The Parts of the Whole

As a planner, I have been mulling over what will come after LCB for the past year. Obviously work, that is to say something that will pay me money. My intention – rather, my life goal – is to make a living doing something that I love. Doing something that not only plays into my passion of cooking, but something that consumes me. Something that will consume me to such an extreme that it becomes me.

You see, I have always based my identity on my career, and before work, there was school. It is my hardwire makeup. A part of me that I have realized that I can not get away from. Something that I have chosen to embrace, no longer suppress.

I get a slight chuckle inside when I realize that I have never worked in a restaurant. Never. Not as a bust boy. Not as a host. Certainly, not as a chef (or cook). [Chuckle, Chuckle]

For the past four months I have been apprenticing at an Italian-style restaurant in Salt Lake City. This has given me some exposure to what working in a kitchen is like. It has exposed me to the kitchen vs. “front-of-the-house” dynamics. My apprenticeship has also opened my eyes to the down and dirtiness of being a chef. I love it all. Relish actually.

During my apprenticeship I have done things as awesome as make risotto and stuff the evening’s calamari steak special, to tasks as straightforward as washing dishes. While the later may seem unglamorous, or even avoidable, it builds character.

I know to say something, “builds character” is one of the most pretentious clichés around, but it’s true. Building character to me is more than hardening one’s shell or opening one’s mind. It is about digging deep down to the most fundamental aspect of one’s job – not ignoring any part. It is then by adding up these parts that one can honestly see the whole.

Every job has parts that suck. My philosophy is to get down and real with the sucky parts then they just become a small part of the whole – never consuming.

This is all deep, but true, and feels right to share.

So go out there, gather up all your parts, add them together, and experience your whole.

Applying for a French Visa

It was exactly like I had expected.

A ten foot, barbed wire fence surrounded a black, tall, sleek office building in downtown San Francisco. The only portal of entry was a glass door that reflected my image.

There was no telling how I was to enter this fortress.

At 2 PM, my appointment time, the door began to crank, as though someone was opening a draw bridge. Then a loud bang as the 3 inch deadbolt rammed open.

Silence.

I waited for a moment before I tugged on the door. I could feel the humid grime on the handle of past visitors.

The door inched open.

I stepped inside a small vestibule to a barred window that reminded me of a bank in the Wild West.

The door which I had entered shut automatically.

A forceful voice came over the intercom system, “Présentez-vous.” My heart pounded as I scrambled to speak French. I muttered some words here and there, afraid that I was about to misspeak myself into danger. I must have said something right because I was told to proceed through the metal detector into a vast, white room.

There was only a single, blue chair sitting in the middle of the room.

I took a seat.

I was shielded by my backpack which was stuffed with documents that I was about to present to some czar, or baron, or overlord…I wasn’t quite sure who I was to meet.

The lights shut so fast I couldn’t tell if it was dark or light. A single spot light shined on my head. It must have been near, nearer than I had noticed when the lights were on, because I could feel the heat of the lamp on my hair. I began to sweat profusely. I could feel the sweat trickle down from my armpits. I got nervous, very nervous.

When I began answering the rapid fire questions in French I spotted a solider standing in the corner with a rifle cocked in his hands. He glared at me with the one visible eye from under his beret. I tried so hard to stay focused on what the man without the rifle was asking me…trying not to answer falsely, or worse, mistakenly admit to something illegal because of my language barrier.

After having my fingerprints and mug shot taken I must have fainted or something.

The next thing I knew I was back out on Bush Street hunched over on all fours with a goose egg and a splitting head ache to match.

My visa application had been submitted to the French Consulate. Now I must wait for five to six business days for an official, French delegate to arrive at my home, hopefully, with my visa in hand.

…Ok, so the day didn’t go exactly like this, but it sure as hell felt like it!

Visa application has been submitted…now I need to wait for five to six business days for the visa’s arrival – that part was true, but via FedEx, not by a French courier.

How a Flâneur Taught Me English

An unexpected thing happened to me about two weeks ago when I was studying French. I learned an English word!

I read the following sentence, “Il a vu la ville comme un flâneur.” I was very interested in this fellow and how he, “saw the city as a stroller.” “…as a stoller.” I began to think…

Whenever I am on vacation I always opt for public transportation and my feet to get me around. I love walking around cities assessing the people by how they whip by me on a busy street. I enjoy smelling the humidness of cities, the exoticness of islands, and the crispness of farm towns as I stroll through them. I always look forward to the unexpected coffee shop, bakery, or lunch spot that I just happen upon as I move from one place to the next.

It is through this means of strolling by foot that is the best way to see – and come to know – any city, town, or village.

