Bruce’s Cookbook. Bruce Poole
opening night, I was, in effect, the Head Chef and was writing the menu with my new sous-chef (and now good friend) Rob Jones. The twins were well connected and the restaurant received rave reviews. We were subsequently bombed every night and cranking out large numbers with a small crew was demanding. Anna and I had just had our first daughter, Charlotte, but the job just consumed me totally and once again I found myself putting in fierce hours – sometimes sleeping on the restaurant banquettes at night in an attempt to get more of the shut-eye I longed for. It was tough for both Anna and me, but at last I felt able to start expressing myself as a cook and was soon coming up with new dishes, which to my surprise, customers seemed to enjoy.
I was recruiting staff, processing the orders, writing the rotas, organising the kitchen porters and changing the menu regularly, alongside cooking on the meat and fish section, and we certainly had no extra hands at that time to run the pass or oversee proceedings. There were some hairy nights and one in particular comes to mind when one of the managers, who was known to enjoy a drink, failed to show for work after he got boozed up in a nearby pub during his afternoon break. There was no other senior member of staff trained to take orders, we were fully booked and the night went predictably and horribly pear-shaped. Hungry and thirsty customers were coming into the kitchen to complain of long waits and I had to bite my lip as irate punters offloaded on me with gusto – all I was trying to do was to cook decent food! On the same night I lost it with one especially unhelpful member of staff and as I downed tools to vociferously berate the hapless guy at full volume and with suitably robust language, I suddenly had the uncomfortable feeling that I was being watched. Sure enough, as I turned around there was a poor guest who had come to the kitchen simply looking for service and, instead of receiving any, he was met with a decidedly ugly and unprofessional scene. It was all part of the learning curve I suppose – character-building, one might say.
Alongside the painful management-learning tangent, I was at last able to start discovering my own cooking style. Simon Hopkinson’s simple but exactingly accurate approach had made a big impression on me and I tried to pursue a similar path. There were plenty of French classics on the Chez Max menus, but a few of my own numbers appeared too. I have always loved charcuterie and it was exciting to shamelessly push these preparations centre stage. We boned out whole rabbits (a fiddly process), brined them and made ballotines. I enjoyed serving them as a starter with old-fashioned, mustardy celeriac rémoulade and toasted buttery brioche. We made loads of other terrines too and foie gras mousses, cured our own duck breasts and boiled up pigs’ heads and trotters for fromage de tête and croquettes. I then combined the whole lot on a huge plate and christened it rather pompously ‘Grande Assiette de Charcuterie Chez Max’. (This inevitably turned into an even bigger plate at Chez Bruce where the same theme developed…) I kept the desserts simple but immaculate. More classic beauties were filched from the French pastry kitchen: tartes Tatin, tartes fine, custards, bavarois, brûlées, mousses, truffe au chocolat, fresh fruit sablés, pure ice creams and lots of pastry. Always lots of buttery pastry – I loved the stuff and still do. The critics used words like ‘gutsy’, ‘trencherman’ and ‘bourgeois’ and we received positive reviews, but I felt these adjectives slightly missed the point. It was pure food I aimed for, not messed about with, but with great attention to detail. ‘Refined Rustic’ I liked to call it quietly.
But exploratory culinary frolicking in the workplace can only exist sustainably within a stable business. As the restaurant’s investors turned on each other and suppliers stopped turning up due to ‘cashflow problems’, I could see the writing on the wall and wanted out. Nigel Platts-Martin owned The Square restaurant where I had worked previously and he dined at Chez Max occasionally. He liked the food evidently (ordering the deep-fried calf’s brains with sauce gribiche on one occasion I seem to recall) and was looking to recruit a chef to head up his other restaurant, Harveys on Bellevue Road, Wandsworth Common. Marco Pierre White had made Harveys a London – in fact, European – destination restaurant with his scintillating and brilliantly executed modern food, but he had moved on a couple of years previously and by the time Nigel approached me with the possibility of taking on the mantle there, I must confess I was not especially excited by the prospect. The place’s reputation had, understandably, taken a bit of a knocking and I had no wish to add my name to the growing list of those who had presided over the stoves since Marco’s departure.
I went to meet Nigel and we talked about the restaurant’s prospects. Initially I was not terribly keen on the site myself. At the time, Nigel had his hands full with the burgeoning success of The Square, so when he suggested that I take on a broader role and effectively run the place from the kitchen, I became more taken with the project. He was also convinced that the good people of SW17 were crying out for a more informal but high-quality concept, the kind of model I naturally favour and had seen work at Ifield Road, and so the idea began to take shape. The name Chez Bruce was his idea and it seemed a fitting watershed to herald the passing of the old and the dawning of the new. I was slightly uncomfortable with the name, to be honest, but it struck me as a promising, albeit slightly risky way of furthering my career. After a fair bit of thought, we shook hands on a deal and I was on board. Harveys’ final day of trading was New Year’s Eve 1994. The restaurant then shut for a six-week period during which the dining room was thoroughly refurbished to create a fresh and more relaxed feel. Smaller tables and chairs were installed, they were covered with paper tablecloths and Chez Bruce opened for business in February 1995.
Onwards
Occasionally I wonder – and get asked – how my cooking style has changed over the years. I am also often asked what my favourite restaurant is. These are not easy questions to answer. I have never much favoured fancy, complicated food and I can’t abide food that looks as if it has been in someone’s fingers and hands a lot before arriving at my table. I don’t like teetering towers of grub or artful dribbles of sauce either. It sometimes bothers me how much time we spend at the restaurant in thinking about packaging and presenting a new dish, but this, sadly, comes with the territory. As professional cooks we have a responsibility to make food look presentable – beautiful even – but this should never assume a greater role than that played by the flavour and texture of a dish. I am, however, fairly sure that every chef has been guilty of this cooking crime at some stage in their career. I know I have.
These days I like to read a menu that has been created with thought and, importantly, understanding for a customer’s needs. I enjoy a card where there is real technique and even flair on show, but this should be tempered by the acknowledgement that sometimes a guest might like something a little simpler. I am aware that, with a lot of our clients, it is often the wife (or partner, to be politically correct) who faces the task of choosing where to dine of an evening. A businessman may have just arrived from Heathrow after a long flight and might not have the stomach for a whole load of different proteins tortured to within an inch of their lives. He may just fancy a simple plate of superb San Daniele ham sliced to order. Or perhaps an immaculate green salad. A good menu should offer such alternatives, but alongside more show-stopping dishes that enable the kitchen’s real voice to be heard. Unfortunately, I don’t see many menus displaying these qualities. I come across plenty of ‘impressive’ offerings where the chef is clearly working his (and his brigade’s) socks off to dazzle the clients. But frankly, these places are not for me.
I like to visit restaurants where the front-of-house team plays a part at least as important as that enacted by the chef and the kitchen brigade. Where the wine list is beautifully crafted and where I can seek advice from a knowledgeable, friendly and enthusiastic sommelier or server. Where I am greeted warmly at the door. Where the menu is not bigger than the table. Where the cheeses are expertly chosen and where the selection reflects the region or country in which I am dining. Where I am perhaps offered another table if one doesn’t appeal (although I have never been particularly fussy in this respect). Where I can be confident that all the kitchen’s produce is irreproachably top-notch and where every dish is lovingly and skilfully prepared. If there is a delay, I am understanding, of course, but it is nice to be kept up-to-date by an alert manager. Where I can ask for a simple bowl of vanilla ice cream, if that is what appeals at the end of a meal, without fear of putting the pastry chef’s nose out of joint. Where I don’t need to order dessert at the beginning