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.

On Trial

Not infrequently, the daily doings of the kitchen are enhanced by the unfolding drama of a potential new cook on trial. When a restaurant is looking to hire new staff, the common practice is to have candidates come “trail” behind the current kitchen staff so that chefs can observe various things about his work ethic and skills. At Chapter One, I have heard our chef, Ross, explain that he is looking for a diligent work ethic, an attention to detail and intellectual aptitude. After that, Chapter One patiently invests an enormous amount of time into training and teaching their cooks. It is not uncommon for a cook to spend six weeks just getting acclimated to the pace, techniques and standards of this environment.

There is no set program for a trailing cook. In one moment they may be expected to complete simple prep tasks like scaling fish or peeling vegetables, and the next moment they may be replicating plated dishes. Trailing cooks are expected to accomplish tasks independently to the best of their ability and yet, no staff member is going to watch a candidate flounder or fail – it is still a working restaurant after all! Trailing often thrusts cooks into an exhausting sort of limbo. Slaving ‘round the clock at the mercy of the chef, they are torn between the desire to be sent home to rest and the deeper desire to be invited back tomorrow. The darkness of the future may not even sink in, however, because trailing cooks are also inundated with new flavors, tools and techniques. Desperately jotting down recipes, frantically memorizing the bottles and bins of a station’s mis en place, they may not even remember that they are being observed. Some cooks, for better or worse, can be evaluated in one day. Others may require a week for a fair trial. Whether one day or several days, I think the experience brings nearly every cook to his knees. When the verdict finally arrives, I imagine it either feels like deserved dismissal or the mercy of a benevolent chef judge.

For the last couple weeks, Chapter One has had a few cooks trailing in our kitchen and no matter how busy you are with your own work, it is impossible not to have one eye on the “new guys.” Sometimes, however, watching the new guy is more like witnessing a hanging. Last night, for example, it could only have been morbid curiosity that kept me glued to the following scene:

An experienced young cook – one more victim of the recent recession- had been laid off from his sous chef position at the Four Seasons Hotel and came looking for work. Chapter One had given him a week to trail in the Cold Starter section – a bit of a step down for someone of his experience, but potentially enjoyable none-the-less. While I helped prepare hot starters, I watched as this lad scrambled to keep his space tidy, posting his tickets with a panicked expression. When a ticket for “Charcuterie” came through, he frantically slapped a terrine of foi gras onto his cutting board. For the next five minutes (an eternity in kitchen time) he desperately willed his shaking hands to cut a perfect, right angle slice from the crooked terrine sitting on his chopping block. After the third failed attempt, I became conscious of the grimace on my face. It was all I could do to keep from crying, “Line it up, man! All the guidelines are already there: straight counter, straight cutting board, straight knife blade – just line it up and press down!” But no amount of compassion on my part was going to bridge the gap in sense for this chap. Really nice guy … really not going to make it at Chapter One.

I’ve watched the unfolding drama of potential new cooks on trial with intense personal interest. This is what I have to look forward to in the not-so-distant future! Hopefully I will remember the following advice to trailing cooks: You are still cooking for real people in a real restaurant! Beautiful cooking has never been motivated by fear. It will always be about putting yourself in the seat of the diner and making every plate the plate you would want to be given.

How busy is busy enough?

Busy defines the life of a kitchen in countless ways. There is the busy of cooks flying about grabbing boards and wielding knives. There is the busy of fish deliveries pouring in the back gate almost faster than they can be fabricated and put away. There is the busy of tickets scrunching up out of the ticket machine, one right after another. There is the busy of servers rushing in and out of the swinging kitchen doors. There is the busy of porters scrubbing and sanitizing before and after every service. There is the quiet busy of Mondays spent preparing for the busy week ahead. There are long, late, busy nights and 60 hour work weeks. And behind the visible buzz of the kitchen, there is a busy that keeps the whole operation afloat. There are lists of calls to be made to purveyors, piles of order sheets to be filled, files of bills to be paid, equipment waiting for repair and workmen waiting to be scheduled. There are benefits, charities, interviews and awards. There is the incessant ring of the blue reservation phone pleading for a weekend table.

If ever there were a dull instant for self-doubt, you might imagine weary souls questioning, "How busy is too busy?"

In reality, however, no one at Chapter One ever regrets the whirlwind of work. If they have any energy left to lay awake at night, they probably wonder: "Are we busy enough?" They know that on a restaurant spectrum of business, there is but a thread between "success" and "snowed under." Success can be measured in volume of diners – how many seats you have and how often they are booked. Chapter One books every seat every night and almost every lunch. When we are succeeding, there is no remarkable difference in the kitchen between a weeknight evening and a weekend evening.

Success is also estimated in product turnover. How often must food come into your kitchen and how quickly is it sold out again? Chapter One has very minimal space for storage: one large cold room and refrigerator, three narrow freezers, one large freezer chest for special deliveries (like the whole suckling pig that is there now!) and drawers on the line that hold trimmed and filleted fish, beef and poultry. Produce and proteins that enter our kitchen have a life span of one to two days before they are presented on a plate. We are fortunate to see our purveyors almost daily.

At the end of each day, success is the margin of profit that lies between the cost of each plate and the price of each plate. I think there is a widespread myth that fine dining restaurants are largely over-priced for what they offer. It is an interesting accusation because, like every venue of cultural capital, it is difficult to put a price on human effort and artistry. But if we were to analyze restaurant prices simply based upon ingredient cost, I think many people would be shocked at how expensive it is to make a very fine meal. At Chapter One, we have in our pantry a small bin of "truffle products" – things like truffle infused oils and honey. These products come in very small quantities for very high prices. We might pay 14 euro for four ounces of truffle honey and we will use almost the entire four ounces for two small quarts of ice cream. At that price, we must sell six orders of the "Olive oil and nutmeg tart, dried banana, truffled honey ice-cream and toffee sauce" before we even break even on the price of the honey! In general, fine food equals a very fine margin of profit.

