From Chef's Whites to Cinema Nights
A Paris Kitchen Confession
In December, I wrote this personal essay for a course led by Lindsey Trout Hughes. Reading it back now, I'm struck by how it mirrors the style of my recipe introductions, though in a more expansive form. It also offers a glimpse into the culinary themes I'll be exploring in my upcoming recipes.
In late-noughties Paris, where the heatwave in the streets rivalled the fire of culinary school ovens, the air-conditioned cinema offered me a place to breathe, dream, and disappear. Like a perfectly timed ‘mise en place’, these dark sanctuaries became the counterpoint to my sweat-soaked days in culinary training, a refuge where the only heat came from the projector's beam.
‘Silence!’
The voice sliced through the darkness of the room, sharp as a knife.
A defiant rustle of crisp packet answered back, followed by a woman's voice:
‘Je fait ce que j'envie’ [I do as I like]
The tension crackled in the air like static. I bit down on the mouthful of popcorn as quietly as I could while I sank further into the soft plush seat. The synthetic fake velvet warmed against my bare legs and began to prickle with itchiness. An uncomfortable wet heat spread out from my armpits down to my arms and my palms began to get clammy.
‘Shhhh’ chorused the audience which was swallowed up by a deafening sound. The faces were illuminated by the screen. My body relaxed as the opening credits rolled.
During my years in late 2000s Paris, the digital world felt like an all-you-can-eat buffet serving only three tepid dishes. TV still ruled as the original small screen and cinema was the king. Streaming a film felt like watching a barista take endless cigarette breaks while making your grande skinny caramel macchiato, each buffering pause met with a muttered 'come on'.
Sunday screening queues rivalled those at Paris's best baguette-winning boulangeries. Leave it to exercise-averse Parisians to reinvent the gym memberships for cinema - an unlimited access to screens across the city for a monthly fee. The twenty euros carved a significant chunk from my freelancers' budget of juggling part-time jobs, but like rent or electricity, it became an essential utility. Nothing felt more luxurious than claiming a weekday matinée at my private cinema.
The necktie strangled my throat like a sweat-soaked damp towel while the ovens blazed temperatures of hell. Open windows invited more heat. Sweat trickled from underneath my chef's hat and made its way down my forehead, along my face until it landed straight onto the layer of butter that was spreading like an ever-increasing golden puddle on the work surface. The head of my pastry course shouted:
‘Dépêchez-vous! Vous avez encore 2h pour faire tout!’ [Hurry up! You have 2 hours to complete everything!]
‘Oui chef!’
We shouted back, culinary foot soldiers in training.