Matthews Story Pt 04

Chapter 10

Three days later and the lecture was still on his mind Saturday morning. As he cracked eggs and browned hashbrowns on the grill, his mind ran over the people who worked the morning shift with him. Denny's had a lot of turnover. Most people he'd met here didn't give a shit about the job -- they just wanted a paycheck.

Loralee Pachinko, was an exception.

Matthew had noticed her during his third month at Denny's. While other servers drifted through their shifts in a fog of boredom or resentment, Loralee moved with purpose. She was rail-thin with tattoos sleeved on both arms, her blond hair with its different color streaks often escaping from whatever attempt she'd made to contain it that day. Her Queens' accent was thick, her vocabulary colorful and her cheerful laugh could cut through the din of the busiest breakfast rush.

"Order up!" Matthew called, sliding two plates onto the pass. A Western omelet and a Grand Slam.

Loralee appeared immediately, checking the ticket against the food with an attention to detail that set her apart from most of the staff.

"Western's missing the cheese," she said, not accusatory, but matter-of-fact.

Matthew glanced at the plate, then at the ticket. She was right. In the chaos of the morning rush, he'd missed a modification.

"Thanks. Give me thirty seconds," he said, already reaching for the shredded cheddar.

Unlike some servers who would have sighed dramatically or made a show of their inconvenience, Loralee just nodded and waited, using the time to refill coffee mugs for the customers seated at the counter.

Later, during a rare lull, she lingered by the pickup window. "You're different from the other cooks," she observed, leaning against the counter. "You care if it's right."

Matthew, wiping down his station, shrugged. "It's the job."

"Nah," she replied, shaking her head. "The job is flipping eggs and collecting a paycheck. You're doing something else."

Before he could respond, the door chimed with new customers, and she was off again, menus in hand, greeting them with genuine warmth.

It was Darnell who filled him in during their overlapping shift change. "Loralee's got a story," he said, removing his apron. "Clean two years now. Was living in a shelter when Loretta hired her. Got her GED last month."

Matthew nodded, absorbing this information without comment as he tied on his own apron.

"Hardest worker here," Darnell continued. "Wants to move up to cooking, but Loretta hasn't had time to train her properly. Been too short-staffed." He fixed Matthew with a pointed look. "Shame, really. Girl's got potential."

The message was clear enough, but Matthew hesitated. Chef Girard's directive to help fellow students was one thing -- they shared similar goals and educational backgrounds. Taking on a project like Loralee felt complicated.

Yet that night, when Loralee poked her head into the kitchen after her shift and asked if she could watch him work for a few minutes before catching her bus, Matthew found himself nodding.

"What do you want to know?" he asked as she perched on a stool in the corner of the kitchen.

"Everything," she replied without hesitation. "But maybe start with how you flip an egg without breaking the yolk. I keep fucking that up."

For the next fifteen minutes, Matthew demonstrated the technique, explaining the importance of the correct pan temperature, the slight wrist motion, and the timing. Loralee watched with an intensity that reminded him of his own focus at ICE, asking questions that revealed genuine curiosity rather than casual interest. He suggested she buy a cheap saute pan and fill it with a few marbles to practice.

"Good idea. Bus comes in ten minutes, gotta go. Maybe, same time tomorrow?" Her eyes hopeful.

He found himself agreeing before he'd fully processed the commitment. Something about her determination resonated, the clarity of her purpose, despite the circumstances that had shaped her path. He suddenly realized that she was him not that many years ago.

What began as a casual fifteen-minute lesson after her shift gradually expanded. Matthew arriving thirty minutes early and staying thirty minutes late whenever their schedules aligned, teaching her the fundamentals of short-order cooking -- how to manage multiple orders simultaneously, especially timing so different components of a dish could finish together, how to adjust cooking methods for consistency during a rush.

Loralee proved to be a quick study, her street-honed adaptability translating well to the high-pressure environment of a busy diner kitchen. What she lacked in formal knowledge she made up for in work ethic and pragmatic problem-solving.

"You ever gonna tell me where you learned all this?" she asked one morning, practicing the proper way to crack an egg with one hand. "Darnell says you're in fancy chef school, but you don't act like those stuck-up culinary students who sometimes come in for late-night food."

