Chapter 6
The thing about trophy wives is they are often misjudged.
They are often dismissed as airheaded gold diggers, but the truth is so much more complex than that.
Mebel would never be caught digging for anything, for one thing.
For another, as a trophy wife, Mebel has had to get very good at many things.
She could write a whole guidebook on how to be a good trophy wife.
Which is why, when Mebel turns up at the first class of the day, everyone stops and stares at her. She pauses at the door, a polite smile frozen on her face, and looks around at the surprisingly large kitchen that Agatha has ushered her into.
Given the humbleness of the building (and Cowley in general), Mebel hadn’t been expecting much, but the kitchen where the classes are to take place is actually an impressive space. A space that is currently filled with a dozen very confused-looking cooks.
The one wearing the tallest chef’s hat finally says, “Er, mornin’.”
“Good morning,” Mebel says with a pleasant smile. “Is this the CULS 110 class, Culinary Fundamentals?”
“Er, yes. Yes, it is. Sorry, are you a teacher here?” he says.
“Oh! No, of course not. I am student. My name is Mebel.”
“Right.” The chef looks down at his list, and his eyebrows rise. “Mebel Tanadi?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. Right, yes, I have your name here. I’m Chef Clarke.”
Mebel gives him a warm smile, still painfully aware of the fact that everyone is staring at her. But that’s just one of the many qualities that trophy wives have had to get good at—accepting that in every room, you will be the one they stare at. “Nice to meet you, Chef Clarke.”
“Er, yes. Uh, sorry, Mebel, did Agatha not give you your chef’s uniform when you checked in?”
“She give me, yes.”
“Right.” Chef Clarke looks up at the ceiling for a second, then looks back at her. “Then, why are you not wearing it?” He gestures at everyone else, who is clearly wearing their chef’s uniforms.
“Oh!” Mebel laughs. “Well, is not to be rude, but I think my chef’s uniform is better, no? I order custom-made from Hermès. The trim is in their signature orange. Isn’t it beautiful?” She lifts her arms and does a little twirl so they can better admire her outfit.
“Very nice,” Chef Clarke mumbles, “but this is really—I don’t think—the purpose of uniforms is so everyone is, well, uniform.”
“Not a problem,” Mebel says cheerily. “I will order for everyone else too. And yours will have extra-tall hat.”
“I—uh—I don’t think that will be necessary.” Chef Clarke dabs at his forehead as the class breaks into excited whispers.
“Okay, no tall hat. Same hat as everyone.”
“I meant—uh—never mind. Please go to your station. We have wasted quite enough time this morning, and we have a lot to get through.” He gestures at an empty worktable.
Mebel slides behind the workstation and smiles at her classmates, all of whom are staring at her.
Everyone else in the room looks significantly younger than her.
She supposes it’s to be expected, but she would be lying if she said she wasn’t slightly intimidated by that.
What generation are these people? Are they of the dreaded millennial generation?
No, they look even younger than Sammy, which means they must be—oh my—of the Z type.
She has heard that the Z generation is so scary that even millennials avoid them at all costs.
And now, here she is in a roomful of them.
The girl next to Mebel leans in and says, “I think your uniform ate.”
Mebel blinks. “I’m sorry? What is it eating?”
“No, I mean, like, it ate. You know, it’s cool.”
“Ah.” Mebel considers this. “It does eat. Thank you.”
The girl smiles at her. “I’m Gemma.”
“Mebel.”
Chef Clarke clears his throat. “Right, can everyone please pay attention? In front of you is your toolkit. You may now open it.”
Mebel looks down, and sure enough, there is a big black bag on the worktop in front of her.
She unlatches it and is surprised to find how heavy the bag is.
It’s shaped like a massive scroll, and when Mebel unrolls it, she finds a highly impressive selection of knives strapped onto the inside of the bag.
It makes her think of a bag that a serial killer might find handy.
“This is your chef’s toolkit,” Chef Clarke says.
“You must turn up to class with it every day. Inside, you will find the classic nine-inch chef’s knife—this is the knife you will be using most of the time.
Yes, that’s the one. It will behoove you to get used to this knife as soon as possible.
