is culinary television’s holiest moment. We speak here of the true Iron Chef, of course. The ‘90s competitive saga which always starts with Chairman Kaga sinking his fangs into . The one where our host shines with justified pride at his creation, Kitchen Stadium. The one where Sakai takes half-an-hour to mould a scale replica of the Arc de Triomphe using only an , a half-tonne of foie gras and a single spork!
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How to cook like an Iron Chef
I will always be thankful to SBS not only for giving me this glimpse of divinity itself, but for the instant test of romantic compatibility it provided. You could always tell who knew their way ’round a stovetop just by the way they watched Chef Chen. If they said something like, “No one gets that competitive about food,” you dumped them. This person didn’t know to cook. They did not appreciate the truth of Kitchen Stadium, a place where the essence of competitive cooking erupted.
If they said something like, “No one gets that competitive about food,” you dumped them.
You see, if I had moved in with someone unable to meet my occasional evening need for a , the love would never have lasted.
I am not much of a cook. I do cook, but save for those few I have on rotation, I must always cook with a recipe as my guide. I blame this unnaturalness on two hurdles. First, I am very lazy. Second, I was raised by extraordinary cooks. They were always in Kitchen Stadium, outdoing each other most nights at home, perhaps with the dishes they’d learned from a course at TAFE.
My mother is a particularly good cook and, like many good cooks, a particularly sore loser. If you are also a good cook, do not invite her to dinner.
Then, these people produced another daughter who was making pliant dough by 4 and winning ribbons for her pastry work by 15. She shattered the confidence of CWA bakers at our local show, and these days, she drives a very nice car to the business she built from .
There was no point in competing against this inborn skill. I learned to recognise my betters. And I learned to respect the ravenous hunger the natural cook has for winning, and then commiserate with the loser by eating their delicious competition.
My mother is a particularly good cook and, like many good cooks, a particularly sore loser. If you are also a good cook, do not invite her to dinner. She will assess your , judge your whisking and even if you manage to keep her out of your kitchen, she may start a competition without your immediate knowledge. You’ll know in time.
Her knife skills were, “sharper than a nun’s tongue.” Mum said, “prove it”. They didn’t speak for a year.
When I was around 6, my mother became very irritable with Aunty Joan — also a very good cook. I believe Aunty Joan had encrusted a — this was the ’70s — with herbs in a combination my mother had never thought to try. Mum asked, “Is that French tarragon?”, but Joanie wouldn’t tell. The match ended up in the kitchen, with screams louder than Kaga’s might have been had he not been able to find white truffle out-of-season for a chef.
At some point, they got into a blue about an appliance called the Kitchen Wizz. Joan said she would never bother with such an extravagance, as her knife skills were, “sharper than a nun’s tongue.” Mum said, “prove it”. They didn’t speak for a year.
When I was around 8, and they had resumed good relations, Mum invited Joan and Uncle Omer ’round for a crown of lamb. After a wine, Joan felt brave enough to ask her, “What’s your herb secret?” Mum popped out and then returned with a bunch of tarragon and a gift-wrapped Kitchen Wizz.
Those temperamental cooks who dare to walk with the gods in Kitchen Stadium can play the long game. We unnatural cooks who love them and live with them win at every meal.
Helen Razer is your frugal food enthusiast, guiding you to the good eats, minus the pretension and price tag in her weekly Friday column, . Don't miss her next instalment, follow her on Twitter .
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