True story. My story.
This time last year, I was set to go to L’Academie de Cuisine on April 3rd and start my Pastry Chef program. Equipped with an acceptance letter with the highest recommendation from the founder himself and a student loan to get me even further into debt, I was ready. I wanted to try to get money and help out, there was a pastry competition in which the winner can earn a scholarship. $2,500. That was a lot of money and every bit would help. I had to beg the school to let me even enter into the competition. First it looked as though only recent high school graduates could enter. Then you had to be sure not to have any formal training. Basically you had to be very green. I wrote a letter to the school, making my case. First asking to be given a chance eventhough high school was many moons ago, and then about not having any formal pastry training. I was truthful and told them that I had taken cake decorating classes through the county just for recreational purposes. So I had to convince them that I had no advantage over any of the other competitors. The “recent high school graduate” stipulation was lifted because they didn’t receive enough entries from recent high school graduates. So they opened the competition to everyone. I convinced the school that I will not be entering a decorated cake into the competition. They agreed.
Next, I did research on Roland Mesnier. A White House pastry chef for 25 years. Now he’s retired and he serves as a judge in this annual competition. Actually, the scholarship was named in his honor. I talked to the other chefs at the school and even read his book. I discovered that he favored the French Apple Tart.
I took the recipe and started to practice. I practiced, and practiced. I must have made apple tarts to last me a lifetime. I did this over the course of a month.
Friday night came and the competition is the next day. (I should remember the exact date, but surprisingly enough, I don’t. I used to be so good at remembering exact dates, whether it’s for a good day or a bad day. I’d remember. But as I sit here and reflect and finally am dealing with what happened back then, I really don’t. I could look it up, I’m sure, but I don’t really care to. Not because it’s painful or too much trouble, but it really is irrelevant.) I started at 8PM and made my first French Apple Tart. It came out very nicely. I didn’t stop there. I made 4 total that night and didn’t really sleep at all. I stopped baking at 6AM. Rested for a couple of hours, got up and took a shower. I carefully placed the last apple tart that I made into a box and headed towards the Gaithersburg location. I got there and saw my competitions’ creations. A few were very nice and decorative. Some, I must admit, I could not figure out what they were.
Finally we were asked to go into the kitchen and put our pastry on display and then return to the classroom and wait for the judging. It seemed like an eternity passed before we were called into the kitchen to stand by our work. Francois Dionot, the school’s founder and owner, and Roland Mesnier made their rounds and finally I was the last person they came to. Roland Mesnier told me that when he first laid eyes on my French Apple Tart, his mouth started to water. He knew he had found the winner, and that it looked exquisite. I held my breath and waited for the BUT. It came…he said that he was saddened to say that although he was certain that I was going to be the winner, he could not let me win because the bottom of my tart was not cooked. I was horrified. I was beyond embarrassed. My knees felt as though they were going to buckle. I am certain that my face didn’t turn red, for I felt the life drain out of me. I didn’t know what to say. What was there to say? Francois graciously told me that it happens to the best of us and he assured me that he still believed that I was going to be one of the best graduating chefs of that class. Roland gave me advice on using a glass dish next time to make sure that it was brown enough to indicate that the tart was thoroughly cooked. I finally was able to utter a few words out. I told them that I had stayed up all night to make the perfect one, only to now realize that the one that they were looking for was the very first one.
It rained that day. Hard. I called my Brian and told him what happened and got off the phone quickly. I called my friend in California, she and her husband (who was in culinary school at the time) were anxiously awaiting the results. I told her what happened and she consoled me. I know that there wasn’t much anyone could have said to someone in my situation at that time. I didn’t even know what to say to myself. I didn’t cry. I felt empty, and didn’t know how to feel. I drove around, and again, I don’t even remember where I went that day. I was just aimlessly driving and smoking in the rain. Searching for how I should feel.
Finally I went home, told my parents what happened. I looked at the first apple tart I had made the night before and decided then and there that I wasn’t going to go through with Pastry school. I had not told anyone yet, but I already knew. My mind was made up.
For a year now, I just let that event drift away to some corner of my memories. I called the school and told them that I couldn’t financially do it. Which was the truth. The real truth was that I broke that day and didn’t know how to put the pieces back together. I just didn’t know how to. I entered the competition to see how I’d do, to earn a bit of money. Pastry school was not contingent upon getting that scholarship. Somehow I turned it into a contingency. I didn’t know how to deal with the reality that the reason I didn’t win was not because I wasn’t good enough, but because I didn’t believe in myself. I was good enough. Even better than good enough. I was better than anyone in that competition, but I was not good enough to win because I didn’t believe that I could. So in turn, I served a raw French Apple Tart. I didn’t deserve to win. Not with my thinking and the way I was. That day I had only one shot.
It’s been hard for me tonight sitting here reflecting on that event. I had forgotten all about the hard work I had done just to even get a chance to compete. All I remembered for the past year, the quick memory flash, was the raw apple tart. I had forgotten everything before that and even some after. I feel better now eventhough I wept tonight. I don’t feel stupid anymore for not winning. What I do feel stupid about is throwing it all away because I had turned that competition into everything. What was not a contingency to enter pastry school, became just that. I was ill-equipped to handle competition, pressure, and failure.
So now what? I can’t change what happened then. I can be certain that I am going to not win every time in the future. This is for damn sure though. If I don’t win next time, it’ll be because someone was truly better than I was, not because I choked.
I didn’t want to seem as if I were just a dreamer and never a doer. I did. What I learned was that just because you do, doesn’t mean you’re going to get it right. So I better keep on doing. Once sometimes isn’t enough. I accept my limitations but I also know to push boundaries.
This was my story. A true story.
