Half-Baked Notions Cordon Bleu School Even Takes Beginners

After reader Larry McPewitt wrote to plead, “When are you going to start researching your articles?!” I decided to take him up on the idea. So, after securing a spot in a pastry-making course at the world-famous Cordon Bleu Cooking School, I scoured the finest bakeries in France, painstakingly stuffing myself with chocolate pies, raspberry tarts, creme eclairs, caramel nut rolls and enough fudge-meringue to trigger adult-onset diabetes. I researched pastries until my blood-sugar level looked like Donald Trump’s income-tax figures.

Of course, what you’re probably wondering is how I got accepted to the Cordon Bleu, the Harvard of cooking schools, the alma mater of Julia Child, a school with over 100 years of distinguished culinary history.

Did I send them a photo of my peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with the crusts cut off, or my burnt macaroni and cheese a la Kraft?

Actually, there is no application procedure for the school’s one-day workshops, other than signing up and sending them 750 Francs ($150) for five hours of instruction, lunch included.

The Cordon Bleu, located in southwestern Paris, looked like your typical unimaginative 1970s cement, six-story, Parisian apartment building, except for the sign outside. There were more signs inside.

Everywhere I looked there was something reminding me I was at The Cordon Bleu. I was issued a white apron that said Cordon Bleu, a little Cordon Bleu towel to tuck into my Cordon Bleu apron, and a little white Cordon Bleu beanie hat.

As it turned out, my class of 12 was almost entirely American. There were twin sisters from Texas; an elderly woman from California who’d written a book about French watermills (though I never got up the courage to ask her what a French watermill was); two women from Utah, one named Suzanne who kept telling everyone (I lost track after the fifth time) that Utah would be the site of the 2002 winter Olympics; a French-born American who owned a restaurant and catering service in North Carolina; and a couple of tourists who were sick of the Louvre.

There was also a quiet young couple from Mexico City and an elderly French woman - the only person in the room who didn’t understand English and, as a result, was paradoxically left out of most of the conversation.

The big news was that a photographer from Bon Appetit magazine was there to photograph our class. He spent the first half hour moaning about the horrible lighting, then remedied the situation by bringing in enough wattage to illuminate the landing strip at Charles de Gaulle Airport.

I was, apparently, the only one in the room who’d never heard of the magazine, and was thus not terribly excited by the prospect of being photographed for it. A few others discretely clawed their way into every shot.

The classroom was about double the size of a walk-in closet, with one trampoline-sized counter in the center and ovens, freezers and sinks on the perimeter. Nothing looked ornate, just well used and practical.

While the Bon Appetit photographer was darting around with his light meter and camera, Master Chef Duchene began demonstrating and the translator began translating, sometimes with painful accuracy:

Masterchef Duchene: “Cracquez… .”

Translator: “Crack… .”

Masterschef Duchene: “les oeufs… .”

Translator: “the eggs… .”

Masterchef Duchene: “et mettez… .”

Translator: “and put… .”

Masterchef Duchene: “les ouefs… .”

Translator: “the eggs… .”

Masterchef Duchene: “dans le bol.”

ALL OF US: “in the bowl!”

The translation was generally fine but probably unnecessary, since Master Chef Duchene spoke fluent English. But his French was about the only reminder we were still in France.

(Everyone pause for Bon Appetit photo: Light meter check. Fix hair. Smile. Flash.)

Master Chef Duchene was thirtysomething, very friendly, down to earth and on the skinny side. He was also a Meilleur Ouverer de France, which translates directly as “Better Opener of France,” and, according to his two American assistants, translates more loosely as “Will Never Have to Worry About Finding A Job.”

Chef Duchene started using his hands to mix some butter and flour while explaining the molecular properties of what was occurring in the bowl. He even drew us a diagram of what we were trying to achieve with our molecules. (“You want the molecules to look like this,” he explained.)

And he kept yakking about gluten. I had no idea was gluten was, but Chef Duchene didn’t seem like the person to ask. It would have been like going to a Wimbledon press conference and asking Pete Sampras what a backhand was.

We watched the chef make an Alsacian filling while we took notes with our doughy fingers. Then he demonstrated how to fill the pie shell and line the top with apricots. The two assistants stood by Chef Duchene, handing him instruments like surgical nurses.

“Apricots?” I heard the Texas twins whisper. “Yuck.”

“It is very important,” Chef Duchene told us, “that the apricots have been baked and marinated.” “Does that mean apricots out of a can?” I asked.

“Oui.”

Everyone gasped. The twins put their hands over their mouths. The restaurateur looked white. Canned fruit at the Cordon Bleu?! We had stumbled upon some culinary dirty laundry. It was as if we’d learned there was rat poison in Coke’s secret formula.

We made four pies in all: apricot, pear, apple and plum. Chef Duchene made all the fillings and the assistants prepared the fruit while we took notes. Then we filled our pies and gave them to the assistants to bake. Much to my delight, sticking your finger in the bowl of filling, then licking it was actually encouraged.

(Pause for Bon Appetit photo: Light meter check. Fix hair. Hold up pies. Smile. Everyone move closer together. Little more. Keep smiling. Flash.)

I left at the end of the day with three cavities, tight pants, and a diploma that stated in French something to the effect of: “(Insert name here) was able to produce four pies with the help of two professional Cordon Bleu assistants who prepared the ingredients, washed the pots and scraped the baking sheets. Congratulations!”

MEMO: For more information, contact The Cordon Bleu, 8 rue Leon Delhomme, 75015 Paris, France; tel 33 01-53 68 22 50; fax 33 01-48 56 03 96. Or call 1-800-457-CHEF.