Mission: Cook! (12 page)

Still in all, my service was well received and I was now at Culdrose, stationed as cook in the officers' wardroom, and things were going along swimmingly. I was momentarily popular with my superiors, the officers seemed to
like the food I was serving up, and the sun simply rose and set on my little corner of the British Empire.

Then came the dawn of the T-Fal electric wok, and my life changed forever.

The chief cook of the officers' mess was a bit of a gadget freak, and the discovery of a new toy of this magnitude pleased him no end. He was disinclined to suffer the learning curve, however, and cheerily passed that duty along to me. I was handed the wok, power cord, manual, and recipe book, and given a commission to “play with it and see what it can do.”

I attacked my assignment with relish. Most of my training to that time had been basic British Naval Cooking 101, or had been founded in general European principles. But just by gleaning the essentials of Asian wok cooking from the recipe book, I could begin to see the possibilities in flash-frying meats and fresh vegetables with exciting new ingredients.

I prepped all morning, cooking up a batch of rice; selecting and julienning carrots, onions, peppers, broccoli; thin-slicing breasts of chicken; peeling shrimp; picking out greens I was going to experiment with; zesting and squeezing oranges and lemons for their juices and essential citrus oils; rummaging for spices like ground ginger, cardamom, and cumin. Armed with sesame oil and soy sauce at the ready, I was well prepared a full half hour before luncheon service, proudly standing by to initiate my new Far Eastern campaign.

The door swung open, and an officer I had never met before came in, accompanied by a retinue of about six men. He was dressed in a flight suit, and seemed like an amiable chap, which was not always the preferred demeanor of officers at a Royal Naval Air Station. I greeted him formally, as befitted his rank, but soon found myself just talking with him, mainly about his day and mine. He mentioned that he was on the base to update his helicopter certification, and was learning to fly the Wessex Mark III helicopter. He was more fascinated, seemingly, by the preparations I had made for lunch, and asked me if I wouldn't mind showing him what it was all about.

I was more than ready for my maiden voyage on the good ship
T-Fal,
and went to work. I don't remember precisely what I grabbed and tossed about in the wok that day, but it looked and smelled great. The garlic and ginger were properly singed and infused with sesame and soy; the vegetables were crisp and flavorful, the meat, succulent. I proudly whipped it onto a plate and offered it to that kindly gentleman, when I noticed the chief waving his arms madly from across the wardroom. I waved back, playing the innocent, then proceeded to cook something up for the rest of his party.

Before I was able to finish serving the rest, the gentleman was back for seconds. I threw together a completely new combination, which seemed to please him even more.

“What is this called?” he asked politely.

“I don't know, sir,” I said, “but it looks pretty good.”

“It is. Thank you very much.” They all finished eating and left, happily well fed. Finally, the chief, rather nervously I thought, made his way over to my nouveau Asian station.

“Did he like it?” he asked.

“Yeah, he loved it.”

“Thank God almighty. Irvine, do you have any idea who that was?”

“No, sir.”

“Does the name
Prince Charles
ring a bell?!”

Now, in my own defense, there are probably lots of young people in England and America and the world at large who are so busy with living their lives that they might not know who the ruling politicians or future monarchs of the day are at a glance. I was slightly taken aback for a moment; this certainly had been a brush with greatness that I would have to write home to the folks about. I was definitely impressed that he had liked my food. In fact, he liked it so much that he came back every single day of his training, thirty-eight days in a row, and asked me to make him the same exact lunch. We parted friends, or at least cordial acquaintances, and life carried on.

Eight weeks later, I got a call from the supply officer, Lt. Commander Portius, ordering me to report to his office in my full, number one dress uniform. This did not make me happy. My relationship with my superiors ran the gamut from delight in my accomplishments in the kitchen, to genuine, heartfelt comradeship-in-arms, to, well, crankiness with some of my less than desirable behavior. I had been out late the night before and my head hurt. There is every chance that I might have—accidentally, mind you—violated the base curfew for younger enlisted men whilst enjoying a drink or two, or nine, with some of the older, more worldly of my base mates the night before I was asked to report. A stern reprimand could easily have been in order, though I'd never been asked to dress up for one before.

Portius took one look at me and sent me off to the base commander. If the command chain of the air station had formed a conspiracy to scare God's own religion out of me that day, they had succeeded. I began to compose the letter in my head:

Dear Mum and Dad,

Have been unceremoniously drummed out of the service for Lord knows what.

Will be returning home soon in disgrace to live in my old room.

Your loving son, Robert

The commander was civil, and also seemed more concerned with inspecting my uniform than in mercifully doling out my final punishment. Sadist. He crooked a finger at me, and I followed him out of the building, where we packed into a car and drove the short distance to Naval Air Command and the office of the full ranking
admiral.

