Ómós Digest #44: The Magic of Marigold.
The plant you never knew you needed.
The Magic of Marigold.
As a chef, there’s something humbling about eating food cooked by someone else (albeit chefs are seldom invited to dinner!). In fact, the very thought of a chef dining at your homestead might be enough to trigger sudden fear. On the contrary, and to calm your anxiety, there’s nothing more gratifying than for a cook to be offered a seat at the table and given a plate of food they’ve had no hand in; whether that be the simplest of fare, or food cooked by the culinary demigods.
If a trip to the cheesemongers can be classified as ‘work’ for me, and eating at one's table is classified as ‘fulfillment’, then dining out in restaurants might be regarded as ‘research’. After all, there is little I find more inspiring than tasting a chef's food that gives me that ever-so-slight feeling of jealousy. With a sentiment of fascination and appreciation, a chord of wonder is struck leaving a lasting impression of respect and excitement. As a matter of fact, that sensation is what I crave most. It has become a constant pursuit and makes dining out where this feeling isn’t evoked seem…well…wasteful (let's leave the croquettes for trips to Spain). If these beliefs seem patronising, the sensation of excitement needn’t come from extravagant fare alone; more often than not they are a result of love and care - hard to achieve that. I’ve experienced it with good bowls of pasta enrobed in great sauces, excellently grilled meat stemming from good farming and skillful cooking or (and this is the one that gets me most excited) the addition of unexpected ingredients - shaping combinations capable of sending a humble dish into an entire classification of its own. With each instance of this feeling, I’m thrown along pathways of endless possibilities and into new realms of thinking. The best part of all - it's not always at restaurants where it’s experienced but at your very own kitchen table.
It goes without saying that some of the finest bread experiences I have had were not in the form of miniature loaves seen in a handful of restaurants but cut from a loaf baked in a domestic kitchen. The same applies to baked goods, with the shortest of biscuits and the lightest of sponges layered between the finest of jams - a result of years of practice, knowledge and tradition, love and care. Speaking of tradition, it's almost a year since I ate THAT dessert of rhubarb and custard at Allta restaurant: a combination which is a classic for sure and a safe and pleasing demise to a delicious meal. However, on this occasion, hidden within the iconic pink and yellow were a couple of carefully placed herbaceous curve balls… tarragon leaves, just enough for each bite. Now, the addition of tarragon in a R&C sweet mightn’t make RTÉ News (seldom does any good news), nor be next-in-line on Maynards Bassetts’ conveyor belt, but this was an act of true brilliance worthy of celebration. And celebrate we did. After numerous bottles of wine and a sherry or two too many, the unearthing of a herb so characteristically associated with savoury dishes (chicken and tarragon à la crème) in a dessert, sent me and my comrades into the joyous yips and ‘yeows’ you might better associate with a Christy Moore concert (‘Yeow’ is a socially accepted Irish exaltation even the Irish people can’t fully explain).
Frankly, the evening (and particularly the dessert) was enough to leave me with great admiration for what had been executed at Alta Summer House that night, along with a pretty hefty hangover (whoever said natural wine doesn’t give hangovers knows something I’m yet to discover).