When I began my stage, Cathal, our Chef de Cuisine, warned me that the pace of his kitchen was a bit like standing in a stream trying to focus on the water as it runs by. "People can be overwhelmed and exhausted by the business, but my hope is that you'll see how busy you have to be to stay successful."

A Frustrated Frenchman

Having never worked in a formal pastry kitchen before, my "wow" threshold is quite low. To me, the pastry program at Chapter One is exactly what you would want for maintaining a single Michelin star. It is straightforward but precise and enjoyable. There are four house-made breads – all quite yummy. Dessert concepts are simple – panna cotta, fruit fondant, mousse, etc. – each armed with a flavorful house-made ice cream and memorable tuille. The cheeses on the cheese plate are local and lovely. We even make whisky truffles, salted caramels, nougats and macaroons to conclude every diner's evening. I left my first shift in the station quite impressed.

But on day two of my pastry stint, I was working alongside, Hugo, the recently hired French Pastry Chef. Hugo is a bit, shall we say, over-qualified for his job. When he is not there, having breads ready for service, tarts in the oven, garnishes exact and plates executed with precision seems like a stretch and involves a flurry of activity. I feel like my support is essential and I wonder what was happening before there was a stage. When Hugo is there, these same tasks are executed almost effortlessly. I become Hugo's personal assistant and instead of providing essential support, I am helping execute a million little side projects – caramel soufflés, transparent tuiles, rum sauces and the list goes on. Hugo is on a mission to draw Chef into a more contemporary era of pastry and the ideas are unrelenting!

You might think that this would create chaos in our little pastry kitchen, but Hugo is able to crank out the business of our pastry program practically from his pinky. Sometimes I am honestly caught with a half open mouth, staring motionless while Hugo waves his hands around a plate creating little dots of condensed milk surrounding a chocolate macaroon supporting five petals of chocolate mousse, bits of pistachio brittle, a hooped tuile and a quenelle of pistachio ice cream. Picture gorgeous globes of brown, tan and green piled on a wide, round white plate. And then, just as suddenly, Hugo shouts, "Service!" a waiter snatches up the magic and I am back zesting limes.

When Hugo is not whirling up a dessert plate or crouched over some new concept, he is usually pacing the short block of the pastry line waving his hands muttering profanities and complaints…in French. In school you learn the basics of baking and pastry science – the applications of heat and the importance of precision. In many restaurants you learn why breads and desserts are often brought in from the outside – it takes devoted time and space to make things in-house. In a good pastry kitchen you constructively fabricate all the parts of a lovely dessert plate – learning the systems and strategy for execution. But Hugo's frustration revealed to me that there is a level beyond good --a devotion to artistry and experimentation that is mostly about personal passion.

How 'bout a scream for ice cream?!

Recently I made a startling and, I believe, tragic discovery. I was talking to a small group of friends and happened to describe a feeling of satisfaction with the following analogy: “it was almost as satisfying as homemade ice cream.” But instead of a collective sigh signifying, “oh yes, making ice cream at home - one of my best childhood memories;” my analogy was met with blank stares. And one brave soul actually piped, “Can you make ice cream at home?” I was a little stunned and, upon later reflection, devastated. It is possible that a generation is coming, yea even at hand, that does not know the ice- crunching whirr of an electric ice cream machine happily churning in your garage (much less the hand-cranked one my grandparents had). They have never ventured out on a Saturday night with Dad to buy ice and salt from the hardware store. They have never swallowed whole broccoli florets in the race to attack silky, vanilla custard waiting just outside the kitchen. They have never… truly lived!

It was in this state of cultural emergency that I encountered the greatest challenge of my culinary career last night. For the last few days I have been working and learning in the pastry kitchen and yesterday I walked into work as a small pastry catastrophe was developing. The little freezer in our kitchen had broken overnight and all of our ice creams were melting. It was Saturday so there were no stores of back-up ice cream in the freezer, and melty or re-frozen ice cream is not o.k. for Michelin starred desserts. Seven of our eight dessert items have an ice cream component on the plate. Each week, Chapter One makes six different ice creams … and now at 4 P.M. on Saturday, we were going to try and churn all of them before service! The mission was clear: one person would execute the dessert orders with what little ice cream we had salvaged; the other would crank out new ice cream and pray. After two days in the pastry kitchen I was obviously not going to be executing the dessert plates … so I took a deep breath and started cracking eggs.

Perfect ice cream is like the perfect omelet – profoundly simple and profoundly difficult all at the same time. Every ice cream begins with a simple custard sauce called Crème Anglaise. To make the custard you simply heat cream (and/or milk) with whatever flavoring agent you desire and whisk it into egg yolks and sugar. You re-heat the whole mixture and when it is thick and silky you have a sauce you can cool and churn into ice cream. Simple enough, right? The problem is that at every stage of this “simple” process there are dozens of potential deal-breakers. Perhaps your milk begins to stick to the bottom of the pot while it heats – ruined; perhaps you don’t whisk your sugar and eggs right away and your sugar crystallizes – ruined; perhaps you try to thicken your cream and egg mixture too quickly and you end up with creamy scrambled eggs – ruined. The pitfalls are numerous and most of them I know from personal experience.