As I did some more research into the term flâneur (which I thought was exclusively French) I came to learn our English version. Flaneur, as derived by Charles Baudelaire to mean, “a person who walks the city in order to experience it."

For the balance of the week I will be in the Bay Area, namely getting my visa, but also doing some work, seeing old friends, and having a bit of fun.

As a flaneur…I expect to smell the fresh seafood as I walk down Market Street to the ferry building in San Francisco…I anticipate the late night stroll after dinner with friends in Napa…and I wonder where my sauntering will get me and my mother in downtown Santa Clara.


One of my flâneur moments on a perfect Parisian street.

Farmers Markets

As a chef I believe the closer to the food source you get, the better the dish. I also believe you should only use foods that are in season, and if possible, locally grown.

What better way of answering all these questions than to make it to your local farmers market? Here are some of my favorite markets, some grand and some simple, from around the world that I have visited. If you’re not a supporter of your farmer’s market then get on it! If you’re one of the lucky ones who have a market year round, then take advantage.



BOUROUGH MARKET, LONDON




PORTLAND, OR

LOS ANGELES, CA

PARIS, FRANCE

FERRY BUILDING, SAN FRANCISCO

BUDAPEST, HUNGARY

SEATTLE, WA

UNION SQUARE, NYC

VANCOUVER, CANADA

COPENHAGEN, DENMARK

I can feel the anxiety building in anticipation of my appointment on Wednesday at the French Consulate for my visa. It seems as though everything is riding on this.

“Fais le grand saut!”

In the beginning, I wavered about giving up my current life; job (money), city (familiarity), and career (stability). But I knew that I needed to reach for LCB, Paris, and a career as a chef or I would forever be unhappy.

When I listened to the words in “Fais le grand saut!” it was clear to me. I needed to, “Make the leap!”

The next morning I was downloading information from LCB’s website and,…well…you know the rest of the story.

Listen here to Jil Caplan... “Fais le grand saut!”

San Francisco Japanese Garden in Golden Gate Park

The Final Hurdle

The requirements for my up coming adventure included more than the application to LCB. Conditions like: renewing passports, reissuing social security cards, finding a place to live, booking flights, finding French classes/tutors, etc…and I was rapidly checking these items off as early as February, a good 11 months prior to my departure. I was rolling forward and feeling good about my organizational skills and overall progress.

By March I was contacting the French consulate in San Francisco for guidance on my visa application. Since 9/11 people are required to visit, in the flesh, the appropriate consulate or embassy for a visa. Something about showing your face to a national official.

France has two options in the U.S., Washington D.C. for everything on that side of the Mississippi, and San Francisco for everything on this side.

During one of my March phone conversations with the San Fran consulate I concluded by saying, “Ok. I expect to see you in the next month to complete my visa application.”

“Oh no. Zat iz not possible,” said the nice lady on the other end of the line.

I was stopped dead in my tracks. I was almost speechless. In a moment that probably lasted two seconds I rushed through a myriad of reasons as to why she said I couldn’t come.

I thought about my work schedule, which was free and how part of citizen surveillance that was born out of national security was to give your work schedule to french consulates. Then I thought that this was a silly idea because our work day is longer and the French wouldn’t understand it.

Next I thought I was too close to some deadline and wouldn’t be able to book a flight. Then I remembered that that was so 1990.

Still confused, I finally rested on that French woman (no longer nice French woman) simply didn’t like me. Right before I was about to confirm this in my mind and get deeply offended she chimed in again.

“Ze way it iz, iz zat you must come 10 weeks beeforrr yourrr depaarturrr to ourrr countriii.”

This was more ludicrous than the persnickety visa requirements. Requirements that if not presented exactly as requested would result in a denied application and a very sad Anthony. The presentation of the visa application takes place at the consulate during a scheduled interview. (There is no “mail-in” option for this one.)

I was no longer worried about having the appropriate number of document copies, or enough money in my bank account, or even whether I had signed every dotted line. No. Now I was worried about how I would mentally survive for the next 7 months with this visa task hanging over my head…a task that I could not complete because of French lady.

Fast forward 7 months and here we are today. I am still not quite sure how I survived not instantly completing a task on my ‘to-do’ list, but I did.

Next Wednesday, October 28th, I will fly from SLC to SFO for my chance to present my visa application to the French consulate in hopes that it is accepted.

This is the last hurdle that stands between me, LCB, Paris, and my future.

French, a la Japanese

Of all the aspects of the French language it was the sentence structure that gave me the most problem. My fellow French speakers know that the sentence structure is basically identical to that of English. So why did I struggle so much? I struggled because when my brain would shift into foreign language mode I would summon Japanese, which I was 7 years familiar with. The Japanese sentence structure is nothing like that of English, or French.

