Chapter 7

Matthew had enrolled in the Dual Degree Culinary Arts program at ICE, a two year-long intensive course covering the basics of professional cooking. The first year was devoted to culinary art, the second year taught restaurant and culinary management. He approached it with the reverence of a pilgrim who had finally reached a sacred destination.

On his first day, Matthew arrived an hour early, having triple-checked his route the day before. He stood outside the gleaming glass building, smoothing the wrinkles from his new uniform—crisp white chef’s coat with the ICE logo, checkered pants, and non-slip shoes purchased with part of his scholarship money. The knife roll tucked under his arm contained the basic set required by the school, each piece still shiny with newness.

Inside, the lobby buzzed with other first-year students, many chatting excitedly in small groups, comparing previous cooking experience or educational backgrounds. Matthew stood apart and watched silently, noting the diversity of his classmates—recent high school graduates like himself, middle-aged career changers, international students with accents from around the world. Despite their differences, they were united by the white uniforms and the excited energy that filled the space.

“Welcome to the Institute of Culinary Education,” announced Chef Davidson, the program director, once they were seated in the lecture hall. A trim man in his fifties with salt-and-pepper hair and erect posture, he surveyed the group with experienced eyes. “Half of you won’t be cooking professionally by this time next year. A quarter of those who remain will leave the industry within five years.”

A murmur ran through the room. Matthew felt himself suddenly still, absorbing the statistics. Then thought:

That won’t be me...

“This is not meant to discourage you,” Chef Davidson continued. “It’s meant to prepare you. The culinary world requires more than passion. It demands discipline, resilience and a willingness to start at the bottom and learn. If you possess these qualities along with s bit of actual talent, you might—might—build a successful career.”

He consulted a tablet, then looked up with a slight smile. “Now, let’s begin your education.”

The first weeks were devoted to the basics—food safety, kitchen hierarchy, ingredient identification, and kitchen equipment. Matthew took notes with meticulous care, filling page after page with information that sometimes confirmed what he’d learned through experience and sometimes contradicted it.

On day, during a lecture on knife skills, Chef Lombardi, a compact Italian woman with forearms roped with muscle, noticed Matthew’s intense focus.

“You,” she said, pointing at him. “You’ve worked in kitchens before?”

Matthew nodded. “Yes, Chef.”

“Come up here. Demonstrate your julienne.”

Heart pounding, Matthew approached the demonstration table where a cutting board, a chef knife, and carrot awaited. The eyes of twenty-two classmates tracked him. He centered himself with a deep breath, recalling Mrs. Chen’s patient instructions, Señora Vega’s emphasis on precision.

Here we go papa.

The knife felt natural in his grip. He trimmed the carrot, squared off the sides, and began cutting thin, even matchsticks with a rhythmic efficiency born of practice. When he finished, Chef Lombardi examined his work critically.

“Good technique,” she said finally. “But you’re holding tension in your shoulders. The knife is an extension of your arm, not a separate tool. Relax the upper body, maintain control with the fingers.” She demonstrated, her movements fluid and economical. “Again.”

Matthew adjusted his posture and repeated the process, focusing on the connection between his body and the blade. The julienne was identical to his first attempt in size and consistency, but this time the work required less effort.

“Better,” Chef Lombardi acknowledged. “Where did you train?”

“Various kitchens, Chef. A Chinese restaurant, a Mexican restaurant, a homeless shelter kitchen.”

She nodded, her expression revealing nothing, but Matthew sensed approval in her brief “Back to your seat.”

As the demonstration continued, the student beside him—a former software engineer named David who had left a lucrative career to pursue cooking—leaned over. “Holy crap, that was impressive,” he whispered.

Matthew shrugged, unused to compliments from other students, but privately felt a small glow of satisfaction. Some of the fundamentals, at least, he had down pat.

The next several weeks introduced culinary math and food costing—areas where Matthew’s natural aptitude for numbers gave him an advantage. The class worked through exercises on recipe scaling, yield percentages, and calculating food cost percentages. When Chef Roberts asked them to cost out a hypothetical menu item, Matthew’s estimate came within pennies of the correct answer, earning him another moment of recognition.

“Mr. Conner has got it,” Chef Roberts said. “In a professional kitchen, profit margins are razor-thin. One percentage point in food cost can mean the difference between success and failure in this business.”

Matthew absorbed this information with particular interest. The business aspects of cooking—the practical realities that had likely challenged his father—were new territory for him. He began staying after class to ask Chef Roberts additional questions about pricing strategy and menu engineering even though those subjects would be thoroughly covered in year two.

As time went on, patterns emerged among the students. A couple dropped out. Study groups formed, friendships developed, and instructors began recognizing individual strengths and weaknesses. Matthew remained friendly but apart, not just out of shyness but from the habit of self-reliance cultivated through years of being a ‘the ghost’. He spoke when called upon, answered questions thoroughly but concisely, and kept his focus on the material rather than the social dynamics of the classroom.

This changed unexpectedly during a session on global ingredients when Chef Martinez, the culinary history instructor, brought in a selection of spices for identification.

“Grains of paradise,” Matthew said immediately when presented with a small black seed that many classmates had struggled to name. “Used in West African cooking. Similar to black pepper but with notes of cardamom and citrus.”

Chef Martinez raised an eyebrow. “And how would you use it?”

“It works well in spice blends for meat, especially lamb. Also good in certain seafood preparations.” Matthew hesitated, then added, “I learned about it from Mrs. Saanvi the spice merchant at the farmers market back home. She gave me some to experiment with.”

“Interesting. And this one?” Chef Martinez held up a dried fruit.

“Black lime,” Matthew identified. “Dried Persian lime. Adds acidity and complex flavor to Middle Eastern dishes.”

After class, a small group of students approached him in the hallway. Among them was Sofia, a young woman from Brazil whose previous experience in her family’s restaurant gave her a level of practical knowledge similar to Matthew’s.

“How do you know so much about spices?” she asked.

“I worked at a farmers market for a couple of years in high school. Got to know the vendors, especially at the spice stall. The owner was nice enough to teach me.”