texasmesquite

Learning to Make Food—Italian Style
One prospective chef's summer in Italia
Published On Thursday, September 18, 2008 7:18 PM

By REBECCA A. COOPER
Contributing Writer - The Harvard Crimson

I didn’t go to Italy to work in a 100-degree kitchen because I wanted to be a chef. I didn’t dream of creating cakes intricate enough to be mistaken for architectural models. I could live without learning how to infuse foam with grapefruit essence or make lavender gelatin look like caviar.

I went to Italy because I was a foodie harboring a big, dark secret: I was afraid I couldn’t cook.

Prior to my trip, I’d thrown my share of dinner parties with no reported instances of poisoning or death. But the only dish I’d perfected in all my years of carrying around Bon Appétit issues like badges of my food expertise was a mean bowl of oatmeal with cinnamon, raisins, and banana. And even with my irrational love of porridge, I’m capable of recognizing that no sane person truly loves oatmeal.

Hours spent poring over cookbooks in order to prepare dinner wasn’t what I had in mind when I pictured a talented chef. Anyone can follow a recipe and make it look like the photo; I wanted to be able to stroll through a market and instantly design a menu based on the freshest produce. No big production. No fancy plating. No drama. Just cooking.

Something needed to be done. I needed ample instruction, lots of practice, and unlimited access to produce. But who would back me in this endeavor? And who could eat fifteen batches of practice tiramisu? Since I didn’t have a friend with a bottomless appetite and a wallet to match, my only choice was to ship off to culinary boot camp.

My sights were already set on Italy after falling in love with its food two summers ago. It also had the added benefit of being separated from home by an ocean. If I were unmasked as a culinary dud, I’d return to proclaim myself “so over cooking,” and no one would have to know.

So after a year of Italian A, a few phone calls, and some generous traveling fellowships, I was off to Hotel Vannucci in Umbria. Other than my arrival date and the hotel’s address, I knew next to nothing about the apprenticeship. I could very easily have agreed to four weeks washing cutting boards in exchange for a room in the dusty corner of a cellar. I prepared myself for anything by bidding adieu to pride, English, and unscarred forearms.

When I arrived early one August afternoon, the kitchen staff was having their family meal before the lunch rush and invited me to sit with them. I couldn’t understand a word that was flying back and forth across the table; two months away from classes had erased any knowledge of Italian. The staff at least seemed nice, and young, and not big enough to eat me.

“Have you ever worked in a professional kitchen before?” the manager of the hotel asked when the cooks left the table. I shook my head. “Baptized by fire then. Literally. Ha! Well don’t worry. If Giuseppe is still here, you’ll be okay.” He pointed to a gangly 20-year-old stuffing his face with a day-old cornetto. Giuseppe waved, and the powdered sugar stuck to his puffed cheeks blew into the wind.

The chef handed me a double-breasted uniform when I showed up that night for the dinner shift. After a brief tour of the kitchen, he introduced me to the other cooks in the kitchen. There was one person on each station—antipasti, primi, secondi, and dolci—and I was to shadow the chef’s girlfriend Alessandra on sweets.

Working 14 hours a day, six days a week, in a kitchen that spoke exclusively Italian, I started to question why I ever thought this apprenticeship had been a good idea. And when Alessandra switched to reception on the third night, leaving me solely responsible for the desserts, I started to question why they ever thought it was a good idea. Maybe cooking with my mother would have been enough. Maybe I didn’t have to wake up every morning convinced I was going to chop off a finger.

I wasn’t a natural. I slipped and tripped and sent sparks flying from the electric mixer when I screwed on the beater incorrectly. I carried shards of a broken bowl around in my bag for three weeks because I didn’t want to let anyone know I had shattered it. My pants split the first day I worked the dessert line by myself. To this day, I shudder at the thought of making pastry cream—I’ve pretty much discovered every way there is to mess up a recipe that has only five ingredients.

But things got easier. Italian suddenly clicked. I could eye my vanilla gelato to see how much longer it needed in the mixer and judge the doneness of my frittata by its firmness. After slicing watermelon every morning for breakfast, I could wield a knife as deftly as a pencil. I could give porcini mushrooms a sponge bath with my eyes closed. I knew the recipe for egg pasta by heart and they counted on me to make the daily batch of dough.

By the end of my stay, my ankles were swollen, my forearms were burnt, and I couldn’t eat another bite of pasta. But I couldn’t have been more thankful. Maybe there are easier ways to become comfortable in the kitchen, but who wants easy? At some point between my fifth time chopping wild boar and my 50th time plating panna cotta, I became the chef I always wanted to be: a casual cook who could say, “Put the goose in the vacuum sealer” in Italian.