Time to focus on what we are, not what we aren't

A lot of feathers have been ruffled in the Tasmanian hospitality community with the release of the 2010 Australian Gourmet Traveler food guide. The main thrust of the anxiousness is that in its annual top 100 restaurants for the state, Tasmania only had one representative, Lebrina which ranked 72. The guide also awards stars. Lebrina received one & the only other restaurant in the entire state to attract a star, was Angasi.
The popular opinion is that the guide is too Sydney centric. Is that really a surprise though? I mean it is Australia’s most famous & populated city, little wonder the top restaurants there will be well represented.
In the printed press here many of our experts have outlined what they see as a crisis within the hospitality industry. From what I have gleaned they are saying it’s not a crisis limited to our top end eateries but spreads across the many tiers of dining throughout Tasmania.
What also seems to an issue is that we are lauded by media & chefs on the mainland & abroad for our produce but essentially don’t have the nous, skills or finesse to utilize it here in our own restaurants. I find this particular position questionable.
There has also been much criticism laid at the feet of our training facilities with Drysdale particularly coming under fire.
It seems that some people here are a wee bit, how do I say, perhaps embarrassed about this perception of our restaurants on the mainland?
But embarrassment is hardly a crisis.

For another perspective, take the city of Geelong, it has roughly the same population of Hobart yet I could not find a single listing in the AGT guide for a restaurant, yet Hobart had seven. Could one then say that Hobart is actually well represented?
Perhaps country restaurants in other states feel under represented as well? Does this point to a crisis though? It’s just endemic of having a small population & an even smaller percentage of regular diners to support the brave people that decide to operate a restaurant in this environment. Throw into the mix that Tassie is very seasonal in terms of relying on tourists & the effect this has on the workforce. This last point means that many places are often laying off staff when its winter & re-hiring them, if they are available that is, when it gets busier again. Then there are the training challenges that are associated with this cycle. These all point to many instances where the customer may not get the desired food or service experience that they have a right to expect.
I think that too much emphasis has been placed on these instances without examining the unique set of circumstances that operating a hospitality business in Tasmania presents.
I am not making excuses for shoddy, negligent or poor food & bev operators but to suggest that the State is in crisis is quite disrespectful for many out there who are trying very hard to provide quality experiences, often unremarked upon by local media.

I am sure that If I go to some rural towns in the other states I will encounter substandard food & service so why is it such a big deal when inevitably someone suffers it here? With a small populace the extremes of food & & bev service seem to be more visible.
I think answer might lie with what I call ‘The Tassie Cringe’ & rather surprisingly, it seems to be Tasmanians who are often perpetuating this opinion.
There are some who believe that the root cause of this Tassie Cringe might come from the views of a few special interest groups who wield some influence in the media. Perhaps it’s also the alleged clique of self appointed fooderati whom must give their papal anointment to any restaurant or café before they get any favourable media attention, who knows?

My understanding is that operating a food business in Tasmania has unique challenges. Instead on focusing on what we aren’t, perhaps its time to focus on what we are.

For more reading on this see the Fairfax, Gourmet Traveller & Aust top 50 compared here

