The Greasy Spoon

Potted Shrimps

Hand held up high, I think that potted shrimps are, perhaps, one of the best traditonal British dishes of all time. Recently, I ordered some at the downstairs bar below Bibendum in the Fulham Road. They were completely delicious, buttery, flavoured with nutmeg, and served with simple brown bread.

By shrimps, I mean those small brownish prawns, rather than the large Eastern variety. Melt some unsalted butter with mace, cayenne pepper, and some grated nutmeg in a small pan. Add the peeled brown shrimps, and cook them very briefly in the butter at a low heat. Season with salt and pepper, and divide the mixture into ramekin dishes.

Let them set in the fridge, and then top them off with some unclarified butter. The butter will act as a seal. When they're ready to serve, spoon out the potted shrimps, and spread them on slices of brown bread. Perfect for this time of year or for picnics.

Watercress and Roasted Shallot Puree

In the same way that I like to experiment with different flavour combinations when I'm making sorbets, vegetable purees offer the perfect opportunity to try out new ideas. Purees are dead easy to make, and, in my opinion, are a sophisticated alternative to the usual side vegetable dishes.

Here's a good 'un: it's my recipe for watercress and roasted shallot puree. I generally prefer shallots to onions, as they have a sweeter and more subtle taste.

Take a handful of shallots, remove the skins, and roast them in a hot oven for about an hour. Chuck them into your Magimix and puree them with unsalted butter, salt and pepper, and a teaspoon of sherry vinegar, or lemon juice.

In a steamer, cook a large handful of watercress for a few minutes, until they are slightly wilted, and a deep green colour. Add them to the mixer, and puree until smooth.

Another puree I've come up with is made from an interesting artichoke and leek combination. It's a similar process. I steam chopped leeks until soft, and then puree them with artichoke hearts, lemon juice, and salt and pepper. I finish off the puree of by cooking it gently in a small pan, and then mixing in a dollop of creme fraiche.

Remember, it's a good idea to keep the leeks as green as possible. If you overcook them, they turn yellow, and you loose the crunchy, fresh flavours- so watch them like a hawk when you steam them. It might be a good plan to plunge them under ice-cold water once they've cooked. This will set the colour.

The Mysterious Ginger Beer Plant

Summer has finally arrived in London. And with the recent hot weather, there's nothing better than a cold ginger beer. If you're buying it ready made, I would recommend Fentiman's botanically brewed traditional ginger beer. It's made in the old fashioned way, is strong on the ginger, and easy on the sugar; and is sold in attractive bottles.

If you want to make ginger beer yourself (and I hope that you will), there's much more to it than initially meets the eye. While researching this post, I discovered a whole sub-culture of ginger beer freaks on the net. Their obsession revolves around the mysterious "ginger beer plant". This is essentially, a living "culture", which in some cases, gets passed down from generation to generation. You need to feed it, and it grows- it's alive!

First, here's a way to make the "ginger beer plant": In a jam jar mix together: half an ounce of brewer's yeast, a teaspoon of sugar, a teaspoon of ground ginger, and a cup of cold water. Feed it for seven days, giving it a teaspoon of ginger, and a teaspoon of sugar every day.

Once you've got your ginger beer plant up and running, you're ready to make ginger beer. Pour the juice of four lemons into a large bowl, and add three cupfuls of sugar. Stir. Add five cups of boiling water, and stir until the sugar has dissolved. Next, pour in twelve cups of cold water, and stir again. Strain the juice of the "ginger beer plant" through some muslin into the bowl.

After two hours, you can start to bottle up the ginger beer. Fill them up to about three quarters high. You will need bottles with corks, as screw-top bottles might explode. Make sure the corks are not too tight, otherwise the ginger beer won't ferment. Store in a cool place, but don't keep the ginger beer on a cold floor.

Mint Julep

The famous Kentucky Derby is held on the first Saturday of May. Since 1938, the drink of choice to accompany the festivities has been the Mint Julep. I'm a huge fan of Mint Juleps, which also make an appearance in chapter seven of The Great Gatsby. Bourbon gives them a wonderful smokey taste, which works beautifully with the flavours of fresh mint. If you've never made one before, here's how I do it:

First, mix up a simple syrup. Combine sugar with water (ideally spring water), and add bruised mint. Add a decent shot of this syrup to the bottom of the glass (or silver julep cup- but more of that later). Fill the glass with crushed ice, and top it up with a good Kentucky straight bourbon, such as Old Grand-dad, or Wild Turkey. Rub the edge of the glass with a mint leaf, and garnish the cocktail with a further sprig of mint.

