What Jacques Pépin taught me about omelets and life

Standing in his kitchen, beneath the fish- and asparagus-themed tiles that he painted, near the cookbooks that he wrote, under the watchful eye of the French poodle he adores, Jacques Pépin is making yet another omelet, not unlike the kind he used to prepare at the Hôtel Plaza Athénée in Paris 70 years ago.

Pépin’s hands, his skin thinning and his knuckles pronounced, dance with a dexterity that belies his 89 years. His body moves in disquieting harmony as his left hand shakes the pan back and forth while his right stirs the eggs into ever-smaller curds, making sure the mixture never sits too long over the high heat lest it take on a brownish hue that separates the rookie French omelet maker from the professional. His motions have a practiced fluidity, a kind that marks all masters of a craft, whose skills can be summoned from memories buried deep in bone, sinew and muscle.

It’s impossible to calculate how many classic French omelets Pépin has prepared since dedicating himself to the art and technique of the dish. Or how many millions of omelets have been prepared by ordinary home cooks who have watched Pépin, via online videos, transform cracked eggs into velvety cylinders that almost quiver at the touch.