“The admiral. Very funny…well played,” I thought, in my despair.

Then, unexpectedly, I began to relax. Unless perhaps he'd won me in a card game, it seemed unlikely that a full ranking admiral would be getting involved in my dismissal and punishment, if such were to be my fate, even if they had decided to shoot me before kicking me out of the Navy.

True to form, the admiral was by far the politest of all, and informed me that I would be taking a little trip in a helicopter to London.

“Yes, sir!” said I, thinking to myself that a trip in a helicopter was the only possible next logical step in my day, and off we went.

We sped off in his car, took the helicopter to London—lovely flight—set off in another car, and cruised down the road to Buckingham Palace.

Buckingham Palace.
Sure, why not? Where else? Nipped into the old palace, marched down the hall, kept the old legs moving, left, right, left, bang in to see the Prince of Wales.

“How are you, chef?” he said, without a trace of irony.

He reached out and greeted me as he had each of the thirty-eight days. I instinctively flexed my wok-flipping hand, controlled myself, and managed to reach back and return his proffered handshake. We had a ripping good chat, about my family, my life in his Navy, whether I was well fixed financially, on and on, and he capped it all off by asking if I would like to come work for him in the family business. Being a loyal subject of the Crown, I'm sure I said yes, or the legally binding equivalent. I would love to be able to tell you intimate details of the experience, what the carpeting was like, what knickknacks were on the prince's desk and so on, but I was sixteen, just slightly hungover, and had not only been plucked from obscurity but had been practically plucked straight out of my bed, overdressed, overstressed, hurled through space and
quick-marched into a castle to be offered a job by the future emperor of my country. I am incredibly pleased that I remembered my own name. My lingering first impression of the palace from that day was that it was extremely large and seemed very clean.

Wonderful time, Your Majesty, best to your mother, thanks for the tea, back to the base. Two days later, I was off on a quick plane ride to rendezvous with the Royal Yacht
Britannia,
from which point I embarked on my first trip on board, to Brindisi, Italy.

This was among the great turning points of my life so far. And I am convinced that it was largely due to the fact that I was able to provide a
pleasurable
eating experience for a true gentleman, look after him at his lunchtime, and do it in such a way that he could take to heart.

Here are a few recipes that I would recommend for their qualities of providing pleasure at the table. I hope they change your life for the better.

Cut
the beef across the grain into thin slices. Place the beef in a bowl and add the marinade ingredients one at a time, mixing in well and adding the cornstarch last. Marinate the beef for 25 minutes (or longer if you wish). Bring 2 cups salted water to a boil in a medium saucepan and add the rice to cook for about 20 minutes, or until tender.

Whilst the beef is marinating, whisk together the sauce ingredients and set aside. Rinse the bamboo shoots in warm water to remove any tinny taste and drain. Clean the green onions and slice them on the diagonal into thirds.

Heat the wok over medium-high to high heat. Add 3 tablespoons of the oil. When the oil is hot, add the minced ginger. Stir-fry until aromatic, about 30 seconds. Add the beef and stir-fry at high heat until cooked. Stir-fry in two batches if necessary so as not to overcrowd the wok. Remove the beef from the wok and set aside on a utility platter.

Clean out the wok and add the remaining 2 tablespoons oil. When the oil is hot, add the green onions and bamboo shoots, and stir-fry. Add a bit of soy sauce or brown sugar if desired. Make a well in the wok by pushing the bamboo shoots up the side. Give the sauce a quick restir and add to the middle of the wok, stirring to thicken. Add the cooked beef back into the wok. Turn the cooked rice onto a serving platter and spoon the stir-fry mixture on top of it. Serve and enjoy!

To
prepare the potatoes, simply peel them and grate them on the large side of a box grater into a large bowl. (Do this just before you are ready to use them, otherwise the potatoes will turn black.)

On low heat, melt the butter in a heavy sauté pan or cast-iron skillet. (If finishing this dish in the oven, be sure to use a pan that can go directly into the oven—no plastic handles. Otherwise, plan on finishing the dish on the stovetop.) When the butter has melted, pour it into the bowl over the grated potatoes, season with salt and pepper to taste, and toss together.

Add a little canola oil to the sauté pan or skillet, enough to cover the bottom of the pan. Heat the pan over medium heat, and add half the potato mixture. Press the potato down and form a cake that's about ¼ inch thick, and cook for 8 to 12 minutes without burning the bottom. Add the goat cheese and arugula or spinach on top of the potatoes in the pan, and then cover with the remaining half of the grated raw potatoes. You will form a cake that's about ½ inch in thickness.