Chefs are restless creatures. We would be restless creatures in whatever field we chose to work in, but there is something about life in the kitchen that makes it easy – not to mention beneficial – to be restless. Thinking about the creation of some of the culinary world’s most enduring dishes, they could only have been invented by a truly agitated mind, one that was unyielding in its quest for innovation or novelty: “What happens if I keep whisking this egg white, for what seems like hours? Would it be possible to add sugar? Loads of sugar? Will this change if I bake it? Cook it over steam? Maybe add warm sugar?”
Making meringue is one process among thousands, but I often think about the leaps of imagination and speculation and trial and error that must have been taken in order to arrive at a single crunchy sweet confectionary. The same could be said for mayonnaise. Or chocolate. The list is endless.
I’ve been struggling with creativity recently. Over the years I’ve learned that it isn’t something that can be summoned on command, like a well-trained hound. It’s more fleeting, nefarious. It waits in the shadows and is often near impossible to find at times when it is most required. At the start of a new season, I often think that the barrage of fresh produce – items that haven’t been seen or tasted for 10 months – will inspire me into crafting a new menu within mere minutes. Experience has taught me this is never the case, and getting frustrated with my non-compliant brain only serves to make matters worse.
Creating the right conditions
What I have learned over the years, however, is that much like the very same produce, creativity requires the right conditions in which to thrive and bear fruit. Being pressured, tired, run-down, or mentally drained are all barriers to crafting an original menu from familiar ingredients. The items swirl and taunt and contort themselves into pieces that bear little resemblance to a series of preparations that would work together on a plate. And the more time goes on, the more pressure I tend to put on myself to craft something worthy of the time already invested. A chef’s version of the sunk cost fallacy.
It’s at moments like this when turning to the past invariably unlocks some hidden door – behind which sits an idea. Stripping things back and returning to first principles can rid the mind of the unnecessary clouds of doubt that prevent an idea from blossoming.
There is a reason that copies of Larousse and Escoffier and Le Repertoire are thrust into the sweaty palms of virtually every new student of the culinary arts: they contain the restless thoughts and ideas of people who have gone before. Cooks who have done the hard work for us, who have worked through recipes and formulations dozens of times before they committed them to paper for the likes of you and me to reach for in times of need.
Naturally, like every other chef I know, I am an avid collector of new cookbooks. They line the shelves of my kitchen both at work and at home, many of them with pages that have merely been glanced at once before being tucked away with the promise to read them soon. But the ones that I reach for in times of need? They are the old ones, the classics – they’re the ones that hold the key to unlocking the future.
The Secret Chef
