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Let It Simmer Let It Simmer, ISBN 9781920989316 and books by Sean Moran on sale at thebookshelf.co.nz Many of the recipes in this book reflect my hankering for honest, home–style cooking, while others started life in a backyard, shack or fishing boat, yet have snuggled their way into our salty jewel of a restaurant at Bondi Beach. ExtractThe most remarkable thing about my mother is that for 30 years she served nothing but leftovers. The original meal was never found. Tracey UllmanI lay no claim to an upbringing nurtured by gastronomic delights: my mother was proud and headstrong, but she had it tough. While our cupboards were usually bleak and often met with tuts of disapproval, we really hit rock bottom the night she served us Vegemite broth. Hers was conveyorbelt cuisine, and featured brand names such as Carnation, Gravox and Tang. Bubble "n" squeak was the family favourite, and it was occasionally followed by a colourful Aeroplane jelly or some concoction from Sara Lee that Mum loved to top with a dollop of Dessert Whip, which, she insisted, never went out of date! Nonetheless, it always felt mutually comforting joining Mum in her domesticity, even if it was just to get the lumps out of the gravy. Until the age of twelve, I ate food divorced from its origins. A brutal primary–school trip to an abattoir opened my eyes to the reality of how what we ate in suburban oblivion arrived on our plates. I remember watching surgical men in gumboots, in awe of the precision of their every cut and their masculine lack of emotion as throats were slashed and innards pulled before each animal was systematically slung onto a conveyor belt of hooks passing overhead. Blood and guts aside, I look to that poignant excursion as my first essential link with the food chain. At boarding school, "gifts" in the refectory were divided between eight from coveted aluminium trays. As ravenous adolescents we devoured everything indiscriminately: shepherd"s pie with powdered mashed potato, meat "frisbees", and the weekly grey mutton roast with, yes, Gravox. There was no joy behind the servery. It reeked of routine, although I remember a monthly spark of creativity with the likes of tinned peaches set in jelly. I now thank these daily deprivations for fuelling my private passion to cook. Somehow, albeit perversely, they drew me in … My professional cooking life began at the age of sixteen in a gingham–clad "provincial" restaurant in Surry Hills renowned for serving snails and frogs" legs. Strangely, even the minced garlic was imported from France! At the time, Sydney"s most–lauded restaurants were all inspired by French technique and/or the nouvelle cuisine. I went on to spend my formative years in such kitchens (where they all peeled and minced their own garlic), besotted by the most dynamic of mentors – Martin Teplitzky of Bon Cafard in Darlinghurst, and Gay Bilson and Janni Kyritsis of Berowra Waters Inn. A couple of my closest friends in the industry began hatching an irresistible plan to open a modest restaurant somewhere in the hills of Chianti, and despite the fact I"d never been, I"d seen the pictures, and that was enough! We set off, filled with hope and romance, to live on the tightest of budgets yet managing to eat like kings. I"ll never forget a head of buffalo mozzarella stuffed with ricotta and studded with white truffles from our local deli. The sheer beauty and ambrosial flavour of that slice of edible white "terrazzo" nailed me to the cross – I"d simply never eaten handmade, agrarian food. With the months slipping by and the heady flavours of each season sweeping us away, I found myself hopping back and forth between my two favourite countries, now totally obsessed with anything Italian. Back home in Sydney, I was temporarily adopted by Franca and Stefano Manfredi and their northern Italian restaurant in Ultimo, where I tapped into a wealth of deeply rooted kitchen traditions while I patiently waited and waited for news that the Chianti dream had been realised … In the heady late 1980s the erudite Anders Ousback offered me the reins of his kitchen at Taylor Square Restaurant, and I was thrilled by the challenge of running my first "brigade". These were excessive times but, ironically, we were serving boarding–school–style "comfort food", saluting the institution with the likes of eggs mayonnaise, corned beef with glazed carrot and mashed potato, and roast chook with bread sauce. Hundreds queued nightly down the stairs, sharing this yearning for lashings of honest, unadulterated food. This was extremely reassuring and the dishes I continue to serve remain a legacy to the confidence Anders breathed into my cooking. In December 1993 Michael, my life partner, and I opened Sean"s Panaroma, our "salty jewel" of a restaurant at Bondi Beach. After a couple of awkwardly located (but fun) ventures in seedy pubs, we were drained financially, so the set up was a very beg–borrow–and–do–it–yourself affair. Invaluable friends joined a sheltered workshop, helping us to scrape away old paint, glue tiles, jackhammer, screw tables together, and scour auctions