In a few days the Paris Olympics will begin. This should be a moment of true joy and excitement but, honestly, I’m not feeling it. This is because I find the whole sporting shebang terribly unrelatable. It’s about people who can jump high, throw things a long way or run fast. I can do none of these things; I haven’t run anywhere since that unfortunate incident during cross-country in 1980. The Olympics weren’t always like this. From 1912 to 1948, they included cultural contests in things such as painting, music, literature and town planning. That’s more inclusive but I’m still not sure I’d thrive. I’m not up to planning a whole town under competition conditions.
What’s needed, so that people like me can get involved, is a food aspect. I am of course aware there are already a bunch of competitions that style themselves as culinary Olympiads, but those mostly involve intense, young people in chefs whites fashioning the Wreck of the Hesperus out of pulled sugar and aspic, or a fully functioning submarine entirely out of chocolate. That’s about as relatable as a bout of acrobatic gymnastics to the theme from Succession.
No, what we need are proper food contests that challenge the very character, good taste and stamina of the competitors. And I am the man to shape those events. Let’s start with the edible decathlon, a gruelling series of 10-course tasting menus. Points are awarded for clearing each plate and saying smart things about them, and deducted for rolling your eyes and muttering “Christ, is there much more of this?” under your breath. In a similar vein there’s the long lunch mixed doubles, in which two couples join each other at a restaurant at 1pm and attempt to make it through to the dinner service, without running out of things to say, visibly getting drunk or lapsing into unconsciousness. There will, of course, be strict rules defining gaps between courses and portion size. This is a serious competition. That demands an internationally recognised set of regulations.
We need something a little nostalgic, so how about the cheese and pineapple hedgehog gala? Alongside points for technical skill, awarded for how many portions of cheese and pineapple you can use, and how evenly the cocktail sticks are spaced, the entries would also be scored on artistic interpretation. Prettiest hedgehog wins. Then there are the domestic challenges. Who among us would not want the gold medal for having been judged to possess the greatest number of bottles of sticky condiments in our fridge, or the oldest verifiable tub or jar in the spice cupboard? The boost to national morale if one of our own could bring home those titles would be immense.
Finally, we get to the blue-riband events; the most coveted medals of all. Key among these is the stacked burger competition. How many toppings can you get on a burger without a) undermining its structural integrity (no cocktail sticks allowed) and b) coming over as an irritating tosser? That’s serious stuff, but it’s not quite as serious as the ultimate event, the equivalent to the 100m sprint: a global contest to crown the maker of the greatest bacon sandwich on the planet. There are so many acute variables here. It’s about the balance of back to streaky, of crispness to softness. There are bread choices and condiment choices and lettuce choices. This is a competition in which I would be hugely proud to represent my country. And I am stone cold certain I would be crowned Olympic champion. These food Olympics would surely produce a gold rush for our proud nation. Come on Paris, what’s stopping you?
