Stephanie Alexander to Neil Perry, and has sold in
four continents. All of which only strengthens the
case that I’m a traitor to my cause.
Fathoming why I’ve quit cooking would require
the services of a psychoanalyst; reigniting my dormant
passion requires the services of a chef. So I call one
to confess my sins and beg for salvation.
Years ago Andrew McConnell and I worked
together at a popular CBD eatery. Today he is
Melbourne’s foremost chef, a talented food-whisperer
with a sixth sense for the city’s appetites.
He has always been a lovely bloke and he listens
non-judgmentally as I explain my situation. When
I ask if he’ll help me confront my phobia he agrees
immediately. Together we will flambé my fears and
stage a dinner party.
McConnell will supply the recipes; I will supply
the sweat and tears. He suggests four courses. Cheese
biscuits to begin, then a calamari salad. Main course has
to be lamb because it’s a McConnell signature – whole
roasted shoulders have been a staple of his menus at
Cumulus Inc., Golden Fields and Supernormal. For
my gastronomic revival he recommends slow-roasted
shoulder wrapped in vine leaves. It’s easy enough and
adds a dash of Levantine drama to the table.
To finish, we settle on an Eton mess because I fancy
it and it’s within my skill set. All I have to do is make
my own meringues. Sweet Jesus.
I spend the better part of a
day shopping for the more than
40 ingredients specified in the
recipes. The vine leaves and ’nduja
are tricky, but I eventually track
them down to a terrific deli out
west (thanks Panetta Mercato in
Marrickville). The candied violets,
McConnell’s suggested flourish for the mess, are
nowhere to be found.I settle instead for some pretty
sugared roses from Coles.
It’s a slight cheat, but far from defeat. The French
scientist and food writer Édouard de Pomiane
maintained that “one should prepare only one good
dish” for a dinner party. And here I am, attempting
three and a biscuit. Shortcuts are not only acceptable,
but also necessary for my sanity.The smartest shortcut I take is to cook the entire
dinner at my friend J’s house. This makes sense
because (a) I’m cooking for her husband’s birthday,
and (b) she has a flash kitchen equipped with useful
gadgets and no fewer than three ovens. Plus, J is one
of the most ambitious and competent cooks I know.
For her 25th birthday she invited friends over and
cooked rabbit – rabbit! – for a dozen of us. She will
make an excellent sous-chef.
On the day of reckoning we work solidly from
11am, kneading biscuit dough heavy with Gruyère,
urging eggwhites and sugar into peaks, blending
almond sauce for the lamb, aïoli for the salad,
transforming ’nduja into vinaigrette, frying curry
leaves and croûtons, whipping sweetened cream and
sour yoghurt for the mess, and generally trying not to
screw up. And when we do – forgetting to add flour
to the biscuit mix, burning a tray of meringues after
accidentally flicking the oven switch to grill – we
deal calmly and carry on.
By 5.30pm almost everything is ready, but I’m seized
by panic. Have I forgotten anything? What is the lamb
doing? I prise off a chunk to try and it’s encouragingly
edible – flaky and succulent with a verjuice and vine
leaf tang. It’ll do nicely. I think we’re ready.
The meal goes surprisingly well despite the odd
misstep. The cheese biscuits turn out fine and are
served straight from the oven with
Champagne and conversation.
The calamari refuses to curl, but
is supple and spicy with ’nduja,
smoky with curry leaves, but
lacking aïoli because I forget to
serve it. So we have it with the
asparagus at main course, as if
that’s what I intended all along.
The lamb, liberated from its leaves and pulled apart
at the table, revels in the almond sauce and a squeeze
of lemon juice. The macerated berries and chewy
meringues make a fine mess, as it turns out. Everyone
is happy. Even I am feeling moderately pleased. My
first dinner in a decade has been a success.
Less than a week later, I hear myself offering to
cook for another friend’s birthday. I don’t know
what’s come over me.●Reigniting my passion
requires the services
of a chef. So I call one
to confess my sins and
beg for salvation.TAINER
OF A LAPSED
IllustrationKAVEL RAFFERTYGOURMET TRAVELLER 65