Fortunately there was no time to dwell on my spotty crème anglaise track record. Under the watchful eye of “Hugo” our French pastry chef, I cut my teeth on vanilla ice cream. And despite the bullets of sweat on my forehead, it was the best damn custard I’ve ever produced! No scalded milk, no cooked eggs, nothing but vanilla bean pods was left in my strainer! Emboldened by this minor miracle and Hugo’s grunt of approval, I scurried off to cool my custard and start the cinnamon ice cream. I worked straight through service, cracking eggs, infusing milk, whisking sugar and straining batch after batch of perfect custard. When diners walked in to see one of Dublin’s Michelin kitchens they were watching me make Michelin ice cream! I was a self-proclaimed celebrity all night long. Best of all, I had, at the end of the night, six new fantastic ice cream recipes under my belt and you can be sure, I will be making them at home one day soon.

Chapter One Vanilla Bean Ice Cream

2 L milk infused with….
14 Vanilla Beans, split and scraped
5 coffee beans, crushed
24 egg yolks
400 g sugar
1 L cream stir into thickened custard at the end

If you are an ice cream-making aficionado you may appreciate these tips I picked up:
1. Start infusing your milk right away. Keep a low temperature so your milk doesn’t scald on the bottom of the pan and cover the pot with cling wrap when you see steam rising. Then begin assembling your other ingredients and all necessary equipment. The longer the milk has to infuse, the better.
2. Whisk your sugar into your eggs so that the sugar and eggs never sit … this keeps the sugar from crystallizing and stabilizes your eggs so they won’t cook when the hot milk hits them.
3. Keep a thermometer handy. Apparently, measuring the thickness of custard by the way it coats the back of a wooden spoon is very “old school.” The custard is done when it reaches 180*F or 82*C, period.
4. Wait and add your cream to the finished custard – adding the cream at the end enhances the velvet texture of the final product and helps to protect your custard from over-churning.

Crustacean Connection

In the heat of service, the limited space of the kitchen occasionally displaces two people – the superfluous stagier and, when Ross is actively working, the Chef de Cuisine. We find ourselves relegated to the back kitchen either bailing out under-prepped cooks (most often me) or getting an edge on the next day’s work (most often Cathal). In these quiet moments of business, I have had numerous opportunities to ask Cathal some of my “nonessential” questions.

Last night while I was slicing and shaping baby potatoes, an after-hours shipment of John Dory arrived and I was able to witness in “real time” the value of local purveyor connections. When the shipment arrived, Cathal was busy shelling four crates of fresh Dublin Bay prawns. Crustacean lovers in the States will know that these prawns are a rather exclusive commodity. And yet here I was literally surrounded by their shells. Earlier, I had risked idiocy and asked Cathal if prawns, like other fish, had a season. Peeling the little beasts out of their crisp orange skins, Cathal explained that prawns are regularly available in the shallower bay waters around the Irish coast. Because, however, they are the business of small boat fishermen on day trips, they become almost impossible to procure when the weather is bad. If small boat fishermen see bad weather or a bad forecast, they will not even venture the trip. When the weather is mild, prawns can be as cheap as 8 euro per kilo, but when the waters get treacherous, prawn prices may double overnight. Having a purveyor tipoff is crucial if you want to capitalize on the brief and irregular prawn “seasons.”

And now here we were with crates of prawns stacked in the kitchen and crates of Dory marching into the cooler. Clearly, we had a purveyor connection. This became my next line of probing. “So Cathal,” I queried, “Are you out there with every other chef just looking for the best market price, or do you have a go-to ‘fish guy’ at this point?” There must have been some subconscious strategy in my choice of words, because Cathal was quick to distinguish himself from “every other chef,” explaining his fish connection in depth. Brian is a personal friend of his, based nearby in Howth. Over the years Cathal has grown familiar with Dublin tastes and knows which fish he can really move off the menu. “Dory sells, turbot sells, bass … scallops … prawns – I can hardly get them in fast enough.”

As a friend, Brian will call Chapter One first, offering a decent price for the largest portion of his catch. And in return, we offer Brian security and reputation. He knows that if (like today) he gets in an abnormally large catch of Dory, he can ring Cathal and still get a decent price for the extra fish. He also knows that when he tells his other customers “Oh I sold 4 kilos of Dory to Chapter One the other day,” he will soon be selling Dory to three or four other restaurants as well. I couldn’t imagine a more mutually beneficial partnership!

As I moved in on Cathal’s prep counter to help scale Dory and pick prawns, I was freshly inspired. Me and these fish … we seemed “meant for each other.”

How many suits to serve a table?

Though I have yet to spend an extended amount of time in the dining room at Chapter One, I have grown familiar with the hub of routines surrounding our first class service. I never grow tired of passing through the portaled wooden door, leaving behind the hurried swing of the kitchen and stepping into the hushed waltz of the diner’s world. The contrast is striking!

Part of what makes service at Chapter One so excellent is the sheer volume of staff involved in the operation. At every given moment there is an army of polished looking men and women holistically devoted to anticipating and meeting the needs of guests. Upon arrival, you are met by Martin and Declan – our owner / maître‘d team – appropriately outfitted in pinstripes and flamboyant ties. Old guest or new guest, Martin and Declan will ensure that you feel like a regular. Anna takes your coat and escorts you to your table.

Once seated, you will be greeted by another suit -- this one a bit more subdued probably to inspire your confidence in his ability to safely walk you through the menu and dining experience. We in the kitchen know these suits as the “supervisors” who saunter in around 5 PM in street clothes, grabbing bits of fresh bread and coffee on their way to the locker room. All night they will spring in and out of the kitchen competing for small favors and contending for the special needs of their particular tables.

