readingroom

Over the weekend I read The Sharper Your Knife, the Less You Cry: Love, Laughter, and Tears at the World’s Most Famous Cooking School (2007). I bought a copy Friday after the reading Kathleen Flinn gave at Malaprop’s. There were several trips to bookstores that I almost bought a copy, but then I knew about the Malaprop’s event and didn’t want to buy from a bigboxbookstore when I can support my local, though out-of-state, bookstore with that purchase. One of the things I hate most of all is going to a book signing without having read the book. Also, I think it’s wrong to bring a book you bought elsewhere to an author’s book signing at a bookstore, though I’ve done that once before with Poisonwood Bible (1998) and it wasn’t at a bookstore, but at a convention center, of sorts.

Flinn brought cheese and crackers to share with her audience. There were twenty or thirty of us, at least. For her first book signing in Seattle she made beef bourguignon for eighty. Her second stop on her book tour was in Portland, at Powell’s. We heard all about that. One of the first things she asked her Asheville audience was how many were vegetarian or vegan. A few raised their hands. I felt the movement behind me, but didn’t turn to see their numbers. In the interest of not offending those in her audience who don’t eat meat or care to hear of its evisceration, Flinn refrained from reading sections from her book describing boning of meats. It’s a shame she felt censored in that way.

Then, too, she was told that Malaprop’s customers like to ask lots of questions, and so she didn’t read so much because of that. However, she read from the prologue and another section as well. Flinn has a knack for accents. She imitated her British boss’s phone call foretelling the loss of her job. And I think there were two Frenchpeople she imitated as well.

Flinn’s is a story that combines two of my loves: France/Paris and food. How could I resist? Flinn details her early relationship with food and cooking, as well as her dream to attend Le Cordon Bleu. When she is terminated from her London job, her boyfriend tells her to put her belongings in storage, cash in her 401K, and pursue her dream in Paris. And he’ll come along, too. Sounds like the best of everything: Your lifelong dream and love to boot.

This is sort of Top Chef meets Sabrina. There was a small bit of competition between Flinn and the other students for top spot in their class. Mostly, Flinn describes the delightful, sustaining relationships she made with students in her courses and the somewhat contentious, yet ultimately satisfying exchanges she has with her chefs. Occasionally she mentions one or two persons by name who hog ingredients, or take extra grapes or meat for themselves in case they screw up. Basically, those selfish actions screwed the other students out of having enough to make their one dish.

And, Flinn includes a recipe at the end of each chapter. Her writing is clear. Her descriptions are meaty, sensual. She was easy to root for when situations grew tense in the kitchen or she thought she bumbled her exams. Sometimes her oven didn’t work. And once, she dropped a duck. Then, there was the language barrier; her years of French didn’t prepare her for her immersion within the language at Le Cordon Bleu. Students have translators in the first two courses, but are on their own during Superior cuisine.

But then, back to her reading: She was delightful and charismatic and charmed all who heard her. Her eyes teared up once or twice as she described her relationship with Mike, her boyfriend from the book, whom she married. She answered at least eight or ten questions from the audience and from those we learned things that weren’t in the book.

Like, her knife skills are the most important thing she gained at Le Cordon Bleu. And that the school is disappointed, or distressed maybe, because there are fewer and fewer Americans enrolling at the flagship school because the Euro is so much stronger than the dollar. A course at LCB ain’t cheap. It’s about $10K a course. And one takes three courses to earn a diploma: Basic Cuisine, Intermediate Cuisine, and Superior Cuisine ($30K doesn’t include the cost of living in Paris). All her cuisine classes seemed interesting, yet every time Flinn mentioned patisserie, my eyes perked up wanting more.

Almost every memoir published about someone living in Paris, or France, for that matter, I find and read. French culture and society fascinate me. I want to wrap myself in it, like a bit of chocolate in bread. Yet, I don’t love French cuisine. I don’t seek it out, that is. When traveling to urban centers I go for Thai or Latin or Japanese cuisine. Surely it’s the rich cream sauces that keep me away. Years ago the Parson’s Table in Jonesborough served divine French cuisine. My family went there for special occasions, like my college graduation, or to celebrate my mother and my birthdays. But, it closed. Now there is no French food here.

Hmmm, I don’t like souffle. And puff pastry doesn’t do it for me. Oh, but croissant. Yum. And all that bread? Other interesting things from Flinn’s book was when she learned that the government regulates when bakers take vacation. People need their bread. They cannot be inconvenienced by bakeries closed while bakers take vacations at the same time.

Something I had never read before, in all my reading of Paris and France, was the Frenchpeople’s social obligation to one another. Certainly we have this idea of Parisians, especially, being horrible, snobbish folks, but they take care of each other. For instance, one time her taxi dropped Flinn outside her apartment in the rain with bags and bags of groceries and a stranger helped her carry her sacks up six or seven flights of stairs.

And Flinn mentions seeing a man in a wheelchair sitting at the top of the stairs to the Metro. There was no handicapped access ramp to the tunnel leading to the trains. Two young men came along and picked the man and his wheelchair up and carried him down the stairs, and into the tunnel so he could roll on to the Metro. It’s part of French obligation to help one another in these ways. It was refreshing to read, not so much because I think ill of the French, but because so many other people feel that way. Those poor Frenchfolk are simply misunderstood.

One last thing that I liked about Flinn’s book was her descriptions of Belleville, a Parisian working class neighborhood in which she lived for a short time. Belleville is one of the most international neighborhoods in Paris and is filled with immigrants. Seeing this “alternative” to all the fancy-schmancy arrondissements was a treat.

Okay, I cannot stop. There was something else I enjoyed about the book: Flinn’s charity. Often she gave her practice dishes to homeless people because she and Mike craved more variety in their diet. For the most part, the homeless were grateful. Although one man fingered the fish she gave him and told her how she over-salted it, maybe?