Pass in Time

Every night there is a scramble before dinner service begins and over the last month, my role at Chapter One has evolved into something of a “Chef de Loose Ends.”

“Katy, could you just finish these potatoes during the Pre-Theater service? Katy, do us a favor, just give these herbs a chop and bag up this lemon confit for the waterbath. Katy, if you’re bored, you could just halve these prawns and finish up the spring rolls….”

And up scrunches a ticket of last minute jobs that are regularly left hanging. On good nights I am thrilled to be of help, fulfilling little favors all throughout the evening. On my weary nights, I begin to imagine that the cooks might take for granted their safety net in the back room.

It is only now, in my last week at Chapter One, that I have systemized a “mis en place” and successful work order for the loose ends station. Last night, all before 7:30 PM, I managed to catch up each station chef – each of their “favors” waiting neatly on the prep shelves; portion out the various parts of tomorrow’s soup – leaving them in a tray marked “Vichyssoise for Paul” on the starter section of the cooler; and shell two bins of prawns – now vacuum packed and labeled in the freezer. I was triumphantly mopping up the back floor when Ross walked through to join the second round of dinner service. “Ahh Kate, what are we boys going to do when you leave? Put away that mop and come work the pass with me tonight.”

It is a growing phenomenon among high end restaurants to let diners in on the kitchen magic making possible their meal. Perhaps you’ve eaten somewhere recently, where great wide viewing windows were the only barrier between you and the chef. Perhaps it was a wall-less kitchen, cooks and chefs floating around a marble island of stove tops, sinks and grills. Perhaps you’ve even had a meal sitting in the kitchen at a designated Chef’s Table. Many of us have enjoyed a behind-the-scenes vantage point on restaurant cooking. There remains, however, an inner sanctum within the sacred space of the kitchen that is typically reserved for one individual. “The Pass” is the stage upon which all cooked elements of a dish come together on the plate. Here, the chef will make his final touches to each composition. Here, every dish will pass before his eyes before arriving at a diner’s table. If you love to cook and you love the artistry of composing a dish, then spending your evening in this sacred space is about as good as it gets.
Last night I was privileged to a vision of the position toward which so many of us cook. Together, Ross and I plated, sauced and eyeballed every last entrée. Our attention centered on each round white canvas before us, we casually chatted about the food we were plating … “pigeon wrapped in crisp puff pastry varnished with an amber finish of Madeira jus and surrounded by a dancing dice of sunny colors - organic swede, carrot and celeriac.” Spooning sauce over fillets of Haddock, Ross told me stories of artisan Irish cheeses and coastal fish smoke houses. We traded views on genetically modified seeds and the future of family farms. While sprinkled caper blossoms on a Monkfish plate, He generously vetted my vague hopes for the future. And at one point, after I had laid the last leafy section of baby gem lettuce over a lovely breast of duck, he lifted my handiwork across the marble counter and proclaimed “Now that is a beautiful dish.”

My heart soared through the final hours of dinner service and clean down. It had been a marathon day. But even after 16 hours of concentrated labor, my aching bones were convinced they could work this hard every day if each were sealed with the satisfaction of The Pass.

On the Line

“On the line”… three simple words that have come to encapsulate the intensity and thrill our current culture associates with the professional culinary scene. Maybe you have seen this phrase recently on the cover of Eric Ripert’s bestselling memoir of life in the kitchen at Le Bernadin. The “line” is the position of performance where, we believe, each cook works out his or her culinary destiny. I have waited nearly two months to write on this topic, hoping that if I waited long enough, I might be able to write with an insider’s perspective. I have peeled toward that pinnacle moment when I, too, would be thrust “on the line.”

And then one day it happened. I came trotting out of the back prep room during lunch service with parsnips for the steamer. I opened the oven door, moved out of the sauce chef’s way, grabbed a pan for the fish chef, threw a cube of garlic butter into a small sauce pot at the garnish chef’s command, put two cubes of blanched swede under the broiler, lifted a pile of sautéed potatoes into a little white dish and somehow just kept cooking for the rest of lunch. It was brilliant; without doubt, the most exhilarating moment of the past two months. But something inside of me changed that day … and in the 54th hour of slicing potatoes late Saturday night, the smiling stage, once more than happy to tie up her apron and tackle a crate of spuds, had been replaced with a pouting spinach-picker speechifying to herself about the hundreds of Euros she was paying to work like a Mexican in the washroom at Chapter One.*

As life would have it, the story I had fantasized about writing all week was now shrouded by a guilt complex featuring frustration and self-reproach. Stumbling home Saturday night, I read the banner I pass every day picturing Brian O’Driscoll the famous rugby player, “Be Seen. Be a Difference.”
“Ha!” I thought without pause. “It’s the people you never see, who make the real difference.” And then I saw it … what was really “on the line.”