At some point in your meal, you will meet Eoghan, our Sommelier. He jingles about the premises with keys to our wine cellar and dry spirits storage room. Eoghan is very good at pampering. He is also very good at subtly selling expensive bottles of wine. On marinade-making days, Eoghan will arrive in our prep kitchen with a large crate of red wine, Madeira and Guinness. Though we are never invited to taste our delivery from one of Eoghan’s glass tasting goblets, we still feel pampered – he is very good.

When the important decisions have been made and all food orders placed, a small militia of tuxedo vests will begin descending upon your table. Fresh breads, small plates of butter, charcuterie and other amuses…they will clear dishes, bring dishes; clear glasses, bring glasses; swap silverware; refold napkins, and deliver food throughout your entire visit. If you linger in your glance about the room, they will likely breeze over and ensure you are still “O.K.” The tuxedo vests arrive at 3 PM (10 AM for lunch) and much of their time is spent fluttering around the kitchen before service. They will hand wipe every piece of china. They will hand polish every piece of sterling silver – serving trays, sauce dishes and utensils. They will slice bread loaves and fill bread baskets. They will fold napkins and polish glasses. Perhaps their most significant duty is the 5 o’clock “Coffee Service.” The entire kitchen staff waits eagerly for “Mima,” an adorable Italian tuxedo vest, to bring round the silver tray of cappuccinos and coffee. She never forgets anyone’s favorite order. Not even Josh, to whom she lovingly delivers, “Chocolate [hot] for the baby!” The tuxedo vests are the kitchen’s most immediate connection to the outside world – all night they scurry in and out with the play-by-play of evening service. We love their dose of perspective.

In a staff of 40, only about 12 to 15 are actually employed in kitchen duties. One might be tempted to ask, “How many suits does it take to serve a table?” But I would wager, that the equation has been worked out with precision – guaranteeing that every guest knows “gratuity” when their final bill arrives.

Comrades in the Kitchen

I am a day away from the two week mark and my co-workers still seemed surprised to see me – the crazy American girl who works extended shifts for NO PAY! It took me several shifts to realize that stages in Ireland are typically paid stipend salaries and work abridged hours. No wonder Chapter One was so warm in welcoming me! I make this observation without a trace of bitterness because, honestly, I absolutely adore my role at the restaurant … each day I hop down the stairs of my apartment building, walk the half block to Chapter One's alley entrance, buzz once, clip down the metal stairs and bust in the back kitchen door to the following chorus: "Hiya Kate! Are ya in today? How long will you be here? Ah grand….eh can you get on those celeriac and beet roots right away. Cheers! Whew, it's totally brilliant you're here …" Now seriously, who has never dreamed of being the hero at work … every day! If I could figure out a way to sustain this role financially I might have found my calling.

It would be all too easy to take this happy "sur-reality" for granted, but I believe there are several specifics that make this kitchen such a pleasant place to work. At Chapter One there is a noticeable absence of griping, prickish hazing and needless competition – the common features of kitchen life. Some kitchens escape these realities because the cooks come and go too frequently to really interact. Other kitchens operate on the basis of fear – every cook revolving around a common axis of intimidation. Here, however, the camaraderie is genuine and I think it is because most of the cooks actually appreciate their job. I have been humbled by the impressive credentials floating around the various stations of our little kitchen. Mark, for example, is an easily underestimated garnish cook, yet within the last 5 years he was a sous chef at Nobu in London and helped open Nobu Australia! I am inspired by the aspirations of the younger cooks my own age. Josh is 21 as of yesterday and hopes, quite sincerely, to work at both Alinea and The French Laundry within the next 10 years. He has already arranged for himself a 1 month stage at WD-50 this summer. I've no doubt he'll meet his goal!

In the United States I think we tend to take high caliber restaurants for granted. Young culinary professionals sometimes float from one "starred" restaurant to another looking for little more than a line on their resume. When you are working at a "starred" restaurant in a city with only six Michelin-rated venues, the perspective seems different. I think these cooks are either satisfied to be working in the heights of great cooking in Ireland, or they are confidently expectant about future career moves, knowing they are already Ireland's best and brightest. I overheard the sous chef telling a potential new teammate, "The expectations are enormously high here." But he wasn't cocky or complaining. He was absorbed in blending a black pudding, and his tone was quiet with reverence. The high expectations have become a standard for mutual respect and inspiration. Cooks don't "prove" themselves; they absorb and then perpetuate the atmosphere of excellence.

On Paring Produce

When I packed up my apartment this winter and moved into indefinite storage, I was rather ashamed of how filthy my refrigerator had become in one short year of life. As I scrubbed on my hands and knees, I tried to fathom how in the world there could be almost a quarter inch of mud in some of my produce drawers … and then it dawned on me … the veggies themselves were the culprit! Those lovely roots, tubers, and lettuces trucked in from Don Kretschmann's farm brought a handsome fistful of dirt each week as well.
Few of us will ever experience the dirt of whole foods here in the United States. We are more accustomed to produce already cleaned, clipped and sanitized into small packages. Most restaurant cooks never see the crates of spinach leaves still glistening, ribbed and muddy from the field either. Among many restaurants in the United States, "fresh produce" just means the "Sysco" truck comes every day instead of every week. The coolers are stocked with pre-washed bags of mixed greens; peeled and trimmed shallots, naked garlic cloves already stripped from their bulbous home, pre- shredded carrots and cabbage, grape and cherry tomatoes clipped from their stems and packed into convenient little crates.
While there are still restaurants dedicated to receiving raw, whole produce, I have been surprised at how many of these establishments also employ a team of immigrant workers to transform the jungle of crates into a sanitized version of produce most cooks are comfortable with cooking – a small in-house Sysco operation, if you will.

