Panic! at the Patisserie
“Have you made creme patissiere?”*
“Um, I think…”
“Boil the milk, well not boil, but you know, simmer, blend all these things together, make sure there are no lumps, add to that, handmix it. And then do this recipe, it’s basically the same. 6 kilos. If you’re done with both in an hour let me know and I’ll find you something else.”
“Oh, okay, uh…”, I wrote in my tiny notebook as furiously as possible, while the directions still rang in my ear.
“Here’s a scale and some pots and Cambros, there are tools in that drawer, Lisa will help you find ingredients if you need them.”
“Okay. Are there bowls anywhere?”
“What do you need a bowl for?”
“Oh, well, I guess I could use the Cambro for the first step, and, uh…”
My supervisor was already gone up the stairs, while I was visualizing the steps to figure out if I needed a bowl. I was on my first “trail” — a working interview for a culinary job — in the basement of a fancy patisserie in Manhattan. I stared at the laminated recipes in front of me, which were tables of ingredients with measurements but no directions. I ran my finger down the column that led to a final number of 6,000. I guessed the measurements were in grams. I’d never used a recipe like this, or made creme patissiere.
I found milk in the walk-in fridge and very slowly and carefully poured the whole carton into the pot I’d placed on the scale. It wasn't even half the amount called for, so I went back to the fridge twice more. I overshot by about 12 grams. Did that matter? Lisa wasn’t watching me so I tipped a little out into the handwashing sink next to me.
I continued to work this way, painfully awkwardly and slowly, bothering Lisa every few minutes because I had no idea where anything was, missing my measurements by a little and trying to secretively dump bits of sugar in the trash to fix them. A separate bowl for measuring might have been useful. There were also no spoons anywhere so I couldn’t figure out how I was supposed to get the lemon zest out of its container. I saw Lisa put on a pair of latex gloves, so I did too and just used my hands. Various directions stumped me. “Blend together” and then “handmix”? Why had she specified those steps separately? I hadn’t been told to use any specific equipment, but I decided to use the Kitchen Aid for the blending and some kind of giant immersion blender for the final mixing. Inserting the paddle attachment and resting my hand on the top of the humming Kitchen Aid felt eminently comforting, like for 5 seconds I knew what I was doing.
The hour passed, and then 15 more minutes. I was almost done with the second recipe, but I was agitated and jumpy.
“Hey Lisa, do you know where lemon juice is?”
She stepped in to the walk-in and handed me a bottle. I added in the amount, correctly this time, with relief that this was about to be over. I began to take the bottle back and then noticed its label: Lime Juice. Are you kidding me? Should I start over? Am I going to fuck this whole thing up over lime juice? A part of me wanted to cry and leave. Nothing had actually been that bad, but I felt like I didn’t belong there. I hadn't studied pastry. I didn't know what I was doing. It was hot down in the basement and so cramped that I felt enormous, my elbows and bowls encroaching on Lisa’s space. There was no phone service so I couldn’t Google whether my cream was anything like the way it was supposed to be. I guess they would just throw it out if they couldn’t use it. I labeled the Cambros and put them in the walk-in, then cleaned up my area and trudged upstairs.
“So, uh, there was an error with the second recipe.”
“What happened?” My supervisor’s eyes fixed on me.
“I used lime juice instead of lemon juice.”
“Oh okay, whatever.” She relaxed. We chatted about the logistics of the job and my culinary school. We were going through the motions, but she smiled every now and then. The hours were midnight-7am and the pay was terrible but I shrugged it off.
“I’ll talk to Chef and he’ll be in touch. If you don’t hear from us in a few days, you can reach out.”
And that was it, I was dismissed. No one actually tried what I’d made, least of all me because I couldn’t figure out how to do that without a spoon. My heart kept racing as I made my way to school for my final exam. That would end up going fine. I’d answer the multiple choice questions and then relax into chopping and sweating onions, blanching spinach, broiling polenta, all things I’d done in that kitchen millions of times. I’d get the checkmarks for full points in every category, a nice red 100%. I’m pleased, but I know by now that after school, things won’t be that easy. Whether or not I get this job at the patisserie, or want to take it, I’m going to be feeling awkward, slow, and out of my depth in someone’s kitchen soon enough. I guess it’s how learning happens.
Update: I passed the trail and took the job. I’m headed to my first day right now.
*Details changed so I don’t get sued.