Little Racks

Years ago, when working in the kitchen of an insanely busy restaurant, where the workload was exactly what every chef could only barely handle, one, tiny extra job broke me and sent me, just at the start of service, crashing, screams and all, face first, into the ground. The screams, for the record, were not mine; my teeth were quite clenched throughout. Rather, the yelling came directly from the head chef/owner and his sous chef, and generally alluded to my complete lack of skills as a cook, and my parentage. The tiny job responsible? The front-ends of a few rabbits.

It was more than “a few” rabbits, actually. Earlier in the week, Matt, the chef/owner, caught wind of a bargain from his meat supplier: rabbit on the cheap. It seems, in the typical fashion of fine dining restaurants, that one of our competitors was buying only the hind legs of several rabbits for a popular dish on their menu, paying a higher price to buy only the bits they wanted. Matt, rightfully, wanted to know what was happening with the other bits.

I say “typical fashion” because the nature of a fine dining establishment is to lavish a bit of excess on the customer. This sort of thing is, after all, included in the price. Diners expect a bit of pampering from the wait staff, a bit of flourish from the kitchen, a roll-call of premium ingredients (think prime cuts and foie gras and truffles and the like). A menu might include dishes like “Celery Heart Soup” (where does the rest of the head of celery go?) or “Rare Roasted Quail Brest Salad” (with no mention of the rest of the bird). It is wastefulness which is both warranted and paid for by the consumer.

Somewhere near the other end of the scale lies the classic bistro. Step into a bistro and you can expect none of the above, neither pampering nor flourish nor extravagance. What you can anticipate is a certain level of food: satisfying meals which can be produced at a reasonable price and still turn a profit for the restaurateur. That's why we patron these sorts of establishments; when it is done right the food is cheep and delicious.



A good bistro chef runs a tight kitchen, financially. All dishes are carefully monitored so that the cost of plating them does not exceed a certain percentage of the selling price. In general, a bistro will try not to spend more than 25% of the selling cost of given dish. A successful special, for example, will cost, in total, $4 to make, and sell for $19. Bistro chefs live by these mathematics.

It is no surprise at all that such a chef might want know what is happening to the 2/3 of several rabbits not being used by another kitchen. This sort of insider knowledge alone, if it leads to a bargain, can keep a little bistro afloat for weeks.

The thing is, the restaurant I was working in was not a little bistro looking to churn out a cheap meal whilst eking out a profit. It was another of Sydney's fine dining mainstays. Only Matt didn't want to play by the rules.

Matt served the same ingredients which you might find on a bistro menu – secondary cuts and what not – but demanded a mammoth effort from his kitchen staff so that those less-than-fine products could be hammered into fine-dining fare. The goal, which was achieved more often than not, was to operate at more or less the same costs as a bistro whilst serving (and charging for) fine-dining meals. Matt, in order to ensure that this transmogrification was indeed possible, hired more staff; enough to make his wage cost nearly swallow up the savings he made on food cost. However, he only hired just (and I mean by the narrowest of margins) enough kitchen staff.

Those of us in the kitchen were under constant, angry pressure to get every possible amount of work completed. Any difference in the work required and actual work being done was covered by ample, angry screaming until one managed to stretch and juggle and sweat enough to accomplish everything that was expected. As with any difficult experience or ordeal, especially those self-inflicted, I hated it when I was amongst, and love it, looking back. I wouldn't trade the time I worked there for anything.

I didn't feel that way at all when I arrived at work one morning to greet the forequarters (the butcher had sold the saddles to another restaurant again, making the bits we purchased even cheaper) of something like sixty rabbits. Feeling, as we all did, that my prep list was already longer than the day ahead, I was more than a little annoyed at the prospect of any extra work, much less a job that was, quite literally, a mountain of meat.



Luckily, my only task was to salt the legs for half a day and then confit them, with the view of storing them under fat until we were ready to use them. I had the meat salted and put away in minutes. It was upon rinsing the forequarters that I hit a snag. Matt came over to have a look at how things were going and picked up a specimen, turning it over and over in his hands. “They've left a bit of the loin on here,” he said pointing to a strip of meat along the backbone. “If you carve like this,” and here he picked up my knife and started butchering the tiny rabbit bits, “you can get a 3- or 4-point 'rack of rabbit'.”

This, I knew, was bad. I looked at the tiny rack of ribs, bones frenched (that is, devoid of meat). Very bad. Terrible, in fact. I could just imagine Matt asking me to carve 120 (that's two per rabbit) 3-point racks. To be served as an amuse-bouche to every customer that evening. “How many serves of rabbit and quail terrine have we got total?” Mat asked, referring to a dish we were running on my section. “Forty-ish,” I replied. “Ok, carve fifty of these racks. We'll pan-roast 'em to order as part of the garnish. I'll change the menu description now.”

