When Ben Shewry was hit by a bus on his way to dinner, he did not cancel the reservation. He may have been bleeding, his clothes torn, but at least he arrived early. When strangers in a wasabi forest in Japan offered him a plate of unidentifiable meat, he ate it without verifying its source – and stayed calm as fellow tourists purged what they assumed was parasite-riddled bear flesh.
The executive chef and owner of Melbourne’s acclaimed restaurant Attica has faced bigger threats in his career (Covid shut his dining room for 262 days, for instance), but the threat now is something he’s authored himself. In his new memoir, Uses for Obsession, the chef denounces the “incredibly problematic” restaurant awards system that helped make Attica famous.
“Will we even be able to run a restaurant after this?” he asks Guardian Australia.
As a child growing up in Taranaki, New Zealand, Shewry’s love of cooking was clear from the moment he boiled his dad’s shoes in a pot. Then came stints at pub kitchens (where he served the country’s “biggest nachos”) and hotel buffets (where he carved margarine sculptures) before working for David Thompson in London and Andrew McConnell in Melbourne. Then, in 2005, as a 27-year-old new dad in search of a head chef gig (and salary), he took on the role that would make his name.
Attica’s trophy haul began about 2008, when it was named restaurant of the year by the Age’s Good Food Guide, and Shewry was named best new talent by Gourmet Traveller. International recognition followed: in 2010, when Attica entered the World’s 50 Best Restaurants “longlist” at No 73, the chef burst into joyful tears while telling his staff the news. Customer interest became so intense that bookings filled out nine months in advance. For six years straight – 2013 to 2018 – Attica was the highest-ranked Australian entry on the list.
Although he’s well aware of how media acclaim, awards and rankings have benefited his restaurant, Shewry doesn’t believe chefs should rely on them. “I’m coming from this incredibly privileged position,” he says.
When he took ownership of Attica in 2015, the chef realised that the biggest danger to the restaurant’s viability was still a bad review – despite all the accolades it had won. This constant precariousness is one reason why, in his memoir, he is full volumed in calling out the institutions and publications that rank restaurants.
In Uses for Obsession, Shewry writes this “oppressive review system – the same one that has brought privilege and fame to a few chefs like me – has contributed greatly to bankruptcy, divorce, depression and suicide”. One Attica employee told Shewry that when their parents’ restaurant lost a hat in the Good Food Guide, it nearly destroyed the marriage. “This staff member is telling me the stories from the perspective of a child,” the chef says. “And they began to cry. You can’t believe how awful it was to hear that story.”
He also questions the obscure way ratings and rankings are decided, writing: “It seems like no one, including the reviewers, knows how it works.”
His criticism is not aimed at “all food reviewers”, he says. “I know food reviewers who are genuine and who care.”
Cynics might believe this is a convenient stance, now that Attica is no longer ranked in the World’s 50 Best Restaurants and has dropped from three to two hats in the Good Food Guide.
But rewind to his Netflix Chef’s Table episode from 2015 – which further bolstered Attica’s international reputation – and he also expresses scepticism: “As you grow older, you realise that the things that really matter to you are your friends and your family … It doesn’t matter to them whether or not my restaurant’s ranked No 33 in the world. They only care, really, if I’m a decent human being.”
Restaurant rankings tend to focus on the wrong thing, he says. “When judged through the lens of business, some of the world’s best restaurants are some of the world’s worst businesses.
“I don’t want Attica to be judged as one of the world’s great restaurants. My ambition for it is to be one of the world’s best small businesses.”
In Australia it’s rare for chefs like Shewry to make these kinds of remarks on the record – denouncing institutions that could crush your restaurant’s future isn’t a popular move. But he says: “If we can’t tell the truth, if we can’t talk about these things and in the process, we can’t run Attica, then we’ll find out that it’s not worth running.”
He now prioritises other ways to measure success – including fostering a positive workplace culture.
Shewry writes about the misogyny and abuse women have endured in the hospitality industry and the role men need to play in ensuring safe workplaces – a timely perspective, given allegations of harassment and a toxic culture at major restaurant groups in Sydney.
