Sidelined

Professional cooking is all about the main event. Take fine dining, for example. Amuse bouche – tasty but gone-in-a-bite. Starter – what did I order again? Salad – tired greans, often in too much vinegar. Dessert – probably something chocolate I think, I'd consumed several glasses of wine.... The mains, though, let me tell you about the mains. I had a rare-roasted duck breast on a bed of confit kipflers and spec, with pickled cherries and a cinnamon duck jus. I remember that clearly.

All the chefs I know feel the same. No one cares about the first course, Cold starter section is reserved for the most incompetent of cooks. Hot starters is where the salad monkeys graduate to once they've finally gained a skill or two. Dessert is an afterthought; pastry chefs are often left in the kitchen, sending out final dessert orders long after the rest of the kitchen has been cleaned and everyone's gone. To work mains, however, is to be the ruler of the tiny, overheated fiefdom that is a kitchen. It is a power that is somewhat self perpetuating; running mains means you are qualified to be a head or sous chef, and you deserve a considerable amount of respect. Likewise, being a head or sous chef automatically suggests you'll be running the most difficult section in the kitchen, as cooks expect you to work for any respect they give you. The entire structure of a professional kitchen is built on the founding principle that the main course is the main event. The rest is just filler.

However, if my word isn't enough for you (my word, MY word, my WORD, me, a golden god, a blogger for chrissake), allow me to present an anecdote by way of evidence.

While working in a psychotic chain-gang of a kitchen (I've talked about this restaurant occasionally before) I managed to claw my way, in a mere nine months, from salad wench, to hot starters, where I excelled above my other leaf-picking, poo-flinging alumni and ended up running the section. This tiny bit of extra responsibility mostly meant that the head and sous chefs yelled at me more often than not, just in case something that had gone wrong might possibly be my fault.

My plight was something like being sung to by choirs of angles compared to the verbal deluge experienced by the guy cooking at the stove next to me. That poor bastard, and there were several different ones in my stay at this particular restaurant, worked garnish section. This chef was solely responsible for non-protein components of every main dish on the menu, often totaling over twenty-five items. Next to him, on the other side, was the golden boy of the moment, sauce chef.

The sauce chef cooks all the meat and fish for main dishes as well as making, as you might expect, all the sauces. Everything he does must be perfect every time because the things he cooks are both expensive ingredients and the most scrutinized by the customer. He is therefore often the most talented chef in the kitchen. In smaller kitchens this section is worked by the sous chef or the head chef.

Garnish, on the other hand, is often referred to as “vegetable hell,” as it involves an endless manipulation of potatoes and kale and zucchini and cauliflower and peas. It is the section of perpetual broad beans (which, evilly, have to be peeled twice), of turned baby carrots, of parsnip fondants. It was also affectionately known as the “screaming section.”

This handy little alliteration helped us all to remember that, once service started, we knew who was going to enjoy the greatest quantity of verbal attention. And, inevitably, as the garnish chef looked after as many as four components for each of six or seven separate dishes, the wrath of the sleep-deprived head chef would eventually drift down and settle upon his broken, little shoulders.

This inexorable rampage was partly earned; it seemed that no one who worked the section ever managed to keep up with the workload (and I know it is possible; the garnish chef once had a complete, mid-service breakdown, the head chef took over the section, managed to get ahead, still call dockets and direct the rest of the kitchen, hurl verbal abuse and anyone who had the misfortune of making eye contact, and he never broke a sweat).

It was also partly unwarranted; the abuse was staggeringly out of proportion to the mistakes being made. This, I have no doubt, is due to the general disregard in professional kitchens for anything that isn't meat. We all want to talk about the rigor-stiff snapper we prepped, or the perfect roast pork neck we served, or the plump, poached chicken breast we carved. No chef is dying to brag about the beautifully blanched broccoli or the amazingly sweet sautéed squash.

I'm a bit the same, I suppose. Of course I'd rather braise a rabbit than peel a carrot, but I do have a soft spot for a good side dish. I thought, therefore, I'd feature one. I've been meaning to try this one for ages; it's been floating around in my head for quite a while as a possible garnish for roast lamb. I'm not going to tell you what I ended up eating it with, I want you to focus on the side, for once.



Rosemary Pommes Anna

2 large starchy potatoes, peeled
1 sprig rosemary
4 tbsp butter
sea salt

Gently melt the butter, being sure it does not foam or brown. Using the sprig of rosemary, stir for 30 seconds. Remove the rosemary and set aside. Keep the butter warm. On a mandolin, or with your amazing knife skills, slice the potatoes paper thin.

Brush two small ceramic dishs, about 5 cm deep and 5 cm diamater with some of the melted, flavored butter. Carefully lay a tiny sprig of rosemary in the center of the bottom of each dish. Next, layer the sliced potato into the dishs, brushing each layer with generous amounts of butter, and a sprinkle of salt.

When the dishes are full, cover with tin foil and bake in a 180ºC oven for 20-30 minuets, testing periodically by inserting a knife into the center. When the pommes anna is done, you will fell little resistance to the knife.

Remove from the oven, uncover, and invert onto a tray. A fair amount of hot butter will come out, watch your fingers. Return to the oven, uncovered and increase the temperature to 200ºC for about 5 minuets, or until the top and edges become golden.

Allow the pommes anna to cool slightly before serving.

This should serve two people, or one if you're a big fat pig. Oink, oink.