THE Wedgewood Chef and Potter competition at the K Club - owned by a chap called Smurfit, I believe - began at 8.30 a.m. with the judges getting amidst a panache of lamb with a rosemary, garlic, redcurrant jus. Some 10 minutes later the adjudicators, who included Roy Ackerman OBE, Richard Shepherd, and our own Georgina Campbell, Aidan McManus and John Howard, were nibbling on the outskirts of lobster and prawn mousse reshaped as lobster with a timbale of celeriac. Not long after 8.30 a.m. they were working their way inwards on a plate of mi-cuit de saumon au pommes de terre nouvelle, suddenly changing language into an onion and garlic - change language again - confit.
At which point, you might think they whistled for the coffee and cigars. Nothing doing. This is merely a microsecond after the big bang - an entire expanding universe of gastronomic athletics awaits the judges who, after letting out the belt a notch or two and snipping the old elastic with the scissors gastrojuges they always carry in case of emergency, proceeded into the roast brill fillet and scallops with saffron pots, curried salsify and asparagus.
No rest
Delightful. Now for a bit of apple and rhubarb pie, nutmeg and ginger, basil and spice essence no better thing at 9.30 of a spring morning. Upstairs in the K Club, non judges were rolling over and drifting back to sleep just as our intrepid panel was masticating elegantly on a starter dish of smoked lamb with a tartar of beet root, salad and cheese waters.
It is now 10 o'clock in the morning. It our judges appear to be losing concentration let us not be too surprised for what is it that we have here? Oh bliss! It is a lasagne of poached fillet of beef in a sauce of fresh basil with vegetables, and a mere two hours away from noon. Ecstasy. Ecstasy.
What we need now, at about 10.15, is a spot more rhubarb souffle tart this time, with creme anglaise. And wouldn't it be just paradise if only we could get a warm potato and goats cheese salad with basil, a judge is just thinking when lo! one is conjured before them. After a few bandstands of delight, the judges send the latest dish southwards, somewhere surrounded by ribs, with all sorts of ignominious treats in store for it.
A pause, the briefest of pauses before the judges get peckish again, and console themselves with chocolate assiette, wild salmon and pike souffle served with sorrel sauce, and shortly after that, codling with sea scallop in Nori fondue of saffron and onion, and citrus sabvon.
Now they are getting into their stride, and after a jog around the outer perimeter of the K Club, they consume a roast breast of Barbary duck served on plum sauce with citrus glaze, followed by rabbit, sun dried tomatoes and lemon thyme flavoured vegetables.
No break
The problem about this kind of day is that you are working so hard, you never get the chance to have a break for elevenses. It's all go, go, go, never even a moment for a snack, what with the poached wild salmon coming in at about 1.45, the noisettes of lamb in a red, green and yellow pepper sauce making their entrance at some time after noon, followed closely by a almond and caramel swan of banana and chocolate mousses with fruit syrups. Don't forget, the fruit syrup - absolutely vital to keep energy up at this critical stage.
By this time the judges have abandoned underwear and are sitting around in their nip, looking like dugongs sunbathing, and balancing their plates on their horizontal belly buttons; and on those plates there is a mussel and prawn in a batter pudding, two sauces and a caviar, pursued vigorously by a passion fruit croquembouche and, thank heaven a chocolait parfait, just as they were running short of calories.
A duo of rabbit came to the rescue some time around 1 p.m. just in the nick of time, with reinforcements arriving in the shape of John Dory, garnished with onion and fennel and various juices about eight minutes later. No sooner had that been demolished than the judges, following complaints from structural engineers about the condition of the K Club's slowly subsiding floor, are suspended from large but steadily sinking Zeppelins and encounter a spicy duck breast scampering on to the scene, accompanied by rice vermicelli, roast root vegetable, etc.
Time for rabbit again, causing much relief and unbridled joy, just as an attack of judicial wind causes a Zeppelin to go shooting off to Galway, the bare buttocks beneath it looking like two barrage balloons mating. While that judge is being retrieved, the judges assuage the hunger that all that excitement caused with some salmon, hake and prawn, crispy onions and a watercress and tomato, compote.
Just the job, muttered a judge approvingly - ah, here's some long overdue baked crab gateau, he observes, and minutes later a sea bass arrives with squid, red pepper sauce and, of course, pommes Maxime.
It is now 2.30p.m., time for chicken with black pudding, and if that doesn't satisfy you, here, have some more salmon, this time with savoy cabbage, champagne, caviar and chives. Just en room for cointreau souffle in chocolate, followed by apple and geranium fool on a pistachio meringue, pan fried wild salmon, and to conclude the day (and it is only four in the afternoon) guinea fowl, bacon, potato mousse stuffing - lots of the stuffing if you please, I'm bloody starving.
No more
By 5 p.m., Georgina Campbell has joined the Poor Clares, the entire order of which she outweighs. Aidan McManus was last seen rowing to Greenland, where he intends to live off ice for the rest of his life. John Howard is trying to stalk Tony O'Reilly, Wedgewood's boss, with a view to a spot of murder; it is rather like a walrus stalking a canary. And by royal decree the now whey faced, still swelling Roy Ackerman OBE has been made Roy Ackerman VC. For Pallor.