On the Farm...

The following statement will come as no surprise to anyone remotely acquainted with the restaurant business: professional kitchens are an extremely rough environment. Physically, they are torturous: often poorly lit, sparsely ventilated, over-heated, over-crowded, smokey, back-achingly concrete floored, and greasy. The work required is no less strenuous: standing for twelve, fourteen, sixteen hours a day, lifting 40 litre pots, constant bending, endless physical repetition.

Most brutal, however, is the emotional environment. A professional kitchen is a time warp of hyper-masculinity, where abuse, physical and otherwise, is not merely accepted but expected. I've seen and heard of and experienced the most brutal treatment. It's more common to be yelled at than spoked to, often drill-sergent style, inches from your face. I clearly remember one head chef screaming in my ear: “YOU CALL THAT A BRUNOISE? I KNOW FUCKING THREE YEAR OLDS WITH BETTER KNIFE SKILLS!” It's the sort of thing that sticks with you.



I once watched, mid-dinner service, the sous chef explode after tasting a serve of parsnip puree which was handed to him by Elliott, the garnish section cook. He plunged two fingers into the pot, scooped out about half the contents, and smeared it across Elliott's face. “IS THAT HOT?!!! NO!!!” After a moment of quiet reflection he turned again and said: “And that's not, legally, physical abuse.”

I've heard of worse. There was an instance in a Sydney kitchen that is related and laughed about in hushed tones that involved, perhaps, the ultimate rage snap. One Saturday night in a Sydney kitchen, the story goes, just before service, a disagreement between two line cooks escalated beyond yelling and culminated in one chef jabbing the other in the arm with a paring knife. Deep enough to draw a significant about of blood, no real damage done; luckily chefs are quite skilled with knives. The deed done, both chefs concentrated on concealing the wound from the head chef, lest someone become truly angry.

Come to think of it, I can't believe there are not more such incidents in professional kitchens. You try combining sleep deprivation, intense pressure, exhaustion, near heat-stroke, and a hangover, and then gently fold in fire and razor sharp implements and try to tell me everything is going to be peachy.

Regardless, if you work in a professional kitchen it is a good idea to show no weakness, throw the first punch, be more angry, and keep you knives sharp.

It's this rough atmosphere that lends itself to striking juxtaposition.

There are, amid the rage, perspiration, and stabbings, truly beautiful moments in the professional kitchen. All chefs love romping through a perfectly smooth, busy dinner service; such successes spark a joy and camaraderie that has to be experienced to be fully understood. Often these moments of serene beauty have their genesis in something much more simple: a perfectly cooked piece of salmon eliciting silent approval from the entire line, quietly sharing an omelette made from the trimmings of imported French chanterelles, devising, committee-style, a battle plan for breaking down a 70 kilo tuna (which none of us had ever done before).



My favorite of these moments, equal parts beautiful and bizarre, was something of a weekly ritual at a restaurant in which I worked for a little over a year. The head chef's signature dish was a Rabbit and Black Olive Pie. It was extremely popular and poor Dave, the meat chef, was responsible for making and serving them. The process was quite long: the rabbits were broken down into forequarters, hindquarters, and saddle, then slowly braised in a tomato-based broth, after which the bones were removed, sauce reduced, the lot mixed with olives, cooled, and then made into filo pastry pies. These pies were baked to order for 20-25 minuets and served on garlic mashed potato. They were sensational.

On Fridays, Dave would make dozens of pies in a bid to get ahead for Saturday night service. As he spooned the cooled mixture into the pastry and folded the tops over, he would begin singing:

“On the farm, every Friday,
On the farm, is rabbit pie day!

“So...”(the rest of the kitchen would join)

“Run rabbit. Run rabbit. Run! Run! Run!
Don't give the farmer his fun! Fun! Fun!
He'll get by with no rabbit pie.
So, run rabbit! Run rabbit! Run! Run! Run!”

A quick check of lyrics online reveals that we got it a bit wrong – it's a WWII era show tune that is sometimes sung as a nursery rhyme in Brittan and Australia. That we weren't clear on the exact wording isn't the point. Even while participating I was acutely aware of the surreal nature of bursting, like a player in “Westside Story,” into spontaneous song with a group of people who would just as soon spit on you and most likely would shortly be screaming profanities at each other over the din of a busy lunch service. I looked forward to Fridays very much.