The jab of this little polemic is really aimed at my own self and aspiring culinary professionals like myself. We have embraced this system, likely out of apathy and ignorance more than anything else. Here, in the small back kitchen at Chapter One however, I have fallen in love with the artisanal butchery most produce undergoes on its journey to the plate. Each morning my paring knife and I...
…delicately pull back the damp and dirty layers of skin around crates of baby onions, revealing pearls of virgin white; ….plunge with sacred awe into the flesh of rough, green artichokes digging out their tender hearts; …. rip and rinse wide leaves of spinach, reveling in the sweet crunch of the ribs I've reserved to munch.
These are the tasks many cooks see as entry level obstacles to be hurdled on their path to the "heat." But here, at Chapter One, no cook ever graduates from trimming produce. And it may be my imagination, but I believe it is reflected in the cooking. There is a delicacy and intimacy to each dish that is downright relational!

Blood Pudding: the Real Story.

Nearly every other person in the United States descends from a European nation. And nearly every other person in the United States has some culinary heritage that also descends from a European nation. Any yet somehow the waves of Europeans and European food have never managed to bring "pudding" across the Atlantic. I realize we have an infinite variety of instant, fruit, Jello, sweet puddings. But I am speaking of the artisanal peasant forcemeat tradition. Many Americans believe that pudding is simply the odd, black disk on the side of their "Irish" or "English" breakfast plate that may or may not be edible. A fun experiment is to travel around the UK and eaves drop on American tourists eating the full complimentary breakfast that usually comes with a hotel or inn room. I've heard some confuse the black disc with "haggis" or beef innards or even oatmeal colored with pig's blood. Actually, this last interpretation is not far off.

Pudding, much like sausage, is a forcemeat historically made up of pig trimmings (the bits left after a hog is butchered for resale or finer dining), additional fat, and small garnishes usually some cured bits of "nicer pork." The pudding tradition was born out of necessity. Peasant butchers all over rural Europe and the U.K. saved every bit of hog that they couldn't sell and made something savory to share with family and friends. Romantically, I believe that this is why the tradition is so delicious – any food artisan knows you spend the most energy on that which you'll serve to your family! Some may at this point be wondering where in that process the dark black color comes to be and indeed, not all pudding is dark colored – there is a rich tradition of White Pudding as well. Black, or Blood Pudding however is colored by pig's blood, a major part of the "trimmings" butchers had left over. Blood has been, historically, an important flavoring (and coloring) ingredient in sauces, soups, etc. and pig's blood has a wonderfully rich, almost smoky flavor.

In the era of mass breeding, disease, and antibiotics being pumped into our livestock, most hog blood is not what it once was. Present-day Ireland, like many other countries, has outlawed the harvesting and/or processing of domestic pig blood – a very large damper on an artisanal product defined by the color and flavor of pig blood.

Fortunately for me, and fortunately for pudding lovers, Ross Lewis joined other purveyors, culinarians and chefs organized to preserve traditional food crafts threatened by industrialized agricultural practices. Pudding is produced in nearby France from French hogs closely monitored by sanitation boards. It is also produced in Ireland using imported bull’s blood from Spain. Ross even whispered he has a few close country friends who still make the “real thing” for sharing. In recent years Ross has been the resident Irish expert for Euro toques and Slow Food on traditional foods like pudding. At Chapter One we are dedicated to pudding preservation! We produce our own White Pudding – a benchmark Ross Lewis recipe. We also buy artisanal black puddings from Ross’s friends and make them into a Boudin of puddings, veal sweetbreads, and prosciutto.
So to American friends of mine all across the United States: the next time you see that odd, black disc in the corner of your breakfast plate – eat with courage and enjoy the rich tastes of pork parts we get less frequently!

Chapter One’s “Gloucestershire Old Spot Pork White Pudding”
500 G foi gras
6 kG pork loin
1.5 kG prosciutto Llardo
600 G smoked bacon
8 eggs
80 G salt
15 slices white bread soaked in 1 L Irish cream

Foreign Flavors

When I first arrived at Chapter One I was a little disappointed and even a bit scandalized at the variety of exotic imports I saw lurking on produce shelves and dry storage racks. But I must be a quick convert because here I am, one week later, about to write a glowing entry on “the exotic flavors of a Michelin starred restaurant.” It is important to clarify that these imports don’t really compromise the integrity of Chapter One’s local ethic, because they are never the centerpiece of a plate. They play supporting roles or, in the case of the Terrine of Foi Gras on our charcuterie trolley, they make a “cameo” appearance. So, for example, our favorite Ardsdallagh goat cheese is served alongside a thin crouton of homemade onion bread and a Basques sauce made from red peppers roasted in-house and packed in oil for the winter. Dancing between the little towers of warm goat’s cheese and puddles of Basques, is a fine dark line of “olive oil.” We make this jet black oil ourselves from imported Moroccan olives we pit, dry out for days in a 200 degree oven, puree, and then pass through a fine mesh chinios. It is absolutely lovely – slightly tart, a punch of salt, sweet nut notes like the finish of a cashew – and it ties the whole plate together.
I have discovered that doing simple kitchen tasks is the best way to encounter all the “exotics.” So far, I have been in the right place at the right time to ….

Slice Iberco Ham for garnishing a pheasant breast dish. Iberco is a regional Spanish ham, dry cured and aged like Prosciutto in Italy. It is renowned for its delicate ribbons of marbleized fat. Regional pork purveyors slave over every raising condition to ensure the fat marble is perfect. Swiping extra little twizzles of Iberco, my taste buds prickled with each wave of salt -- imagine licking air off of the sea – and swooned with the sweet fat that melted over my tongue.

