CHAPTER ELEVEN
September 18
I’M LEARNING A NEW LANGUAGE THAT includes words like braising, sautéing, and flambéing. Chef Tyler Wilkes discusses different ways to cook vegetables, stocks, and cuts of meat, the best uses of herbs, and the best utensils for various dishes. Today we’re making hollandaise sauce and learning how to poach eggs.
I smack yet another egg against the rim of the bowl and break the shell. Holding my breath, I pull the shell open and watch the egg slide out—a gloppy mess of whites and a broken yolk. Plus bits of shell.
Shit.
I glance at Charlotte’s station. Her egg is sitting all bright and shiny in the bowl, waiting to be poached, and her hollandaise sauce smells heavenly.
Double shit.
“You okay, Liv?”
I glance up at Tyler, who has stopped on the other side of my station. I wipe my hands on my apron and sigh.
“Yeah. Just can’t crack an egg to save my life.” I gesture to the trash bin, which holds the evidence of at least four decimated eggs.
“It’s okay,” Tyler says. “There are plenty of eggs in the world.”
“Doesn’t make it less of a waste,” I mutter.
“Look.” He comes around the counter to stand beside me and picks up an egg. “Don’t crack it against the bowl. Tap it on the counter until there’s a small dent, then hold it like this and press your thumbs in to pull the sides apart.”
He demonstrates and drops a perfectly formed egg into the bowl. Then he nods at me. “Your turn.”
If it was frustrating before, it’s even more so now with Tyler watching me. I break another egg too hard and poke my thumb right into the yolk.
“This is stupid,” I mutter, dropping the egg into the trash. “Can I make scrambled eggs instead?”
“Poached eggs with hollandaise sauce. You can do this, Liv.” He picks up another egg and puts it in my hand. “Tap it.”
I tap the egg against the counter until it’s dented. Tyler moves closer to me and reaches out, as if he’s going to put his hands over mine. Then he pauses and glances at me.
“Okay?” he asks.
Don’t be an idiot, Liv.
“Yeah. Sure.”
His hands settle around mine, his thumbs pressing against my thumbs.
“Slowly,” he says.
He pushes his thumbs and guides my hands to pull the crack apart. The shell breaks open gently, the whites and yolk slipping out fully formed into another bowl. No bits of shell follow.
“There.” Tyler steps back with a grin. “Save that one for poaching. Remember how to separate the eggs for the sauce?”
He continues to watch me as I break another egg and try to separate the yolk from the whites. Although he makes me a little nervous, I appreciate him letting me do the actual work. After a few attempts, I have four yolks in a bowl, and Tyler guides me through the sauce-making process again so the eggs don’t scramble and the emulsion doesn’t break.
“Okay, you’re ready to poach now,” he says, gesturing for me to pick up the egg in the bowl. “Keep the water just below a simmer.”
I lower the heat on the stove, swirl the water around with a spoon the way Tyler showed us, then hold the egg over the pot. I look at him.
“What do you think?” he asks.
“I think it’s ready.”
“Be gentle. Slide it in slowly.”
I slip the egg into the pot. We both peer into the bubbling mixture of vinegar and water as I use a spoon to push the whites over the yolk.
“It’s coming apart.” I point to the strings of white breaking off the egg.
“No, it’s fine. Just trim those after you take it out. Time it carefully, decide how firm you want the yolk. Don’t forget to use a slotted spoon.” He nods. “Looks good, Liv.”
It’s a little ridiculous how pleased I am at the compliment.
“Poached eggs with hollandaise sauce.” I set the plate in front of Dean and watch as he examines my offering.
In the four days since learning this recipe at cooking class, I’ve tried to make it twice at home. This is my third attempt. The sauce is too thin and grainy, but I hope Dean doesn’t notice.
“Looks good,” he remarks.
“Supposedly a French classic. Took me forever to learn how to crack an egg.”
He takes a bite. I chew my thumbnail.
“How is it?” I ask. I’d tasted it myself (Taste your food being one of Chef Tyler Wilkes’s oft-repeated mantras), and thought it was okay, but this is the first time Dean is sampling anything I’ve made. Actually, it’s the first real dish I’ve cooked for him.
He coughs and reaches for his coffee. “Good. Uh… salty and… lemony.”
“I added more lemon juice and cream to try and fix the sauce, then salted it again at the end.” I pick up my spoon and try it. My tongue twinges with the bite of excess salt and sour lemon. “Damn. I shouldn’t have done that. Sorry.”
“It’s okay. It’s good, Liv.” Dean gamely picks up his spoon again, and I love him for it, but I reach out to take the plate away.
“I’ll try again another time. Toast and cereal coming up.”
I turn away from him and scrape the eggs into the trash.
