The Uniform: Culinary School

Chapter 1

Chapter 1: The Tradition

THE UNIFORM:

CULINARY SCHOOL

by Hungry Hoss

Sam Callahan had never worn a chef's coat before.

He had expected it to feel important.

Instead, it felt stiff.

He stood in front of the mirror in the academy locker room, tugging at the bottom of the white double-breasted coat and wondering whether he should have gone up a size.

Not because it was tight.

Because it was exactly right.

Large.

The shoulders fit. The sleeves stopped at his wrists. The front hung straight down over his chest and stomach with enough room to move without looking sloppy.

Sam turned sideways.

Not bad.

At thirty-two, he had finally done it.

Two years of talking about culinary school.

Two years of finding reasons not to go.

Money.

Work.

Timing.

Common sense.

And now here he was.

Midwest Culinary Academy.

Professional Culinary Arts.

Graduating next spring.

Sam smoothed the front of his new coat.

"Chef Callahan."

"Don't do that."

Sam turned.

Tyler Grant stood behind him wearing the same white uniform.

Or trying to.

Tyler was built considerably thicker than Sam. Five-eleven, maybe two-thirty, with broad shoulders, a thick chest and the beginnings of a belly that pushed his XL coat forward.

"What?"

"Call yourself Chef Callahan while looking in the mirror."

"I was trying it out."

"You sounded like an asshole."

Sam laughed.

"Good?"

"Very."

Another student walked around the corner.

Eric Dalton.

Tall. Dark-haired. Athletic.

And apparently suffering from the same new-uniform fascination because he immediately looked at Sam and Tyler.

"How do I look?"

Tyler studied him.

"Like you sell insurance."

Eric looked down at himself.

"Seriously?"

"Needs a belly."

Sam laughed.

Eric pointed at Tyler.

"You've got enough for all three of us."

"Experience."

"You worked in a kitchen?"

"No."

Tyler patted his stomach.

"Eating."

That was how it started.

• • •

Chef Laurent taught Foundations.

He was not what Sam had expected from a culinary instructor.

Sam had pictured somebody thin and severe.

Laurent was enormous.

Not tall.

Enormous.

His white chef's coat stretched over a belly that looked as though it could comfortably support a mixing bowl. His neck was thick. His forearms were massive. His beard was closely trimmed and beginning to gray.

The embroidery above his chest read:

CHEF MICHAEL LAURENT

EXECUTIVE INSTRUCTOR

Sam guessed four hundred pounds.

Maybe more.

Yet Laurent moved through the kitchen with surprising speed.

"First lesson," he said.

Twenty-four students stood behind stainless-steel workstations.

Laurent held up a spoon.

"If you are unwilling to taste your own food, leave."

Nobody moved.

"Good."

He pointed the spoon toward them.

"You will taste everything you prepare in this kitchen."

A student near the back raised his hand.

"What if we know it's right?"

Laurent stared at him.

"How?"

The student hesitated.

"Recipe?"

Laurent sighed.

"A recipe tells you what someone else did. Your tongue tells you what you did."

He walked between the stations.

"You taste before seasoning. You taste after seasoning. You taste during reduction. You taste after resting. You taste your partner's work. You taste mistakes because sometimes mistakes teach you more than successes."

He stopped.

"And if you're worried about your waistline, you enrolled in the wrong academy."

A few students laughed.

Laurent didn't.

Sam glanced at Tyler.

Tyler grinned.

"I'm gonna do great here."

• • •

They cooked constantly.

And tasted constantly.

Soups.

Stocks.

Sauces.

Eggs.

Meat.

Vegetables.

Bread.

Sam had never realized how much eating could happen without sitting down for a meal.

A spoonful here.

Half a biscuit there.

A slice of roast.

Another spoonful.

A bite of Eric's sauce.

Two bites of Tyler's potatoes because the first bite hadn't included enough of the browned crust.

Then lunch.

Then afternoon lab.

Then dinner.

Sam noticed the first five pounds only because his jeans felt better.

At 205, he liked himself slightly heavier.

His shoulders looked fuller beneath a T-shirt.

His face hadn't changed.

His stomach remained mostly flat.

Tyler gained nine.

Eric gained four.

