Chapter 5
Orientation day finally arrived three days later. Dozens of students crammed into the hot administrative office to deal with last-minute issues. Luckily Caitlin had already cleared up her problems.
She started to pass the registrar’s office when she found herself glancing inside. She didn’t know why but she almost hoped to catch a glimpse of the guy she met earlier. Although their previous encounter was brief, she clearly remembered his bold magnetism. When she didn’t see him, she felt an odd mix of relief and disappointment. As much as she hated to admit it, her thoughts had strayed to the stranger more times than she liked. Caitlin shook her head to clear her mind. He was a jerk, she reminded herself. Plus, she had to get to the gathering and needed to stop thinking about the obnoxious rich boy.
Following the signs and the low rumble of excited voices, she found her way to the orientation room. For a moment, she paused at the door, taking in the crowd of students jammed in the small space. Some of these people were her competitors and she would best them all. She jostled her way inside, searching for her place among the alphabetically organized seats. When she reached the second last row, she saw her name taped to the back of a chair and she rushed forward. She then spotted a package on her seat and gasped. It contained a uniform, a binder for recipes, and a kitchen scale. Every item was embossed with the school emblem. Almost with reverence, she slipped a hand under the plastic wrap and pulled out the uniform. She let out a happy sigh. It was official; she was a cooking student at the academy. She caressed the crisp material, breathing in the smell of new fabric.
The din in the room increased as other classmates found their treasures. Caitlin sank into her seat and just when she was about to get comfortable, her heels bumped against something solid. She peeked under her chair and was further surprised to find a large weather-proof bag with three zippers and a heavy-duty handle. Her fingers trembled as she opened the hefty bag.
“A set of knives,” she breathed. The shiny kitchen blades glinted under the fluorescent lights, and judging by the brand name, she knew they were forged from high quality steel. She hugged the bag to her chest and smiled at her good fortune. The orientation lasted for another hour, and when the school director wished them luck and dismissed them, she allowed herself to be swept out of the room by the crowd. During her drive home, she barely noticed the passage of time since her head still floated among the clouds.
The next day, she returned to the school well rested, energized, and ready to take on the challenges that awaited her. Every school smelled different and she took in the hint of freshly sharpened pencils, food, books, and disinfectant.
She pushed her way through the corridor, and when she entered her classroom, she tugged at the hem of her uniform jacket to straighten the material. But she wasn’t nervous. Donning a kitchen uniform was old news to her, though somehow wearing the school outfit felt different. Actually she felt different, she realized. For the first time, she sensed that this was where she belonged.
There was still fifteen minutes to class and she glanced down to review her schedule. She had twelve hours of lectures and hands-on classes or practicals lined up, but the long hours did little to dampen her spirits. She gave a quick scan of the room and noticed that there were about twenty chairs set up in front of a demonstration table. A large mirror was mounted on the ceiling and spanned the length of the cooking table. Two additional TV monitors hung on the walls, each providing a different angle of the instructor’s work surface.
The instructor would prepare and explain how to make five dishes. Then when he finished, they would move to the practical class and re-create three of the recipes that he showcased.
Although Caitlin thought she arrived early enough for the class, she walked to the front of the room only to discover that all the seats in the first couple of rows were occupied. She tamped down her disappointment and made her way to the rear and found her seat. Next time she needed to arrive even earlier. Setting her notebook on her lap, she folded her hands over it. And as she waited for the class to begin, the shuffling of chairs and chatter increased around her as her classmates found their places.
At the stroke of nine, the teacher walked to the front of the room, introduced himself, and then launched into a lecture about food safety and kitchen etiquette. Today he planned to teach them a basic lesson on knife handling. He would then show them how to chop vegetables and debone a whole chicken to make coq au vin and a few other dishes. Caitlin had never made any of the French dishes so her pen flew across her paper, capturing as much as she could. Though she sat near the back, she was determined to make a good impression.
