaching me how to make that fateful day when my father caught me, so there’s poetic justice in making it now, in these circumstances.