I know that fifty isn't as bad as over one hundred, but it is still quite difficult. This was all extra work, mind you, and that thought alone sent me into a panic. Creating rabbit racks is tedious, to say the least. It is tiny work which is impossible to do quickly. (The racks in the photo above are on a tiny side plate, the kind you'd use for a bread roll, to give you an idea of scale.) Frenching rabbit ribs? The very idea is evil genius. Asking someone who is already in a hurry to produce two such racks is asking too much. Fifty? It was insanity. Pure, crystal, crazy.

Skip ahead to service time and I am ready for service, with the exception of an avalanche of rabbit ribs which are threatening to crush me. It's the ludicrously finicky nature of the task which broke me, but I was neither physically nor mentally ready for service and I went down. Hard. I couldn't string together more than a dish or two at a time, all the while trying to sneak out another rack or two.

It was disaster. Commence screaming, missing dishes, botched tables, horrible timing, and finally a (merciful) rescue from one of the pastry chefs. All for one, little job: tiny racks of rabbit.

Was the end result worth it? I don't know. It sure looked good.

And, just in case you are partially insane, I give you rabbit racks:



Roasted Rack of Rabbit with Caramelized Carrot Purée
Spring Salad, Mustard, and Vinaigrette

I usually tell you to leave these finicky meat jobs to your butcher. I dare you to ask a butcher to do this one for you. Most butchers I know have a great sense of humor, but when you have this conversation, remember which one of you is holding the knife.

Rabbit Racks

1 forequarters of rabbit

Place the rabbit legs down on a board. Using a boning knife, cut down either side of the spine to loosen any meat. Flip th rabbit over and peel away the belly flap with your fingers, it should pull off the ribcage with little resistance. With the rabbit still ribs-up, use a heavy knife to separate the legs from the body at the shoulder. The belly flap should be attached to the legs. Reserve this meat for some other purpose.

You will be left with a spine and the ribs. Using a sharp knife cut the ribs from the spine at the point where they meet. Press against the spine with the flat side of the knife, ensuring that you keep the meat you've earlier loosened above the blade and attached to the ribs. Repeat for the other side. Discard the spine (or save it for stock).

What is left is a set of ribs, usually about 6 or 7 per side, with a tiny bit of meat at the end. Trim off the upper (starting from the head of the animal) 2 or 3 ribs (there won't be much meat associated with these) and discard (again, stock). Carefully remove the bottom most rib without removing any of the meat. You should now have a 3- or 4-point rack of rabbit.

To french the ribs, remove as much of the meat as possible from between the ribs above the loin (the bit of meat attached at the bottom). Scrape them clean with a small knife, taking care not to break them as they are fragile.

When you are ready to serve, season the racks generously, roast them in a small pan on medium heat in a touch of oil and butter. Cook on each side for a few moments only – just enough to color, and serve medium.

Serve the racks on a bit of carrot purée with a spring salad (both below).

If you are extra crazy, carve the racks just before you serve them.

Caramelized Carrot Purée

I love this purée. No one ever believes me when I tell them that the only ingredients are carrots, a bit of butter and salt. It's the long, slow cooking that draws out and then concentrates all the natural sweetness in the carrots. It takes time to do it right, but the result is amazing. This is a tiny batch, but the recipe can be scaled up for larger quantities.

1 carrot, peeled
1 tsp butter
salt

Slice the carrot into rings, as thinly as possible. I suggest using a mandolin or the slicing blade on a food processor. Heat a small, heavy based pan on medium heat. Add the butter and, when it starts to foam, add the carrots and a pinch of salt. Cook, stirring occasionally, scraping the bottom to prevent sticking, for 1-2 hours. The carrots will break up, dry out considerably, and deepen in color. When the mixture is deep orange and richly caramely sweet, transfer to a mouli (ricer) or food processor and purée. It is possible to make this absolutely smooth, but not necessary; I leave a bit of texture in mine. Adjust seasoning.

Spring Salad, Mustard, and Vinaigrette

I'm going to leave this section up to you mostly. The “mustard” I just dab a bit on the plate (rabbit and mustard are the fastest friends). As for the “spring salad,” get some fresh peas, some sprouts (here I use snow pea sprouts), maybe some mint, a few edible flowers wouldn't go astray. Toss them all together and dress them with a bit of oil and a bit of your favorite vinegar.

It's the only part of this dish that is simple. You should be grateful.