She put up her hand and started to ask a question when she caught a whisper behind her. “Wow,” a girl said under her breath. Caitlin turned her head to look at the source of the commotion, and was startled to see the guy from the registrar’s office enter the classroom. The question she had for the teacher disintegrated into the air. She didn’t know how it was possible, but the student’s masculine appeal seemed even more pronounced this morning. And to see him in the flesh was unexpected and disturbing. His skin was bronzed from the sun and contrasted heavily against the stark whiteness of his uniform. The medium stubble that grew along his strong jaw made him appear slightly scruffy but sexy. And as he strolled across the room, his lean body moved with an easy, languid grace that exuded confidence.
“Class has already started,” the instructor snapped. “What’s your name?”
“Jason Wekiu,” he replied casually, the instructor’s irritation seemed to roll off his back.
The instructor glanced at the papers in his hand. Scowling, he ran his finger down the list of names. Suddenly he stopped and stared at the sheet. He gestured to the seating area. “Find a chair.”
Caitlin held her breath, expecting the chef’s temper to erupt. But the instructor continued his lessons as if nothing unusual had happened.
“What did I miss?” the student whispered, sliding into the empty seat next to her. Caitlin looked to escape the new distraction, but a studious-looking brunette writing copious note occupied the seat to her left, so she was effectively trapped. When she still didn’t respond to his question, he leaned over to read her notes. She pressed her lips tightly together to show her displeasure and partially covered her notebook. He was almost twenty-five minutes late for class, and if he didn’t take the course seriously then she wasn’t going to help him.
The demo instructor resumed his description of the various knives they were to use in the kitchen. She zeroed her focus on the presentation and continued to jot down the points.
The girl beside Jason turned to him. “You didn’t miss a whole lot. If you want, you can look at my notes,” she whispered, handing the sheets to him. Out of the corner of Caitlin’s eye, she saw Jason reach for the papers and give the woman a grateful smile.
“Thanks,” he said.
The girl beamed back at him.
“Can you guys keep it down?” Caitlin hissed. “I’m trying to listen to the lecture.”
“Young lady,” the instructor said.
The sharp voice caused Caitlin to turn her attention to the front of the room. Who was the teacher addressing? Her heart stopped when she realized that the stocky man had his narrowed gaze fixed on her. An expletive exploded in her brain. Today was the first day and she was already making a bad impression.
“The class is in session, and your talking is affecting others around you. If you insist on chatting with your friends, then I suggest you do it outside my classroom.”
Caitlin felt all eyes turn to her, and she wished she could disappear. Her plan was to shut up her two classmates, not undermine her lecturer. Her first reaction was to tell him that she wasn’t to blame for the interruption, but instead, she forced herself to say, “Yes, Chef.”
Satisfied that Caitlin was put in her place, the instructor started to explain the various ways to debone a chicken. Except for the scratching of pen across paper or the clicking of fingers flying over keyboards, the only significant sound in the room was the teacher’s voice. At one point the chef bent his head to pierce through a chicken joint, and Jason moved closer to Caitlin, his arm brushing against hers. The accidental touch unsettled her, and she forgot her earlier annoyance. Suddenly his musky cologne overwhelmed her senses, and a strange heat zipped up and down her body. What was that?
“Sorry I got you in trouble,” he whispered.
She felt his hot breath against her ear. But it was his words that snapped her out of her trance, and she immediately recalled why she got into trouble in the first place. Caitlin leaned away and glared at him. Somehow she managed to keep her temper in check. She quickly scanned the chairs around her and was relieved when she spotted a vacant seat in the row behind her. Gathering her possessions, she moved to the empty chair. Though Jason was attractive, the last thing she needed or wanted was to be distracted from her studies. She’d paid too much money to attend the school, and she wasn’t planning on wasting her time.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Jason glance back at her, a curious expression on his face. But she pretended not to notice him. She glued her focus on the instructor or the TV monitors and wrote down as many points that she could.
The teacher had the pot of stew bubbling on the stove, the smell of wine and herbs lingering in the small space. Caitlin didn’t know why she did it, but she glanced over at Jason. She noticed that he wasn’t taking any notes. In fact, he watched the demonstration with a slightly bored expression on his face.
