Pastry chef for a day

An unrequited passion for pastry is not mine alone, judging from my friends, almost all of whom are jealous when they find out I'm going to be ``pastry chef for the day'' at Zebra's Restaurant and Wine Bar in Medfield.

For $100 I will spend the day in the kitchen, whipping up tarts and inventing at least one brilliant dessert. (At least that's how it plays in my fantasies.) That night, I'll get my money back as a gift certificate for dinner at Zebra's.

Sounds too good to be true, doesn't it?

What's in it for pastry chef Aimee Clarke? Is she paid for this under the table? (Nope.) Does Zebra's owner, Craig Neubecker, have some dirt on her? (``He has seen the inside of my house,'' Clarke says, but that's not the kind of dirt I was thinking of.) I decide that whatever their ``understanding'' may be, it's none of my business. Let's get cooking.

The big day arrives, and I'm awakened at half past five by a driving rain. The dog, looking especially warm and comfortable in her bed, doesn't even raise her head to see me off. After stumbling around the kitchen making kids' lunches and washing last night's dinner dishes, I grab a waffle and hit the road. So there I am, all "heading down the Atlanta highway" (yes, this was playing on the radio), then, bam! One-mile backup to 95 south. Back to dark thoughts.

So, I think bitterly, I'm going to be late for my very first day on the job. But then I remember: this isn't my first day, it's my only day. If ever there were someone you could classify as "non-essential personnel," c'est moi.hour later, pulling up next to Zebra's, I'm ready to roll (and slice and dice). I can't wait to throw myself into the middle of the fray, get down to some real action with knives and fire and the general frenzy of restaurant life.

By 8:45 a.m., Clarke and I are settled in: Coffee's made, apron's tied, hair's pulled back. I'm like a puppy, all eager, boundless energy. We're going over the day's to-do list as Clarke heads over to turn on the convection oven. Then she turns it on again. And again. Clarke must turn the oven on 10 times before it stays lighted. "There's always one piece of equipment in the kitchen you wish would die," says Clarke affably. Clarke, I'm quickly learning, is a mellow soul.

After finessing the oven, she pulls out a scale and some yeast and drags a 50-pound sack of flour out from under a work table. Finally, we're getting serious. The memories start to flood in: After working in restaurants and catering companies throughout high school and college, I landed a job at the Harvest's takeout shop 15 years ago. (The Express, as it was called, has since been replaced by bathrooms.) I watched as Tiffany, the Harvest's excellent pastry chef, turned sweat into spun sugar and sweet dreams. It was Tiffany who first taught me that pastry chefs lug around half of their weight in flour, pull massively heavy trays out of hot ovens, navigate dangerously wet and slippery floors, and stir scalding, spitting sauces and syrups.

But it's not dessert we're going to dirty our hands with now, it's bread. Bread? You mean the slow-rising, patience-requiring, nonglamorous staff of life? Huh. This pastry chef thing isn't quite as exciting as I remember. Where are the prep guys who used yell out sexist jokes? The wait staff and cooks cursing at each other? The grease fires? (The Harvest is under new ownership, and I'm absolutely positive that none of these immature behaviors are tolerated in the kitchen anymore.)

No, this is nothing like those fiery scenes of my youth. In fact, it's downright peaceful here in the back of the house at Zebra's. There's no lunch service, so we're alone here. Ho-hum.

"I have enough excitement at home," Clarke says with a laugh.

Forty-five minutes into my pastry debut, Clarke's still messing around with bread dough. Frankly, I'm a little resentful. Am I not supposed to be knee-deep in lovely cream puffs by now? My feet are starting to hurt. Then Clarke asks me to roll out a batard, which is just a fancy way of saying "a ridiculously shaped loaf of bread." I make Clarke re-roll mine as quickly as possible so no one will see my "work."

Ineptitude number two: complaining that the paring knife doesn't work when, actually, I'm holding it backward. And number three: referring to the walk-in fridge as a freezer.

But there are highlights, too, like flambe-ing the apples, using an apple corer for the first time (correctly), and being truly useful two times: once, while holding a funnel so Clarke can pour raspberry sauce into a squeeze bottle, and the second time, cutting bread for bread pudding. But the climax comes when Clarke asks if I had worked on the line at the Harvest. (Moments before, I had flipped apples in a pan just high enough so that Clarke would notice. Score.)

By noon, much of my hair has escaped its pony tail and reality is setting in. I had forgotten how much dishwashing and multitasking and, frankly, hard, repetitive work there is going on in a restaurant kitchen. In fact I am a little bored and so tired that I'm actually leaning on the work table between tasks. My apron is covered with chocolate stains, and I've been noshing on cake, brittle, biscotti, and ice cream all morning. Then at 1:18, I do my most brilliant work: cutting out pastry puff rounds. With the paring knife. Deftly.

Today is Clarke's "short" day since she has to pick up her children from school, so I get to leave at 2:15 without revealing how exhausted I am. I notice later that my fingertips are stained with chocolate. Once home, I decide to "meditate" by lying in bed under a comforter.

I'm beyond grateful that I won't be cooking dinner for myself or anyone else tonight. It's back to Zebra's with the gift certificate. I admit that it's a kick when the bread basket arrives. Despite all the morning's bad feelings, even I have to admit that it's delicious. But in truth, dinner isn't my focus. If ever there were a time to save room for dessert, this is it.

Finally, the waitress brings over the dessert menu, and I order the three that I had a hand in (albeit barely): chocolate bottom pumpkin bread pudding; toasted cornmeal cake with a sauteed apple and caramel sauce; and warm white chocolate rice pudding tart with apricot confit.

This is the moment I've been waiting for. I'm ready to dig in to the fruits of my labor -- and then it hits. A tsunami of fatigue. I really can't eat another bite. Embarrassed, I get my desserts to go and ask my honey to take me home. It's obvious that I belong in the front of the house -- as a paying customer.