Dinner à la commode
David thought he had everything under control, until he realised that he needed to wash his hands before eating
It’s a problem most of us who have lived in college have had to endure. As has happened sadly seldomly in my Oxford career, occasionally an event comes along that’s genuinely worth celebrating, but we lack the means to celebrate it. We feel a celebratory meal is in order, but half way through term, our loans are not about to stretch to a slap-up meal at Gee’s. They’re barely able to pay for a Happy Meal at McDonald’s. The only option left is to cook in college.
And this is where the problems start. This week saw a very special occasion. The Prime Minister had lost the vote on on religious hatred laws that very afternoon, and myself and three others wanted to celebrate. Sure enough, cooking in college felt like the only available option. I am telling you my story simply as a warning. Next time you feel like celebrating, go with the McDonald’s option. The plan was the idea of a drunk, exalted by a euphoric delirium.
Like most alcohol inspired plans, it was a charming but bloody stupid scheme. We had neglected to remember that the disadvantage to living in accommodation on the main college site is that there are no kitchens. This was a problem; for in a moment of drunken exuberance and over confidence, I had volunteered to cook this meal. To cook a three course meal is ambitious at the best of times. These were far from the best of times.
I was plastered and about to cook four steaks using only a kettle and a sink. The sink posed its own particular problems: it is tiny (I cannot fit my petite head into it), and its state of hygiene probably contravenes WHO standards. I faced a myriad problems. Could steak that had been cooked in a sink be presentable or edible? But I am a child of the Ready Steady Cook generation; I have learned that, if you can’t make it taste good, make sure that it looks good.
I decided the best way to approach the problem was to consult Raymond Blanc. The sink is situated in a very small en-suite bathroom. The loo is precisely a foot to the right of the sink, the shower a whopping two feet away. Immediately underneath the sink runs an exposed soil pipe, and the shower extractor fan is on the blink, so an ominous grey mould is advancing across the ceiling and the walls. My bathroom is germ heaven; to attempt to cook food in it is gastronomic sadomasochism.
We arrived at college. I asked my fellow lambs-for-the-slaughter to take a seat, opened a bottle of wine and gave them each a Nurofen to soften the blow of their imminent demise. I then set about cleaning the bathroom, and began to consult Raymond. I turned to the section entitled ‘Beef’, and looked for a recipe that involved boiling beef. Not one beef dish in his entire book used boiling water as a medium for cooking, let alone in a sink that a field mouse would have difficulty drowning in.
I now had to find a dish that might, be edible if I was to boil it. In my flippant drunken stupor this did not take long. I decided that ‘Stuffed beef rolls’ would suffice. The book said, ‘Pound beef until half an inch thick.’ Enter Saint Augustine’s Magnus Opus (and extremely tedious) The City of God against the Pagans. This book has been the bane of my existence this term, and I took immense pleasure in using it to decimate the beef.
The cook-book then ordered me to cut the beef into small pieces, using a kitchen knife. Cooking is all about improvisation; I did have a Swiss army knife. Never attempt this. A Swiss army knife may be useful, but it is not remotely incisive. In fact, the knife came off worse than the beef did. At this point I realised that I had slightly overestimated my culinary abilities. Next, the cookbook suggested that I seasoned the meat with salt and pepper.
Once again, I lacked even these condiments; the only seasoning I could muster was a few discreet bits of Greek change. The seasoning problem deepened as I read on: two teaspoons full of mustard. No. Three rashers of bacon applied to the meat. No. One medium sized onion to create the sauce. No. An ounce of parsley in order to generate what was described as ‘complexity of flavour’. No, but I ignored this particular problem.
I considered the Greek change would provide a sufficiently unique and ‘complex’ flavour. The book then told me to fry the meat. I reached for a cigarette lighter and began to gently warm a piece of beef under its mediocre flame. This technique should be the absolute last resort. If you want to cook meat, I would advise that you don’t attempt to use a cigarette lighter to do it. I brought the kettle to the boil, poured it into the sink and dropped the meat in as well.
The book informed me that the meat should be cooked in an oven at no less than 175 Celsius for 40 minutes. The goal of 175 Celsius is of course unobtainable in water and forty minutes is a bloody long time. The evening was becoming an absolute catastrophe. Too drunk to abandon ship, I drained the sink and decided to refill the kettle. I couldn’t refill the kettle because the beef had taken up most of the sink. I would have to look elsewhere.
I called at the nearest open door and used my neighbour’s tap. I did this every five minutes for half an hour. As I went about this anachronistic and bizarre chore, my neighbour looked at me with mounting incredulity. I asked whether he wanted to join me in a feast of what I have called ‘Riparian rib-eye’. He enquired as to the nature of ‘Riparian rib-eye’. I informed him. He said that I should be sectioned. I shoved the Broccoli and the new potatoes in the kettle.
Meanwhile, I made a large origami plate out of newspaper. I then strained the vegetables. Never use a kettle to cook vegetables; the heating element was irrevocably damaged, and the kettle’s interior had been wall-papered with stuck-on bits of broccoli and potato peel. It was now the moment of truth. ‘Riparian Rib-eye’ was about to be unleashed on an unsuspecting world. I said earlier that if one can’t make food taste good make sure that it looks good.
If Damian Hirst were to produce ‘Riparian Rib-eye’ as a work of modern art, he would finally be recognised as a genius, rather than as a pretentious and untalented prat. ‘Riparian Rib-eye’ looks like a cross between an old leather shoe and the interior of a smoker’s lung. I tentatively cut into the meat. I shouldn’t have bothered it was boiled to buggery.
I lifted the morsel of dubious meat to my mouth, took a swig of wine and thought of England… I would advise that nobody ever attempts the above, or anything similar, ever again.
23rd Feb 2006