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This sounds like a kitchen version of the poetry slam. She said the same to the other students for the day's class, apparently. At the appointed hour, the four of us waiting at the Argentine metro stop- Penny and Larry Kurdeka from Verrmont, Jennifer Latter from Huntington Beach, California, and I -converge on a woman in a cast. When the appearance off our Americans elicits from her a threat to call the police, that shady peddler comes to mind again. Fortunately, our chef-for-a-day comes along and defuses the situation. An exotic, dark - haired Jordanian-American woman with a feisty spirit, Samira Hradsky grew up in the Middle East and was educated in the United States. "Here's the plan," she declares, leading us around the corner into the Rue Poncelet Market district, a warren of shops and outdoor stalls along the Rue Poncelet and Rue Bayen. "We'll see what looks good, then decide what to cook, after which we'll head back to my flat and get started."
THE MENU HRADSKY PROPOSES takes shape as we make the rounds: a marinated salmon appetizer, silky cream-of-artichoke-and-armagnac soup, then a hearty fish stew (the gorgeous cod could have starred opposite Juliette Binoche) with saffron basmati rice, guinea hen with sautéed apples and cider cream sauce, potatoes perfumed with olive oil and herbs, arugula salad with raspberry vinaigrette (accompanied by a French cheese plate), and a deadly Grand Marnier chocolate mousse tart. An hour later, carrying shopping bags overflowing with picture-perfect groceries, we tromp into Hradsky's flat, ready to cook. The three-hour class is more like a cooking party. A camaraderie develops from the get-go as we eager students gather around a granite-topped island, sip wine, trade kitchen -disaster stories and ogle the produce. Most of us, we discover, have landed in Paris on other business, but chose our one-day culinary adventure to give our itineraries a unique feature-the opportunity to cook with an inspired chef, work on her mouthwatering recipes and learn basic technique without committing too much precious time. Still, cooking French food can be an intimidating experience. Tradition alone can cripple a novice, to say nothing of the array of equipment Samira is arranging in preparation for our lesson. I eye a razor sharp mandoline —a device once responsible for removing much of my knuckle skin-with extreme prejudice. "Relax," she says (in English, no less), wielding a gizmo suitable for early dentistry that turns out to be nothing more than an olive-pit remover. "I'm going to make things easy for you. We're going to have fun, so that you'll enjoy cooking. This isn't Le Notre [the legendary culinary school], where you have to measure every ingredient to a fraction of a gram. And my food isn't haute cuisine intended for royalty. But it tastes and looks great, and you can make it in your own home." Samira more than lives up to her promises. Within half an hour, she has each of us chopping, slicing, dicing and grinding faster than a Veg-0-Matic. We learn the proper way to filet a salmon, scrape vanilla beans from the pod, and skin and seed tomatoes. Piping out whipped cream-a task I'd always equated with quantum physics- is conveyed with relative ease. Eventually, individual assignments are handed out to speed the process, while Samira hovers, critiquing and offering tips. Penny, who refuses to touch the fish, is given butter to clarify; Larry, who refuses to touch alcohol, reduces the stock; Jennifer, who refuses my advances, prepares basmati rice; and I roll out a pastry for the tart. Everyone performs the tasks with great verve, despite some flashes of chefly tension.
"No, no, I can't really," he insists. "My stomach ... " "You'll be OK." "I won't!" Samira glares at him with murderous rage before wordlessly putting a ladle of soup aside for him. Later, there's a moment when lemon segments are needed, and I grab a fat one, executing a neat flourish called pelé à vif, in which you stand the fruit on one end, slice away its tough skin, and remove each section by pulling it away gently with the edge of a paring knife. "You've done this before," Samira says, inflating my voluminous ego. However, when I continue to show off by juicing it through my fingers, she pushes a metal squeezer at me, crying "Never! Never! Never!" and regards my hands as if they were weapons of mass destruction. Once we cool down, however, dinner comes together very quickly and with a great deal of panache. Samira knows exactly how to keep things on track with a mix of instruction and giddy encouragement, pulling as assuredly toward the grand performance, when our haphazard preparations coalesce into a spectacle of gorgeous dishes waiting to be served. A table is set in her elegant dining room, where by 2 o'clock, we collapse from exhaustion as much as anticipation. The lesson is fast-paced, intense, the climax filled with nail-biting trepidation. James, her husband, a career diplomat who happens to be something of a wine aficionado, opens a series of amazing bottles to accompany our meal, and at that point we morph from cooking students into convivial dinner guests at a party that stretches on into the early evening. "You did well today," Samira compliments her sated students, splashing Grand Marnier over the chocolate tart to Larry's great chagrin. "If experience is any indication, your friends won't stop calling, once you start making these dishes at home." Sure thing. But if my experience is any indication, some remedial instruction will be in order. Just in case, I'm having my phone number unlisted. Though less-than-fab around a French "four" (oven), Sky writer Bob Spitz is a Fab Four expert. His book The Beatles: The Biography (Little Brown and Company) will be released later this month.
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Delta Sky a Travelling Magazine
Larry initiates a crisis by refusing to add armagnac to the artichoke soup.
"It'll burn off, you won't even notice it," Samira says.