Retired chef Gunter Rammstein was known far and wide for excellence in his craft. Naturally, it came as both a shock and a surprise when he announced that he had accepted a part-time teaching role at Miskatonic College, a somewhat obscure school in a remote corner of New England. With great fanfare, he was welcomed to the campus and given complete control of the dining hall. That led to an event later called the Miskatonic Massacre, as Rammstein berated the staff and trashed the place with a sledgehammer after being served salmon that had been cooked skin side down at a dinner meant to welcome him. Rammstein defended his actions by citing his great passion for fine cuisine (especially salmon with crispy skin) and promised to pay for the damages out of his own pocket. The college higher-ups agreed, and the famously cantankerous gourmand was given another chance.
Rammstein explained that his chronic high stress had taken a toll on his health over the years, and his doctor strongly suggested seeking out a more soothing environment. With great reluctance, Rammstein left his prestigious job at a posh Parisian restaurant and set out for New England after seeing a postcard of Acadia National Park. He enjoyed the nature of the area and hope to pass on his knowledge to a new generation of chefs before it was too late. Although dour, he had a wonderful deadpan sense of humor which was accentuated by the fact that he sounded almost exactly like Werner Herzog. "Einmal ist keinmal, as Kundera once wrote. Such a man that Kundera. The only Czech who understood German better was Kafka." These were the first words Rammstein spoke to his new cooking class.
I was at that time, a fly on the wall, so to say. Though I signed up for the coveted cooking class and made through Rammstein's grueling interview, I hardly expected a passing grade. It made no difference to me, because it was a gift to merely be in the presence of true greatness. There was never a more attentive or respectful college class on planet Earth than when Chef Rammstein entered the classroom. After speaking his immortal introduction, he slammed a heap of recipe books on the desk in front of him. "Alright you miserable swine", he bellowed. Take one of these books and flip to the marked page. You will then go to the grocery store and spend exactly $10 on ingredients for the recipe. When you return, present your receipt to me while I inspect your groceries, so I know that you aren't cheating. Ready, set, go!"
There was a mad dash for Rammstein's desk. Many students feared being failed out of lack of enthusiasm. The whole scene was reminiscent of the scramble for lifeboats on a sinking ship. As the students rushed to their cars in the parking lot, the resulting scene resembled a demolition derby as engines roared, tires squealed, and more than a few fender benders were narrowly avoided. The pandemonium continued at the nearest grocery store, as the students scoured the aisles for the cheapest ingredients. By this point, I had resigned to ignore my assigned recipe of Chicken Kiev in favor of tastefully arranging a small tin of anchovies on a large piece of garlic naan and sprinkling the result with cheap parmesan cheese. As a forlorn hope of my culinary last stand, I intended on heating the naan in a microwave.
When we had all returned to the classroom with our ingredients, Rammstein carefully inspected our ingredients and receipts and ordered us to wait at our desks for further instructions. When the last receipt had been checked, and all the students were at their places, Rammstein checked his watch and wrote the time on the whiteboard in swift, angry, and efficient strokes. Then he shouted, "be back here with your meals before my watch reads 30 minutes from this time!" Students stampeded for the exits once more like a herd of bison. There were only so many cooking utensils available in the dining hall, and worse still, many were being used to prepare dinner for the students.
The scene that followed was like a visual version of Dies Irae. It was like a Bosch painting, full of wailing and gnashing of teeth. Somehow, in my luck, I pilfered a plate secured one of the two available microwaves for the 45 seconds needed to warm up the naan. My strategy was to be "first to market", so to say, as I expected to fail anyway. When the naan was warm, I retreated to the dining hall, so I had more room to finish my humble entree. I opened the can of anchovies with the pull ring and carefully arranged them in a star pattern in the center of the naan. Then, my hands still sticky with olive oil, I dusted the result with parmesan cheese. I completed my creation with a chocolate breath mint from my pocket which I placed to the side of the plate.
I covered the plate with a large napkin, grabbed some silverware, and ran back to the classroom. Rammstein did not even look up when I entered; he merely glanced at his watch and wrote the time on the whiteboard. At the time I entered, the other students had a mere 20 minutes left to complete their dishes. The other students came in like marathon runners crossing the finish line. The last student entered with a mere 30 seconds to spare. Rammstein stood and surveyed the room with subdued satisfaction.
"Congratulations, students. I shall now sample your creations. You may give me a brief description as I judge and taste your meals."
And so, he slowly worked his way through the classroom; here and there, he gave grunts of approval and silent stares of condemnation. The students did their best to justify their offerings, like defense attorneys trying to spare their clients the death penalty. The passion of their justifications rivaled the Apology of Socrates. At long last, my turn came.
"Good evening, Chef Rammstein. Here, I have a small, Mediterranean-Indian inspired dish. The saltiness of the anchovies is meant to complement the umame of the olive oil and parmesan, while the chocolate mint acts as a palate cleanser once the meal is finished."
"Hmm...well, you're a lazy, pompous ass. You'll get along well with most French chefs."
I interpreted that as a passing grade, and that indeed was the case. Rammstein spoke again after sampling all the meals.
"It's been a hard evening for all of us, especially me. Please leave me alone here for 20 minutes while I determine who made the best meal tonight."
We filed out once more. Some of us took our dishes with us and passed the time by sharing our cooking with each other.
The time came, and we returned to the classroom to bask once more in Rammstein's wisdom, or perhaps get sunburned by it. He cleared his throat and took a sip of water.
Then he opened a briefcase and withdrew a love blue ribbon from within.
"This is the first award I ever got for cooking. Before I bestow upon tonight's winner, would anyone like to guess whom I judged to be the best?"
A few shouted out my name. Some others were called. There was no clear consensus. Rammstein moved to the toward our desks while holding the blue with both hands. He stopped before a young woman who had made a pot of macaroni with cheese. To that she had added black pepper, onion powder, and pre-sliced pepperoni.
"Madam, it gives me great pleasure tonight to grant you this award. You said that this was something like what you served to your siblings when you were younger. Almost anyone can cook edible food. A real cook uses love as the main ingredient. A round of applause for tonight's winner, please."
Oh, how we clapped. It was Rammstein's gift to make anyone willing to learn from him feel like a winner.
Like a conductor ending a finale, Rammstein raised his hands in the air, and then said, "class dismissed".
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