Behind-the-scenes in a Michelin-starred chef's kitchen and the kindness of chefs

Being able to spend a night in the restaurant kitchen of a Michelin-starred chef - in this case that of Pierre Gagnaire at Reflets, Dubai - is one of the delights of our job. It wasn't our first time - which was Bacchus at Read's, Mallorca, where we dined at the Chef's Table and Terry did a Master Chef experience with Felix Eschrich - but our night at Reflets was probably one of our most enlightening and educative experiences in a restaurant kitchen. And Terry and I have both spent a lot of time in kitchens. I worked in Sydney cafes to put myself through uni and during high school for pocket money, while Terry did a stint working weekend nights in the kitchen of a friend's Surry Hills bistro to keep himself out of trouble when I went to South America to do my masters. But these were no fine dining restaurants! It would be inconceivable to think that a chef in a Michelin-starred fine-diner would retrieve a salad he'd dropped intentionally on a dirty floor, plopping it back in a bowl to be served to an impatient customer as one drug-crazed cook did in the kitchen of a popular Balmain cafe I onced worked at. What I also find inconceivable, after these Michelin-starred kitchen experiences, are the abusive Ramsay-like tirades of the kind we see on Hell's Kitchen. Because the atmosphere we witnessed in both kitchens was one of calm. No yelling. No screaming. No chaos. Very little confusion. Over the course of 3.5 hours of service at Reflets, we only heard the head chef shout "Allez! Allez!" a couple of times and witnessed a few minor moments from the sous chef, irritated with the energetic expediter who could occasionally be a little too eager to send unfinished plates out. In stark contrast, the chefs were cool and composed, the kitchen quiet. There was still a buzz, a real energy about the place, but it was a positive one. Throughout the night, when not checking plates, watching his team or talking to diners, a patient Pierre Gagnaire took time to explain, answer questions, and even ask us about our work and travels. He brought us delicious morsels of food that we savoured - some foie gras here, lobster ice-cream there - while Head Chef Olivier Biles brought us bottles of water and periodically asked if we were okay. Servers ducked out of range of Terry's camera and apologised for getting in our way, when we were the ones clearly in their's. What struck us is how extraordinarily professional, how kind, and how hospitable chefs of this calibre can be. It's their generosity in such stressful conditions that is most remarkable. But then it really shouldn't be surprising because when we talk to chefs about why they do what they do, mostly they say they do it to give pleasure. And how very pleasing the experience was. I'll let you know when the story's out.

Pictured? That's me chatting to Pierre Gagnaire.

Musings on Mallorca: part 2

So what did we not enjoy about Mallorca? Well, Mallorca is not for everyone. Sure, that could be said about a lot of places, but there are some destinations that few people dislike: Paris, Italy, Thailand for instance. And perhaps it's just that - despite the stunning landscapes, fascinating people, beautiful hotels and fabulous restaurants - Mallorca is not for me. Would I go there again? To work, absolutely. I'd happily go back and talk to the island's talented chefs or write about its burgeoning wine industry. Off-season though. Would I go there on holidays? No, most probably not. And for us, that's one of the criteria we use to judge a destination. If it's the kind of place where I think "I'd prefer to be lying on that beach than writing about it" or a place I make a mental note to return to one day, then I place it fairly high on my list of great destinations. But it's more complex than that. There are other things I disliked about Mallorca. Mainly, that Mallorca did not feel like Spain. Nor did it feel Catalan. Juxtaposed with Barcelona, where we spent five days after Mallorca, that was even more apparent. Barcelona is a cosmopolitan, multicultural city, immensely popular with tourists, with a reasonable-sized expat population - yet it's still retained its unique Catalan identity and essential Spanish-ness. Mallorca, sadly, has lost a lot of the characteristics that make it Mallorcan. They are still there, of course - the language, cuisine, arts and crafts, traditional customs, etc - they're just very hard to find. We located them of course - because that's what travel writers do - but I continually wondered how tourists there for a week fared. Mallorca is a place where you most definitely need to use a quality guidebook, follow some good local blogs, have a local guide, or quickly make local friends, if you want to experience the 'real' Mallorca - or as the Mallorquins like to say, 'the other Mallorca'. Unfortunately, for most tourists visiting the island, the closest they'll get to Mallorcan culture are artificial experiences (as fun as they can be) like La Granja, pictured.