There is something about the way we glamorize the culinary profession that often jeopardizes the very core of its mission. Great cooking does occur at the crossroads of Science, Craft and, occasionally, even Art. But under all the TV shows and fancy, hardbound cookery books, beneath the empires of successful restaurants, food halls and product lines, even after months in experimental kitchens and doctorates in Gastronomy; it remains the “Hospitality and Service Industry.” The thing we most love to do with our hands is bound, at least in part, to the essential and intimate human need for nourishment.

Every night Chapter One hosts over 100 people – some for the first time, some for the zillionth time. But whether their face is foreign or familiar, they are welcomed and fed as an honored guest at the family reunion. The day that a cook in this kitchen can no longer roll up his sleeves and appreciate working hard to feed, is the day that part of his capacity to enjoy his profession has died.

*I thought about editing out the crudités of my attitude that night, but decided the direct quote would be simpler and more sincere in the end.

The Fickle Market

For many restaurants, sourcing ingredients is little more than finding a food company with a large inventory and a reliable delivery truck driver. When, however, you are buying from many different local farms and artisan producers, all sorts of sourcing hurdles begin to emerge. Anything from crop failure to car failure can threaten the dishes listed on your menu. Market irregularity can be managed, even enjoyed, if customers expect it, but in the context of fine dining, fickle markets are difficult to navigate.

Imagine, for example, crafting on Monday a beautiful dish featuring duck confit, blood oranges and baby Naves (tiny white radishes), only to discover on Tuesday that the baby Naves at Gold River Farm had gone soft and wouldn’t be available until next Monday. Next, imagine that you are not aware of this obstacle until 4:45 on Tuesday evening. Guests will be arriving in one hour, some anxious to enjoy the new “Duck Dish” and you are missing the plate’s key garnish component. Add to this grim picture one final complication: you are Chef de Cuisine and the Chef/Owner is away and unavailable to approve of any last minute adjustments you may be forced to make to his menu. If your heart rate is starting to pick up then you’ve probably grasped the potential severity of “sourcing hurdles.”

It was such a set of circumstances that called upon my athleticism, Tuesday. At 5:15 PM I hurled my “chef shoes” into a locker, threw on my puffy vest and lunged out the restaurant’s back door. Pacing down O’Connell Street with a half hour until Pre-Theater service, I sucked in the cool, fresh air. My eyes swelled with the radiant light of the evening sun. My arms and legs swung freely after hours of concentrated kitchen motions. I was racing for radishes!
Three grocery stores and several street markets later, I phoned Cathal in a panic. Not a single Nave in to be found in the city! I was in Fallon and Byrne, a posh organic market on the south side of the city, staring at baby white turnips and willing them with all my might to suddenly rematerialize as baby white radishes.

In the end we settled for turnips and a subtle change in menu wording. As I lunged back to the north side, I realized I was suddenly grateful for the collective vegetable ignorance of the pedestrian traffic I dodged – these people would hardly recognize a baby Nave radish, let alone be able to distinguish it from a baby turnip! Desperate city-wide vegetable searching is hardly the interdependent image people celebrate when they promote farm-to-table dining. But Tuesday’s radish race certainly forced me to think more seriously about the challenge of creating Michelin star plates with an unpredictable market basket.

