Free Under the Table by Katherine Darling

and began to laugh.
    â€œNot what you expected, eh?” he asked me.
    The eggs were now practically finished cooking, an opaque pale yellow instead of runnily transparent. Chef stopped scrambling them just when they were cooked but before they began to bunch up in curds on the bottom of the pan. Suddenly, he pulled the panoff the heat, held it high in the air for a moment, and then brought it down with a resounding bang on the grates over the flame. We all jumped in shock, and Chef chuckled at the looks of astonishment on our faces. The lumpy surface of the omelet had become smooth as silk. Chef tipped the pan up, slid the finished omelet onto a plate, brushed it with melted butter, and added a small rounded scoop of the tomato, onion, and green pepper filling known as pipérade .
    â€œVoilà,” he said. Chef had prepared a flat omelet perfectly in a little over forty-five seconds. He wiped out the nonstick pan and began the whole process again, demonstrating the rolled omelet. Once again he brushed the pan lightly with melted butter and in went the gently beaten eggs, Chef ’s hand becoming a blur as he used his wooden fork to scramble quickly, gently. Then, just as the eggs turned opaque, up went the pan in the air, down it came with a crash, and the eggs smoothed out to a calm, pale yellow sea.
    Now Chef tipped the skillet up to a 75-degree angle, with the handle grasped firmly in his left hand tilted high in the air, and the eggs slid easily to the edge of the pan, making a small crease in the middle of the omelet, half the egg ready to slip out of the pan and half still clinging to the bottom. Into this he popped a scoop of the filling and then—one-two—with a deft flick of the wrist so quick I almost missed it completely, Chef used the handle to flip the pan all the way over, the velocity folding the rest of the omelet neatly together before depositing it, a perfectly plump, football shape, squarely in the middle of the waiting plate. Chef covered the omelet with a fresh linen napkin and gently pressed it more firmly into shape. A quick brush with melted butter to make it shine, and there was the most gorgeous pale golden omelet, positively glowing under the hot kitchen lights.
    If it sounds confusing, that’s because it is. There is a lot of whipping, shaking, banging, and flipping, all in the time it takes to pour a glass of water. We stared, mesmerized, at the two omelets looking so lovely and creamy on their plates.
    Angelo nudged me. “Did you see him smack those eggs? That was hot! Smack that!” he said, whipping me in the rear with his side towel. I had the feeling he wasn’t talking about the eggs.
    â€œAnd that melted butter just dripping everywhere? Ohhh, yeah. This is my kind of recipe.” Nope, definitely not talking about the omelets. I smacked him right back with my own side towel. This was not the time for the sexual double entendres endemic in kitchens. Suddenly omelets seemed downright scary, and I had a bad feeling I had underestimated this lesson.
    Assistant Chef Cyndee handed out twenty-four nonstick pans, and off we went. Nonstick pans were a precious commodity in the school kitchen, and were kept locked up in the storeroom downstairs when not in use. Before we were allowed to actually touch them, Chef made us all promise never ever to use anything but wooden utensils on them. If there was a scratch on one of the pans when we were done with the lesson, Chef assured us with the utmost Gallic sincerity that he would personally beat the guilty student to death with the pan himself. With that warning ringing in our ears, we began. As soon as we had each produced a perfect omelet, we were free to break for lunch. I took a deep breath, put my pan over the flames, and prayed.
    â€œGo!” shouted Chef Jean. “Now: whip, season, taste, pour, scramble, bang, and onto the plate. No, ONTO THE PLATE! THE PLATE!”
    I banged my pan down again, more in