A Culinary Affair

- Ozyl Marufu

I STARED longingly out through the French windows of the classroom and listened to the constant patter. I’d always loved the rain, and the weather had been wet for the few weeks I’d been in Paris.

Add the tantalising aromas of food from our daily cooking classes, and I was in heaven. Being a foodie for as long as I could remember, I’d decided to take a leap of faith and go on a culinary adventure.

The decision to enrol in cooking classes for six months in France came as a shock to my loved ones.

I think everybody expected me to continue with my psychology studies, which I had recently graduated cum laude, but I couldn’t ignore my calling any longer.

I also needed some space to work out what I wanted to do about a very serious situation.

So I, Nelisiwe Sibanda, signed up for a beginner’s class at Chef Rousseau’s Academy. The man himself was not what I’d imagined. My mind had envisioned an older man with a stereotypically long nose, but he was in his early 30s and good looking, with broad shoulders and olive skin.

“Mademoiselle Nela?” Chef’s rich-toned voice brought me back to reality.

“Yes, Chef?” “I was asking you to remind the class of the rules when making a lemon posset but I think something outside is more interesting.”

“Um, well. I think . . .” I blushed, furiously searching for the right answer.

“Can anyone assist Mademoiselle Nela?” He could not pronounce my full name.

Chef Jacques Rousseau didn’t look in my direction again until class was dismissed. I was removing my apron and gathering my notes when he approached.

“Mademoiselle, you were distracted in class today. May I remind you that lessons are crucial for the exam at the end of the course, and there are two tests coming in the next few months.”

He made me feel like a child at school again.