Hungry Woman in Paris (29 page)

Pepa smiled back at his kindness. “Yeah, I’m sure we all passed.”

“If you didn’t pass, they’ll have to tell us not to show up to the three-star restaurant and the graduation,” Alexandros said.
We all laughed and looked at our watches, wanting time to go by faster.

“Should we go find out?” asked Miguel Angel. “They must be done by now. We can go to the jury room and ask for our grades.”
Pepa, Bianca, Miguel Angel, and I looked at one another and nodded and went for our scores. When we got to the jury room,
we waited around, still a bit unsure if we wanted to go in. Then we were told to come in and see the plates.

There were four plates in one section and six in another. One of the retired chefs came in and saw us and welcomed us to the
exciting and fulfilling world of cuisine. He explained how the four plates set aside were the acceptable ones and the other
six were not. I instantly recognized my plate in the unacceptable bunch, and my heart sank. All my childhood nightmares of
being an immigrant and an outsider, of not belonging and not being normal flashed through my unconscious mind and I felt a
punch in my solar plexus. It’s just food, I reminded myself so the tears would not come out in public. Pepa and Bianca also
recognized their plates in the unacceptable bunch and lowered their heads with shame. Miguel Angel smiled when he recognized
his plate in the acceptable section, and I tried to be happy for him. Our plates looked like crap, like a carcass of a cow
in the desert or a decaying pigeon on the pavement. It was so humiliating. Chef Papillon came in with his head down, disappointed
in us. I looked over to the acceptable plates and recognized Blanca’s dish as well as Craig’s and Dick’s. Part of me thought,
Oh gosh. I bet you Dick’s going to win; he’s going to come in first. I prayed Blanca would come in first and then maybe Craig
and then Miguel Angel, but I was certain Dick was going to get first place. Chef Papillon commented on how the portions on
the unacceptable plates were too big. When I look at it now, I know he’s right, but at that moment I’d just wanted to get
it on the plate and meet the deadline.

Chef Papillon grabbed the plates and started throwing the food into the garbage. We watched this and it stung because he discarded
the unacceptable plates first. We’d put so much work and creativity into making those dishes and they ended up being dinner
for the garbage can. As my plate sailed into the garbage, I took one last look and asked myself, What did I do right? The
tomato confit, the stuffing; I loved it. It wasn’t perfect, but it was part of me and I loved it.

M
adame Bodé stopped me at the entrance to my apartment building and handed me a letter. I was about to open it when she informed
me herself in French, “You have to move out at the end of the month.”

“That’s next week,” I replied in French, raising my voice.

“Oui.”
She smiled.

“You’re not the landlord of my room,” I reminded her.

“I spoke to your landlord and Rosemary is the only person who is supposed to live there, not you,” she informed me with righteousness.

“But she said I could stay in her apartment if I paid her rent!” I yelled back. She lifted her shoulders and made a face in
the usual annoying French way and said,
Ce n’est pas mon problème. Au revoir.
Madame Bodé climbed up the stairs with a smile of satisfaction. I took the servants’ elevator upstairs and when I got to
my floor I was in tears. Marina was waiting for the elevator and saw me crying.

“What happened?” she asked in Spanish. After I explained she filled me in on the whole situation. Madame Bodé was trying to
get rid of all the servants who were
sans-papiers
before winter because French law did not permit her to kick people out in winter. Marina lamented that it was just a matter
of time before Madame Bodé and the Minister of the Interior, whose last name sounded like a disease, would find a way to kick
the
sans-papiers
out.

“They are trying to get rid of us. Everyone in France hates immigrants,” she said.

“No, not just in France—they hate us in the United States too,” I added and made her crack a tiny smile. She asked me about
the United States and I told her about how Latinos are such a large population that life is slightly easier for undocumented
people there. Marina shared with me that she looked forward to the day when her daughters were old enough to apply for French
citizenship and she could finally rest for a few days. Every day she had to work just to survive and carve out a miserable
existence.

“When I was told I was going to be brought to Paris, I imagined a wonderful life, but life in Paris as a
sans papier
is just as miserable as being back in Colombia,” she lamented. I hugged her and said, “Adios.”

I didn’t want to show up early to Ledoyen, the three-star restaurant where we were celebrating our graduation, looking all
pretty when I knew Dick was going to show up right on time like the big nerd that he was. I walked around the restaurant,
famous for being the place where Joséphine met Napoléon, admiring the many floral arrangements with burgundy calla lilies.
So what if the French were rude? They knew how to celebrate beauty in every form, and therefore they were forgiven. Blanca
arrived at the entrance and I walked up to her, admiring her dress. Out of uniform we were hotties. We climbed the stairs
to the small but beautiful and exclusive room set aside for our graduation. I saw Craig downing champagne and we commiserated.
It made me happy to know that Akiva had been allowed to graduate and that no one, not even Blanca or Dick, felt great about
their dish. The sous-chef of Ledoyen welcomed us to his restaurant and posed for photos. Lunch was served, and after our four-course
meal we drank more champagne and prepared ourselves to receive our diplomas.

The diplomas were large and ridiculous-looking, but they were certainly impactful and precious once received. In regular classes
the students were not allowed to give speeches because all combined there were over one hundred, on average, but because we
were only a class of fourteen we were encouraged to say a few words. The names were called in alphabetical order and Pepa
was awarded third place. She was relieved that she had placed at all despite her undercooked lamb. She gave a heartfelt speech
about the wonderful people who’d shared the same difficult journey. Craig was called to receive his diploma but refused to
give a speech and feign gratitude to anyone, especially the stingy school. Blanca’s name was called; she had not placed. I
applauded loudly for her and was disappointed she hadn’t won.