What a moron, she thought with a smirk. With that kind of attitude, he wasn’t going to last in the course.
The instructor went to retrieve an ingredient from the fridge, giving them a small break from note-taking. Caitlin took the opportunity to read one of the handouts that the teacher had given them. In the next segment, they would have two and a half hours to reproduce the dishes. The items they made in the practical class were worth thirty-five percent of their marks. They were tasked with learning an overwhelming number of techniques and cooking methods, but she had no idea how any of them would master them all.
She tucked the printout back into her notebook when the instructor resumed his cooking demonstration. She couldn’t think about any potential roadblocks. At the moment she needed to focus on listening carefully to the lecture because everything the teacher said sounded important. And even while she tried to write as fast as she could, she could barely keep up with the flow of information. Most of her classmates also tried to capture as much as they could since after this class they were on their own. And while the instructor advised them on the ingredients they needed, and showed them the cooking methods, he had no plans to give them any written instructions. Without notes, she wondered how Jason would fare. But this was none of her business, she told herself sternly. She had to concentrate on her own work, and make sure that she got the job placement.
With determination firmly set in her heart, she soon forgot about Jason. The instructor displayed his knife handling skills, executing each vegetable slice or chop with minute precision. It seemed almost as if the blade was an extension of his hands. Certainly, the cut produce was unlike anything she had ever seen. None of her former coworkers at the hotel would have been able to execute such uniform slices and dices.
Next, he tackled the chicken. And when he finished with the bird, the meat pieces were lying neatly on the cutting board. She didn’t think a person could do that with a knife. Then as he started up his lecture, he moved to make coq au vin, talking and giving examples all the while he worked.
“You may now come and take pictures,” the instructor said, waving them over.
Caitlin shot out of her chair and was one of the first to run to the counter and snap pictures with her phone. The instructor frowned as she almost stumbled in her haste to get to the table.
“You should watch where you’re going when you’re in the kitchen,” he said, his voice stern.
Caitlin swallowed. Clearly, he hadn’t forgotten the earlier incident. Common sense told her she needed to tread carefully with the teachers if she wanted to impress them. Unfortunately, at the rate she was going, she was doing a terrible job.
“Now that you’re done taking your pictures, you may sample my work.” He handed out small plastic spoons and paper cups and then moved out of their way.
A woman in her forties stood next to Caitlin. Scooping up a sample of the French stew with her spoon, she put it in her mouth.
“I don’t know how he did it, but this tastes divine,” she said as a look of pure pleasure crossed her face. “My kids would gobble this up if I made braised chicken this good.”
All around them were murmurs of approval.
Caitlin eagerly dipped her spoon in the cup and tried the French dish. When the salty and rich broth touched her tongue, she shook her head and sighed. “How is it possible that a simple country dish could have such subtle complexity?” she wondered out loud.
“I know, right?” the woman said, putting out her hand. “By the way, my name is Jane.”
“I’m Caitlin,” she shook her classmate’s hand. “I hope we’re in the same class for the practical.”
“I hope so too,” she said. “I think they’re going to split the class in half, so with luck, we’ll be in the same session.”
The mention of the next class caused Caitlin’s stomach to churn. The students now had to reproduce everything they learned from the demo. Her eyes fell on the knife that lay on the cutting board. Would she be able to execute the techniques and methods that the instructor taught?
An hour later when all the dishes were showcased and discussed, the buzzer rang to signify the end of the first class. Then after a short break, she made her way to the kitchen classroom where the practical was held. The room itself appeared more like a lab than a kitchen. And the ten stations laid out on the long metal table had all the necessary tools and food materials for each student.
She looked around to see whether she could find Jane, but her new friend wasn’t in the room. Jason, however, was present. He was the last person she wanted to see, but here he was. Again. His large, muscular frame was hard to miss, just as it was impossible not to notice the two young women who openly flirted with him.