Traditionally, mint juleps are served in silver or pewter mint julep cups. It's a bit like Guinness served from a silver tankard, I'm convinced that this makes it taste better. Anyhow, they're hard to get in dear ol' Blighty, but I've seen a few on e-bay, at not unreasonable prices, and I'm tempted to splash out on one if I can get my act together.

Chinois

I've realised that so far on The Greasy Spoon, I've written absolutely nothing at all about kitchen equipment. Well, it's about time that I started.

I'm not a fan of the sort of people who pay many thousands of pounds for a swanky kitchen, and then never cook in it. It's the same with kitchen equipment. I recently threw away a French "mayonnaise maker"- it was completely redundant, as it only made small amounts of the stuff, and I prefer to mix it up myself the time honoured way, in a large bowl.

The late Elizabeth David had the sort of kitchen I respect: everything in it was well used, scrubbed, and as a result, had a genuine aesthetic. What was it that William Morris said? "Do not own anything that you do not know to be beautiful or useful", or something like that.

Anyway, have you got a chinois? This is a conical sieve with a very fine mesh. You'll find it extremely useful if you're into making sauces. As it's so fine, it will remove all the nasty bits of fat and gunge, which could make your sauce bitter.

And classic kitchen equipment like this needn't be too expensive. Okay, it's great fun to oogle the latest Divertimenti catalogue, but if you're clever, you should be able to find the same thing on the net, for half the price. Good Luck.

Sorbets of the World Unite...

Last night's sorbet making was a total success. The Earl Grey/Orange combination worked like a treat. I jiggled the flavours a bit, deciding that it was initially too sweet, so cut back a bit on the sugar, added more Earl Grey, and a smidgen more of the orange juice.

The fun thing about sorbets (which are easy to make), is that you can experiment with all sorts of interesting flavours. Pimm's sorbet would be fun- though bear in mind that alcohol will stop the sorbet from freezing, so it might be an idea to initially burn off the alcohol from the Pimm's, add it to the sorbet mixture, and then serve it ice-cold, with Pimm's poured over the top.

There's nothing more satisfying than coming up with a fresh idea for a recipe, experimenting with it- to get it exactly right, and then serving it up to your admiring and ravenous friends. That's what food should be all about...

Earl Grey Tea

One of the best English tea blends is Earl Grey. Named after the 2nd Earl Grey, who was the Prime Minister in the 1830's, it's a particularly delicious tea, flavoured with orangey oil of bergamot, and giving off a flowery, scented nose.

There are various legends involving Chinese mandarins, urbane British diplomats, and the like, about how this tea was created. One story (I doubt if it is true), is that the exported tea leaves were packed inside wooden barrels soaked in tarry oil of bergamot, and an English tea-taster realised that the oils had soaked into the tea to beneficial effect.

Well, whatever its origins, Earl Grey is deservedly one of the most famous and popular blends, and Jackson's of Piccadilly lay claim to having the original recipe.

I have a rather sanguine attitude to tea, preferring coffee (strong and black), in the mornings, but, at the same time, appreciating a scalding, refreshing cuppa on a hot summer's afternoon.

I've just made a sorbet flavoured with Earl Grey tea, too. I've never made it before, suddenly having a flash of inspiration last night that the combination of flavours might work well; so it will be interesting to see how it turns out when we eat it tomorrow.

I mixed a cup of sugar with two cups of water, and brought it to the boil; then simmered it for about five minutes, and left it to cool down. Next, I mixed several spoons of prepared Earl Grey tea, with a squeeze of fresh orange juice, and infused the mix with some fresh mint leaves (which I previously rolled around between my fingers to release the oils). I tipped this liquid into the sugar and water (first removing the mint leaves), mixed it around, and left it to cool.

I poured the tea flavoured sugar water into a plastic container, and shoved it into the deep freeze. All that's left to do now, is to take it out when it's half-frozen; mash it up with a fork, and shove it back in again. When it's frozen, I need to take it back out, mix it up in the Magimix, and then re-freeze it.

