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.