Uchi first opened its doors to the public in May of 2003. With Tyson Cole at the helm as Chef/Co-Owner it is safe to say that the restaurant was more than a decade in the making. Cole began his career in Austin more than 11 years prior working his way up from a sudsy dishwasher to cook, as so many Chefs have done in the past. This first experience ignited a fire, a passion for all foods Japanese. Completing an apprenticeship at one of Austin’s most acclaimed sushi spots, Musashino, only served to fan the flames, eventually carrying Cole all the way to Japan and New York City in search of a deeper knowledge and appreciation of the cuisine that gave his life purpose.
In 2005, after just two years as Head Chef, Cole grabbed national attention with his inclusion in Food and Wine’s Top Ten Best New Chefs. Every year, F+W chooses ten of the most promising up and coming Chefs in the country, who have been running a kitchen for less than five years, and thrusts them, eyes wide, into the national spotlight. This can be a make or break moment for any young chef. Either you crumble under the pressure of sophisticated diners and national critics suddenly ravenously pouncing on your restaurant, or as Cole has done, you set a thriving college town ablaze with your unique blend of technical mastery and boundless creativity.
It was this award that brought me to Uchi’s doors. Back in the summer of 2005, I was two months removed from high school, and armed with an endless fascination with cooking, restaurants, and the career of a Chef. It was the 2005 issue of F+W where I first unearthed the treasure trove of talent that is the annual Top Ten Best New Chefs. Cole was in an elite group including Daniel Humm, now of Eleven Madison Park in NYC, Eric Ziebold, a former French Laundry sous Chef, and the infinitely talented She Gallante, among others. Flipping through the pages with a manic, wild-eyed intensity, I knew that this was to be a dream of mine. At the time I didn’t realize how much the F+W awards, past and present, would guide my career in food up to this point. It was with this vantage point that I strode through the back door into the mythic, mysterious kitchen of Uchi in Austin, Texas.
Dressed in jeans, sneakers, and a black patagonia pullover, I got some inquisitive glances from the cooks busily prepping for that nights service. Asking for the man in charge I was introduced to Paul Qui, Chef de Cuisine at Uchi. Paul stands about 5’ 11”, with disheveled black hair, piercing eyes, skinny jeans, (the de facto uniform for Uchi cooks) and sneakers, something that stood out to me in the land of kitchen clogs. With the Bus in the shop, and my resumes with it, I gave him my elevator pitch instead. One thing I have realized on this trip is that most of the Chefs I tell about my trip are immediately amped and want to talk about future stops and where I have come from. I was lucky enough to secure a stage for the next few days, and left feeling very positive about the time I would spend immersed in the tantalizing smells of steaming and frothing tamari, ripping hot pans of crispy hikari rice and soy broth, not to mention the seafood. The absolutely pristine seafood.
Fast forward to the next morning, it’s 10 a.m. as Mary, Wes’ fiance, graciously drops me off at the back door on her way to work. Austin has had one striking theme so far; my mornings are spent feeling the wrath of the night before raining down on me like blows from a heavyweight boxer. This morning is no different. Last night we made a trip to Gordough’s, an awesome trailer that sells gourmet doughnuts in every flavor imaginable. I went with maple glaze and bacon, and the grilled banana with brown sugar and am now regretting the decision immensely. These were not your standard supermarket or Krispy Kreme doughnuts, Gordough’s doughnuts were deep-fried dough behemoths, at least a half-pound each. Nausea is creeping up on me as I start to set up my station and go about helping out the other prep cooks with the days tasks. Peeling garlic, already a chore, becomes a living hell as my mouth starts to water in anticipation of the fun to come. Multiple runs to the bathroom are just teases, producing only violent dry heaving. This continues for FOUR FUCKING HOURS. Finish one project on the prep list, dry heave in the bathroom for five minutes, splash water in my face, and its back to the kitchen to finish one more project, before quickly making my way back to the bano for another bout with the heavyweight. Finally, around 3 in the afternoon, I’m able to rid myself of the demon inside of my stomach.
Now, cooks are not pussies. Cooks are expected to show up for work everyday, no matter what, like clockwork.
“Oh, you have food poisoning? When should I expect you?” is a common refrain from Any Chef, USA.