I'll report back tomorrow on what it tastes like...

Arabella Boxer's Book of English Food

I think this has to be one of the most interesting books available on English Food. Arabella Boxer's book covers English Food of the 1920's and 30's. It's so similar to what we eat today, yet so different- if that makes any sense at all: lots of savouries; tomato things in jellied rings, shrimp paste, Rhubarb sorbet, Mrs Anderson's fish cakes, Apricot Jam Sauce, Paradise Pudding.

Here's her recipe for Haddock Monte Carlo. I've adapted it for The Greasy Spoon. Take two large smoked (but undyed, ie not yellow) haddock fillets and cook them in milk and water, with a bayleaf. A useful tip to get perfectly cooked fish: bring the milk and water mixture to just under the boil, and then turn off the gas. Leave the fish in the hot liquid until the flesh begins to slightly flake off the bone. That's a sign that it's perfectly cooked.

Remove the flesh from the bone of the fish- trying (as far as possible) to keep the fillets intact. Arrange the fish in a buttered fireproof dish, and then slice some tomatoes, and arrange them on top. Season with salt and pepper.

Reduce the milky water (which you've kept back) by half, so that it thickens slightly, and the flavours are intensified. Add some double cream, stir, and pour over the fish and tomatoes.

Finish off in the oven (ie flash the dish under the grill), and place some poached eggs on top. Garnish with chopped parsley.

Red Onion Marmalade

Red Onion Marmalade is one of those retro things, beloved of late 70's and early 80's Bistro's. You know the sort of place: black and white photographs of Greta Garbo, candles dripping wax stuffed into old wine bottles, rickety tables with red and white check tablecloths, 30's dance music on the hi-fidelity system hidden beneath the bar.

Come to think of it, there aren't many of these places left now in London. I can think of Grumbles in Pimlico (a relic of the 60's, I think), and that Polish/Mexican place in Shepherd's Market, but that's about it.

Onion Marmalade goes perfectly with terrines, and pates; which is why, of course, it was a staple of the 70's bistro. It's very easy to make, and keeps well. Here's my own version:

Slice up some red onions thinly, and cook them in a pan with some butter, and some sugar. You want them to caramelise, so let them cook right down. The sugar will help them to go a dark brown colour.

Next add a teaspoon of red wine vinegar, some mustard seeds, a teaspoon of redcurrant jelly, and a generous dash of port. Let the "marmalade" bubble away, until the liquid has more or less evaporated. Season with generous amounts of salt and black pepper.

That's it...

Crab and Sweetcorn Soup

When I'm in the mood, it's fun to try and work out how Indian and Chinese restaurants make their time honoured favourite dishes. I'm not talking here about authentic regional cuisine, but more about those bastardised dishes we're used to back here in Blighty.

You know the sort of things I'm talking about: Chicken Korma, Won Ton Soup, Meat Madras, Sweet and Sour Pork Balls. It's comfort food of a sort, and I think there's a place for it.

I've come up with a way to make Crab and Sweetcorn Soup. It tastes almost exactly like the stuff you get in Chinatown, so I'm pleased with the results. Talking of which, I once caught a waiter hiding behind a curtain sprinkling on some MSG straight from the packet before he served it- my version, I stress, does not include this. Here's how you do it:

Flake up some white crabmeat into chunks. I bet my bottom dollar the Chinatown establishments use the tinned variety; tinned crabmeat ain't that bad, in my opinion, but obviously, if you can get hold of the realy McCoy, so much the better.

Chop up some root ginger into fine pieces, and mix it in with the crabmeat. Beat up two egg whites until they are frothy, and then add a tablespoon or so of cornflour, and some milk. Beat until smooth, so that you end up with a creamy liquid. Mix this in with the crabmeat and the ginger.

In a reasonably sized pan, bring some stock to the boil. I reckon that the Chinese restaurants make an Oriental style stock out of ginger, spring onions and the like; but for my version I used a light chicken stock. Add a tin of sweetcorn. Again, I've worked out that they probably use creamed sweetcorn, which is not readily available in British supermarkets (I could rant all day about how understocked our supermarkets are compared to other countries), so I just "crushed" the sweetcorn in the Magimix.