They discovered this because Tyler bought a bathroom scale for their apartment.

The three of them had become friends quickly enough that splitting rent made sense. Their schedules were nearly identical, and none of them particularly wanted to live in student housing with nineteen-year-olds.

Tyler stepped off the scale.

"Two-thirty-nine."

Eric whistled.

"Already?"

"We've been here six weeks."

"That's nine pounds."

"I know how subtraction works."

Sam stepped onto the scale.

205.6.

Tyler looked disappointed.

"Five?"

"Apparently."

"You're not applying yourself."

"To eating?"

"To education."

Sam laughed.

Eric stepped on.

"Two-eleven."

Tyler shook his head.

"Pathetic."

"We're supposed to become chefs, not livestock."

Tyler walked into the kitchen.

"At this school, I'm not convinced there's a difference."

• • •

Sam first heard about the 2XL tradition in October.

He and Eric were carrying equipment across campus when they passed the Hall of Graduates.

Photographs lined both walls.

Each graduating class stood in white chef coats.

Sam stopped.

Something about the pictures struck him.

"What?"

Eric followed his gaze.

Sam stepped closer.

Class of 2024.

Twenty-eight graduates.

Almost every man in the photograph was big.

Not Tyler big.

Bigger.

Heavy bellies pushed against white coats. Thick necks rose above collars. Some looked merely stocky, others genuinely fat.

Sam moved to the next photograph.

Same thing.

"Eric."

"Yeah."

"Have you noticed something?"

Eric smiled.

"About a month ago."

"You didn't say anything?"

"I wanted to see when you noticed."

Sam looked farther down the hallway.

Year after year.

The women varied considerably in size.

But among the men, especially the graduates standing toward the front-

Big.

Sam pointed.

"Why are they all fat?"

"Tradition."

They turned.

Tyler stood behind them carrying a box of pastry rings.

Sam frowned.

"What tradition?"

Tyler set down the box.

"You really don't know?"

"No."

Tyler pointed at the photographs.

"Graduation whites."

"What about them?"

"Men graduate in at least a 2XL."

Sam laughed.

Tyler didn't.

Sam stopped.

"You're serious."

"Completely."

"Why?"

Tyler shrugged.

"Academy thing. Been going on forever."

Eric stepped closer to one photograph.

"How does that even work?"

"It isn't an official requirement. Nobody fails because his coat says XL."

"Then it's not a requirement."

"Tell them that."

Tyler pointed toward the newest photograph.

"See the embroidery?"

Sam leaned closer.

Every male graduate wore a coat with his name embroidered above the pocket.

"And?"

"Those aren't their regular whites. They're graduation coats. Traditionally the men get measured during spring term."

Sam looked again.

Most of the coats were 2XL.

Some larger.

"That's insane."

Tyler picked up his box.

"We attend a school where Chef Laurent considers butter a food group."

"I'm not gaining seventy pounds for a diploma."

Tyler grinned.

"Then you better start sucking at cooking."

• • •

By Christmas, Sam needed an XL.

It happened during pastry lab.

He reached across the table for a piping bag.

Pop.

Something hit the floor.

Eric looked down.

Then up.

Sam froze.

Tyler started laughing.

"No."

Sam looked at the front of his coat.

The bottom button was gone.

Eric bent down and picked it up.

"Chef Callahan."

"Give me that."

Eric held it away.

"You popped your first button."

"I leaned against the table."

"You popped it with your belly."

"I did not."

Tyler stepped around the workstation.

"Stand still."

"Why?"

"I want to see something."

"Come on, Tyler."

Tyler ignored him and pulled the sides of Sam's coat together.

The fabric stretched visibly over Sam's stomach.

Tyler looked impressed.

"Damn."

Sam looked down and sighed.

"What?"

"Look at your belly, Sam. It's filling out those whites faster than anybody else in our class."

Eric laughed.

"Except Tyler."

"Mine came preinstalled."

Tyler pressed one hand against Sam's stomach through the coat and whistled.

Sam instinctively tightened his abdomen.

Tyler's eyebrows rose.

"And it's firm."

Sam swatted his hand away.

"Would you stop feeling me up in pastry lab?"

"I'm evaluating your progress."

"My progress?"

"Toward graduation."

