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sound of: “Today’s special is meatloaf with lumpy mashed potatoes and pan gravy.” 
    Back at L’Orangerie, I rid the storage room of the soup mix, the canned quenelles, the lobster base, and the powdered Demi-Glace.  But I could not rid my fellow citizens of their cultural bias that sometimes sticks in my craw.  One afternoon, early in my L’Orangerie days, I was prepping for the evening’s service when a group of strangers walked into the kitchen.  They introduced themselves as students from an adult cooking class, announced that they had a scheduled meeting with Chef Jean, and asked me to inform him of their arrival.  Coming out from behind the cooking line, I explained that chef Jean had quit unceremoniously, and I had replaced him, that I was formerly trained and had worked in France, and that I would be glad to give them a tour of the kitchen and answer their questions.  No way.  They were not the least interested in listening to some American kid – I was 28 years old at the time – and they walked out.
    I could have ranted and raved over such discrimination for the rest of my days, but to what avail?  Instead, I struggled to resurrect in memory my own special and unique experiences with food, using the Egg Drop Soup disaster as an anchor.  And slowly but surely I found that those experiences were no less valid than those of anyone who had ever sat on his grandmother’s knee in a farmhouse on the Maçonais or the Midi. 
    Among my most precious memories was that of Murray the Tomato Man.  Murray was trim and fit and sported a finely-trimmed pince-nez moustache, and I can see him walking towards us at my Grandmother’s home during one of the many Sunday brunches she put on for her brood.  His contribution to our table at that time consisted of some of the juiciest, most flavorful and magnificently red Jersey tomatoes anyone has ever seen.  And Grandma always seemed to beam a gorgeous smile when Murray made an appearance. 
    Of course youngsters have little knowledge of intimate adult human relations at the age of seven or eight, but I would not be the least bit surprised if my grandmother – who had been divorced from my grandfather for some time – was having a fabulous affair.  Besides, what could be a better calling card than a flat of big, fat, juicy summer tomatoes from the New Jersey farmlands?  After all, tomatoes are known in common parlance as “love apples,” and frankly, my Grandma Anne was quite a looker back then.  So why shouldn’t she spend her private time making passionate love to Murray – leaving the rest of the family with nary a clue?

 
    Chapter 3
    A Quartet of Legendary Mentors
    Like most educational institutions, especially the high-profile ones, the collective management of the Culinary Institute of America represents an internal culture of bureaucratic dysfunction in all its maddening glory.  And like most educational institutions, dysfunctional or otherwise, the genuine value of that institution dwells in their educators – at least those who represent extraordinary experience through a lifetime of work in their chosen field.  And of those living encyclopedias who are dedicated to their work as educators, when they connect with their students in deep and genuine ways, those students often carry on their instructor’s legacy by excelling in their soon-to-blossom career.
    I. I connected with one such instructor during a Saturday extracurricular workshop hosted by Dieter Faulkner, and it remains one the most instructive and enjoyable three days of the entire two-year program. As evidence of the impact this workshop had on me, I still have in my possession the photo-copied menu hand-out from this event, which included the following menu:  (NB:  Saterday  was the Austrian chef’s charming typo.)
     Saterday’s Classical Cuisine Special
    Potage à la tortue, Lady Courson
    Potage queue de boeuf
    Suprême de volaille en papillote
    Salaison de boeuf
    Oeufs