Page 16 of Kept
“I do.”
“And you believe, having worked in acanteenthat you are of the calibre of students we desire?”
“My mum was a cordon bleu chef.”
“I am not interviewing your mother, Miss Bailey.”
“I know. I just wanted you to know; I want to follow in her footsteps, I’ve always wanted…”
She cuts me off again.
“What you want and what this establishment want are two very different things I would suggest, Miss Bailey.”
“Tell me,” another of the panel members asks quietly, a man way down the end of the line, “have you trained at all in French cuisine?”
“Of course,” I nod.
“Where?”
“No, um, I’ve been using my mother’s recipes and cookbooks to practise dishes.”
Once again, I don’t get to finish what I intended to say.
“Dear me,” the aristocrat laughs, “perhaps we should interview your mother. By all means bring her in,” they all titter at her joke, as I frown and twist my fingers together. Looking down, I see they are white, as I’m sure my face is too.
“My mother is dead. She died when I was nine. I remember her cooking for my father and I, cooking with me – when I eat from her recipes, it is like she is still with me.”
They are all silent at my declaration, and I know my face has gone from white to red. I’ve shared too much, embarrassed myself before people I was hoping to impress.
Another woman, shorter and so far quiet, clears her throat.
“What specifically have you been concentrating on, in preparation for this interview?”
“The five mother sauces.”
“And who taught you these?”
I open my mouth, but the aristocrat answers for me.
“Please don’t say, your mother.”
I shut my mouth tight. It was her recipes I had been practising. I’d read others, of course, watched YouTube videos, studied some of the classic textbooks. But I don’t elaborate. I’m starting to get the feeling that I am just a joke to them now; nothing I say will really make a difference.
“Have you travelled to the continent?” the quiet one asks, ignoring my silence.
“I’ve been saving money. I want to go to France someday, of course.”
“Of course,” the aristocrat snorts, shaking her head and standing the papers up on end in front of her, knocking them on the table to straighten them in line, “one cannot train as a chef without a knowledge of French tradition, it is the basis from which all else is built. I think we have heard enough. Thank you for your time, Miss Bailey.”
I frown and make no move to stand as she waves at me to go.
“But I didn’t get to cook for you. I thought the interview included, I mean the letter said the interview included, a practical demonstration of my culinary skills.”
“Yes,” the man at the end frowns, “but we don’t think that is necessary at this time.”
I have a million questions, and a lot of swear words milling around in my brain.
‘So, did I fucking get in or not? Did I even stand a chance? When will I know? Why don’t you like me? Why am I not good enough?”
