Passion, by Paul Flynn

PASSION, oh what a word. Overused, bandied about and attributed to all sorts of people and their endeavours. Artists, fashion designers and the usual array of crafty people.

I'm almost suspicious of people who announce that they are very passionate about something. I think it is far more dignified to have this said about you. Then you can mumble something about being graciously flattered while maintaining the "I just love what I do" angle, eliciting protests and indignation at one's modesty.

I loved two things, two things let's say obsessively: food and girls. I become aware of the latter a few years prior to the former. I remember being 13 and leaning out of my bedroom window praying for a naked woman to appear in my bedroom. Lord knows what I would ever do with her if she turned up. Nevertheless, this carry-on lasted nearly a week only to be stopped by a chest cold from leaning out of the window, thereby allowing God to hear me better.

These days my enthusiasm for girls is reserved for my one and only wife, Máire, although she occasionally has to give me an elbow in the ribs in the event of any distraction. So, I am left with food. I can't stop thinking about it. There is no doubt that this obsession can sometimes be a blessing, for being immersed in your chosen profession will hopefully pay off to a dedicated worker. But hey, leave it at work.

I am cursed with drifting off into my own gastro world during conversations with friends. Constantly condemned to gazing at other people's plates, silently assessing their dinner. Sure I can enjoy myself with the best of them, but if my head was a scratch card underneath would be bearnaise sauce, ravioli, souffle, rosemary and chicken. Match three and you get a dish.

Holidays, hah. Máire and I have been on holidays where the food was bad, leaving me in a sulk for the duration. Longing for my foodie fix. While changing at Heathrow on the way home, I would plead, "we can dash into London, grab lunch at the River Café and leg it back in time for the connection". For prospective holidays, I fumble through the Time Out or Fodors guide assessing the country's or city's merits based on the quality of its restaurants. They don¹t even have to be posh, I'm as happy as the next guy in a beach hut but there's got to be decent calamari, or wok fried prawns with garlic and ginger to go with my beer. As you may have guessed, I'm not the type to go rubbing factor nothing all over me, tubes don't come that big.

Unbeknownst to myself, I must always look very worried. My brow furrowed. My local barman Dinger roars 'Well Happy!' on my arrival in the pub but I am not in bad form. Normally I am miles away thinking about a new dish, the produce in the fridge, or specials for tomorrow. There is always improving, adjusting, would that dish be better with a more tart sauce? what veg?, do I pan-fry or roast the pheasant? Oh, if only I was happy to put out plates of well done steak and chips, garlic mushrooms to beat the band and apple tart and cream. I would be a rich and carefree camper.

CHILL I hear you say. Yes I need a hobby. Straight away I invent a new sport. Perfect for me. Cooking for girls. What could be better, my two favourite things?! But, seriously, so many things are ruled out. I would perhaps have the physique for darts, shot put or the hammer but these sports are really lacking in glamour. Skiing is out because of some bad experiences in the local roller disco in the early eighties that left me mentally scarred for life. I have settled for fishing, the sport of gentlemen. I've got the wellies and the wax jacket and the lovely Blackwater. My father's old cloth cap beckons me from the dresser. The only thing I don't have is a clue. Mind you, I'm rodless as well but that can be rectified. My friend David has offered to help. He has got the land, the knowledge and all the kit. Who knows, maybe the sight of me striding through the dewey grass, laden with trout and salmon, may arouse some Catherine Cookson-esque passion with my girl. Now, there's a thought. However, until I organise that, there's a small matter of new menus, new veg in season, a proliferation of game. How would my customers like that cooked. Should I try some hare with chocolate a la Pierre Koffman or beautiful mallard with pears braised in red wine, crispy savoy cabbage and pommes anna. For lunch special. Bangers and Mash with onion gravy. Real comfort food, they'd like that or **** there I go again.

Email: tannery@cablesurf.com