The final began with a mad scramble to grab the necessary pots, strainers, cooling racks, roasting racks, bowls and ingredients to make your two assigned dishes. After the initial noise of clanging metal, unzipping of knife bags and the shuffle of feet, a quiet fell over the kitchen. I think everyone took a collective deep breath. Then slowly a steady chop, chop, chop began to beat out its sound, followed shortly by the sizzling sound of ingredients as they hit a hot pan. I love the sound of a professional kitchen, I liken it to a symphony. First its quiet, you tune up as you get your ingredients ready and prepped. Then, as you start to cook, it gets louder and louder and then when the orders start rushing in (as you hope they do) its show time! It's a fury of pots banging, oven doors slamming, metal spoons stirring frantically, its the clash of cymbals! It stays at this wild pitch for awhile and then it begins its refrain, to slow down, and then its quiet. All the players in a kitchen have to work together to create the perfect score. The kitchen is a delicious symphony.
For me, on that final night, lets just say I had the right tempo but no rhythm. I wasn't a symphony, I was a one woman band. I felt myself falling behind as the clock ticked away and precious minutes were lost forever. I had vowed not to be late in presenting my two dishes, so I really pushed myself. Plus I had the added benefit of Chef Jason yelling in my ear to speed it up! Get going, watch your sauce!!!
I strained the consomme, unmolded the mushroom flan and carefully and delicately, chopped chervil. First dish was on time but barely. Then it was on to my second dish, the stuffed pheasant. I worked as fast as I could to finish it, constantly watching the clock. I was just about to present the dish when I realized there was something missing. I had forgotten about the warm fig with butter and thyme. SHIT!! DAMN! I scrambled to quickly put it together and moments later the fig was on the plate, completely undercooked and lopsided, leaning unsteadily against the pheasant, like it was inebriated. That hiccup in my careful plan had cost me, I was now a few minutes late. I was terribly disappointed. Damn that fig!! I had placed them on a shelf below the countertop out of the way in an attempt to be uber orgznized. But you know what they say - out of sight, out of mind. Which is exactly what happened, fig - what fig? I was out of my mind stupid alright. As my dishes were sent off to the judges, I could not stop thinking about that cold sad looking fig. And I love figs! Nothing against them. I certainly had eaten my fair share of them the past few months, practicing my recipe. Luckily the feeling of relief, of just being done and completing the final, slowly took over, and that fig became a distant memory. I enjoyed the accomplishment of the evening with my classmates, while we sipped champagne (maybe that helped with the distant memory part). We were then critiqued by four judges who had volunteered their taste buds and stomachs for the night. My dishes did quite well, thank goodness and best of all, they didn't seem too concerned about my fig fiasco. I let out my breath and finally truly relaxed. Fini!
Even though its been almost two months since the final, whenever I see a fig staring back at me in the grocery store, its a different story. It's a love hate thing now. I guess it's going to take some time.
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