Gerzsi

The smell of onions led me right to it: a low stone building at the big bend, steam rolling out of the kitchen door. I tied up my raft, marched in and announced, “I’m here to be a chef.”

A man in a black chef jacket looked down at me. He did not seem surprised to see a beaver. “I’m Chef Tamás,” he said. “Can you prep carrots?”

Could I prep carrots! He pointed at a crate of forty. I got to work the way beavers always have: with my teeth.

Forty minutes later, the carrots looked like modern art. Some were chewed into points. Some were chewed into nothing. The sous chef was laughing so hard he had to sit on a flour sack, and my jaw hurt so much I could only say “mmf.”

Chef Tamás picked up one of my carrots, turned it around, and put it down very gently, the way you’d put down something that might still bite. Then he went to his station and came back with a knife. A plain one, with a black grippy handle and a few scratches from years of work.

“This was on my station for years,” he said. “It’s not fancy. It just works. Knuckles forward, fingertips tucked. Let the knife do the cutting.”

The next forty carrots took me twelve minutes. They looked like carrots. Chef Tamás nodded once, which I have since learned is the biggest compliment in his kitchen.

“Welcome to the line, apprentice,” he said. I’ve been here ever since.

Gerzsi and his friends are made up. Chef Tamás and his lessons are real.