Matthews Story Pt 03 1

Chapter 7

Matthew had enrolled in the Dual Degree Culinary Arts program at ICE, a two year-long intensive course covering the basics of professional cooking. The first year was devoted to culinary art, the second year taught restaurant and culinary management. He approached it with the reverence of a pilgrim who had finally reached a sacred destination.

On his first day, Matthew arrived an hour early, having triple-checked his route the day before. He stood outside the gleaming glass building, smoothing the wrinkles from his new uniform--crisp white chef's coat with the ICE logo, checkered pants, and non-slip shoes purchased with part of his scholarship money. The knife roll tucked under his arm contained the basic set required by the school, each piece still shiny with newness.

Inside, the lobby buzzed with other first-year students, many chatting excitedly in small groups, comparing previous cooking experience or educational backgrounds. Matthew stood apart and watched silently, noting the diversity of his classmates--recent high school graduates like himself, middle-aged career changers, international students with accents from around the world. Despite their differences, they were united by the white uniforms and the excited energy that filled the space.

"Welcome to the Institute of Culinary Education," announced Chef Davidson, the program director, once they were seated in the lecture hall. A trim man in his fifties with salt-and-pepper hair and erect posture, he surveyed the group with experienced eyes. "Half of you won't be cooking professionally by this time next year. A quarter of those who remain will leave the industry within five years."

A murmur ran through the room. Matthew felt himself suddenly still, absorbing the statistics. Then thought:

That won't be me..

"This is not meant to discourage you," Chef Davidson continued. "It's meant to prepare you. The culinary world requires more than passion. It demands discipline, resilience and a willingness to start at the bottom and learn. If you possess these qualities along with s bit of actual talent, you might--might--build a successful career."

He consulted a tablet, then looked up with a slight smile. "Now, let's begin your education."

The first weeks were devoted to the basics--food safety, kitchen hierarchy, ingredient identification, and kitchen equipment. Matthew took notes with meticulous care, filling page after page with information that sometimes confirmed what he'd learned through experience and sometimes contradicted it.

On day, during a lecture on knife skills, Chef Lombardi, a compact Italian woman with forearms roped with muscle, noticed Matthew's intense focus.

"You," she said, pointing at him. "You've worked in kitchens before?"

Matthew nodded. "Yes, Chef."

"Come up here. Demonstrate your julienne."

Heart pounding, Matthew approached the demonstration table where a cutting board, a chef knife, and carrot awaited. The eyes of twenty-two classmates tracked him. He centered himself with a deep breath, recalling Mrs. Chen's patient instructions, Señora Vega's emphasis on precision.

Here we go papa.

The knife felt natural in his grip. He trimmed the carrot, squared off the sides, and began cutting thin, even matchsticks with a rhythmic efficiency born of practice. When he finished, Chef Lombardi examined his work critically.

"Good technique," she said finally. "But you're holding tension in your shoulders. The knife is an extension of your arm, not a separate tool. Relax the upper body, maintain control with the fingers." She demonstrated, her movements fluid and economical. "Again."

Matthew adjusted his posture and repeated the process, focusing on the connection between his body and the blade. The julienne was identical to his first attempt in size and consistency, but this time the work required less effort.

"Better," Chef Lombardi acknowledged. "Where did you train?"

"Various kitchens, Chef. A Chinese restaurant, a Mexican restaurant, a homeless shelter kitchen."

She nodded, her expression revealing nothing, but Matthew sensed approval in her brief "Back to your seat."

As the demonstration continued, the student beside him--a former software engineer named David who had left a lucrative career to pursue cooking--leaned over. "Holy crap, that was impressive," he whispered.

Matthew shrugged, unused to compliments from other students, but privately felt a small glow of satisfaction. Some of the fundamentals, at least, he had down pat.

The next several weeks introduced culinary math and food costing--areas where Matthew's natural aptitude for numbers gave him an advantage. The class worked through exercises on recipe scaling, yield percentages, and calculating food cost percentages. When Chef Roberts asked them to cost out a hypothetical menu item, Matthew's estimate came within pennies of the correct answer, earning him another moment of recognition.

