On a blustery day in 2008, Becca walked dejectedly to her pastry class at the CIA. The Culinary Institute of America was one of the premier cooking schools in the country, and most applicants didn’t get in, but at the moment, Becca was not counting herself blessed. Her latest confection, a Baked Alaska, currently resembled something like Burnt Alaska, if there was such a thing. She knew that her pasty pastry professor would turn as red as a lobster when he saw it, and she didn’t think her ears could stand any more screaming.

Sure enough, as soon as she unpacked the rather crisp dessert, Mr. Langostino’s doughboy head immediately swiveled in her direction. His years as head chef at Le Flue Bistro had made his permanently flared nostrils particularly sensitive to anything burnt, no matter how long ago the flame consumption occurred. With a “Harrumph”, he gathered his corpulent girth under him, and stomped over to Becca’s table, meat cleaver in hand.

“And what, may I ask, is this supposed to be?” he bellowed in her right ear.

“Um, a Baked Alaska?” she replied hopefully, wishing she sounded more sure of herself.

Mr. Langostino assumed a feline position, and began pacing around her offering, scrutinizing every square centimeter. When he couldn’t go any further without running into Becca, he straightened up, gathered his girth again, and proceeded to bellow in her left ear.

“This is the most despicable pudding I have ever laid eyes on! You call this a Baked Alaska?! I’ve seen Home Ec. students produce better specimens, and they haven’t had me to teach them! You call yourself a chef! Why don’t you run home to your mommy where you belong!”

As the ringing in her ears subsided, Becca found herself wondering why she hadn’t gone into the National Guard like her parents had wanted. The drill instructors couldn’t have louder voices than this guy.

“Pplease, Chef Langostino, please give me another chance. My oven isn’t working right, and my landlord hasn’t come over to fix it like he promised. Please, I know I’m a good chef, just give me another chance to prove it.”

Mr. Langostino’s eyes narrowed and he itched his bulbous nose as he considered her request. When he opened his mouth to respond, Becca flinched and braced herself for another tirade, but the reply was deadly quiet.

“Alright, Miss Richards. You have one more chance to get it right, or I will fail you, and you will be kicked out of the CIA and back to flipping burgers where you belong. The next project is a lemon-meringue pie, and if you don’t make the most delicious one I have ever tasted in my life, don’t even bother showing up next week. Do I make myself clear?”, he hissed softly, as Becca all but cringed in front of him.

Mutely, she nodded, grabbed her poor overBaked Alaska, and sprinted for the door.

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After dumping her dessert in the nearest available garbage can, Becca trudged miserably home. She knew that with her oven still on the fritz, there was no hope for making the lemon-meringue pie, which might possibly be the most finicky dessert in the world. One degree too high, or one minute too long, and the meringue would resemble her dearly departed Baked Alaska. After considering all the options, and straining her brain in the process, Becca decided there was only one thing to do.

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“Hello, is Chef Henri there? Ok, I’ll wait.”

As the receptionist put her on hold, Becca considered again what she was about to do. Chef Henri had to be the most famous chef in the world. He owned more restaurants than anyone could count, and he had his own show on the Food Network. But the reason Becca wanted to get in touch with him was that his Lemon-Meringue Pie was world famous. Unfortunately, though, if an award were given to the biggest sleazebag in the world, he would win it year after year. Becca knew that getting her hands on that pie would mean being able to pass the pastry class, but she wished the world-famous pie was the product of any other chef besides this one.

“’Allo, what do yeu want?” a slimy French voice came on the line.

“Um hi, my name is Becca Richards, and I was wondering if you might be willing to make the world’s best tasting lemon-meringue pie for me.”

“Why would I deu that for yeu?” the voice sneered back at her.

“Because I would be willing to work for you free of charge for the first year after I graduate the CIA. Think about it, you would have a graduate of the most famous cooking school working for you, no cost. You can’t get a better deal than that,” she pleaded desperately, hoping he would say yes.

After a few moments, she heard a sigh, and the oily voice replied, “Fine. I weel sheep eet out to you a demain. But don’t eexpect me to pay the sheeping cost,” and the phone slammed down.

