The Greasy Spoon

Vegetarian Seduction

 

The Santa Fe Dining Car

 

 

Here's an early 60's menu from the Santa Fe Super Chief Express Dining Car, courtesy of Vincent and Mary Price's "Treasury of Great Recipes", first published in 1965. The Super Chief was the flagship passenger train of the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe Railway. It was often called "The Train of the Stars" because of the many Hollywood stars who travelled on the streamliner between Chigaco and Los Angeles. The last train ran in 1974.

 

According to Wikipedia (so it must be true): 

"The Continental cuisine offered aboard the Super Chief went beyond the typical American fare found on other trains, and often rivaled that served in many five-star restaurants, befitting the train's upscale clientele. A "Wake-Up Cup" of coffee was brought to one's private bedroom each morning, on request, a service exclusive to the Super Chief. Breakfast and lunch were served à la carte, while dinner could be ordered either à la carte or table d'hôte.

The elaborate dinner offerings generally included caviar and other delicacies, cold salads, grilled and sauteéd fish, sirloin steaks and filet mignon, lamb chops, and the like. For discerning palates, elegant champagne dinners were an option. Ironically, one of the Super Chief's most popular signature dishes was the A T & SF version of pain perdu, simply and appropriately named Santa Fe French Toast."

 

 

The original recipe (from Vincent and Mary Price's "Treasury of Great Recipes"):

1. Preheat oven to hot (400∘F).

2. Use bread that is a little dry- 2 or 3 days old.

3. Cut 3 slices of bread, ¾ inch thick. Trim custs and cut across diagonally to make 6 triangles.

4. In a bowl beat: 2 eggs until light and frothy. Add ½ cup cream, a pinch of salt and a dash of nutmeg.

5. Soak bread, a few pieces at a time, so that they absorb the egg-cream mixture thoroughly.

6. In a skillet heat: ¼ cup cooking oil.

7. Fry bread on both sides to a golden colour.

8. Remove the bread from the pan and drain on a paper towel to absorb any excess grease.

9. Place on baking sheet and allow to puff up in the hot oven for 3 to 5 minutes.

Presentation: 

On heated plates put 3 triangles of French toast per portion. Sprinkle with confectioner's sugar and serve with Maple Syrup. For variations you can also serve it with applesauce, currant jelly, honey, jam or cinammon sugar.

 

The Ivy's Hamburger

 

 

Rummaging through some old newspaper cuttings from the '90's, I found this old photograph of the famous Ivy restaurant (founded 1917), with a super-imposed photograph of Charles Laughton in the 1933 picture, "The Private Life of Henry VIII".

This is how The Ivy used to be- the favourite playground of the luvvies of the silver screen: Larry, Vivien, Noel, Ivor and Sexy Rexy. I love the wood panelling, the Tudorbeathen leaden lattice windows and the naff neo-classical statues. How I would give my teeth (what's left of 'em) to go back in time and enter those hallowed portals!

 

In 1990, Caprice Holdings "restored" and relaunched the restaurant; supposedly to its "former glory". I've got mixed feelings about the new Ivy. By then the restaurant, it is true, had become a shadow of its former self, semi-derelict, and in desperate need of a makeover; but the 1990's re-incarnation was, with hindsight, a bit Footballer's Wives, (to be fair, a reflection of the then fashionable age of one Mr Anthony Blair and the cringe-inducing Cool Britannia); service was impeccable, but the whole place lacked the elan and dash of its previous incarnation. 

 

Back in the 90's (as with Terence Conran's "Quaglino's"), it was extremely difficult to get a table; these days, I gather, it's an easier ticket, and reservations can be booked on a few weeks notice. 

If you're still interested, A.A. Gill's The Ivy, The Restaurant and its Recipes is the definitive guide. I've already covered The Ivy's Chicken Masala (which is included in A.A. Gill's book)- an excellent and delicious dish, which has the slightly unusual trait of being thickened with chopped aubergine.

Here's A.A. Gill's take on the Ivy's Hamburger. I've always had a slight problem with my own home-made hamburgers: I make a delicious mix, but then add too much liquid (or too much beaten egg), so that when it comes to the "pan-frying" bit, the meat crumbles, and doesn't hold together. This is the official Ivy version. Admittedly, it's pretty basic, but I think it's worth publishing online:

Mix up a good quality minced beef, and mould into balls or patties. Put the burgers into the 'fridge to set. Whisk together tomato ketchup with American mustard (French's mustard would be ideal) to make the sauce.

Lightly toast some baps, and keep them warm. Cook the burgers on a griddle or a smoking hot pan (not under a grlll, as this could boil the meat). 

Serve the burgers in the warm baps with slices of red onion, gherkin, beef tomato and the Ivy hambuger sauce.

 

 

Take Me To Sank Roo Doe Noo!

 

 

 

Harry's Bar, Paris, the legendary haunt of Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald, George Gershwin, Marlene Dietrich, Jean-Paul Sartre, Coco Chanel and Noel Coward is one hundred years old today. Many Happy Returns! Harry's New York Bar opened on November 24th 1911 at no. 5, Rue Daunou; and the decor has changed little since that day: it's currently lined with manly dark wooden panelling, painted shields displaying the coats of arms of famous English public schools, and American Ivy League pennants; all under a nicotine-stained embossed ceiling. It's still worth a visit if you happen to be in Paris, even if the style-gurus of the previous century have been replaced with American tourists.

 

Smoking, alas, is no longer allowed in Paris, and that particular 20th century ambiance has vanished presumably forever; however Harry's still serves its famous Bloody Marys- which is especially apt, as the cocktail was invented there in 1920 by Ferdinand Petiot, a barman from Ohio.

