Masterchef, Michel and me

Well, Claire's through, and she is quite amazing. A meal that looks like an edible flower arrangement, with dessert to match... And she's only 22.

Inspired by this programme, and not having learnt my lesson from previous experience (see Hollondaise sauce disaster), I decided to make a chocolate and raspberry tart, a la Michel Roux. I didn't use his recipe as it had some rather outlandish ingredients, but found another off the internet.

I should have realised as soon as I saw the ingredients: 300g plain (no-nonsense, 70% cocoa solids) chocolate, plus half a pound of butter, plus creme fraiche. And that was just the filling.

Filling being the operative word. it looked pretty enough, but oh dear. We struggled through some of it (poor daughter-in-law had to give up towards the end), but the rest languished in the fridge, with John manfully (I love that word) having some every evening after his meal for nearly a week, until I put it out of its misery and threw the rest away.

There was nothing wrong with it; just nothing much right with it, either. I realised too late that this is the kind of pudding you have after a "fine-dining" meal (these always remind me of the garden-on-a-dinner-plate arrangements we made as children for the village show compeition), and are still very, very hungry. But our main meal had been a hearty stew, and somehow the two didn't go together. Or even one after the other.

Never mind. I'll get back to Claire, with her beautiful blue eyes and her grey hair(yes, grey. She seems to have dyed her hair grey, thus supporting my view that more people would go for grey hair if it were not associated with old age). All the contestants are good, but there's something about Claire. And this kind of thing is no fun at all if you don't have a favourite.

I do hope Monica comes back next week.

Masterchef - go, Claire!

This riveting programme of nightmare scenarios continues apace. Poor Ben retired hurt (he'd cut the top off his finger. Almost) and weeping, the grim judges and grimmer restaurant critics (how dare they? Could they do any better?) judge, the contestants tremble and weep and mop their brows as they thrash about among the quails and oysters and celeraic (there's an awful lot of celeriac this year). And all to make tiny little meals of something sliced up very small in a jus* with a colourful smear of something round the edge of the plate and a garnish of pine needles (or whatever). Not pick-up-your-knife-and-fork-and-get-stuck-in food, but pretty food; food you want to frame and hang on the wall before you go out and get a proper meal.

Monica rolls her eyes, Michel nodds sagely, and Greg - well, Greg eats. They bend over the sweating contestants asking them whether there's a hope of getting the Beef Wellington spiced with beechnuts on a bed of tumbleweed done in time (of course there isn't), or what the competion means to them, and everyone - but everyone - is "pasionate about food".

Claire - only 22 years old, pretty, sweet-faced and a culinary genius - is brilliant, and I want her to win. But whatever happens, I just love it!

*What exactly is a jus? Or is it just a posh word for gravy/sauce? I'm sure there never used to be any such thing.

Masterchef and me

Masterchef is on again, and we're loving it. The rolling eyes of Monica; the sadly shaking head of Michel; that frantic rush among the pots and pans to produce something small and beautifully formed (or not). Great entertainment!

So, inspired, I thought I'd cook something different: fishcakes (well, I quite often do those) with hollondaise sauce (new departure). To make things easier (don't look now, Monica), I googled "cheat's hollondaise sauce", and was assured that this never failed, and my family and friends would be full of admiration

Ha.

Here's my recipe for the sauce:

1. Put egg yolk, lemon juice, a little water and seasoning in the mixer. Blend.
2. Pour hot melted butter in slowly, blending all the time.
3. Upon discovering that the mixture doesn't thicken as promised, try little basin over hot water.
4. Upon discovering that that doesn't work either, pour mixture into saucepan on stove (which of course you must never, ever do).
5. Upon discovering that after some time, all you have (still) is lemon-flavoured liquid butter, take saucepan over to sink
6. Add Fairy liquid and hot water, and swill around to mix.
7. Pour the mixture down the sink.

I shan't try that again.

Masterchef - the last post

Claire won! I knew she would - she didn't put a foot (or even a tiny egg whisk) wrong. Her winning main dish looked like an Ascot hat - quite beautiful (apparently it tasted lovely, too, although taste seems to come second to appearance in these competitions). Even Monica liked it.

The previous night, one of them had "issues with their hoggets". I love that. It sounds like a medical condition. (A hogget - I had to look it up - is a yearling sheep or colt. I do hope it wasn't a colt.) And there was a strong preference for scallops and fennel throughout the competition (maybe scallops and fennel are in this year?). But I shall miss it. Now, when I try to do anything remotely clever in the kitchen (like mashing potato), I think of Monica and her rolling eyes, and I shudder. Being a writer is hard. But being a chef....

Masterchef (cont)

It's getting REALLY exciting now. Only three left, and poor little Alice kicked out (I liked her). But Claire's still in, and I'd love her to win. Poor David got terribly nervous ("stop shaking, stop shaking, STOP SHAKING" the chef yelled at him. That's the spirit), and Len (who's
now out) overcooked and then undercooked the lamb in the posh restaurant, and I worried about what they'd do with all that wasted meat. After all, while shepherd's pie is one of my favourite things, it's not pretty, and it's definitely not "fine dining".

I have dealt with medical emergencies and cardiac arrests, and they don't bother me at all. But cooking for those judges, against the clock and with the cameras filming, just doesn't bear thinking about. But it's wonderful TV. Roll on next week, and the final!

But where was Monica?