Could I win over the MasterChef judges with a hearty soup?

As his broth fervour reaches new heights, Will Gore wonders what Gregg Wallace and John Torode would make of his culinary skills

A warming bowl has its own kind of theatre (Getty/iStock)

I may have a problem with soup. So, as it happens, does my wife. Regrettably, they are very different problems. Hers primarily concerns soups at the thicker end of the scale; the kind that Cow & Gate might put in a jar for a six-month-old baby. And it is marked by an automatic retching response which is disheartening for the soup’s creator.

My problem is very much the opposite one: I’m obsessed with the stuff. Usually, the Gores are united in all things; simpatico perfecto. Only on soup – and cricket – do we diverge. Yet who would deny that these are vital matters in any marriage?

I’ve always had a penchant for a bowl of broth. Whenever I was ill as a child, I would be fed chicken soup and Lucozade. And in winters, my mother seemed to knock up a pan of steaming potage for lunch on a Saturday almost without fail, usually from no more than a handful of lentils, a carrot, an onion and a stock cube.

At the end of the show, I would be cheered by cast and crew as I collected my trophy, and literary agents would queue to bid for my recipes and life story

Several holidays are remembered for their soups. There was the time in a French ferme auberge that my mother filled our bowls from a tureen that had clearly been put down in front of another customer: oh, the “désolés” that abounded when our own, rather larger dish arrived. Then there was my first heavenly taste of gazpacho in Spain; a fiery Gulaschsuppe high in the Austrian Tyrol; and the perfect, creamy Cullen skink at a hotel bar in the Scottish Highlands.

But in the last year, eating at home day-in, day-out, I have become ever more zealous. Even in the normal course of events I’d boil the remnants of a chicken for stock. In recent months, I’ve cooked up any bones that come along, including various varieties of fish, as well as lamb and beef; not to mention the shells of prawns, which form the base for a terrific bisque (even my wife likes that one).

I’ve used courgettes from the garden in a fresh, lemony soup; and added homegrown sweetcorn to a velvety chowder. I’ve used every kind of lentil under the sun – either as a thickener or as the star ingredient in a spicy dahl number. And in midwinter I conducted a number of experiments with pearl barley; not bad, but I still have a way to go before I properly crack Scotch broth.

The return last week of that great staple of British television, MasterChef, coincided with my creation of a deep green spinach soup, delicately flavoured with fennel, nutmeg, and a hint of lemon. It was – and I say this as its sole taster – a triumph; and I wondered what Gregg Wallace and John Torode might have made of it.

So deeply did I ponder the question that I fell into a kind of reverie, imagining a series finale in which Nigel – a police officer from Leicester – cooked beef fillet with creamy mash (classic, but come on, so dull), while teacher Sunita from Manchester served perfectly satisfactory scallops on pea puree (the latter element added to the plate as a rather vulgar smear, as appears to be de rigueur these days).

Their dishes would meet with reasonable approval. But then it would be my turn to approach the judges’ table with my basin of steaming soup, and I would see Gregg and John drool as the aroma neared.

I would ladle out two bowlfuls, only too conscious of the theatre of the thing: and into John’s bowl I would place a fork; while Gregg’s bowl would be positioned on the floor. Then I would stand back and watch as Torode licked his tines clean, becoming dewy-eyed at the sheer bravado of the flavour and the presentation and occasionally exclaiming: “it’s just briyyant”. And I would look on as Wallace lapped at his portion like a bald, waistcoated cat; his guzzling only interrupted by a muttered “cor” every now and again.

At the end of the show, I would be cheered by cast and crew as I collected my trophy, and literary agents would queue to bid for my recipes and life story. But I would eschew their attentions, instead returning home to bathe in warm borscht and plot my next alchemic creation.

Yes, I definitely have a problem with soup.