Me & Julia

I started a cooking class at Phoenix College. I’m so used to taking adult-ed classes, that I was amazed at how nervous I was walking in there. The atmosphere didn’t help. Everyone was silent and solemn. Chef stood at serious attention, ready to yell at someone’s fingernails. Some had even already bought their knives and were lining them up on the table, ready to attack. I felt way out of my element. I haven’t cooked professionally – and I use that term advisedly – since I was a fry cook at the Woodshed in Fresno during high school.


I walked into that classroom kitchen and it was weird: I smelled that same kitchen smell from 1978 – grease and sanitizer; felt that same queasy feeling I had when I was 17; and my back started hurting all over again from the memory of all those dishes.

What’s more, my classmates reminded me of the people that I used to work with. Although this was advertised as an International Cuisine class, it seemed to attract types that would look more comfortable behind a griddle at the Waffle House. Lots of missing teeth. I forgot about this rustic aspect of the food and beverage industry. I’m now sure that all those people on Top Chef go through a makeover before getting behind the cameras. Anyway, I’m sticking out like sore thumb – the token gay foodie. It’s not helping that I’m asking Chef stupid questions like, “Does one chop fennel in the same dice as celery when making a Mirepoix?” I believe Chef rolled his eyes as most of the class mentally asked themselves what fennel was.

Chef is slightly fear-inducing. He has a no-nonsense approach and a weary-of-the-world tone to his voice. Kind of like Anthony Bourdain-meets-Ben Stein. Part of his introductory lecture was to bash Food Network stars and rename Top Chef, “Top Shit”.

I like his philosophy. He says we should cook every single meal in our life with devotion and attention to detail as if it were our last meal. This has now made me profoundly depressed every time I empty the orange-colored dehydrated cheese packet into my macaroni.

There are two women who look polished and professional and keep nodding knowingly to everything Chef says. Fellow subscribers to Food and Wine, I deduced. I wanted to be with them -- not with the tattooed gang member wearing the hairnet as a fashion accessory. At the end of the first class, Chef had us all break up into teams -- on our own. Like stand up and go talk to people and tell them things like you can convert ounces to pints in your sleep. The advanced students were dubbed the team leaders and began frantically scouting for people who hadn’t kicked crystal meth yesterday and looked like nice players. I felt like I was back in junior high P.E. class. No one was approaching me. I kept eyeing the two women from the high rent district. Then one – sporting a blunt haircut and overly starched chef’s smock -- made her way to me. I sighed with relief. She looked at me and dismissed me as fast as a Sak’s shopgirl. She turned to a girl right next to me and said, “We only like to work with women. What experience do you have?” Bitch. I hope she burns herself.

I soon realized why this class is so humorless. Most are in training for careers and we all represent competition for each other. I thought about announcing to the class that I was gainfully employed and would not be vying for their same Denny’s job interview. I’m only taking this class so that I can have fabulous dinner parties once I meet people in Phoenix who don’t consider The Olive Garden as their favorite exotic night out.