I promise I will do a proper blog post soon, I know I haven't been doing that many recently but I've been quite busy and tired just doing random things!
But anyway, good luck for all you Year Twelves out there =] And without further ado, here is my creative =]
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Can you smell it?
The empowering fragrance of sweet vanilla, flirting with your nostrils; the vapours of the burnt caramel, tickling your taste buds; the scents of creamy custard, enticing your inner glutton.
Can you taste it?
A hard layer of caramel cracks beautifully under your spoon; the soft velvety custard, a melting gold that embraces your tongue. And together, a sublime combination that words alone cannot suffice.
Crème brûlée: heavenly perfection.
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As a dedicated food journalist and a devout follower of Raoul’s, it is with great humility that I gain the wonderful experience of listening to Raoul’s reminiscence a mere three weeks after his much publicised debacle. He is not simply recalling any memory; he is inviting me to share with him his most personal and precious moments, the moments that birthed the acclaimed chef as we know him today, boasting his very own three-Michelin-starred restaurant, ‘Mama’s Delights’.
“My first memory was of watching mama pull the oven door wide open to bring out the bain-marie. She gently placed it on the stovetop and used her blowtorch on it, before getting distracted by the phone. Being a curious kid, I went over and pushed my finger into one of the little pots sitting in the bain-marie. A split second later, a searing heat hammered through my finger, so I quickly licked it to rid the pain. I then suffered from a burnt finger and tongue! …But it was definitely worth it.
“That crème brûlée mama made, that very first crème brûlée I had… it tasted like… like fireworks! At that moment, I knew all I wanted was to share that experience. That remained my calling; I didn’t want to do anything else.”
His eyes brighten, darting to and fro as if his mother and kitchen are right there with him, his subtle gestures make clear he is reliving his past and his smile exudes pure rapture. This confident chef before me proves a surprising contradiction to the destroyed image engraved in my memory of last Thursday.
It was then that, with great solemnity, I witnessed Chef Raoul breathing his entire life into the notoriously decadent meals that hundreds of customers gleefully order every night. Yet behind the perfect façades of these restaurant doors lie the souls of martyrs whose vain efforts leave them victimised by demeaning critics.
The gravity of it was immense; I could hear Raoul’s heart pounding erratically, as if summoning trepidation and manifesting half-buried insecurities he forgot existed. This ill feeling amplified within the empty atmosphere of the restaurant offices. Newspaper and magazine clippings were accumulated in various bundles, sporadically embellishing the otherwise bare wood-grained floorboards. A single man’s loneliness reflected in the walls, donned with an uninspiring coat of dull beige paint, devoid of any taste of his personal identity.
Chef Raoul quickly left the office, it held no relevance to his interests. As I followed him, he reread the newspaper article which his hands fiercely claimed. His eyes scoured the words for the umpteenth time, as if confirming such a harsh combination of letters could ever exist. Under my gaze, he appeared to shrink, his shoulders slumping in a state of confused despair. Then, addressing nothing but the restaurant air, he spat the words of renowned food critic Nolan Mendoza:
“Least expected was the waitress of ‘Mama’s Delights’ abandoning me after relegating me to the bowels of Chef Raoul’s restaurant, dismissed to navigate the sea of tables as a lone sailor. Surely, I foolishly thought, the decadent meals would compensate for the incompetent service.
“Yet the final insult, a dish of epic disappointment, laboured towards me; a crème brûlée sans crème, it appeared Raoul was carried away with the brûlée half of it: my dish was burnt and the cream a mythical treasure I convinced myself impossible to find no matter how hard I searched.
“If this was a signature dish, Raoul had forgotten his name.”
He faced me disappointed, “What good is a chef who can’t even make custard?”
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After some time, it appeared the ongoing clamour of clanging metal and busy workstations was his remedy, allowing equilibrium to return to his dwindled state. To him, the kitchen was a place of solace; spiritual replenishment. He began to straighten, to stand, almost another mechanical component to his kitchen.
Yet warily, I continued to observe him. Soon enough, disorientation overcame Raoul’s comfort. Blame, guilt, humiliation, inferiority and deep shame claimed him.
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I blink away my memory and say to this confident Raoul, “And what about Nolan Mendoza’s review of your signature dish, this very crème brûlée that has set the foundations of your career as a chef? Mendoza explicitly stated that the next time he has the option of dining at your restaurant or being burnt alive, much like the “crèmeless brûlée” he ate, he’d gladly be involved in the latter. How do you feel about that?”
I note the flicker of his eyes, the defeat in his hands, the twitch in his smile, but almost instantly he regains his composure. His eyes light up, his hands breathe life, his smile sustains. Did he hear me?
He says to me, “Stop the interview for a moment and look around you. Look at my restaurant. How many empty tables do you see?”
I confessed I couldn’t spot a single one.
“Now look around again and tell me: how many people are smiling, have a conversation so engaging and exhilarating that they laugh with their entire bodies, how many people break etiquettes, trying what lies on their companions’ plates?”
I confessed his guests possessed these qualities.
“You see, my restaurant is the essence of me, my soul is reflected through the dishes I prepare. People come without knowledge and leave enlightened. Relationships are strengthened into an experience where people share with me the tastes of my childhood. Through a three-course meal or a delicious dessert, many have learnt to smile again, to share happiness …because of me! Shared food is a shared bit of my memory. This is more than I ever thought of achieving. This is the meaning of success, and no critic’s savage words can destroy it.”
With that, he leant back in his chair, and slyly asked, “Any further questions?”