"Mr. Conner has got it," Chef Roberts said. "In a professional kitchen, profit margins are razor-thin. One percentage point in food cost can mean the difference between success and failure in this business."

Matthew absorbed this information with particular interest. The business aspects of cooking--the practical realities that had likely challenged his father--were new territory for him. He began staying after class to ask Chef Roberts additional questions about pricing strategy and menu engineering even though those subjects would be thoroughly covered in year two.

As time went on, patterns emerged among the students. A couple dropped out. Study groups formed, friendships developed, and instructors began recognizing individual strengths and weaknesses. Matthew remained friendly but apart, not just out of shyness but from the habit of self-reliance cultivated through years of being a 'the ghost'. He spoke when called upon, answered questions thoroughly but concisely, and kept his focus on the material rather than the social dynamics of the classroom.

This changed unexpectedly during a session on global ingredients when Chef Martinez, the culinary history instructor, brought in a selection of spices for identification.

"Grains of paradise," Matthew said immediately when presented with a small black seed that many classmates had struggled to name. "Used in West African cooking. Similar to black pepper but with notes of cardamom and citrus."

Chef Martinez raised an eyebrow. "And how would you use it?"

"It works well in spice blends for meat, especially lamb. Also good in certain seafood preparations." Matthew hesitated, then added, "I learned about it from Mrs. Saanvi the spice merchant at the farmers market back home. She gave me some to experiment with."

"Interesting. And this one?" Chef Martinez held up a dried fruit.

"Black lime," Matthew identified. "Dried Persian lime. Adds acidity and complex flavor to Middle Eastern dishes."

After class, a small group of students approached him in the hallway. Among them was Sofia, a young woman from Brazil whose previous experience in her family's restaurant gave her a level of practical knowledge similar to Matthew's.

"How do you know so much about spices?" she asked.

"I worked at a farmers market for a couple of years in high school. Got to know the vendors, especially at the spice stall. The owner was nice enough to teach me."

"We're getting together at my apartment to study for next week's ingredient identification test," David said. "You should join us."

Matthew's instinct was to decline, to retreat to his room above Golden Dragon where he could review notes in solitude. But he had been having second thoughts about always hiding himself. David seemed nice enough. Before he could second-guess himself, he heard himself say, "Sure. When and where.?"

That Friday evening found him in David's surprisingly spacious Upper West Side apartment, surrounded by five classmates and an array of ingredients they'd pooled together for study purposes. The apartment was eye opening. Three bedrooms and a kitchen with every appliance he could imagine. It was Matthews first exposure to wealth and it opened his eyes to new layers of sophistication. He did not envy David his wealth however. He had learned long ago that envy led to self pity. He knew well that self pity was deadly weakness to people like him. He just registered the surrounding as information.

The evening shifted from formal studying to cooking as they decided to prepare dishes using the ingredients they were learning about. For the first time, Matthew found himself in a kitchen with others who shared his level of commitment. As they cooked, conversation flowed easily. Jumping form techniques, to ingredient substitutions, to kitchen experiences. It was fun.

"I still can't believe you made minestrone for sixty people regularly," David said, watching Matthew efficiently mince garlic for their impromptu dinner. "The largest thing I ever cooked before ICE was Thanksgiving for twelve, and I needed therapy afterward."

Sofia laughed. "My family's restaurant seats eighty. Sunday lunch service was always full. You learn to think in large quantities."

"Exactly," Matthew agreed, surprising himself by joining the conversation without being addressed. "At St. Vincent's--the shelter kitchen--we had to be creative with donations. Sometimes we'd get fifty pounds of one vegetable and have to use it before it spoiled."

"That's real cooking," nodded James, a former bartender with ambitions to open his own gastro-pub. "Working with what you have, not what some perfect recipe calls for."

By the end of the evening, as they shared the eclectic meal they'd created, Matthew realized he'd spoken more about his background and experiences than he had to anybody. There had been no judgment in his classmates' reactions, just professional interest and respect.