the staff meal-repeats

Restaurateurs & café owners should by rights, be a hospitable bunch, it seems fair to say. Often those of generous nature are prone to seeking employment this industry & demonstrate a canny knowledge & understanding of being very accommodating & welcoming. This is quite true in relation to their customers but how does this correlate to their staff?
I’m surprised to learn that many cafés & restaurants don’t offer a staff discount on meals yet alone a meal at all, discounted or not. I have even heard of places that charge full tote odds for a meal consumed by a staff member. There are even a number of places where the employees are required to bring their own food to work. Or this one: staff not being allowed to even eat over-ordered food, food that is destined for the bin because it hasn’t sold but is still perfectly good to eat.
I suppose it shouldn’t really shock me, I mean why should rest & cafes provide meals for staff? Who says so? An old chef once said to me on this very subject, “If you worked in a bank you wouldn’t expect to get a wad of cash would you?” Quite.
No matter which way I look at it though, it seems kinda not right not to provide a staff meal. I know for a fact that it helps morale big time.
I have posted in the past about my fond memories of staff meals a zillion years ago & often wonder in this time of 24/7, if there are many places left where all the staff sit down & eat together anymore?
In England circa 1988, at one particular establishment, we the staff all lived in & were supposed to have all our meals provided under the terms of employment. The catch was the chef never had enough money in his kitty to make budget so, you guessed it, staff meals were the first to be screwed. After a week or two of unrelenting fried potato trimmings, eggs & baked beans I summoned up enough courage to speak to the very scary chef about the monotony of our diet & my fears it would lead to scurvy, a condition not common amongst 20th century workers.
‘Are you the Facking union rep, you ginger-headed, four-eyed, Aussie-Twat?’ he roared in his best East End Barrow-Boy lingo.
This bridge crossed, our meals took a turn for the better. For a while. Yuri, the cookery student from Flanders was given the thankless task of preparing all our staff meals. To say his appointment torpedoed morale would be an understatement, his food was simply inedible. So much so that that sous chef in a fit of hunger induced rage tore off the embroidered badge bearing the crest of the Bruges Culinary Academy from Yuri’s chefs jacket & tossed it into the bin in disgust. Soon we all signed a petition stating that Yuri was not to prepare the staff meals from this point on. My earlier brush with the chef made me the ideal but unlucky candidate to have to present him with this new piece of insolence. I survived that encounter but was handed the poisoned chalice myself for my bolshie-ness & what pain in the arse it was, let me tell you!
Most chefs absolutely hate having to cook for staff. Because they see it as a waste of their precious mis en place time. This is why much of the time it is shit. In fact some have been known to make it so bad that the staff eventually stop asking for it, thus relieving the chef in question of its burden. Many places, especially Hotels, negotiate this by buying prepared food in especially for staff meals. At the Hotel I worked in London, we chose a pre-plated meal to be then micro waved when we took our break & they were as horrible as they sound.
The problem is when you do offer a staff meal; everyone all of a sudden gets very choosy. I have seen instances where a cook has had to make five different staff meal to accommodate particular diet, religious or taste requirements. Although this instance was an extreme case, you can see how it can monopolize the efforts of a kitchen.
We tend to let people choose off the menu but most cases when one of us decides to make lunch we just make enough for everyone & this seems to work best.
In the bad old days when the front & back of house were kept as two very separate entities, the rules were: Waiters got the tips & chefs got the food.
Of course a black market of contraband foods & cadged drinks co-existed but the kitchen would watch enviously as the waiters took home more than them whilst the waiters, their stomachs growling, would spend it on late night meals. Things have changed since then, thank goodness.
Today’s was Pizzette, proscuitto, rocket & parmesan, very civilized & no one complained!

The Cove-dolphin friendly cinema

Some of you might be aware of a film called ‘The Cove’.

The film primarily deals with the killing of dolphins for food & the lengths that this particular area in Japan, the town of Taiji, goes to in order to minimize the bad publicity that this practice has attracted.
What I learned today is that Broome in WA is the sister city to town of Taiji in Japan where ‘The Cove’ is filmed. Within one week of intense activism by animal rights groups here in Australia, the city of Broome has severed all ties with its sister city in Japan due to its ongoing massacre of dolphins. What an inspiring demonstration of people power.
When will these pseudo cultural practices be judged by the world what they really are, out of step, ignorant & shamefully inhumane? To borrow a phrase from our Labor Parties golden years; ‘It’s time’.
Time to send a message to all those Governmental head in the sand, flat-earthers out there: Find another fish to kill & eat & leave the Dolphins alone.

Nanna Style

Recently I did a big dinner for some old work colleagues who wanted a night to send one of their workmates off, whom had decided to call it a day & move to greener pastures. It was a real pleasure to cook for them all & they seemed to have a good time at the table. After mains, I happened to serve some of the pudds & as I saw the other waiter place a dessert in front of the person, I heard her turn to the person sitting next to her & say excitedly, “See I knew it would be Nanna Style!” before hoeing into it.
At the time I was quite chuffed about the remark but I’ve come to really embrace it now & I’ll tell you why. On the surface I suppose one could take it as a sort of clumsy back handed compliment, or conversely it could be a sneering observation of one’s decidedly un-trendy cooking. But there’s another explanation & one of which I feel most comfortable with. It’s the sense of nurturing that someone associates with the cooking of their grandma. I have always appreciated that most people are all cut from the same cloth when it comes to this so when you cook with thought, with integrity & also with care & love, most people will get it, no matter how simple the food, or humble the surroundings. It is an observation I try to convey to the next gen who will be cooking dinners into the future. Long live ‘Nanna Style!’

