The last time I cooked for Mike Myers he wasn’t very talkative and absolutely refused to take off his mask at table. It was Halloween and a busy night lay ahead of us, so I thought it best to let it go.
We would need sustenance for the evening’s festivities, so what better nourishment than a nice, hearty endive salad with orange and chilli? And who better to fillet the oranges than the dexterous Mike?
Well, pretty much anyone, it turned out.
He absolutely refused to use the knife I suggested, a razor sharp, almost gossamer bladed, carbon Sabatier (third from left).
I thought I was being quite big to even offer to let him use it. It was my mother’s and the knife I most coveted. It became mine on her death (the two things were not related) and I replaced the worn handle with a piece of juniper that I whittled to fit my hand.
But no, picky Mike Myers insisted on using my biggest chopper (furthest right). This one I had inherited from my father, but we won't go into that here.
His knife work was shoddy to say the least and no matter how I tried, I could not get him to hold the knife correctly. Correctly for the job in hand. Knowing him, his mind might have been elsewhere.
In the end, I gave him a pumpkin to play with and got on with supper myself.
First of all, I zested the orange into a bowl, then I topped, tailed and skinned the orange. Next I sent the blade into the core from either side of the filament that separates the segments. When that was done, I squeezed the juice into the bowl, added some dijon, sherry vinegar, garlic, parsley, tiny tiny capers without washing off their salt, and olive oil.
Next I split the endive lengthways (with the third from right), charred it a little on a hot griddle, put it in a bowl with a little more of the vinegar and covered it. I toasted some hazelnuts, then shallow fried some breadcrumbs in the same pan, adding a sprinkling of chilli flakes at the last moment. I whipped up some ricotta, spread it on a plate, then piled on the endive, orange, dressing and other bits.
I put it in front of him, proud of my creation.
Clearly it didn’t please him as, by way of thanks, he leant across the table and stuck the blade of his new knife into my neck.
As I lay on the floor, bleeding, dying, I heard the doorbell ring.
I really shouldn't have let him put that pumpkin in the window.
fin
A very short (and not particularly well written) one this week as I have been at a funeral. By way of apology, I leave you with a photo of William S Burroughs and the pumpkin he carved with a hatchet in 1996
He had it coming. Nice salad.
Terrifyingly toothsome