2019-07-30 - The Proof of the Pudding

It is a little before 10:30am, the day after the interview, and Corey has arrived at the Patisserie as agreed, travelling on foot. He's dressed in simple black jeans and a t-shirt, his kitchen whites kept clean in a rucksack currently slung over his shoulder, along with his knives. Entering through the front, he greets whomever happens to be on the desk, asking if he can go back and get changed ahead of his 10:30 start.

It's a little busier in there today, whether because of the day of the week, or being just slightly earlier, or, most likely, because it isn't (currently) raining out there today. Still, at this time, that only means four people instead of two, and two of them are together, chatting animatedly on the couch, while the others eat and read privately. It still feels calm, like the lull it is. Today it's Carmen and Daniel who are working, so Corey gets two bright and cheery good mornings when he walks in. He barely even has to ask before Carmen leads him to the kitchen door. Okay, he could find it himself, but that allows her to point to the door that leads to the changing area, once it's open, and usher him through.

With a thankyou for Carmen, Corey heads on back to the changing area. There's a certain ceremony (for him) about shedding his regular clothes and donning his whites, a shift in mindset from a regular college dude to a professional, such that by the time he's buttoning up his jacket and removing his watch, giving his hands a thorough clean and setting a paper hat over his hair, he's in the zone.

Not that this takes more than a few minutes, and so by the time 10:30 arrives, he's stepping back out into the kitchen, looking around to see who he needs to speak with.

Like the rest of the place, it's notably neat and clean back there. Unless the temperatures somewhere are wrong or there's some terrible storage secret, this place must be a health inspector's dream. And at 10:30, when he emerges, there are a handful of people in the kitchen. One's an Asian man, probably in his 40s, in the midst of quite deftly working on some small square strawberry tarts; clearly, whether or not he's inclined to a twist, he considers consistency a virtue. A red-haired woman in her 30s is working on a choux, and a woman close to Corey's age is chopping some apples. There's a fair-haired young man with a sort of hunted look standing in front of a pot, and the as-yet-faint smell of burnt sugar floating into the air. There's also Vyv, who's standing not far from him, looking decidedly annoyed.

"--but I am quite sure that neither the humidity nor the ambient pressure have increased enough in the past hour to explain this. Again. I am amazed you've not yet killed yourself running red lights or drowned in the shower, with this degree of talent for stopping at the right time." He catches the blond's look over his shoulder, eyes briefly narrowing before he glances that way again. At least he doesn't look any more annoyed to see the new arrival there. "Ah, Corey. On time, a good start. Come here and show David how to make a proper caramel." Pause. "Again." So. Test #1, presumably.

Rolling his sleeves back, Corey steps up to the workstation David is at. "Yes, chef," he confirms with a nod, nose wrinkling at the smell of burned sugar. Taking down a pan and setting it to warm on a very low heat, he then measures out an amount of golden sugar, checking with Vyv how much caramel was needed as he does so. That done, he pours the sugar into the pan, turning the heat up to medium. "Medium heat, it'll take about five minutes to get to the point where it's all melted around the edge. Don't touch it 'til then," he explains to the other guy, his manner quite dispassionate. No censure, no sympathy. While waiting, he does a bit of tidy-up of the workstation, including filling the pan of burned caramel with hot water, to begin dissolving.

Once the fresh pan of sugar has reached the stage of melting around the edges, he directs David to, "Give it a good shake." He's very watchful of how the other guy does it, and then he settles in to watch until about quarter of the sugar has melted. "Okay. Clean wooden spoon, stir it gently. What you're looking for is for the remaining crystals to liquidise. Keep checking the back of the spoon until it's completely smooth," he instructs, and once David has done so, he continues with, "Now we leave it to condense, you want it to be dark honey colour. Stir it now and then to make sure it's simmering evenly."

Given it'll take a good ten minutes to get to that point, there is some waiting. But eventually, Corey indicates, "Okay, now take it off the heat. See the colour is consistent all the way through? Add a couple tablespoons of water - at arm's length." Because spitting is a thing. "Now put it back on, stir slowly for a minute or two, and you're good to take it off and chill."

Vyv makes a small shooing gesture, and David steps aside with a mumbled "Yes, chef," looking slightly pink. Vyv arches a brow at him, expression not otherwise changing, but apparently decides it will do at present. There is, after all, a lesson going on. A subtler shift of his brows as Corey gets going suggests he might have simply had demonstration in mind, but there's no sign of complaint about this version, if so. He watches, the annoyance settling into something more impassive.

