endeavors as well. I am fine when I have a knife in my hand, when it is the blade that delivers the
coup de grâce.
One of my favorite French phrases, I must admit. The "finishing stroke" is how it was taught to me, but I prefer the "stroke of grace." While I may never master the French language, I have learned that the true faces of its lofty expressions are often found on their most literal meanings. It is a perverse way of hiding something right in the open, very French in its contempt and cruelty for those who are not. Grace, believe me, is undoubtedly necessary when handling a knife. I can always tell a professional chef from a home cook. The knife work gives them away. There is an economy of movement coupled with a warriorlike aggressiveness that immediately identifies the chef. Such deftness is not required for the preparation of commonplace foods. When I began working at the Governor-General's, Anh Minh told me that I would have to relearn everything. "A knife in a professional kitchen is a cherished object," he said. The best ones are kept in their own canvas sheaths, locked away, and only the
chef de cuisine
has the key. There is one for every purpose, boning, skinning, disjointing, cleaving, the list goes on. It is their intended use, according to Anh Minh, that dictates their shape and the width of their blade. "A
chef de cuisine
always knows which one to use," he said. "You'll know too," he promised me. I was impressed. How could I not be? My mother had taught me to slice and chop, and I thought it was an accomplishment in itself not to add my fingertip to the dish. Hers was the kind of knife that would have rusted except that it was continually in use. It was made from an indifferent material that became duller and duller with every cut. My mother always had her sharpening stone at the ready. A rebirth for the blade, she explained.
The difference, believe me, is this. With a knife, the blade is the surrogate executioner. It has no feelings and so cannot empathize with the slipping away of a life. But the fingers feel it all, the quickening of blood through the veins and arteries at the start, the faint fluttering at the end. Worse, they register the slight drop in temperature that accompanies the eventual calm. Miss Toklas is right. I can see with my fingertips as well as my eyes, and that is unfortunate, indeed.
I began with my habit. I said that it gives me proof that I am alive, but I have shared nothing but the details of the many small deaths that I have inflicted, of how many of them are required for a truly good meal. I do not mean to be coy. Who am I to hide? There is rarely anyone to notice what I have concealed or what I have left in plain sight. Though Miss Toklas, I must admit, had long ago taken me aside. I had been at the rue de Fleurus for only about a month. Of course, I was taken by surprise.
"Bin, have you been drinking?" my then new Madame wanted to know.
"No."
"Are you certain?"
"Yes."
"Have I not given you enough time? GertrudeStein and I do not mind waiting an additional quarter of an hour or so for our meals."
Yes, I nodded. It seemed appropriate for me to affirm even though Miss Toklas and I both knew that that statement was, in fact, not true.
Without taking her eyes off mine, Miss Toklas reached over and grabbed my hands. Wet from the breakfast dishes that I had immediately started to wash upon hearing her footsteps, my fingers rained all over the kitchen floor, the suds covering them dissolving in my Madame's warm hands.
"GertrudeStein and I tastedâ"
"Noâ" I blurted out.
"Bin, I know what goes into my mouth," Miss Toklas interrupted what would have been my well-worn speech about a broken glass, an uncooked steak, or an unwashed mixing spoon. I never know which excuse I will use until it comes out of my mouth, slow and unconvincing. "Next time, Bin, you need to bandage them. Do you understand?"
"Yes," I replied.
My hands were still in hers, her blood pumping
coup de grâce.
One of my favorite French phrases, I must admit. The "finishing stroke" is how it was taught to me, but I prefer the "stroke of grace." While I may never master the French language, I have learned that the true faces of its lofty expressions are often found on their most literal meanings. It is a perverse way of hiding something right in the open, very French in its contempt and cruelty for those who are not. Grace, believe me, is undoubtedly necessary when handling a knife. I can always tell a professional chef from a home cook. The knife work gives them away. There is an economy of movement coupled with a warriorlike aggressiveness that immediately identifies the chef. Such deftness is not required for the preparation of commonplace foods. When I began working at the Governor-General's, Anh Minh told me that I would have to relearn everything. "A knife in a professional kitchen is a cherished object," he said. The best ones are kept in their own canvas sheaths, locked away, and only the
chef de cuisine
has the key. There is one for every purpose, boning, skinning, disjointing, cleaving, the list goes on. It is their intended use, according to Anh Minh, that dictates their shape and the width of their blade. "A
chef de cuisine
always knows which one to use," he said. "You'll know too," he promised me. I was impressed. How could I not be? My mother had taught me to slice and chop, and I thought it was an accomplishment in itself not to add my fingertip to the dish. Hers was the kind of knife that would have rusted except that it was continually in use. It was made from an indifferent material that became duller and duller with every cut. My mother always had her sharpening stone at the ready. A rebirth for the blade, she explained.
The difference, believe me, is this. With a knife, the blade is the surrogate executioner. It has no feelings and so cannot empathize with the slipping away of a life. But the fingers feel it all, the quickening of blood through the veins and arteries at the start, the faint fluttering at the end. Worse, they register the slight drop in temperature that accompanies the eventual calm. Miss Toklas is right. I can see with my fingertips as well as my eyes, and that is unfortunate, indeed.
I began with my habit. I said that it gives me proof that I am alive, but I have shared nothing but the details of the many small deaths that I have inflicted, of how many of them are required for a truly good meal. I do not mean to be coy. Who am I to hide? There is rarely anyone to notice what I have concealed or what I have left in plain sight. Though Miss Toklas, I must admit, had long ago taken me aside. I had been at the rue de Fleurus for only about a month. Of course, I was taken by surprise.
"Bin, have you been drinking?" my then new Madame wanted to know.
"No."
"Are you certain?"
"Yes."
"Have I not given you enough time? GertrudeStein and I do not mind waiting an additional quarter of an hour or so for our meals."
Yes, I nodded. It seemed appropriate for me to affirm even though Miss Toklas and I both knew that that statement was, in fact, not true.
Without taking her eyes off mine, Miss Toklas reached over and grabbed my hands. Wet from the breakfast dishes that I had immediately started to wash upon hearing her footsteps, my fingers rained all over the kitchen floor, the suds covering them dissolving in my Madame's warm hands.
"GertrudeStein and I tastedâ"
"Noâ" I blurted out.
"Bin, I know what goes into my mouth," Miss Toklas interrupted what would have been my well-worn speech about a broken glass, an uncooked steak, or an unwashed mixing spoon. I never know which excuse I will use until it comes out of my mouth, slow and unconvincing. "Next time, Bin, you need to bandage them. Do you understand?"
"Yes," I replied.
My hands were still in hers, her blood pumping
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