Vegetarians look away # 2, behold, the meat de-boner!

Mentorship-the first steps

My dad should’ve been a chef.
He loves food, or used to before he got crook.
When I was little, he took Chinese cooking lessons in the 70’s.
Saturday nights were spent trying out what he had learned the pervious night.
Our flat was filled with the exotica of the east!
Of course it didn’t start there though.
Our family get-togethers were legendary.
Mum & Dads worldly travels were well represented with their menu choices
Starkly at odds with his blue collar upbringing and her sheep-station aesthetic
Dark rye bread, small-goods, pickles, olives, unpronounceable cheeses.
All to the backdrop of a Whitlam ‘It’s time’ soaked soundtrack.
The Dr Lindeman flowed as did the Barossa Pearl and the Courage larger.
Coon, cabana, pineapple squares and maraschino cherries never got a look in.
Dad smoked his own joints of meat, built monuments of stone and brick to celebrate the high art of grilling of which he attained a transcendental understanding.
Coursing below the surface of course was always a torrent of unyielding hospitality.
Totally intertwined with my old mans personality was this notion that it was almost one’s sacred duty to show your guests a ‘good time.’
I believe this set our shows apart from the rest.
From Him I observed the notion that if you are going to have a show-be generous.
To this day it has always informed my own get-togethers
His mantra of ‘Make sure everyone’s got more than enough’, looping over and over.
I watch my own little bloke in the kitchen, looking after a friend who has spent the night.
‘Would you like more?’ he enquires, offering his mate seconds of baked beans.
‘What about another bit of toast?’
I am chuffed to witness such unbridled, unschooled and instinctive hospitality.
This sweet exchange fills me to the bursting point of Proudnessland.
The baton has been passed.
I feel that a wave of a building amorphorous anxiety has washed over me, dissipating into threads of harmless froth leaving me, relieved, my parental sextant, trustily calibrated.
I owe it to my mentor. My dad

Eating horse flesh

I wrote this back in June 2008 and thought I might re-post it as the horse meat debate is reaching fever pitch

'I’m so hungry I could eat a horse.'

Ever thought about that saying?

Whilst watching our respective children dribble, spot kick and hopefully bend it like Beckham at soccer training the other day, a friend of mine talked about the horses she has had to put down over the years. You see at the moment, the onset of winter has arrived and there are many horses looking for a good home. People can’t afford to keep them any more and because of the drought there isn’t enough feed. Buying in hay at $10 a bale or over and other supplementary foods that one must have in order to maintain the animals’ condition. It’s fair to say you can’t give a horse away these days.

My friend points an angry finger toward the racing industry that seems to have a rapacious appetite for new horse flesh to be trained, raced and eventually bred. What happens to the ones that don’t make the grade? Well they end up as dog meat.
Sad really, so many horses bought into the world simply to race and if they don’t do that successfully, they just get the chop.

How do they dispatch them? A lethal injection at a couple of hundred dollars a go, which can take ½ hour for the animal to die all the while its big heart, fights to the last. Surely a bullet is far quicker and more humane?
Then there the few hundred dollars to shell out to have a hole dug on the property to bury it. A lot of money

Why not eat it instead?

Many countries throughout the world continue to eat horsemeat but in many English speaking countries it is regarded as a taboo food. This could be because of the Catholic Church prohibited it from being consumed and it remained connected to paganism but also because we tend to see them as companion animals. In tough times people have turned to the horse for a source of protein, in fact the original meat in the Humble Pie was likely to be from the horse as it was considered to be the lowest of the low in terms of meat. That’s not to say that it is not enjoyed throughout many parts of the world without the stigma attached.

I know people eat it here and why not, what really is the problem? Meat is meat.