Because George Hamiliton made me do it!

Apologies to Ms Molly Malone “Singing vitamins & supplements, alive, alive-O”
I have finally had to face the sad fact that I have arrived at age where I have become aware that I need to look after myself better.

I’ve had to swap Czech Pils for health pills.

So every morning for the last month or so I routinely shovel a gob full of apparently life saving coloured lozenges in the hope that I might outlive, say, the perpetually tanned & ageless George Hamilton (see above pic) for instance.
This morning they numbered nine. That’s right nine pills. Even I am shocked. It has also made me anxious that this number might indicated that I have tipped the scales too far so I need a bigger fix of them to correct this. Do I have to play vitamin catch up or something? I also wonder if the number of supplements correlates directly to how many years longer you might live? You know the way they say ‘every cigarette takes an hour off your life’, or something like that. If so, a nine pill-er like me, might just get to blow out my birthday candles at the Guinness Book of World Records award ceremony?! There is also the matter of status. As a nine pill-er, should I look down on those who only take one or two multi’s a day.
For instance I imagine at the health food aisle, amongst the myriad of supplements a friendly person tries to make conversation with a cheerful: ‘Two a day keeps the GP away’ whilst choosing their fave brand
I respond by coming across like a grizzled veteran: “Two only” I sneer, “don’t waste my time”
I suspect though, that not having to take them at all because ones diet should already be rich in minerals & vitamins is the best way to go. Perhaps I should try to avoid taking any of these at all really if I am really to be a picture of health, sort of reducing them, incrementally. Like a story I heard about once where a bloke, in order to de-clutter & re-prioritise his life, attempts to get rid of all the unnecessary keys dangling on his chain & the hold they have on his life. Until one day, he finally reaches Nirvana when he gives away his last remaining key!
Should I decide to go down this righteous path, for reasons of vanity, I should not want my last pill, should my endeavour be noteworthy enough to inspire others, not to have anything in relation to issues of flatulence or the bowel region in general.
Instead I would choose a more symbolic pill to be my last. Say one for ‘Sparkly eyes’, ‘Sweet smelling morning breath’ or ‘An itch-free scalp’, might be more suitable.
For now though, I have to endure this ‘Groundhog Day’ by vitamins.

