By Akari
On the stovetops, sauces reduced, steaks sizzled, and vegetables glazed while all fourteen of us scrambled to chop our parsley and chervil (remember to save pretty sprigs for deco!). The hot kitchen, true to its name, blazed with ovens at 250°C and the body heat of students trying to juggle five things at once. After completing three months in the Basic Cuisine course at Le Cordon Bleu Malaysia, I learned to find peace and even joy in moments of chaos. Or at least how not to cry when my sauce was seconds from splitting.
Hi! I’m Akari, and for the first chapter of my gap year, I attended a French culinary school in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. Anyone who knows me knows that I love food. I love trying new restaurants and spending weekends baking desserts for my family. Food has always been my comfort, my hobby, and my love language. What I didn’t have was the actual technique. Thus, I thought culinary school would be a relaxed way to learn the fundamentals; boy, was I wrong. Classes ran from morning until night, and the chefs were intense and strict in a way that makes you stand straighter without realizing it. They weren’t mean, per se, but were unwavering and demanding. They pushed us hard, and while it was intimidating at first, it made us sharper, faster, and more confident.
From day one, we jumped straight into hands-on work, learning 11 different types of cuts, and once we started, the accelerator was floored. A typical day began with 3 hours of demonstration, where the chefs cooked dishes while we furiously took notes and tasted everything. Then, we had a 3-hour practical class where we attempted to recreate the dishes ourselves. We flew through cold appetizers, soups, puff pastries, sauces, and about halfway through the course began the mains: the proteins.
Our first protein was chicken. The chefs showed us how to butcher it once. Then it was our turn. Just like that. They guided us, of course, but mostly we had to rely on our memory and notes. It forced me to become a more attentive listener and an independent learner.
After the chicken came the fish, filleting it cleanly and efficiently. Then… the rabbit. A whole rabbit, face attached and everything. As someone who adores her pet toy poodle, it was terrifying to have to cleave the head off a body so similar in size. I will never forget that. Then came lamb, where each person was given the immense challenge of breaking down a whole half of one.
But hardest of all? The lobster.
Up until that point, proteins had been difficult, but it felt more like a science experiment, remembering knife angles and joint placements. The lobster was different. It wasn’t just an ingredient; it was very obviously alive. Moving. Antennas twitching.
To be humane, we couldn’t just drop it into boiling water. Instead, we had to put it to sleep–turning the lobster upside down and petting its head–before quickly killing it with a knife. The chefs did it easily, calmly, and told us not to hesitate. I hesitated. I cried. Standing in a professional kitchen, I bawled as everyone around me was already deconstructing their lobster. I felt awful and guilty, and for the first time, I understood that cooking wasn’t just about flavor and technique, but also about responsibility.
In Japanese culture, we say “itadakimasu” before each meal. It’s often translated as thank you for the food, but it means much more than that. Standing in the kitchen, hand shaking, knife in hand, I finally understood what it meant. It’s gratitude for every life, human and non-human, that made the meal possible.
Between ironing our uniforms every morning and hauling our heavy knife kits to class, the experience was difficult in ways I didn’t expect.
Being so close to Singapore also meant I wasn’t confined to just one version of myself. Almost every weekend, I crossed the Malaysian border to play in basketball tournaments with my former teammates. In between basketball games, I tried things I never would’ve done in high school, like devoting 7 straight hours to a 30km walk or going to watch musicals with my mom. This reminded me that taking a gap year wasn’t just about learning new skills, but also about reconnecting with parts of myself I already knew and discovering parts I didn’t.
But what surprised me the most was how much I learned and gained in the kitchen. I learned how to stay focused under pressure, multitask carefully, and adapt when things went wrong (because they often did). I learned to think quickly and resolve problems calmly. And though it may sound cliché, the people made it unforgettable. The chefs were some of the most demanding, yet funniest and most understanding teachers I’ve ever had. I made the best friends, bonded by shared experiences of underseasoning sauces and burning potatoes. I will miss our daily excursions, where we always had bubble tea in hand, exploring malls, trying Malaysian food, and exercising at the gym to account for all the food we were devouring.
Nothing about this experience went the way I expected, but somehow, that made it even better. I am so grateful to have had this opportunity, and given a chance to do it again, I would take it in a heartbeat. Will I go back for intermediate cuisine or pastry? I don’t know. Maybe. But for now, I’m walking away with sharper knives, a deeper appreciation for everything on my plate, and some of the best people I’ve ever met. Just like making a beef bourguignon, this chapter was intense, messy, and absolutely worth it.