Cooking for Them

It starts in the morning with that first thoughtful cup of tea.
The middle one likes a spoon of sugar in hers.
Everyone gently blowing steam off their cups, like purring cats
We ease into the day gently.
He smiles as I slice tomato and cucumber, arrange some lettuce and place a slice of cheese on his sandwich, a swirl of mayonnaise completes this ritual.
Last nights leftovers are sorted and organized into some semblance of a proper lunch.
I know she likes more noodles than meat, more vegies than sauce.
She likes that I know what she likes.
I’m disciplined by an economy of movement making their lunches.
Not because of the confines of our small kitchen but from the daily repetition of honing my craft.
I like to look after them and so it goes until dinner time.
On my mise en place list at work, very un-café items appear glaringly obvious to the trained eye.
These little motifs punctuate our daily tasks like a single high note in an otherwise basso chorale.
As the end of the working day closes, only then do these fuzzily separate items begin to come into register and a meal is ready for transport home.
The privileges of having a commercial kitchen in which to indulge your family become apparent when a meal just materializes so.
This night it was a humble lasagne, some salad and of course some bread.
I had thought about this meal all day, actually, since I woke up.
I love cooking for them.

Cut up meat-Blossom be her name

Once was a calf, who kept our grass down but breached our neighbors paddocks and smashed through a couple of century old fences.

This raised my blood pressure and sharpened my appetite.

True, her lineage was questionable. No nurture vs nature argument here.

But she came from the most Rasputin of Bovine bloodlines: attitude plus

Black Angus over Belted Galloway, her white face, a brand of her uniqueness.

She was a force of nature, an anomily.

Many hardened cockies were left scratching their heads with her reality.

We provided a Fun park for Cows.

Sadly, it was not enough.

She wanted more.

I made my decision.

Primary cuts for us, secondary cuts for the cafe.

This meat, a living being I reared, I knew, we knew.

We will revere her flesh with every forkfull.

I carefully date and label every cut.

The freezer resembles a morgue.

Each piece a tribute.

Blosson be her name.

Snapshot of my sad youth

We had a plan.
Well like many spur of the moment decisions that ferment when you mix young men + alcohol, it really did seem like a good idea at the time.
The six of us were all about nineteen, so that makes it 1985, '86 and we were out for a big night. As was the custom of the day, I was kitted out in the required garb that would have me easily blend in with the crowd but retain a bit of ‘edginess’. Or so I thought.

Spiky, mullet hair with quiff
Earring
Some sort of bizarrely acid washed short sleeved shirt
Lariat tie
Collar tips
Arm bands (think Wild West poker player in the 1800’s)
Thin black trousers
Oversized dinner suit jacket
Various war medals
Winkle pickers

This ensemble was a post modern homage to all the influences in my life at the time.
I desperately hoped that there was a girl out there in the swirl of Melbourne nightclub life that would ‘get’ me and thus overlook my terrible Elton John styled glasses that kind of undid my studied look.
Back then, unfortunately for me, ‘cool glasses’ had yet to be invented by aging trend spotters, so I had to make do.

My friends were sensibly more urbane in their fashion choices and as luck would have it, routinely scored. Still I doggedly persisted with my niche appeal despite the mounting tally of encounters that my mates were enjoying around me.
The problem for us was not what happened inside the club it was getting into the club that presented the most difficulty.
Melbourne nightclubs at this time were hell bent on turning away every single male punter from its doors with I suppose the rationale that they wanted to make it more exclusive to get in.
You know create some mystique.

Fatigued at the regular humiliations by the doorman we mapped out a strategy.
We would pair up in three groups of two, synchronize out watches and stroll up five minutes apart.

We rationalized that the sharper dressed ones would pair up with someone who was not as keenly fitted out, kind of balancing our appearance in the eyes of the bouncer.
On this particular night, we commenced our run at the intimidating door of Inflation.

It was chilly in King St that night and the mistral howling down that corridor between the buildings heralded a future yet to arrive in the form of skuzzy pole dancing clubs, violence and sleaze. For now though, it was just us young blokes, weekly wages in our wallets and girls on our minds.

The first two were talking to the bouncer. We always chose my mates older brother to go first as he was the most impressive of us. Confident, good looking and well built. Logically, according to our strategy, he was paired with the weakest link. Before you assume it was me, I was in the second wave thank you very much!
No, it was with our most raggedly scraggly, disheveled mate, someone that could make brand new clothes look crumpled and lived in for weeks just by putting them on in the change room.

