The compelling fascination the world reserves for movie stars and other celebrities is the same as I have for chefs and cooks. In my profession though, this has proven to be more than a passing quirk.
Far be it that I wish to question George Clooney on his fiancée, stand in a long queue to listen to the Dalai Lama, or steal a selfie with Angelina Jolie at a children’s camp. I would be a little more interested in knowing whether Clooney can cook, what Jolie feeds her own children and what His Holiness had for dinner.
Whenever an editor questions my approach to a story, I am quick to retort that I am a writer (calm, composed, virtuous) and not a journalist (shall we say nosy, nasty, vitriolic?), while secretly wondering how said editor would fare in the kitchen. But an astonishing reserve of investigative instincts kick in when I am in a homely kitchen presided over by a matronly housewife, or when the table next to mine seems to have received a better-looking dish. My inner paparazzo only awakes when I spot a sous chef completing his creation with a blowtorch, or when a pastry chef pops out at breakfast to see people gorging on his baked goods.
Admittedly, I don’t make much distinction between chefs and cooks. The man who just did a three-month sous vide course in Switzerland equals the one in Satwa who has been dishing out shawarmas for 13 years. I approach anyone who can cook well with a combination of adulation and adoration, and praise every perfect dish.
Recently, I did a project that brought editors, chefs and star dishes to the fore, and put stars in my eyes. This also led to the startling discovery that I really fancy good editors and great chefs. Chefs who have undergone classical training and use it to create contemporary recipes are nothing short of marvellous (sulaimani chai panna cotta anyone?) Editors who offer unique direction and unlimited freedom are just the best ever.
So, when the world plans its holidays and pack its bags, here is how I will spend my summer: I am going to marry the first chef or editor who asks me. Mustafa, Kaushal, Roberto, Akachi, Brendon, Ahmad, and the man who still has not sent me his recipe for Thalassery cockle biryani — will you have me?
— The author has a disclaimer on her celebrity status: she intends to meet Pope Francis, dine with him, and then steal his cook
