Free Hungry Woman in Paris by Josefina López Page A

one cared. I looked around to see who was smiling out of nervousness and who really knew what they were
     about to jump into. It’s just soup, how hard can it be? I thought.
    Just then the chef entered. He was not Chef Sauber. He was Chef Frédérique—in his thirties, tall, slim, juicy, just the way
     I like my fish. He introduced himself with a simple
“Bonjour”
and asked,
“Qui sont les assistants?”
Everyone looked at one another, not sure what he meant. We looked around for the translator and quickly realized the practical
     classes would not be translated. He made a comment in French and then asked a question. I couldn’t tell what he was saying,
     but when he raised his voice at the end of his sentence I could tell he was asking a question. Only the real French speakers
     responded. The Brazilian woman said she had not been told anything. A tall and athletic American guy with red hair named Rick
     responded that they had not been informed, but he would volunteer to get the supplies for our practice. Chef Frédérique said
     the assistants are usually in alphabetical order. The Brazilian woman sighed and went down to the basement, where the kitchen
     of the school was located, along with the freezers and the stockroom. Rick informed us that assistants were chosen in alphabetical
     order, so we all announced our last names; I said, “Guerrero.” It was soon discovered that Bassie was the assistant this week
     along with Janeira. Chef Frédérique, who spoke hardly any English, advised us to get all our pans ready and sharpen our knives
     while we waited for the supplies. Rick automatically became the translator for Chef Frédérique. Chef Frédérique commended
     him for his near-perfect French pronunciation and Rick explained that he’d gone to a French school back in New York City.
     His mother was a Francophile who wanted her children to also have her love of French culture.
    Bassie and Janeira distributed the vegetables to everyone by putting them in metal bowls. Two people across from each other
     were to share the one bowl with all the ingredients. They left the pot of chicken stock by the sink closest to the elevator,
     which would be used to bring the trays of ingredients from the basement to the many floors at the school.
    I grabbed a carrot and I peeled. I grabbed some celery and I peeled. I looked across to see what the Korean woman was doing.
     She had already peeled everything and was preparing the bouquet garni. She cut a large piece of cooking string with her paring
     knife. She was so precise, not afraid of cutting herself. My biggest fear was cutting myself. I was a klutz. I had five scars
     from knife cuts I’d made on my index finger from the various times I’d tried trimming tree branches back when I was a tomboy.
    I cut my carrot into long rectangles and then I tried cutting them into
paysanne
and
brunoise
pieces. Chef Frédérique walked around smiling and telling us we were all doing well. I took my onion and started cutting
     away. It didn’t quite end up looking like the onion Chef Sauber had cut up. Chef Frédérique watched Arthur, a small-framed
     guy who looked like he was in the closet. He admired the way Arthur handled his onion and commended him on his precision cutting.
     Chef Frédérique pointed to my onion and said to the class that we shouldn’t cut our onion like that. I was the bad example
     for the class. My jaw dropped in embarrassment and I tried to hide my onion. Seeing my discomfort, he put his hand on my right
     shoulder and smiled. He winked at me to show me he was only joking.
    “
Je plaisante,
” Chef Frédérique said apologetically. I think he meant it, but he probably thought I was a delicate American student who
     should be treated with soft baking gloves. I didn’t know if I should smile or apologize, but he proceeded to massage my back
     and said, “No problem,” in his limited English to put me at ease. When I finally looked up at him with a smile,