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us that another career path would be a better choice”.
    He clapped his hands together, gold link bracelet shimmying on his wrist. “Bon—let’s begin”.
    I opened the textbook in front of me. Each of us had a locker, and I’d found mine stocked with textbooks, recipe books, the uniforms I’d be responsible for keeping spotlessly clean, and a slip of paper to exchange for soft-soled chef shoes.
    I glanced at the others along my counter. They wore the sameblack-and-white checked chef pants I did, the white coat with a double row of buttons on the front, neatly starched and cuffed. I swallowed back a bit of homesickness as I put on my chef’s
toque blanche
, the hat with a thousand folds, and remembered the first time I’d done that at the bakery in Seattle. The journey of a thousand pastries had started with that first step.
    The woman beside me looked about twenty-one. She oozed chic. Her watch had the subtle flash of real diamonds around the face, but it wasn’t gaudy. Her skin was polished and flawless.
    “Hello,” I said as we got out our materials. “My name is Lexi”.
    “Hello,” she replied, her voice neither warm nor cool. “My name is Désirée
LeBon”.
She emphasized her last name, and I got the hint. The LeBon family owned a large chain of high-end pastry shops in Paris. Everyone knew that.
    After that initial snobbishness, however, she was kinder. My pencil lead snapped at one point, and she quietly slipped me a mechanical pencil that matched the one she was using. I mouthed, “thank you,” and continued taking notes.
    Two haughty-looking men stood at my table, and I noted that Monsieur Desfreres seemed to favor them, along with men at the other tables. He stood so close to them, resting his hands on their shoulders, that at first I worried he might have some unsavory interest in them. But when he stood directly behind me and began lecturing again, I learned the reason.
    “The history of pastry in France is noble and long lived. It would not be a stretch to say that the French have developed and refined the palate for the rest of the world. It’s my charge to developboth your palate and your palette. To teach you to recognize good taste and then to prepare the breads, cakes, tartes, and other products to meet that challenge.
    “Some French families”—he glanced at Désirée and cracked what might have passed for a smile if he’d allowed himself such an indulgence—“have been carrying on this noble tradition for centuries.
    “I will not hide that I believe men are traditionally better chefs in all areas of food preparation”. He looked at the two smug men at my table who afforded themselves not only a smile but a glance of superiority to the women around them.
    “And then there are the relatively young nations, with untamed and undeveloped palates”. He moved closer to me. I could feel his presence at my back. I kept my head held high, but I was aware that the eyes of the classroom were drawn to me. “They eat things such as … McDonald’s. It remains to be shown if such a palate can be developed, and then in turn develop products to meet the needs of France”.
    He moved away. Désirée flashed me a sympathetic look, and the other woman at the table grimaced in my direction, then looked away. Well, one person showed promise, anyway. I’d see if I could strike up a conversation with Désirée later.
    First though, we listened to a long lecture by Monsieur Desfreres on this week’s topic: baking history and science. Then we broke into foursomes and went to our work stations, measuring ingredients and comparing our charts.
    “Baking is not for the sloppy cook, the person who works by taste.
Non, non!”
Monsieur Desfreres lectured from the other half ofthe room. “She is a precise art. If we take away some of this, we must add more of that. Otherwise, the entire proposition will fail. This week, we do not look to be creative. We are food scientists. We look to be