Chapter 1 #2
“That particular knife is the only family heirloom I’ve got that’s worth anything,” he says. There’s something about his tone that tells me there is a bigger story there, but I don’t dig. I know firsthand that families can be complicated.
His technique is genuinely good, especially for being self-taught. His knife skills are exceptionally good. Unfortunately, he’s got one bad habit. He’s driving from the wrist on the long cuts, muscling the blade instead of letting it glide.
“Can I help you with one thing?” I ask.
He nods, setting the knife down and stepping back from the board. Just like that. There’s zero pushback and I appreciate that. The professional kitchen is still a male-dominated place, and I’m used to men thinking they know better. Having someone genuinely want to listen to me makes a change.
“I appreciate anything you want to show me, Chef. That’s exactly why I came here tonight.”
“Alright…” I pause and glance at the patch on his jacket.
“Sabre, is it?” He glances up to catch my eye when I say his name and nods.
“You’re pushing from the wrist,” I tell him, stepping closer.
“You’ve got the strength to get away with it, but you’re working harder than the knife needs you to.
Watch.” I take his blade and cut the last portion in one long, smooth stroke, letting the edge and the weight do the labor.
“Let your shoulder and elbow do the moving, while the wrist steers.”
“I see. That makes a whole lot of sense, Chef,” he says, shaking his head. “Imagine me using my muscles instead of letting the knife do its job.”
I flash him a quick smile, handing him the knife back. “Let the knife do the job you sharpened it to do.”
His fingers brush mine on the handle, warm and rough and deliberately not lingering. He pulls away, trying to cut my way. The first pass he makes is better but still a little awkward. The second one glides smoothly.
“Wow, that is easier,” he says, looking down at his well-used blade. “Thank you, Chef.”
“You’re welcome. Even the best cooks can always pick up a new trick or technique if they stay open-minded.”
“I’m all kinds of open-minded, ma’am. Trust me on that.”
His expression is totally blank but something in his tone tells me there is a double meaning there. Maybe Sabre is interested in learning more than just how to make a good steak from me.
I move on to the next station before my face can do anything unprofessional.
I tell him, “If you’re interested, I have a bread making class coming up. I might be able to squeeze you in.”
Before he can answer, the fresh haircut at station five, who has had his camera set up and has been narrating his own performance this whole time, interrupts us.
When I remind the room to rest their steaks off the heat, he announces, “I mean, honestly, I’ve watched enough steak videos I could probably teach this half. No offense.”
“None taken,” I say through gritted teeth.
I’ve had lots of influencer types in my classes over the last year or so.
Some are good, some mess around, and some think they know better and constantly try and prove me wrong at every step.
It’s clear which category he falls in. “The videos you watched are probably great,” I tell him.
“But the steak doesn’t care what you’ve watched.
It only cares that you’re using a high smoke, neutral-flavored oil.
It cares about the cast iron skillet you’re using and whether or not you seared the meat properly.
We’ll all show and tell at the end of the night and see how your ideas panned out in comparison to your peers. ”
A few people chuckle. He grins sheepishly. I think it would have ended there. But then a low, unhurried voice comes from station two.
“Man, since you paid to learn from her, you might let her teach.”
Sabre’s tone isn’t loud or aggressive. He’s just speaking facts. And for a second, I freeze as a feeling of dread settles in my stomach. The last thing I need is a big biker deciding that I need saving in my own classroom.
Station five says, “Fair enough,” before becoming very interested in his pan, which is now resting off the heat, like I asked.
Sabre has already started chopping his shallots with his head down.
I’d comment on his technique but he’s cutting them in a brunoise—a fine dice—which is exactly how I want them cut for the sauce, so I don’t say anything.
The man’s been one step ahead of the entire class all evening.
That’s when I realize his comment wasn’t some sad attempt at white knighting for me.
He simply balanced the scale in my favor and went back to work.
Near the end, when the pan sauces are simmering and the room smells like butter, wine, and somebody’s slightly scorched shallots, I stop at Sabre’s station for the demonstration.
“May I borrow your knife? I want to show the room the finishing slice, and mine’s at the front.”
“Of course,” he responds.
I pick it up again. This time I test the weight of it in my hand, pay attention to the way it feels, and notice how the balance sits dead center at the pinch point.
The handle might be worn to somebody else’s hand, but it still fits snugly in mine.
The edge is so sharp and clean that it glides through the perfectly cooked steak like it’s cutting butter.
I cut the steak into long thin slices for everyone to see.
“I want you all to make this cut and then we’ll compare. ”
“Nice edge,” I say, handing it back to him handle first.
“Nice hands,” he says. Then, before I can decide what he means by that, he clarifies, “Technique, Chef. I meant to say, nice technique.”
“Sure you did.”
“I’m tryin’ to be real polite like. That don’t mean I’m very good at it,” he shoots back.
This class ends the way the good ones do, with everyone eating standing up at their stations, proud of themselves, comparing sears and sharing bites of each other’s steak. Even the bickering couple is smiling and happy. I see several individuals swapping numbers.