David watches too, and for all that he's likely had the lesson several times by now, he really does seem to be paying attention as if it were the first. He makes an attempt to help with at least the parts that involve getting things -- if nothing else, he does know where everything is! -- and tidying, and as long as he thinks Vyv might be paying any attention to him, he stays entirely silent. It's only in a part of the waiting in which the redhead calls the chef over to her for a moment that David ventures a quiet, sheepish, "Hi. Welcome to the kitchen." Otherwise, he does as he's told, with frequent glances to Corey for confirmation whether it's going right or not. Luck's on one or both of their sides, though... this time.

Vyv is back fairly swiftly, and watching again without comment. There's a faint sense of impatience, but it can't be helped: sugar takes as long as sugar takes, and he can't observe without actually observing. At least by the end there's an equally faint sense of approval, and the suggestion of an improvement in mood via, "Not until he gets home, he isn't. But I'll allow cooling down the caramel." Where 'allow' is a synonym of 'require'. And this David was prepared for, dunking the bottom of the pot into cold water for a moment or two once he's given the indication that, yes, that is the point at which he should be stopping. He gets another eyebrow from Vyv, which elicits a "Thank you, chef?" as though he isn't sure whether that's what's wanted; in return, he gets a small headtilt indicating Corey, and says a bit more certainly, "Thank you," to him, before taking the caramel away. Presumably to do whatever it was originally needed for!

"Very nice," the patissier remarks to Corey. "Now. You tried what was sent home with you, yes?"

Sure, a demonstration would have been good, but this way, Corey gets to both show his competence and try to help out another member of the kitchen. That way, there's (marginally) less chance of David fucking up when he's prepping something Corey needs. Cleaning down his station once David has successfully cooled the pan and taken the caramel away, he then turns to receive Vyv's response.

Yes, there's a tiny hint of relief in his expression at that brief praise, and then he nods to the question. "I did," he confirms, though he doesn't volunteer anything other than that, having no idea if the Maître Pâtissier is looking for opinion, technical observation or something else.

"Good." Because following instructions is important! Even if the instructions were only strongly implied, this time. "Thoughts and observations? You mentioned you've made croissants, and perhaps eclairs? I didn't ask yesterday whether you'd worked with chocolate much as yet." He might notice the woman who was chopping the apples is stirring something in a double-boiler now, and David's bringing over a couple chocolate trays from the fridge. The guy is at least pretty good at not being in anyone's way while he works -- maybe it's specifically caramel that's his bête noire? Or maybe walking-and-carrying just isn't above his level of competence. "But I'm interested in what caught your attention when trying them."

The entremets, since a certain writer failed to describe it much yesterday, was a small dome-shaped cake, enrobed in shiny dark chocolate, decorated with a touch of gold leaf on what looks like the world's tiniest candied orange slice, about the size of a quarter, stood upright and off to one side. Corey may have identified it as kumquat. Inside it had clear layers, light chocolate mousse over chopped dark chocolate atop sharp orange and kumquat gelatin, on a base of vanilla sponge. One of the chocolates was a simple dark truffle; the other was deep red on the outside, and tonka-bean-infused dark chocolate ganache with half a rum-soaked cherry in the center on the inside.

Thinking back to the treats he got sent home with yesterday, Corey deconstructs the experience in his mind, thinking for a long few moments - as is his habit - before opening his mouth. "The red chocolate had a lovely contrast to it. Bitter dark chocolate and sharp infused cherry, with.. something else. Not sure what." Clearly he's never been exposed to tonka before.

Then, he goes on with, "The eclair was exactly what my mouth expected. A really nice balance of pastry, cream and chocolate. Consistent, no doubt, likewise with the truffle." He offers a little smile, before getting to the masterpiece of the show. "The textures in the entremets were really pleasing. I mean, the tangy, sour flavours were delicious, but the texture of the mouse against the rougher centre and then the gelatin before the base was really nice on the tongue."

As in the interview, Vyv watches while Corey thinks things over, as though the process of thinking itself might visually reveal something. There are faint and gradual hints of a smile once the answers start to come; he's still listening closely, but it's always nice to hear positive things, even if that isn't quite the point. Currently. "Tonka bean," he says, "and that's well-observed. You have a good palate, it seems. Did you notice the differences between the croissant and most others you're likely to find in these parts? You probably won't be working on those for a while, but that's one place where consistency is absolutely a priority here. Even in the event of twists."

His turn to consider for a moment, studying the younger man. "All right. That," he tilts his head toward the man older than himself, "is Mr. Tanaka. He's my sous. At least one of us ought to be about at all times, if you run into difficulties." The women are also named in passing (and also in the meta since they haven't actually got names yet), "...and then there's David. David!" He raises his voice somewhat on the last mention of the name, to get the blond's attention, and crooks a finger to summon him over. "And now that you're familiar with our eclair, I'd like to see you make some. David will assist -- I'm not quite unreasonable enough to expect you to know where everything is already or where our requirements might differ from others. And apparently insurmountable addiction to burning caramel notwithstanding, he does." A glance to David, brows lifting, gets the expected "Yes, chef," this one clearer than before.

