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| illustration by Michael Witte |
Joe wields his knife with the smooth strokes and sure skill of a symphony maestro. Each exquisite slice of shallot is sweet, savory music to our instructor’s ears. “Wow, Joe,” the teacher coos, “Nice brunoise.” I peak over my shoulder and bristle with jealousy. It is a nice brunoise: tight, uniform 1/8-by-1/8 inch cubes of tangy delight. I consider my own mangled brunoise: It doesn’t look anything like Joe’s perfectly diced onion. No, my brunoise resembles soiled confetti one would find in the gutter after a parade: more suited for the trash than a sauté.
Granted, I knew what I was getting myself into when I signed up for knife skills class at a local culinary store. This wasn’t going to be simple. Though I love to cook and generally produce tasty results, it certainly doesn’t come easy for me. Unlike the Giadas and Rachel Rays of the world who can whip up a lovely coq au vin with only a Bic lighter and some Chicken McNuggets (in under 30 minutes no less), I make cooking look like hard work. I fumble with measuring cups. I misplace ingredients. My kitchen is a center of chaos, where curse words are dropped as frequently as the main course. The three-second rule is in full effect in my kitchen. Dinner guests, you have been warned.
Yet despite all my fumbling, I love to cook. Nothing beats a well-done, home cooked meal. So, I surround myself with the finest innovations, surmising that a well-stocked kitchen will inspire my meager skills. My intentions are good, and at least my kitchen looks impeccable: cordless immersion blenders, rice cookers, mandolines, copper cookware, and even a lemon grass-colored tagine. What’s a tagine, you ask? Good question. Someday I’ll find out. But heck if it doesn’t look impressive on my kitchen counter.
It’s my latest purchase, however, that sent me to school: a 19-piece Shun knife set. Shuns are some of the finest kitchen implements a budding cook could own: high carbon steel, mirror polished cutting edge, Damascus-style rust-proof surface. I tremble each time I cradle the cleaver in my unworthy hands. “Hello, lover,” I whisper. But love hurts and as Cat Stevens sings, the first cut is the deepest. I painfully discovered that sharp knives plus untrained hands equals sliced fingertips. And pierced palms. And scraped knuckles. Don’t ask about my ear. I still can’t figure that one out.
Which leads us back to Joe. It isn’t that I expected to be head of the class. My fellow slice-and-dicers are a mixed lot: cooking fanatics sharpening their already impressive prowess, cute couples on dates, lonely hearts looking to score. And then there’s Joe. When he lumbered late into the class taking the station next to mine, I figured the grading curve had just dipped a bit. A “Joe” knows how to fix a carburetor. A “Joe” knows where to find the best chicken wings. Black light posters and brewskies? Yep. That’s Joe.
What a Joe shouldn’t know is the difference between a julienne and a battonet. Our instructor dances around Joe and his perfect veggies. “Todd, watch Joe as he slices his pepper,” our instructor nudges. She picks up one of my limp, irregular cuts inspecting it. “Perhaps you and Joe could be knife buddies,” she suggests.
“Here, dude. You’re holding the knife all wrong,” my nemesis advises. “Try it this way.” I bristle. Joe beams. But before long, Joe has my chiffonade as sure as his. By the end of the class, my skills are as sharp as my Shuns, and I’m eager to return to my kitchen and whip up a three-pepper saute. And though my brunoise still isn’t tight, my kitchen is a lot less chaotic not to mention bloody. Thanks, my new friend Joe. May your knives stay sharp and your chicken wings plentiful.