Musings on Mallorca: part 1

We've finished our work on Mallorca - Terry shooting photos for three books, and me updating a travel guidebook. It was nearly seven weeks in total, and by the end of it Terry felt like a contestant on Survivor, desperate to get off the island. Did we not enjoy Mallorca? We did - absolutely - to a certain extent. We met some incredible people, both Mallorquins and expats, from chefs and sommeliers to hotel owners and bartenders. The people were definitely the highlight of our stay. We also checked in to some stunning hotels, ate some extraordinary food, and drank some superb Mallorcan wine. After that, it was the landscapes that took my breath away - the spectacular coastline with sheer craggy cliffs that dramatically drop down to the sea, crystal clear aquamarine water lapping white sand beaches, sailing boats bobbing in the sea off-shore, and the typically-Mediterranean scenery that I have always been besotted with: mountains thick with pine, cypress and cork-oak trees; terrace hillsides covered with vineyards, olive groves and citrus orchards; countryside fragrant with wild lavender, myrtle and thyme; and old villages that tumble down hillsides, dominated by monumental churches and charming cafe-filled squares, with cobblestone lanes lined with sandstone houses. And in Mallorca there was an added bonus - the ramshackle windmills scattered across the whole island. But...?

Pictured is Pollenca, one of my favorite Mallorcan towns in the north.

Victoria's bushfires: random reflections on the trivial and the tragic, mostly the tragic

We haven't been affected by these bushfires in the way so many others here in Victoria, Australia, have very tragically been. We experienced a fright on Saturday: our hearts were racing at the thought of a possible evacuation that we were unprepared for, and the adrenalin was rushing as we packed bags, put wet towels under doors, watered down dry grass etc, and, Saturday night was a sleepless one, wondering if the wind changed whether embers would head our way and spark a fire that might burn down my family's house or their neighbours' homes. But we didn't have to evacuate, the fires stopped over a kilometre away, there were no embers, and my aunt and uncle's home, unlike so many others in this state, escaped the devastation of others. We're fine and have returned to our everyday existences: my aunt caring for her huge family of pets, and beautiful garden and house; my uncle, a psychiatrist on a fly-in fly-out arrangement working in Karratha can stop worrying; and Terry and I are back at our desks and busy writing. But no matter how much I try to focus on work, random thoughts keep appearing and I can't help but reflect on events of the last few days. My mind wanders from the trivial to the tragic. From silly things like why I didn't take photos. My mother said to me on the phone from Perth "I expect you've shot lots of photos - they'll be great to see". But no we didn't. When the smell of smoke started to enter the house, helicopters were hovering in the sky nearby, and outside it was even hazier than Mexico City, taking photos was far from my mind. I was too concerned about my aunt, her animals, their house, and our own valuable things. (What if six months of research materials went up in flames? How would we write these books then?!) It wasn't until after, when the air started to clear, that I thought of taking photos, but then it was too late. Sorry, Mum. But then there are the tragic stories I've been listening to on the radio and reading in the papers that I can't get out of my mind: the couple who were running to safety when the woman looked behind her to find her husband gone; a father who put his children in the car, darted into the house to get something, and returned to find his vehicle with the children inside in flames; or the residents of one community, their convoy of cars lined up in the middle of a road, them sheltering inside, the colossal flames sweeping through bushland either side of the road, who must have been wondering if the fire would engulf them... But if my mind keeps returning to the catastrophic events of the last few days, I can't imagine how the poor souls who were in the thick of it - people who lost houses, spouses, parents, neighbours, and children - must feel and how and what they must be thinking. I imagine they can't escape it. My heart goes out to them.

Pictured? A typical country landscape from southern Australia for people wondering how the country could go up in smoke so easily.