The biggest shock came when they announced Bianca’s name and said she had come in second. Pepa’s jaw dropped, but she quickly
closed it and applauded loudly to cover up her horror. Her face wore the collective shock of the entire class. I was happy
for Bianca and thought maybe she just surprised the chefs. Maybe her dish had been so great after all; it counted for 45 percent
of the grade. Then my intuition whispered a thought that made me feel disgusted… Maybe it was the bubbles in the champagne,
but I understood why Bianca had come in second. They probably mixed up Blanca’s grades with Bianca’s, because there is no
way she could have beat me either. Her lamb had been undercooked and her plate had been judged “unacceptable.” I shook my
head and drank more champagne, hoping it would force me to vomit and maybe Dick would just happen to be there when I did.

Miguel Angel was called up to receive his diploma, and his parents, who had flown all the way from Mexico, cheered him on.
He gave his speech in Spanish and thanked his parents for believing in him. How I wished I could have had someone special
there to witness that moment for me. Françoise, whose derriere had grown into a “ghetto booty” over the course of my studies,
called my name. I debated whether I should speak about Dick being a dick, but I knew that if I said anything resembling the
truth my words would be considered sour grapes. I would look like a jerk bad-mouthing him. I knew Dick had won and there was
nothing I could do about it. I was awarded my diploma and Chef Chocon placed the official Le Coq Rouge chef’s hat on my head.
Françoise placed the silver medal bearing their emblem over my neck and I got emotionally overwhelmed, like a typical Latina.

“I have worked so hard for this. I have shed blood, sweat, and tears for this… I even have the scars to prove it,” I
said, displaying my five-inch burn. “I realize now what it takes to be a chef and I know that it’s too hot, and that’s why
I’m getting out of the kitchen,” I said, trying to hold back the tears. People applauded, and I let the moment wash over me,
soaking in both the celebration and the sadness.

Of course the next person after me was Dick. They called his name and announced that he had won first place. Dick got up and
his wife cheered him on.

“Since I was a little kid I wanted to become a Le Coq Rouge chef,” he said and started crying. Françoise and all the Le Coq
Rouge staff ate that shit up and got emotional too. “This is the happiest day of my life and I feel so blessed for having
so many wonderful chefs help me become who I am.” Now I knew he was going to be a serial killer someday. A person like him
could not possibly be that emotional and yet so thoughtless of other people’s feelings. I know I have been accused of being
sick, but maybe that qualifies me to point the finger. And yet this kind of person seemed familiar… You see, Dick always
wins. He gets to be the chef, or the CEO of a giant corporation, or even the president of the United States. How wonderful
that I got to see that even though I’d left the United States to avoid Dick, here he was again, giving a speech and telling
lies through his teeth without a care in the world or remorse for all the damage he had done to others. Yeah, no matter where
I go, Dick is there. I pray to God that I have the strength and courage to continue exposing the Dicks of this world with
my writing.

After the graduation ceremony we were ushered back to the school grounds and into the courtyard for the customary class photo
with our chef’s hats. We set ourselves up in two rows and I positioned myself away from Dick. When the photographer said,
“C’est tout,”
That is all, I was relieved that it was over. I no longer had to feel like a dishrag.

Henry passed by the courtyard on his way to the men’s locker room and saw me with a long face. He walked up to me and smiled.

“It wasn’t so bad. I actually liked your food. The filling was quite original,” Henry acknowledged.

“You’re just being nice,” I said, feeling sorry for myself.

“No, I actually tasted it,” he said.

“I know you’re lying, but thanks for that beautiful lie,” I said and kissed him on the cheek.

“Are you doing a
stage
?” he asked.

“No. I’m getting kicked out of my apartment next week and I have just enough money left to catch a plane back to the U.S.,”
I told him.

“What are you doing after this?” he asked me.

“We’re supposed to go drinking. Why?”

“Come to my apartment when you’re done. I have a graduation present for you.”

“Liar,” I joked.

“I know I was an ass to you, but come to my place—I want to make it up to you,” Henry insisted.

“What did Bassie tell you?”

“Nothing. I just need to see you before you go back home.”

“I’m tired,” I lied.

“Please, Canela. Give me a chance to say I’m sorry,” he pleaded.

I agreed to meet him no matter how late it was.

I congratulated Blanca and Pepa and wished them luck in their future careers as chefs. Blanca saw my disappointment and put
her arm around me like a big sister.

“Canela, you, too, are entitled to call yourself a chef,” she reminded me.

“No, I’m just somebody who has a diploma that says I graduated from Le Coq Rouge. I’m not a chef.”

Pepa turned to me and proclaimed, “Of course you are a chef now. You can cook just like the rest of us.”

I smiled, touched by her words, but I shook my head. “You see, cooking for you is your passion. Writing to uncover truth is
my passion. I had forgotten that for a while, but I remember now. I’m a writer and that’s what I should be doing.”

We walked to the metro and said good-bye forever.

I
arrived at Henry’s building and hesitated before going upstairs. Why should I give him a second chance? He’d been so cold
to me after I’d said, “I love you.” True, I had nothing better to do right now, but I needed a better reason than boredom.
I thought about it for a few more minutes and I knew I would regret not seeing him before I left Paris. I also had to see
what he’d meant by a present. The curiosity was killing me, and I had to admit I did care about Henry, at least enough to
know that it would be nice to say good-bye properly and complete things. I, too, wanted to see him one last time, so I was
glad he’d been the one who’d made the request and insisted I see him. Yeah, sex with Henry was amazing, but now that I had
distance from him I could laugh a little at how serious I’d been about having sex with a stranger and about Max and…
it was just sex. I could finally enjoy sex for sex.