Stir in the crabmeat and ginger mixture, and simmer briefly. The cornflour will act as a thickening agent. Check the seasoning, and add a dash of sherry, or rice wine. Make sure the alcohol is burnt off, and finish off the dish with a a garnish of chopped spring onions.

Egon Ronay's Roast Red Mullet with Cumin Sauce

Remember Egon Ronay? He was that rather dapper Hungarian who published a series of restaurant guides, in vogue a few years back. One of the favourite books in my modest cookery library is none other than Egon's "The Unforgettable Dishes of My Life', published back in 1989. You should be able to get hold of a copy relatively easily from either amazon.co.uk, or that marvellous antiquarian book website, abebooks.com.

His book's a personal thing, with lots of unpretentious recipes that have held some meaning to him over the years. That's something I like about food: the way a certain dish can bring back memories, or have some literary or historical connotation. Without getting too pretentious; wasn't that, in many ways, what Proust was all about? You know, the madeline dipped into the lemon tea and all that?

Anyway, here's his recipe for Roast Red Mullet with Cumin Sauce. I've posted a picture of the critter above, so that you can recognise one when you go to your local fishmonger- if you have any left in your neighbourhood that is; in London, they're all more or less gone, and have been replaced by Starbucks, Gap, and various other chains of a dubious sort.

Clean and gut a red mullet, keeping back the bones and the livers. Cut off the heads and the tail.

Put the heads, tail, and bones into a saucepan, and add leeks, shallots, white wine, and salt. Pour in two pints of water, and bring to the boil. Skim off the scum as it floats to the top. Cover the saucepan, and simmer for about twenty minutes. Hey presto! You will have a fish stock.

Reduce 3/4 pint of this fish stock, first adding two teaspoons of cumin seeds, until the stock takes on a syrupy consistency. Add half a pint of double cream and the Red Mullet livers, and boil for fifteen seconds. Liquidise in your magimix or blender, and then pass it through a sieve. That's the sauce finished.

Brush the cleaned mullet with oil, and wrap it in foil, first seasoning it with a generous amount of sea salt and chunky black pepper. Place the fish on a baking tray, and cook in the oven at 220C (425F) until the fish is cooked. The flesh will flake slightly when it is done.

Arrange the cooked fish on a plate, and pour the sauce around it. Eat.

Jugged Peas

I've just crawled in from another long day at work, and racked my befuddled brain for something stimulating to write about. How about jugged peas?

Jugging is an old English cooking technique. You put whatever you've got into a jug or jar, and then place this into a pan of boiling water. It's a bit like a bain-marie.

Put some fresh peas into an oven proof screw-top jar, with some stock, some fresh mint, salt, pepper and sugar. Simmer the jar in a pan of near boiling water for about 30 minutes.

You won't be disappointed...

Tete de Veau

As you probably know by now, apart from the dreaded mashed potato, I'll eat just about anything: snails, frog's legs, octopus, seaweed, haggis, and chicken's feet; but I'm still not entirely sure about the French classic, Tete de Veau. It's one of the great cult dishes of French bistro cooking. If you've never tried it; it's the face of a baby calf, ripped off the bone, wrapped around a tongue, prepared in a bouillon; and then served with the brains on one side of the plate, and a vinaigrette sauce and capers on the other. Appetising, eh?

I first tried it at a Parisian brasserie specialising in the food of Alsace-Lorraine, Chez Jenny. A fatty, nausea inducing, glutinous, and chunky mess, swamped in vinegar. Not good, I have to admit to you now, though I was darned if I was going to admit it then.

But the version I ordered at Bibendum, was a different ball game altogether. Obviously prepared with great skill, the sweetbreads melted on the tongue, and the piquant vinaigrette gave off just the right balance.

On Friday night, The Girl very kindly treated me to dinner at Tom Ilic's excellent restaurant in Queenstown Road, close to Giles Gilbert Scott's masterpiece, Battersea Power Station.

The first thing to point out is that Mr Ilic's restaurant is good value for money. I've worked out that he probably manages to keep his prices down by buying the less fashionable cuts of meat, and then cooking them with care. Like Bibendum, the menu concentrates on classic French country cooking with a sophisticated twist.