As the course progressed, classroom theory began transitioning to practical application. Kitchen labs began to introduce them to classical French cooking that would the basis of their education: stocks, mother sauces, basic cuts, cooking methods. Here, Matthew's experience both helped and hindered him. He habitually worked efficiently, his station always organized, his mise en place impeccable, but some traditional techniques differed from what he'd learned through observation and practice.

"You're fighting our lessons," Chef Lombardi told him during a session on sauce making. "Your method works, but it's not classic technique. At ICE, we teach the foundations first. Master those, then you can develop your own style."

Matthew nodded, accepting the criticism. "Yes, Chef."

"This isn't a reprimand, Conner," she added, her usually stern expression softening. "Your instincts are good. But every great chef needs both intuition and technical precision. You're here to acquire the latter."

This became Matthew's approach--absorb everything taught, practice it to perfection, and only then consider how it might merge with the techniques he'd developed on his own. He remained after classes to practice knife cuts until they met Chef Lombardi's exacting standards. He read additional materials on food science, wanting to understand the "why" behind methods that differed from his own.

His friend at Golden Dragon, one of the delivery drivers named Alex, joked Matthew always studying. "Man, you cook all day at school, work weekends at Denny's, then go home and read about cooking. Don't you get tired of food?"

Matthew looked up from his textbook on butchery, genuinely puzzled by the question. "No," he answered. "It's never boring."

And it wasn't. Each day brought new insights: the maillard reaction that caused meat to brown, the mathematical ratios that governed the science of baking, the historical journeys of ingredients across continents and cultures. Matthew approached each topic with the same intensity, whether it was knife skills (which he excelled at) or pastry (which he didn't).

When Chef Davidson administered their first major assessment, Matthew scored in the top percentile, his practical skills and theoretical knowledge already beginning to align.

"Solid work, Conner," Chef Davidson noted, reviewing his completed test dishes. "Your consommé is perfectly clarified, your knife cuts consistent, your flavor balance well-developed."

"Thank you, Chef."

"A question," Chef Davidson said, studying him with shrewd eyes. "Why cooking? With your aptitude and work ethic, you could succeed in many fields. What draws you specifically to this one?"

Matthew considered the question, aware that his answer mattered more than a simple conversation. "My father was a cook," he said finally. "He died when I was eight. But before that, he taught me that cooking was magic--a way to transform simple things into something meaningful. I've worked in kitchens since I was fifteen, and I've never found anything else that makes the same kind of sense to me."

Chef Davidson nodded slowly. "The best chefs I've known have all felt that way--that cooking chose them rather than the other way around." He made a note in his tablet. "Keep that perspective, Conner. The technical skills we can teach anyone willing to practice enough. The understanding of food as something sacred? That can't be taught."

As Matthew packed up his knives, preparing to head to his weekend shifts at Denny's, he felt a quiet certainty settle over him. The path ahead would be challenging--culinary school was only the beginning, followed by externships, entry-level positions, years of working up through kitchen hierarchies. But he was on his way. And the work was a joy not a chore.

His classmates were heading out for drinks to celebrate completing their first major assessment. Sofia paused at the door, looking back at him. "Coming, Matthew? First round's on David--his parents sent a 'congratulations on not burning down the kitchen' gift card."

Matthew hesitated, weighing the invitation against his Denny's shift. "I can't, I got work early in the morning."

Sofia nodded, understanding without judgment. "Next time then. We're thinking of starting a weekly cooking group--taking turns hosting, trying techniques outside the curriculum. You should join."

"I'd like that," Matthew replied, surprised to realize he meant it.

As he headed toward the subway, still in his whites with his knife roll securely under his arm, Matthew found himself thinking of his father. The memory, usually tinged with loss, now carried a different quality--a sense of continuation rather than absence.

Chapter 8

Months into the first year of the program, as the students were about to learn the art of the braise. Chef Girard stood in front of them alongside two framed pictures covered with oilcloth sitting on easels.