Fish are Friends ... and Food

I’ve written about whole vegetables, whole prawns, even the whole parts of pudding. I have yet to write about whole Irish fish. At Chapter One we only receive whole, head-on fish. We do this first and foremost because it is cheaper, but there are several smaller perks to dealing in whole fish: you can portion fillets more specifically; you can use the bones for fish stocks; you can dry skins and turn them into fish “salts;” and you can use fish trimmings for a fantastic staff meal of fish pie. I look forward to whole fish arrivals because I have begun to personify each variety. So without further ado, let me introduce a few of my new fish friends…
Monkfish
There is no hiding a monkfish when he comes to your door. These bottom-dwellers can weigh up to 100 lbs. We usually receive small varieties – only 20-30 lbs each! – but even a small monkfish will require the better part of a stainless steel counter top to clean and fillet. You can almost feel their wet, oozing flesh at the sound of their huge bodies (mostly head) being slapped up onto the counter. Brown and warty, whiskers popping out in all directions, the unsightly under-bite of a monkfish face is unforgettable. Their heads are so large, they actually hide small fillets inside their cheek bones. Monkfish fillets are narrow strips of very thick flesh. Almost gelatinous in texture and very bland in flavor, we cook our fillets in airtight bags with butter, thyme and small strips of smoked bacon trim. We place these flavorful pouches in a hot water bath letting the flesh tenderize in the fat, soaking up flavor and taking on a more palatable texture. When a monkfish is ordered, we’ll bust open a pouch and throw the fillet on the fish grill for some color before its final plate appearance.
Cod
Common along most of Ireland’s coast, cod mystifies me because it almost always available and yet never taken for granted among Irish consumers. Even at a Chipper stall, the Cod Meal will often cost two or three euro more than say, Haddock or Hake. Higher winter prices may reflect consumer demand, but they may also reflect the labor-intensive reality of “shore fishing” – the primary means of harvesting winter cod. Inexplicable pricing aside, there is nothing mystifying about the popularity of a fresh fillet of Cod. It is absolutely lovely. Unlike the almost mealy flesh of the “Scrod” or “Whitefish” that you might receive as “Cod” in the United States, a fillet of wild Irish Cod is a foot of tender white turf. Perfectly lubricated by natural fish oils, each light bite slides away from the next at the touch of your fork. To cook cod perfectly is to cook undetectably.

John Dory
Dory are deep sea fish and their arrival in the kitchen often feels like a visit from leaders of an exotic foreign tribe. There is nothing impressive about the size of a dory. It is more his ferocious appearance that leads even veteran cooks to waiver with their knives. Clothed in militant camouflage, the perimeter of his body is lined with thin spikes and there are giant spines protruding from his dorsal fin. He has microscopic sharp scales on the lower portion of his body and a large spot on one side that appears to be a yellow eye in the deep dark waters. Hunted only by desperately hungry sharks, dory are rigorous predators. I have been performing last rites for his various victims for weeks now. Small sardines, cuttlefish, even the occasional baby squid – I have found them all in the process of filleting dory. John Dory may be a brute when he arrives, but he becomes downright docile on the plate. Three thin fillets of meek white flesh delicately piled on creamy slices of braised Jerusalem artichoke.

And, of course, Salmon
When people imagine “fish” in a non-specific, Platonic sort of way, I think they are generally picturing salmon. These fish are aesthetically unparalleled in beauty. Their skin is a silver shine, nuanced by every hue in the rainbow. They are long, lean and balanced with fins in all the appropriate places. And when you cut them open, their flesh is a brilliant coral, sparkling with flavorful fish oils. Everyone knows when they come to Ireland that the wild-caught salmon may be the best in the world. In Ireland, however, you will be hard-pressed to find salmon in fillet form on a dining menu. Salmon is cured, smoked, and served in every kind of eating establishment, but it is rarely given as a grilled or braised fish “steak” like we do in the United States. At Chapter One we clean, fillet and cure two sides of salmon every day and I never grow weary of the show.

Salmon Gravlax, Chapter One
In a large stock pot bring to a boil:
2-2.5 K water
2 T white wine vinegar
200 g rock salt (sea salt)
800 g sugar
40 g black peppercorns
20 g star anise
10 cloves
2 bunches coriander (cilantro in the U.S.)

Remove from heat and add 2 bulbs of fennel, finely sliced.
Let mixture infuse and cool to room temperature.
Pour part of mixture into a large rectangular pan, lay in salmon side, and pour remaining mixture over salmon (flesh side up). Cover with plastic film. Let salmon marinate in refrigerator for 18 hours. Uncover salmon, remove from marinade and let dry (uncovered) for 24 hours.

Slice very thinly against the grain and serve with crackers, capers, crème fraiche, brown bread … you name it!