And, as you've probably guessed, I'm craving rabbit pie.



Just for the record, while inspired by the pie we used to sing about, this is my take on it. I've omitted quite a few ingredients (most notably tomato) and added a few others. I think it's safe to call this my own. Run! Run! Run!

Also, for an overview of braising meats, check out the method in one of my older posts.

This makes 4-6 tasty pies.

1 rabbit
2 carrots, peeled
1 brown onion, peeled
4 cloves garlic
1 stick celery
1Tbsp dijon mustard
250ml red wine
50ml maple syrup
1 cinnamon stick
2 bay leaves
1 sprig thyme
1L veal or beef stock

Preheat oven to 160ºC. Cut the rabbit into forequarters, hindquarters, and saddle. This is not an exact science; use a large knife and cut through the backbone somewhere around the point the legs meat the body. If you are uncomfortable with this step, ask your butcher to do it for you (or preferably, to show you how). Lightly salt and pepper the meat.

Cut the carrots, celery, and onion into quarters. Cut the garlic cloves in half.

Heat a large, heavy-bottomed pot on high heat. When it is very hot, add a few tablespoons of vegetable oil (which should begin smoking instantly) and then, using tongs, lay the rabbit pieces into the pan. Cook on medium-high heat, browning all over. Remove from pan and transfer to a deep roasting dish just large enough to hold all the ingredients.

In he same heavy-bottomed pan, cook the carrots, onion, garlic, and celery. Cook the veggies until they obtain a deep, roasted color and a sweet, rich aroma. Remove from pan to the roasting dish. Add the red wine to the pan, boil, and scrape free with a wooden spoon any bits that have stuck to the bottom. Pour over the rabbit.

Add the remaining ingredients to the roasting dish, using only enough of the stock to cover the meat. Cover the pan with a tight-fitting lid or foil and braise in the oven for 1-2 hours, or until the meat is soft and beginning to fall from the bone.

Cool slightly. Using a fine strainer, separate the liquid from the solids. Pour the liquid into a tall, narrow container (this makes skimming any fat the rises easer) and allow to settle. Remove the cooked veggies from the braise and discard; they've already give up all their flavor into our braise, and we're going to add fresh ones later. Pick the meat from the bones, maintaining as many large pieces as possible.

Skim the stock you have allowed to settle, removing as much of the fat as possible. Bring the stock to a simmer in a small pot and reduce by about half. Pour half of this into the picked rabbit meat. Continue reducing the rest until it is dark, thick, sweet and salty. Remove from the heat and cool.

At some point (probably when the rabbit is in the oven) you'll need to cook more vegetables to be added back to the pie. For this you will need:

2 carrots, peeled
1 brown onion, peeled
1 stick of celery
1 sprig thyme

Dice the above into the finest brunoise you have ever created. Take your time. Part of the joy of a braise is in the waiting, and all that waiting allows you to concentrate on little details like this. A perfect, microscopic brunoise is happiness.

Cook your diced veg gently in a couple tablespoons of butter with the sprig of thyme in medium pan on lowish heat. They are done when they smell sweet and roasty, but have not colored. Remove the thyme and fold your impeccable brunoise into the picked rabbit mixture.

200g arbequina olives, pitted

Ok. These guys are hard to come by in Sydney, but man are they tasty. They are a tiny, green Spanish olive with a grassy, slightly bitter flavor that includes the slightest hint of licorice. If you can't find them, pick a similar green olive.

Mix the pitted olives into the pie mixture. Taste, and adjust seasoning. At this point the mix can be stored in the fridge for a couple of days or in the freezer for a few months.

Heat your oven to 220ºC. Line 4-6 little pie dishes with baking paper. Lay in your choice of pastry (I use puff pastry, but we're gonna save that little chestnut for another post), fill with pie mix, and top with more pastry. Cover the pies with foil and bake for 20-25 minutes, remove the foil and bake until brown.

Serve on mashed potatoes with the warmed, reserved rabbit sauce.