This week, Polish journalist Peter Kononczuk - my ex-roommate, good friend and sometimes nemesis - takes readers back to my pre-hunt days, to an informal cooking contest that took place in Prague, Czech Republic in 2006.
I worked hard to win the contest -- and thought I had. But the judges, including Peter, called it a draw. Judging by their mumbled answers to my questions, declaring a 'draw' was a Kindergarten class move designed to spare my opponent, who had been favored to win. I felt the frustration of an Olympic skater who has peformed a flawless routine only to watch as a panel of corrupt judges robs him of victory.
Why is this relevant to the hunt? Peter's point - I think - is that cooking is an inclusive activity and should not be turned into competitive sport, that normal people cook for pleasure, rather than for glory, and that I am a fanatic.
Peter's article:
"I'll be around at 9 pm," said Reynolds on the phone. "I need to practice. If you're going to try, go all the way."
My apartment in Prague was a 45-minute tram ride from where Reynolds lived. It was already dark and the streets were covered with snow. But Reynolds didn't have an oven in his apartment and the cooking contest was at the weekend.
There's a poem by Charles Bukowski that starts: "If you're going to try, go all the way. This could mean losing girlfriends, wives, relatives, jobs and maybe your mind. Go all the way. It could mean not eating for three or four days..."
In Reynolds' case, the cooking competition meant testing out his recipes, and eating the results for supper, three or four days in advance. He wanted to win.
Earlier that week we had been drinking beer with Eva after work. She worked in the circulation department of the English-language newspaper where Reynolds and I were reporters. We were talking about food.
"It's a shame more men can't cook," said Eva.
"All the best chefs are men," Reynolds told her.
"I do not think I will ever find a man who can cook better than me," Eva said.
"You're talking to one right now," Reynolds told her, smiling.
"Why don't you two have a competition?" I said.
We drew up the rules: two contestants, each allowed one assistant. The task was three courses: a salad starter, a pasta dish and a dessert. I was to be a judge, along with two colleagues from work. One of them, an American girl, was Eva's friend. Reynolds was my friend. That was fair, we agreed.
"Eva's a good cook," I told Reynolds as he arrived at my apartment, brushing snow off his jacket. "You're going to have to come up with something special."
"Yep, when she gets married, Eva's husband's gonna be happy man," Reynolds said. "But I'm going to beat her."
Reynolds had phoned his mother in America to get a pie recipe. He switched on my oven, mashed up pieces of biscuit as a base and then put them in to bake. The filling was a sweet, cool mixture of cream and peanut butter. I produced two spoons. The pie tasted good.
The day of the contest, I finished worked early. When I arrived in Eva's downtown apartment, near Wenceslas Square, Reynolds was already busy frying garlic in the kitchen. He had roped in his girlfriend as his assistant. She scurried around as he told her what to do.
Eva was next door, in her parents' apartment. Her assistant, another reporter from our paper, was pouring himself a glass of wine. Eva was putting the finishing touches to her dessert, a dish of raspberries, blackberries and blueberries, splashed with Grand Marnier.
The contestants were supposed to finish at eight o'clock. With five minutes to go, Reynolds was still stirring and chopping, tasting and prodding his pasta with a fork, all the time giving instructions to his girlfriend. He had left detritus all across Eva's kitchen. Pieces of lettuce and other unidentifiable vegetables were strewn across the table and floor. He had burned a big black stain into the bottom of a silver pot and partially melted a plastic ladle.
I wandered over next door to see how Eva was doing. She was leaning against the wall, smoking a cigarette. Her three courses stood ready in neat bowls.
"She could do this every day," I thought, looking at her. Eva was wearing a black cocktail dress. She had red lipstick on.
Reynolds finally emerged from his smoky kitchen and we all gathered in the living room. The finished dishes were placed in the centre of the table.
They stood there steaming, under portraits of Eva's 19th century ancestors. Choosing the winner took longer than anyone had expected. The jury huddled in Eva's kitchen, out of earshot of the two chefs. Both sets of pasta were good. I preferred Eva's salad. But Reynolds' peanut butter pie was a hit. The jury had a sweet tooth and the way the discussions were going, it it looked like Reynolds was going to win.
Eva had prepared her meal with casual grace, in half the time it took Reynolds and with no rehearsal. It seemed wrong for her to lose the contest, in her own apartment.
"There's only one solution," I told the jurors. We trooped back into the living room. I placed Reynolds on my left, Eva on my right. "You were both great," I told them. "So good that it was impossible to choose. The result is a draw."
Eva smiled. Reynolds looked at Eva, then at me. He said nothing.
On Monday at work, I could see Reynolds was not his usual self.
"So how did you vote?" he asked me.
"Can't tell you. Oath of secrecy."
"C'mon. Tell me."
"Look, people liked your meal," I said. "You should be happy."
"I'd have preferred to lose than to draw," replied Reynolds. "I committed myself. I spent a lot of time and money to find out if I'm better than Eva. Why couldn't the judges commit themselves and decide one way or another? So just tell me, how did you vote?"
I shook my head.
"Never mind," he said. "I'll find out sooner or later."