The "Bloody" apparently, comes from The Bucket of Blood Club in Chicago, and "Mary" after Petiot's daughter. The original drink was a simple mix of tomato juice and vodka, but Petiot expanded the recipe when he moved to the St Regis Hotel, New York. Here's the famous Greasy Spoon version:

 

 

Put some ice into a cocktail shaker. Pour in a decent slug of Stolichnaya vodka, and top the shaker up with a good quality tomato juice. Add a dash of Tio Pepe or otherwise dry sherry, a squeeze of lemon or lime juice, a pinch of cayenne pepper, celery salt, a few shakes of my favourite Tabasco and Lea & Perrin's Worcestershire Sauce. 

Do the Hokey Cokey and shake it all about. Strain it off into a glass and add, if you must, a stick of celery. You'll find that the lemon juice smooths it out, and the sherry gives it an added kick.

Remember, as with so many other things in life, keep it simple, don't try and doll it up with extra ingredients (I'm not convinced by the addition of creamed horseradish, or chunky black pepper, although steeping a peeled horseradish root in your bottle of vodka, or subsituting Tabasco with a Horseradish flavoured Hot Pepper Sauce sounds like a good idea) and stay away from the gimmicks. 

I don't like lumps of ice floating around in my Bloody Mary, and think it's much better if strained off. The cocktail's at its best if served very cold, so keep the vodka buried away in the 'fridge, as the Russians do. You'll find the vodka goes thick-  and that, if I may make so bold Master Copperfield, is the way to keep vodka if you're going to drink it neat as an accompaniment to blinis and caviar.

Ham Hock

 

 

 

The new Greasy Spoon forum/page on Facebook seems to be going well, with readers beginning to post up their own stuff on it: ideas, comments and food photographs. You can join in the fun at: The Greasy Spoon on Facebook. 

I've posted up a link on the Facebook page to a delicious and gutsy sounding recipe by Helen Graves: "Ham Hock and White Bean Soup with a Green Sauce". I'm going to try it out on The Girl tomorrow evening.

Ham Hock, also known as Pork Knuckle, is the joint or shank where the Pig's leg meets the foot. Ham comes from the back part of the pig. As you might expect, there's quite a bit of tendon, fat, and skin going on down there, and the hock needs to be stewed for a long period of time to cope with it all. Despite that, if properly cooked, a flavoursome pork knuckle is a noble old thing indeed, and a worthy champion of German, East European and American Southern Cooking. It also makes a fabulous terrine.

 

 

Have a look at the two charts I've posted up. I like the slightly retro graphics; the sort of thing you see posted up in old-fashioned butcher shops. The top chart shows British cuts, the chart at the bottom, American cuts. If you look closely, you will see that they are slightly different.

 

 

Beef Stroganoff

 

 

 

Remember Beef Stroganoff?  Many moons ago, my mother had a fledgling enterprise selling pre-cooked dinner party food to local housewives who couldn't be bothered to cook. Dishes were rustled up ahead of time, frozen, and then delivered to her clients in our rusting Lancia. I suspect there was quite a bit of fibbing going on, and the naughty dinner party hostesses would pretend that they had cooked it themselves. It was all very Stepford. From memory, Beef Stroganoff was one of the best-sellers on her menu. Strips of filet beef, cooked briefly, and bound in a mustardy sauce.

What exactly is Beef Stroganoff?  That's a very good question. In the authoritative The Prawn Cocktail Years, Simon Hopkinson and Lindsey Bareham reckon that the origins of the dish are suspect, and about as Russian as I am Chinese. My own guess was that it might have had something to do with that fascinating post-Revolutionary period in America, when Hollywood was awash with dubious Russian counts and every exile worth their salt was cousin to the Tsar. Wikipedia, however, is a mine of information on the subject, pin-pointing the birth of the dish to Elena Molokhovet's classic Russian cookbook of 1861: "Beef à la Stroganov with mustard, a simple concoction of fried beef cubes in a mustard and sour cream sauce". Stroganoff also appears in the 1938 edition of Larousse Gastronomique, but with the addition of onions and the option of tomato paste.

Here's my recipe for a classic Beef Stroganoff. I'm of the opinion that you need to cook the beef very quickly; the steak needs to be tender, rather than chewey. It's not really a stew. This should make enough for about four people.

You take 600g or so of filet steak, and cut it into slivers. The meat is seasoned and fried very quickly in a hot frying pan, until it's browned, but still relatively rare. Don't crowd the pan, otherwise the beef will stew, rather than fry; for the best results it could be a good idea to fry the meat a few pieces at a time. Take out the browned meat, and set aside on a plate.

Add a knob of butter to the pan, and cook some finely sliced onions until golden. Take them out of the pan and set them aside. Add a further knob of butter to the pan and add 350g of sliced button or baby mushrooms. Once cooked through, remove and add to the onions.

Turn down the heat, and carefully spoon 400ml of soured cream into the pan. Mix in a generous dollop of French mustard, and a small spoonful of tomato paste for colouring. Simon Hopkinson and Lindsey Bareham add paprika at the mushroom stage (cooking the spice in the hot butter for a minute or so), and there's nothing wrong with that. But The Greasy Spoon version is, perhaps, the more authentic and I don't think the dish should be too spicy. Is it possible to make a virtue of the bland?

Warm the sauce through, and combine the cooked mushrooms and onions back into the pan. Simmer the Stroganoff very gently for around ten minutes. I really do prefer the beef to be rare- but I understand that this is very much a matter of personal taste.

To finish off the dish, check the seasoning, and stir in generous amounts of freshly chopped dill and a squeeze of lemon juice. You serve it with plain rice.

 

From left to right: Maria, Alexandra, Alexei, Tatiana, Nicholas II, Olga, Anastasia, 1911

Rum Butter Shrimp

 

 

Oh Jiminy Cricket, this is truly delicious! You get hold of some raw, peeled shrimp (as it's a Southern dish, I'm not going to call them prawns), season them with salt and pepper, and fry them briefly in butter, until they turn pink. Personally, I like mine slightly underdone, and the moment they turn, I call it a day. Using a slotted spoon, you take the cooked shrimp out of the pan, leaving the butter behind.

