Can the Mail's Disaster Chef conquer Monsieur MasterChef's croquembouche? It's one of the most difficult Christmas desserts to make, so ROBERT HARDMAN has his work cut out Even the crÃ¨me de la crÃ¨me donâ€™t attempt this very often. Itâ€™s the culinary equivalent of a tightrope over Niagara Falls â€" which might explain why one of our foremost cooking stars has avoided trying to cook it for the past 20 years. Originally dreamed up by the greatest celebrity chef in history shortly after the French Revolution, the croquembouche became a centrepiece of 19th-century imperial banquets and grand religious celebrations. A mountain of free-standing choux pastry, stuffed with cream, held together by caramel and bejewelled with sugared fruits and spun gold, it still appears at no-expense-spared weddings (Madonna commissioned one for her last excursion up the aisle). Chef Michael Roux Junior poses with his festive croquembouche in the kitchen at his Le Gavroche restaurant A few days ago, BBC viewers watched Michel Roux Junior â€" MasterChef judge and boss of Londonâ€™s famous Le Gavroche restaurant â€" have a go in a delicious programme called Patisserie. After an hour-long, lip-smacking, gastro-orgy through Franceâ€™s greatest cake shops and pastry kitchens, Roux returns home and sets to work on a croquembouche of his own. As he admits, he hasnâ€™t tackled it since he made one for his daughterâ€™s christening â€" and she is now a professional chef herself. Roux finally produces a spectacular gold-thatched masterpiece to the delight and applause of family, friends and foodies. The experience has so emboldened him that he has decided to make it the family Christmas dessert this year. Whatâ€™s more, he has taken the original formula and given it a fresh, festive twist. So, the crÃ¨me patissiÃ¨re (the cream filling) is laced with seasonal spices â€" cloves, cinnamon etc â€" plus a glug of rum and dollops of dark brown sugar. Antonin Careme, the pioneering father of haute cuisine and inventor of the croquembouche â€" which literally means â€˜crackles in the mouthâ€™ â€" would surely approve. Having worked for Napoleon, the volatile genius was chef to George IV, for whom he cooked the greatest Coronation banquet ever staged. But what would Careme make of another chef attempting to follow in his footsteps? What would he make of me? Roux has published his Christmas croquembouche recipe for all to try â€" providing they have half a day to spare â€" but could Britainâ€™s most useless cook pull it off? Disasterchef: The Mail's man Robert Hardman poses with his tools prior to beginning his patisserie odysse. Like the great Antonin Careme, inventor of the croquembouche, he has chosen to use only manual implements Kitchenwise, I have the opposite of the Midas touch. Everything I touch turns to pigswill. Smoke alarms greet my toast-making. Children carry my offerings straight from plate to bin without so much as a sniff, let alone a taste. King Alfred would beat me in a Great British bake-off. But duty calls. I have scoured the shops for all the ingredients in Rouxâ€™s extensive recipe. And I have been to trade outfitter Dennyâ€™s Uniforms for my apron and hat. If I follow Roux to the letter, what can go wrong? There are four recipes gathered under one title (pronounced â€˜crock-om-booshâ€™): one for the pastry, one for the cream filling, one for the nougatine base and, finally, one for constructing this tower of gluttony. If it all goes to plan, it will serve 16 (assuming I can find 16 people hungry or brave enough to have a go). If not, it will be a very full bin. I have also set myself an extra challenge: I am not going to use any electrical gadgets or blenders. Like Careme himself, I will use only wooden spoons and whisks. Itâ€™s not that Iâ€™m a purist. I have never used my wifeâ€™s Magimix and would probably break it. There will be enough caramelised carnage by the end of the day as it is. The choux pastry seems simple â€" flour, sugar, boiling milk and eggs â€" but the plain sailing is soon over. Rouxâ€™s recipe says I have to squirt the mix through a piping bag and create 50 round shapes the size of a 10p piece. Mine look like little cowpats. Into the oven they go. First, the easy part: Hardman mixes flour, sugar, boiling milk and eggs together to make the choux pastry, which he then squirts through a piping bag to create 50 round shapes each the size of a 10p piece The crÃ¨me patissiÃ¨re involves boiling more milk with spices, then adding dark sugar and six egg yolks. Separating an egg from its yolk is easier said than done, I can tell you. Thereâ€™s a frightful mess. â€˜Add 3 tbsp of dark rum,â€™ says Roux. The man is a well-known fitness freak and marathon runner. Heâ€™s probably underplayed the rum. Best to chuck in some extra. Then he writes: â€˜Fill the buns through the steam holes using a piping bag fitted with a long nozzleâ€™. Hang on. Steam holes? Where are they? And Iâ€™m not sure Iâ€™d describe these as buns. Three trays of golden (a cynic might say â€˜yellow/brown/blackâ€™) choux pastry shapes come out of the oven, but not one has anything resembling a â€˜steam holeâ€™. I use a skewer to perforate them and then squirt chocolate-coloured gunk through the top. One or two expand like a puffed-up toad and then explode into a mass of gloop. But most look suitably swollen. 