Chapter 15

Matthew’s first week at Hearth followed a structured pattern designed to immerse him in the restaurant’s philosophy and techniques. Each day began at 9:00 AM with prep and ended well after midnight, following dinner service and cleanup. The hours were punishing, but Matthew absorbed it all with focused intensity.

As promised, he rotated through stations daily–garde manger, fish, meat, pastry, and finally the heart of the restaurant, the wood-burning hearth itself. At each station, he observed, assisted with basic tasks, and documented everything in the notebook Jacob had given him. By week’s end, he had filled half its pages with observations, techniques and insights.

“Your notes are unusually detailed,” Rey commented on Friday, glancing through his notebook during a rare quiet moment. “Most externs just write down recipes or technical steps.”

“I’m trying to understanding why choices are made as well as the techniques,” Matthew replied.

Rey nodded. “That’s what Chef believes. Technique without philosophy leads to poor consistency.”

The most striking element of Hearth’s approach, Matthew discovered, was the relationship with ingredients. Each morning began with what the staff called “the arrival”—the delivery of produce, meats and seafood from selected sources. Chef Reynolds personally inspected everything, often adjusting the day’s menu based on what looked exceptional.

“Plans change when ingredients speak to you,” Reynolds explained to him during one such session, holding up a bunch of just-harvested baby turnips. “These are telling me they want minimal intervention. Maybe just a light roast in the hearth, a bit of good butter, flake salt.” He passed the turnips to Matthew. “What do they tell you?”

Matthew examined them, noting the vibrant greens still attached, the pearlescent roots barely larger than radishes. He closed his eyes, considering not just the ingredient but its potential.

“The greens are too perfect to discard,” he said. “I’d use them as well, maybe a quick wilt with garlic, laid under the roasted roots. Connect what grows below ground with what grows above.”

Reynolds’ expression registered surprise, followed by approval. “Good instinct. Make that happen for a family meal today.”

This small assignment—Matthew’s first opportunity to cook at Hearth rather than just assist — became a defining moment. The turnip dish he prepared was simple but thoughtful, respecting the ingredient while adding just enough seasoning technique to elevate its natural qualities. The staff’s appreciative response, and Reynolds’ brief nod after tasting, confirmed that Matthew’s approach aligned with Hearth’s philosophy.

By week’s end, Matthew had begun to understand the restaurant’s underlying structure—not just the physical stations and hierarchy, but the conceptual framework that defined every decision. Hearth operated on principles rather than rigid rules. This made the learning curve steeper, but the kitchen ultimately more efficient.

“You’re ready for more responsibility,” Rey announced at the beginning of Matthew’s second week. “Starting today, you’ll assist on specific stations during service, not just observe.”

This transition proved harder than Matthew had anticipated. The gap between understanding a station’s operation and actually contributing to its work flow during the controlled chaos of service was huge. His first night on garde manger as assistant to Jacob resulted in several mistakes—a vinaigrette with off-balance acidity, herbs torn rather than cut, a plate sent back for missing seasoning.

“This is not good enough, Matthew,” Jacob said quietly at the end of service, his tone more disappointed than angry. “These aren’t complex dishes. They require focus and consistency.”

“Yes,” Matthew acknowledged, refusing to make excuses even as fatigue clouded his thinking. “It won’t happen again.”

That night, back in his apartment above Golden Dragon’s Queens location, Matthew practiced knife cuts until 3 AM, determined to remind his muscle memory of techniques that would prevent similar errors. He slept barely three hours before returning to Hearth, arriving early to prepare vinaigrettes repeatedly until he could achieve perfect balance with scientific precision.

Jacob noticed. “Better,” he said as he tasted Matthew’s morning preparations. It wasn’t effusive praise, but at Hearth, it meant a lot.

Midweek brought a new challenge when Chef Reynolds asked him to assist at the hearth station—the restaurant’s literal and figurative center, where the most signature dishes were prepared. The hearth cook, Desiree, was a veteran of Michelin-starred kitchens. She worked with a quiet intensity that intimidated even experienced staff.

“Look, don’t try to impress me,” she advised Matthew as he joined her station. “Just be precise. The fire doesn’t care about your ego or ambitions. It responds only to respect and attention.”

Working with live fire required a different awareness—a constant reading of heat levels, understanding how flames behaved with different fuels, learning to use height and distance rather than dial settings to control cooking intensity. Matthew burned himself twice the first night, injuries that served as effective teachers.

“You’re thinking too much,” Desiree observed, watching him hesitate before adjusting a hanging pot. “You need to learn to feel instead. The fire speaks if you listen.”

It was the kind of instruction that would have sounded like mystical nonsense in another context, but at Hearth, surrounded by people who approached cooking with almost spiritual seriousness, it made perfect sense. It would take months for Matthew to develop what the staff called “fire sense”—an intuitive understanding of the hearth’s moods and behaviors. But weeks end, he could manage basic hearth cooking under Desiree’s supervision—rotating ingredients through the fire’s different zones, understanding when to use direct flame versus ember heat, learning to coax specific flavors through precise fire management.

“He’s got good hands at the fire,” Rey told Reynolds during a lull in service. “Sensitive but not timid.”

The chef nodded, watching as Matthew adjusted a rack of lamb suspended over the hearth. “Has he made anything original yet?”

“Not really. Still in reproduction mode.”

“Hmm.” Reynolds made a note. “Let’s push him next week.”

The push came without warning on Monday morning when Reynolds approached Matthew during prep. “Today you’re developing a special,” he announced. “Something that could fit our menu but shows your perspective. You’ll have access to all our ingredients, three hours to prepare, then the staff will taste and critique before service.”

Matthew’s mind raced. This was an extraordinary opportunity—and challenge—for an extern only two weeks into his placement. Typically, such creative responsibilities came months into an externship, if at all.

“Any parameters, Chef?” he asked, trying as best he could to keep a calm exterior despite his racing inside thoughts.

“It should reflect our philosophy but contain your voice,” Reynolds replied. “And it needs to be feasible for service. Beyond that, I want to see what you come up with on your own.”

The pressure was enormous. Matthew knew this test would influence his trajectory at Hearth—whether he would remain an observer or be given greater responsibility.

After a survey of available ingredients, Matthew settled on a concept that bridged his diverse culinary background with Hearth’s ethos. The dish centered on monkfish tail. Known as poor man’s lobster, it was a fish species whose potential was often overlooked. His treatment would incorporate techniques from the Chinese and Mexican kitchens where he’d worked, while respecting the restaurant’s focus on ingredient-driven simplicity.

The preparation began with breaking down the monkfish, extracting not just the prized tail meat but also the often-discarded cheeks and bones. Drawing on lessons from Mrs. Chen at the fish market, he utilized everything, the bones creating a rich fish stock called yu tang that would become the foundation of the sauce.