Next, you add a further dollop of butter to the hot pan, let it bubble and in the meantime chop up some fresh tarragon leaves (picked off the stalk) with some spring onions (otherwise known as scallions). Cook these very briefly in the butter.

Deglaze the pan with a slosh of rum (I used Mount Gay- alas, recently re-branded into some awful corporate bottle, but the rum's still the same), flambé to burn off the alcohol, and toss the shrimp back into the pan with the sauce. Bubble for a minute or so, check the seasoning and serve.

The interesting combination of shrimp, butter, rum and tarragon is fabulous.

 

 

Waldorf Salad

 

 

 

"You're the Top! You're a Waldorf Salad!"

Hands up who doesn't love a Waldorf Salad? Named after the Waldorf Hotel in New York, it's supposed to have been invented in the 1890's. By the maitre d'hotel, Oscar Tschirky- who also laid claim to that tantalising breakfast dish, Eggs Benedict. The original Waldorf Hotel was on the site of what is now the Empire State Building, and demolished in 1929.

 

Anyway, it's a simple old thing, and easily made from a combination of sliced celery, diced apples (I leave the skin on), walnuts, and raisins.

You bind the salad with mayonnaise (or just possibly a simple dressing) and serve it on a bed of peppery lettuce leaves, as the whim takes you. Nothing more, nothing less.

 

Zucchini Fritters

 

 

 

I like the word "Zucchini". It rolls off the tongue. Here in England we call them "courgettes". Anyway. If you've got the time and inclination, zucchini fritters are the perfect thing to serve with drinks, and especially with a Dry Martini.

I'm currently keen on the idea of tiny fritters; the size of a small coin: slice up some baby courgettes very thinly, put the slices into a colander, and sprinkle them with sea salt. The salt will draw out enormous quantities of water. Your friends will be thrilled and amazed.

Next, beat an egg white until frothy, and dip the courgette slices into the egg white. Shake off the excess, and then dip them again into strong flour which you've previously seasoned with salt and white pepper.

In a deep-fat fryer, heat some peanut oil to about 375 F (190 C). If you don't have a fryer, use a wok. As nut oil burns at a higher temperature, it's an excellent choice for this sort of operation. Drop the courgettes into the oil, a few at a time, and fry them until they are crisp. Watch them like a hawk, and make sure they don't burn.

Incidentally, when frying, it's always best never to overcrowd the pan; if you do, you run the risk that your food may steam or boil, which, of course, is a different technique all together.

Drain the fritters on kitchen paper, and sprinkle them with more salt and pepper. Okay, this means that your fritters are going to pretty salty, but I think that in this case, it provides a perfect balance with the dry oiliness (is that a word?) of a classic Martini cocktail.

I also quite like the idea of cutting up the courgettes into wider slices, and serving them in that simple way, as a side dish. Baby yellow courgettes could be an interesting concept, too. Lots of ideas.

Avocado and Tomato Ice with Horseradish

 

 

Cordon Bleu Cookery Course, 1970

I've always had a thing about late summer. It's fun to try and pin-point the exact time summer changes into autumn. Often, it's around September 10th or so; marked by a whiff of bonfire smoke, a sudden chill in the air, or the blustery gales of the September equinox. Mind you, here in London, it feels like autumn started in June, and I'm writing this looking out onto a grey, damp and slightly foggy street.  

It's also the last chance saloon for summer food, or at least, food with summery pretensions. Here's my recipe for a delicious Tomato Ice. If you think that it reeks of 1970's dinner party food, you would be utterly correct, as I've based it on a recipe from No. 69 of the Cordon Blue Cookery Course, published by Purnell as a part-work in 1970; but with the addition of grated horseradish which I think would work well with it, and the hot flavour of horseradish can be an excellent combination with the intense, sweet taste of the tomato. It's a pretty dish, and I like the colour of the tomato ice. Canadian, apparently.

You tip two tins of plum tomatoes into a pan, and then add two teaspoons of salt, a generous pinch of white pepper, four tablespoons of golden caster sugar, the zest and juice of two lemons, and a generous helping of freshly grated horseradish, and stir until the mixture comes to the boiling point, pushing the tomato pulp against the side of the pan with a wooden spoon to help it break down. Add three sprigs of fresh mint, cover the pan and allow to simmer for five to ten minutes. Rub the contents of the pan through a sieve, making sure that you extract all the juices. Add a few drops of Tabasco to taste. You should now be looking at a bowl full of a lovely red-coloured, very thin juice.

Chill this mixture in a deep freeze, and mash it up with a fork just before it starts to set. Return to the deep freeze, and repeat the process, and again, until you have formed a smooth ice in the sorbet manner. You could, of course, acheive the same effect in an ice-cream machine.

To serve, cut an avocado in half (I like the hass variety with the knobbly green skin; slightly nutty in taste), rub the exposed flesh with lemon juice (to stop it turning brown) and fill the cavity with a generous scoop of the Tomato Ice. To make the avocado stand upright on the plate, turn over the half, and slice off a thin wedge, so that it makes a base.

The important thing to remember is to flavour the tomato ice reasonably well, as the freezing process can often kill off the stronger tastes. Some out there might garnish it with mint, but I'm currently bored of garnishes, and think simplicity is often the best way forward. I like the idea of updating these classic, unfashionable recipes to more modern tastes; simplifying them if necessary, and presenting them cleanly, discarding those outrageous garnishes of yesteryear. That, at least, is the goal.

By the way, a tip: when you're grating a fresh horseradish root, make sure you grate it across the grain (rather than downwards). We keep a horseradish root in the deep freeze, and find that it keeps for ages; providing us with "fresh" horseradish whenever the mood takes us.

 

The Old Original Bookbinder's Restaurant Cookbook

 

 

I've just bought this book for the princely sum of £4.50. From a little bookshop in the quaint Cotswold town of Chipping Camden, of all places. It's the 1961 edition of the official "Old Original Bookbinder's Restaurant Cookbook", by Charlotte Adams.