'Add 3 tbsp of dark rum': Fitness freak Roux's probably downplayed the liquor for the crÃ¨me patissiÃ¨re, so we add a little more before piping it into the buns through their mysterious and elusive 'steam holes' The nougatine base turns out to be the easiest bit of the lot. You melt a pound of sugar and chuck in some flaked almonds. Roux has some fiddly instructions about pouring it onto oiled marble, flattening it with a rolling pin and â€˜trimming the edgesâ€™. These Masterchef types can be frightful old fusspots. Take a tip from Disasterchef: just pour it into a pizza pan, leave it to cool and then, ping! Out pops a perfectly round, nutty caramelised base. Back to the centrepiece. Rouxâ€™s orders are to melt another pan of sugar before dipping each choux bun in it by hand. These should then be pieced together on the lightly oiled inside of a â€˜very large pudding basinâ€™ â€" the mould. Having seen Roux burn his hand on telly, I know the risks. If it can happen to him, surely anyone proposing to dunk 50 small bits of pastry in a vat of molten sugar is going to end up with blisters? Immediately, a dollop lands on my thumb and itâ€™s excruciating. Talk about suffering for oneâ€™s art. Roux's orders are to melt another pan of sugar before precariously dipping each bun in it by hand â€˜Itâ€™s every patissierâ€™s nightmare that the croquembouche will be stuck in the mould,â€™ Roux tells the cameras, easing his masterpiece out of its casing once the sugar has cooled. However, this is telly, he is a Roux, and we all know itâ€™ll end happily. In my case, there is genuine tension as I coax the result of several hoursâ€™ mess and toil into the world. Amazingly it emerges in one piece and stands firm on its base. I feel inordinately pleased with myself. Whatever it tastes like, the croquembouche has landed. All that remains is some decoration. Rouxâ€™s advice is terse: â€˜Decorate with confit [candied] fruits and a little spun sugar.â€™ Not a single shop in my neck of the woods has even heard of confit fruits, but a local deli sells marzipan imitations. As for â€˜spun sugarâ€™, it turns out you do this yourself by twirling the remains of the melted sugar between two wooden spoons and creating sugary golden threads. That, at least, is the idea. My sugar has become thick, treacly and rather pungent. The â€˜golden threadsâ€™ are blackened branches. The wooden spoons are so caked in burned caramel that they are beyond washing and go in the bin. But the croquembouche, I am delighted to say, does not. The croquembouche has landed: The Mail's masterpiece is finally finished, thanks to our indefatigable chef My family returns home agog that I have produced anything at all. My children still turn up their noses, but Mrs Hardman agrees to try it. Proud: An exhausted Hardman poses with his masterwork, which he modestly describes as 'a very spectacular heap of burned sugar' After a long, considered chew, she says: â€˜It would have been .â€‰.â€‰.â€™ Then she chews some more. Would have been what? Surely, it is? â€˜It would have been better if you hadnâ€™t burned the sugar,â€™ she says diplomatically. I take my first bite and itâ€™s true. Most of the buns are underfilled, have the texture of wet cardboard and are held together by a patina of overcooked caramel which eclipses the flavour of anything else. I have created a very spectacular heap of burned sugar. On the other hand, lots of people quite like burned cream, as long as you call it crÃ¨me brulee. Having transported my handiwork back to a disbelieving office, many people make polite â€" even enthusiastic â€" noises. Itâ€™s not quite the response which followed Caremeâ€™s Coronation banquet for George IV, when the London crowds fought over the leftovers. But most of it gets eaten and no oneâ€™s sick. Back at home, I may even now be let loose on a minor side dish this Christmas. As Roux himself proclaims, a tad pompously, towards the end of his programme: â€˜Patisserie is a journey .â€‰.â€‰. a means of inspiration.â€™ I wouldnâ€™t go quite that far. But I think there is a message for all those slackers who leave others to slave away in the kitchen at Christmas. If someone as gastronomically inept as me can reproduce the work of the great Careme without it being entirely disgusting, then absolutely anyone can make a mince pie.