How many cooks does it take to crack an egg?
|“It’s the classic version,” declared Camille. A wisp of streaked blonde hair had escaped from under her crisp white chef’s hat and threated to hang itself up on her Grandiôse mascara, by Lancôme. Of Paris. She shook her head to both make her point with Andre and to shoo the hair wisp away from her eyes. “Raw garlic only. And for the oil, grapeseed, not vegetable. Altogether a superior aioli.”
“Oh, please,” Andre declaimed. He had a similar hair problem, one dark curl extending down from his own toque and dangling in front of his forehead, which was beaded with perspiration. If he shook his head, the curl might sweep off the sweat, like a windshield wiper. But Andre held his head perfectly still and pinned Camille against the stove with a stare. “You know that isn’t true,” he said. “I’ll grant you the grapeseed oil. But roasting the garlic gives the aioli a certain caramelized warmth, a buttered complexity. It’s an evolved version. It’s better.”
Camille gripped her towel with taut fingers topped by French Affair nail polish, by Essie. “That’s the California Culinary Institute trying to be what it’s not,” she retorted. “Next time you’re back there, you should tell them to stick with what they’re good at. Organic veggie hot dogs.”
“Only one kind of aioli? That’s pretentious French Cordon Bleu nonsense,” Andre shot back. “And if you ever go back there, you should tell them to try to find their way into the 21st Century. Or even the 20th.”
“Hey!” a voice boomed behind them. They turned. A man in a stained red Peterbilt cap glared at them from the other side of the counter. “I’m on a schedule here! Since when do I have to wait ten minutes for a burger at a truck stop?”
(Word count: 298)