Bookbinder's was a distinguished American restaurant, first founded as a Philadelphia oyster saloon back in 1893. It's wikipedia entry describes its 1950s' heydey as ''a hot spot where red-jacketed waiters scurried through dark-panelled rooms festooned with photographs of VIPS; redolent of cigar smoke tinged with shellfish." This sounds very much my sort of place. I gather that the restaurant fell on hard times, lost its exclusive allure, became a tourist trap, and is now quite probably defunct. A pity, because I miss this sort of joint: the type of restaurant where a fawning mess-jacketed waiter might flamb-ay something jaw-droppingly expensive at M'sieur's very own table.

 

I've picked out two recipes at random, which I haven't tried yet, but, I think, with a bit of tweaking, could be good. The first one's for the obscene sounding "Crab Balls". I would suggest that you make these very small in size, and serve them as canapés- perhaps with some sort of a dipping sauce to go with them:

In a bowl mix together: one tablespoon of chopped green pepper, one tablespoon of finely chopped onion, one tablespoon of finely chopped celery, one tablespoon of minced pimento (ie sweet red pepper), and a teaspoon of fresh thyme leaves. Season with salt, black pepper and a dash of Worcestershire Sauce. Sweat in butter over a lowish heat for about ten minutes.

Sprinkle in four tablespoons of flour (this sounds like quite a bit, even too much; so I would suggest that you go easy on this) and stir in to the vegetable mix. Cook for a further five minutes. Next pour in a cup of milk, and stir until thickened (in effect you've made an old-fashioned white sauce). Then add a pound of crabmeat. Take off the heat, mix in well and chill the mixture in the 'fridge.

When it's cold enough, you take out the crab mixture and roll it into small balls. The balls are then dipped into beaten egg, coated with breadcrumbs- or even more authentically Yankee- crushed up cream crackers, and fried in deep fat until golden brown.

The second recipe is for "Bookbinder's Shrimp Chowder":

Sweat chopped onions in butter until golden, and put to one side. Make a smooth white sauce in the usual way from butter, two tablespoons of flour and four cups of hot milk. The sauce is then placed over a bain-marie, seasoned with salt, pepper and a blade of mace. Pre-Cooked shrimps (large prawns in England) are added and the whole thing cooked gently for twenty minutes. The mace is removed, and the chowder finished off with an extra cup of hot cream and the onion flavoured butter which you've previously strained off. On second thoughts, I'm not exactly sure about this recipe. It could be a bit bland: it's certainly a heart attack in a bowl- not that I'm one of those Cromwellian types pulsating with disapproval at any symptom of a sybaritic lifestyle. I'm not even sure if it's a genuine chowder; I suspect that it isn't.

In complete contrast, I had the most divine thing at the Canton yesterday evening. It was a vegetarian marrow gratin, served piping hot in one of those dinky orange Le Creuset dishes. Half a marrow- cut in half, and scooped out. Covered in Italian Borlotti white beans, and flavoured with a stock, perhaps, and most certainly salt and black pepper. Persillade (ie garlic and parsley finely chopped and crushed together) dotted the top, and the dish was finished off with grated parmesan and butter, before being flashed under a hot grill. At least, I think that how it was made. There may have been tomatoes in there as well. C'etait formidable.

 

Whiskey Sour

 

 

There's something very grown up about a Whiskey Sour. It reminds me of that amusing moment in Whit Stillman's "The Last Days of Disco" when Chloë Sevigny, trying to be sophisticated and avoiding the "preppy girl's cliché of the Vodka Tonic" orders a "Whiskey Sour" at a thinly disguised Studio 54.

Incidentally, for all you Scots out there, it is a Whiskey Sour with the e. The drink's based on Bourbon, rather than Scotch Whisky, so I'm going to keep to the authentic American spelling for now. But according to wipkipedia, the Whiskey Sour was invented by an Englishman, one Eliot Stubb, who opened a bar in the port of Iquique, Peru. He added lime juice and sugar to a glass of whisky and was pleasantly surprised by its refreshing taste.

There's another theory that the earliest mention of the Whiskey Sour can be traced to a newspaper recipe in Wisconsin in 1870. I've got a sneaky feeling that the authentic recipe is more likely to be American; it might even have the whiff of Prohibition about it. The slightly sweet taste of Bourbon balances out well with the acidity of lemon.

Like all the great and classic cocktails, a genuine Whiskey Sour is simplicity itself. No chunks of pineapple, no silly umbrellas or fussy ingredients. You fill up your cocktail shaker with ice, pour in 2 oz of Bourbon Whiskey, the strained juice of half a lemon and two and a half teaspoons or so of powdered sugar. The cocktail is shaken and then strained into a cold glass, and garnished with a slice of orange peel and a cherry. If you follow these proportions you will make just enough to fill up a Martini glass- and I think that would work well.

You could also serve it on the rocks, and some people also add a splash of soda. Personally, I prefer it straight up, but as ever, it's a matter of personal choice, isn't it?

 

The Last Days of Disco (1998), directed by Whit Stillman

Boodles British Gin: Over There, But Not Over Here

 

 

I'm currently in the mood for a good old rant. And Jiminy Cricket you're about to get it, big time. It all started like this: on Wednesday we were having some friends over to dinner, and I had the bright idea of serving them my raw herring, keta salmon "caviar" (roe) and dill canapés beforehand.

Waitrose Belgravia stocked bog-standard mock "caviar". It would have done the job, but I had a very real craving for the keta stuff. For some bizarre reason (which escapes me now) I seemed to recall dimly that none other than Sainsbury's Nine Elms stocked keta "caviar" (that's the delicious orange coloured salmon roe, often used by the Japanese and usually priced at about £6.50 for a small jar) in their deli or "Foods of the World" section.

So off I went, happily hopping and skipping down the South Lambeth Road, my naive optimism glowing with a capital "O". And how wrong I was to be.