Think of it as a natural extension of your arm. ”
Mebel takes the nine-inch knife out from its clasp and studies it, feeling the weight of it in her hand. She can’t remember the last time she cooked anything, and therefore she can’t remember the last time she held a knife.
As though reading her mind, Chef Clarke says, “Now, can everyone share, what was the last thing you cooked?”
Gemma, the nice girl next to Mebel, raises her hand and says, “A beef Wellington.”
“A classic,” Chef Clarke says, nodding with appreciation.
“Shepherd’s pie,” a boy with a pimply chin says.
“Roast chicken,” someone else calls out.
Chef Clarke nods at all of them before looking expectantly at Mebel.
She stares back. She’s painfully aware that they all probably expect some impressive answer from her, given she is older than anyone else here by miles and therefore must have a lot more experience in the kitchen.
For a second, Mebel considers lying and telling them that the last thing she cooked was some elaborate Michelin-star-worthy dish that required fourteen different ingredients.
But she quickly rejects the idea—one of her many rules to be a successful trophy wife is to not tell stories that she cannot back up.
So she lifts her chin, and meeting him in the eye, she says, “A Nespresso.”
Several students laugh at this.
Chef Clarke looks like he’s considering early retirement. “A Nespresso.”
“A Ristretto, I think it was.”
“Right…” Chef Clarke clears his throat once more and wrenches his attention back to the toolkit. “Uh, next we have your six-inch boning knife, and if anyone so much as snickers at that, I will have you removed from the class.” He gives the class a wry smile, and moves on to the next knife.
By the time Chef Clarke is done going through the list of tools that they’ve been given, Mebel’s head is spinning.
Who knew there were so many of the damn things?
And she’s supposed to lug this unsightly, heavy thing around with her every day?
Unthinkable. And why are these bags so ugly?
Would it kill them to reach out to Louis Vuitton and get a collaboration going? Just think of the possibilities!
But even as her mind wanders to different tool-bag designs, Chef Clarke is already droning on about how this class will teach them fundamental cooking theories and techniques.
“Over the course of this semester, we are going to develop your knife skills,” he says, “classical vegetable cuts, boning of different carcasses, and so on.”
Mebel grimaces. As a meat eater, she does not enjoy thinking of them as “carcasses.” But no one else seems to be disturbed by the chef’s choice of words, so Mebel wisely decides to keep her thoughts to herself.
“You will learn how to make various stocks and sauces. How many of you have planned an elaborate dinner party—”
Mebel’s hand shoots up. Finally, a question she can answer.
“—and lost track of time and find that your soup has boiled over, and your chicken is overcooked and dry, and you’ve burned the croutons?”
Mebel puts her hand down.
“Mebel, you’ve never had that problem?” Chef Clarke says.
“No,” Mebel says with all the sincerity in the world. “Is quite simple. All you have to do is hire enough cooks to make the dinner.”
Chef Clarke utters a long-suffering sigh.
“Right. Well, in this class, you won’t be able to hire cooks.
You will learn how to multitask and keep track of time so you don’t end up with a disaster on your hands.
We will go through station organization, and you will learn ratios and formulas and know them like the back of your hand by the time we are done with the course. ”
To Mebel’s surprise, she’s enjoying Chef Clarke’s introduction.
Everything he’s saying, apart from the boning of carcasses, sounds like things that she will be good at.
She is nothing if not a great hostess, and what is hosting but multitasking while wearing an uncomfortable shiny dress and putting out various fires with a winning smile on your face?
When Chef Clarke is finally done with his talk, he then begins a slideshow on food safety.
Mebel takes out her notebook and jots down as many notes as she can, which is a challenge because the cold, damp English air has stiffened her fingers, but she persists, nevertheless.
She marvels at the numerous guidelines there are surrounding the preparation and storage of food.
Back home, she only told the helpers that they are to wash their hands before they begin cooking, and that was that.
But now she’s learning that even the way she washes her hands is wrong.
Who knew there were so many steps to washing one’s hands?
Then she watches in horror as Chef Clarke heaves a fire extinguisher and tells them that they will have to get comfortable with using one.
The only heavy thing Mebel has deigned acceptable to carry is her Monogram Louis Vuitton suitcase, and she is certainly not about to change that.
By the time Chef Clarke goes over the difference between “cleaning” and “sanitizing,” Mebel’s brain has completely shut down.