Kitchens can be brutal places. Think of the giant kitchens of imperial Rome, filled with roaring fires, slaves and cages full of exotic creatures — part abattoir, part culinary studio. In time the kitchen has been tamed. Our modern domestic kitchens seem to pursue one of two paradigms: either a nostalgic harking back to the wooden-countered, copper-skilleted, homely rustic kitchen with its warmth and moral authority, or the cold, clean, stainless-steel food machine of the industrial kitchen.

An extended chef’s table

Chef Luke Dale-Roberts’s new restaurant (opened last November), The Test Kitchen, accommodates both these concepts. Alongside the wood-fired oven is a sous vide cooker. Felt pendant light fittings, exposed brick walls, kiaat counters, wooden shelves stocked with jars and wine bottles and brushed-steel tables create a convivial warm tone. Central to the experience is an open kitchen, although compact, occupying a third of the floor space. With seating for only 30 patrons, this is really an extended chef’s table.

It is a far cry from the starchier La Colombe, Dale-Roberts’s previous station. There is salt and pepper on the table, although in novel ceramic egg boxes.

It is in Woodstock, which at night seems to have a filtering effect on the clientele. The vibe reminds me of the revival of the meat-packing district in New York.

Ringside seats (ask for table seven) close to the action are a treat. But be prepared to have kitchen smells intervene with what is on your plate.

The kitchen is calm, collected and almost silent.

Dale-Roberts, impressively in control, seems to do a lot of pottering, at times staring transfixed into a saucepan. Occasionally you hear instructions in near neutral tones, precise orders, such as “Wonton in one minute”.

Busy with variety

On the night I get in, the amuse bouche is a foam with miso-cured kingklip served in the hollow of a wooden block.

I go for the five courses finely paired with small production wines (R600) — Quion Rock, Sequillo, Lazanou and such. After all, didn’t Brillat-Savarin in The Physiology of Taste say a man’s palate can go numb and dull to even the best wine after the third glass of it?

Dale-Roberts certainly likes variety and his plates are busy. Just listing the items of the 10 courses would take up more words than are available for this review. Regrettably, a taste will have to suffice.

You quickly develop the impression that this culinary team could make anything delicious, including things you don’t like. The pan-seared veal tongue is an example — soft as butter and its secret all in the sauce — “a bourbon and American oak velouté”.

Among the other six starters are gelatinous veal sweetbreads with liver and liquorice jus, compressed field mushrooms, foie gras purée and liquorice crumbs; and foie gras with red cabbage and fig confit, bolstered by smokey rabbit ham, braised chestnuts and gently pickled quince.

Just desserts

The sommelier is extremely busy and pushed to speak a little too fast. One is tempted to ask her to breathe, the way a good wine should be allowed to. The wine tends to lead the food and when co-ordination lapses the staff are quick to refill your glass.

After a palette cleanser of gin sorbet with mint jelly and lemon, the mains make an entrance: duck breast, braised lentils, nicola potato (the perfect variety for) fondant, roast parsnip and honey purée, pan-seared foie gras, beetroot and Jägermeister jus; and springbok loin “forrestiere” (Dale Roberts’s take on a woodland mushroom sauce) with butternut beurre noisette, intense porcini jus and chestnuts and salty, crisp savoy cabbage.

There is a surprise round of pre-desserts followed by the dessert orders. If you are not a pudding fan, then try the cherry tomato and mozzarella sweet. Oh my Lady Gaga! as the young Chinese say. Arriving on a black plate, the treats it includes are Cape gooseberries, vanilla and pepper syrup, stracciatella and goat yoghurt “snowballs”.

On her visit to South Africa United States First Lady Michelle Obama was taken to a different kitchen (the Kitchen) in Woodstock. Luckily for her, she doesn’t know what she missed.

By Brent Meersman for Mail & Guardian online.