I spent a frustrating ten to fifteen minutes trawling the aisles, and walking round in circles: couldn't find anything remotely caviar or roe-related, let alone of the keta or even mock varieties. Finally found a member of staff. Could barely speak English: didn't know what "caviar" was, couldn't give a toss, to be frank. His friend behind the fish counter had to explain that the mysterious ingredient I was searching for was, in fact "fish eggs". Titters all round. It was a bit like the time (same branch) when I asked for White Spirit, and was taken over to the Gin section.

Eventually another member of staff waddled up, and shaking his head sadly, explained that he hadn't seen that sort of thing for some time now. Wasn't entirely sure, was he? Didn't think they stocked it.

And in case you think I'm being horribly unfair (or even dare-I-say it, snooty), this isn't some small out-of-the way branch. I'm talking about a big "flag-ship" store, located about a mile south of the Houses of Parliament, in an area which is about to go through a massive urban re-generation. It's the general apathy, lack of enthusiasm, and sloppy standards that I find so depressing. Utterly wet. Mealy mouthed. You could push them over.

One of the things I like about America is the generosity of spirit. Go into any small newsagent, and you will find virtually every and any magazine currently available and in publication laid out for sale; in serried rows, on wooden racks. It's all about choice and range: if that's what sir wants, we'll get it for you, no problem!

The American-owned Wholefoods in Kensington High Street has this excellent philosophy in abundance. The range of foods for sale there is superb. If you want that horseradish root, they'll stock it. If you suddenly feel like buying a Jersualem artichoke or an unusual Mexican chocolate, they'll have it. In American supermarkets, there are smiling and eager members of staff- in uniforms- God Forbid- to pack up your groceries in large brown paper bags, and wait for this- to carry your bags out to your car!

A great friend of mine, currently living in Bangkok, thinks that people here get an appalling deal when it comes to choice, price and service. Rip-off Britain. I'm beginning to understand what he's getting at. Keep reading.

 

Ever heard of Boodle's British Gin?  If you live in Perfidious Albion, chances are that you haven't. Founded in 1845 apparently, named after the famous Gentleman's Club in St James's Street, and by repute, the tipple of choice of none other than a certain Sir Winston Spencer Churchill, KG, and Mister James Bond himself.

If you look it up on the internet, you'll find testament after testament from gin affinados; waxing lyrical about Boodle's subtle taste, its smoothness, its wonderful properties as used in the Perfect Martini, for the making of.

According to the net, it's made here in Britain and distributed in the United Kingdom by the firm of James Burrough for Pernod Ricard. I've read this over and over again. Except that it's not. I've done my research and I can tell you now that Boodle's British Gin seems only to be available in America. So if you want to drink it in Britain, I've got some bad news for you- you can't. Many gin drinkers seem to think that it's possibly one of the best tasting British gins of all time; an absolute classic. Lovely packaging, too.

It's just not fair! I want to join the club and taste Boodle's British Gin!

Chicken Maryland

 

 

 

Mrs Aitch is going to hate this one.  She's not normally fussy; not fussy at all, but she really hates bananas. In the same way that I loathe mashed potato.  If you are ever lucky enough to invite us to dinner, the worst scenario would be shepherd's pie as a main course, and banoffee pie as a pudding.  

To us Brits, American food can sometimes seem a bit Gothic.  I would include Chicken Maryland in this category.  Or, if not Gothic, certainly slightly weird.  A bit white trashy, perhaps?  Duelling banjos, denim dungarees and mobile homes raised on bricks.  Scrap metal yards and ravenous doebermanns. Maybe I'm being horribly unfair? Any observations are certainly not meant to be critical. After all, we're the nation which tucks into haggis, jellied eel and stargazey pie.

 

 

In America, Chicken Maryland is served with "gravy"- what we call in Blighty a "white sauce", or in The Great Republic, "Béchamel Sauce".  I suspect that the addition of banana fritters may be a British interpretation, and if so, I apologise.  If any Southerners out there in cyberspace think that the following receipe is inaccurate, please email me, and I will gladly post up a correction.

Okay.  That's that one out of the way.  Here's The Greasy Spoon's take on Chicken Maryland.  I've based this version on the recipe in Simon Hopkinson and Lindsey Bareham's excellent book, "The Prawn Cocktail Years".  I can't recommend it enough:

Take some chicken thighs (an excellent and affordable cut, by the way), rip off the skin and dip them into seasoned flour, and then again into a bowl of beaten egg.  Shake off the egg, and dip them into the seasoned flour for a second time.  In a deep frying pan heat up 100g of unsalted butter and 75ml  of sunflower oil, until frothy.  Put in the floured chicken piece, and fry gently.  The secret here is not to crowd the pan.  If you do so, your chicken will start to stew, rather than fry, because of the fall in temperature.  So, fry the chicken a few pieces at a time.  On a lowish heat.  It should take about half and hour.  Make sure you turn the chicken pieces about half way through the cooking time.

In the meantime, mix together 100g sweetcorn (tinned is absolutely fine, to be frank, I can't detect any difference), two small egg yolks, and salt and pepper.  Beat two egg whites until frothy, and gently fold them into the mixture.  Add a tablespoon of baking powder, and about 50-75g of breadcrumbs, until it forms a thickish batter.  Place to one side.

Take out the chicken pieces and keep them warm in a rack in a hot oven.  Strain off the hot chicken oil, leaving just enough in the pan to fry the sweetcorn fritters.  Drop tablespoons of the sweetcorn batter into the reserved hot oil, and fry for a couple of minutes on each side, until puffed and golden.  Drain on kitchen paper, and keep warm in the oven with the chicken.

Take 100ml of chicken stock, and reduce it by three-quarters.  Fry four small sliced bananas in unsalted butter, until golden, sprinkling them with some brown sugar as you do,  so that they begin to caramelise.  Grill some rashers of streaky bacon, until crisp.  Pour 100ml of double cream into the reduced chicken stock, and bring it back to the boil.  Reduce until slightly thickened, and squeeze in some lemon juice.  Check the seasoning and stir in some freshly chopped flat parsley. 

