Monsieur Reynard surveyed his kitchen: rows of
novices had paid twenty thousand Euros each to learn the art of French cooking
from him. They eyed him, sweating in their whites, as he allowed the silence to
swell like a soufflé. At his elbow, his assistant, Jacqueline, waited for his
signal. Perhaps one of these scullery maids could come within striking distance
of her talents – and even that was still far removed from his own brilliance,
though he said so himself.
“You will find, on your benches...” He enjoyed the
theatricality of pausing during instructions. “...the tools you need. You have
three minutes to separate a dozen eggs.”
The novices sprang into action. He stalked between
the benches. At least some of them had been practising. Except the runt at the
end of the second row, who was flaking egg shell into the egg white.
“How difficult can it be to separate eggs?” The
announcement brought the frenzy to a halt. The novice quivered.
“Have you not understood the basic techniques, boy?”
“Monsieur Reynard, perhaps if you would demonstrate
to Pierre how he can improve?” He had almost forgotten about Jacqueline.
“I will not demonstrate! This is basic work. Any
cook worth their salt can separate an egg.”
“Agreed, Monsieur, but since some are not used to
separating with only their hands and the shell, perhaps you could give some
pointers?”
“Jacqueline, they are separating eggs! Not
deconstructing the Sistine Chapel’s ceiling!” There was a titter. Jacqueline
took his arm and steered him towards the door.
“Monsieur, you must remember these are novices.
They came to learn from you – the Master. Teach them.”
He balled his fists. With a sniff, he turned to the
room. “Let’s begin again. Step by step this time.”