“You can wait for a soufflé, but a soufflé can never wait for you.” Tyler whips up eggs and cream in a bowl, his whisk increasing in speed until I expect to see sparks fly. “You must carefully control every element of its preparation.”
My classmates and I watch him and take notes at the same time, a process we’ve gotten used to in the past few weeks. While I can’t imagine any scenario in which I would actually want to serve a soufflé, I’m willing to give it a try in class.
We start our own preparations, but I soon fall behind my classmates because I get shell in my egg whites.
Beside me, Charlotte whisks her whites to perfection and soon has her ramekin buttered and ready to put in the oven. I glance at the clock and hurry a little, adding hot milk and tempering the yolks. By the time I get my filled ramekin into the oven, I’m at least twenty minutes behind everyone else.
One by one, decent soufflés emerge from the ovens—Charlotte’s is the most perfect, high and rounded. I wait for my timer to go off, resisting the urge to peek in the oven. When the timer dings, I take out what appears to be a pancake rather than a fluffy soufflé.
“Everyone gather round, and let’s take a look at Liv’s soufflé,” Tyler calls.
Great.
My classmates come over to gawk at my dish, and I swear Laura even clucks her tongue in sympathy.
“What might have caused Liv’s soufflé to fall?” Tyler asks.
“Something made the air bubbles pop,” George replies. “Liv, did you open the oven while it was cooking?”
I feel like I’ve been accused of stealing a cookie from the cookie jar. “Uh, no.”
Everyone else chimes in.
“Maybe her oven temperature wasn’t stable.”
“Her egg whites weren’t whisked properly.”
“Maybe she got some yolk into the whites.”
“Mmm.” Tyler peers at my soufflé. “I’d venture to guess that last idea is probably the right one. A tiny bit of fat from the yolk can destabilize the protein of the whites.”
“I’ll remember that for next time,” I assure him. “No eggs-tra yolk in the whites.”
My classmates all chuckle appreciatively, and Charlotte pats my shoulder as they head back to their stations. Tyler’s still looking at my soufflé, and then he gives a little shrug.
“Soufflés can still taste good if they fall,” he says. “They’re just missing the wow factor.”
“Isn’t taste more important than wowing?” I ask.
“Yes, but everyone likes being wowed now and then.” He pauses and reaches for two forks. “It’s like getting a present in a grocery bag or one wrapped in nice paper and ribbons. Same present, but the one with the ribbons is a lot more enjoyable. And you know that the person who gave it to you put time, effort, and thought into making you happy.”
That makes a striking degree of sense.
“Cooking’s the same way,” Tyler says. “Please the one you’re serving by making it right.”
He holds out a fork. We scoop up bites of my soufflé and try it. It’s heavy, but it tastes okay.
“Not bad, eh, Chef?” I ask.
“If it was a chocolate soufflé, you could serve it and call it a molten cake,” he says. “Not bad, Liv.”
I can’t help smiling. He takes another bite and nods.
“Soon,” Tyler continues, “I want you to make another soufflé because you need to know how it feels to make one that both tastes good and rises.” He points his fork at me. “And before this class is over, you’re going to know you can cook.”
I’m still not sure about that, but I appreciate his faith in me and confidence in himself. I wrap up the rest of the soufflé and start cleaning my station.
My classmates leave as I’m finishing, then Tyler approaches and offers to walk me to my car. Since it’s past nine, and Epicurean is closed, I agree.
“Hope I didn’t embarrass you with the soufflé,” he remarks. “I just think we can learn from each other.”
“You didn’t embarrass me.” I glance at him. “But you don’t seem like you need to learn anything more about cooking.”
He shrugs. “I don’t think you ever stop learning. No matter what you do.”
Sounds like something Professor West would say.
“How’d you get started being a chef?” I ask.
“My parents owned a restaurant in Ohio, so I grew up in a kitchen. Except theirs was a diner, and my dad said he wanted me to do better than that. So I went to culinary school to learn more about fine dining, then opened a place in Cleveland before moving to Forest Grove.”
“Why did you move to Forest Grove?”
“Followed a girl.” He shoots me a half-abashed smile. “Didn’t work out.”
“Well, you ended up with a successful restaurant.”
“True. Ever been to Julienne?”
I shake my head. “Was that the girl’s name?”
He gives a shout of laughter. “Her name was Emily. You remember we learned julienning that first week? It’s a style of cutting food into thin strips. Also called matchsticks.”
“Oh, yeah. Hey, you should call your next restaurant Chop. Then you could start a series of others—Mince, Dice, Cut, Slice.”
“Actually…” He chuckles. “Not a horrible idea. Want to be a partner?”
“Nah. I like to eat too much to want to know all that goes on behind the scenes.”
“You should come over to Julienne sometime and check it out,” he says. “I’ll make you all my specialties. Filet mignon or seared tuna, roasted scallops, strawberry tart. You’ll enjoy it.”
