On August 3, 2005, at 9:57 a.m., with the summer sun high in the sky, I walked through the front door of L’Atelier de Joël Robuchon in Paris’s 7th arrondissement, my knife kit slung over my right shoulder. I approached the first person I saw — a lanky young man in a chefs’ coat, peering into a low refrigerator — and summoned my college French: “Excusez-moi, où est le chef?”
For the next several months, I worked in that pastry kitchen, unpaid, from 10 a.m. until midnight, six days a week, rolling tart shells, peeling grapefruit, pureeing raspberries, sneaking peeks at the pastry chef’s recipe book, comparing notes with other stagiaires, and trying not to fuck anything up. During service, the general manager paced between the front kitchen, which the diners could see, and the prep kitchen, where the interns were allowed to roam. One night, on one of his walks, the GM suddenly stopped in the back kitchen and raised his hand. Very quickly, and silently, everyone threw out every dish they had been preparing and started making it from scratch. Joël Robuchon was in the house.
Though his name was on the door, I only saw the late chef twice. The first time, while at his restaurant in Paris, I was organizing and reorganizing my mise-en-place when he approached, stopped in front of my station, looked down and then up at me, frowned, and said something to the manager, who, when necessary, relayed feedback in real time. I was so nervous I held my breath, but the men moved on from my station without a word to me. Apparently, I passed the test.
by Daniela Galarza for EATER