Attica’s Greatest Failures
We proudly acknowledge the Bunurong as the first people to love, live and dine on the lands on which Attica sits today.
We recognise that Aboriginal and Torres Strait Island Peoples were the first sovereign nations of Australia from time immemorial, and they never ceded this sovereignty.
Attica’s Greatest Failures
Meditations on misses and mishaps.
Published 28.11.22
If we had to put a figure on the ratio of ideas for dishes that actually become something we plate in the restaurant. We couldn’t, really, because it’s so few.
But if, for some weird reason, you made us – the best we could do is a guess in the realm of 1,000 ideas to one. Basically, this means we fail a lot. Like, a lot. We’ve failed so much that we’ve turned it into a bit of an artform.
Failure can be messy, but mess is good.
What do our failures look like? Well, in one memorable case – it looks like a passionfruit-marinated fungi dessert. But, more generally, failure looks like (hard-won, slow) progress.
At the risk of sounding like an inspirational Instagram post (you know the ones), we think consistent and considered failure is necessary. Crucial, even. Because each mishap is a step on the journey to a greater understanding of our craft.
Picking our path...
The difference between good and great often lies in small details. And we don’t plate anything until we believe it’s truly great – when it’s reached its most mature, delicious expression.
But the path to finding these details is often counterintuitive – one which requires suspending what you know – or think you know – about what you’re doing.
“In our cooking, this often comes in the form of an inversion (or subversion) of the ’rules’ that dictate how things should be done.”
…And welcoming the detours.
The history of cooking is steeped in tradition – written recipes have existed as long as humans have recorded their thoughts.
While we respect this lineage and our place within it, we don’t accept the idea that just because something has been done a certain way, it’s the way it should always be done. Imagine if we took that approach to other parts of our lives.
There’s a catch, though. One equally applicable to all creative endeavours – whether that’s writing, filmmaking, painting, dancing, whatever. To (effectively) break rules, you need to understand why they exist in the first place.
You have to know how to build before you can deconstruct – otherwise you’re just working in the dark.
Flipping the switches
Now, all this sounds good in theory. But how does this translate to the plate (and the palate)? Well, as an example, take something developed at Attica over a decade ago: kangaroo tartare.
When we first approached this dish, we tried a few different ways of preparing it. We knew it was good – but it wasn’t great. It was lacking a brightness, the spark that allows a dish to transcend into the realm of true deliciousness.
So, we thought, why not layer the tartare? We took the 10 or so ingredients, stacked them, then dressed from above rather than tossing them. In conventional thinking, this is a no-no (‘cowboy cooking’, as Ben would say), but it worked.
You take the same ingredients in the same quantity, and you end up with a completely different result. But to get there, you need to provide the space for ample failure.
How to fail better
‘Fail fast’ is the mantra of Silicon Valley, but we tend to think good failure takes time. Otherwise, you’re likely to miss the opportunities right in front of you.
As a team, we’ve grown into that mentality – and we’re lucky to have the resources to support it. It’s why we’ve established time and space to explore the team’s (and Ben’s) wilder ideas, like, can you make pikelets from seawater? (The answer is yes, but not easily).
So, every day, we chase perfection – and every day, we fall short.
The quest for deliciousness
What’s all this in service of? Well, there’s a specific moment we live for. It’s alchemical, a sudden electrical surge of loving intention that transforms individual ingredients into the delicious whole they were always meant to be.
To even try to describe it is to rob it of some of its impact, but it’s the reason that we’re still here – still failing.
We invite you to taste the fruits of our failures – carefully tended to right here in Ripponlea – served daily, Tuesday–Saturday
