Miles Collins

Salon Culinaire-The Hot Kitchen Part Two…

We’re on our way to the Birmingham NEC, we’re getting closer, Michael’s nerves are in shreds. He has barely spoken save the occasional F-word grunted with not a word before or after, I tell the sous chef to call the British Natural History Museum and report the sighting of a neanderthal with tourettes in the back of a Renault Espace. “We’ll be rich!” I cry, “F**k!” cries Michael.

Once inside we make our way to the registration area-a wooden desk with a fat chef in an ill-fitting hat behind it. He looks at us over his ill-fitting glasses. “Names” he spits, “Good morning to you too” said I, “F**K!!” shouts Michael. We give our names, he gives us our competing times. Sous chef is first up at 10.30, I’m next at 12.00. Michael wants to do it now so it’s over before anyone else gets here. “4.00″ spits the chef. “F**k!!” spits Michael, I’ve just ruptured myself from laughing at his misfortune, his agony has to go on for another seven hours!

Sous chef and I plan the day, we’re good at this..1. Find nearest bar. 2. Unload the Pope mobile. 3.. Compete. 4.. Go to pub for three hours. Michael leaves us to sit on the benches in front of the cooking stage. He will sit there in silence for the next six and a half hours, I kid you not.

Sous chef is on stage first, fish dish as I recall and he wins a silver. I do my best to put him off by shouting “He’s behind you!” every time a judge walks by, he mimes the F-word at me, Michael repeats it with the volume turned up.

My turn next, I’ve entered the poultry class. Memory has the better of me, I think I stuffed it with something and served it with scallops, or maybe I didn’t. Anyway, looking back I wish I could have forgotten the whole thing. First of all some bright spark turned my grill off and took away the lighting taper. Not being a smoker I ask the competitor across from me for his lighter. Seeing my predicament he graciously refuses, I make a mental note to beat him to a pulp after the competition. One of my stoves is already lit, I have a plan. I take my work sheet which details what I am cooking, how much it cost etc, roll it up and set fire to it in order to light my grill. The paper lights up like a bush fire, I drop it before my hat and eyebrows go up in flames, I do what any dyed in the wool firefighter would do in this situation. I jump on it.

At this moment the judge walks over, waits for me to stop jumping up and down before asking me for my work sheet. This isn’t good, I’ve rolled it up, barbequed it then trampled on it. The audience find this amusing, the sous chef finds it hysterical and decides to find the nearest telephone to tell the whole of Cumbria

Things get worse, I’ve prepared my chicken breasts in advance and made the stock the day before. I do this because I have half an hour to prepare and cook a chicken dish in front of a large number of people before giving it to a team of International chefs to judge it. I do the maths beforehand; fifteen minutes to prepare and cook chicken, add another fifteen minutes for nerves.

Despite ruining the floor with rubbed in charcoal marks from my size eleven feet I’ve gained a bit of confidence. I’ve pysched the guy next to me out with threatening stares, I’m on time and I think I’m going to win.

Judge returns, I grab dishcloth and clean my work station for extra points. He looks around my section, he has a tick sheet to award points from. First off is the worksheet/costing breakdown. Well, ‘null point’ as the French would say in the Eurovision Song Contest. Next up is the butchery/knife skills section. How well have I butchered the chicken? Have I left any meat on the bones? Have I used the carcass for stock? “Where is the carcass?” he asks me, pen poised.

“Er….”