Parfait Paris

Je t’aime might be the best-known phrase associated with Paris. But I will forever associate the phrase, Depechez-vous! with the city.

I spent two summers (and one winter) in Paris while training in the pastry kitchens of Le Cordon Bleu. So very posh and adventurous, right? But the reality was I had my eye on the clock every minute of the six months I was there. It was not a second-honeymoon vacation with my husband, nor was it a spirit-replenishing sabbatical. This was work—an 8 a.m. to 9 p.m. job—and stressful work at that.

Every minute I was at Le Cordon Bleu, I felt a sense of urgency, and a self-imposed pressure to measure up to the other students at the school. (All at least 10 years younger than I.) But in the Le Cordon Bleu kitchens there was a steady stream of “motivation” supplied by our chef-instructors, who periodically bellowed: Depechez-vous! Hurry Up!

So hurry I did! Every waking moment. 

Mornings in my apartment on Rue des Plantes, I’d gather my uniform and tools, sling my bag over my shoulder and hurry to Rue d’Alesia to catch the bus. At the bus stop, I’d have a moment to glance inside the Sonia Rykiel outlet—its chic mannequins teasing, reminding me I wasn’t in Paris to window shop—then I’d board the bus. After a short ride and a hustle down the skinny rues of the Vaugirard neighborhood, I’d arrive at the school, already sweaty at 7:30 a.m.

With a rushed “Bonjour!” to the concierge at the lobby entrance, I’d open the door to the women’s locker room, and launch myself into the sea of bodies, chef’s bags, uniforms, and mousse cakes in plastic take-away containers. Any student who has been to Le Cordon Bleu on Rue Leon Delhomme knows exactly what I mean. I imagine this is what being at Woodstock was like. Nudity. Sweat. Body Odor. As I crowd-surfed my way to my locker, every body around me was in some state of getting dressed or undressed. All of us were sticky and sweaty from three hours in the convection-oven-heat of the practical kitchens or from our commutes to the school through the steamy metros and rues of Paris. As if the visceral assault on my senses weren’t enough, the aural assault hit my ears like a first-year translator to the U.N. Russian and German. Australian-, Hong Kong-, and Hindi-accented English. Taiwanese, Mandarin, and Cantonese. Spanish, Portuguese, and Italian. Greek and Turkish. Ironically, no one spoke French. It didn’t matter what language they spoke, the content of the conversation was the same: debriefing what happened in the practical kitchens. “My genoise didn’t rise!” “My mousse didn’t set!” Occasionally, the locker room sounded like a sorority house bathroom with stories of clubs and dancing and les garçons. Far from my 20s, I marveled at the energy reserves these 19- and 20-year-olds had to hop from bar-to-bar and club-to-club all night, then hand-whip 200g of egg whites and sugar into a stiff meringue at 8 a.m. the next morning! 

Propelling myself out of the locker room, now wearing my chef’s clogs, houndstooth pants, crisp white chef’s coat, knotted neckerchief, and student cap and badge, I’d hurry to the oddly named “Winter Garden.” (It was summer and there were no plants in it save the garnish on the cuisine student’s plates.) Here I’d watch the clock with the other students, as we waited to enter the demonstration kitchen for our next “lesson.” The rush to be first in line ensured a front row seat. Given only a list of ingredients in French and English, I would furiously take notes as the chef instructor demonstrated the method to combine those ingredients. It never ceased to amaze me how flour, butter, sugar, and eggs could combine in limitless ways to produce an entire oeuvre of pastry.

After demonstration, I’d run up the stairs to the hallway outside one of the practical kitchens, then wait until the chef instructor gave us permission to enter. Each kitchen had only ten stations—some better than others—so I’d always try to get an end spot, closest to the sink and range, with extra elbow room. A last-minute uniform check: student badge and tasting spoons on sleeve pocket. The chef would call out, “Allons-y!” and we would race to our desired stations.

Once at my station, I’d hurry to unpack my kit—digital scale, whisk, or piping tips—and to gather stainless steel mixing bowls, rolling pin, or piping bags as the method required. I watched the time as I measured ingredients. Checked the time as I slid my baking sheet in the oven. Checked the time as I cleaned up. “It’s time,” Chef would announce as our trays were pulled out of the oven. In the final moments of class, we all raced to make the best presentation of our gateaux to the chef, who would comment, cut, sometimes taste, before announcing your marks. If you were really fast and really distinguished yourself from the others, you might get a “pas mal” from the Chef. I once was told my caramel bonbons were “trés bon” by the most demanding chef instructor. (The emotional high of that achievement is still with me to this day.) Three hours to make a cake, but only seconds to unceremoniously plop it into your take away container before you race to the next demonstration lesson or the locker room, if it was break time.

I’d run to catch the bus to go home for lunch or dinner, then back again to play gladiator in the locker rooms, hallways, and kitchens of Le Cordon Bleu. Around nine in the evening, I’d be back in street clothes, on the bus heading back to my apartment to have a late dinner with my husband. Sometimes dinner was an entire mousse cake. I’d rewash the tools in my kit or look over the next day’s lessons. Even in the unhurried calm of my nighttime apartment, I’d still watch the time, and calculate how much sleep I’d get before waking up and doing it all over again.

These days, when I work in my own kitchen, I work quickly, but the time is my own. I sometimes hear the chefs’ voices in my head: “Depechez-vous!” And I work a little faster. Here’s the rub: The next time I am in Paris, I won’t have to constantly watch the clock for fear of being late to class. I won’t have to pull sugar that is the temperature of molten lava (wearing only a pair of latex gloves) into delicate, satiny rose petals and ribbon curls. Nor will I ever again have to worry about being the class assistant when the chef’s demo has gone overtime on the one day my group is scheduled for a practical immediately afterward, and I need to assemble 25 ingredients from three different kitchens on three different floors in ten minutes by myself (because the other two assistants are les incompetents). And even though my days will be filled with nibbling macarons from Pierre Hermé, kissing my husband on a bench in the Luxembourg garden, sighing over Monet’s water lilies at l’Orangerie, or (finally) shopping at Sonia Rykiel’s outlet store, something will be missing. Something that made Paris parfait.