Chapter 8

Months into the first year of the program, as the students were about to learn the art of the braise. Chef Girard stood in front of them alongside two framed pictures covered with oilcloth sitting on easels.

Chef was a compact man with a perpetually amused expression and hands that bore the scars of forty years of kitchen work. By now, they all were aware of his unconventional teaching methods. Unlike other instructors who relied on technical demonstrations and precise measurements, he was famously philosophical. He had a story for every lesson.

For the first couple of hours, the lecture proceeded normally. Girard moved through his presentation on roasting and braising fundamentals leavened with details about the chemical properties of various herbs and spices. He told how the historical trade routes had shaped various cuisines. He outlined the proper techniques for extracting maximum flavor from them.

“Remember,” he said, pacing the front of the classroom, “salt is not just a flavor enhancer, it’s a preservative, sometimes a textural component. When you salt a dish is as important as how much you add.”

Matthew took careful notes, filling the margins with his own observations based on techniques he’d seen at Golden Dragon and La Cocina. The science behind practices he’d learned through observation was fascinating—the why behind the how.

Girard moved on to pepper varieties, then to complex spice combinations, all the while circling the two covered frames on their easels.

The students’ eyes occasionally darted toward the easels, curiosity building as the lecture continued without any reference to these mysterious objects.

Finally, as he concluded his formal presentation, Girard came to stand between the two easels.

“Now,” he said, his French-Canadian accent becoming more pronounced as it always did when he was excited, “we come to the most important part of today’s lesson.”

The classroom fell silent. Matthew set down his pen, giving the chef his complete attention.

“What I have talked about today—the basic rules of roasting and braising, the properties of a couple spices, the chemical interactions, the traditional combinations—all of this is essential knowledge. But it is not the whole story.” He rested one hand on the cloth covering the first easel. “It is, in fact, only the beginning.”

With a theatrical flourish that suggested his alternate career might have been on stage, Girard pulled away the oilcloth from the first frame.

Revealed was a painting of a fruit bowl—competently executed but clearly amateurish. The proportions were slightly off, the shadows unconvincing, the colors flat but accurate. It wasn’t bad, exactly, but it lacked any particular distinction or character.

The students exchanged puzzled glances. This was not what anyone had expected in a culinary class.

Without explanation, Girard moved to the second easel and removed its covering with equal drama. This revealed another painting of the same fruit bowl arrangement, but the difference was striking. Where the first had been adequate but lifeless, this version vibrated with energy and personality. The fruits seemed to glow with inner light, their textures almost tangible, the composition dynamic rather than static. The colors were richer, more complex, with subtle variations that created depth and dimension.

“The first one,” Girard announced, gesturing toward the amateur work, “is a paint-by-number picture I did myself. Not bad, huh?” His mouth quirked in a self-deprecating smile. “I followed all the instructions. Put the correct colors in the designated spaces. I was precise. Careful. Technical.”

He moved to the second painting. “This one I commissioned from a friend of mine. Just for you guys. Jackson’s a real artist, but a terrible poker player. I got this for free because he has an optimistic habit of drawing to inside straights.”

The rest of the class laughed. Matthew leaned forward, suddenly understanding where the lecture was heading.

“The same goes for recipes,” Girard continued, his voice dropping to ensure they were all listening closely. “We teach you to use recipes, to understand the science, to master the techniques. But make no mistake,” he paused, looking around the room, making eye contact with each student, “you are not chefs until you can create in a dish what this artist did to the painting.”

He walked slowly along the front row of desks. “A recipe is a paint-by-number guide. Important, yes. Educational, certainly. But if you never move beyond it, you remain a technician—not a chef.”

The room was utterly silent now, each student absorbing the visual metaphor. Matthew thought of his experiences at St. Vincent’s, where necessity had forced creativity—stretching donated ingredients, substituting what was available, adapting methods to equipment limitations. He had been cooking beyond a recipe for a while without realizing it.

“Look at these two paintings,” Girard instructed. “Really look at them. What’s the difference? Both show the same subject. Both use the same basic colors. Both are recognizably fruit bowls.”