Something was wrong. They were having trouble. ‘This is not good, this is not good!’ I heard the panicked voice of Maverick’s navigator pal ‘Goose’ from Top Gun, in my head.

Soon it’s our turn to arrive at the steps. The bouncer is an immovable force of nature. Our protestations are falling like primitive arrows against his electro magnetic force field.

Inevitably the last of our team arrive and we make for a tragic site huddled on the steps, the warm promise of entry tantalizingly out of reach.

‘Um’, I chirped up.
‘Is Phil Brophy on tonight? Ah, err, Phil the manager?’
The no neck monster at the door squints his eyes at me.
‘You know Phil?’ He grunted
‘Sure I do !’ I say getting cocky-soon we’ll be in!
Truth is I heard that Phil was the operator; I didn’t know him at all and had never met him. I just assumed that he would not be there right now and that his name alone might guarantee safe passage.

Wrong.

The Bouncer disappeared and in his place Phil himself materialized, dabbing the remnants of his dinner with a white napkin, clearly annoyed that he was being disturbed.

‘What do you want?’ demonstrating to everyone there that in fact, no, Phil and I were not best mates.
‘Um can we come in?’ I ask sheepishly

The clang of the heavy copper plated door as it slammed shut gave a very emphatic answer.

For a moment we all stood on those barren steps dejected.

Later, licking our wounded pride over toasted sandwiches and hot chocolate down the road at a 24 hour café I noticed other groups of guys apparently going through the same thing as our table, my mood lifted.

‘There’s always next week’, I said taking a bite.

Cut up meat, the old fashioned way

Below is a standard order form from the local abbatoir



I love collecting the square boxes when they're done, especially when I remember the fencing issues, the smashed toes and the calamity that this particular calf put me through. Beef en Daube here I come!

Small business dilemma

If you are a small business owner you might understand this dilemma.

Today I got a call from my youngest child’s school to let me know that he is feeling ill.
Now my wife, who also works full time took three days off last week to look after our middle child who suffered from the same thing going around the school as the youngest one is today.

So it was my turn to do the looking after, no problem.

However Wednesday is the day of the week that I am particularly vulnerable as I have a new kitchen staff member that is in training, so if I’m not there, who oversees the kitchen?

I had to make a choice.

Close the kitchen and limit the cafes offering to coffee and cake or take a deep breath and leave the cooking to our newest kitchen team member who has limited experience in a la carte cooking.

The stakes were high. People are now coming to the café with some mighty expectations and I have to remind myself that we are and always have been a café not a restaurant despite those expectations. Not an excuse, just a realization of what we are and what we are not.

If I closed, potentially many people would have been disappointed and the two parties booked would have had to find alternative venues at short notice, causing them much grief. Also I would be sending a clear message to the staff that I dont think they are capable of coping.

Or stay open and risk it all going pear shaped.

I took a deep breath.

I decided to stay open; the show must go on, rationalizing that my new kitchen staff member would cope and that they would rise to the occasion.

We had a couple of tables booked which is sometimes a gauge that we might be busy though that’s not ever a true indicator. We contacted to inform them that I would not be there as I had a family issue to attend to immediately- I thought this a good strategy as it will inform our guests prior to their arrival that we will not be operating on all four cylinders, therefore giving them the option to perhaps re-book should they be inclined.

But for the walk-ins we didn’t have the luxury of this approach and they will judge us as they see fit.

I deliberate to close the kitchen early if I am alerted by the staff that they are not coping. Even though I called several times, the crew said they were OK.

The way these things tend to go, it was a busy day. Gulp.

For the record and by all accounts, my new staff member held their nerve, battled on and did their best-which is all I could ask or expect. I am very happy that they did so well and thanked them accordingly. Sometimes it’s best to be blooded by experience rather than being fully protected until deemed ready.

Meanwhile I sit housebound worried about my child and worried about any possible negative experiences at the cafe today.

The dilemma for me is: Will the customers be as understanding of our situation?

Meat Love -Warning! Rated R and not suitable for vegetarians!

Tasmania's unique problem

There are some things peculiar to Tasmania.

The world famous Wilderness, the incredible rivers and tributaries and the amazing coast just to name a few obvious ones.