Pound out hand-churned butter from France. We import this butter in wood barrels so that the butter is still molded in its churn shape. Less than 2% of the butter is water content – this makes it perfect for laminated dough, or “puff pastry,” applications. The churn shape makes it easy to slice in large rounds for easy pounding (part of preparing it for the dough). If you’ve ever made ice cream at home, this butter tastes just like the bits of sweet, over-churned, semi-frozen

cream that stick to the sides and paddle of the machine. If you are a butter person, this one might tempt you to get out a spoon!

Zest Bergamot oranges. Most people know this exotic citrus more from its aroma than its taste. Bergamots are often used in French and Italian perfumes. This week we were sent a crate of Bergamot oranges as a gift and Ross decided to zest and juice them for longer and better storage. The Pastry cooks were giddy with ideas for sorbets, jellies, and tarts. I don’t blame them. I did most of my zesting with a small slice of Bergamot wedged between my teeth, convinced I was in some sunny Mediterranean land. Bergamot juice puckers tartly as it hits your tongue, reminds one of lemon pepper in the middle and swallows toasty sweet like a salted caramel. I’ve honestly never tasted anything like it.
I could go on for hours describing the hand-pressed hazelnut oil we drop into truffle nougat; the softened goose lard we use in our enriched yeast rolls, the parsley roots Ross’s neighbor brought by or the Muscatelle vinegar distilled from Muscatine grapes. A culinary novice, I’m happy to leave my locality every once and again to enjoy such inspiring tastes!

What to do with “trimmings.”

You know you are the stagier at a farm-to-table restaurant in Ireland when, in January, you find yourself eating roots and cabbage in some form every day of the week. Before I left, friends and family had mocked the idea of traveling to Ireland for culinary training. “What, did you want to learn how to boil cabbage and potatoes better?” The joke had become stale even before I boarded my plane!
And yet there I was today, at 3 PM, sitting around café tables with the rest of my team eating a fine chiffonade of blanched cabbage and onions; parsley smashed swede and potatoes; beef and carrot stew. I have a hard time imagining more “traditional” Irish fare. The thing is: It’s all we have. It is the dead of winter and we can hardly keep up with our cellars filled with roots, onions and cabbages. All day and night we slave away at turning these underappreciated vegetables into Michelin star dishes and sauces. When it comes to feeding ourselves … “Heck! We just plum tuckered out.”
Staff meal works on a “rota” system; Irish for “rotating schedule.” Each day a different station is responsible for preparing a meal for the entire restaurant staff in addition to the regular work. Some of the cooks embrace this task with more energy than others, but in the five days I’ve participated, I’ve never heard anyone complain about making it or complain about eating it. The good spirit about making and eating “staff meal” may be more remarkable than you think.
First, imagine yourself a busy cook in a VERY busy kitchen. Then envision walking into the cooler to find the makings of a meal for 40 hungry staff. Staring up at you are loads of lonely root vegetable trimmings, meat scraps and occasionally a tub or two of poultry bits. Hardly an inspiring start! And yet day after day our kitchen comes up with some edible, and I dare say, tasty variation on these same ingredients.
Tuesday: Whipped Swede and Herbs with Stew and Soda Bread
Wednesday: Chicken Legs and Thighs, Rice and Cabbage Slaw
Thursday: Roasted Beet Salad and Boulanger
And on and on…
My favorite meals are on the days when Jimmy, our token “oriental,” (the Irish are not very ethnically sensitive yet) makes the meal. He always has some wonderful Soy and Mirin take on cabbage and roots, not to mention he cooks the rice right! No matter who does the cooking, or what the concoction, I am always impressed at how gratefully everyone (chefs included) wolf down every last bit of “trimmings.”

Stalking a Stock

How often, after a truly brilliant meal, have you heard the comment, “Oh if only I could have his recipe….” followed by the sigh suggesting he or she actually believes that, given the right recipe, he or she could re-create the dish just enjoyed. It isn’t so much that I doubt the heartening idiom, “Anyone can Cook.” It’s more that I believe few people realize the depth of effort behind some of their favorite restaurant flavors. It was this belief that drove me today, to pull out my detective pad and pen in order to uncover the origins of some of Chapter One’s most popular dishes. Tuesday, after all, is “stock day,” the perfect day to begin stalking flavors.
To begin, let us define terms. Stock is a cook’s liquid. Stock is, in essence, flavored water. Any combination of fish, meat or poultry bones, vegetable scraps, herbs, and spices might be added to a pot of simmering water in order to produce a useful kitchen stock. In terms of origins, other than the raw ingredients themselves, there is no more basic flavor component in the kitchen than “stock.” Right, any questions?
When I walked into work today the stove tops were already covered with a hubbub of steaming pots. Fat ones, tall ones, even the monster stationary pot in the corner … all the pots were huffing over stock. Tuesday is one of the two fish delivery days each week, so the counters were covered with the scraps and skins of Wild Sea Bass, John Dory, Arctic Char, Hake and scallops. By 9:30 AM each of these bits of seafood had made its way into one of the huffing pots. No bit was wasted!
As I began my morning peeling and chopping, I also began subtly questioning my co-workers. “Eamonn, what is it you’ve got on there?” Eamonn: “That pot there? Oh yea, that’s the stock base for the Veronique … ya know, for the scallops.” AHA! Mental notes were frantically made, “Veronique sauce begins with scraps of cured ham hock, smoked bacon, celery, scallop cords, leeks, fennel, white wine and chicken stock.” Like a fantastic vintage port or sherry, it is not unusual for an especially flavorful stock to be “fortified” by chicken stock, or some other simpler stock. This particular flavor base is especially conniving because everyone knows scallops and pigs were meant for one another (think scallops wrapped in bacon!) Rather than introducing actual pork bits into the dish, this plate incorporates the perfect hint of pig through the sauce….genius!
A little later on I found myself slicing cucumbers near the hot starter station. I watched as Paul shelled dozens of freshly roasted chestnuts and plopped them into some bubbling liquid behind him. “Paul, what did ya drop those chestnuts into?” I asked. “That’s pheasant stock there. It’ll be chestnut soup, though, when I puree these chestnuts in it and pass it through that strainer there.” Scrambling for my notepad must have made him suspicious because he poked a sheet of paper at me and asked,” Did ye want the recipe here?” “Ah right. Thanks, Paul,” I answered sheepishly.
Pheasant Stock:
Bones and carcasses of 10 pheasants sweat in clarified butter.
Add large dice mire piox of fennel, leeks, carrots, garlic, parsley, chives (and any other veg scraps around).
Deglaze with 700 ml red wine vinegar.
Add 15 gallons chicken stock. Bring to a boil and add aromatics …. Star anise, black fennel seed, juniper berries black peppercorns.
So that was the exotic little twist in the chestnut soup that people love … a bit of a mulling spice effect!
If I had several more hours to spend on this topic, I could go on revealing “secret” ingredients like this for nearly every recipe. As it is, I may have exhausted attention spans already. I hope, however, I’ve made my case for the complexity of great flavors.