"I have to confess, I only got half of the croissant," Corey admits; he tried it, but not the whole thing. "But what I tried was flakier, slightly richer than I expected. Different butter?" He can't put his finger on which kind, but it definitely didn't come from a stick. He nods to the comment about consistency for croissants, then turns towards each of the other kitchen folk in turn, nodding if they look up, trying to commit names to memory, before his gaze comes to rest on David. "Yes chef," he confirms, mentally reviewing the last time he made a choux, turning to the other student and letting him lead the way to the correct workstation, turning on the oven if it isn't already warm.

Assuming there's a guide to the specific recipe used here, he then takes time to read through it twice before measuring out the requisite amounts of flour, water and butter. Setting the butter and water into a pan and letting it warm, he folds a piece of baking parchment in half, then opens it out again. Stirring the water, he then draws it off the heat when it begins to boil, using the parchment as a chute to get the flour into the pan swiftly, then stirring with a swift, strong motion. Eggs are added gradually once the flour/water/butter mix has clumped together into a smooth ball, and then the whole mess is transferred to a piping bag helpfully handed over by David.

Setting the bag down for a moment, he greases up a baking sheet and then runs water over it, lightly shaking off the big droplets but leaving some moisture behind, and then after checking the shop guide again, pipes out pastry to the correct length and width. Then, into the oven with the pastry, and he takes a moment to wipe down his station and set the pan and spoon aside for washing before checking the chocolate mix used for the tops.

The confession elicits a quick little nose-exhalation that... might actually be something on the outskirts of the laugh family. 435th in line for the laughter throne. Certainly Vyv looks a bit pleased by what observations did get made. "Half is apparently sufficient. Yes, different butter, precisely. It has a higher butterfat content and more acidity; things one might consider subtle or minor, but they make possible the difference between a passable croissant and a good one." That look before he got to the introductions was distinctly speculative.

There are quick smiles and small nods to Corey when the others catch the sound of their names -- in Vyv's voice, at that -- and meet his gaze. They stick to what they're working on for the time being, however, and Vyv heads off to work on some things himself. It's surely not coincidental that it allows fairly frequent looks to check how the young men are getting on with things. Whatever his faults, David does at least seem to try -- which, along with the simple need for enough hands, may help explain why he yet lives, or at least hasn't been fired. He makes sure Corey knows where each thing they need resides, and seems to know the recipe, though there is a guide and he presents it to Corey rather than risk making things Wrong. There are a couple moments of apparent distraction, but as a kitchen assistant, he's actually not half bad.

Vyv is paying more direct attention at the point Corey gets to the piping, a sharp eye on the form. It's only after they're in the oven that he says, "I'll want to see your creme pat, but for now, there's some waiting in the fridge. The ganache , however, you should make." Yes, there's a guide, for the sake of standardization.

"I'm a twin, half is all I usually get," Corey acknowledges with a wry smile between finishing the choux and consulting with David and the standardisation sheet for the ganache. Giving his hands a quick but thorough wash, he then measures out the cream and sets it to slowly heating in a pan, before taking out the semi-sweet chocolate - roughly chopping it up if it's a solid bar, or skipping that if it's already in chips, checking on the milk frequently, until it's warm enough. Then he pours it over the chocolate, leaving it for two or three minutes to begin the melting process.

Again, waiting time is used to clean up his station and any tools used, the student humming very quietly under his breath as he does so, falling into a long-practiced rhythm of work while he gives the chocolate time to melt, then taking up a whisk and resting it in the center of the bowl, beginning to stir with slow, even strokes, gradually moving the whisk from the middle to the sides. This is then set aside to set, and he briefly leans down to check through the oven window on how the choux is doing. Still has a bit to go, so he busies himself preparing a piping bag for the creme pat.

"Are you? Not also of a culinary persuasion, I take it?" Vyv's working on what appears to be partly-rested puff, rolling it out quickly and efficiently, as though he'd done it several hundred times. Which is probably the case. There are still regular glances to see just how the work is coming along, but they're almost casual, inasmuch as an appraisal ever is.

David sneaks glances in the other direction, very conscious of being watched even if he's not the particular focus this time. Likely at least something of a relief. But while the piping bag's being prepared, he goes to the fridge to collect the creme in question and bring it back. "How long have you been doing this?" he asks quietly.

