Sauce #63

Embracing failure part 17

Three stolid, staunch, sturdy northerners found themselves looking destiny in the eye on Sunday, found themselves facing a stern psychological test, found themselves with the opportunity to ink their names into the annals of history.

They all bogged it.

Sandgrounder Tommy Fleetwood held the record for the most top-10 finishes without a win on the PGA Tour before beginning the final round on Sunday three shots clear. Surely this was his moment for that long-anticipated W. Except it wasn’t. A slow-motion choke-job ensued. For those still awake at 11.15pm as he missed a five-footer to take it to a play-off with Keegan Bradley/Bradley Keegan it was truly the stuff of nightmares. Poor lad. He’ll get there.

West Yorkshireman Harry Brook’s shortcomings were less painful to watch, and arguably less predictable, but still. A Sunday at Headingley with a home crowd is, by this point, bread and butter for a Brook century. But if Brook has a weakness it’s with the short ball, and he duly sent a half-tracker directly down the throat of backwards square leg on 99. Tough scene.

And finally this North Yorkshireman (who many years ago was caught at square leg on 98, so feels HB’s pain) set off for a charity ‘fun run’ in a somewhat blasé frame of mind. He’d had a late bedtime. Nightcaps might have been involved. He might even have taken a ‘sausage for the road’ as he set off on the 10 minute drive to the starting line.

From the comfort of the car seat he - I - did find myself mildly perturbed by the neon-bright sign declaring the approach to Grantley village as the ‘Hill of Pain’, just at the start of the ninth kilometre. I’d pictured a gentle jog across the moors. An hour or so later, finding myself at the bottom of said hill on foot and regretting the late night whisky and the road-sausage, I steeled myself.

“Come on James, you’ve got this,” I may have said, or certainly thought. “This is a psychological test and you’re going to meet it head on.” I put on a galvanising track, nonchalantly ignoring the organisers’ baffling prohibition of headphones. And made it about 50 yards up the hill before I began walking. Another failure.

But failure is what makes us stronger.

I also failed to deliver Thom to the kids’ 2k at the allotted time. And failed to carve the beef correctly. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt stronger, now I think about it.

I won’t get into the business of parental advice but checking emails for booking details is always a good idea. As far as the beef goes, the key is always to carve against the grain of the meat, so that you are eating with the grain and don’t need to spend a good seven to eight minutes chewing each mouthful.

On occasion, however, you will find yourself faced with a joint that doesn’t necessarily have an obvious direction of grainage. You have to wing it. In my case, swing and miss it. Thom nearly choked at the table. As did our friend Charlotte but that was more a result of the fiery dressing I’d put on the potatoes.

Those spuds were some good ones. I craved some incredibly crispy potatoes to dunk into the anchovy hollandaise, but didn’t want to get into the business of deep frying. So I lightly par-boiled the new season’s salad potatoes then squashed them aggressively under the heel of my palm (hence only lightly par-boiling - you’re not making mash), tossed them in olive oil and lots of herbs and garlic, and roasted them until crispy. Then tossed through a raunchy little vinaigrette that comprised miso and Kewpie mayonnaise and a fistful of chilli flakes.

I did very little of note to the beef (other than carve it poorly), hence the lack of recipe - it was a roasting joint, probably a topside that I just seasoned the hell out of and cooked on the barbecue in a similar fashion to last week’s pork - hot and heavy until well caramelised, then on the cooler section of the barbecue until 48c. Good rest.

So it was all about bells and whistles - anchovy hollandaise and a hot potato salad (recipes below), as well as a cucumber and dill salad and some well dressed tomatoes. Then for some reason half of the neighbourhood tipped up and we played a chaotic game of football. I may have scored a hat-trick but honestly who cares.