Food and life

We played a fair bit of football back in the day, in high school, and the cruelty of adolescence is such that more often than not our inadequacies were too soon and too deliberately found out by our peers. In my class I recall with admiration a fellow E---, who as an athlete was unfortunate to have been blessed with limited ability. As a character, though, he had a great deal of heart and a tremendous sense of purpose, and always went about his business on the field as best he could. He always had the choice not to play, which he never exercised, and as long as he was thrust into a game he would always make a fist of it. What he lacked in strength and speed and pure athleticism he made up for with dedication and application, and it was this spirit – which he carried into his other activities – that was all the more admirable.

I have always found it quite curious how much people take their attitude and ethic toward work and in a larger sense, life in general, everywhere with them – and in particular, the kitchen. Jose, for example, had a carefree and cavalier attitude towards cooking that he seemed to have towards much else. He could do everything and anything, he thought, and he was usually right. Tomatoes in winter, and artichokes in spring; it was all no matter as long as he wanted it so. He would always cook with music – for what was the point of doing without, he asked – and the grace with which he moved around the kitchen made you think he was dancing instead of cooking. But there was method to the madness, and Jose’s methods were underpinned by a Catholic perfectionist streak that marked his dedication to fullness of preparation, and the production of that which was the best possible outcome with the available resources. He eighty-sixed sauces regularly when they did not meet his lofty standards, and never had a moment’s hesitation to throw something out and start over.

Morgan, as I have written before in these pages, worked with a simple dedication borne of the belief that cooking was an art of the ages, and the kitchen his ever-expanding canvas. He was someone who felt strongly about things and would be consumed by that which took his fancy, to the exclusion of everything else which did not. When he was cooking he made it look all so easy but it was the work that he did when he was not cooking that really was the measure of the man. He took notes and wrote things down, and pursued all cuisines with a child’s thirst for knowledge. He consulted books regularly and revered the weight of culinary history, and it would show in the kitchen. In the kitchen he would move with that absent, professorial look, seldom speaking, inside a flurry of thoughts and forethoughts. Yet these were thoughts that had been, at some time or in some form, rehearsed. His passion was of the kind that comes along only several times in a man’s life; it was a passion that was singular and all-consuming, and it produced a dedication that drove him relentlessly forward.

What is especially fascinating to watch is how people who are not particularly skilled at the culinary arts try their hand at it. I am always reminded of E--- when witnessing this. Clayton, for all his virtues, is decidedly not a cook and has no aspirations to be one. When he ventures into the kitchen I involuntarily shudder from apprehension. He once pan-fried potatoes – he called them Po-Clay-toes – which while well-meaning turned out to be an absolute disaster. His poor heat management meant that the outsides were burnt while the insides barely cooked, and he served the dish woefully underseasoned. But he treated cooking much like he treated his other endeavours, and carried the belief that limitations were arbitrary and that no matter what the task, he could realize his limitless potential with application and the right attitude. I taught him to make pasta from scratch, and he listened intently and carefully as I explained the steps to him. I only ever had to teach him once, and he soon went on to make it for his parents and his nearest and dearest. Whether you think you can, or you think you can’t; you’re invariably right.

I have cooked with, or seen others cook who have rather less of the interest and the passion that I do for food and its preparation and it is always interesting to see people rise to the challenge. There are the methodical ones – always checking the recipe, double-checking quantities, cautiously doing things in order – and the maniacal ones – a flurry of seasoning, tasting, mixing, matching and hoping for the best. It is particularly revealing how people respond to setbacks – spills, missing ingredients, inadequate equipment. Problem solving in the kitchen is always interesting because arriving at a solution is almost always time-critical, but also because there is always a scientific element – adding an acid to a base has a predictable outcome – and always an artistic element – no amount of science can explain the success of some flavour combinations.

I have long since lost touch with E---, and I have no idea what he is up to now, or if he is any good at cooking. But I have no doubt that whatever the case, he will have approached it with the same gutsy dedication with which he approached football all those years ago. And that gives me some cheer.