Shaking his head, Corey muses, "Never known her to show an interest, except in eating it. Plus I tend to monopolize the kitchen." That admission to Vyv is faintly rueful, then he murmurs a quiet 'thanks' to David once the creme is brought over, transferring a decent amount of it into the piping bag. Given the variety of his work experience in different culinary disciplines, he takes a moment to think about his response to David.

"Cooking? Three-four-ish years, on and off. Baking specifically, maybe like two. You?" he responds to the other guy, before donning gloves and taking the choux buns out of the oven, piercing the end of each to release the steam. Then turning the oven off, he sets the tray in the 'keep warm/warm the plates' compartment if there is one, to help them dry out as they cool slowly.

"Mm. Occupational hazard," Vyv replies, leaving it there while he continues with the rolling and book folds and all that jazz. David continues with the various little bits of assistance as they go, and nods a little when Corey gets to the answer. "Um... well, I kind of cooked stuff at home for a year or so, but I dunno how much that counts. It wasn't that complicated, anyway. I've been here like... six weeks I guess?" There is indeed a suitable place to set the choux to cool and dry, and room in there for the current tray, as well. "So you're taking classes in it and stuff?" He's heard something so far, seems like. Or guessing. But the former seems more likely.

Cooling pastry can't be rushed, and so after setting a timer, Corey looks around the kitchen for any bits to keep him busy for the next ten minutes; washing up, sweeping, folding cloths, polishing silverware, whatever there happens to be. Probably tugging David along too. "Yeah, doing Culinary Science at college," he confirms, killing time with chores. "This stuff isn't easy; as the French say, ce n’est pas de la tarte, but it's really rewarding if you click with it," he adds, maybe trying to be a little encouraging. "Practice at home or something, if you can?" He's speaking quietly; not trying to whisper, but at least at a volume where he's not disturbing the other people in the kitchen.

David doesn't require too much in the way of tugging, at least; he waits enough to see what Corey seems to be intending and to require, but the not-actually-baking parts, those he's gotten pretty good at. So there's subtle direction toward what the state of the kitchen tells him is most needed and least in the way right now, and it seems to be about right -- nothing seems to inconvenience anyone, and the glances they get look reasonably approving.

The woman doing the chocolates right now calls Vyv over, and David watches that briefly (whatever's going on gets a moment of annoyance from the chef, but seems to settle itself quicky enough) before returning his attention to Corey. "I'm kinda afraid I might burn down the house," he admits, "I swear I have better luck with the lottery than caramels." A slight pause. "I'm okay at making chocolates, though. I kinda click with that." Also not whispering, but definitely the sort of quiet that would prefer no one but Corey notice he's talking.

Chores are done, to the benefit of the kitchen, and when the timer begins to beep Corey heads over to turn it off, checking the pastries. Done! Excellent. Taking them out of the oven, he checks the standardisation sheet to see if they're served sliced open or left closed, and begins to pipe creme pat in when he's finished cutting (or not).

"It's a good start," he murmurs to David with regards to the chocolate stuff, filling each choux bun with the right amount, refilling the bag once and finishing off with just a smear or two left in it. Now, the ganache. It's set to a good consistency, so with an equally careful hand he sets up a new bag with a flat nozzle, adding strips of deliciousness to the top of each creme-filled pastry, again checking the recipe for the specifics. When the last one is done he exhales quietly, setting the piping bag down and asking David, "Which fridge for these?"

Left closed, it turns out. Once it's completed, David does indicate the appropriate fridge, but with either preternatural timing or more attention paid to the pair than it seemed, Vyv chooses then to turn and come their way. He eyes up the tray, comparing the consistency of the results, whether they've come out the same width and length, the appropriate height and shape. The preliminary judgement looks like an approval, even if it goes unspoken. Despite the fact that the chocolate hasn't really had time to fully finish setting properly yet, he plucks one of the pastries from the tray, turning it to take a closer careful look at the technique used, and how closely it resembles the one Corey was sent home with. David looks nearly as nervous as though he were the one who'd made them, watching this, a fact which Vyv seems to entirely ignore. It does not diminish when the chef takes a knife and cuts the chosen eclair in half, assessing the interior.

And then he takes a bite. Chews thoughtfully. "Yes," he says a moment after finishing that bite, "not bad." A faint smile for Corey. "Promising." He sets the half-eclair down, brushes his hands together as if wiping excess flour from them. "All right. Pop them in the fridge. You can finish that one if you like," something David looks a touch hopeful about, "and then go see Mr. Tanaka. He'll put you properly to work." Vyv studies the dark-haired youth a second or two more, and a corner of his lips quirks upward -- less faint than the smile before, if perhaps also not quite as reassuring. "Welcome to my kitchen, Mr. Jones."