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.