For the first course, I had croustillants of calf's head with sweetbreads; and for the main course, scallops with honeyed pork belly. Both were delicious, and presentation was top notch.

Towards the end of the evening, we were joined by Tom Ilic himself, who told us that his restaurant has been up and running for five months. He seems to be pretty booked up at the moment, so it looks like the word has spread. I wish him every success.

Aspic

If you leaf through old cookery books from the 60's and 70's, you will find illustration after illustration of bizarre looking dishes covered in a thick layer of aspic jelly. Tastes have changed, but, now and again, I think there's still a place for using the stuff. A few years back, I was lucky enough to sample some canapes at the Hotel Crillon in Paris; they were utterly delicious; tiny crutons topped with all sorts of goodies set in a rich meaty aspic, which melted smoothly on the tongue.

Most of those retro recipes called for a packet of aspic. I've a feeling that packet aspic has either been banned in the EU, or it's just not made anymore because of a lack of demand. In any event, it's probably a better idea to make your own aspic, as the packet stuff had a similar texture to industrial rubber. If you want to make your own aspic, here's how you do it:

Make a brown stock in the usual way. Leave it to cool, and then skim off all the fat. Pour four cups of the stock into a decent sized pan, and add two tablespoons of white wine vinegar, a bouqet garni, the whites and crushed shells of two eggs, four tablespoons of white wine, and 40-50g of gelatine. (You can buy leaf gelatine in wafer-thin strips which you need to break up into small pieces.)

Bring to a near boil very slowly, whisking the whole time. (It might be a good idea to melt the gelatine in a separate pan first (ie a bain marie), as you will find that it sets very quickly). A thick crust should develop at the top of the pan. This is a good thing, and will help to clarify your stock. Stop whisking for a minute, and let the liquid rise up to the top of the pan.

Finally, strain the liquid through a muslin cloth, trying to keep the crust intact, as it will act as a filter. Strain the aspic a second time, and you should end up with a crystal clear liquid, that will set- and become- trumpet fanfare- aspic...

Polish Food Revisited...

Apologies for my absence; the workload at The Counting House has been phenomenal, and I've been crawling back to my hovel exhausted, and lacking my usual joie de vivre. Having said that, on Sunday, I took The Girl to The Wallace Collection to have a look at Fragonard's rather racy painting "The Swing"; and on the way back to The Silver Beast- parked rakishly (and badly) in Manchester Square, we passed none other than Stara Polska- or if you have been following this blog, "Old Poland".

Well, we had to stop by and have a late lunch; and I had a second opportunity to re-try their White Borscht. I've had an email from Nancy of Vancouver, who has very kindly pointed me in the direction of a website with an authentic recipe. If you want to have a look at this site, here's the link: http://www.soupsong.com/rbarscz.html

Otherwise, here's my take on it: First, you need to make a Barscz. In a mixing bowl, mix together a quarter of a pound of dark rye flour, with four cups of warm water. Lie a drying up cloth over it, and leave in a warm place for five to six days, stirring once a day, so that it starts to ferment.

Bring a quart of water to a simmer on the hob. Beat together an egg, and a cup of milk, and then stir it into the simmering water. Turn up the heat, let it thicken, and then stir in the Barscz which you've made previously. Thicken it up even more, and season with salt and pepper.

In a serving bowl, place rye bread (torn up into chunks), a sliced hard-boiled egg, sliced smoked sausage (kielbasa), and freshly grated horseradish mixed with a little white vinegar.

Ladle in the prepared Barscz stock, and finish off the soup with a bit more grated horseradish. Check the seasoning and serve.

I reckon that's almost exactly what I had at Old Poland, except they probably add some garlic, and also garnish the whole shooting match with parsley. Incidentally, the label I've used as an illustration is for the excellent Zwiec Polish beer. Don't ask me how to pronounce it exactly, but I like the stuff, and of course, it goes beautifully with hearty Polish food.

White Borscht

Last night, I was taken to a new Polish restaurant in Marylebone- close to St Christopher's Place. It's called Old Poland. It was a funny, ramshackled sort of a place, with stuffed squirrels in glass cases, and uninvitingly hard wooden benches. But the food was rather good- I reckon that the couple who run the place had probably just arrived off the boat, so the food seemed genuinely authentic; I hope they do well.

