Page 2 of Sabre’s Guard

I pause in case anyone has anything to add. When no one speaks I continue, “Here’s the thing nobody wants to hear. Some chef’s knives can cost a small fortune. But a good chef’s knife doesn’t have to cost more than your first car. Expensive knives won’t make you a better cook. What makes you a better cook is a decent quality knife and for you to exercise respect, control, and technique, in that order. You can do beautiful work with a forty-dollar knife that you keep clean and sharp.”

I demonstrate the trim, showing them where the cap wants to separate, how the fat gently indicates where to separate if you pay attention. I also show them how a sharp knife glides where a dull one tears. The room gives a collective sigh when my sharpened blade slips through the meat cleanly. I can feel how invested they are in learning good cooking techniques.

When I glance up, Sabre isn’t looking at the meat. He’s watching my hands, paying attention to my grip, the angle of the blade, and the way I anchor with my guide hand. He watches the way professional cooks watch, like he plans to imitate my cutting techniques. I’m used to students watching what I’m doing but this feels different. This man is serious about cooking and taking mental notes.

The hands-on portion is where the students show where they are, skill-wise. I circulate around the table, observing, and giving pointers. This is a good group. They’re all intently following directions. The couple is working as a team, like they always do. The young guy is slow, methodical, and doing fine.

An older woman has a death grip on her handle. I stop and gently show her a better grip. “You don’t have to force it. Let the blade glide along the cut you want to make.” She relaxes her grip and smiles as trimming becomes easier for her.

When I get to Sabre, he’s neatly trimming the last of his ribeye, with his trimmings sitting in one neat pile and his silver skin in another. His cuts are clean, with even pressure and no sawing. He already has the cap separated, and he’s portioning the eye into steaks that are nearly perfectly even. As I’m looking at him, his gravelly voice draws me back to cooking. “What do you think, Chef? Do I have talent or not?”

“You’re good. Have you done this before?” I ask. Suddenly, a thought pops into my head. “Are you a professional chef?”

“No,” he says flatly. “I work for a security firm.” He squares up a portion and sets it on a sheet pan. “I like to cook is all. I fish a lot and help feed a clubhouse full of brothers who often mistake hunger for starving to death. So, I had two choices, learn to break things down quick or learn to like all their complainin’.”

“That explains the fillet knife,” I say with a chuckle.

“That particular knife is the only family heirloom I’ve got that’s worth anything,” he says. There’s something about his tone that tells me there is a bigger story there, but I don’t dig. I know firsthand that families can be complicated.

His technique is genuinely good, especially for being self-taught. His knife skills are exceptionally good. Unfortunately, he’s got one bad habit. He’s driving from the wrist on the long cuts, muscling the blade instead of letting it glide.

“Can I help you with one thing?” I ask.

He nods, setting the knife down and stepping back from the board. Just like that. There’s zero pushback and I appreciate that. The professional kitchen is still a male-dominated place, and I’m used to men thinking they know better. Having someone genuinely want to listen to me makes a change.

“I appreciate anything you want to show me, Chef. That’s exactly why I came here tonight.”

“Alright…” I pause and glance at the patch on his jacket. “Sabre, is it?” He glances up to catch my eye when I say his name and nods. “You’re pushing from the wrist,” I tell him, stepping closer. “You’ve got the strength to get away with it, but you’re working harder than the knife needs you to. Watch.” I take his blade and cut the last portion in one long, smooth stroke, letting the edge and the weight do the labor. “Let your shoulder and elbow do the moving, while the wrist steers.”

“I see. That makes a whole lot of sense, Chef,” he says, shaking his head. “Imagine me using my muscles instead of letting the knife do its job.”

I flash him a quick smile, handing him the knife back. “Let the knife do the job you sharpened it to do.”

His fingers brush mine on the handle, warm and rough and deliberately not lingering. He pulls away, trying to cut my way. The first pass he makes is better but still a little awkward. The second one glides smoothly.

“Wow, that is easier,” he says, looking down at his well-used blade. “Thank you, Chef.”

“You’re welcome. Even the best cooks can always pick up a new trick or technique if they stay open-minded.”

“I’m all kinds of open-minded, ma’am. Trust me on that.”

His expression is totally blank but something in his tone tells me there is a double meaning there. Maybe Sabre is interested in learning more than just how to make a good steak from me.

I move on to the next station before my face can do anything unprofessional.

I tell him, “If you’re interested, I have a bread making class coming up. I might be able to squeeze you in.”

Before he can answer, the fresh haircut at station five, who has had his camera set up and has been narrating his own performance this whole time, interrupts us. When I remind the room to rest their steaks off the heat, he announces, “I mean, honestly, I’ve watched enough steak videos I could probably teach this half. No offense.”

“None taken,” I say through gritted teeth. I’ve had lots of influencer types in my classes over the last year or so. Some are good, some mess around, and some think they know better and constantly try and prove me wrong at every step. It’s clear which category he falls in. “The videos you watched are probably great,” I tell him. “But the steak doesn’t care what you’ve watched. It only cares that you’re using a high smoke, neutral-flavored oil. It cares about the cast iron skillet you’re using and whether or not you seared the meat properly. We’ll all show and tell at the end of the night and see how your ideas panned out in comparison to your peers.”

A few people chuckle. He grins sheepishly. I think it would have ended there. But then a low, unhurried voice comes from station two.

“Man, since you paid to learn from her, you might let her teach.”

Sabre’s tone isn’t loud or aggressive. He’s just speaking facts. And for a second, I freeze as a feeling of dread settles in my stomach. The last thing I need is a big biker deciding that I need saving in my own classroom.

Station five says, “Fair enough,” before becoming very interested in his pan, which is now resting off the heat, like I asked.