Edible Art and Other Disasters

“Hey Julie!” I panted, dashing across the parquet shop floor, almost knocking over a mountain of maraschino cherry jars. “Did you hear what happened?”

Julie looked up at me from the salami she was meticulously folding, one perfect petal at a time, in that way she tended to do so often these days, as though whatever I was going to say wouldn’t live up to her expectations. Obviously, I was interrupting her at a crucial point of salami rose construction. We had only known each other since we became interns at Peter Smollet, the famed charcuterie board maker. Peter had completely revolutionized the way charcuterie boards were made, presenting veritable works of arts to his clients. His boards were not charcuterie, they were “compositions”. Every smear of fruit compote and butter were brushstrokes of brilliance. Not only were his boards pleasing to the eye, but the contents remained mysteriously fresh for hours and hours. Rumor had it he had been a budding sculptor before discovering his passion for provolone and pancetta. Like I said, he had completely revolutionized the charcuterie board world. His boards were highly coveted. Foreign dignitaries were known to fabricate essential diplomatic trips just to eat at his shop.

I had landed the coveted spot as his intern along with Julie and another girl named Cynthia three months ago. Since then, Peter had taken a liking to Julie and personally mentored her. While Cynthia and I learned as we went along, assigned menial tasks, Julie got insider secrets and learned exclusive techniques. Peter shared his secret to magnificent mortadella and crunchy cornichons. She was now the second-best board maker at the shop. No wonder she now looked at me with disdain. Cynthia, not used to the cutthroat world of charcuterie had abandoned the internship a month ago after slicing her hand open on a cheese rind.

Carefully placing her perfect salami rose to the side, Julie wiped her hands on a striped linen towel tucked artfully into her apron band and turned to me. “What is it?” Her tone was bored, telling me she couldn’t wait to get back to slicing cheese. Nevertheless, I had to tell her what I had just found out. “It’s a disaster! Lady Fluflu’s agent just called and said the prosciutto on the meat castle you built for their event is now hard! Mr. Smollet is looking for you.” My words sounded garbled in my ears and Julie’s face blanched so white that for a moment she looked like fresh mozzarella.

Actually, it went through a series of colors, first white, then slowly back to bright red as she became agitated. “I TOLD them the meat castle was a bad idea.” She hissed. “WHO makes a meat castle??? Just tell them the prosciutto is the cement holding the whole dang thing together!” I could tell she was about to dive into a full blown rant. “Everyone wants a Peter Smollet charcuterie display for their event but asking us to set it up THREE days before the event? And they expect soft prosciutto? We’re not paid enough to perform miracles. I can’t, I really can’t! It’s not like they’re paying us that much either. Peter let me see the invoice, we’re basically paying THEM to be part of their stupid album launch party. You think anybody going to that party eats??? All those models and rap stars girlfriends – they eat AIR! Who CARES if the prosciutto is hard? I can’t undo it! I’m not making them another three-foot structure out of meat!” By this time, I was fascinated because her face was looking more like prosciutto the angrier she got – red with streaks of white.

She marched over to the fridge and yanked out the offending prosciutto. “Do they expect you to remain pliant forever? I can’t control what happens to you once you leave here.” I took a hesitant step backwards as I realized she was no longer addressing me but speaking to the cured pork.

“JULIE!” boomed a deep voice. Both our heads whipped around so fast I felt the vertebrae in my neck pop. Peter Smollet himself was barreling over. “Julie,” he snapped again, “you need to take six pounds of prosciutto over to Lady Fluflu’s album launch party venue and redo that meat castle. In fact, make it bigger! We need to be spared the embarrassment of sub-par prosciutto.”

“But Peter,” Julie sputtered, “That will take hours, and besides no one is even going to eat the charcuterie and ---”

Peter erupted “WHAT DO YOU MEAN BY SAYING NO ONE WILL EAT THE CHARCUTERIE??? My charcuterie is edible ART!!! This is a symphony of sausage and saltines! This is a disgrace. You INSULT me. Julie, you are FIRED. I will teach Janet here everything I know; you are no longer worthy to know the secrets of the charcuterie world!”

He turned heel and left, leaving Julie and I gaping at each other. Her face twisted into a mask of fury and disbelief.

“Fired for prosciutto! I’ve given him every waking moment of the last three months and THIS is what I get???”

She grabbed a cheese knife that was lounging nearby and thrust it into a waiting wheel of brie. “Fine! Let him have his little meat shop. One day, they’ll all come to my meat EMPIRE! Julie’s Jars – portable charcuterie for people who do not care if their prosciutto is soft or not!” She tore off her apron and flung it on the marble counter causing the perfect salami rose to roll off the counter and land in pieces near my shoes. Julie stormed out, slamming the shop door viciously behind her. I stood there, blinking, frozen in time surveying the wreckage.

From across the shop, I heard Peter call “JANET! Get in here and start taking notes! We’re going to invent the very first self-humidifying charcuterie castle.”

I sighed. Of course we were. Somehow, I knew I would be the one building it. Suddenly, Julie’s Jars didn’t sound so bad after all.