Culinary Arts:  Kilian Doyle might have worked in a professional kitchen, but can he cut the mustard in a Michelin-starred restaurant? To find out he spent a day with Kevin Thornton

There’s a decapitated, skinned corpse lying on a thick wooden slab in front of me. Michelin-starred chef Kevin Thornton is caressing it like a new-born baby. Which, in a sense, is what it is.

It’s a two-week-old milk-fed spring lamb straight from the Wicklow hills. Thornton, poking and probing it with a razor-sharp boning knife, is positively drooling at the prospect. “It’s the change of the seasons, a magical time for ingredients,” he enthuses, his eyes wide with joy and wonder.

“You’re not squeamish, are you?” he asks. I nod in the negative. “Good,” says he. “Now stick your hand in there and yank those kidneys out.”

Thus is my re-introduction to the world of the professional kitchen after an 11-year absence. And what a place to come. I’m in the kitchen of Thornton’s on Dublin’s St Stephen’s Green for a masterclass with the man himself.

Designed for couples, the masterclass provides an opportunity for anyone with a love of food – no matter what their experience or skill level – to spend time in one of Ireland’s most innovative and consistently excellent kitchens.

The idea is to demystify the process of producing food to such standards and to inspire you to go and try it yourself in the comfort of your own home. It’s all very well watching it on TV or reading it in books, but there’s no substitute, if you really want to know how a great chef works, to going in and getting your hands dirty with them.

You’re shown around and given chores to do – under the exacting gaze of Thornton, his fresh-faced sous chef Gary Bell and their team of five young, talented chefs – before taking part in the huge rush of adrenaline that is service in a top restaurant. To top it off, you then get to eat one of the finest lunches you’ll ever have.

My day begins with a massive espresso, guzzled with gusto as Thornton details what I’m about to experience over the next few hours. I’m not sure who is more excited. He’s a ball of energy, firing ideas and opinions about like a human Gatling gun.

After donning chef’s whites, I’m brought in and introduced to the brigade. The atmosphere is friendly and welcoming. The crew, though busy as Baghdad bricklayers, are generous with their time, explaining what they are doing with a calm yet infectious enthusiasm and – although he’d probably hate me for saying it – hushed reverence for the head chef. Their work is utterly meticulous and honest. No corner is cut, no mistake hidden. The passion for food and creativity that oozes from their boss has evidently rubbed off.

After a stint in the pastry section making chocolate mousse, rolling brioche and proofing bread, Thornton beckons me over to where the fish delivery is waiting. There’s a pile of mackerel, glistening on a board, so fresh I imagine they’re winking at me. Not for long they’re not. Thornton pulls out a knife and deftly deconstructs one into flesh and bone. He hands me the blade. Instantly regretting ever telling him I worked for years as a chef before turning my hand to hackery, I’m a ball of nerves.

“Ah, it’s like riding a bike, you never forget it,” he grins. It’s not. Indeed, if cheffing were a bicycle, I’d have ploughed straight into a wall. My knife skills are as rusty as the hulk of the Titanic. I’m mortified as I hamfistedly mangle the poor innocent fish. Thornton, ever-patient, is there with the stabilisers. “Feel it. Don’t think,” he tells me, like a kung fu master. “Let the knife do the work.” Finally, three wrecked mackerel later, I get it right. A perfect fillet. A small victory, but I’m proud as punch.

I eye the John Dory. It’s a big, ugly, complicated-looking beastie with poisonous spines. “I think I’ll let you do this,” I tell him. He doesn’t object. He dissects it with the skill of a brain surgeon, commentating like Murray Walker on speed as he goes. In five fascinating minutes, I learn the entire reproductive cycle of north Atlantic flat fish and why adhering to seasonality and respect for your ingredients is paramount.

Over the next few hours, I move from section to section, making foie gras parfait, prepping Maxim potatoes, tasting different types of sole and generally having a complete ball. Thornton spends most of it by my side, never buckling under my constant stream of questions. I’m shown the nine different ovens, all at different temperatures, the liquid nitrogen machine and the industrial bong that he uses to smoke fish. I’m like a kid in a sweet shop, munching as I go.

Lunch is soon upon us. I feel a churning in my stomach as the memories rush back to me, as I remember the pressure, the rush and then the heart-bursting buzz that a proper, well-run service brings. And the abject horror of a bad one.

There is no such danger with Thornton. He runs the pass – where the tickets come in and the food goes out – with the precision of a conductor. Perfect plate after perfect plate flies out. Rarely is his voice raised in anything resembling anger. And if then, it’s only because he cares so much. “We run a Zen kitchen in here,” he tells me. “One voice. No confusion.” The language can be fruity, but there’s no bullying, belittling or posturing for the imaginary cameras.

Soon plucking up the courage to join in, I throw myself into it, helping to plate a few dishes, place a couple of garnishes, squeeze sauce bottles and even sear some fish fillets. I can now say I had a hand – albeit a very shaky one – in producing Michelin-starred food.

As the last of the 40 diners are served, I’m ushered into the dining room for lunch. I gorge on mackerel, brill, scallops, beef carpaccio, duck and lemon tart. Each and every dish is a small, exquisite triumph, lovingly prepared by the best chef in Ireland. With a little help from me.

Masterclasses cost €400 for two people. The price includes lunch, wine, recipe book and souvenir apron. For more information, call 01-4787008 or see thorntonsrestaurant.com