Call and Response

Like many professions, the kitchen has its own private language – an intricate set of terms, codes and phrases that rapidly and efficiently communicate the business at hand … "Ordering one Sea Bass, one Char and one Scallop Special; That's three Chars all day; Fire table 14; Firing one Beef Special and one Char; ready in the pass on that Char in about three minutes; right can I get more sauce for that Beef on the fly; Hot behind!; Let's go up with table 14… "and on it goes. As a new and young cook I have recklessly embraced the kitchen vocabulary; reveling in each coded call and response.

Imagine then my disorientation and initial dismay when I found myself in a kitchen with a whole new set of vocabulary – almost an entirely new language! Mild confusion set in immediately when, on my first day, people would race past, around and into me muttering (and sometimes shouting) something that sounded like "Shope" or "Shope behind." I was guessing rather confidently that this was some Gaelic word for "move," or "caution" or "get out the way, bitch." Not until my third day did I have the courage to ask, "Excuse me, but what are you saying?" It turns out they were yelling "Chaud!" and "Chaud behind"…not Gaelic at all. French for "Hot!" and "Hot behind," one I actually do know.

The "Shope!" confusion was just the tip of the iceberg however. Tonight, as I hung out in Michelin heaven -- plating hot Pre- Theater starters and literally standing in the pass watching two hours of service, I landed on completely foreign soil …. "Check 14 order one pheasant, one Arctic Char, one John Dory and one Beef Daube; Oui; Chef, away table 12; Right, Check table 12, one Charcuterie one Langoustine, gone? Oui; Check table 12 away, one Beef Daube and one John Dory; Alright boys, let's pace up here and get these three Beef Daubes in the pass; Chaud behind!; Service to table 10, one Arctic Char and one Venison…." and so forth. Though we were in Ireland, the entire kitchen was operateing in French. Starter and entree checks came in simultaneously and while starters went "away" immediately, entrée orders were called and on hold until a Captain came back and sent the table away. "Oui" was the affirmative response to every order called or checked. Each table was plated one at a time in about two minutes. I suddenly imagined a much more skilled version of myself thrown onto that line and the "five car pileup" that my American kitchen jargon alone could cause! An amusing mental image; a destructive tragedy if reality. I was glad to be watching from the side.

Every plate and accompanying side was placed on a sterling silver, linen-lined tray and I stood with gauze and hot water to wipe any last minute drips or drops. With my little sterling silver tasting spoon I was encouraged to lift a bit of sauce here, and a smidge of garnish there. Every tiny spoonful was honestly fantastic. Every last component of each plate is checked for flavor and accuracy every single table … it seems like madness, but taste is built into the performance. There were moments when I looked into the red faces of those entrée cooks and thought, "are they going to make it?" But then, just as suddenly as the rush of activity had seemed to begin, it was over and we were cleaning again. Girl cooks were wrapping and wiping, men cooks were marking orders for next week, and boy cooks were begging the Pastry station for bits of ice cream and brittle. The evening's final dialogue occurred as Chef perused each station for cleanliness and ingredient orders, reviewing last minute notes about tonight's performance and releasing each cook to leave.

And so I left too – now a welcome member of the team for "coming in on a Saturday," cleaning sweat breads, grinding cumin seed "on the fly" and staying till the end to clean. Things I did with pleasure, happily, became my terms of endearment.

What makes a kitchen great?

Certainly everyone has some notion of what makes great food. The parameters of a great restaurant are also fairly well defined. But when it comes to exploring what sets great kitchens apart, the ground is fairly un-trod. Perhaps the truest sign of a great kitchen is cleanliness. Nothing instills ownership and excellence in young cooks and chefs than the responsibilities of thorough cleaning between shifts, not to mention the massive floor to ceiling detox done every week! It also seems to create respect and partnership between young bucks, cocky on the line, and the seasoned veterans holding down back rooms like butchering and receiving. Within my first hours at Chapter One I found myself wiping the walls behind counters, taking apart slicers and sanitizing every square inch of surface space. This operation occurs in some form approximately every 6 hours with abbreviated versions occurring between prep and service….impressive, indeed!

