Ómós Digest #98: A pilgrimage out west
by Cúán Greene
Hello Everyone,
Welcome to the Ómós Digest!
I’m excited to announce that I will be cooking at Ora Restaurant in Berlin, on July 1st and 2nd. I’ll be sharing a kitchen with Sam Kindillon, a fellow Irishman who has been cooking beautiful food in Berlin over the last couple of years. On Saturday, we will serve a collaborative tasting menu using loads of produce from their farm and offering dishes that Sam and I have both been working on over the past couple of months. There will be an optional wine pairing on the night. On Sunday, located in the Michelberger Courtyard, we hope you can join us for a Kebab Party. We are in Berlin after all.
Reservations are live here.
I’d also like to mention that next week I will be taking a short break from writing for a week’s holiday. I hope to return refreshed and revitalised, and subsequently bursting with ideas!
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See you in a fortnight.
Love,
Cúán.
The freshest fish I ever had (I swear)
I might be wide of the mark here, but our most memorable food experiences are not those eaten at the dinner table. It’s more likely that the most vivid eating experiences of your life were realised while sitting cross-legged on a stone or patch of grass, sand or straw; a plate or napkin strewn across your lap and a humbling view before you. This is a theory that rules all restaurants out of the running order.
My mother always says that ‘hunger is the best sauce’. That’s not to say she didn’t feed me but after summer days out gallivanting and exploring the wild terrain and landscape of Connemara, while growing up, I always recall food tasting better. Whether it was by An Dóilín, a beach where sand is replaced by coral shingle, or a BBQ on the sun-soaked steps of our holiday home, ingredients simply sang.
Seafood carried a sweetness as fresh as the saltwater they had been drawn from that morning. Potatoes were pure, the steam splitting their reddish skins into shards, to be slathered in salty, buttery goodness. Apple and blackcurrant crumbles bled purple juices, which caramelised on the Pyrex dish they had been placed in. The AGA had rendered the fruit juices to natural toffee, aided by a handful of sugar, to which yours truly would take the honourable task of devouring as it cooled. Speaking of clichés, one of the finest pieces of fish I have ever eaten was on a beach in West Cork only last week. Perhaps it was ‘the freshest fish of my life’ - which only Mark Jennings, our chef that evening and former owner of restaurant Pilgrim’s could tell you - but in any case, the environment and manner in which we had journeyed, certainly allowed me to believe it.
We took a narrow, grass-lined footpath off the main street of Baltimore, a fishing village in West Cork, to reach the beach. It was evening time and after a full day's work, the sun was soon to set, casting the landscape into majestic fields of gold. The road was over 2 km in length and made for a dreamlike journey, of course heightened by the anticipation of what lay ahead. Lush ferns, trees and rare wildflowers rose high on each side, forming an almost psychedelic vista into which we diligently entered. The rarely disturbed cows' heads inquisitively turned in our direction, as our unconventional troop of 25, bearing fold-up chairs and wine bottles, meandered the winding path. It’s moments like these that often remind us how majestic Ireland is - here an exotic landscape influenced greatly by the Gulf Stream which impacts West Cork’s microclimate. As the path took a turn west, the hills gave way and the land opened up, revealing the most breathtaking inlet. Mark has a cult following in these parts and had been briefed with the task of cooking for an unlikely band of brothers. Those who knew of Mark’s talent could barely contain their excitement for what magic lay ahead
Poised at the narrow beach’s centre, a lace-adorned table danced in the light breeze, strewn with local delicacies. Oysters complete with their top shell* were accompanied by enviably good chilli water, presented in a miniature squeezy bottle. Juicy and acidic mussels in the form of an escabeche left the mouth salivating for more, while bowls of fresh strawberries and chunks of dark brown sourdough both taunted the journeymen. A vase of fresh flowers completed the jaw-droppingly serene ensemble.
* Placing the top shell of an oyster back on its shell is an unassuming act of care that is naturally missed by most. By deciding to present an oyster in this way, each oyster needs to be carefully opened to avoid cracking the top shell and the shell must then be reserved so as to not lose it. The oyster’s muscle is then delicately released from the bottom shell, the lid placed back on top and the oyster carefully set on a plate in a manner that the shell won’t fall off. Ultimately it makes no difference to the flavour, but for those who know, it is a gorgeous act of love.
Had Mark announced that the contents of the table were the sum of the offering that evening, we would have been more than appreciative. But judging by the enormous paella pan and fire pit burning in the corner, it meant more was yet to come. Although we had gorged on lunch at Dillon’s Corner in Skibbereen that afternoon, followed by a spectacular boat ride to Sherkin Island and a feast of creamy pints, once more food was a welcome offering. If that wasn’t enough, our appetites were further whetted by sumptuous wines supplied by Note Bistro and Winebar which some of the gang owned. Bottles flowed and as Mark lit his grill, we soon realised what they would shortly be accompanied by.
It’s worth mentioning that cooking for 25 people on your own is no small feat. Not least when on a beach. Sand is at your peril, threatening to infiltrate your mise en place at any given moment. Despite being surrounded by the sea, potable water is a constant worry, not to mention the numerous other elements that taunt your efforts. For that matter, a one-pot dish like paella is a wonderful shout - a fulfilling, delicious plate of food that one can only assume originated as an effective way of feeding many mouths at a minimum cost. But, of course Mark had set a higher bar. As he opened his bag of tricks, what was presented was not rice but an entire container of monkfish tails. The tails were marinated in what appeared to be a turmeric-tinted yoghurt. Placing each tail on the paellera like a giant frying pan, the aromatic aromas burst out on the beach.
As we acclimatised to our surroundings, Cloud 15 slowly decreased to a more manageable Cloud 9. A certain cohort positioned by the fire became increasingly alarmed of the burning ‘bread’. Little did they know, Mark had wrapped new season potatoes in sea lettuce, then covered the parcels in salt dough and placed them directly over the coals to cook. They indeed looked like loaves of bread. Salt dough is exactly as described: a dough of flour, salt, water and egg whites that protects ingredients from the flame during cooking (almost like compostable tin foil). However, the salt dough also acts as a natural seasoning, whereby the potatoes absorb the salt as they cook (recipe available for paid subscribers below).
In keeping with the trend of going above and beyond, Mark had chosen to dress each plate individually and with no staff of Note (pun fully intended), yours truly was once again brought into action. A couple of beverages deep, Mark presented me with a Fingal Ferguson knife, to which I would aim to carve the ‘cremated bread’. Once the lids had been prized from the dough, the most beautifully tender steamed potatoes revealed themselves and I was instructed to smother them with spoonfuls of smokey seaweed butter, a recipe Mark acknowledges to have come from the legendary chef Stephen Harris.
Although most were dished out on compostable paper plates, my gallant efforts were rewarded with a beautiful china plate, the type my grandmother owned. The fish was placed on top with a bright orange bisque sauce (what else) and finished with fresh purple and green basil, fennel tops, tender stem and lightly wilted beach herbs. Judging by the non-lexical murmurs arising in the camp - a universal sign of fulfilment - I can speak for the masses that at this moment, each and every one of us felt appreciative and fortunate to have been navigated through this otherworldly experience. The evening came to a close as we gathered around a campfire and Mark took his opportunity to slip away into the darkness.