In the book Kylie Shewry, the chef’s wife and Attica’s restaurant manager, shares a horrific story about a former boss – an acclaimed chef given the pseudonym “Cerdo” (Spanish for “pig”). In front of colleagues, Cerdo belittles her by saying, “Well, if you’d like to know how good she is at her job, you can take her into the toilets and find out.” When Amy, a waiter, pours the wrong wine for a male diner – a doctor – at Attica, he lashes out, smashing a bottle and destroying part of the restaurant door. “Amy no longer works in hospitality,” Shewry writes. “Amy is many waiters. Amy is almost always a woman. The doctor is almost always a man.”
Safety and respect for workers is taken seriously at Attica. For Shewry, it means listening to women and setting standards: throwaway sexist comments are not tolerated and there are no knock-off drinks for employees. “One of my strongest beliefs is that any manager, any owner, any restaurateur, chef, waiter or sommelier that oversees a culture of excessive drinking, drugs, partying … is guaranteeing a problematic workplace,” he says.
Attica pays its interns too – and has done so for years, long before it was revealed that some top restaurants depended on free labour. “It’s very simple – it’s not very revolutionary,” he says.
But Uses for Obsession is not just a lecture. The title alludes to Shewry’s unwavering perfectionism. In road-testing recipes for one of Attica’s best-known dishes, titled “A Simple Dish of Potato Cooked In the Earth It Was Grown” – inspired by the Māori tradition of preparing food in a hāngī (earth oven) – Shewry tested more than 30 types of potatoes, and just as many soils, in an ageing oven capable of just two cooking modes, “incineration or pilot-light warm”. He writes about smuggling thousands of dollars of beef tongues through customs – “the trick is to appear supremely confident”. In a telling chapter titled Chipgate, he reveals that fancy farm-to-table restaurants serve the same frozen chips as drive-through joints. “You’re probably actually better [off] going to a fast-food chain because they have these far superior equipment specifically for cooking these fries,” he says. Then there’s Shewry dusting himself off after getting hit by a bus in Sydney, and continuing on to Marque in Surry Hills – then considered one of the best restaurants in Australia.
The book was written over two years, mostly at Shewry’s dining table from 5.30am to 9am, fuelled by caffeine and a favourite playlist. It follows on from Origin: The Food of Ben Shewry, published 12 years ago and now out of print. It’s still highly coveted – a hardcover version of Origin is available online for $2,263.90.
“People are always emailing the restaurant, asking do you have any copies?” he says. “I have three copies: brand new in a box in my storage locker. One for each of my children.”
Attica is often described as “fine dining”, a label Shewry rejects. “If fine dining is fitting into a neat box of expectations, a commodity that is easy to digest and describe, and requires little thought or engagement to understand, then fuck that,” the chef writes.
It costs $385 a person for Attica’s degustation menu, but viewing the restaurant just by its bill overlooks what Shewry is saying with his food. In particular, there’s the restaurant’s celebration of Indigenous ingredients and culture. One previous dish featured a caviar tin decorated by the Kamilaroi artist Reko Rennie. Inside was a serve of ngerdi (green ants that have been consumed in Arnhem Land for millennia). They cost Attica $700 a kilo, with the hefty price tag supporting the Maningrida community who harvest the ingredient. The dish also showcased sugarbag honey (“the single most celestial ingredient on Earth,” Shewry writes) produced from Australian native stingless bees.
First Nations culture, Shewry says, “is by far and away the most precious, valuable, heartfelt, interesting, delicious and ancient living thing that we have”.
“This is 65,000 years old. This is ridiculous that we aren’t putting this front and centre of everything we do in Australian food and cooking. It should be our greatest priorities – as eaters, as cooks, as restaurateurs, as environmentalists, as people that care about other people, people that want to see a better future for all people living in Australia.”
This, he says, is the true national cuisine of Australia. And there’s no need to be hit by a bus to appreciate it.
Ben Shewry’s memoir Uses for Obsession is available from 1 October through Murdoch Books ($34.99).
