MAKE MY LUNCH

In the first of a new series, Greg Bruce challenges Auckland chef Al Brown to make lunch in less than 10 minutes

In the first of a new series, Greg Bruce challenges Auckland chef Al Brown to make lunch in less than 10 minutes

Iknocked on his test kitchen’s metal door, and Al Brown opened it. He was wearing a T-shirt with a fish on it and a baseball cap with a shark on it, so I was not surprised when he went to the fridge and pulled out a metal tray containing two fish.

He was proud of the fact they were trevally. “This is what we used as bait, growing up,” he said. They had cost $28 and he estimated they would feed eight people.

I had offered to deduct filleting time from the 10-minute limit but Brown arrogantly waved the suggestion away. The arrogance was clearly a cover for insecurity because, as he started cooking, I asked if he needed anything and he replied, via some particularly bad maths: “I need an extra minute! I know I can do it in 12!”

At about the halfway point, though, he appeared quite comfortable. He asked who would be making me lunch next week. “Nic Watt,” I said.

“For Nic Watt, you should make it eight minutes,” he said. “Tell him it’s a doddle.”

Brown is working on a new book. He said it’s an attempt to address the question: what is New Zealand cuisine? The book is not due out until Christmas next year.

“I said I’d only do another one if I could take my time with it,” he said. “I was just tired of endless deadlines.” “Six minutes 40,” I told him. “So we’ve got four minutes left?” “Three minutes 20,” I said. “Oh shit. We’re in trouble now.” With five seconds to go I counted him down and when I got to two, he said: “Lunch is served!”

Ten seconds later, he sliced and placed a

It’s now necessary to cook white rice with the curtains closed.

wedge of lemon on each of the plates, alongside the fish-on-toast. “Why the white bread?” I asked. “You gave me 10 f***ing minutes! What did you want me to do?”

He added that he was sick of people shaming white bread and white rice. He claimed it’s now necessary to cook white rice with the curtains closed. He poured some wine. “What is it?” I asked. “Something I opened last night,” he said, declining to give further details. It was a rosé.

He talked about his feeling for the two distinct schools of modern cooking: his own “rough and tumble” style and the tweezer food he fundamentally disagrees with, “Too many hands, too many touches, too many tiny little things — and where’s the gravy?”

I took a mouthful of the toasty, oily, herby, slightly sweet, zesty fish dish, chewed three or four times, then heard Brown say: “Oh, come on! Tell me how good that is!” I wasn’t interested in reviewing the dish until I could say something intelligent-sounding, preferably on paper, without giving him right of reply. I asked him what he thought about it.

“Bloody delicious,” he said. Agreed.