Judging is food for thought

However, it did indicate that I was a big eater, for when it came to putting away food, he was no slouch.

As a youth I was tall and thin rather than slim but no matter how much I ate, I remained skeletal until well into my twenties. Now, I would describe myself as overweight, the wrong side of comfortable, but my ability to consume substantial quanties of food remains undiminished.

I have always prided myself on my readiness to try dishes. Unintentionally, I hasten to add, I even had an unusually smooth-tasting steak in Belgium and it was only after the waiter kept inquiring as to how I liked it that I eventually tumbled to the fact I had just consumed a piece of horse.

I confess a weakness for snails, Burgundy-style and whenever I spot an item on the menu I have never come across, I invariably indulge myself.

Just lately, because it involves a varient discipline to my normal writing, I have sampled a few meals around North London and south west Herts, for advertising features.

True, your remit is to only write the good things but, in the majority of cases I have been impressed.

The hard job is when you are not struck, as was the case with a local restaurant recently, but I filled the wordage informatively as I could, without ever describing or using adjectives with reference to the meal.

I mention this because I wish to establish that I do enjoy my food, be it Italian, Greek or Lebanese and, while you would not catch me dead in a McDonalds or similar dispensary, I would swear by the chips served at West Herts Golf club.

But, I confess, I do not cook and so, hitherto, have not entertained a great fascination for the ingrediants that go into some of my favourite items.

Yes, I can taste the garlic and can express an opinion that the nutmeg is just right in the dauphinois potatoes but really I am clutching at straws here. I know nothing about the culinary arts.

In that respect I am a bit of philistine: I just know what I like.

However, I was given a short-course in appreciation the other day as to how much I would have to learn, and the considerable amount of experience needed, if I was ever to consider undertaking professional critiques on restaurants.

The other morning I found myself heading for Cassio Campus in Langley Road, having been invited to be one of the judges in a cooking competition. I explained I was hardly qualified for this, but as a fellow judge explained, all I had to do was follow my senses.

You smell the food first and then you see it. "It is a case of nose, eyes and then the lips. If it looks and smells nice then you are two-thirds of the way there," said Clive Edwards, a fellow judge.

And he should know because he is senior lecturer at the campus, who puts trainee chefs en route to become anything from sandwich-makers to top hotel kitchen aces.

"We actually start them from the basics: this is a piece of bread. Some don't know where milk or potatoes come from. If It isn't Walkers or McCain's, they think they can't be potatoes."

Young trainee chefs are encouraged to go to the supermarkets, and look for local resources and they can continue for three years, by which time they are capable of going to large international hotels and competitions.

Cassio is proud of its record with former students now working at the Lanesborough and the Ritz and others working cruises all over the world.

"You can always get a job as a chef because everyone wants to eat. They can always find a job at your standard," added Clive, whose students also take on board advanced levels of food and kitchen hygeine.

A lady, Kamal Basran, completed the trio of judges, having come down from Manchester where she runs a company called Authentic Foods, specialising largely in Indian dishes for upmarket distributers.

Just listening to the two judges in their pre-amble, made me realise I was out of my depth and I quickly pointed this out: hence the advice on nose, eyes and lips.

Five chefs from Chef and Brewer pubs were to prepare three-course meals for our delectation, involving a starter, fish and main course, with the added parameter that one of them must be a regionally-based preparation. The winner of this area final, would go through to the national stages.

I had this vision of sitting at a long table, gorging myself with Bunteresque delight and, at the end, supressing a large belch before offering my own seasoning to the observations of the two better-qualified judges.

I should have recalled the parrallel of wine-tasting when you do not in fact end up four sheets to the wind for, sad to note and report, the judging involved a third of a forkfull of this, a tincture of sauce and then on to the next plate.

I had so many tastes, followed by mouthfuls of water to clean the palate, that the work-force down in my stomach were threatning to go on strike.

My taste buds have not been trained to react to thimblefuls of food but it was an enjoyable experience, trying to re-educate them.