Arrange the fried chicken on a large plate with the sweetcorn and banana fritters, and crispy bacon pieces.  Spoon the "gravy" over the fried chicken, and serve the rest in a sauce boat.  Garnish with chopped flat parsley.  That's it.  Quite a lot of bother, in some ways; but strangely satisfying.  A perenniel favourite.

Coca-Cola Glazed Ham

 

 

 

Last Christmas or so, I wrote a post about a slightly weird recipe: "Ham Glazed in Coca-Cola".  It's still one of my most popular posts, and as I'm currently getting increased hits (no doubt because of Thanksgiving), I'm going to give you the recipe again.

It doesn't sound that great, does it?  However, as Coke is really just a very sugary, brown and fizzy syrup, there's no reason why it shouldn't work nicely with a lovely, juicy ham.  And the recipe's an old favourite from the American Deep South, too- which is no bad thing.  So, here's how you make it:

Put in a medium sized unsmoked gammon into a large pan.  Add a peeled onion (for flavour), and then pour in a litre of coca-cola.  Bring to the boil, put the lid back on, and turn down the heat.  Let the ham braise in the liquid for 2 ½ hours.

Take the gammon out of the pan, and let it rest.  Remove the skin and preheat your oven to 210˚C.  In the meantime, mix up a glaze from 100g breadcrumbs, 100g brown muscovado sugar, two tablespoons of French Dijon Mustard, and a tablespoon of Colman's Mustard Powder.  With a sharp knife, scour the gammon to make a criss-cross pattern. Stir in a spoonful or so of coca-cola into the sugar and mustard mixture, and then slap it onto the gammon. 

Roast the gammon in the hot oven for about ten minutes, or until the glaze has cooked.

 

Devilled Quails Eggs

 

 

 

I'm writing this as the gloom descends on a Hallowe'en afternoon.  I've always been fascinated by Hallowe'en: as a child in England, it was barely celebrated, apart from a few cartoons on the BBC and a spooky tale or so read out aloud at nursery school.  I've been reading up on Hallowe'en and according to the Oxford Dictionary of Folklore, it's quite possible that all that pagan stuff about Celtic fire festivals and the like is a fantasy, invented by Sir James Frazer in the "Golden Bough", and that Hallowe'en's origins are, indeed, Christian and Scottish, where it was known as "Nutcrack Night".  During the 19th century, Hallowe'en was associated with fortune telling and love divination: young girls would learn who their future husbands would be.

My grandmother taught me how to carve lanterns, but from turnips- rather than pumpkins.  Recently, under American influence, Hallowee'en has become much more popular in England.  We've just barricaded our front door and battened down the shutters in preparation for the annual onslaught: London street urchins hammering on the door and rattling the letterbox: "'ere, mister!  we know you're there!"

Hallowe'en food should be spicy (especially with the Mexican Day of the Dead just around the corner) and I gather that in the American Deep South, devilled eggs are traditionally served.  But I'm not keen on the idea of serving up stuffed chicken's eggs as a canapé. They're too large, and I think would be a bit clumsy, and even slightly Gothic.  So I've adapted the idea, but using tiny quail's eggs, instead.  This works much better and they were utterly delicious.  We scoffed a plate of them this morning.

Place your quails eggs in a pan of cold water, and bring to the boil. Turn off the heat, put back the lid, and let them stand in the hot water for four minutes. Plunge the cooked eggs into a pan of cold water. To shell them, gently roll the eggs on a hard surface, so that the shells crack. You will find that the quail's eggs have a tougher membrane than chicken's eggs, and once you've carefully removed it, you'll find the shell easier to remove.  But it's delicate work.

Slice the cooked eggs in half, and spoon out the cooked yolk and place in a mixing bowl.  Add a light mayonnaise, a few dashes of Tabasco, a dollop of Dijon mustard, cayenne pepper and celery salt for seasoning. Whisk up the ingredients together until smooth.  Using a piping bag, pipe the devilled mixture back into the quails egg halves.

Arrange on a plate, and sprinkle with finely chopped chives.

Maryland Crab Cakes

 

 

This is one of the all-time great American recipes, comfort food at it's best; and it's relatively easy to make too. Traditionally, the Blue Crab from the Chesapeake Bay area is the one to go for, but I have to accept, reluctantly, that living this side of the pond, other varieties of crab will have to do.

Die-hards might also want to add Old Bay Seasoning, which is an American herb and spice mix. As we don't seem to be able to get it here (maybe I should try the excellent Wholefoods in Kensington High Street?), I've substituted my very own, very similar spice mixture which will have to do for the time being.

Back to the crab cakes. Take some juicy crab meat and put it into a mixing bowl. Add a cup of mayonnaise, a tablespoon of mustard powder (its got to be Colman's), a beaten egg, a teaspoon of Lea & Perrins, the juice of a lemon, and some chopped parsley. Combine everything together. 

Now for The Greasy Spoon's very own "Old Bay Seasoning" recipe. Grind up some celery salt, mustard seed, cinammon, powdered ginger, peppercorns, and a bayleaf until you have a reasonably fine powder. Add a teaspoonful to the crab mixture.

Next you need to add some breadcrumbs. Instead of crumbling up a slice of bread, I find it easier to use about seven crushed Saltine Crackers, and I have a feeling that this could be more authentic. Put the crackers into a plastic bag, and then bash them with a hammer. Add the crumbs to the mixture and then chill it for about two hours in the 'fridge.

To cook, drop each crab cake into some hot oil (say, in a wok), and fry until they are golden brown. Serve with the classic American Tomato and Horseradish Ketchup. Utterly delicious, and very appropriate, I think, for a hot Saturday afternoon in June or July.

