Oeufs Mollets aux Coquillages, Compotee de Tomate, Emulsion Moules
Dramarama. That is how I would describe the dinner and lunch services this week. It was hot, my stomach was cramping, and the air was thick with drama.
I was teamed up yet again with the duck dream team from two weeks back…with slow-mo again. I was surprised that the dreaded monster within me wasn’t waking up because of slow-mo’s irritating slow-as-snail pace. Instead it was boiling and peeling almost a hundred eggs that made the roaring monster within rise from its slumber like an irate hungry grisly. These eggs seemed like they were thirty weeks old – they were so old that they had air pockets all along the sides and the yolks were peeking out from the bottom like bulbous eyes. Peeling them was no easy task as one little shard of shell would go and poke the bulbous yolk eye and leak out the goo destroying yet another potential plate.
I wasn’t too enthusiastic about the dish having read the recipe. An afternoon of boiling eggs didn’t get me feeling too hot about it either. Boiled egg, tomatoes, mushrooms, and a beurre blanc sauce with mussels, cockles, and periwinkles. It doesn’t sound like it’s going to rock the culinary world but it did look rather pretty. The minging eggs were hidden under a thick veil of fancy foam and the subtle colours from the sea creatures, beurre blanc, and tomato compote gave the dish an air of deceptive delicateness.
It wasn’t just me that got all hot and bothered in the kitchen. The “drama” in “dramarama” was brought to us by D-bag. He was back in all his glory, making up ludicrous excuses and arguing with anyone and everyone about anything and everything. He was staffed with two others on an even more gross sounding dish than the egg – Croustillant de Pied et Joue de Porc aux Petits Gris. Pig’s feet and cheeks. I can think of a hundred things that at least sound a billion times more drool-worthy than random pig bits. I don’t understand how and why the French find pig’s feet appetising and would ever choose to eat it. But as with most of our Chef’s plates, this one did look exquisite despite its contents and its station’s atmosphere. Throughout the dinner service you could hear the three of them bicker back and forth, reaching to a crescendo all the way up to the lunch service.
Chef: “Zee order is for seex covers! Why ees there only five plates?!”
D-bag: “Chef, there ain’t no more plates!” standing around, not doing much, while looking straight-on at the pile of clean plates on top of the stove, and completely oblivious to his obvious grammatical errors.
Pig’s foot team-mate: “Just drop it. Get on with it. Move on.”
D-bag: “Don’t you tell me what the f@*£ to do! Don’t you f@*£in tell me what to do!! I’ll slit your f£&$in throat!”
Pin-drop awkward-as-hell silence across the classroom.
At the heat of the moment, when I’m at my most impatient, I can think of many things to say but I would never ever think about making halal meat out of someone. Who says that?! Especially when he’s got his fancy new €250 eighteen inch ninja knife in hand (something with which he’s incapable of doing much else with anyway).
This episode has put most of us in a sticky position. I definitely wouldn’t feel comfortable working with an unleashed sexist ninja-knife-weilding maniac, and I doubt many others in the class would. I certainly wouldn’t miss him should he decide this course isn’t exactly working out like the bored housewives’ afternoon cooking class he was hoping for and does not return, and I doubt many others would.