Preparing for the exams

It was not long after our last class ended and the river of Valrhona ganache slowed to a trickle that I confronted an increasingly unsettling truth: our exams were set to begin in just three days. On Monday afternoon we'd take a wine test, on Tuesday we'd complete our individual exams and on Wednesday we would all work together to produce lunch for a panel of judges from the hotel in what was called a Group Basket Exam.

Nobody from the school had bothered to mention the minor fact of the existence of a wine exam throughout sixteen weeks of our course, so it came as something of a shock when our teacher Valerie turned to us and, peering through her Medoc-hued, rhinestone-encrusted Dior lunettes, asked whether we had any remaining questions she could answer before our test.

"There's a test??" we croaked in unison (well, as much unison as was possible given the fact that we speak four different languages). I guess that was indeed our final remaining question.
My limited experience with test-taking in Europe has led me to the conclusion that the bark is often far worse than the bite. At British university, and now at the Ritz, instructors talked endlessly and ominously about the absolute necessity of serious dedication to preparatory studies, but rarely did they proffer any useful, practical information about, say, the date of the exam, the format or what exactly we would be tested on. The grading too always seems so needlessly complex, with strange half points awarded for unspecified successes and absolutely no explanatory comments. To an outsider like myself, used to the touchy-feely paragraphs of praise and the tentative suggestions of the American system, it's practically meaningless.

So, while I was annoyed at the prospect of another exam to study for, I was not altogether surprised that they would throw us this sudden curve-ball, and then deny that it was even a curve-ball at all ("How could the whole class not know there was to be a wine exam?" one of our teachers wonders, eyes wide with disbelief, completely ignoring the fact that it was obviously his duty to have alerted us. As a side-note, I've just finished reading Adam Gopnik's excellent book Paris to the Moon, and he does a great job of tackling some of the philosophical and cultural differences that exist between France and America, especially the French penchant for conversational abstraction).

Despite my attempt to coolly scrutinize the different educational system here, I still allowed them to terrify me into studying hard all weekend. Not so much for the wine, since I had barely any hope of succeeding in that arena (I have absolutely no ability to remember anything about wine whatsoever. It's one of my greatest failings as a wannabe global gourmand. I know now you're wondering whether it's possible that I even forgot we had an exam, but trust me, I would remember that!).

Instead I tried to memorize as many of the dishes on our examination list as possible, and made all three of the desserts in my home kitchen. My Napoleon was a personal tragedy. Its pastry cream was oozy and loose and my puff pastry overcooked and dry. I tried not to get discouraged.

My Grand Marnier souffles didn't rise. The batter hovered sullenly at the rim of the ramekins, began to brown, and then to burn. I tried a second time. Success! They stood tall and proud inside my oven. I was on the phone, plotting a night of beer drinking with Michele of Oswego Tea when I took them out. I was distracted. It was dinnertime. I had four souffles. I live alone. You do the math.

The crust is always my favorite part.

The molten chocolate cakes were easy as pie. Way easier than pie, actually. They too rose well, and maintained their gooey interiors.

All that remained for me to do was repeat the other six recipes in my head endlessly, at every opportunity, until I knew them backwards and forwards. In the shower: gingered crab cakes with lemongrass mayonnaise. On the metro: lamb tenderloin wrapped in pastry crust, and seared tuna with tomato concasse. Walking to a cafe: brill with pesto and zucchini. In bed at night: pasta-wrapped gambas salad with citrus vinaigrette. In my dreams: sea bass with Riesling/grape cream sauce.

By Sunday night I was ready. And I was stuffed from all my desserts.