You see, English (and French) look like this:

Subject + Verb + Object


Japanese looks like this:

Subject + Object + Verb


The verb in Japanese is always at the end of the sentence. So when presented with English text to translate into French I would do the following:

1. Take all the words and through them up in the air
2. Reorder the words to follow the Japanese sentence structure of S-O-V
3. Translate the rearranged words into Japanese
4. Attempt (attempting was the best I could do at this point) to translate the Japanese, jumbled up words into French


What the hell?!!? No wonder I struggled so much in the beginning. Additionally, I would throw Japanese words in my sentences all the time. I guess my brain was saying, “'Brother.' Go find a foreign word for brother. Ahh, here’s one, ‘onisan.’” Never thinking whether or not this was the correct foreign word or not.

The Japanese dominant brain power struggle soon came to an end. By the end of my fall semester with my Vietnamese teacher I was on my way to going straight from English to French and visa versa.

French, a la Vietnamese

I studied Japanese for about 7 years throughout high school and the beginning of college. In fact, Japanese took me to the University of Massachusetts and was my initial major. Needless to say when I began learning French over a year ago my Japanese was getting intertwined. Jamie said that I used to speak French with a Japanese accent…old habits die young I guess.

After mastering the Rosetta Stone (a gift from my father-in-law) I decided that it was time to take a formal class. I signed up for an adult education class through Salt Lake school district at my local public high school.

I walked into the classroom only to be greeted by a 5’ 6”, rail thin, Vietnamese woman in 2” heels, and a mini skirt that was a bit too ‘mini’ for my taste. Since I could barely understand her English I knew that this was going to be a long semester. For the entire fall of 2008 I struggled learning the French pronunciation, fumbled through the Vietnamese/English translations, and had difficulty understanding the sentence structure.

Her name was Nu Dang, and a life force was she. Her long, slender legs often gave distraction to my fellow male classmates, but did nothing for me. It was her cadence. It was her way of presenting herself that caught my attention. She was so stylish, yet so trashy at the same time. I couldn’t explain it. Since English was her third language – and French my third language – I had some difficulty in getting to know her. To my comfort, I found out that French was her first language. Her parents were immigrants from Vietnam to Paris a few decades ago and only spoke Vietnamese. Nu learned Vietnamese from her home. I was never quite sure what brought her to the United States, and not quite sure that I want to know either. Using her language skills, Nu was a translator (for both Vietnamese and French) for the state courts. She basically translated for all the Vietnamese and French hoodlums in Utah. I suspected, as you are now, that there are not that many Vietnamese and French hoodlums in Utah, so she picked up this French adult education class to earn a few extra pennies on the side.

…and so my formal language education had begun, a la Vietnam.

Hunting for an Apartment, the French Way

I am so thankful for the internet. Can you imagine international travel, or any travel for that matter, without it? How would we select our seats on airplanes? Reprint our train itineraries? Get our museum tickets? Thank god for the internet.

I am sure you are wondering where this is coming from. Perhaps you are thinking I am referring to this blog when I speak of being thankful for this information portal. I am actually referring to finding an apartment in Paris. LCB does not provide any living arrangements, so I was on my own. I spent countless hours on the internet, sometimes with three or four web browsers open at once, hunting for the perfect little Parisian gem.

Here were my criteria:

1. Be in Paris
2. Be within walking distance to LCB
3. Be as far away as possible from the touristy stuff
4. Be affordable
5. Have sunlight
6. Have running water
7. Include Internet (of course!)

Now, here is the reality:

1. I just didn’t search any where else other than Paris
2. Walking distance? Who needs to walk?
(Actually it is 2.2 km from LCB)
3. I am an American, everything is touristy stuff to me
4. Ha! Ha! Ha! I am such a dreamer!
5. Sunlight may be overrated
6. What exactly do I mean by ‘running’?
7. You better believe it!

By using the internet I was able to search what seemed to be an endless supply of apartments. I was able to view pictures, near by businesses, and read stats about the neighborhood. Best of all, I was able to walk down the street, look up at my building, and see the surrounding area, all thanks to Google Map’s street view function.

What the internet didn’t do for me was negate all the French bureaucracy and paperwork. I was introduced to the French style of getting things accomplished in my apartment search. I faxed my passport, LCB letter of acceptance, and other documents so many times that my phone bill was beginning to look like my tuition bill.