Tram rides & chip shops-a food memory

I have never quite felt the same intense levels of boredom that I used to endure waiting for the tram on those summer days after school. Inspired by the 76 Olympics, I got involved at Hawthorn Rowing club as a coxswain. The club was located on the banks of the muddy Yarra & underneath the imposing Bridge Road Bridge, an intricate Mechano-like structure, of heavily steeled girders, beams & giant rivets. My daily journey by W class tram would take about 25 minutes, an eternity for 10 year old boy, compounded by the initial wait, often baking in the summer heat.
The tram timetable, washed out behind its Perspex cover, informed me that one would be right along in half an hour. It seems, frustratingly that I was always a tad too late or too early to connect my journey seamlessly. I swear once I saw the driver chortle as I huffed & puffed toward the stop, a flash of his white teeth the giveaway, before it breezily ‘ting ting-ed’ to signal it was off again. Pulling up to the stop & breathing my asthmatic rasp, 1 would gloomily study the timetable, hoping that another magical tram would materialize, it never did. Actually once or twice it did, but it was a sort of a fools gold tram, one that looks like the real one from the front but is actually a maintenance vehicle, shortened by half, a comical stumpy version. That shitted me no end & I continued glaring at the ground & kicking stones into the gutter. At the stop where I sat on a peeling green M&MTB bench, white monuments to the dead peeked over a great red bricked wall that enclosed the Kew Cemetery. Through holes in the fence, bunches of flowers faded & preying angels, bowed, cried silent tears. The cemetery, for me, neither held fear, or anxiety, nor did it illicit any uneasy thoughts in my young boy’s mind. I was thankfully not yet introduced to its ominous reality as no one I knew had died yet, so it was just a cemetery, almost a park.
Finally the rattling of the tracks alerted me to the oncoming tram. This stop was at the bottom of a hill & the trams would often hurtle down it in order to build some momentum up for the ascent if there were no passengers to pick up. I imagined that the driver might be a tad annoyed at having to stop actually, I mean, you would wouldn’t you? All day starting & stopping & then the opportunity arises to floor it down a hill, I mean it’s what every driver probably signed on for I reasoned. Probably explains why I always seem to miss them as well. I got a bit anxious though as it leaves the braking to the last second before releasing a cloud of stinky electric smoke that indicate that the brakes were working hard, its calipers gnashing, screeching metal on metal, until it halts.
Tram tracks are in the centre of roads which means to get on board you have to walk across the road to do so. The problem is there is enough room for cars to pass the tram & they often choose to do so just before the trams stop to avoid being held up. As a result countless travelers alighting & boarding them have been wiped out by speeding cars over the years & it pays to be ever watchful.
Safely on board, it clatters into life & the Connie sidled up to sell me a ticket as we make our way toward Prospect Hill.
‘Bridge Road, thanks’.
The ticket cost ten cents from memory & was hand churned by the conductor in a very old fashioned mini printing contraption. He then snubbed at one of the numbers down its length, which indicated what stop I got on & what my fare was to be. These tickets were intricate, made of very thin paper & seemed to mesmerize me somewhat at the time. So much so that I had begun to collect them, reasoning that someone else might like the look of them too & so I deemed them collectable. Months later Dad told me that they were just about worthless & instantly unburdened of their hold on me; they became kindling for a raked leaf fire in our gutter that autumn!
Anyway the tram passed some very large mansions in Kew, whose driveways were choko with shiny new European cars. I knew they were European because we had European cars, cars for which I was teased about because we didn’t drive a Holden or a ford. Their names were apparently unpronounceable to my schoolmates. ‘Fy-art’, said one, ‘Pew-got’, another. Our cars though, were not shiny & new. I was just starting to become aware that the wealthy inhabited a different world to my own. Money it seemed was for someone else. Glimpsed through the windows that flashed by, was another planet of privilege & luxury & an uncomfortable realization began to settle on me that it was a world that I was excluded from. Anxiously I patted my pocket for the familiar & soothing shape of the remaining ten cent coin I had in my pocket. A coin I intended to spend royally on hot chips & potato cakes, my daily reward for enduring that tram ride.
Pretty soon the tram had made its way past the red lights of Kew junction, down past the Barkers Road Tram depot, where as a little kid, I was told the ‘trams go there to sleep’ at night. How I ever believed that one I sniggered to myself! Soon we were in Hawthorn & coming down the hill into Bridge Road Richmond where I was to get off. The Yarra, I marveled, WAS the actual border between the two suburbs. How funny I thought at the time, water was the border! My mind pictured an imaginary check point where the guards in Hawks & Tigers colours treaded water as they checked passports & glared at one another!
I always got to the rowing club before training time as I loved to go to the take away, over the bridge in Tigerland & watch the sharpies play the pinnies for a while. You would walk in & be tantalized by the pungent smells from the deep fryer & the grill.
It was a very satisfying smell to me at the time. These days though, I would swap ‘tantalized’ for ‘assaulted’, as the smell of rancid cooking oil to me now hangs like a fetid cloud of grimey negligence & a sign of a slovenly operator. Back then though, it was a magic smell but actually quite hard to describe. It was a mix of beefy rendered tallow mixed with that cabbagey waft of chicko rolls, fried onions & the almost sweaty aroma that overcooked dimmies can have. It certainly had affect on me & as I waited, watched the light show of the pinnies my stomach growled, loud enough to be heard by me over the ping-ing of the game & the rumble of the extractor fan.
I was handed my parcel of chips & potato cakes & tore open the top, releasing a jet of steam. Grabbing the malt vinegar bottle I doused the opening with numerous shakes & a few flicks of the salt shaker for good measure, my life long love of condiments just in its infancy.
Out of the shop & over the bridge, the parcel of food comfortingly warm against my belly, down the embankment overlooking the quiet expanse of the brown river. I sat on the grass & spread open the white paper revealing its golden contents, salty & sharp with vinegar & ate hungrily as the noise of the traffic above filtered down. Soon the rowers would come & I would be steering a boat on the river.