Matthew, who had been demonstrating how to maintain the flat-top grill, considered his answer. "I'm at ICE," he confirmed. "But I learned most of the basics before that. Working in different restaurants, and a shelter kitchen."

"A shelter?" Her eyebrows lifted in surprise. "Like, homeless shelter?"

"St. Vincent's in Chicago."

She nodded slowly, reassessing him with this new information. "So that's why you don't treat me like I'm stupid when I ask questions. You've seen how life gets complicated."

It was perhaps the most personal exchange they'd had, a momentary acknowledgment by two street smart graduates. Matthew didn't elaborate further, but let the connection exist without comment.

Their informal training sessions gained further structure as Matthew began applying techniques from his ICE education. He created knife drills to improve her speed and accuracy. Occasionally smuggled in spices and herbs from the farmer's market to expand her palate and nose beyond the limited Denny's pantry.

"Try this," he said one morning, offering her a small slice of an unusual apple variety. "What do you taste?"

Loralee closed her eyes, concentrating. "Sweet, but not too sweet. Kind of... I don't know, like honey? And something else."

"Anise," Matthew supplied. "A hint of licorice."

She nodded excitedly. "Yes! That's it. How do you learn to taste like that?"

"Same as you will. Someone helped me. Then it was practice and paying attention." He handed her another slice, this time from a different variety. "The more ingredients you experience consciously, the better your cooking becomes. It's not just about following recipés. It's about understanding what each component contributes."

It was his repeating Chef Girard's lesson about the paint-by-numbers painting that finally made sense about their ultimate goal.

Loretta noticed the effort Loralee was putting in and gradually allowed her to cover simple cooking tasks during slow periods. The first time Loralee successfully handled the grill station alone for a full hour -- preparing eggs, pancakes, and simple sandwiches without assistance -- her face glowed with a pride that no drug had ever provided.

"You shoulda seen her," Loretta told Matthew when he arrived for his shift. "Like she'd been doing it for years. Even handled a ticket mix-up without losing her cool."

The comment felt unexpectedly satisfying, different from the acknowledgment of his own skills. There was a wonderful fulfillment in teaching. A feeling of being useful -- valued.

One Monday evening, fresh from his day at ICE, Matthew stopped in for his dinner. Loralee approached Matthew with uncharacteristic hesitation.

"I got somethin' to ask you," she said, fiddling with her order pad. "Loretta says I can start picking up regular cooking shifts next month. But I want to do it right, you know? Not just Denny's right, but professional right."

Matthew nodded, waiting for her to continue.

"There's this community college program. Basic culinary skills, food safety certification, that kind of thing. Two nights a week, not too expensive." She took a breath. "I was wondering if you'd look at the course description. Tell me if it's worth it. If it would help me move up eventually, maybe work somewhere... a step up from this."

The request caught him off guard -- not just the content, but the trust it implied. Her valuing of his opinion on her future. Six months ago, he would have given a noncommittal response, maintained the professional distance that had always defined his interactions with others. But Chef Girard's lesson was burned into his memory.

"Bring in the information tomorrow. I'll stop by after my class," he said. "I'll help you figure out if it's a good program. If it is, I'll help you get ready for it."

The smile that broke across her face was like sunrise, sudden and transformative.

"Really? That would be amazing."

Over the following weeks, their training sessions expanded to include basic culinary terminology, kitchen hierarchy, and the fundamentals of classical technique that would give Loralee a head start in her courses. Matthew brought in his ICE textbooks, simplified the concepts, and created practical exercises she could master in the Denny's kitchen.

"French terms are important," he explained, watching her practice julienning carrots. "Not because they sound sophisticated, but because they're the common language in professional kitchens. Saying 'brunoise' is faster than saying 'cut into very small, equal sized cubes.'"

Loralee absorbed everything with the same hunger he remembered he'd had. Her natural intelligence, long buried beneath circumstances and poor choices, flourished with his encouragement. The fact that he was generous and never took any sort of advantage of their relationship made the experience that much more valuable to her.

