“You can wait for a soufflé, but a soufflé can never wait for you.” Tyler whips up eggs and cream in a bowl, his whisk increasing in speed until I expect to see sparks fly. “You must carefully control every element of its preparation.”
My classmates and I watch him and take notes at the same time, a process we’ve gotten used to in the past few weeks. While I can’t imagine any scenario in which I would actually want to serve a soufflé, I’m willing to give it a try in class.
We start our own preparations, but I soon fall behind my classmates because I get shell in my egg whites.
Beside me, Charlotte whisks her whites to perfection and soon has her ramekin buttered and ready to put in the oven. I glance at the clock and hurry a little, adding hot milk and tempering the yolks. By the time I get my filled ramekin into the oven, I’m at least twenty minutes behind everyone else.
One by one, decent soufflés emerge from the ovens—Charlotte’s is the most perfect, high and rounded. I wait for my timer to go off, resisting the urge to peek in the oven. When the timer dings, I take out what appears to be a pancake rather than a fluffy soufflé.
“Everyone gather round, and let’s take a look at Liv’s soufflé,” Tyler calls.
Great.
My classmates come over to gawk at my dish, and I swear Laura even clucks her tongue in sympathy.
“What might have caused Liv’s soufflé to fall?” Tyler asks.
“Something made the air bubbles pop,” George replies. “Liv, did you open the oven while it was cooking?”
I feel like I’ve been accused of stealing a cookie from the cookie jar. “Uh, no.”
Everyone else chimes in.
“Maybe her oven temperature wasn’t stable.”
“Her egg whites weren’t whisked properly.”
“Maybe she got some yolk into the whites.”
“Mmm.” Tyler peers at my soufflé. “I’d venture to guess that last idea is probably the right one. A tiny bit of fat from the yolk can destabilize the protein of the whites.”
“I’ll remember that for next time,” I assure him. “No eggs-tra yolk in the whites.”
My classmates all chuckle appreciatively, and Charlotte pats my shoulder as they head back to their stations. Tyler’s still looking at my soufflé, and then he gives a little shrug.
“Soufflés can still taste good if they fall,” he says. “They’re just missing the wow factor.”
“Isn’t taste more important than wowing?” I ask.
“Yes, but everyone likes being wowed now and then.” He pauses and reaches for two forks. “It’s like getting a present in a grocery bag or one wrapped in nice paper and ribbons. Same present, but the one with the ribbons is a lot more enjoyable. And you know that the person who gave it to you put time, effort, and thought into making you happy.”
That makes a striking degree of sense.
“Cooking’s the same way,” Tyler says. “Please the one you’re serving by making it right.”
He holds out a fork. We scoop up bites of my soufflé and try it. It’s heavy, but it tastes okay.
“Not bad, eh, Chef?” I ask.
“If it was a chocolate soufflé, you could serve it and call it a molten cake,” he says. “Not bad, Liv.”
I can’t help smiling. He takes another bite and nods.
“Soon,” Tyler continues, “I want you to make another soufflé because you need to know how it feels to make one that both tastes good and rises.” He points his fork at me. “And before this class is over, you’re going to know you can cook.”
I’m still not sure about that, but I appreciate his faith in me and confidence in himself. I wrap up the rest of the soufflé and start cleaning my station.
My classmates leave as I’m finishing, then Tyler approaches and offers to walk me to my car. Since it’s past nine, and Epicurean is closed, I agree.
“Hope I didn’t embarrass you with the soufflé,” he remarks. “I just think we can learn from each other.”
“You didn’t embarrass me.” I glance at him. “But you don’t seem like you need to learn anything more about cooking.”
He shrugs. “I don’t think you ever stop learning. No matter what you do.”
Sounds like something Professor West would say.
“How’d you get started being a chef?” I ask.
“My parents owned a restaurant in Ohio, so I grew up in a kitchen. Except theirs was a diner, and my dad said he wanted me to do better than that. So I went to culinary school to learn more about fine dining, then opened a place in Cleveland before moving to Forest Grove.”
“Why did you move to Forest Grove?”
“Followed a girl.” He shoots me a half-abashed smile. “Didn’t work out.”
“Well, you ended up with a successful restaurant.”
“True. Ever been to Julienne?”
I shake my head. “Was that the girl’s name?”
He gives a shout of laughter. “Her name was Emily. You remember we learned julienning that first week? It’s a style of cutting food into thin strips. Also called matchsticks.”
“Oh, yeah. Hey, you should call your next restaurant Chop. Then you could start a series of others—Mince, Dice, Cut, Slice.”
“Actually…” He chuckles. “Not a horrible idea. Want to be a partner?”