My apartment on Boulevard De Grenelle in the 15th arrondissement was my fourth choice. Once my application (my American, culinary student, short-term application) was received by potential landlords I heard many different responses. “The apartment is no longer available for rent.” “Please try again.” “Now we can not rent the apartment for less than a year for personal reasons.” Nonetheless, I have secured an apartment…as long as I wasn’t scammed! So when I arrive on December 31st to claim my keys and meet my landlord I hope that someone shows up. Tune in on December 31st to find out!

My Apartment

Applying to LCB

On my 2008 summer visit to LCB I met my admissions representative, Christine Gil. Throughout the entire application process this was probably the best move I made. This allowed Christine to put a face to my name, but more importantly it was a chance for her to see my passion…to see that I fit in at LCB.

The entire application process included:

Ø An application
Ø 2 passport photos
Ø Resume
Ø Letter of Intent

The school offers two diploma tracks, Diplôme de Cuisine and the Diplôme de Pâtisserie. I applied for the Diplôme de Cuisine. Each diploma track has three sections, Basic, Intermediate, and Superior, which usually take in total about 9 months to complete. Between the three sections of each track there are only about 200 students in the school. I was nervous and scared that my application wouldn’t be accepted. Luckily I only had to wait about two months before a letter from LCB arrived in my mailbox. The letter read,

“M. Fassio,

Nous vous remercions beaucoup pour votre intérêt pour Le Cordon Bleu.

Nous sommes très heureux de vous informer que votre demande pour Le Cordon Bleu Le Diplôme Cuisine de programme a été accepté…”


I was so nervous and yet so excited that I didn’t know what to do. Up until this point I had learned very little French…I didn’t know what this letter was telling me. Then I turned the letter over and to my relief found these words,

“Mr. Fassio,

We thank you very much for your interest in Le Cordon Bleu.

We are very pleased to inform you that your application for Le Cordon Bleu Le Diplôme de Cuisine program has been accepted….”


I GOT IN! THEY ACCEPTED ME! It was December 18, 2008. One of the happiest days of my life.

Then I thought to myself, “Crap! I need to learn French!!!” All three sections of the diploma are taught in French, but the first two sections, Basic and Intermediate, are immediately translated into English. The third section however, taught in French with no translation…hence my motivation to learn French!

This Is It!

JAMIE IN LONDON


Wanting to go to Le Cordon Bleu in Paris and being accepted to the school are two very different things. After scouring the LCB website for hours upon hours, all the time developing my application strategy, I decided that an actual visit to the school was in order. My husband, Jamie, and I spent a week in London in August of 2008. While we were there we decided that it would be a perfect opportunity to visit LCB, albeit over a year in advance.

…on a side note, the ride from St Pancras Station (London) to Gare du Nord (Paris) is quick and extremely easy, but the ride through the Chunnel is hardly something to write home about (as I write about it here!). Of the 2 hour and 15 minute ride only about 45 minutes are spent in the Chunnel…I was expecting a much longer, darker ride…

We arrived into Gare du Nord with more than enough time to get to LCB, so we decided to walk from the station, map-less. Now, I have been to Paris before so I figured that we would just walk in the right direction and ultimately arrive where we needed to be. For those of you who have also been to Paris understand that this is an impossible feat. The streets in Paris are anything but straight. When you think you’re walking south, you’re actually walking east, and so forth. We finally gave up and made our way over to the Seine River. One can usually navigate their way around the city with ease along the Seine, as did we…for a short time. Once past the Eiffel Tower we began to make our way south towards the school. We, of course, again, got lost. By this point our more than enough time was running out. I was stressed as I envisioned my dream being washed away by my incompetence of lack of directions. Jamie suggested that we jump in a cab. I was crushed that my first interaction with LCB rushed over me like a bulldozer and that I had lost the challenge. So a cab we hailed. I was so disappointed in myself that I completely forgot that we were in a foreign country that didn’t speak English as revealed to me when the cabby started in on his French. Luckily, Jamie’s high school French saved us and he was able to communicate where we needed to go. Now, I’m not sure if we were really that lost or if the cabby was just driving around to jack up his fee, but we were no where near the school…and if we had stayed on foot we would have never found it.

For the entire train ride from London to Paris I envisioned how grand the greatest culinary school in the world must look. I thought of the baroqueness of the building. How the generations after generations of supremeness must just pour out of the ancient windows. Then the cab driver turned onto Rue Léon Delhomme. There was nothing but apartment buildings on this street. The street itself looked like a typical one way, suburban street. All of a sudden we stopped, paid the cabby, and got out of the taxi. Dropped off in front of the most ordinary, typical, unimaginative building that I had ever seen. This? This was the famed Le Cordon Bleu? This was my dream? This is what I so yearned for?