A sense of place & time-a food memory

A while back when I first arrived here I worked in Woodbridge, right on the waters of the D’Entrecasteaux Channel, 50 mins south of Hobart. Out the front of the restaurant, across the expansive verdant lawns was a pier where fishing vessels would occasionally unload their catch of mainly Southern Rock Lobsters. Whilst the cargo was hauled into an idling van & the deckhands were dispatched to purchase several slabs of Draught cans, I got to go over these vessels & inspect the by-catch, usually King Crab & octopus.
Now every purchase of seafood in Tasmania must be accompanied by the required paperwork & the police are vigilant in ensuring that this is practice is observed at all times.
It is quite difficult these days to buy directly off the boat because of all the friggin’ paperwork & for all the complications many fishermen understandably don’t bother anymore. It’s a shame & kinda ironic that one can’t readily get your hands on local seafood anymore, a subject I have posted about on numerous occasions.
However I know that a few cans here & there, can present a compelling argument for the fisherman to sell directly to me at times, with all the documentation of course! There is something very exciting about standing on a bobbing boat, the sea breeze ruffling your chef’s garb, jabbing your finger toward the item that will soon be on someone’s plate that day, in this case a regal King Crab, just shy of 10kgs! This particular day I had that crab at 10.30 & had served my first portion at 12.15.
Working with such magnificent & fresh produce compels you not to ‘faff around’ with it too much. It doesn’t need kitchen trickery, restaurant slight of hand or menu gilding the lily, to let it shine.
I simply cooked the crab, picked over the meat & served it modestly with a roasted purple garlic aioli, some warm sourdough & lemon. It sold out & I was elated. Thank goodness that day we had customers who recognised & valued this particularly unique taste of the region, I hope they remember it as vividly as I do.
I could close my eyes right now & still taste those flavours, catapulting me right back to that rocking boat, the briny smell of the sea & that blustery day. A day where that dish imprinted me with a strong sense of place & time & has informed my thoughts on food & the way I cook ever since.

Golden rule: Don't screw the crew!

Years ago as an impressionable young apprentice it was my duty to open the restaurant of a morning. I was so thrilled by this responsibility I practically skipped to work each day! One particular morning I decided to get to work extra early & get ahead on prep. I opened the door & made my way to the back, down the stairs & into the bowels beneath the dining room where I became aware of a noise emanating from the staff change rooms. It sounded vaguely like two pieces of aged rump being schlepped together repeatedly, resonating down the hallway. As I got nearer to the door, the man & woman who were responsible for the noises, froze like Mall statues. Blushing, I did a 180, rushed upstairs & made myself a coffee. When they emerged, not a word was said about what had just occurred, nor did I speak of it for years later but this tryst was to be the catalyst for the subsequent breakdown in both of their marriages.
Since then, I have witnessed many seemingly solid relationships falter when the other half learns of an affair with a work colleague & it’s usually a chef & a waitress in my experience. Perhaps the long work hours & absences from a loved one all combine to set the wheels in motion for one to stray? Maybe issues of power & position come into play, who knows but the unspoken golden rule in kitchens was to always keep your amorous interests separate from work. Now I know that hospitality is no different from other industries with this issue but for some reason, little affairs spring up in restaurants & cafes with the regularity of pine mushrooms after rain.
Perhaps sharing a dynamic, dinner rush & adrenalin soaked workplace endears one more toward their colleagues much the same way an actor might fall for their leading opposite?
One time I recall another head chef briefing all of us in the kitchen that his wife would call during the night & ask to speak to someone in the kitchen but not him. This was odd but she would then ask for details of when he left & what time it was.
Sometimes she would enquire if ‘anyone’ else was going out as well. As you might have guessed, he was having an affair with one of the waitresses. This was all very tawdry & made me uncomfortable as a seventeen year old. One night she caught him leaving the restaurant with the waitress on his arm & a massive fracas ensued.
Another continent, another restaurant & another chef in hot water, getting us to cover for him telling his wife he was at work whilst really out with his new girlfriend.
It seems kitchen romances mostly end badly. Take for instance the time that I had to work with two people who had just broken up & were completely hostile toward one another. It got so bad one day the two of them combusted into a raging row right in front of gob smacked customers, effing & blinding ending in one tossing their apron down & storming off never to return.
‘Great’ I thought, you two break-up & I end up having to look for a replacement!
This is I guess, why that golden rule was needed!
Having said all this, I do know of a few romances that started in kitchens & cafes that have stood the test of time, so I’m not completely cynical. A niggling question remains unanswered for me though: Why is it so many hospitality workers & particularly chefs end up separated or divorced? I know the anti social hours are the most obvious reasons but I am shocked that for many, this is the reality. Any ideas?