Caitlin moved to an empty spot at the opposite end of the table. Once the class started, the chatter died down and everyone became preoccupied with arranging their workspace. For a brief moment, she closed her eyes, trying to visualize the recipes she learned in the last session. But then the instructor’s loud, irritated sigh broke through her concentration, and she opened her eyes to look at him.
“You two,” he pointed to Caitlin and the giggling girl who worked next to Jason. “I want you to switch places.”
Looking over at the spot next to Jason, Caitlin felt her heart sink. His dark-brown eyes were assessing her, although it was difficult to read his expression. However attractive he was, she didn’t want to work beside the rude and obnoxious jerk. But it appeared she didn’t have much choice. She packed up her area and moved to the new station, intent on ignoring her sexy classmate.
Fortunately there was a lot of do and she immersed herself in her work. She closed her eyes once again and visualized the steps she needed to complete. She had less than two hours to finish the assigned dishes, and she needed to make sure that her execution was flawless. She unlocked her phone and scrolled to a snapshot of the diced vegetables to verify the measurements. All seemed well until she made her first cut; the knife in her hand felt heavy and unfamiliar. Then unable to help it, doubt over her abilities gripped her by the collar just as memories of the awful incident at the hotel entered her head. When her knife came down again, the carrot slipped and she sliced the vegetable at an odd angle.
“Your dicing needs work,” Jason said, slanting a critical eye at her cutting board.
She started to retort but when her gaze fell on his board, she saw that his dicing was as precise as the demo instructor’s.
The supervising chef strolled around the room with a clipboard pressed against his chest. He stopped behind her. “Your carrots are not uniform,” he informed her. “You need to practice your knife skills at home.” Lifting the clipboard, he wrote something down.
“Yeah, knife skills are important,” Jason said.
“That’s right, they’re very important,” the chef agreed. He looked at the diced vegetables on Jason’s cutting board. “Nice job, Jason,” he said, giving him a nod of approval.
Caitlin choked back her anger and frustration. She bent her head, afraid that she would do or say something she would later regret. This was her first practical, and she was already messing up. And it humiliated her that someone who barely paid attention in class was performing better than her. Putting aside her prepared vegetables, she grabbed the whole chicken and slammed it down on her board. She started to make a cut, but in her carelessness, the blade slipped through the meat, slicing her index finger.
“Ow!” she yelped. She dropped the knife, the sound clattering on the metal table. Blood rushed out from the cut.
“We need first aid,” Jason called to the kitchen assistant.
“I’m okay,” Caitlin said, her voice a bit shaky. But the assistant was already rushing to her. The woman dragged her to the sink to clean and dress the wound.
It appeared that the injury went deeper than Caitlin realized, and the blood soaked through the bandage. Although the assistant tried her best to stop the bleeding, the woman wasn’t in any hurry to leave Caitlin’s side. The kitchen helper was a student from another class, and her job was to run around fetching items for the students in the practical class. Tending to Caitlin was likely a welcome break. But while the assistant took her time patching up the wound, Caitlin was well aware that class would soon be over. Looking at the clock on the wall, she frowned. She still needed to get started on her broth.
“I think I should be okay,” she said.
“One more minute,” the assistant murmured.
When the helper finally released her, Caitlin returned to her spot and saw that Jason was stirring the stew in his pot. Everyone else in the class seemed to be moving at a fast clip as well.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“I’m fine,” she growled, and then rushed to make up for lost time. With her eyes constantly checking the clock, she finished her first dish, but she felt terrible. Her creation was a complete mess. And as much as she spun the bowl to examine it from different angles, the dish didn’t resemble anything the demo teacher had shown. Unfortunately there wasn’t any time to re-do the recipe. The instructor was coming around to grade all the dishes.
“Hmmm,” he said as he saw her bowl. He dipped a spoon into the preparation and took a taste. “The liquid is fine but your presentation is terrible.” His comments sunk heavily into the pit of her stomach.
The chef turned to Jason’s bowl. Taking his time, he inspected the contents before tasting the gravy. “Once again, excellent work, Jason,” he said and wrote the grade down on his clipboard.