Dhruv Baker - winner of MasterChef 2010Yet another week spent glued to the box. Between the return of Gene Hunt in Ashes to Ashes, the high drama in Stenders, and the heartstopping suspense of the MasterChef finals, I hardly even noticed the announcement of the general election date. I must say, the daunting task of cooking a famous chef's signature dish and then serving it to him makes waterboarding look like a theme park attraction.
Chefs have a rigid sense of hierarchy which is almost shocking in this democratic age. The title of Chef is a licence to shout and throw things in the manner of a tyrant such as Naomi Campbell (cf. Gordon Ramsay), but while you are working your way up the ranks you must be a lowly serf and a slave, the only thing you are allowed to shout is "Oui Chef!". The smirks of those who had made it through Alain Ducasse's kitchen to become little Hitlers in their own restaurants were proof enough.
It was less than edifying to see how these trainee Caudillos fawned and simpered when in the presence of so-called "royalty" - honestly, the Maharajah of Jodhpur probably got paid for hosting the show. One cannot grant third-world monarchs the same deference as European royalty. The Asantehene of Ghana, who is the paramount chief of all the Ashanti people, studied at a Polytechnic and once worked for Hendon council.
The Paramount Chief of the Ashanti
I am not a bad cook, although I can't be doing with "jus", "reductions", "toiles" and "timbales" and all that fiddly stuff. That's what we pay to go to restaurants for, isn't it? And where is one supposed to buy liquid nitrogen anyway? I'm a not bad everyday cook - I love my wok, or anything that will accept to be shoved in the oven to cook itself. I do a pretty good quiche, if I say so myself. My real forte is throwing together whatever is in the fridge into something edible. I never thought I'd say this, but I rather miss Harold's demanding ways. The pressure of his appetite often spurred me to creativity. I once had to make a dessert out of nothing, and came up with the most delicious apple pancakes flambeed in calvados. Necessity is the mother of invention.
As befits an occasional food writer, I am always on the lookout for new ideas but my native frugality always holds me back, when I see a tempting prepared dish in M&S I always reflect that I could make it myself for half the price. I rarely do, though. My signature dish is couscous royale, which is as easy as pie. Easier, to be honest. For the past few years I have made a festive invitation couscous on New Year's Day, to which you are most welcome next January 1st if you are in the neighbourhood.
I have recently taken to popping into the Chinese supermarket near my office on a Friday afternoon and picking up a bag of frozen dim sum, which I then bung in the bamboo steamer and Ming's your uncle. I'm such a regular customer I now greet the manager with a cheery "Ni hao!". "Bonjour Madame" he replies, impassively.
I am looking forward to tasting some new dishes in America. Only three weeks to go! Smokin' Squaw McGraw threatens to feed me her "kick-ass" chilli and some sort of meat in chocolate sauce. And we all know how awful American chocolate is. It will be a chance to test out Billy Connolly's theory of Mexican food - that it's all the same dish, just folded differently. The manufacturers of these"wraps" I bought recently would seem to agree:
Chefs have a rigid sense of hierarchy which is almost shocking in this democratic age. The title of Chef is a licence to shout and throw things in the manner of a tyrant such as Naomi Campbell (cf. Gordon Ramsay), but while you are working your way up the ranks you must be a lowly serf and a slave, the only thing you are allowed to shout is "Oui Chef!". The smirks of those who had made it through Alain Ducasse's kitchen to become little Hitlers in their own restaurants were proof enough.
It was less than edifying to see how these trainee Caudillos fawned and simpered when in the presence of so-called "royalty" - honestly, the Maharajah of Jodhpur probably got paid for hosting the show. One cannot grant third-world monarchs the same deference as European royalty. The Asantehene of Ghana, who is the paramount chief of all the Ashanti people, studied at a Polytechnic and once worked for Hendon council.
The Paramount Chief of the AshantiI am not a bad cook, although I can't be doing with "jus", "reductions", "toiles" and "timbales" and all that fiddly stuff. That's what we pay to go to restaurants for, isn't it? And where is one supposed to buy liquid nitrogen anyway? I'm a not bad everyday cook - I love my wok, or anything that will accept to be shoved in the oven to cook itself. I do a pretty good quiche, if I say so myself. My real forte is throwing together whatever is in the fridge into something edible. I never thought I'd say this, but I rather miss Harold's demanding ways. The pressure of his appetite often spurred me to creativity. I once had to make a dessert out of nothing, and came up with the most delicious apple pancakes flambeed in calvados. Necessity is the mother of invention.
As befits an occasional food writer, I am always on the lookout for new ideas but my native frugality always holds me back, when I see a tempting prepared dish in M&S I always reflect that I could make it myself for half the price. I rarely do, though. My signature dish is couscous royale, which is as easy as pie. Easier, to be honest. For the past few years I have made a festive invitation couscous on New Year's Day, to which you are most welcome next January 1st if you are in the neighbourhood.
I have recently taken to popping into the Chinese supermarket near my office on a Friday afternoon and picking up a bag of frozen dim sum, which I then bung in the bamboo steamer and Ming's your uncle. I'm such a regular customer I now greet the manager with a cheery "Ni hao!". "Bonjour Madame" he replies, impassively.
I am looking forward to tasting some new dishes in America. Only three weeks to go! Smokin' Squaw McGraw threatens to feed me her "kick-ass" chilli and some sort of meat in chocolate sauce. And we all know how awful American chocolate is. It will be a chance to test out Billy Connolly's theory of Mexican food - that it's all the same dish, just folded differently. The manufacturers of these"wraps" I bought recently would seem to agree:
Burritos, tacos, tortillas, fajitas, enchiladas, quesadillas .... just keep your hands off my chimichanga. And a dollop of potato salad on the side ....
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