Proximity breeds collaboration at Kensington Quarters

AT KENSINGTON Quarters, it's never too early to start talking product. It's the first thing Heather Thomason and Damon Menapace address when they show up in the morning - after coffee, obviously.

In many ways, they're no different from any other pair of well-caffeinated co-workers, but the manner of their on-the-job relationship is distinct. Thomason, a butcher, heads up the team milling about the meat-stuffed refrigerator case situated at the very front of the Fishtown restaurant, bar and meat shop, which opened last fall. Chef Menapace, meanwhile, is in charge of the similarly knife-wielding brigade behind KQ's line, just a couple of feet away.

Seriously, these two are so close they could lob ground beef at each other, like they do at that fish market in Seattle, if they wanted to.

For proof that proximity breeds collaboration, all you need to do is check out the top of KQ's menu. It's here, via a program that formally launched last month, that Thomason and Menapace put their heads together to develop charcuterie from scratch. They're far from the only people doing this in Philadelphia, but they're among a select few who take a focused, whole-animal approach, one that truly informs what stocks the case and what gets served for dinner.

It's a butcher and a chef, literally meeting in the middle to make meat.

Breaking down whole animals to fill up a butcher's case might seem like a no-brainer, but it's no longer de rigueur in the modern industrialized food chain. It's a big point of emphasis at Kensington Quarters, which sources its meat from small-scale farmers in Bucks, Lancaster and Perry counties, plus parts of New Jersey.

Every week, Thomason will get in her standing orders. Two or three 250-pound pigs. A 50-pound goat or lamb. Six or seven hundred pounds of beef. Fifty chickens. A smattering of rabbits or hefty Muscovy ducks.

Much of this stuff ends up broken down into retail-friendly cuts, or manipulated slightly into staples. Pork bellies, for example, are used for one thing and one thing only. "We sell as much bacon as we can make," said Thomason.

This process, of course, leaves Thomason with parts that are valuable but not exactly marketable. Your average customer isn't really kicking in the door in search of livers or beef tongue, and very few butcher-case lookie-loos are walking out with giant hog's heads tucked under their arms. But using everything is key to KQ's philosophy, requiring both the butcher side and the kitchen side to get creative.

In terms of making charcuterie, there's one big distinction between what this crew does and how another restaurant might. While chefs who work with outside butchers or purveyors might order certain cuts or parts to make stuff for their menus, Menapace and Thomason's meaty itinerary is strictly dictated by what's left after Thomason does her thing. In this sense, the process is an extension of economy and necessity; preventing waste is just as important as providing customers with an interesting product.

In other words, they work according to what they have, not according to what they can get. "It helps to slow things down - putting it on hold and playing that preservation game," said Thomason. "Utilizing things we don't have another use for."

But staunch utilitarianism can also taste very good, and this is where Thomason and Menapace's teamwork shines. At those a.m. kaffeeklatsches, the pair tend to run down what's available. If it's livers - old-school pates and terrines, for both the case and the charcuterie section of the menu. If it's a pig's head, the jowls will get strung up in the upstairs curing room for guanciale, a cured Italian-style salumi similar to pancetta, and the rest will get broken down for Menapace's elegant headcheese. If it's beef trimmings - pepperoni, spiced with paprika, fennel and garlic, fermented and smoked in the yard out back.

They play the long game, too. Small batches of coppa and lomo hang in the curing room, ready to eat in a month or two, while a whole ham reserved for prosciutto should be ready to slice this coming March. But fresh products with a quicker turnaround remain a priority.

"It's country-style stuff," said Menapace. "You need to use all the bits."

There's another built-in advantage to the connection between butcher and chef that's already hitting pay dirt. Diners who try the charcuterie off Menapace's menu - you can order a board of seven different meats, with condiments and accompaniments, as a starter for $25 - are more willing to purchase these same products on their way out the door.

"It goes back to the whole idea of what the kitchen and butcher-shop collaboration is all about - to use whole animals and sell the whole thing," said Menapace.

And neither he nor Thomason mind the extra labor. "It could easily be us doing tacos, burgers and pulled-pork sandwiches," said the chef. "But this is much more fun."

Drew Lazor has been writing about the local food scene since 2005. His twice-monthly column focuses on unexpected people doing unexpected things in Philadelphia food. If you come across a chef, restaurant, dish or food-related topic that bears investigation, contact him at andrewlazor@gmail.com or on Twitter @drewlazor.