By the time she started her community college program, she was already ahead of the curriculum, confident in basics that her classmates were just beginning to learn.

"My instructor was impressed that I already knew how to make a proper roux," she reported excitedly after her first class. "Said most beginners burn it or make it lumpy."

Matthew nodded, pleased but not surprised. They had spent three evenings on roux alone, practicing until she could make all the colors of it consistently, regardless of distractions.

"The other students are nice," she continued, "but most of them have never worked in a proper kitchen. They don't understand about the pressure, the pace."

"That gives you an advantage," Matthew pointed out. "Theory is important, but practical experience is gold."

She considered this, then came the question that he knew he would have asked eventually: "Why are you helping me?"

Matthew paused in his prep work, considering his answer carefully. "Partly because your attitude makes it rewarding. But mostly because lots of people did the same for me."

He thought of Mrs. Chen patiently correcting his fish-cleaning technique, of Mrs. Geigle trusting him with the shelter kitchen, of Mr. Li and Señora Vega sharing their culinary traditions. Of his father, first and foundational, showing him that food was magic.

"Cooking is something you learn from other people," he continued, finding words for a philosophy he hadn't fully articulated, even to himself. "Books and school matter, but the real education happens person to person, kitchen to kitchen. It's a continuum. You learn, you practice, you do, you teach. That's how it works." He gave her a significant look. "People like us need to learn how to do that."

Loralee nodded, immediately understanding what he had left unsaid. "So someday I'll teach someone else."

"If you're doing it right, yes."

This exchange marked a subtle shift in their dynamic -- from instructor and student to something closer to colleagues on different points of the same path. As Loralee's skills improved, Matthew adjusted his approach, giving her more autonomy, trusting her with more complex tasks, offering critique rather than step-by-step guidance.

By the time his externship at

Hearth

was set to begin -- meaning he would have to give up his regular shifts at Denny's -- Loralee had been promoted to full-time cook.

"Won't be the same without you," she said on his last scheduled shift. "But I'll keep what you taught me going."

He smiled and handed her a package wrapped in a kitchen towel. "Got you something. To say, good job."

Inside was a chef's knife -- a Henckle, good quality German steel that would hold an edge.

"It's a start on your own set," he said, suddenly feeling self-conscious. "A professional cook should have a knife that feels like part of their arm."

Her eyes filled. "It's absolutely perfect," she said, testing the balance. "Thank you." She looked away and cleared her throat. Then gave him an awkward hug.

As he prepared to leave Denny's that final night, Loralee walked him to the door. "You know what's funny?" she said, glancing back at the kitchen where they'd spent so many hours. "I used to think cooking was just a job -- a step up from serving, but still just a way to pay rent. Now I'm starting to get what you were saying all along. It's more than that."

"What is it for you?" Matthew asked, curious about her new perspective.

She considered the question seriously. "It's like... creating order out of chaos. Taking all these separate things and making them work together to become something better." She smiled, a flash of the sharp intelligence that circumstances had nearly buried. "And maybe that's what I needed to learn all along. To make something good out of all the random shit life throws at you."

Matthew nodded, recognizing the similarity to his own journey. Different paths, but a parallel discovery of purpose.

"You're going to do well," he said, with certainty rather than encouragement. "Just remember what we talked about... technique matters, but it's not the whole story."

"Yeah, yeah, I know," she grinned. "Don't be a paint-by-the-numbers cook. Put something of myself into the food." Her expression turned more serious. "Thanks, Matthew. For seeing something in me worth your time."

As he walked toward his apartment, Matthew reflected on the unexpected rewards of following Chef Girard's directive. He had begun teaching Loralee out of obligation, a conscious effort to develop the "people skills" his instructor had found lacking. But somewhere along the way, the exercise had transformed into genuine mentorship.

In helping Loralee discover her potential, he had inadvertently expanded his own understanding of what it meant to be a chef.

Chapter 11

The day of the coq au vin assessment arrived with a weight of expectation that the students hadn't expected. A routine midterm practicum had transformed, through Chef Girard's paint-by-the-numbers lesson, into something significant. Now it had become a statement of their culinary identity.

