advance. Here, classic French food was served à la carte, finished and
served off gueridons by amusingly inept students. Our skipper, the
mighty septuagenarian Chef Bernard, had, it was rumored, actually
worked with Escoffier himself. His name was mentioned only in
whispers; students were aware of his unseen presence for months before
entering his kitchen.
"Wait till 'E Room'," went the ominous refrain, "Bernard's gonna have
your ass for breakfast."
Needless to say, the pressure, the fear and the anticipation in the weeks
before Escoffier Room were palpable.
It was an open kitchen. A large window allowed customers to watch the
fearsome chef as he lined up his charges for inspection, assigned the
day's work stations, reviewed the crimes and horrors and
disappointments of the previous night's efforts. This was a terrifying
moment, as we all dreaded the soufflé station, the one station where one
was assured of drawing the full weight of Chef Bernard's wrath and
displeasure. The likelihood of a screw up was highest here, too. It was
certain that at least one of your à la minute soufflés would, under real
working conditions, fail to rise, rise unevenly, collapse in on itself—in
some way fail to meet our leader's exacting standards. Students would
actually tremble with fear before line-up and work assignments, praying,
"Not me, Lord. Not today . . . please, not the soufflé station."
If you screwed up, you'd get what was called the "ten minutes". In full
view of the gawking public and quavering comrades, the offending
soufflé cook would be called forward to stand at attention while the
intimidating old French master would look down his Gallic shnozz and
unload the most withering barrage of scorn any of us had ever
experienced.
"You are a shit chef!" he would bellow. "I make two cook like you in the