Louis LeBeau (age, 10):
(September 17, 1928)
10 year old Louis stood on a stool in the kitchen of Guillaume's five star restaurant completely lost with the current dish he was preparing for a customer: bouillabaisse. The smells emanating from the pot made his little mouth water. If he were not such a stickler for manners, he would stick his face into the pot and eat the entire thing himself. A pure sense of joy just filled him inside working with food, preparing culinary arts for others to enjoy. And the fact that he was currently being mentored under the most famous, well-respected restaurant owner himself, it was as if little Louis LeBeau had died and gone to Heaven.
He had only been working for Guillaume Prudhomme for about three months now, and even in that time frame he had learned so much. How to properly hold a knife, how to quickly chop vegetables and breads, what was proper procedure to putting a fire out caused either by oil or electricity, so much more than that. But while he enjoyed cooking fine French dishes for people, his real passion lie with baking. Brownies, cookies, pies, cakes, crème brûlée, whatever it was. His goal was to open his own bakery when he grew up and finished school. And since Guillaume owned both his restaurant and a small bakery a couple blocks down the street, Louis hoped that if he was really good, and he listened and worked really hard as a chef that Guillaume would take him to the next level. The level he dreamed of every waking hour and every night in his sleep.
As Louis continued to prepare the bouillabaisse, Guillaume walked into the kitchen wearing a chef's uniform and apron tied around his waist. A tall, thin man around his early fifties with graying black hair and a mustache to match. He sniffed the air as he picked up a mouthwatering scent, followed it over to Louis' pot, and he moaned with delight.
"Oh Louis, that is très magnifique. I have never smelled a better bouillabaisse," he said, beaming with pride.
"Wait till you taste it, Monsieur Prudhomme," Louis answered, an adorable grin making its way to his face.
"Louis, my boy, we've been over this. Do not be so formal with me. It is Guillaume for you."
"Oui, Guillaume. Would you like a taste?"
Guillaume took the ladle from the little boy's hand, blew on the food to cool it down, then took a sip and groaned louder than before with delight. "Mon Dieu, Louis. How did you make this bouillabaisse taste so good?"
"I added just a dash of parsley to your recipe for a little more flavor," Louis said, pinching the space between his thumb and pointer finger.
"Genius, my boy. You keep this up, and I might teach you how to make crème brûlée next."
As Louis' small face lit up like a Christmas tree, one of the waiters of the restaurant, Edgar, came bustling in with 'panic' written all over his face. "Monsieur Prudhomme! Monsieur Prudhomme, the Ambassador of Germany just came in," he reported rapidly.
"The Ambassador of Germany!" Guillaume exclaimed.
"Oui, Sir. He is asking for Schweinshaxe und kartoffelpuffer, Sir. I told him we did not serve that here, Monsieur, and…"
"For God's sake, Edgar, this is the Ambassador of Germany. If he wants Schweinshaxe and potato pancakes, he will get them even if I have to go out and buy the potatoes myself. Now go out there and tell him he will get his meal soon and that anything he wants to drink is on the house." Guillaume cut his head waiter off.
"Oui, Monsieur Prudhomme," Edgar said, with a sharp salute, then glided out of the kitchen, leaving the restaurant owner again alone with his protégée, who was looking up at him completely dumbfounded. Potato pancakes was clear enough, but he had never even heard of the other German dish. He furrowed his eyebrows together and cocked his head slightly to the left.
"Monsieur Guillaume, what is schwine socks?" Louis asked him.
Guillaume seemed to briefly shudder just hearing the word again, then turned to Louis and let out a soft sigh. "Schweinshaxe is a roasted hog knuckle. It is extremely popular in the southeastern part of Germany."
"Hog knuckle," Louis gasped. "Blech…c'est très dégoûtant! Why would anybody wish to eat that?" (1)
"It is good practice, my boy," Guillaume said, placing a gentle hand on the boy's shoulder. "You may work in Germany someday for a career, and you will have to make German dishes all the time…Now, if you excuse me, I have a very angry ambassador to calm down and a waiter on the verge of having another mental breakdown."
Guillaume patted Louis' shoulder before leaving him alone with the international chef, who would teach him how to make the German delicacies. When he was gone, Louis again shuddered at the idea of someone eating a pig's knuckle and shook his head with disgust.
"Cook in Germany for a living," he murmured to himself. "I will never do such a thing. I will never cook German food for a living…even if I'm ordered to do it." Making the promise to himself, Louis turned around to face the international chef and internally grimaced as he began to watch how to make Schweinshaxe.
(1) C'est très dégoûtant - It's very disgusting.