A Contrite Cook

Work ethic is about more than hard work. I am often tempted to equate good work to the sum average of many days of hard work -- some brilliant, some not so brilliant. This might be a winning strategy if you are cycling in the Tour de France or displaying a portfolio of black and white photographs, but when it comes to mediocre work in the kitchen … more is definitely less.

The problem with being good “on average” in a restaurant kitchen is probably apparent. While you, as a cook, may be aware of your batting average on, say, the Arctic Char dish; each diner’s experience of your Arctic Char performance is limited to one “at-bat.” And chances are that the diners are not comparing notes at the end of each evening to calculate the mean average of your performances that night. They only care about their particular dinner. Thus, you must be excellent every time to be excellent at all.

I discovered this more personally when I came in Tuesday morning to find my coworkers, at great cost to their personal prep time, redoing some of my mediocre work from the day before. I often come in on Mondays when the restaurant is closed and help get a head start on the week’s preparation. I’ll peel hundreds of potatoes, pick and wash large crates of spinach leaves, grate cheese, peel and slice onions and a list of other relatively simple kitchen tasks. The goal is to make light work for the Tuesday morning staff so that when they arrive for lunch preparations, they are not starting from scratch. Sometimes, however, when I am peeling the 176th potato, alone in a quiet kitchen, after a short weekend, my eyes begin to glaze over and I lose my Michelin perspective. I revert back to childhood chore mode and begin racing through my list, failing to connect each vegetable with its place on a finished dinner plate.

Watching Mark re-peel and trim the baby carrots that I had, in theory, peeled and trimmed on Monday, I was totally humiliated. I was that stagier! The one whose efforts to help really just make more work for the team. I felt awful and I was convinced I could see resentment in my coworkers’ eyes. Even in this moment of contrition, however, I really didn’t care about the carrots. I slid over sheepishly to apologize for my shoddy work the day before, hoping that at least my perceptiveness might salvage a little of my reputation (sum average mentality, again!) But Mark’s reaction said it all:
“Don’t be silly,” He said. “Sorry doesn’t do much good at this point. The whole reason you come in on Monday is so that I can come in on Tuesday, take these carrots, blanch them and put them on a plate. But would you put this carrot on a plate?” And he held up a small mangled baby carrot, bits of peel and carrot hair still clinging on for dear life. “I mean surely you can see this isn’t even properly peeled.” The death blow. I could surely see. And I answered quietly, “You’re right Mark, I would never put that on a plate.” He smiled kindly, “Just do it right the first time, yeah?”

Mark is my peer. A mere 25 years old, He is witty and cheerful. He is never flustered and certainly never angry over a silly stagier. Mark embodies good work. Of the 212 baby carrots he would plate that day, not one would slip by his hands without a loving trim, perfect blanch, and finishing glaze.

Last Days

Restaurants are places of regular upheaval. You might imagine that the constant demand for consistently excellent service and food would require a rather static body of highly trained personal. And, indeed, that reality might be a restaurateur’s fantasy. However, culinary art remains a creative field filled with high individualistic, transient folk – cooks come and cooks go. Chapter One, like other intensely seasonal venues of similar caliber, tends to have an even greater amount of turnover. Cooks might come for brief intervals like a particular growing season or just to learn some highly specialized skills.

Friday was Luke’s last day. He is going to Brazil, mostly for travel but maybe to work a bit if something crops up. In the morning we crowded round him to see mobile phone images of his dinner at Mint, another Michelin starred venue in Dublin. Cathal, our Chef de Cuisine, had spent his first shift off in weeks treating Luke to dinner the night before. What did you eat? What did he say? Are you coming back? We pelted Luke with questions throughout morning prep. Luke was nonchalant about the whole affair, “Cathal wants me to come back but I told him I want London. He said to choose cooking over impressive restaurant credentials, but I want to get thrown in the shit a bit first – crank out covers and get my ass kicked, ye know!” Luke is 25 and one year out of culinary college. His answer is exactly what I would have expected.

The night unfolded like a countdown. Every ticket was “Luke’s last Charcuterie plate” or “Luke’s last order of Goat’s Cheese.” He wrote down recipes, inventory lists, Facebook names, and “must-see” attractions in Brazil. When the last orders were sent out, everyone held their breath to hear what Ross would say … does he realize it is Luke’s last night? Will he acknowledge it? Like every night, Ross folded his kitchen towel, took his water glass to the dish sink and began to leave the kitchen. He paused and pivoted at the back step, “Good luck, Luke. Thank you for all your hard work. Enjoy yourself in Brazil – get as many [girls] as ye can … well, maybe let the first couple go by!” And then, still chuckling to himself, “See you lads tomorrow.”