I had a delicious White Borscht soup. I've never had this before, assuming wrongly that all borschts were made from beetroot, and therefore pink in colour. Apparently, Polish White Borscht is a traditional Easter Dish. It was sour in taste (with a hint of horseradish?), with garlic, slices of sausage, and sliced hard boiled eggs. I've trawled the net looking for an authentic recipe, but so far haven't found one.

As I've got a hard day ahead of me at the Blacking Factory, I'm going to have to put this one on hold for the time being, and report back later. If anyone out there in cyberspace can send me a decent recipe for this, please do, and I'll post it up on The Greasy Spoon. Over and Out.

Neck of Lamb Saute

After all that excitement in Austria, it was a bit of a drag to have to return to The Big Smoke. The weathers currently abysmal, and for months, it's been nothing but grey, grey skies, and endless freezing rain.

April should be about Spring, and despite the weather, it's probably about time to start having a look at Spring food, and even recipes suitable for Early Summer. Neck of Lamb Saute is one such dish; it would be perfect for a Spring or Summer lunch party. Here's my take on it:

Buy some meaty neck of lamb cutlets. (By the way, it's a great cut, that; and rather economical, too). Saute the lamb gently in unsalted butter, and then put to one side. In the same butter, fry some peeled baby onions, and some baby carrots, until they are slightly cooked.

Get hold of a large pan, and put in the vegetables. Add some smallish new potatoes. Pour in some milk, so that the vegetables and potatoes are covered. Season generously with sea salt, and lots of chunky black pepper.

Let the pot simmer away extremely slowly, and at a lowish heat, for about half an hour. When the time's up, add some peeled broad beans (I hate to say this, but frozen broad beans are surprising good, as long as you peel them), artichoke hearts, petis pois, one or two tomatoes cut in half, and a sprig of fresh mint.

Cook until tender. You will find that the milky sauce will probably curdle a bit, so to tidy things up it would probably be a good idea to strain off the sauce (using a fine sieve), and then reduce it in a small pan with a knob of butter. It might also be a good idea to use semi-skimmed milk, as this will reduce the curdling effect. Whisk it like crazy, and make sure that it doesn't boil over.

If you're keen on a clean looking presentation, rinse the vegetables with boiling water. This will remove the curdled bits from the milk. Pour the sauce back over the lamb and vegetables, and serve.

Austria Hungry...

I've just returned from a rather spectacular wedding in the pretty ski-resort of Kitzbuhl, about an hour or so outside beautiful Salzburg. The food was surprisingly good; in fact extremely good. Having just arrived, we were spirited away to join the Herrenvolk at an 18th century chalet, where they served all sorts of goodies including large dumplings (knoedel), stewed venison in a rich sauce (hasenpfeffer), noodles (fleckerl), luscious sauces made from cranberry, and mushrooms; piquant red cabbage, and tankards of the local Kaiser beer- all finished off with tots of schnapps. The Austrians don't just sing about mountain goat herds and the like- they eat them- that is the goat, not the goatherd.

On the second night, we were joined at a charming beerhall by young blades in leiderhosen, and pretty Heidi look-alikes in the traditional dirndl.

On day three, I persuaded The Girl to let me drive her across treacherous mountain passes into Bavaria to ogle at Mad King Ludwig's Wagnerian fantasy, Schloss Neuschwanstein. I managed to take a few photographs, before we had to return across the werewolf infested mountain roads.

Before we crossed the border into the Fatherland proper, we pulled off the road at a hearty gasthof. I chose a massive Wienna Schnitzel. The Girl went for a better option and had an interesting Wiener Saftgulasch (goulash)- very similar to the Hungarian version; that is more of a soup than a stew; and served with dumpings.

Day Four involved a cable car ride up to a mountain retreat which would have done Dr Evil proud. At the click of Mein Host's extremely clean fingers, a bottle of the excellent local wine was produced for an impromptu tasting, while we were serenaded by old men in shorts playing tubas. The wine was similar to a Reisling- a lovely golden colour, floral bouquets on the nose, but with a dry finish to the aftertaste.

If you've never been to Austria, I urge you to go there soon. The food is delicious, and the people are charming.

