Right, back to normal today. In my defence, I had just finished Time’s Arrow and sat down to scribble another day’s nonsense when the thought occurred. It was kind of fun to be honest, but it wrecks your brain, trying to think everything through in reverse. Amis must have been completely fucked by the time he finished writing it.
Today is double demo day. Canapés and finger food in the morning, sushi in the afternoon. The canapé demo has drawn a fair crowd of outsiders, and the school is out in team strength up front. Different people take us through different dishes, tag team style. The sous chefs are on fire. At one point there were five people behind the counter, all concentrating furiously as they assembled the most intricate and pedantic of all foods. Watching them, I secretly prayed that I would never have to do it myself.
Lunch was yesterday’s curry, which I didn’t fancy then, let alone now. I consoled myself with a bowl of soup and chatted to one of the few guys on the course, who, it turns out, is an ex-rally driver. As we chatted about Formula 1, it transpires that he is off to Melbourne at Christmas, which suddenly got me thinking again. That damn F-Word just won’t go away.
After lunch I quickly knocked up a biga as I am going to make ciabatta tomorrow. I’m going even stronger this time, half 00 and half baker's flour. I also refresh my sourdough starter with a big feed, ready to be made up tomorrow and baked on Friday.
Back in demo, it is time for sushi. One of the students, Satoko, is a cookery teacher in Japan, and she has been roped into taking part in today’s extravaganza (another bumper crowd in the galleries). She is extremely nervous, worried about her English, but delivers the goods in style. Her talk about Obento lunchboxes, and how one assembles them with more than food - with love - is quite touching. She hopes, she says, we will all go away and make them for the ones we love.
This would be the highlight of my afternoon, but Satoko proceeds to make miso soup. Miso soup is one of those things so ubiquitous these days, that we become accustomed to, and accepting of, its mediocrity. Not today though. Satoko’s 102-year old grandmother has sent over some of her homemade miso paste. It takes over a year to knock this stuff up. The soup is extraordinarily good and dwarfs everything else we have consumed in the day’s frenzy of cooking and sushi rolling. Something warms my soul when a little old Japanese lady kicks everyone else’s ass from the other side of the world, with her simple mastery of an ancient art.
My evening is consumed entirely by the bloody menu for my exam. Everything has to be in by 2pm tomorrow: the menu, accompanying wines, the occasion you have in mind, and your reasons for choosing it. Also, a complete list of all ingredients is required. Organising the whole shooting match must be a complete nightmare - 63 menus and ingredient lists that all need to be checked and ordered. The most daunting aspect of all this is that whatever goes on that piece of paper tomorrow is what you are cooking, and what you are getting. Forget to put those shallots on? Tough shit - you ain’t getting any.
Committing to the dishes themselves is scary enough. I sketch up a quick idea of what will take how long. I have three hours, and am coming in at nearer four. But I have a lot of fat in my timings. I think I’ll be good. I have a reasonable mix of last minute stuff and things that can be prepped ahead and either chilled or kept warm. The starter I was planning has been kicked up to dessert and I’ve slipped in the squid, with a caveat that I get small ones. My menu looks like this:
Chargrilled Squid with Chilli and Parsley Oil
William Fèvre Chablis Premier Cru ‘Vaillons’ 2006
----oOo----
Boeuf Bourguignon
Pommes Duchesse
Romanesco
Green Salad
Chateau du Cèdre ‘Le Prestige’, Cahors 2005
----oOo----
Ruby Grapefruit and Pomegranate Sorbet
In two week’s time, I will have three hours in which to knock that little lot up. Ten weeks ago, that would have been impossible. Now, I’m just looking forward to it.
It looks grand and sounds mighty posh, I know. Will it taste any better than a centurion’s miso soup? No. Impossible. Some things are just special. They require no embellishment. Write them in French - they don't get any better or worse. They are what they are. Those who make them are gifted beyond our comprehension. When we taste them, we are privileged. The gift of truly great food.
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