Do restaurant meals have to be healthy?

I would like to pose a question to you, dear readers:

‘Do restaurant meals have to be healthy?’

After dinner service I will often go out into the dining room to talk with guests & say a few hellos here & there. For years I had cringed when I saw other chefs do this as I felt it was all a bit pompous & stuffy, especially as the chefs in question wore the comedic outfit of pristine whites & a puffy, towering Toque, it always seemed a bit OTT to me.
However, as many of our clients are friends & regular diners I believe they don’t mind a bit of a word with me at the end of their meal & I like to see them happy.
At one table on Saturday night, the body language was tense, the smiles forced & the conversation stilted as I tried to interact, but something was amiss.
‘Steve, some of us were not happy with our meals tonight’ broke the deadlock & clarified my intuitive feelings of concern.
‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that, what specifically were you not happy with?’ I say
It seems that in their dish choices, they felt there should have been more vegetables served with the main courses. As the dialogue began another person injected that ‘he would like it to be more “healthy”, you know more veggies on the plate not just a hunk of meat’. It was indicated to me that whilst they enjoyed their mains, the next day they would like to feel like they ate a healthy meal & not just a big plate of meat. ‘You know, some carrots or some cauliflower, even some broccoli’, another suggested. They were visibly relaxed after unburdening themselves of this task & they mood lightened considerably. I cheerfully said I would take on board their suggestions & left them to their desserts, of which all six I noted, had partaken.
I thought I handled this criticism quite well. I listened, didn’t get defensive, didn’t interrupt or make excuses & left the table with a joke & them smiling.
Upon returning to the kitchen though, I felt conflicted & here’s why.
When I design a main course my aim is to have a balance with the main ingredient in this case beef & a vegetable component, in this case beans, with a starchy item, baby potatoes. I don’t apply this formula to entrees as main courses need to have this balance in my opinion.
What they were suggesting in order to be rendered healthy is that each plate comes with the same mélange of vegetables or on the side. This notion is problematic for me. Each main course I create is substantially different from the next, offering what I believe is a range of tastes. By incorporating the same vegetable garnish on each main, I would be homogenizing my offer & quite frankly that’s what pubs do, chips & salad or spuds & vege, but that’s not what we set out to do.
For instance, would someone go to Tetsuyas & say his main courses were not healthy enough? Conversely eating at Maccas would you say the same thing? No, you have made a choice to eat at those establishments because you know/like what they serve. Is it reasonable to expect that a restaurant will tick all of your dietary requirements with their menu items? Is it their responsibility to offer meals perceived to be healthy? Is that why diners go out for dinner with friends? Do people rationalize before settling on one restaurant over another the notion that ‘We’ll go out for dinner because it’s where we will get healthy food’. Would you choose Stillwater over Lebrina because of healthy food choices? I dine out for many reasons but ‘health issues isn’t one of them, but thats just me.
Finally is it reasonable to question the integrity of an establishment by virtually imposing one's healthy eating regimen on it & then feel disappointed when they fail to meet your expectations?
I am very glad they spoke to me directly about their concerns, in fact I applaud them for it, however I dont fully agree with what was conveyed to me but I respect their opinions & their right to express them.
Each week I change the menu, so some dishes are veggie-centric some weeks & less so on others. It depends on when you might come as to the vegetive component of each dish; such is my propensity to keep changing, making it hopefully interesting to the diners who choose to eat here regularly.
Looking at this issue as objectively as I can & wanting repeat custom, I can see an argument for offering a side salad or a bowl of veggies but again though this poses a hurdle:
I personally don’t like forking out for extras like this & I know I am not alone. Yes I could incorporate the cost of these extras into the meal price & appear to serve it complimentary but I believe our price point is near its maximum already.
It also makes an admission to the diner that the mains might not have the food pyramid fully represented so they better order that side bowl of veggies!
It would make no sense having this dialogue with the customer on the night. If they are not happy, then no amount of my explaining will alter their opinion, in fact it would probably just make them uncomfortable & not want to come back. I just hope it goes some ways to explaining, from my point of view, why I do what I do sometimes & the reasoning behind those decisions but I guess I cant please everyone!

