French baking alfresco

Press, 27 February 1984, Page 16

French baking alfresco

The chef slit his eyes and inspected his audience with cool superiority. He had an indignant air, as if he and his faithful assistant had been abducted from the bakery’s gleaming sterility to this incongruous park scene. He could hardly bear to look at the large-boned New Zealand women who gathered with placid curiosity under the trees.

Their C-fitting feet bulging like overcooked muffins from their sandals, sunravaged faces and floral print frocks seemed to offend his French soul. The chef and his assistant had dressed formally in crisp white with red scarves at their necks.

Someone, trying to make them more at home, had covered the trestle table with a blue-and-white checked cloth. It flapped a protest in the breeze. “The chef does not speak English, so please don’t ask him any questions,” a voice boomed over the loudspeaker. "The interpreter will tell you everything you want to know.” Seeming not to understand a word, he drew himself to a more impressive height and leaned elegantly against the kitchen food processer at his side. The lowly machine tilted alarmingly under his weight and hurtled toward the ground. He sprang back just in time to save the machine (and his pride) from a nasty fall.

A delicate Oriental woman glided in front of the trestle table, holding a microphone as if it was a flower.

“It is our pleasure to demonstrate the art of

making French bread,” she said. The chef stared up at the sky, urging God to beam him to a more civilised planet. “We will now begin,” the interpreter said. Sighing wearily, the chef poured flour and water into the machine* and, with a flourishing gesture, pushed the “on” button. Nothing happened. Tension was electric. Birds were suddenly silent. He punched the machine with a small, white fist. But it sat brooding and silent. The chef glowered at his assistant, who nervously traced an electric lead across the grass behind the tent.

When at last the machine charged into action, the chefs mouth twisted strangely. It was a smile. Nobody dared ask anything. It would have been like' discussing house paint with Leonardo da Vinci. The women were content to watch him lean over his

machine, fix them with a look of disdain and (horrors!) light a cigarette. A solid, ruddy-faced woman with thick arms pushed herself to the front. She had a strong, capable face which suggested she was one of that endangered species who made jam, green tomato chutney and bread with something like religious fervour. "Do you always use cold water?” she shouted at the chef. He was about to answer. But he suddenly remembered the interpreter, who repeated the question, elaborately embroidered in French. The chef considered a while, then nodded. “Yes,” the interpreter said. “Really?” the woman said. “I always use warm water.” The chef began muttering to the interpreter, then broke out in exasperation. “No, no! Cold is okay.” Caught out at last, his eyes shone mischievously and his mouth went crooked. The women in the audience smiled, too. Only the interpreter felt out of place. The chef gazed fondly down at the white dough winding itself into a soft ball inside the machine. “We should be learning to make love, not bread,” he said throatily. A prickly wave of pleasure washed through the audience, tinging the women’s faces pink with excitement. When the bread finally emerged from the oven, it was hard to tell which had been more successful. The product or the performance.