Miles Collins

How not to cook in front of a lot of people

Salon culinaire cooking competions breakdown into two main groups;  static display and hot kitchen. Static display means you can spend hours before the competition getting your chosen entry as precise as possible. They are not meant to be eaten so you can cover them in all sorts of chemical additives to ensure they look nothing like anything you would ever serve to a customer.

The hot kitchen is a different bag, this really seperates the men/women from the boys/girls. You’re either terrified by it or you’re not, there is no in between. If you’re not terrified by it then you’re not really a chef, you want to be on tv, you have aspirations beyond the kitchen. Not being nervous doesn’t make you a better chef, far from it. You see, chefs don’t do ‘public’-it’s not in their genetic make-up to socialise in any other capacity than in the pub after service. So putting some poor, unfortunate, malnourished chef in the spotlight of a large audience of fellow professionals, school children and bored housewives who think sweaty chefs are sexy is the proverbial recipe for disaster.

My first live ‘cook off’ was a nightmare. Three of us travelled to Birmingham NEC ( a particularly large concert venue in the UK for those of you reading this from nicer other countries) Michael (name changed) had joined the regular team of myself and the sous chef for the journey from the  Lake District.

Now if we didn’t want to be there, he REALLY didn’t. I don’t think Shakespeare could have penned the words to describe his feelings towards this event. Never, in all my years have I seen anyone so badly affected by something so basically trivial. He barely spoke for the duration of the three hour drive save some venemous spats aimed at the Head Chef for putting him through it. We thought the  Pope mobile might calm him but it was too late, he’d lost it.

We stopped at a motorway service station on the orders of our bladders, sous chef and I urinated, Michael vomited. Picture the scene, (unless you’re eating) Sous chef and I stood at urinal with the country’s future in our hands, suicidal chef de partie serenading us with ear-splitting barfing noices in the next cubical. “What’s up with Michael?” asks Sous chef, stupidly. “Nerves” said I, brilliantly.

“Wait ’till he sees the size of the NEC” says Sous chef, loudly. I nod in agreement, zipping up in harmony, I’ve spent so much time with him we’re England’s answer to The Temptations, only they can sing.

“BAARRRFFF!!” sings the new band member. It’s going to be a long day…