A Wednesday afternoon, the second week of July, I strode with purpose down Lygon Street into Etta. I was a week away from starting at my new job, but had nevertheless decided to do a short stage at this restaurant after having dined there as a guest.
The highlights of my meal: salmon so delicately cooked it barely flaked, a feijoa ice cream sandwich dusted with lemon verbena, and a glistening quince cake served with a perfect scoop of fig leaf ice cream.
It was my favourite meal in the city and to think it came from the tiny kitchen of a self-proclaimed “small, independent neighbourhood bistro”.
Over the course of a week, I worked alongside the small team of four chefs – Chef H., M., D. and Z. – prepping artichokes, cleaning radishes and shaping bread, amongst other tasks. I luxuriated in the calm energy of the kitchen, happily sponging up all the knowledge the chefs generously offered me.
My favourite kitchen task was watching the little pillows of gnocchi rise to the top of the pot, before plunging them into ice water. “You like making gnocchi? I love making gnocchi.” D. said. You could just tell that he has such tenderness and love for what he does, and I love that about a chef.
He taught me how to make them on my last day, peppering the short lesson with valuable tips. “I always rest my gnocchi. Makes them more tender.”
I watched Z. as he dehydrated 6-month-old kimchi and used it to season puffed pork rinds, fresh from the fryer. There was chickpea flour cooked in water like polenta and set firm like tofu. Olive caramel. Pumpkin baked in a sticky glaze of soy, mirin and brown sugar. Brussel hearts cooked in kombu butter and cradled in the blanched outer leaves with a thick cap of nori over the top.
Every dish was eye-opening but my favourite has to be the carrot dish. Concealed beneath an orange and yellow blanket of carrot rounds were tiny blood orange segments, caramelized walnuts, ricotta and roasted baby carrots. Chef handed me a carrot sliver to taste. “Cooked in its own juice. A lot of flavour.” It was like eating the pure essence of carrot, distilled in a single slice. To top the dish was a liberal douse of carrot juice caramel dressing and dehydrated carrot rounds.
It was a beautiful celebration of the humble carrot and a dish that embodies what Etta represents. “There is so much care that goes into the food here,” M. tells me.
The kitchen at Etta sits in the heart of the restaurant, between the dining room and the bar. There is a table in the dining room set up next to the kitchen. I guess you could call it the “chef’s table”. Because of the location of the kitchen, there are frequent exchanges between the guests and the chefs, none of them ever feeling contrived or stiff.
A gentleman celebrated his birthday at Etta that week. He was on his way out and stopped by to convey his compliments to the kitchen. Chef handed him a hunk of bread wrapped in foil and some spread in a round takeaway, wishing him happy birthday. The customer was visibly moved by this unexpected gesture, and so was I. I felt something within me stir, like a long-lost memory of something I did not know I had forgotten.
I was turning 24 when I landed my first full-time job at a restaurant. I had traded a food scientist’s lab coat for chef whites and had, in my mind, a very particular image of what success looked like.
I dreamed of owning a restaurant where I would know all my patrons’ names by heart and be able to talk to them as with friends. At the very core of this fantasy was a very simple desire to connect and make something beautiful.
Along the way, this picture started getting murky and I was starting to believe that this was all fairy dust and that such restaurants belong to a different era.
Etta reminded me of this dream that I had when I first donned chef whites and demonstrated that such a restaurant does and can exist. It showed me how beautiful small things can be, and I am grateful for having been a part of it even if it was just for a short blip.
I have since started work at my new job but I am still thinking about that little restaurant with a lot of soul, and the way it treats vegetables with respect.
On my day off today, I made thunder tea rice. It is simply rice that is topped with a myriad of vegetables, individually cooked and served with a hot ‘broth’ of fresh herbs, nuts, tea leaves and sesame seeds. It is a vegetable dish that does not make you miss the meat at all - there are plenty of textures from the toasted seeds and crispy anchovies, and the combination of bitterness from the bittergourd and sweetness from the beans and chye poh is delicious. Wex has been requesting for this vegetable-centric dish for ages and it felt, after my week at Etta, like a fitting and right dish to make at home.
Thunder Tea Rice
Serves 4
275g uncooked brown rice
720ml water
Herb paste:
1 tablespoon oil
100g peanuts
25g white sesame
40g genmaicha or other Chinese or Japanese tea leaves
15g coriander
15g basil
15g mint
240ml hot water
2 tablespoons salt
For the toppings:
Oil for frying
50g ikan bilis
100g chye poh
100g chye sim leaves
100g bittergourd, halved, seeds removed, sliced thinly into half moons and massaged with 2 teaspoons salt
100g long beans or French beans
100g broccoli or broccolini florets
100g firm tofu, diced
100g pine nuts
15g coriander leaves
15g basil leaves
15g mint leaves
Rinse the brown rice and cook it, with the water, in a rice cooker. Meanwhile, prepare the broth. In a skillet, heat the oil over medium heat and add the peanuts. Toast the peanuts until golden brown before adding the white sesame seeds. Cook until the seeds turn golden. Combine all the ingredients for the broth in a food processor and process until a smooth paste forms. Set aside.
Fry the ikan bilis, chye poh, chye sim, bittergourd, beans, broccoli and firm tofu individually in the skillet over high heat, using a little oil each time. Season with salt and arrange on a serving platter. Toast the pine nuts in a dry pan until lightly browned. Add the toasted nuts and herbs to the platter. To serve, divide the rice amongst four bowls and arrange the toppings decoratively atop the rice. Mix the herb paste with about 2L of boiling water (though the strength of the herb broth is up to your personal preference). Season to taste with salt and pour over the rice and toppings.