What follows is an accurate account of my maiden encounter with the acclaimed and often fabled realm of Italian cuisine, never mind the fact that I was asleep at the time. Holding mankind in high regards and ever expecting nothing but the utmost benevolence and respect in my rapport with my fellow sapiens, I expect you won’t discriminate my anecdote, let alone the encounter in question, merely because – in the Newtonian sense – it never actually took place.

Behold, there were three of us present. Originally, we were supposed to be four, but I guess the remaining contender had decided to withdraw in the last minute, and, naturally, I didn’t mind at all, for his absence significantly increased my chances of exiting the locale crowned victor and recognised as being nothing short of better than everyone else. Incidentally, what I expect of my fellow men has no bearing on what may be expected of me.

Anyway, there we were, including the maestra herself, the administrator of this year’s Italian Cooking Contest and chef extraordinaire. With the exodus of yet another finalist, the semi-finals had turned into the finals, and my sole competition stood next to me, exhibiting confidence, calm and sheer dispassion like I had never witnessed before. This nightmarish being with long, straight light brown hair, pale skin and all-black, non-constricting clothing, stood slightly crooked, balancing on the outsides of her bare soles, stirring a mug of steaming black coffee with her toothbrush. I know what you’re thinking, dear reader. We had been locked up in those barracks for nearly a month now, having difficulties sleeping, separated from our loved ones, and always worrying we’d be the next contestants to leave, and perhaps the pressure had finally got to her. Not so. I had seen her stirring her coffee with that toothbrush since day one.

As an antipasto, we were to make an insalata di sedano e olive. As an entrée, zuppa di fagioli alla Veneta – and specifically alla Veneta! For the main course, agnello arrosto con carote in Marsala, zucchini a scapece, funghi in salsa di pomodori, and patate fritte alla salvia. Finally, for dessert, a torta di cioccolata alle mandorle and Coppa di Mascarpone alle Pesche.

The wine was to be chosen at our discretion, and I anticipated consequences of biblical proportions, should I choose a bottle that wasn’t entirely compatible, in terms of taste, topography and tradition. The Agnello made it seem very Roman to me, so I went for the first Roman wine I could find that had an old enough label and plenty of cellar dust on it, before my seemingly depressed competitor, with the toothbrush now tucked between her jaws, could put her hands on it.

For four hours I toiled in my half of the kitchen with cameras registering every pearl of sweat on my forehead and with indiscernible looks from the maestra. I worked and worked like a robot, following the recipes that I had learned by heart before I agreed to partake in the competition, but I hardly knew what I was doing. My hands were doing the cooking. My mind and heart were simple onlookers at the spectacle.

But the most incredible part of it all was something completely different. In the corner of my eye, I saw the other finalist slowly come to life. It was as though she had deliberately wandered around like a zombie, storing every miniscule fragment of life for this day, as though she had drunk those copious amounts of coffee and held back the caffeine boost in order to release it at this very moment. She must have known all along that she would come this far, and, albeit my hands were working themselves so hard my eyes thought their knuckles would crumble under the strain of it all, slowly but surely I became aware of the painful truth. I was going to lose this battle.

When the bell rang I knew it was time to quit, and the maestra wandered from dish to dish in both our halves of the kitchen, sampling and commenting for the viewers back home. And my ego grew smaller with every remark. Either it was too dry or too moist, too thick or too meagre. Everything my hands had brought to life in that kitchen was derisory in some way or another. The Mascarpone for example was “poor”.

“How in the name of God do economics have anything to do with its quality?” I enquired somewhat annoyed.

“You wouldn’t understand. This is Italian food, but there is nothing Italian about it,” the maestra replied.

Naturally, my previous assessment had been correct. I did not win. But as I had made it as far as to the finals, I received the 2nd prize, namely, a collection of Italian cookbooks. The winner, ironically, received enough prize money to hire a chef to do all her cooking for her for the rest of her life.