Tools of the Trade

I have no lack of self-confidence in the kitchen. Anyone who knows me will attest. When I don my “whites,” there is no culinary feat I'll balk at, regardless of actual skill. My chef's jacket is like a coat of pure, cotton hubris. Amongst the many boasts that “You'll never see anyone cook quite as fast as this.” or “At least you'll never see anyone look quite as good doing it.” I have been known to assert that I could cook a restaurant quality meal in any kitchen. I mean any kitchen, with any tools. Give me a tiny, single-burner camp stove, a tin can, and enough time, and I will give you coq au vin. Such is the faith I have in my own abilities.



If I were more humble, this would be the part where I admit that my assumptions are wrong; that I am not master of all when I wield a wooden spoon. But I am not humble. I have eked out five-course meals for ten people from a kitchen a single metre square. I've battled my way through impossibly busy services with half the staff I needed. I've decimated gargantuan prep lists in great sweeping gestures, King Kong-like. How am I not to be a bit cocky; I am, inarguably, good at what I do.

Well, not all of it is inarguable. In fact, a great deal of my self-aggrandizing is quite arguable indeed. While a good dose of self-confidence is required to make it as a professional cook, when I doff the uniform and take an objective look, some of my boasts come under suspicion. Not the least of which is my claim that I can cook any dish under any circumstance (see my tin can/braised chicken assertion above).This is not, strictly, true.

For, just as when I write I am a child of spell-check (and therefore cannot spell), I am also, in cookery, the progeny of an arsenal of culinary machines, which I cannot live without. I'm not talking about the plethora of useless little tools available at the local cooking store: the strawberry hullers, the corn cob-holders, and the like. I speak of the blenders and food processors and ice cream machines which make all the difference in the culinary world.

One machine I can't live without, for example, is a meat mincer. The owners of the bistro I run recently bought a electrical-powered meat mincer to replace our manual one. I've spent the last year putting kilo after kilo of meat for sausages thorough the hand-cranked mincer at a great physical cost. The new machine saves me so many hours of repetitive grinding it is worth at least twice it's cost, whatever that might be.

While I am on the subject of “cranking,” another piece of kitchen equipment I cannot live without comes to mind. Pasta makers. A pasta machine may not seem like a common kitchen item, but the majority of fine dining restaurants have one. Try making pasta without. You'll work your arms off trying to roll out the pasta dough with a rolling pin and still not get it thin enough.



In fact, in my flurry of ego-fluffing I failed to acknowledge just how dependent on tools chefs are. In the course of any given day I might reach for pliers, scissors, a ruler, tweezers, and an array of spatulas and tongs and ladles and spoons. I utilize such a variety of implements I have an entire shelf in the kitchen dedicated to them.

The tools I use most often, however, are the most primitive: knives and fire. It amazes me that, when I look around at all the various machines and toys I have at hand – the slicers and blenders and what not – I still do most of my work with a piece of sharpened metal and a flame. It is primitive to the point of being primal.

Speaking of primitive tools, one of the more ancient cooking implements is right up there amongst my favorites: the mortar and pestle. The first mortar and pestle would have been two rocks, banged together, used to grind grain. The technology really hasn't changed. I own, believe it or not, something like 5 mortars and pestles, in various sizes, made of a variety of materials. Some are small and porcelain, for grinding spices. Others are large and course, for making rough pastes like perfect guacamole. Still others are deep and smooth, for pounding herbs into curry pastes. I use all of them regularly and can't imagine cooking without them. It's become a bit of a joke in our household, the number that we own. Whenever we see a mortar and pestle in a shop, one of us will ask “Do you reckon we could use one of these?”



Pesto

Pesto, like it's French cousin Pistou, is named after the pestle – that is, named after the method in which it has traditionally prepared. Modern cooks eschew the mortar and pestle (and the labor involved) for blenders and food processors. However, while the manual method may take longer and yield a less uniform result, the blended version often lacks the intensity of flavor that comes from crushing the basil leaves by hand. Trust me, it's worth the effort.

1 bunch basil, leaves only
75g pine nuts
50g parmesan cheese
30ml olive oil

Combine all the ingredients in a large mortar and pestle. Add a pinch of salt and pound away until you have a paste. Season to taste, add a bit more olive oil if necessary, and toss a spoonful or two through some cooked pasta.