New Year's Day Chili

 

 

I think there's nothing better than tucking into a satisfying and hearty bowl of cowboy chili on a raw New Year's Day. It just seems so right. After all that Christmas over-indulgence, you want something simple, yet, if you're greedy like me, a limp bit of lettuce ain't going to pass muster. You're also probably feeling a trifle frazzled after the New Year's Eve revels.

Regrettably, Chili con carne is often nothing more than stewed mince, kidney beans and a bit of chili powder. Here's my idea for a more sophisticated version:

Sauté some chopped onions, garlic and chopped red chilis in oil and butter.  Stir in some good chili powder, oregano, cumin, and paprika. Now add the beef (or pork); or a combination of the two. You can either chop the meat into chunks, or put it through a mincer (if you've got one). Cook for a bit until the meat is sealed and coloured.

Next, add some stock, beer (the Mexican beer, Corona, is excellent), and a splash of Tabasco. Let the chili simmer slowly at a low heat, until the meat is cooked. You want the sauce to be reasonably thick. When the meat is nearly done, add some tomato purée, or even better, sun-dried tomato paste, and grate in some bitter chocolate- the sort of quality chocolate (high in cocoa solids) you can buy in delis and specialist shops. Season with salt and pepper to taste.

Finally, stir in some cooked beans (Kidney, Haricot, or Black Beans are fine, I'm not really that fussed). Serve with some grated cheese on top, sour cream, and saltine crackers.

To all the readers of The Greasy Spoon: A Very Happy New Year!

Thousand Island Dressing

 

 

I suppose there's something a bit tacky about the ubiquitous Thousand Island Dressing. It's that thick, slightly synthetic pink stuff which comes in jars, served alongside burgers and dubious salads. But like other classic foods, it's got an interesting history. There are various theories. Here's one of them:

A certain George LaLonde Jr., fisherman of Clayton, Upstate New York, hosted guided fishing parties, which included a group "shore" lunch as part of the day's attraction. It was at one of these fishing lunches, that the actress and cookery writer, Miss May Irwin, first tasted the "unusual" (then un-named) dressing, made to Mrs LaLonde's own special recipe.

May Irwin liked it so much that she asked for the recipe, named it "Thousand Island Dressing", and passed it on to the owner of the Waldorf Astoria Hotel, George C. Boldt, who in turn, instructed his famous maitre d', Oscar Tschirky to serve it in his restaurant.

Have you noticed how Oscar Tschirky seems to crop up every time I write about American food history?  Tschirky sounds like a bit of a live-wire, and seems to have been credited with not only the creation of the Veal Oscar, but also the Waldorf Salad and Eggs Benedict. Either that, or he was a brilliant self-publicist. Anyway.

I've trawled the net for the original recipe- and of course, as with so many "classic" dishes, there are many different versions. Here's my reasonably authentic take on it. If any readers (especially from the Thousand Islands area of Upstate New York) want to give us their own "proper" recipe, please hit that comment button now.

Make a good mayonnaise, preferably using grapeseed oil and a touch of olive oil. Mix in a generous spoonful of tomato ketchup, a dash of Worcestershire Sauce, a teaspoon of white sugar, a dash of white vinegar, a pinch of ground cloves, a dollop of sweet pickle or relish, chopped black olives, a small diced red bell pepper, some chopped chives, and a sprinkling of chopped hard-boiled egg white. Season to taste with sea salt and white pepper.

Coca-Cola Ham

 

 

Last Christmas or so, I wrote a post about a slightly weird recipe: "Ham Glazed in Coca-Cola". It's still one of my most popular posts, and as I'm currently getting increased hits (no doubt because of Thanksgiving) I'm going to give you the recipe again.

It doesn't sound that great, does it? However, as Coke is really just a very sugary, brown and fizzy syrup, there's no reason why it shouldn't work nicely with a lovely, juicy ham. And the recipe's an old favourite from the American Deep South, too. So, here's how you make it:

Put in a medium sized gammon into a large pan. Add a peeled onion (for flavour), and then pour in a litre of coca-cola. Bring to the boil, put the lid back on, and turn down the heat. Let the ham braise in the liquid for  2 ½ hours.

Take the gammon out of the pan, and let it rest. Remove the skin and preheat your oven to 210˚C. In the meantime, mix up a glaze from 100g breadcrumbs, 100g brown muscovado sugar, two tablespoons of French Dijon Mustard, and a tablespoon of Colman's Mustard Powder. Stir in a spoonful or so of coca-cola to the mixture, and then slap it onto the gammon. 

Roast the gammon in the hot oven for about ten minutes, or until the glaze has cooked.

 

Cajun Duck Gumbo with Smoked Sausage and Shrimps

 

 

Yesterday an old friend came over to our new house for dinner. I decided to make a Cajun duck gumbo. Or at least, I thought I did, as the resulting effort, although relatively appetising, tasted nothing like the genuine dish. So I did some research:

Gumbo is a stew or soup popular in Louisiana and the Southern States of America. It's probably got okra in it, and most importantly, the "holy trinity" of diced onions, green peppers and celery. It's also thickened at the beginning by a roux. Now, this is not just any old roux. There's a whole sub-culture of check-shirted, bearded roux experts out there, ready to tell you at a drop of a hat that your roux isn't dark enough, and that you should have stirred it one hundred and one times anti-clockwise, and in slow-motion.

Forget your namby-pamby Cordon Bleu type rouxs made with a bit of butter and a genteel sprinkling of flour, these Cajun rouxs are macho affairs, made by heating cups of oil to a high temperature in old tin pans, and then stirring in cups of flour, until the liquid roux turns a mahogany colour, or even in some cases almost black. If you've got time, have a look at this excellent website, the Southern Gumbo Trail- which will tell you how to make authentic "Cajun Napalm".

