Rene Redzepi's kitchen journal

Being named ''best in the world'' is an exhilarating achievement. But the challenge is dealing with that fame – both physically, mentally, emotionally and creatively. Rene Redzepi's Journal, publishing as part of the trilogy A Work In Progress: Journal, Recipes and Snapshots (Phaidon Press) is the frank, often moving account of a year in the life of the chef behind Noma in Copenhagen, just a few months after being awarded the title of No.1 in the S.Pellegrino World's 50 Best Restaurants list in 2011.

The journal explores the themes of success, grappling with the pressure of creating new and interesting dishes, leading a growing team, dealing with journalists and the trappings of fame, and coping with the temperamental and often soul-destroying effects of the long Nordic winter, when fresh produce is at a minimum and the kitchen is forced to find more new ways of working with the same ingredients.

The story begins like this:

Monday, February 7

"Am I OK?"

It's a good question, one that Nadine, my wife, posed to me on a bitterly cold day, almost four months ago. Last year should have felt smashing: Noma had been named the world's best restaurant, I'd put out a book that nobody could cook from but was selling really well and we were full every day, for lunch and dinner. Yet still, with all that, there was Nadine one morning: "Rene, you look exhausted, are you OK?" The questions sank in as the zombie stared back at me in the mirror.

"Was I OK?" The question lingered all day at work. "I have every reason to be perfectly OK," I reassured myself. I went to bed, but I couldn't sleep, got up to brush my teeth, and stood with my hands on the cold sink. "I don't think I'm OK." The moment I admitted this, melancholy washed over me. I didn't go to work that day; I didn't even call the restaurant. I couldn't move. I didn't feel like doing another 16-hour shift. I wasn't OK.

I was burned out. Success is a marvellous thing, but it can also be dangerous and limiting. Suddenly we had become a fine-dining establishment and had begun listening to questions about whether we needed real silverware, or if the waiters should wear suits. Like the food would improve with a bow tie. Those things had never been important to us; we had always put all our efforts into people and creativity, not commodities. One month [on vacation] in Mexico and I had realised the truth – I was scared, scared of losing the precious worldwide attention we had stumbled into. All of us were... We had stopped following our natural instincts and trusting that our memories are valuable enough to shape our daily lives at the restaurant. No way – I won't let questions like that distract us any more.

Much of Redzepi's journal speaks about the creative process – the elusive moments when a new flavour or combination comes together, when a thought suddenly ''works'' on the plate. Each Saturday the staff of Noma is invited to come up with ideas – from simple things through to the makings of a new dish. Here's Redzepi's account of one of those breakthrough moments.

Saturday, March 5

Tom, chef de partie on appetisers, presented a small mussel shell made from a thin dough of flour, squid ink and intense clam juice. It was so tasty. I told him that we'd tried doing that many times before, but we'd never quite nailed it like he did. He'll show us the technique next week.

Tom's mussel shell is one of the reasons I love Saturday Night Projects. It's amazing what the night's grown into. Seven or eight years ago, on a cold winter day, I told the entire kitchen staff, much to their disbelief, that every night after service each person had to prepare something to share. It could be something simple, not necessarily a complete dish; even a better way of peeling carrots could be enough. At the time I was trying to create a team of bright chefs who were fully present and adept, but what I had for the most part were robots: human machines who had been trained to follow a recipe as though it were some sort of absolute truth, forgetting the impulses and reactions that are necessary when working with something that's alive. After all, it's the chef cooking the food who makes the magic, not the recipe; a drop of acidity here or there, even when not called for in the recipe, can make all the difference. When the watercress suddenly tastes sweeter because there's been more rain, the intuitive chef knows what to do at the first taste. Recipes should be strong guidelines, not fixed scripture. I had hoped this initiative would help change the way my chefs thought and, for the most part, it has.

The first time we tried it there were seven chefs: currently we have 35 in the kitchen. And so the "Projects" have become a team event every Saturday.

Tom's mussel shell becomes the base of a fully formed Noma dish: raw mussels served on the fake mussel shells served scattered on a plate among genuine shells. The dish is a huge success.

Similar breakthroughs occur with the delivery of tiny fjord shrimp.

Thursday, March 24

It was about 12 degrees today: the air was mild, green and benevolent. Even the recent brutal winter winds have died down. You can taste spring in the air.

The first fjord shrimp of the year came in, from a new fisherman who brings them in extremely fresh. He only spends five hours at sea, as opposed to the 10 or 12 that our other supplier would. The live shrimps were tiny, translucent, vibrating jewels, hopping around in the box 20 to 30 centimetres in the air. We placed them on ice in small glass jars, with a side of brown butter emulsion. These shrimp are an accurate representation of the flavours of the ocean at this exact moment, and there is something captivating about that. Biting into a live shrimp, your teeth feel a delicate crunch from the shell, then soft slightly sweet meat with a deep shrimp flavour in the head. It makes a memorable bite: predator against prey. The brown butter emulsion is really just for the timid, who want to cover the insect-like eyes and head with a quick, nervous dunk. The whole restaurant felt comradely. The early tables nodded appreciatively at later diners as they erupted in laughter and screams, and we became one big party where everyone felt they knew each other, like a family. The conviviality came as a total surprise – and here I was worried that it would be perceived as theatrical!

For as long as the sea gives us fjord shrimp, they will be on the menu.

Edited extract from A Work in Progress: Journal, Recipes and Snapshots (Phaidon Press), publishing November 2013 but available as a pre-launch via goodfoodmonth.com.

Rene Redzepi presents A Work In Progress at Sydney Opera House on Monday, October 28. See goodfoodmonth.com for tickets.