Thursday was Marianne’s last day. She is returning home to France to work in a smaller kitchen where she hopes to finally move up the ladder a bit. Two weeks ago Marianne almost lost her job at Chapter One and instead she settled for leaving voluntarily. It is hard to say why Ross was dissatisfied with Marianne’s performance. In the end I think communication gaps were the main obstacle. If Luke’s departure was reminiscent of a Round Table knighting, Marianne might have been swimming the moat in the middle of the night. She had asked to leave by February 13th in order to clear her apartment and save a 700 euro deposit. Chapter One scheduled her to work through the 14th and then asked her to stay until the 21st to help train the new cook. She said no, “it is impossible.” They said you must, “it is in your contract.” She never showed up for work.

Marianne was my friend and I may have been the only one who knew the complexity of her situation, but I doubt her send off would have been much better, no matter how long she worked at Chapter One. It is unnecessary to account for the disparities between Luke’s last days and Marianne’s last days. We’ve all known this reality in the workplace. I am only glad that Marianne and I enjoyed a proper goodbye. And thanks to her kindness I now have a brilliant French peeler and a place to stay when I visit Bordeaux.

Peeling Prawns

Every once and a while, an event occurs in the kitchen which seems to capture the attention of the whole staff. Perhaps the quiet silence is broken by the offensive clatter of falling hotel pans – this is often when Brian the butcher flies out of the back room with too much in his hands. Perhaps the pastry chef drops off a pot of fresh chocolate trimmings at the dish sink! Perhaps Ross has brought a special guest (maybe even a celebrity!) behind the scenes. Plausible scenarios are plenteous.

Today’s event occurred around the mind-numbing task of peeling prawns. I have written before about the massive nature of a “prawn delivery.” They only seem to arrive 4...5…sometimes 6 crates at a time! When the big bins filled with squirming plastic blue bags arrive there is a collective eyebrow raising and no one makes eye-contact with the sous chef for about 10 to 15 minutes. (Somehow they have all been duped into thinking this is the strategy for escaping prawn duty.) I, however, have no hope! “Prawn peeler” may as well be listed in my formal job description here and it will certainly hold some place of subtle prestige in my future resume.

So at about 4:30 PM I set my hands to the ruthless task of ripping heads and pinching claws off the crisp pink tails, still flexing with life.

Each blue bag hosts about four Kilograms of piled prawns. Distinguishing prawn heads from prawn tails from an entirely non-prawn species of crustacean is virtually impossible until you start picking your way through the pile. My first discovery was a small starfish…”Ha!” I thought. “Poor little guy -- definitely in the wrong place at the wrong time.” Not a minute later I flung a live baby crab into a nearby plastic bin and marveled as the little blue fellow started scurrying around. As the moments wore on, I began accumulating quite the aquarium of miniature bay-bottom friends … five starfish, two baby lemon sole, two baby haddock, a few baby crustacean too small to kill, three crabs, some green prawn roe and one long, skinny mystery fish with googley eyes and tiny grey teeth. I decided he was a baby eel.

Peeling in the back, I began debating whether or not to show off my new collection of sea creatures to the other lads. My debate was cut short when Hugo, our French pastry chef, shot into the back room to grab a sheet of parchment. “What you have here? These have soft shells, no?” And grabbing one of the baby crabs, he began waving his hands proclaiming, “You know these crabs? You eat the shell … so f*cking lovely!”* A few moments later a small group arrived, anxious to blend sauces, shop shallots and finish a variety of small tasks for service. I held out my tray of sea friends proudly and offered them the dinner special – Seafood Pupu Platter. Josh peered into my bin, exclaimed, “Deadly!” and came running back with his mobile phone camera moments later. Sous chef Peter was a bit more subdued, “Yeh, you’d have yourself a nice little meal there … in about three years time.” Mark lined up the crabs and tried to get them racing and Aaron suggested we call Mourne Seafood and see if they wanted to charge us for the “extras.”

All throughout the evening members of the staff popped their heads in to view my aquarium, making the mundane a definite memory.

*For the record, these were not soft shell crabs, but I agree, those are quite lovely.