Chef was a compact man with a perpetually amused expression and hands that bore the scars of forty years of kitchen work. By now, they all were aware of his unconventional teaching methods. Unlike other instructors who relied on technical demonstrations and precise measurements, he was famously philosophical. He had a story for every lesson.

For the first couple of hours, the lecture proceeded normally. Girard moved through his presentation on roasting and braising fundamentals leavened with details about the chemical properties of various herbs and spices. He told how the historical trade routes had shaped various cuisines. He outlined the proper techniques for extracting maximum flavor from them.

"Remember," he said, pacing the front of the classroom, "salt is not just a flavor enhancer, it's a preservative, sometimes a textural component. When you salt a dish is as important as how much you add."

Matthew took careful notes, filling the margins with his own observations based on techniques he'd seen at Golden Dragon and La Cocina. The science behind practices he'd learned through observation was fascinating--the why behind the how.

Girard moved on to pepper varieties, then to complex spice combinations, all the while circling the two covered frames on their easels.

The students' eyes occasionally darted toward the easels, curiosity building as the lecture continued without any reference to these mysterious objects.

Finally, as he concluded his formal presentation, Girard came to stand between the two easels.

"Now," he said, his French-Canadian accent becoming more pronounced as it always did when he was excited, "we come to the most important part of today's lesson."

The classroom fell silent. Matthew set down his pen, giving the chef his complete attention.

"What I have talked about today--the basic rules of roasting and braising, the properties of a couple spices, the chemical interactions, the traditional combinations--all of this is essential knowledge. But it is not the whole story." He rested one hand on the cloth covering the first easel. "It is, in fact, only the beginning."

With a theatrical flourish that suggested his alternate career might have been on stage, Girard pulled away the oilcloth from the first frame.

Revealed was a painting of a fruit bowl--competently executed but clearly amateurish. The proportions were slightly off, the shadows unconvincing, the colors flat but accurate. It wasn't bad, exactly, but it lacked any particular distinction or character.

The students exchanged puzzled glances. This was not what anyone had expected in a culinary class.

Without explanation, Girard moved to the second easel and removed its covering with equal drama. This revealed another painting of the same fruit bowl arrangement, but the difference was striking. Where the first had been adequate but lifeless, this version vibrated with energy and personality. The fruits seemed to glow with inner light, their textures almost tangible, the composition dynamic rather than static. The colors were richer, more complex, with subtle variations that created depth and dimension.

"The first one," Girard announced, gesturing toward the amateur work, "is a paint-by-number picture I did myself. Not bad, huh?" His mouth quirked in a self-deprecating smile. "I followed all the instructions. Put the correct colors in the designated spaces. I was precise. Careful. Technical."

He moved to the second painting. "This one I commissioned from a friend of mine. Just for you guys. Jackson's a real artist, but a terrible poker player. I got this for free because he has an optimistic habit of drawing to inside straights."

The rest of the class laughed. Matthew leaned forward, suddenly understanding where the lecture was heading.

"The same goes for recipes," Girard continued, his voice dropping to ensure they were all listening closely. "We teach you to use recipes, to understand the science, to master the techniques. But make no mistake," he paused, looking around the room, making eye contact with each student, "you are not chefs until you can create in a dish what this artist did to the painting."

He walked slowly along the front row of desks. "A recipe is a paint-by-number guide. Important, yes. Educational, certainly. But if you never move beyond it, you remain a technician--not a chef."

The room was utterly silent now, each student absorbing the visual metaphor. Matthew thought of his experiences at St. Vincent's, where necessity had forced creativity--stretching donated ingredients, substituting what was available, adapting methods to equipment limitations. He had been cooking beyond a recipe for a while without realizing it.

"Look at these two paintings," Girard instructed. "Really look at them. What's the difference? Both show the same subject. Both use the same basic colors. Both are recognizably fruit bowls."

Sofia, sitting in the front row, raised her hand. "The second one has personality," she suggested. "It's not just accurate--it has feeling."