Sam looked down again.

He knew he'd gained weight.

He wasn't stupid.

But the coat made it more obvious.

His stomach now pushed forward enough to round the front of the uniform. There was still muscle beneath it, but a definite layer of softness had accumulated around his waist.

Eric handed him the button.

"You need an XL."

"This is a Large."

"Yes."

"I've gained, what, twenty pounds?"

"Twenty-seven."

Sam stared at him.

"How do you know?"

"You weighed yourself Sunday."

"You remember my weight?"

Tyler answered for him.

"We have a board."

Sam slowly turned.

"What board?"

Neither man answered.

"Guys."

• • •

The board was inside the pantry at their apartment.

Sam stared at it.

CULINARY DEVELOPMENT

TYLER - 231 → 258

ERIC - 207 → 226

SAM - 200 → 227

Below it Tyler had written:

GRADUATION STANDARD: 2XL

And beneath that:

VALEDICTORIAN: 3XL

Sam pointed.

"What is that?"

Tyler looked genuinely confused.

"A whiteboard."

"I know what a whiteboard is."

Eric was laughing.

Sam pointed lower.

"Valedictorian three-X?"

Tyler's expression changed.

"Oh."

"Oh?"

"You haven't figured that out yet either?"

"Apparently I don't know anything about this school."

Tyler opened the refrigerator.

"Beer?"

"No. Explain."

Tyler took three anyway.

"You noticed the graduation pictures."

"Yes."

"Did you notice one guy in each picture was usually bigger than everybody else?"

Sam had.

He hadn't thought much about it.

Tyler handed him a beer.

"The Three-X."

Sam waited.

"Every year?"

"Traditionally."

"The valedictorian is supposed to be the fattest guy?"

Eric laughed.

Tyler shook his head.

"Not the fattest."

He raised his beer.

"The best fed."

Sam stared at him.

Then laughed despite himself.

"You're making this up."

"Ask Laurent."

"I will."

"Please do."

Sam looked at the board again.

227. 

Then at Tyler.

258. 

Eric was 226 now.

Sam lifted the hem of his T-shirt.

There it was.

A small but unmistakable belly.

He grabbed it with one hand.

Twenty-seven pounds.

"Shit."

Tyler leaned against the counter.

"You're also first in the class."

Sam released his stomach.

"So?"

"So, if you stay first..."

Tyler tapped the board.

3XL.

Sam looked at it.

"No."

Eric smiled.

"That's what I said about the 2XL."

• • •

Chef Laurent confirmed everything.

Mostly.

"The academy does not require students to gain weight."

Sam sat across from him in his office.

"Tyler said-"

"Mr. Grant enjoys making traditions sound like federal law."

"So the coats aren't required."

"No."

Laurent folded his hands over his enormous stomach.

"But the tradition is real?"

"Very."

Sam waited.

Laurent smiled.

"Food changes people."

"Apparently."

"A serious culinary education changes how you shop. How you cook. How you taste. How you entertain. How you celebrate."

His eyes moved briefly toward Sam's stomach.

"And sometimes how you fit into your clothes."

Sam laughed.

"So everybody just accepts getting fat?"

Laurent's expression remained pleasant.

"Do you feel unhealthy?"

"No."

"Are you unhappy?"

Sam thought about it.

"No."

"Has your cooking improved?"

"Absolutely."

"Then perhaps you are asking the wrong question."

Sam sat back.

"What should I be asking?"

Laurent smiled.

"Whether the sauce you served me yesterday truly needed that much tarragon."

Sam laughed.

"Okay. Fair."

Laurent leaned forward.

"You have exceptional instincts, Sam. Better than most students I've taught."

The humor disappeared.

Sam hadn't expected that.

"Thank you."

"You understand balance. You understand restraint. Most importantly, you understand when restraint is inappropriate."

Sam smiled.

"That's a compliment?"

"From me? Very much so."

Laurent sat back.

"If you continue at this level, you have a legitimate chance at graduating first in your class."

Sam thought about the board.

3XL.

Laurent apparently read his face.

"The coat follows the achievement, Sam. Not the other way around."

"Tell Tyler that."

Laurent laughed.

"I suspect Mr. Grant has already decided otherwise."