To the average eye the entire building, inside and out, looks ordinary. To me the building was secretive, keeping all of its techniques hidden, only for its students to see. This typical building didn’t cloud my desire, or my conviction that this was the place for me. I walked away with a clear understanding that this school is famed because of the top chefs in the world that it has produced, not by what its building looks like. My curiosity of what LCB really has to offer was peaked even more. To this day, I dream about the mysterious and rigorous training that I am about to embark on in one of the world’s most ordinary buildings.

Chunnel Stations

ST PANCRAS STATION, LONDON

GARE DU NORD, PARIS

The 'True' Cuisine

Sauté. Hors d'oeuvres. à la mode. Soup de jour. Restaurant. Aubergine. Béchamel. Blanc. Rouge. Quiche. Zeste.

These are just a handful of French terms that have been incorporated into modern English cooking language. French cuisine (techniques, methods, and ingredients) has done more for modern cooking than just provide us with some handy terms, it has developed a foundation. It is this French foundation that led to the beginning of cooking as a profession and ultimately to all cuisine as we know it today. (Now my Italian counterparts…namely family…may argue differently, saying that it was actually the Italians that developed cuisine and the restaurant). This, at least, is my opinion. After all the word, “cuisine,” is itself French. This is precisely why I have chosen to be professionally trained in French cooking. Choosing the French method has nothing to do with me liking (which I do) or wanting to cook French food (which I will). With a French foundation, the “true” foundation, I will build my own sense of style. I will add my fascination of the Japanese culture, my heritage of Italian flavors, and my curiosity of South American spices to what ultimately will become my style.

There was never a moment when I didn’t know where I wanted to train. I would say to those that asked, “If I am going to learn French cooking, then what more proper place to study than France?” More over, what better place to study than the famed Le Cordon Bleu?

Le Cordon Bleu in Paris

The Search for My White Coat

There is no doubt that I have had a wonderful love affair with food for as long as I can remember. I, of course, love to eat…just ask my Aunt Kris, she can attest for many fine dining meals with more appetizers, main courses, and desserts that either of us could ever finish in a week, yet alone at one meal. We are known for ordering too much simply because we can not make up our minds…the love of eating!

It has, however, in the past 10 years became more apparent to me that my love affair with food is more than just eating it, it is about preparing it. As a small child I would dream of wearing a white coat to work. For many years I thought this meant that I was destined to become a doctor helping the sick and aiding the elderly. Once I realized that my attention was hard to keep in biology, chemistry, and microbiology classes I understood that I needed to find another white coat to wear.

One sunny afternoon on the Boston Common during a wine and food event clarity came rushing through my bones. I saw men and women cooking and serving some of the most innovative, delicious, seasonally correct foods. For a small fee I roamed around the event picking up small signature dishes from various chefs. Each dish quickly expanded my palate and my understanding of who a chef is. It was, however, the common theme between all the chefs that afternoon that led to my clarity. They were all wearing white coats. You see, up until this moment I viewed the white chef coat as just a piece of uniform worn in the kitchen to prevent stains from attacking their own clothes. The white coats that were worn on the Boston Common were far more than a stain protector; they were coats of establishment…coats of pride…coats of a profession that I so yearned to be a part of. These coats were embroidered with the chef’s names; some had markings of awards or certifications, while others had logos of well known restaurants. The coats were shielded with buttons that so classily ran up their chests. Particular, yet functional, items were placed just so in the clever pocket on the chefs’ arms that resembled weapons of a solider. Oh yes, I had come to respect not just the chefs for their ability to work outdoors on the Boston Common, but more so to respect what the white chef coat stood for.

Such is my quest to one day (properly) wear a white chef coat with my name, accreditation, and point of purpose eloquently embroidered on the breast.

Bonjour et Bienvenue!

Welcome to my blog, but more deeply, welcome to my adventure. In only 80 days I will be moving to Paris to live out a long time coming goal of mine...I will be attending Le Cordon Bleu (LCB) for culinary school. For eight months I will train under some of the best, and most rigorous, chefs of France. When all is finished I will receive a Diplôme de Cuisine.

Many of my friends and family have been asking about this blog and whether or not it would ever come to be, and so here it is! The complete concept of this blog is still formulating in my head, but the foundational purpose is to communicate with you. I plan on communicating my worries, stresses, and confusion of the next 80 days as I get ready for my departure. I hope to share some special moments as my Paris life begins to lay itself in place. I aspire to motivate you to cook and to eat well from my training at LCB. Finally, I want nothing more than for you and me to 'virtually bond' via my blog.

So my introduction and welcome are completed. Over the next few weeks I will share the story of my lead up to this moment.

...and we're off!