Celebrity What?

Last week I talked a bit about the endless repetition which is involved in the culinary profession. In an act of blatant post-modernism, I'm about to repeat myself this week (though I'll probably spare you next week). The repetition to which I am referring, to refresh your collective memory, is the avalanche of omnipresent prep jobs which must be completed day after day after day. Peel the asparagus, blanch the asparagus, shock the asparagus, cut the asparagus, portion the asparagus, serve the asparagus, order more asparagus for tomorrow. It's the sort of work which makes me wonder how many onions I've caramelized, or fish scales I've removed from the backs of my hands (they are awfully sticky), or ox tails I've jointed. It's why every chef I know can perform the most delicate movements with a dangerously sharp knife whilst wandering eyes examine the reactions to whatever kitchen tale is being re-told. As I said last week, this toiling, this repetition, is the long, boring march towards mastery.

It is the very lack of this incessant repetition which makes me more than wary of the particular breed of celebrity chefs who launch their careers via various reality TV programs. Reality TV, and, through this medium, the public at large, has become quite enamored with my profession. There has been an veritable explosion of TV shows about cooking: My Restaurant Rules, My Kitchen Rules, Ramsay's Kitchen Nightmares, Iron Chef (I must admit, I love this one) Iron Chef America, and more I can't recall at the moment. The most popular example of such a program here in OZ is called “Master Chef.” Rather than enlist an army of properly trained chefs to battle out for the title, the series follows a groups of home cooks through a series of elimination challenges until a winner is named “Master Chef.”



Look, I'm not precious about the tile “chef.” I really don't care what I'm called in the kitchen; I get called, in fact, several unprintable names, none of which I'm terribly concerned about. I also don't care if someone who wins a cooking competition wants to call himself a chef. It's when that person goes on to seek celebrity status as a “chef” that I start to get annoyed.

Chef? Really? Where did you train? Show me your scars. You won the chocolate soufflé competition, great! But how many times have you made a soufflé? Three times? Four? Wow. Want to come run a service in my busy kitchen? What? Never have? Right.

I'm aware I might sound a bit bitchy right now, but you, the celebrity-chef consumer, should be asking yourself: What standard am I accepting?

If someone participated in a eight-week television program called “Master Electrician” and won, would you trust them to teach you how to wire your new home? Yet former reality TV contestants are now experts in my profession. And the public trust them as if they've done the time.



No, not just “trust” but rather embrace. These so-called chefs appear as guests on breakfast news television programs, on magazine covers, in newspaper weekend supplements, at live events. None of which is necessarily wrong. Hell, every reality TV winner is an instant celebrity. I just hate that the TV appearances involve a cooking demonstration, the print media invariably accompanied by a recipe, and live appearances marked by a cooking “masterclass.” These people are not experts.

I feel bad now for, in the past, deriding grill-house chefs as “steak monkeys,” because I can promise you that every one of them has invested a few thousand litres of sweat over a grill and each of them could teach all of us a few things about how to properly cook a few dozen sirloins at a time. I can't say the same for for “chefs” who shoot to fame.

I don't pretend to propose any solutions, really, with the possible exception the suggestion that you not consume such celeb chef pulp in the first place. If we ignore them, perhaps they will go away.

Admittedly, I usually have a plan when I start writing a post, a destination that is a dish where we might all arrive together. I've honestly got a bit carried away by my own rant this week and I'm not really sure where I intended to take us. Perhaps I just need to relax.



Perhaps I need a cocktail.

Honeydew Vodka, Lime and Mint cocktail

I don't usually go in for sweet or fruity cocktails at all. However this one, my own invention, is inspired by a childhood picnic, bbq, and celebration food my Grandfather was obsessively fond of. My family used to cut chunks of fresh honeydew, toss it with mint leaves, and serve it with a squeeze of fresh lime over the lot. All of us would dig in with toothpicks, between hamburgers. It's a flavor combination I've since played with often: ice creams and sorbets and granitas and powders and whatnot. It keeps resurfacing because it is, well, part of me.

Add to this, when I got older, that my grandmother informed me that the fruit salad on offer at the same gatherings was an adult-only affair. The reason: the mixed fruit was soaked in a great amount of vodka overnight before being served. No wonder I don't remember fruit salad at any childhood picnics; it was kept well out of my reach.

I've combined the two here – the flavors of one with the alcohol maceration of the other. The result is quite a bright little number (both flavor and color) which tastes of good times in general, and reminds me of my childhood. I hope it reminds you of my childhood too.

1 nip (30ml) honeydew vodka (below)
½ nip (15 ml) lime juice
4 mint leaves, torn
2 tbsp honeydew ice cubes (below)
1 tsp sugar
3 ice cubes
soda water

In a short tumbler muddle the mint, honeydew cubes, and sugar. Add the honeydew vodka, the lime juice, and ice cubes. Top up with soda water. Taste, adjust for seasoning, and garnish with lime.

Honeydew Vodka
200g honeydew melon flesh
400g vodka

Blend together until smooth.

Honeydew Ice Cubes

You could just as well do this with fresh cubes of melon, but I like my drinks to keep quite cold.

Dice honeydew melon flesh into a small fine dice. Spread on a tray lined with baking paper and freeze. When frozen, separate and store in an airtight container in the freezer.