The Bear Versus Bennelong: What It’s Really Like Inside an Elite Fine-Dining Kitchen

“We’ve got some extra bodies in the kitchen tonight.”

It’s Wednesday afternoon, the sun is setting over Circular Quay, and Broadsheet is observing the pre-theatre service at Bennelong, Peter Gilmore’s acclaimed fine diner within the Sydney Opera House.

In the dining room, under the sails, the floor staff are running through service notes – guests’ dietary requirements; who’s here for an anniversary; which table pre-ordered a dozen Merimbula oysters; what’s new on the wine list.

Gilmore, executive chef here and at Quay across the harbour, emerges from the kitchen, ferrying a pretty plate of brussels sprouts grown especially for him – for this one dish. He says it won’t be on the menu tonight, but it will be next week. The staff listen to the dish notes attentively, and the somms lean in for a taste.

We follow Gilmore to the kitchen, where he’s in residence for two or so days each week. Another two are spent at Quay, while day five is devoted to recipe development and liaisons with farmers, producers, craftspeople and, occasionally, the media. Tonight he’s on the pass with Bennelong’s head chef Rob Cockerill, who he’s worked alongside for a decade.

“We’re about two thirds full tonight. Not as busy as a weekend service, but still busy,” Gilmore says jovially. “Hopefully you’ll get to see some action.”

Gilmore redesigned Bennelong’s kitchen from scratch, after Guillaume Brahimi’s departure from the site in 2013. He points to multiple prep areas – a section for shucking oysters, a pastry kitchen out the back. The sloshing harbour and passing ferries are visible through a narrow window slicing the length of the space. Honestly, it feels like the galley of a ship – albeit one that delivers the heady gastronomy of Quay in a relaxed brasserie setting.

The convivial atmosphere is probably the most surprising of all. We count something like 20 chefs, chatting as they prep ingredients with surgical precision. Gilmore and Cockerill are in good spirits, bantering happily with their crew, most of whom are young. The country’s next culinary star could well be in the room.

Gilmore says it’s taken three years to bring the team back to full headcount after Covid decimated the workforce. He also acknowledges people’s frustrations with fine-dining prices, but notes Bennelong’s staff aren’t the sole beneficiaries of them. There’s also the farmer who grows a crucial component of a dish, and the ceramicist who handcrafts the crockery it’s presented on. However unseen, there are many stakeholders essential to the Bennelong experience.

The first guests arrive, and the heat is on.

The orders start rolling in. It’s a smooth start, but there are wide-eyed servers standing to attention. This being the pre-theatre service, curtain times at the Opera House are front of mind. Diners have a show to get to, and pacing is everything. At one point the kitchen holds fire on a course because its recipients have ducked to the bathroom. The lines of communication between the kitchen and the floor never stop.

The tempo starts to rise but the kitchen team moves in tandem. Even at fever pitch, everyone is synchronised. It’s not at all like The Bear would have you believe. But occasionally, it is.

“What is this? Who took this order?” Cockerill asks, waving a docket. The assistant restaurant manager snaps to the pass to investigate, no guests the wiser in the dining room above.

“Guys, c’mon, we need SERVICE.” Gilmore this time. Two waitstaff immediately collect plates of aged Kurobuta pork, destined for different tables. A stress point from the pre-service huddle hangs in the supercharged air: If you aren’t 100 per cent sure which table to drop that plate at – don’t.

It goes like this for almost an hour. Calm, intensity, calm. At the height of it all, the pass is helmed by six chefs – including Gilmore and Cockerill – all plating John Dory fillets in unison. Cockerill’s worried we’re not getting a taste of the kitchen at full throttle. Meanwhile, we’re huddled in a corner, quietly shitting ourselves with equal parts excitement and terror.

Then comes the closest thing to a true prestige TV moment. Like Carmy in a freezer, the kitchen’s liquid nitrogen tank is apparently trapped in a cage back-of-house. The lock on the cage won’t budge, and the team can’t access the tank. “[Liquid nitrogen] is crucial in two of our desserts” says Gilmore, who’s sent for the maintenance team. “If we can’t get it out… ”

Minutes pass, and the crisis is averted. If Gilmore, Cockerill and the team were fazed by it, you’d never know. Just another highwire moment in one of Sydney’s most elite kitchens.

@bennelong_sydney
@chefpetergilmore
@cockerill.rob