Over the weekend I read The Sharper Your Knife, the Less You Cry: Love, Laughter, and Tears at the World's Most Famous Cooking School (2007). I bought a copy Friday after the reading Kathleen Flinn gave at Malaprop's. There were several trips to bookstores that I almost bought a copy, but then I knew about the Malaprop's
event and didn't want to buy from a bigboxbookstore when I can support
my local, though out-of-state, bookstore with that purchase. One of the
things I hate most of all is going to a book signing without having
read the book. Also, I think it's wrong to bring a book you bought
elsewhere to an author's book signing at a bookstore, though I've done
that once before with Poisonwood Bible (1998) and it wasn't at a bookstore, but at a convention center, of sorts.
Flinn
brought cheese and crackers to share with her audience. There were
twenty or thirty of us, at least. For her first book signing in Seattle
she made beef bourguignon for eighty. Her second stop on her book tour
was in Portland, at Powell's. We heard all about that. One of the first
things she asked her Asheville audience was how many were vegetarian or
vegan. A few raised their hands. I felt the movement behind me, but
didn't turn to see their numbers. In the interest of not offending
those in her audience who don't eat meat or care to hear of its
evisceration, Flinn refrained from reading sections from her book
describing boning of meats. It's a shame she felt censored in that way.
Then,
too, she was told that Malaprop's customers like to ask lots of
questions, and so she didn't read so much because of that. However, she
read from the prologue and another section as well. Flinn has a knack
for accents. She imitated her British boss's phone call foretelling the
loss of her job. And I think there were two Frenchpeople she imitated
as well.
Flinn's is a story that combines two of my loves:
France/Paris and food. How could I resist? Flinn details her early
relationship with food and cooking, as well as her dream to attend Le Cordon Bleu.
When she is terminated from her London job, her boyfriend tells her to
put her belongings in storage, cash in her 401K, and pursue her dream
in Paris. And he'll come along, too. Sounds like the best of
everything: Your lifelong dream and love to boot.
This is sort of Top Chef meets Sabrina.
There was a small bit of competition between Flinn and the other
students for top spot in their class. Mostly, Flinn describes the
delightful, sustaining relationships she made with students in her
courses and the somewhat contentious, yet ultimately satisfying
exchanges she has with her chefs. Occasionally she mentions one or two
persons by name who hog ingredients, or take extra grapes or meat for
themselves in case they screw up. Basically, those selfish actions
screwed the other students out of having enough to make their one dish.
And,
Flinn includes a recipe at the end of each chapter. Her writing is
clear. Her descriptions are meaty, sensual. She was easy to root for
when situations grew tense in the kitchen or she thought she bumbled
her exams. Sometimes her oven didn't work. And once, she dropped a
duck. Then, there was the language barrier; her years of French didn't
prepare her for her immersion within the language at Le Cordon Bleu.
Students have translators in the first two courses, but are on their
own during Superior cuisine.
But then, back to her reading: She
was delightful and charismatic and charmed all who heard her. Her eyes
teared up once or twice as she described her relationship with Mike,
her boyfriend from the book, whom she married. She answered at least
eight or ten questions from the audience and from those we learned
things that weren't in the book.
Like, her knife skills are the
most important thing she gained at Le Cordon Bleu. And that the school
is disappointed, or distressed maybe, because there are fewer and fewer
Americans enrolling at the flagship school because the Euro is so much
stronger than the dollar. A course at LCB ain't cheap. It's about $10K
a course. And one takes three courses to earn a diploma: Basic Cuisine,
Intermediate Cuisine, and Superior Cuisine ($30K doesn't include the
cost of living in Paris). All her cuisine classes seemed interesting,
yet every time Flinn mentioned patisserie, my eyes perked up wanting
more.
Almost every memoir published about someone living in
Paris, or France, for that matter, I find and read. French culture and
society fascinate me. I want to wrap myself in it, like a bit of
chocolate in bread. Yet, I don't love French cuisine. I don't seek it
out, that is. When traveling to urban centers I go for Thai or Latin or
Japanese cuisine. Surely it's the rich cream sauces that keep me away.
Years ago the Parson's Table in Jonesborough served divine French
cuisine. My family went there for special occasions, like my college
graduation, or to celebrate my mother and my birthdays. But, it closed.
Now there is no French food here.
Hmmm, I don't like souffle.
And puff pastry doesn't do it for me. Oh, but croissant. Yum. And all
that bread? Other interesting things from Flinn's book was when she
learned that the government regulates when bakers take vacation. People
need their bread. They cannot be inconvenienced by bakeries closed
while bakers take vacations at the same time.
Something I had
never read before, in all my reading of Paris and France, was the
Frenchpeople's social obligation to one another. Certainly we have this
idea of Parisians, especially, being horrible, snobbish folks, but they
take care of each other. For instance, one time her taxi dropped Flinn
outside her apartment in the rain with bags and bags of groceries and a
stranger helped her carry her sacks up six or seven flights of stairs.
And
Flinn mentions seeing a man in a wheelchair sitting at the top of the
stairs to the Metro. There was no handicapped access ramp to the tunnel
leading to the trains. Two young men came along and picked the man and
his wheelchair up and carried him down the stairs, and into the tunnel
so he could roll on to the Metro. It's part of French obligation to
help one another in these ways. It was refreshing to read, not so much
because I think ill of the French, but because so many other people
feel that way. Those poor Frenchfolk are simply misunderstood.
One
last thing that I liked about Flinn's book was her descriptions of
Belleville, a Parisian working class neighborhood in which she lived
for a short time. Belleville is one of the most international
neighborhoods in Paris and is filled with immigrants. Seeing this
"alternative" to all the fancy-schmancy arrondissements was a treat.
Okay,
I cannot stop. There was something else I enjoyed about the book:
Flinn's charity. Often she gave her practice dishes to homeless people
because she and Mike craved more variety in their diet. For the most
part, the homeless were grateful. Although one man fingered the fish
she gave him and told her how she over-salted it, maybe?
Cross-posted from my reading/book blog, readingroom.
