Under the Table Read Online Free

caught her name as she coyly whispered it to Philip’s chiseled pecs, “…call me Mimi. So pleased to meet another student with a bit of class.” I guess my outfit (and all the agonizing I had done over it) hadn’t cut the mustard!
    Amanda, the girl with the surfer tee and hemp bracelets, was indeed from Southern California and had the trademark laid-back lifestyle and speech pattern. Working in public relations had been “a total downer” for her, and she had decided to try living on the East Coast and making a go of her hobby of cooking before she turned thirty. “I mean, one meal at Chez Panisse and I was like totally blown away. It’s like beyond food food.”
    Angelo was a New Jersey native, and had graduated from the Fashion Institute of Technology with a degree in graphic design. After an unfulfilling stint at an ad agency, Angelo realized his creativity needed a different outlet, and had turned to food, interning at several well-known restaurants in the city before deciding to get his culinary degree. His tight T-shirt didn’t quite cover what looked like a massive tribal tattoo, encircling one massive bicep (more like a whole jamón serrano than an appendage), and the ring through his nose heavily accentuated his bull-like physique—his neck was as wide as my waist—with his heavy Jersey accent making him seem even more like a tough guy. Fashion was definitely not what I would have expected from such a tough customer, but his blue eyes were very kind, and he swirled the wine around in his glass with a practiced motion of his massive, meaty paws. It turned out he had gone to high school with the retro seventies chick—her name was Jackie. Her long brown hair, big brown eyes, and the way she absolutely rocked her super-low-cut jeans made me think I had just met the class bombshell. When she mentioned that she used to work for theYankees and still got tickets from the organization, I was certain. Jackie was a total man magnet. This was her second round of food education: she had recently completed a course in food styling at the Institute for Culinary Education and was doing an internship in the prop department at the Food Network—the Holy Grail for the rest of us.
    Off in a corner, a middle-aged biddy had managed to corral Dean Jacques Pépin and seemed to be asking for his autograph. Her flat midwestern vowels were making mincemeat of the melodic French syllables he uttered, and I clearly heard her referring to her “world-famous green bean casserole Franceeese.” (Apparently, canned pearl onions provided the “Franceeese-ness.”) I tried not to stare openly. My hero Jacques Pépin was being mauled by a future classmate of mine. I wondered if she had dreamed about eating him, too—it looked like she was trying her best to gobble him up right now.
    I looked around at the other students populating the room. Most of them had stowed their duffels and detached themselves from the walls to mingle, have a glass or two of wine, and corner the quickly disappearing noshes. They certainly seemed to come from all walks of life. Where was I going to fit in? I sipped the rest of my wine, thought about the office job I had so recently left behind, with all the comforts of the cubicle life—limitless Internet, endless coffee, and free paper clips. I hoped I had made the right decision. I saddled myself with my duffel bag, suddenly heavy with uncertainty in addition to uniforms that would have to be hemmed and dry-cleaned, and headed out into the June afternoon in downtown Manhattan.

TUCKER
    W hile it was mere chance that I ended up across the table from Tucker on our very first day of chef school, it was no accident that we became such good friends and partners.
    We couldn’t have been more different. Tucker was a proud product of the absolute middle of the Midwest. Michigan born and bred, he had never left the state but once or twice, when