Feline Fine Dining Group

Blog

  • Why I Banned the Cucumber

    On the first of July, I banned cucumbers from all Feline Fine Dining kitchens. It was not an easy decision. It was the right one. Anyone who has watched a cat encounter a cucumber on the floor knows the horror, the leap and the dreadful loss of dignity.

    I made the announcement at a staff meeting. A line cook named Pierre protested, saying the cucumber is the pride of the salad. I put him in charge of the walk in freezer for a week. Since then we have had zero cucumber related incidents, no airborne cats and a 22 percent improvement in morale. Salads have lost some crunch, but our dignity has returned.

  • Recipe: The Midnight Pâté, Serves Two or One Greedy Chef

    You will need 200 grams of salmon, 80 grams of chicken liver, a spoonful of cream and the will to live. Poach the salmon gently in milk for nine minutes, until it flakes and trembles. Sauté the liver in butter until it just blushes.

    Blend both with cream, a pinch of salt and a single drop of bonito oil, then press into a ramekin and chill for four hours, or until the household is asleep. Serve at 3 a.m. on a cold saucer. It is a pâté for the lonely and the brave. Do not share it. Do not tell anyone about it. Eat it in the dark, standing up, like a thief.

  • A Brief History of My Whiskers

    My whiskers have been in the kitchen since before the pilot light. The left one, longer and more sensitive, detects tuna from 11 metres. The right one, shorter and more suspicious, detects lies. Together they have made me what I am.

    In 2009, the left whisker was singed by a flambé gone rogue. I cried for a week. In 2011, the right whisker was clipped by a rival chef at a charity bake off. I did not cry; I filed a complaint. They have both grown back, a little stronger and a little more dramatic, and I now insure them for 40,000 treats through a specialist underwriter on Harbour Street.

  • On the Correct Handling of a Sardine

    A sardine is not a fish. It is a small silver letter of love, and it must be opened with reverence. First, the tin: slide the key beneath the tab, count three, and peel in a single motion. Do not rush. A rushed tin is a bitter tin.

    Second, the temperature. A sardine should be served at precisely 17 degrees, which is the warmth of a floor in late afternoon. Third, the oil, which must never be wasted. I once saw a line cook pour it down the drain. He no longer works for me. He now runs a successful dog biscuit stand and sends me a card each Christmas, which I do not open.

  • The Night the Soufflé Fell

    It was 1998, and I was a young sous chef at the Café Moustache. The soufflé, a magnificent golden dome, rose to an impossible 14 centimetres. The head chef, a terrifying Burmese named Madame Gaspard, carried it herself to table six.

    At the threshold of the dining room, it sighed. Then it fell. The room went silent. Madame Gaspard stood motionless with a collapsed pudding in her paws, and I knew my career was either over or beginning. I fled to the walk in freezer, where I wept into a block of cold cream. When I emerged, she said only, ‘Again.’ I have said the same word to every apprentice since.

  • I Was Nine Weeks Old When I Understood Butter

    I was nine weeks old when I first understood butter. It sat on a saucer on my grandmother’s windowsill, a yellow sun in a blue dish, and I climbed the curtain to reach it. I fell. I tasted it. I was changed.

    Everything I have cooked since, from the 14 course tasting menu at Le Saumon to the dainty tuna tartare at Trattoria Whisker, has been an attempt to return to that saucer. I am Chef Beauregard ‘Beau’ Pawsworth, and this is the story of a life spent at the stove, hungry, haunted and eventually star adjacent.