The four and a half hours of the test are incredibly rich and intense: the room is filled with movements and sounds—the lapping of the simmering sauce, the gurgling of the boiling water, the moist breath of the whisk in the cream, the rat-tat-tat of the knife blade chopping turnips, mincing carrots—and the silence is strained with breathing, exclamations, remarks, curses, and those encouraging little phrases you mutter to yourself to stay focused, to hang in there—Come on, that’s it, come on! the young woman with the lopsided French twist exhorts herself in a whisper—so that the overall impression is of frantic agitation. The examiners keep their backs straight and crane their necks to peer at the workstations. From time to time, they question the students: Why aren’t you turning down the heat? Why the Dutch oven rather than the stew pot? How well-done do you want it to be? Mauro gives the right answers, without losing sight of what he’s supposed to be doing. He organizes his time as he breaks down the operations, crossing out each line one by one in his notebook, but somehow forgets to add flour to the sauce, which is too liquid on the spoon and messes up the presentation of his zabaione, damaging the raspberries so that their delicate shape is lost, their flesh torn, the cream stained with pink smears—Damn, it looks like a fucking fruit puree! When the time comes, he presents his dishes to the judges, who examine them before tasting them. Mauro waits impatiently, feeling wiped out and pessimistic. A beam of sunlight illuminates the freshly cleaned room; everything sparkles and shines. He is accepted.

6

A portrait

I want to describe this young man who is always hungry, who always wants to eat something, something good. This young man who is so determined and untamed. I sit on the terrace of a café in the eleventh arrondissement, facing the intersection, so I can watch him arrive. He bursts into sight on his bike, no helmet, his butt raised above the seat. The bike shudders as he brakes; he puts a foot on the ground and lifts up the frame, leaning it against the crash barrier that protects this stretch of Boulevard Voltaire, and quickly secures the lock. He does everything quickly, his gestures precise, inch perfect, as if choreographed.