Cooking a Classic

The front of the Paul Heathcote’s restaurant is bright with yellow, cream, white and bronze pansies, in beds along the base of the white-faced building and in the window boxes at eye level. Layers of cloud move smoothly overhead. The sun breaks through, casting long lines of light and shade in the kitchen before being snuffed out again.

One of Reg Johnson’s ducks rests on a red plastic chopping board on the stainless-steel work surface. It is plucked, naked. It looks a bit like a parcel. It has a purposeful order about it. The breast is plump and curved. The skin of the bird has a curious quality of inertness, white with a slight trace of cream, like lard, meshed with dimples where the feathers were once set. The legs are tucked in neatly on each side.