Alan Wong doesn't want Hawai'i's children to grow up in ignorance of the plantation past that made possible many of the advantages they enjoy today, or unmindful of the hardships endured by previous generations in the name of these children's future.

That's why one of Hawai'i's premier chefs is donating the net proceeds of his restaurant's post-renovation party April 30 to Hawaii's Plantation Village. And that's why Wong and I, members of his staff and fire-builder Clyde Vierra spent last Thursday morning baking bread in the forno — the wood-burning Portuguese oven — at the village in Waipahu.

Wong, who grew up in Wahiawa, has been studying the root cuisines of Hawai'i's plantation workers, using those simple dishes as inspiration for the menu of the distinctly un-simple pupu party. Last week, for example, a village volunteer spent a day in Wong's kitchen, sharing her recipe for the Filipino vegetable dish pinakbet. Wong can't serve anything that plain at a $125-a-ticket event, but watched closely as she stir-fried eggplant, long beans, bitter melon and tomatoes with bagoong, the potent fermented fish paste. His interpretation: a French-style confit of akule fillets, slow-cooked in oil with garlic, bay leaf, thyme and black pepper, topping a stir-fry of pinakbet vegetables, but with a patis, shoyu and sesame sauce.

"It's a sort of deconstructed pinakbet," he said. "But before you can do something like that, you have to really understand the roots of the dish. You have to go back to Mama's cuisine or Grandma's cuisine and really understand the ingredients."

ONE FORNO ALL

I'm still not completely sure where the bread idea came in, since forno-baked bread won't be featured at the event (just read on about what it takes to bake bread in this way and you'll understand why). But, for me, it was a chicken-skin day. My grandmother's teenage diary records that she baked bread several times a week in the forno built by my great-grandfather, a mason who worked for Waihe'e Mill on Maui. "Baked b.," she wrote in the school exercise books she used as a daily journal, and those two short words summarized hours of work. Alan Wong's pastry chef Mark Okumura and I got a firsthand look at how much work last week. Unlike my grandmother, who had to make yeast from potatoes, pound the dough into submission by hand and pray it wouldn't fall or go sour, I could prepare my bread dough in a KitchenAid stand mixer, let it rise overnight in the refrigerator in zip-closure bags, and count on somebody else to handle the fire-building chores.

That was Vierra, who learned from Big Island master Abe Baptiste, who came over to O'ahu to help build this oven (behind the Portuguese house at the Plantation Village) some years ago. The beehive-shaped oven, made of stone, brick and heat-conducting masonry "mud," hasn't been used in years. Vierra, fearful that we wouldn't be able to get the fire hot enough in a water-soaked oven, had come by the park three days in a row, building a wood fire each day to dry out the oven.

It still took a good two hours to bring the thing to the proper temperature, with all of us standing around talking story, sampling Wong's rich caldo verde — kale and potato soup — and watching Vierra stoke the flames. We talked about how the forno was a center of Portuguese family life. Youngsters gathered the wood, preferably guava or other fruit wood. Young girls helped their mothers knead the bread, a harrowing process that literally involved pounding it with fists, slapping it onto the counter or into a porcelain-lined basin, rolling and kneading for the better part of an hour.

Neighbors often shared the use of a single oven, since not everyone could afford one or knew how to build one. Many Portuguese women made extra money by selling bread, or bartered bread for goods. Once the bread was removed, the residual heat would be used to slow-cook soups or stews or, on special occasions, to roast meats.

Vierra confirmed much that I had heard: That the temperature test for a forno involves throwing a handful of flour onto the floor of the oven. If it blackens immediately, the oven is too hot. If it browns nicely, it's time to bake. If it remains white, uh-oh, you have to build another fire. I remembered my grandmother saying that wet banana leaves were used to line the floor of the oven, creating a steamy environment to create a crackling crust. But Vierra said the leaves were just there to keep the bottom of the bread clean.

FRIENDS IN KNEAD

Vierra talked about the difference between old-style bread and today's lighter, sweeter loaves. "What we're talking about here is yesterday's bread," he declared — with a more chewy texture and denser crumb.

Finally, wisps of smoke were making their way through cracks in the masonry and the oven's outside walls were warm to the touch.

Then it was time for a frenzy of activity: Vierra used a hoe to rake the coals into a brick bin at the front of the oven, which, by the way, works nicely as a barbecue burner if you pop a grill on top, which we did, to cook a pot of vinha d'ahlos — Portuguese pickled pork.

Once the coals were out, Vierra deployed an improvised mop of wet towels tied to a broom handle to wash away the soot — hot, sweaty, potentially dangerous work.

Okumura had made a half-dozen loaves of Portuguese-style yeasted cornbread, and I'd done two loaves each of various Portuguese white breads. Dan Nakasone, who helps Wong find and develop food sources and organized this whole event, served as the timer as we raced the breads into the oven, using a large stone to prop up the oven's heavy cast-iron door. We stood around talking some more — Vierra, Okumura and I frankly worrying a bit about whether the bread would turn out.

SLICE OF LIFE

Just less than a half-hour into the baking time, we made the first check. The breads looked gorgeous, puffy and golden-brown. I felt a thrill and sent up a little prayer for whatever wisdom Grandma has bequeathed to me. But the breads were far from done: My two largest loaves would take more than 45 minutes, and even Okumura's pie-sized corn loaves needed more cooking time. Vierra gamely opened and shut the oven three times until we could finally taste the fruits of our labors. There was only one word for the meal of bread, soup and vinha d'ahlos: Consolo! It literally means consolation, solace or comfort but, for a Portuguese, it means much more — perhaps the closest English translation might be "hits the spot!"

Reach Wanda A. Adams at wadams@honoluluadvertiser.com.