Under the Table Read Online Free Page B

garnished with a spray of freckles, and his face was balanced by a wide mouth, just now flashing a big grin. I realized I was staring, and tried to cover my awkwardness with conversation.
    â€œSo, how do you tie this stupid thing?” I asked, waving my neckerchief at him. I noticed his was perfectly aligned and the tails were neatly tucked out of view under the mandarin collar of his spanking new chef ’s jacket. He was obviously already well ahead of me in the sartorial aspect of class. Taking the large, itchy bit of cloth from my grip, Tucker smoothed out the wrinkles I had managed to crimp into it and folded it in neat little accordion pleats from a large triangle to a flat rope almost an inch wide. Tucking the triangular end under, he deftly flipped the length of polyester over my head, tails dangling down either side of my neck. Undoing his own pristine knot, he then led me through the steps—something about a rabbit going around a tree twice, then ducking under to pop up again. Somehow, from all that nonsense, Tucker managed to turn my mess into a perfect knot, complete with two even tails. These I tucked into my jacket, and Tucker and I smiled at each other.
    Things were going well—it seemed like I was making at least one new friend. Together, we took a moment to check out the rest of the class that was rapidly arriving and milling about the room. It was a confusion of students in various states of dress—everyone had managed the jacket and pants, but most were having the same trouble with their neckerchiefs that I had. There were two dozenlarge red toolboxes scattered throughout the room—one for every student—and the bulky three-ring binders that were our new textbooks littered every flat surface. The babble of many nervous voices raised in conversation made further interaction with my new friend almost impossible.
    I made my way to the quickly emptying coffeepot in one corner of the vast room and snagged two cups of the very dark brew. I threw some cream and sugar in Tucker’s cup and brought it back to him as a thank-you for helping me. As I delivered it, I asked Tucker if he knew any of the other students milling about. We almost had to shout to hear each other over the sound of chatter bouncing off the gleaming white-tiled walls and orangey red–tiled floors. Because Tucker was in the school-sponsored housing on Roosevelt Island, he actually knew several of the dozen male members of the class, and was able to point to several women as fellow boarders. In fact, one of the other guys sharing our kitchen island was Tucker’s roommate, a tall, gangly fellow with a name at least twice as big as he was. Before I could commit the many multisyllables to memory, Tucker said not to bother, that everyone was already calling him Junior.
    Further discussion of our classmates was forestalled by the arrival of Chef-Instructor Jean and Assistant Chef Cyndee. Chef Jean was an impressive figure in his crisp chef ’s whites, complete with a tall chef ’s toque set at a jaunty angle on his curly black hair. His round glasses flashed in the overhead lights, and something about his sharp nose and wide mouth reminded me of a benevolent amphibian, like Mr. Toad in the children’s classic Wind in the Willows . He seemed very nice, smiling good-naturedly at us all, and I immediately began to lose some of my first-day nerves. Assistant Chef Cyndee, on the other hand, scowled at all of us before barking sharply at us to sit down and shut up.
    We were quickly brought to order and our first lecture began. Chef explained how this first level would work—every day, fivedays a week, we would report to our classroom and set out chairs for our morning lecture, where Chef Jean would explain the culinary concept for the day and guide us through the basic recipes we would be preparing. After lecture we would break into teams and prepare two recipes before lunch. Sometimes we would get to eat