Matthew had spent hours thinking and rethinking his approach, balancing respect for tradition with the personal perspective Chef Girard had tasked them to bring. The classic French dish -- a tough rooster braised in wine with mushrooms, bacon and onions to make it tender and flavorful -- was one on which generations of chefs had worked their interpretations.

He arrived at the ICE, ninety minutes before the event, his backpack stuffed full of the ingredients, wines and spices he'd hand selected at the market.

The kitchens were quiet at this hour, just a few instructors preparing for the day. Matthew claimed a station, unpacked and organized everything.

His ingredients -- purchased with his own funds -- were arranged in a precise 'mise en place.' Chicken thighs rather than the traditional whole bird, lardons of cured pork belly from a butcher in Queens, dried mushrooms alongside fresh and selected herbs tied in precise bundles.

Sofia arrived next, claiming the station beside his. "You look intense," she observed, setting up her own workspace. "It's just coq au vin, not brain surgery."

Matthew smiled. They both knew it wasn't "just" anything. In culinary school, as in professional kitchens, dishes were never merely food -- they were statements, positions taken in an ongoing discussion between tradition and innovation.

"What's your approach?" she asked, noting his non-standard ingredients.

Matthew shared, "I'm going to honor the traditional recipé while incorporating influences from the other kitchens I've worked in."

Sofia nodded, understanding the reference to his diverse background. "Smart. Playing to your strengths while respecting the assignment."

As their classmates filtered in, the kitchen soon abuzz with nervous energy. Some students clutched printed recipés, reviewing measurements and techniques until the last moment. Others affected casual confidence, though their frequent glances at the clock betrayed their anxiety.

Chef Girard arrived at precisely 9:00 AM, moving through the kitchen with his customary theatrical flair, inspecting stations and offering cryptic comments designed to either reassure or unsettle, depending on his assessment of what each student needed.

When he reached Matthew's station, he paused, taking in the non-standard ingredients. "Interesting choices, Mr. Conner. You're not using the whole chicken?"

"No, Chef. I selected thighs only -- more flavor, better texture for braising."

Girard nodded, neither approving nor disapproving. "And these?" He gestured to several small containers of spices not typically associated with coq au vin.

"Influences from other culinary traditions, Chef. Star anise, Sichuan peppercorns, dried chilies. They'll be subtle, just enough to add depth without overwhelming the classic profile."

A slight smile touched Girard's lips. "Bold choices. But remember, innovation without purpose is merely novelty." He moved on to the next station, leaving Matthew wondering whether his comment had been a warning or encouragement.

At 9:15, Chef Girard called for their attention. "Your assessment begins now. You have two hours to prepare your interpretation of coq au vin. I will be evaluating not just technical execution, but your understanding of the dish's essence and your ability to express your personal ideas while honoring tradition." He checked his watch and added, "Begin."

The kitchen erupted into controlled chaos -- burners igniting, knives against cutting boards, the metallic clang of pots and pans. Matthew forced himself to proceed with deliberate calm.

He began by rendering the lardons coaxing out their fat and flavor without allowing them to become crisp. Next came the sizzle of chicken thighs as they browned in the rendered fat. As the chicken thighs turned crisp and golden brown, he removed them and began to prepare the critical element to the dish, the braising mixture. He added the mushrooms -- a combination of fresh cremini and dried porcini that had been reconstituted, the pearl onions, carrots and finally the wine. The chicken thighs went back into the pan and slow simmered, allowing the flavors to develop.

The critical moment had come with the selection of braising wine. Classic coq au vin called for red Burgundy, but Matthew had chosen differently. It was a decision that had consumed hours of consideration. He reached for the bottle of Shaoxing wine, a Chinese rice wine whose complex, oxidized notes would complement the chicken while creating a lighter, more nuanced sauce than the traditional burgundy version.

As he added it to the pot, Chef Girard was walking by. He paused, one eyebrow rising in surprise at the golden-amber liquid replacing the expected ruby red.

"Shaoxing wine," Matthew explained without being asked. "The fermentation process creates flavor compounds similar to those in aged Burgundy, but with a different balance that I think will better highlight the chicken."