There are also a few that aren’t so obvious and in terms of the hospitality industry they might just be unique.

Since I arrived in 03 I have learned about many hospitality horror stories that do the rounds underpinning the obvious short falls that this State, so renowned for its produce, fails to deliver first class food and beverage experiences.

I cringed a few months back when we in the industry were put on notice to ‘lift our game’ as there would be an influx of guests and journalists from the ‘Mainland’ here to attend Savour Tasmania. I agree that some venues consistently let the side down but conversely this declaration from the Government seemed to illustrate a certain Tasmanian cultural cringe which I was uncomfortable about.

It seems we continue to ignore the unique challenges that running hospitality businesses in Tasmania, especially rurally, need to be negotiated.

Here are some things I’ve observed.

Firstly, there is not a large population by Australian standards with just on five hundred thousand.

Then there is the fact that we are amongst the poorest demographics in the country with an aging community.

In winter, especially rurally, people tend not to go out at night.

Frequently I hear people complaining about paying ‘Mainland prices’ for food and beverage but often the prices just reflect the real cost of producing and serving food in a restaurant or café environment.

Many businesses rely on the influx of tourists and when the season slows, so do the businesses. This explains why towns on the East Coast for instance do it so tough when the tourists go home.
To illustrate this point, a friend of mine was in Swansea a month ago on a Friday night and could not get anything to eat in any of the pubs, take-away or restaurants at eight o’clock on a Friday night! That’s because the costs of buying product and keeping staff on cannot be justified if there is no one around to patronize the place.

This also has a knock on effect for the hiring, training and retention of the staff. There is this mad cycle of scrambling to get staff for the summer and then many businesses discarding them when it gets inevitably quiet.

I believe that this has caused a great disconnect and a fair degree of resentment amongst some in the workforce. Many are coaxed back season after season but are not given the opportunity to stay on and develop a sense of ownership of their positions.
At the same time, employers get exasperated that there is no loyalty amongst staff or that they simply don’t want to work hard.

It’s usually at these times when the bad experiences I referred to earlier generally occur.

Having said my last point I will also say that one must put their expectation into perspective especially when travelling rurally. If you rock up to a small village and expect a degustation lunch at a humble roadside café you’ll probably be disappointed.

Perhaps because Tasmania enjoys a Stirling reputation for its wonderful produce, I think there is an expectation from many people and not just tourists, that it will manifest itself in every food offering. You’ll find dodgy food, coffee and service all over this country in the cities as well, but here in Tasmania I think we face a unique problem that because everyone is always hearing about how good the produce is, it often doesn’t live up to that promise. It’s almost as if we’ve made a rod for our own backs.

I am always amazed that very large tourist type operations are being planned for this state and generally without the most obvious question being asked. Its not, ‘Can we fill the dining room, or the cabins or the rooms?

Surely it’s ‘Who are we going to get to work here?’

Where do you get very experienced staff and personnel to live, have a social life, go to the doctor, send you kids to school and go to the library when you work at Tarraleah, Coles Bay or Strahan for instance?

Venues such as these will have no problem attracting the top end people like chefs and managers as the salary, imagined lifestyle and lure of making a name for themselves will overcome many misgivings.
But as I’ve found out over the years, its not these people you have the problem with, its all the other support staff that you must have in order to make these often very large venues work, the commis chef and cooks, the bar-staff and waiters, the housekeepers and groundsmen-where do they all magically appear from?

Everyone (Management) always says ‘It’s all about training’.
That very easy to say, especially when one is mostly insulated from the realities of this huge issue.
‘We’ve hired someone else to deal with that’ they say conveniently ignoring the elephant in the room that the basic business plan was flawed because it ignored the obvious truth that venues like these need a lot of staff.
What tends to happen next with metronomic regularity in this State is that many of the chefs and managers hired to take charge of these venues end up burnt out, shaken, their confidence shot and often they leave the State for good.
This has certainly been the case in the last few years.

So what to do?

Finally though. Just to muddy the waters a little, good venues continue to prosper, attract and retain staff and have an excellent level of customer satisfaction.
So many of these operators are asking, ‘What problem?