Put a knife half way through your hand de-boning that pork shoulder? Put a glove on it, service starts in an hour. Cooks pride themselves on this, this tenacity to finish the job, regardless of the discomfort they put themselves through. It’s what makes our industry different than any other, except maybe the army.
“I know I am definitely gunna need stitches for this, but that can wait ‘til after service. I have to cook DINNER for these people damnit!”
Ok so it might be a little bit misguided but it’s praiseworthy nonetheless. This is why I am still here, this is why I didn’t go home after the second dry heave. But once I finally let loose and can see last nights fun in the toilet bowl in front of me, I decide it’s time to go. I guess I’m a pussy.
After recharging on the couch and watching the Winter Olympics, I’m feeling much better today. Being myself again I’m able to actually pick up a few tricks and do what I’m here to do; learn about Japanese food. I have never worked closely with Japanese food except for a short stint in culinary school that barely scraped the surface of a vast ocean of food history from a country that puts the good ol’ USA to shame in terms of the time spent refining and perfecting the countless national dishes in Japan’s repertoire. It’s time to try some house-made ponzu, sample the fish sauce, and hopefully chow down on some delicious sushi and sashimi. I’m in luck. After busting it out with the prep crew and helping the line cooks get set up, I get a prime spot on the sushi line, which is up front, a beautiful open kitchen that effortlessly adds so much to the ambience of the restaurant.
Observing the sushi chefs at work is a sight to see. The three making sushi and sashimi, Yoshi, Takei, and Masa, are experts with their knives. Masa, the head sushi chef, has been here since Uchi first opened. That is dedication to the craft. To their left are the Maki roll experts, another Yoshi, and the lone ranger white-boy, Justin. I do my best to be invisible as I watch them at work. It really is enthralling to watch a knife move so quickly, so close to the hand, knowing how razor sharp it is.
These guys are more than cooks, they’re showmen. Calling back and forth to one another the entire night in Japanese, their guests instantly smile as they pull up a chair to the gorgeous wood-grain sushi bar. I can see in the diners eyes that they can’t believe their luck, they get a front and center seat to the best show in town! After a couple hours whiz by, Paul comes up to me and tells me to go change out of my whites. There’s an open spot at the end of the sushi bar with my name written all over it. Walking down the line I use my latest knowledge of Japanese kitchen culture, calling out,
“Ushiro! Ushiro!” the apparent equivalent of the American “Behind! Behind!” that all cooks have learned to say either by watching someone get terribly burned, or cut, when a fellow cook makes an unexpected movement into their path. A kitchen can be a dangerous place.
Posting up at the first seat at the bar, I’m ready to eat! Dishes start flying at me from the kitchen, with one arriving before I can even finish the plate before it. Fresh heirloom tomatoes, with a dot of fish sauce, seasoned with fresh mint and coriander salt to start. Then it’s on to two velvet-smooth Kuchi oysters from the pacific, accompanied by fresh avocado, wasabi, and tiger’s milk foam. (Not actual tiger’s milk, for the PETA members out there..Do you know how expensive that would be?!) Cobia (Kingfish) sashimi is complemented by salt-cured cucumber, pickled shallots, mint, keffir lime oil, and fresh jalepenos. Dayboat scallops with roasted cauliflower and a shishito pepper puree. “Super” Toro, the tuna’s belly, comes with dried cherries, marcona almonds, and daikon radish sprouts. Next is a crispy-skinned Thai snapper with a cilantro pesto, perfectly cooked carrots, and fresh citrus. Following is my plate of Nigiri, or sushi to the uninitiated. Hirame with pickled ramps and fresh ginger, Madai with a touch of lime zest, Steelhead trout served straight up.
This is glorious.
A foie gras torchon finishes up my savory courses that is dished up with puffed and fried black rice, a sauce made from coconut milk, and a golden balsamic gastrique. Fuck. I’m full. Dessert is only one course thank God, and it’s also delicous. Candy Cap mushroom mousse, thyme sorbet, fluffy corn cake, caramel cracklins and blueberry puree make for an inventive and unexpected finish to the meal. I have now officially loosened the belt a notch and am leaning back in my chair, reveling in the simple pleasure of the moment, when my server appears from the bar to the left, with a little black book in hand. It’s my check. As she opens it to reveal a $182 tab without counting drinks, she leans in close and says,
“Just thought you should know how well they’re taking care of you, dinner’s on the house.”
