CURRENTLY SERVING:

Collin Flatt spends an evening in the kitchen of the hottest restaurant in America. He finds a family as honest and fresh as the food they prepare. Lots of pics and words after the jump.

For over a year now, the hardest table to snag in the U.S. has offered a kitchen table for folks dying to bask in the farmy goodness without the year-long wait. When I arrived, Aimee Olexy was feverishly scribbling prices on Talula’s Table labels using her left hand while the foodcrew worked around her. They do this every night. Robert updated the whiteboard with tasks and deliveries in between plating food, also with his left hand. I’m sensing a pattern. They say less than 10% of the population is left-handed. They also say those folks are more creative. Quite odd that a staff of 6 has already 2 in my midst, the others never needing a writing implement throughout the night. I’ll bet there’s at least one other.

Enough has been written about the astounding quality of food at the now famous farmtable, most recently by friend and colleague David Snyder at City Paper. That story has been done. What I found in the people working that kitchen was a tight-knit group that loved making people happy. They’re serving the position admirably.

This was my second trip to Bryan Sikora’s freshfeastexperience, but this time a more intimate and open experience unfolded before me. I was plopped down on a chair in front of the butcher’s block during the plating of the first course, a Red Snapper Crudo floating in watermelon gelee that was as playful a dish as I have seen. It giggled at me with big blue eyes, served by a tow-headed dollface named Abby. She’s a farmer by trade, and looks the part. Her blonde hair pulled back into a bun, but not tightly kept. Gold flyaways surrounded her head creating angelic appearance. Found the job on Craigslist, making ends meet while she figures out the next step. She used to work for Safefood creating nutritional plans for low-income families. Good on you, sweetheart. You don’t need to sneak in the back door to meet her, she works in the market during the day. She was happy that I recognized and loved the Cashel Blue on my cheese plate. A little clap and bright smile confirmed her approval. As she disappeared back into the dining room, the cheese plate seemed to miss her. Me too.

Little Dave deftly chopped up veggies and garnish on the block only inches away, informing me of his recent graduation from high school. He did an internship at the Culinary Institute and got hooked up with this job for the summer. He was involved in every dish that night, helping out the cooks along every step. Not a gopher, not making copies. His future is bright and he doesn’t even know it yet. He plated with a delicate touch inspired by his surroundings. I’m jealous of whatever he does next.

Southpaw Robert was a multi-tasker, coolest cucumber there. Also finding this job on Craigslist, he ran his own Chef’s Table prior to Lady Talula, and learned his trade at Deep Blue in Wilmington. He was watching too much ‘Deadliest Catch’, and told his wife he wanted to start cooking again. She agreed, so did Aimee and Bryan. ‘I couldn’t have asked for a better place to be’, he relays. ‘Look around here. Have you ever seen a kitchen like this?’. He’s right. There’s no territoriality. Servers are allowed to help with presentation. Cooks run food if the servers are clearing, and recite the presentation for the guests. If you’ve ever worked the back of the house, this is anomaly defined.

Paul manned the pots and pans, cooking up buttery Lobster, Alaskan Sable, and Barbecued Squab. Never took one cooking class his whole life. Taught by his own flesh and blood, working in Momma Paul’s kitchen. He quit his Graphic Design job in February, now he’s at the most important culinary destination in America. ’The design industry…I hated all the revisions. Then more revisions. Then more revisions.’ Plate it. Serve it. Eat it. ‘I make people happy here’.  Once I tasted the natural lobster emulsion and fennel jam, I became one of his successes.

Sarah was the last server to stroll by my butcherblockhome, delivering  handmade Beef Tortellini in Paste Tomato sauce with friend eggplant. The dirtiness of the sauce Beach Boys harmonized with my American Chateauneuf Du Pape and reminded me why I was at Talula’s in the first place. Good food. I was quickly snapped out of my daze when she mentioned I looked familiar. She served me the last time I was here with a bunch of rowdy food writers. A barista extraordinaire by trade, she brought me a stunning cup of Italian coffee. She’s opening a vintage store close by and will continue on 2 days a week. I trust everything she tells me, I’d buy a new wardrobe if she asked me to. She’s going to do well over there.

Big Boss wasn’t in the house tonight, and that speaks volumes about the quality of his staff. He trusts these folks to keep his foodmachine running and the legend growing. They do not disappoint. Sure, Momma Bear is there to get things started, flashing a pretty smile and inviting warmth to her guests, but never to interfere with the kitchen. She drinks her Sly Fox beer from a wine glass. We discuss a coffee presentation in a stemless Burgundy chalice. It’s a good idea. ‘Everything tastes better in glass’. So right, so goddamn right.

I felt blessed and lucky enough to know the proprietors that allowed me into their kitchen for the experience of eating with them again. What I didn’t expect, and what will walk with me now when someone mentions Talula’s is the great people behind the name. They love their work, we love their work. Meet them at Headhouse Square at the Farmer’s Market, or stop by the shop in Kennett Square. Either way you’ll be supporting honest people making honest food, which just might be harder to come by than a reservation at the table.

–Collin Flatt