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Memories: The cooking class


anotherbanana
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Cookshop

Picture, if you will, an upmarket cookshop in the nice bit of Brussels, the sort of place which sells twenty types of saucepans, fifty different types of knife, dozens of those strange, exotic devices which are, apparently, guaranteed to make you a five star chef just by picking them up. And seventy types of olive oil or vinegar made, it seems, from gold leaf and love, by big thighed Italians, and all those strange little foodie items in bottles and tins which simply do not exist in the normal world, all priced to make the eyes water.

Gathered in a training kitchen area (itself in full view of passers-by on the pavement) are 12 eager students, one being myself, taken there by my healthy-eating conscious daughter in an attempt, perhaps, to move me on from the rather primitive and simplistic cooking which she has been obliged to swallow whenever I was in charge of the kitchen, or maybe to stop me always spoiling good food. But then, ten years of survival eating at boarding school, six at university and many years living alone are not perhaps the best way to have build quality cooking skills.

And there was the chef, the demi-god, to allow us to sup on his pearls of wisdom, wearing a smart uniform and accompanied by an eager little assistant.

The subject of the day was how to deal with vegetables and of much interest.

Before us was a display of early spring, bio vegetables from Italy, France, Spain and North Africa - new garlic, slim, fresh leeks, smelling delightful, deep red beetroot potatoes, courgettes, radishes and others all as fresh as possible from the market that morning, plus beautiful gambas from the Indian Ocean, such a far cry from the rubbish served up in the supermarkets.

So, introductions, ideas, decisions taken, and menu decided, by the chef himself, pinnies tied, hands washed, and we begin to peel and chop and slice.

Which brings up the problem - me and blades! Quite simply, however hard I try, the blade will manage to cut me. Nothing has ever stopped this process, never, not no how. Sooo, preparation by peeling and slicing makes me n e r v o u s.

And I have to peel and slice a large beetroot.

Well, there is one advantage of this to we experienced cutters - the colour; simply put, if you cut yourself, it doesn't show! And I did, just a little graze, not with the knife but with the soddin mandolin. No guard, as there was none, just a fork. So, a little blood was spread amongst us, we few, we happy few.... cannibals. But then the chef said it was all about getting the maximum flavour into the dish, so I like to think I added that extra special je ne sais quoi to the boiled, sliced courgette and beetroot round a bed of potato made with olive and ergan oil and topped with steamed gambas fried quickly with garlic.

Ah those secret ingredients which make a great dish.

Bon appétit.
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