Auguste Escoffier

If you trawl through my previous posts, you'll see that the name of Auguste Escoffier seems to crop up quite a bit. Of all the great chefs, Escoffier, perhaps, is the greatest of them all, and his influence is still with us today, albeit in a diluted form.

Auguste Escoffier was born in 1846, and together with Cesar Ritz, took over the Savoy Hotel in London; and using this as a base, the pair opened various Ritz hotels around the world. Escoffier was eventually forced out of the Savoy Hotel after his accountancy methods were exposed as being a trifle bit on the naughty side.

Escoffier's genius was to take the sophisticated cusine of Antoine Careme, and then rewrite it with a simplified twist. He also championed service a la russe, where dishes were served in order; as on a printed menu, rather than all at once, as had previously been the case.

If you pick up a cookery book from the 1960's, you will see that the Escoffier influence reigns supreme. Rich sauces made from stock, with added cream; meat flambeed in cognac, puddings such as Peach Melba, lots of aspic.

In the late 80's and 90's there was a change in taste; and the peasant food of the Mediterranean became popular. It was lighter, healthier, and used simple, fresh ingredients.

I have to say that I'm a fan of classic French cuisine, and wanna be cooks and chefs should ignore Escoffier at their own peril. I was in Hatchards the other day, and it was revealing to see that the French section was far smaller than say, the Indian or Italian section. The same goes with wine shelves at the local supermarket. The French section is smaller than the New World sections.

I would like to see a return to the appreciation of French food (at least in this country). It's still pretty good, and Escoffier's Le Guide Culinaire, will help you with your technique. Once you've mastered the basics, the battle's almost half won!

Hot Cross Buns

Hot cross buns, Hot cross buns, one ha' penny, two ha' penny, hot cross buns. If you have no daughters, give them to your sons, one ha' penny, two ha' penny, Hot Cross Buns

I love Easter, I really do. Don't get me wrong, I like Christmas too, and would hate to be considered some sort of a tight-fisted Scrooge; but I think it's the combination of chocolate, breezy fresh air, Spring sunshine (if you're lucky), and, as an added bonus, its proximity to the Grand National; which does it for me. My grandparents used to celebrate the holiday in style, and as well as the ubiquitous chocolate, Easter Egg hunts, and daffodils, we used to have wrapped-up presents too, and a massive turkey. It was just like Christmas, but without the hassle.

Hot Cross Buns have an evocative taste. What is it about them? The combination of buttery, yeasty tastes with the sweetness of the currants? Maybe that's it. Hot Cross Buns are one of those traditional dishes whose origins have been lost in the mists of antiquity. The "crosses" were supposedly meant to ward off evil spirits, and the buns, apparently, were banned by the Protestant church for being too popish.

Anyway, you eat them today, on Good Friday. I've adapted the recipe from Sara Paston-William's definitive book, Christmas and Festive Day Recipes. Here's how you make them:

Mix up half a pint of milk and water, and warm it up to blood heat. Stir in 22g of fresh yeast, let the mixture get frothy and let it stand for ten minutes.

Sieve 450g plain flour, a teaspoon of salt, a teaspoon of mixed spice, a teaspoon of cinnamon, and some grated nutmeg into a mixing bowl. Stir in 50g of caster sugar. Rub in 50g butter with your fingers. Make a well in the flour mix, pour in the yeasty milk, two beaten eggs, anad 175g of currants. Mix it all up to make a dough. Use your hands!

Turn the dough onto a floured board, and knead it with your hands until the dough is elastic. Place it in a warm, greased bowl; sprinkle with flour, and cover with a kitchen towel. If you leave it in a warmish place, the dough should rise. Once it has doubled in size (this might take over an hour), knock it down, and leave it to rise again for another half an hour.

Form the dough into smallish buns. Reserve some of the dough, and roll it out flat. Cut the dough into strips, and place on the top of each bun to form a cross. Set them aside to rest for about fifteen minutes. Bake them in a pre-set oven at 425F (220C). It might be a good plan to place a tin of water at the bottom of the oven to create a steamy atmosphere. After twenty minutes, the buns should be cooked.

Finish the buns off with a sugar glaze. This is just sugar and water which you have boiled rapidly to form a syrup. Once the syrup is thick enough (and very slightly brown), brush it over the buns. Eat.