Its funny how someone else can have the complete opposite experience, with the same menu. Read the last comment on Ritas site to illustrate my point.

The Gamekeeper & the Poacher

I hadn’t posted for a while of what a delicate balance it is recruiting, hiring & retaining quality people, until I was reminded of it yesterday. One of our staff members was approached by another operator & offered shifts in their business. Of course people are free to make their own mind up & chances are if they aren’t happy in your establishment they’ll be on the lookout for a new opportunity.
Where it gets potentially tricky is that many industry people think it’s not good form to sidle up to one of your staff to try to tempt them away. Said staff person must choose to leave on their own, without any encouragement from a rival operator.
The industry regularly wrestles with the murky ethics behind ‘poaching staff’ but it seems as the pool of skilled workers shrinks further, we might be facing more of these instances.
The seemingly obvious way to tackle this is to make your workplace the most attractive to your staff, so they’ll be disinclined to seek another job. However, some businesses can afford to pay more so no matter how nice your working environment is, sometimes those that can afford to, snag the better qualified people, though offering more money doesn’t always mean you’ll get the best person for the job in my opinion.
Over the years I have heard & witnessed some quite audacious & equally dreadful poaching incidents. The one that wins by whisker is the tale of a chef who padded his brigade with chefs whom he had previously worked & whom shared loyalty to him. This is always a recipe for potential disaster. Sure enough, after a honeymoon period, said chefs’ relationship with the owner began to sour, resulting in him walking out during a busy service-an inexcusable event in my books. The remaining team promptly downed tools & followed him out the door leaving the poor owner, slack jawed & wide eyed with disbelief. Whilst you might think this sort of incident rare & that he might sooner get his comeuppance but he was gainfully employed shortly after with, you guessed it, his old pirate crew right behind him.
If someone wants to move on, let’s face it though, they would probably have sounded out a few options before hand. These options could mean going to rival businesses to dip their toe in the water. Most operators looking for staff aren’t going to dilly dally about things & concern themselves with the impact of this person leaving will have on their former employer, if they appear to be a good find, they’ll jump on them straight away & hire them. I am well acquainted with the desperation that has enveloped me when I am chronically understaffed & staring down the barrel of a stretch without days off, it’s scary & makes rational decision making very difficult.
What usually happens after someone defects is a period of bloodletting & character assassination which then morphs into something more benign as soon as a replacement is conjured. In time the defector might even find themselves reminisced affectionately, the sand through the hourglass healing old wounds & dulling the passionate indignation that once ran so hot.
They say, what goes around comes around.