for second–hand chairs. Once the last letter of our sign was carved, painted and wired to the roof, the gas was lit. For the first couple of years the cooking at Sean"s was juggled between a three–bar, gas chargrill and my oId enamelled Sydney Kooka, on top of which perched a small convection oven. Crockery and cutlery were salvaged from our first dining–room, along with a second–hand ice–cream machine (which still works today, touch wood). Without the luxury of a cool room, we relied entirely on bench refrigeration, which simply meant that we bought more regularly and that any spare surface boasted an abundance of ripening produce – a handsome alternative to floral displays. All washing up was done by hand in a second–hand four–sink stand. The reality was that we could only budget for a grease arrestor, exhaust system and a few pots "n" pans! I remember our charmingly modest stack of worm farms in the alleyway, and the dainty buckets for compost that some folk turned their noses up at. The council bloke literally went cross–eyed when we asked if we could use the grey water from the hand sink to flush the dunny! So, it"s an understatement to say some thought us far too rebellious: we were unlicensed, refused credit cards, and wouldn"t let anyone smoke. Customers had to come up to the kitchen to give their order, and on Thursday, Friday and Saturday nights we gave them no choice at all. Eyebrows were constantly raised at the bleak look of the place (one food critic described it as "like being in a bomb shelter in Bosnia") but we were doin" it for ourselves and we were really cookin"! From the beginning, main courses in the restaurant have been served as one would serve them at home: protein with carbohydrates and vegetables – comforting, complete meals. Our menu is chalked on individual blackboards that hang above the kitchen and, apart from a few "signature" dishes, may change seasonally, weekly or even mid–service. The style of our cooking is widely categorised as being "modern Australian", although I feel "Anglo–ltalian" is perhaps more accurate, given my Mediterranean obsession. Having said that, I pride myself on our humble little "bunker" being so warmly embraced as a congenial arena for Australia"s freshest seasonal produce. Each week for the past ten years Michael and I have been lugging kitchen scraps from the restaurant up to our shack in the Blue Mountains to help feed our dozen chooks and top up the compost pile for our modest "cook"s" garden. Most of our block is native bush, the top two hectares blessed with basalt soil. Our two dozen fruit trees are now at exciting stages of maturity after endless seasons of constant nurturing with organic feeds and mulch (a mate nicknamed me "Nurtch" for this apparent neurosis – "When you"re not feeding people you"re feeding bloody plants!" he"ll bark). Yields are mutually rewarding. Sometimes we return to the coast with a bundle of herbs for the restaurant, and there are usually various vegetables or a few eggs for friends. We have faith in this karmic cycle, knowing that one day scraps will morph their way back to the restaurant table as, perhaps, asparagus spears! I cherish this close relationship between the garden and the plate, and feel deeply privileged to be part of it all. With the door ajar on restaurant kitchens, sharing recipes with loyal customers and food enthusiasts has to take on a personal perspective. For me, it is only in my professional world of restaurant cooking that accurate, step–by–step documenting and consistency become essential. However, when you meet the meals I cook in our shack in the mountains – as stories interwoven through this book perhaps you will notice that there are no real recipes, no exacting quantities or time frames. My aim is to share an active process of cooking that relies entirely on senses and instinct. The recipes and stories in the book are the result of osmosis, as no dish can ever claim to be entirely "new". Many reflect my hankering for honest, home–style cooking, while others started life in a backyard, shack or fishing boat, yet have snuggled their way into our restaurant. Naturally, they alter slightly each time they"re prepared, by virtue of season, whim and the character of one"s very own hand. With this in mind, I urge the reader to look at any recipe as a guideline. Absorb my kitchen propositions, let them "simmer", then your own cooking will sparkle and seduce with the subtleties of personal interpretation. I hope this book brings out a little bit of the professional chef in the home cook – and vice versa. Finally, if I may share one mantra that affects what I produce and ultimately how I nourish myself: sweep through your door free of any ill thoughts, for a happy cook cooks best! Sean Moran PS Oh, my friends eventually managed to open their little restaurant in the hills of Chianti. It offered a valuable cultural exchange "program" not only for me but for colleagues here in Sydney for many years – an oasis in the increasingly fickle world of food, and a reminder that simplicity wins every time.
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 "Let It Simmer")