Day 81: The Last Waltz

There is something morally abhorrent about exams that start at 8am. It’s just not my time of day, but a quick Bond shower, a shot of Vitamin C to stave off the encroaching cold and the adrenalin combine to get me vertical. The drive to the school is eerie. It is still dark, and very misty. In the distance the occasional beams of light from a car’s headlights flash and turn in the darkness, like little explosions in some desolate no man’s land.

Today is D-Day. I am armed with my highly detailed order of work, a little pile of recipes tied together with string and, for the last time, my knives. They’re not as shiny as they were twelve weeks ago, but I diligently sharpened them last night and they’re ready to do their worst. I am filled with a strange sense of foreboding. Twelve weeks reduced to this: three hours, three dishes.

Fortunately I have planned my menu to incorporate dishes that are ever so slightly ring-fenced from disaster. What it ultimately boils down to is organisation, expediency and a willingness to follow one’s instincts. There is no time for questioning yourself now. Cooking, seasoning, timing, presentation - don’t think about it, just do it. Screw your courage to the sticking place.

This is what I do. As always seems to happen in these situations, some form of subconscious autopilot takes over (or maybe there’s a little rat under my hat pulling tufts of hair). It won’t always fly you in the right direction, but after three months, it should be able to get you where you’re going eventually without the Goddamn plane crashing into the mountain.

Everything goes according to plan. It doesn’t go in the order of the plan, because when you see things in front of you, you look at them differently. Boeuf Bourguignon on the heat. Chopping. A lot of chopping. Squid dressing made. White Soda Bread (I luck out in the bread draw and get the easiest and quickest of the lot) is made. Rustic, as they say. Squid cleaned, romanesco prepped, Grapefruit segmented, pomegranate de-seeded. Onions peeled and braised in stock, mushrooms quartered and sautéed in batches. Salad leaves picked, dressing made. Mise en place.

I am bracing myself for the big push. For the only time in our cooking lives, we have to serve all three courses at once. The hot stuff has to be hot, the cold stuff cold. Including all the plates. One plate presented for each course, and the rest presented and garnished in serving plates. This is a logistical nightmare. For this reason my sorbet is made, scooped, plated up and ready for presentation in the freezer.

Pretty much everything else is going to come together at once. I don’t know when my beef will be cooked. Once it is, I have to strain the casserole, remove everything except the meat and reduce the sauce. I also have to boil and mash the spuds so that they are not sitting around too long and going all gluey. The romanesco has to be last minute to be at its best, as does the squid. Not only this, but you have to give a fifteen minute call in advance of your readiness. This is basically the make or break stage. It is a hard call to make. Once you press the button, there’s no going back. This is where it can all go wrong, or all go right.

I don’t remember too much detail. But I know it all went right. The teachers are great and help you clear your shit out of the way as you manically plate up, whilst draining romanesco and char grilling squid. I have all my plates garnished and ready except for the final ingredients, which means I serve on time, with hot food, and, even if I do say so myself, in some style. It looks good.

How does it taste? The squid will be a bit tough as they were quite large. They were cooked all right though. The dressing was gutsy and well seasoned. The beef is properly cooked. It actually cooked much quicker than I anticipated and is probably a little drier than I would have liked, but it is not critically overcooked. The sauce is wonderfully rich though. The mash is just okay. It is probably a touch heavy, but hopefully the copious amounts of salt and butter will have masked that. The romanesco is perfect, but The Headmistress seems to like her vegetables overdone, so she might not like it. I cannot bring myself to do this to a thing of such beauty. Dessert is great.

But that’s just, like, my opinion. There are three judges who independently taste and mark your food, and you don’t get their feedback. Imagine my surprise, as I stand back from my section to present and the camera snatcher walks in to taste my food. I smile inside. I was so close to speaking my mind a couple of weeks ago, but somehow bit my tongue and let it go. Good job I did. The world sucks sometimes. You can fight it if you like, but once you’ve said your piece, it still sucks.

So it’s all over. On reflection, it is the most exhausting three hours of my life. Only when you walk out do you realise what you have just given. Looking around at others, and in the mirror, you see broken faces. Then you realise that you stink. The fumes and fat. A foul and pestilent congregation of vapours. My hands a sorry sight. I need a shower. I need to sleep.

I have a restorative nap, but it doesn’t restore anything like enough. I feel beaten up, emptied out, hollow and broken. Cooked out. Boiled, boiled, boiled and reduced. I am just the little bits left stuck to the bottom of the pan. Pour some stock on me, scrape me up with a whisk and thicken me with roux. Look at what they make you give.