I saw THAT show finally

Can I say for the record I’m a Jamie Oliver fan. This bloke has arguably, in effect, single handedly, brought a huge global consciousness to the food we consume & for this alone I’m a devotee. Thats not to say however, I’m a sycophant, & here’s why.
Last night I watched, what I assume was a repeat of the show, ‘Jamie saves our bacon’.
It was on commercial TV at 9.30 on Wed evening head to head I might add against the new Toni Collette vehicle, ‘United States of Tara’ about a woman suffering from multiple personality disorder, of which the pilot was shown last week, I really liked it.
However as I don’t have pay TV anymore I decided not to miss out on the Jamie show of which I had heard quite a bit.
It was primarily concerned with the welfare of the pigs that end up on British tables at mealtime. Mind you, as part of the show, we learned that not all those pigs are British. This s not surprising of course, Europe being a big playing ground for those who speculate in porcine outcomes but I was intrigued to learn that Denmark supplies a huge amount of pork product throughout the whole European theatre. Because it is such a major player, Denmark also showcases the best & the most outmoded animal husbandry methods, of which the latter, I determined from the info presented on this show, were purely ruled by the bottom line. This was of course at odds with the main thrust of this show which clearly stood on the side of the ledger which stated that the welfare of the pigs reared for consumption should be of primary concern to the producer.
What I found very interesting was that the few farmers who found themselves on the outer of the sentimental thrust of the show, that is ones who for commercial reasons could not ‘afford’ to be more compliant to the welfare issues, were presented as ‘out of touch’ & of another age. They were looking decidedly uncomfortable with their involvement with the proceedings, perhaps aware that the novice audience, who would be exposed to the reality of killing an animal for consumption, would react in a way that would force them not only to explain their own practices but to apologize for killing for meat in general. This issue however was adroitly handled & moved on by Oliver whom I thought stuck tightly to the ‘you eat meat so take some responsibility for it’ regimen.
After nearly an hour of seeing a boar jerked off, a sow inseminated, another sow giving birth, the awful sow stalls, a jaw dropping-lee shocking castration of a piglet without anethstetic, collimating in the killing of a pig, I got the idea of what it takes to make my bacon.
Whilst I liked the show, what I found the most incongruous & perhaps most difficult thing to get over was that after all the talk about the welfare of the pig, how smart it was & how sensitive they were was best illustrated when Jamie rhapsodized about the juiciness of his forequarter roast right in the same room where all the other stuff had gone on. Right then, on queue, a pig screamed in the background as Jamie tore at the roasted flesh, he made a joke & the audience hooted with laughter. It made me uncomfortable.
I felt weird , I mean I eat meat, I like bacon, I liked the thrust of the show & that it attempted to right some wrongs, but it seemed an incredible oversight & extremely insensitive to the pigs in question, to have a cooking segment going on right where all the other stuff was happening. In fact, it seemed to almost undo all the humane argument it put forward earlier & that’s a shame.

Cooking for invalids

‘A couple of pieces of toast & some sweet tea please’ was all she asked for. Her cheeks were blushed; her breath stale & her face puffy & pale. An hour later the tea had been sipped but the toast lay uneaten, the butter congealed at its edges where as usual I had spread it too thickly. She was snoring softly on her side, taken again by the drowsiness bought on by this persistent lurgy which has scythed down her classmates & countless others in the town.
Nothing is as sad or as worrisome as your own sick child.
The other two have had it & gotten over it, each suffering their own bouts to varying degrees & all were robbed of their usually voracious appetites. Things are grim when some hot buttered toast can’t pep you up.
I remember as a kid my Mum would give me pea & ham soup, from a tin with thick slices of buttered toast when I was crook. I have always equated this soup with being ill funnily enough & has actually precluded me from putting it on the menu because of this reason.
Many people I know will take soup only when they ill. It’s easy to understand why. It goes down easily, it’s tasty & it is often simple. Often people like a clear soup, like a broth, perhaps that’s the reason why chicken noodle soup has been lauded for its medicinal properties, the old Jewish penicillin as they say. Many cultures see soup as indeed that, a medicine. Not unlike a Tisane is to a tea, a hot water extraction of herbs, spices & blooms, delicate & fragrant. Perhaps beef ‘tea’ a clear concentrated consommé, is the obvious crossover from food to medicine?
Though I like soups, they don’t restore me like other foods do when I am crook. When ill I would often go down to Victoria St or Little Burke St for some fragrant herby Viet dishes or some highly spiced Chinese food, the chillies, garlic & ginger making mockery of my condition, cajoling my taste buds & sweating the toxins from my pores. These clean true flavours would purge me or at least I felt they did. I once consulted a Chinese doctor who said I had ‘heat on the lung’ which meant I was an overly hot person & must avoid foods which generate it, like garlic onion & chillie, curious as felt they helped me get over the cold!
I often shake my head with the realization that some people only see food for its calorific content or its medical value, like not eating sugars or eating lean red meat but its often to the detriment of the sensual pleasure food can bring. Surely releasing those endorphins might be just as important to ones well being than a specifically aimed medicinal food item? While I agree some foods have proven medicinal properties, I’m uncomfortable about planning meals around them for this purpose alone. Just to contradict myself though, I have also realized that when I am ill, I respond better to spicy foods rather than bland stuff. I suppose the difference here is that I’m only prepared to take my medicine when I’m sick, not to take it to prevent me from being sick-does that make sense?
This dish from Victor could easily become the dish that I ask for when I get crook, in fact when she is able stomach more food, I’ll let her try it as well.