“I will. I’m sure my husband would too.”
I don’t know why I said that. I wear a wedding ring, which I’m sure Tyler has seen considering the number of times he’s looked at my hands while I’ve chopped and diced and whisked.
We stop beside my car. He smiles again. In the light of the streetlamps, his smile is still gleaming white. He’s close enough that I can smell the scents of parmesan and chives clinging to his chef’s jacket.
“How long have you been married?” he asks.
“Three years.” I open the trunk so we can put my stuff inside. “Together five.”
“Hmm.” He puts my container-encased soufflé in the trunk. “Guess it worked out for you, huh?”
“I guess so.”
I guess so? What the hell kind of answer is that?
I toss my satchel into the backseat. “Well, yeah. Of course it worked out. We’re very happy.”
“Good for you.” He slams the trunk and rests his hands on top of it as he looks at me. “Not many people are happily married these days.”
“Dean and I are.”
Why do I sound defensive?
I open the driver’s side door. “Thanks for walking me out here, Tyler. See you next week.”
“Sure, Liv. Bye.”
When I glance in the rearview mirror as I drive away, I see him standing there watching me.
Thoughts of my childhood appear to me in flashes, like cards shuffling. I try not to dwell on it, especially memories of my mother. Tonight, though, I have a dream about a boy I once knew.
My mother and I spent the summer in a beachside community in North Carolina. She’d hooked up with a man she met at a gas station and was supposedly cleaning his house in exchange for room and board.
This time, at least, we had our “own” place, since the guy let us stay in a room above his garage. It was small and hot, but there was a kitchenette with a fridge, and if you craned your neck while looking out the window you could see a pale strip of ocean in the distance.
The man—whose name I can’t remember—had a son a few months older than I. Trevor Hart. We’d have been in the same class if school were in session, but since it was summer we had nothing to do. He was a skinny, towheaded kid with bright blue eyes, freckles, and an utter determination to be my friend.
By the time I was nine, I’d learned to keep my distance from people, learned not to make friends too fast because chances were we’d be moving again soon.
But Trevor and his boundless enthusiasm were hard to resist. Plus I had no one except my mother, and when I was with her it was all about what she wanted, what she needed, what she had to do.
To get away from that for a while, I warily started hanging out with Trevor. The second week we were there, he hauled one of his old bikes from a shed and asked me to ride with him to the beach.
“I don’t know how to ride a bike,” I said, eyeing the rusted two-wheeler dubiously.
“Oh.” He scratched his head. “Guess you’d better learn.”
Every day for a week, that kid held the bike while I tottered to and fro, trying to learn how to balance. Every time I fell, he picked up the bike and asked if I was okay. Every time I pedaled, he cheered.
And when I finally managed to bike the length of an entire street, he ran alongside me the whole way, yelling, “You got it, Liv! You’re riding a bike! You’re doing it!”
We were inseparable for the rest of the summer. We spent most of our time biking to the beach where we played putt-putt, ate ice cream, and swam in the ocean.
Trevor Hart had plans. He wanted to be a firefighter, a paleontologist, a police officer, a construction worker, a deliveryman. He wanted to parachute jump, go to India, fly a plane, swim with sharks, climb Mount Everest.
He was the first person who asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up.
“I don’t know,” I answered truthfully.
“You gotta be something,” he said, licking up a drop of melting ice cream from his cone. “What about a skydiver?”
“I don’t think I’d like that.”
“I saw this program about a circus college where people go to learn trapezing and tightrope-walking and stuff. You could do that.”
I was pretty sure I couldn’t, but I loved that he thought I could.
“Maybe I could be a clown,” I suggested. That actually sounded kind of fun.
“Yeah!” His eyes lit with enthusiasm. “That’d be totally awesome. You could have pink hair and drive one of those tiny cars. You’d be great at that.”
“You think?” I smiled, pleased. “Thanks.”
“You gotta tell me when the shows are, though,” he said, “cuz you never know, I might be at Everest base camp or something.”
I’d little doubt he would be.
“Come on.” He tossed his cone wrapper into a trashcan and headed back to our bikes. “Let’s go to the fun house on the boardwalk and you can practice.”
My mother and I had left town at the end of August, just as Trevor was getting ready to go back to school. We said we’d write to each other, and for a few months after that, I did. But of course my mother and I were always moving, so soon any return letters Trevor sent got lost somewhere on the road behind us.
The dream I have now about Trevor Hart is a collage of moments—his gap-toothed grin, his cheering me on, his belief in my future.
And when I wake, I wonder whatever became of the boy who’d been my best friend for just one summer. As I lie there staring at the pattern of sunlight on the ceiling, I think Trevor might have grown into the type of man Tyler Wilkes is.
The thought makes me surprisingly happy.