I Imperative cooking from .Killiecrankie z
HERE we are to judge the annual Interna- tional Picnic Competition. This year, there were so many entries, especially in the juvenile categories, that the Duke of Atholl had more 'than 20 major prizes to present. Despite the beauty of the location and the charm of the people I met — there was not a Scotch accent to be heard — the North, of either the English or Scotch variety, is not a place in which to eat, still less to cook. All the more credit to the entrants, given the difficulties they face. There are, to be sure, individual good ingredients such as salmon and. . . salmon in Scotland and the excellent Craster kip- pers I sampled on the way up through Northumberland, but the shops are appall- ing and the markets more or less non- existent. Vegetables are worst: either the greengrocers are traditional, making a prominent feature of a display of swedes, or they are self-conscious purveyors of exotica which turn out to be 'colourful' peppers and beef tomatoes from Holland, tasting, like most things from Holland, of nothing. Moreoever, especially in the En- glish northern small towns, you have to be pretty sharp to find a shop open: they stay in bed late, shut for lunch and close early. What is needed without delay are Asians. But all Imperative cooks know that the chief failing in Britain generally but espe- cially in the North is that when lots of ingredients are available — either because cooks have cultivated their own, as many of the people I met did, or because they have trekked tens of miles on the caravan- and Boches-infested roads to secure a gallon of olive oil or some mustard without honey in it — the ingredients tend to be served together rather than carefully ordered in the normal, seven-course meal to which we are used. This anarchy reaches its peak in the Northern English roast with nine vegetables and gravy or the more recent, continentally influenced pizza or pasta with chips and peas.
This is precisely the sort of disorder which besets picnics; unco-ordinated, poorly served good things; a rabble rather than a procession. Rat explained it to Mole: 'Coldtonguecoldhamcoldbeefpickle dgherkinssaladfrenchrollcresssandwichesp ottedmeatgingerbeerlemonadesodawater'.
On grounds of order the Spanish entry would have won. It was carefully allocated:
gazpacho Andaluz with manzanilla, then paella with Barbadillo's white, then partridges with Carinena, then broad beans, chickpeas etc. Unfortunately the Spaniards did not arrive. Their entry was faxed and conditional and so was their prize. Most other entries were centred on theme: two on the home-grown theme, one French revolution, a teddy bears' picnic, a Wimbledon picnic, the art picnic dejeuner sur l'herbe, a pirates' picnic, a hippy picnic. These gave scope for much dressing up and some interesting innovations such as the hand-crafted wooden wasp-squashers. What distinguished the winning entry was a theme, the Indian picnic, which actually ordered the meal. It was centred on a tandoori clay oven which had been home- made and provided heat to cook both deep-fried samosas on top and tandoori dishes and breads inside. It was not far from the ovens scouts used to construct and is a first-rate idea for a picnic lunch. The children can make the oven. Stop them squabbling.
My favourite entry was a typical picnic such as the lower orders take in a lay-by on the A9: pork pie, nasty little small square sandwiches in soft but mouldy brown bread, cheese spread with celery flavouring, sweet brown sauce, a thermos and crisps. It did not, however, win because the crisps were plain and, more important, because its makers refused to fulfil a basic rule of the competition and eat their entry. Indeed, they were spotted behind a bush with a very large container of caviar.
In all, it was a moving day: these good people who could live anywhere in Europe choose to stick it out up there with ten- month winters, a mass population whose gastronomic habits are crude beyond belief and no one within 400 miles capable of mending the espresso machine when it goes wrong. And do they grumble? Not a bit of it. They rally together and keep the flag of taste, discernment and jollity flying as high as they can. Southern Imperative cooks should support them and enter next year's competition. Write to: The Director of the International Steering Committee, Mrs Sebastian Thewes, Strathgarry House, Killiecrankie, Scotland.
Digby Anderson
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