Darina Allen, a Headmistress
Where to begin? On day one she introduced herself as The Headmistress and did herself an enormous injustice. For a lady of a certain age she possesses an almost comical amount of energy. She is like a cooking version of the Duracell bunny. In one demo, I recall her firing out instructions, staccato style, almost completely incomprehensible to everyone listening. She stopped herself: “I’m saying it quickly because you have to do it quickly’, she said. That’s Darina!
She has been instrumental in the Slow Food movement in Ireland, is a champion of local food and producers, and her commitment to these causes is quite remarkable. At times it can become almost tiring, as she is happy to launch into tirades on a number of subjects, firing salvos at bureaucrats, politicians and multinationals as they pop up in her sights. Tales of impoverished Irish farmers who fight the authorities to launch their own cheese, or something, frequently punctuate her demos. A lot of these people turn to her - she uses her weight in the Irish food industry to tremendous effect.
She has an incredible passion for the school and us, its pupils. In a sense she is a kind of benign headmistress I guess. Make her a cup of tea and she’ll listen to all your problems. She has a really genuine kindness and concern for all of us that is impossible to hide. The flip side is you will have to be shooshed by her as you stand chatting to some other fully grown adults, but it is the part she is playing I suppose. She is easy to parody - the aubergine and chilli earrings, the wonderfully consistent phrases; “Oh totally you can”, “Simply delicious”, “A huge thank you”. That in itself says so much - there are few greater compliments than parody.
There may have been plenty of long afternoons when I sat sighing and fidgeting away during her demos, or rolled my eyes as she rattled on about yet another Irish David fighting some great faceless EU Goliath. But I secretly kind of enjoy all that. She is a total control freak as well, straightening spoons and helpfully suggesting how things should be done when her standards are allowed to slip. But so what? It’s people like her, with the vision, determination and energy to make things happen, who actually make things happen. We need do-ers in this movement.
Rory O’Connell, Our Favourite Instructor
Make no mistake about it: Rory is the hero of this Comedy. An extremely gifted chef and a brilliant teacher. But far more than that, Rory entertains. He personifies everything he cooks. Sauces are cantankerous. Mousses may be reticent. A good humoured meringue perhaps. Something may well be described as resembling a finely ground dog biscuit.
Rory is constantly expounding upon the recipes with the wisdom of his enormous experience. Alternative ingredients, flavour combinations, and the omnipresent adaptations for A Restaurant Situation. He understands these recipes because he has cooked them in a commercial environment.
Sure he may be very well natured and slightly Tin-Tin esque, in his neckerchief, twirling spatulas around. But when things happen or better still go wrong he is all over them. Johann, the slightly jester like sous chef might forget to make crème patissiere for a dessert. Rory snaps into life. “I will make it, but I will need the ingredients immediately.” Polite, but unmistakably angry. Just the kind of person you would hate to forget to make crème patissiere for.
The Teachers
It took a week or two to realise that it’s not really the instructors you learn from, but the teachers. The instructors show you how it should be done. You watch, take notes, taste, and learn. But to really learn, you have to cook it yourself. And then you need someone helping you out - showing you techniques, tricks, short cuts, ideas. Telling you how and why things went wrong or went right. Making you slowly realise how to taste and season.
Some of the teachers are better than others. Mostly, it is a question of experience. The ability to teach is a gift. You can’t learn it. It is about empathy. It is about understanding the person you are teaching and knowing how you can connect with them. People respond in different ways to different people. Often, as adults, we forget what it is takes to learn. It takes a relinquishing of power and control, and the willingness to realise that the best way to find out how to do something is to ask someone who has done it many, many times before, and is good at it.
The Students
We’ve kind of touched on this before, with the six types of people. That was actually a thinly veiled method of venting some pent up frustration about one person in particular without actually pointing the finger. There aren’t six types of people here. There are sixty. Sixty-odd. Yeah some of them are a bit annoying, but they can’t be half as annoying as me, can they? Being flung into a closed environment with sixty complete strangers tells you a lot about yourself. You make assumptions about people. They make assumptions about you.
Some of the people I didn’t like, well now I do. And I like them even more because of the lessons they taught me. That everyone you encounter in life has had different experiences to your own, and that empathy and compassion are qualities that guarantee all others. I might not flaunt them myself, but I know I need them.
And if I learnt a few other things along the way, like how to butcher a pig, pluck a pheasant, make béarnaise and beurre blanc, line a flan ring, make praline, joint a chicken, roll pasta, roast duck, make a caramel, sauté mushrooms, fillet a fish, make an omelette, melt chocolate, stuff a turkey, sweat an onion, skin almonds, use gelatine, make gravy, bake bread, make choux pastry, bring back a scrambled hollandaise, carve a quail, skin grapes, segment oranges, ice a cake, make a soufflé and knock up crème patissiere in five minutes flat, well I guess I’d better thank a few people before I leave.
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