I’ve never witnessed a team (in any professional setting) that works quite as diligently and jovially as the folks at Chapter One. They are relentless in peeling, chopping, wiping, rolling, vac-packing, roasting, poaching, saucing, plating, sweeping … smiling. It is a marvelous work environment, described to me today as “a less rigid brigade built on respect and camaraderie rather than fear.” I think it is this reality combined with systems that are practiced and amended until perfect that makes it possible for the kitchen to include such a diverse group of people. Communication occurs almost without speech and movements are smooth like a dance. When the morning’s first ticket scrunches up from the machine, the kitchen is already immaculate after a post-prep wipe down and all chatter hushes to silence. The rest of service will be conducted in this quiet zone of delicate motions, even the lighting will be dimmed for performance as suspended heat lamps are pulled low to spot each dish. Every plate has its moment on stage.

Ross was there today. And like every Michelin starred Chef he brings an air of magic with him when he walks into the room. He is warm to his staff. He is focused, never losing his train of thought as business matters storm at him. He demands perfection … of every sauce, every garnish, every plate. When he is there the cooks perform as an orchestra. Though I am sure they know these dishes inside and out, they move to his commands as if the glance of his eyes, gentle words, or motions of his hand were the strokes of a baton. No one is ever “in the weeds.”

I think it was these scenes of excellence that gave me the courage to be bold about my time here in Dublin. In the afternoon the girl from Le Cordon Blue, Atlanta and I met with the chef de cuisine about the “program” they had mapped out for us. It was light, to say the least … limited hours, loads of vacation, and “chaperoned” experiences around the different stations. Abby from Atlanta was thrilled. I was grateful. I am in a Michelin starred restaurant with virtually no kitchen experience, I am grateful to be here. I was also disappointed. So in a more appropriate moment I asked Cathal if I could “have a word.” I explained to him how much I loved to work and just be in such a beautiful kitchen. I explained how I had no money to “vacation” and my sole purpose this trip was to be in Chapter One in any capacity that wouldn’t be a nuisance. He studied me hard and I thought he might laugh, instead his eyes twinkled and he said, “Music to my ears! You work whenever you like. If you start to go crazy and we can’t get rid of ya, I’ll tell ya to bugger off. Otherwise I’ll see you at 9 am tomorrow and we’ll work ya into “the pass” on evening service next week.” My eyes are watery just sitting here recalling the conversation. His words were music to my ears.

Getting Acquainted

I could hardly breath for nerves as I walked the short block from my flat off Parnell Square to my first day at Chapter One. My nerves soon dissolved into chuckles as I burst open the door marked "STAFF" to change into my uniform. A room of bewildered looking men stared back at me. A witty chap chirped, "There's a laundry closet at the back if ya like," and I quickly shuffled behind the door to change. Moments later I was reporting for duty to said "witty" man, and Cathal (chef de cuisine) introduced "Kaley" (that's me) to the rest of the guys.

There was Peter the sous chef on meats: a stout and serious guy, Dublin born and bred; he tasted a bit of EVERY dish sauce, protein, garnish…every bit with a saucing spoon (just like mine!) lodged in his pocket. I'd say he wiped it down between lips and pocket. He was quite insulted when the chef said his creamed spinach tasted too much of garlic. There was Mark on garnishes: tall a bit slow on the draw but an obvious worker. I trailed him for most of the day prepping the produce for each of the lunch garnishes. There was Eamonn on fish: clever and smiley, he thought I was crazy to have chosen the kitchen over more lucrative work – almost as a crazy as him, a philosophy major at Trinity College! There was the French saucier – haven't met him yet! And Ana on Pastry, a slender brunette with hip glasses flashing about the kitchen. And then there was the back … Brian the butcher and all around Prep Master. Brian (a native of San Francisco) retired to Dublin to work a 9-5 kitchen job with 5 weeks vacation every year. He thinks he's died and gone to Heaven! I worked beside Jimmy: a Chinese stagier learning English and Irish-French cooking all at the same time. He was quiet, kind and exact in his every movement. I thought I had died and gone to Heaven sharing a workspace with him.

There were a handful of other stages floating about through lunch and dinner service, a duo of colorful dishwashers, one or two linen "mum" and the occasional front-of-the-house suit that sauntered by. An evening crew of about 4 came in around 3 and prepped to swap with the lunch cooks. And that is the staff.

I think when you love the kitchen, it is home no matter where you are. The morning nerves melted when I pulled out my knife and Mark on meats said, "Oh lovely, I have the same knife" (wooden handle and all!) and began showing me how to trim the cauliflower. Prepping the back during lunch service, I asked Brian (the American) loads of questions. I was surprised and a little saddened at how much Ross is ordering from the nearby French and English coast lines in order to keep up with the competitive "gourmet" tastes of his guests – things like tiny squab pigeons, micro garlic bulbs, fancy oils and the like. Produce seems to remain local, breads are still in-house and charcuterie is either local or in-house. I saw a bit of preserving in the coolers and dry storage but I believe canned things are by and large being ordered. That was disappointing. Another more happy surprise was the intense sous vide operation. I spent the better part of the afternoon "vac-packing" pork shoulders, squab breasts, beef cheeks, and half ducks with local butter (or oil) sea salt and aromatics. They have these gorgeous auto shams that look like counter roasters that keep a water bath cooking. They have also been doing it in convection ovens overnight. I can't wait to observe more about that.

Some of the guys were intensely familiar with Slow Food Ireland and totally enthusiastic about the potential job. They encourage me to make a trip down to Cork to visit Darina and Myrtle Allen, the Alice Waters sisters of Ireland. I think it's a "keen" idea.