The first offering was roast duck in a mango and ginger marinade on potato and dill cake. This was fine although the underneath of the duck revealed signs of burning, for the ovens on Cassio Campus are slightly quicker on the roast than the average pub kitchen.

"He would have been better to have sliced the duck," was the obervation from my peers a fact I could agree with, even though it had not occurred to me.

The red snapper on very oily noodles tasted good but it was essentially a pub slice, a quick production exercise as opposed to a real contender at competition level.

Again, as a pub meal, I would have been impressed but there was better to come.

The next meal went by in a blur of forks and an increasing feeling of unease as the other two judges were discussing in depth the quality of the palenta (cornmeal flour made from maize), which was apparently too thin and overcooked.

I tended to agree on this, not because it tasted overcooked, but because I did not like it and was not sure I had ever tasted it before.

The sauce I was told it was juniper was heavy, but my enthusiasm over the mushrooms and their flavour with apple, was endorsed.

"I think what we could do with here is some pepper and salt. The first two entries were light of seasoning," said Clive, much to my relief.

I knew there was a certain something missing from the meals but, in such expert company, I would have baulked at suggesting something as basic as pepper and salt.

The third chef, 21-year-old Chris Owen, brought in guinea fowl and red cabbage, served with honey and Drambui sauce, along with salmon marinade in pepper and curried cod and potato puffs.

I don't know that one would ever get such a large, tasty and satisfying meal in any pub, unless you paid top restaurant prices, but I made a mental note, if ever I am in sher, I would pop into The Prince of Wales and see for myself.

This, to my mind, was the best meal to date. Each course was a taste explosion and the servings were sufficiently ample for me to sneak an extra forkful of each for, by this stage, I was feeling akin to an alcoholic locked in a wine cellar without a corkscrew.

The judges determined the main course was a little too sweet and had nothing to contrast the impression, but I was sold and, I admit, I could have been effectively bribed if the chef could have just knocked out another plateful: for me alone.

"You are right. Each one is better than the one before," I was told, which suggested I was beginning to get the hang of it with nose, eyes and taste buds, even if I was not always sure as to the ingredients.

From the Thameside pub, The Bulls Head, Chiswick, we were presented with a regional dish, which would not have appealed to me had I seen it on the menu. It was essentially jellied eels, with cockles, winkles and wilks, in balsamic vinega a roulade encompassed in eel.

One judge refused to taste it, yet voted this chef's three courses in first place. I was willing to give it a try and was pleasantly surprised. It was extremely well presented.

His next course was salmon with a hollandaise sauce flavoured with tarragon and another sauce, tarragon pesto.

The latter, we all agreed, was far too strong but the third course, of Caribbean chicken and banana and freshly grated mango and coconut, was superb in my book.

Clearly, the other two thought so as well, although, I noted, they did not mention the fact that it was essentially as sweet as the previous offering of guinea fowl they had damned for sweeetness.

The final chef's presentation was ambitous with filo pastry over what were overcooked prawns and, then, overcooked steak in filo baskets. Here, the lack of familiarity with the Cassio ovens proved his undoing but, for his final course, he was short on presentation.

As he explained, this was his regional meal for, no matter how many exotic dishes he put on the menu, his pub is often filled to the rafters with American tourists and they insist upon "good ol' fish'n'chips from England".

It looked quite basic but, in fact, he had seasoned the batter and while the eyes might have recorded a zero, they tasted really good.

Wondering what had become of the guinea fowl, I followed my colleagues through to the voting room.

It transpired the one I had marked in second place, proved to be the winner and similarly, the meal I had voted first, was their second choice.

For an amateur in the food-judging stakes, I had come to pretty much the same decision as the experts. I rather fancy, it all came down to personal taste, in the end.

The decision given, I headed for the car park with stomach rumbling and I pictured the workers down there, leaning on their spades and forks and scratching their heads exclaiming: "When is he going to send down the bulk."

September 18, 2002 13:00