The Bee joins the Bull at a Dionysian Feast

Piece de Resistance- Pork Loin with Sweet Peppers, Gratin of Potato with Persillade

I am not yet a chef or a religious scholar, but what I am is a Melissa, which in Greek means honeybee. Bees are known to imbibe the essence of life by probing flowers with their tongues, gathering sweet nectar to take back to the hive and make honey for the community. Inside the hive the bee dances; her tiny feet tap to the songs of her travels, to the rhythms of the land and her orientation to the cosmos. She dances to the splendor of the sun and the divinity of the flower as her sisters gather round to listen to the transmission. Through a mysterious digestive alchemy within the bee's body and a reduction process, the nectar she has gathered becomes honey, or bee food, which is stored in a communal vat of honeycomb. The sound the bees make when they do this work together is Mmmmmm.

"France is a hexagon," Robert began, on the first day of cooking school, tearing a sheet of newsprint and sketching the shape with his magic marker. (Indeed, this bee found herself in the right place, having found a delightfully copious flower) "The Loire Valley divides the country gastronomically in two: Butter in the north, olive oil in the south; shallots to the north, garlic to the south. You have the Alsace influenced by the Germans, Normandy by the Vikings, Brittany by the Celts, Pyrenees by the Arabs and Provence, named by the Romans as a province of Rome," he continued, as a network of circles and squiggles representing mountain ranges, rivers and fertile valleys took form within the hexagram. With the strokes of his pen, the regions became a patchwork of cells honeycombing France. Robert explained how each is insulated from the other by culture and terrain and as a result so is the food. "You would never catch someone sauteeing a turnip in butter in Provence" he joked.

Within fifteen minutes a second page was peeled away, revealing a third and a concept I have since coined as the "Theater of Digestion." The French meal is orchestrated to prepare the body to properly assimilate the ingredients of each dish and the structure and form is like theater with entrance, performance, and exit in mind. There is a gradual introduction of fiber and protein to the table through a series of courses. First comes the Amusement, sparking a salivary response; second, an Entree' (meaning enter); third, the Intermet (Intermission) which cleanses the palate for the main course; fourth, a crescendo with the Piece de Resistance, which is the main meat course; fifth, a salad of leaves to cleanse the palate and sixth, a cheese course containing enzymes which aid in digesting meat. There is a pause between the courses for reflection. Those who dine become the conscience or Chorus, commenting on the presence and effect of each dish on the palate. Thus, the French meal sets the stage for an intimate conversation between the body of the land and those of its people.

Gathered around the table, my classmates and I received our orientation through Robert's richly painted tales traversing France. I had the sense he had spoken with each and every ancient woman huddled at the market with her basket of potatoes and a closely guarded recipe that she passes on to him with the tubers and a gesture of her knarled hands. From just one moment such as this comes a satiny gratin that melts in the mouth so quickly, one wonders if it was a memory: And it is. This is how we will learn, using all our senses, imagination and presence we can muster for the art of Classic French cooking. This is how we will work, this is how we will live for two months and 40 days of dishes, all for Mmmmmm.