Despite getting what she wanted, Becca couldn’t help wondering if she had just bitten off more than she could chew.

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When the next pastry class rolled around, Becca confidently brought the pie to her professor, who for once was without words. His red-rimmed eyes bugged out when he tasted the first bite, and he couldn’t stop eating it until nothing was left but the tin. Becca received an A+ on the spot, and she didn’t even have to do the final exam. The next year flew by, and because of her new confidence and a new oven, Becca was able to pass the rest of her courses and graduate with honors. However, as soon as she took off her black cap and gown, a knock came at the door. Becca opened, and received a letter from a very short delivery man. When she opened it, the message inside read:

I have not forgotten your promise. Report to Henri’s Palace in Albany by 3 pm a demain to begin your year of service.

Sighing, Becca folded the note and packed her bags.

***************************

The next year dragged by. It was worse than Becca expected. Actually, she did learn things about working in a restaurant, but Henri would have been a hard boss to work for even if she had been getting paid millions of dollars. Finally, the last day of her promised year arrived, and Rebecca looked forward to leaving Henri and his hundreds of restaurants behind. Just as she was putting the oyster soufflé in the oven, the chef himself arrived. After dismissing the other workers, he turned to Becca with a sneer.

“Ah have reeconsidered. Ah leek having free workers, and ah have deecided to make yeu stay here for as long as ah say.”

“What, you can’t do that!” Becca shrieked. “We had an agreement!”

“Ah know, but eef yeu do not want mee teu call the CIA and have theem reevoke yeur deegree, ah soogest yeu keep yeur mouth shut!” he retorted.

“But, there has to be something I can do. I know! You think you are such a genius in the kitchen, right, well, what if I can make something better than you? Will that get me out of this?”

“Yeu cood not, eeveen eef you tried. Ah have seecreet eengreedients for every recipee.”

“Fine, if I can tell you what the secret ingredient in your lemon-meringue pie is, will that work?”

He stroked his goatee and considered her request.

“Fine, wee have a deel.”

Becca ran out of the restaurant and all the way to her apartment. She immediately emailed all of her friends and colleagues, and scanned through every online recipe she could find. Each day for the next week, she gave guess after guess to Henri, but each time, he smugly smiled and shook his head. Weeks passed, and Becca grew increasingly frantic. She was running out of ideas, and she didn’t really want to work for this guy for the rest of her life.

One day, a couple of months later, Becca returned home after giving Henri yet another three fruitless guesses. She sat down at the computer, and listlessly scrolled through her emails. Then one caught her eye. It was from the Food Network. Becca read it, and her whole face lit up. A secretary who worked on Chef Henri’s show had gotten word of Becca’s dilemma, and since Henri treated the secretaries almost as bad as he treated his workers, she had rifled through his recipe box and found the recipe for lemon-meringue pie. With the information in hand, Becca threw on her coat and sprinted back to the restaurant.

When she got there, she ran straight to Henri’s office.

“I have been racking my brain, and I think I finally have it,” she exclaimed triumphantly.

Henri just yawned and replied languidly, “Fine, but leemeet your guesses teu three, otherwise we weel have to conteenue thees a demain.”

“Celery seed,” Becca guessed.

“Non,” Henri replied, and held up one finger.

“Tartar sauce.”

“Non.” Two fingers.

Becca straightened up and, looking Chef Henri straight in the eye, she pointed and said, “Oil of sardines.”

Henri hiccupped, blanched, and fell out of his chair.

“How deed yeu know?” he gasped, shakily crawling back into his seat.

“Ah, that’s my little secret. Now, I am leaving, and if you even think of calling the CIA, I will tell the whole world that your delicious lemon-meringue pie contains sardines, and no one will ever buy it again. You will be ruined.”

And with that, Becca turned on her heel and marched out of the door. She went home and immediately scheduled seven job interviews for the next day. She eventually landed one, and became an assistant chef at a prominent New York City restaurant. Within two years, she made head chef, and within three more, the Food Network had offered her Chef Henri’s time slot because his ratings had dropped. As for Henri, he stopped going to work and managed his restaurants from his home office. And Becca never heard from him again.