Here's my recipe for Cajun Duck Gumbo:

Heat a heavy pan until it's smokin' hot. Pour in a cup of oil. Let it get hot, then turn down the heat to a low flame. Gradually whisk in a cup and a half of white flour, whisking it the whole time to make sure it doesn't burn. If you cook the roux on too high a heat, not only might it burn, but the oil might separate from the flour. Keep on whisking. I think it's important to have more flour than oil: you want the roux to be slightly sloppy, but you don't want an oil-slick.

You will see that as the flour cooks, the colour will start to turn brown. Keep on stirring. Your goal is to end up with a dark brown, nutty flavoured roux with the consistency of a thick chocolate sauce. Which hasn't burnt. This might take up to half and hour to achieve, but you will end up with an extremely worthy base for your gumbo. Oh and by the way, it's not called "Cajun Napalm" for nothing. Be extremely careful: if you splash a bit of the roux on your skin, it's going to hurt. As I write this, I'm suffering from some darn nasty burns on my fingers, which I wouldn't wish on anyone.

Now it's time to add the "holy trinity" of diced green peppers, onions and celery. Stir it in, and sauté for around five minutes. Add some chopped garlic. Stir. Throw in some chopped up okra. Turn the heat up, and stir the okra in until it's cooked properly, and become less "stringy" and gelatinous. The okra will thicken up the mixture almost immediately. You will see tiny "strings", looking a bit like miniscule white optic fibres. You need to cook the okra until these strings disappear.

Next, add shrimps (prawns), sliced smoked sausage and small chunks of duck. Keep on stirring as it cooks. After about another ten minutes or so, pour in some stock. I used a lovely clear duck stock which I had made by using a very low heat, and then skimming off the scum as it rose to the surface.

Simmer gently for about twenty minutes until the gumbo thickens up. Season to taste and add a generous slug of Tabasco and a teaspoon or so of Cayenne Pepper. Finish off the dish with some chopped parsley, and serve it on a bowl of steamed rice. The gumbo should be a dark brown colour, and that agonising half hour or so of roux stirring will give a complex, deep hickory flavour to the dish.

Caesar Salad

 

Caesar Salad is one of those classic dishes that has been over-tweaked, bastardised, and generally ruined by self-indulgent chefs over the years. The best Caesar Salad is the original Caesar Salad.

It was invented by Caesar Cardini in 1924. Cardini was a chef working at the Hotel Comerical in Tijuana- the Mexican town a few miles from the Californian border. During Prohibition, large parties of Americans used to cross the border in search of booze. The story goes that Cardini created the salad when a large party of hungry Americans turned up for the Fourth of July celebrations. He had run out of food, so made do with what he had left over.

Julia Child, the great food writer, apparently telephoned Cardini's daughter to get the authentic recipe- and came up with this. And who are we to argue with either of them?

First, you need two small heads of Romaine lettuce, preferably organic. Tear the lettuce into large shreds. Add two coddled eggs. Coddling is a technique where you only boil the eggs in their shell for one minute, so that you end up with a runny yolk. Add half a teaspoon of sea salt, and freshly ground black pepper; the juice of two lemons, ten drops of Lea & Perrins' Worcestershire Sauce, half a cup of fresh grated Parmesan cheese, and half a cup of garlic oil. Garlic oil is just a good quality Virgin or Extra Virgin olive oil, infused by some garlic cloves for a day or so.

Toss the salad, so that the ingredients combine with the runny egg yolk, and lettuce leaves are well coated. Finish off the dish with some freshly prepared croutons. This is just deep-fried bread- cut into cubes. For some reason, slightly stale bread makes better croutons. You've probably noticed that I haven't added anchovies to my Caesar Salad. I have a strong hunch that the original recipe didn't include them, and I've tried to keep it authentic.

 

Horseradish and Tomato Ketchup

 

 

One of my favourite restaurants in New York is the Grand Central Oyster Bar. I've always found this place a bit incongrous, and those of you who have been there will know what I am talking about: it's a labyrinth of sparkling marble and mosaic tiled rooms, decorated in the Byzantine style, and built directly underneath the station, offering an extensive choice of oysters from every shore in the United States.

And with the oysters comes a spicy horseradish and tomato sauce (or ketchup), served up in those little paper cups. You'll also find this sauce in American diners. I've noticed that some Americans just call it "horseradish sauce", which is slightly confusing as it's red in colour, and quite clearly contains tomato; while here in Perfidious Albion, "horseradish sauce" is the creamy stuff we serve with the roast beef of Merry Old England. You say tomato, we say tomarto, let's call the whole thing off.

 

Here's a good (if slightly lengthy) way to make your own version. I've based it on Simon Hopkinson's wonderful book Week in Week Out, which is currently The Greasy Spoon's "Book of the Month". The secret lies in making both the horseradish concentrate and the tomato juice ahead of time, and then keeping both of them in the 'fridge. The horseradish concentrate can also be used for English style creamed horseradish sauce and delicious horseradish mousse. The homemade tomato juice can be used for mixing Bloody Mary's.

First you need to make a homemade horseradish concentrate: Grate 200g of peeled horseradish root into a food processor and add five tablespoons of water, two teaspoons of Maldon Salt, 1 ½ tablespoons of caster sugar, 2½ tablespoons of lemon juice and 2½ tablespoons of white wine vinegar. Make sure you peel the horseradish and then grate it across the base of the root. Whizz it up in the food processor until smooth, and then tip it into a Kilner jar (it should keep in the 'fridge for up to two weeks).

Next, you need to make a homemade tomato juice: take 1kg of very ripe tomatoes and core and cut them up into quarters. Put them in a large pan. Add a heaped teaspoon of Maldon Salt, a tablespoon of caster sugar, and 125ml of water. Cover the pan and warm on a lowish heat for about twenty minutes. You want the tomatoes to wilt. There should also be quite a bit of tomato juice floating around in the pan.

Pour the contents into a vegetable mill (mouli-légumes) and grind it up. (It's really worth investing in an authentic mouli-légumes, and I've included a link to buy one from amazon uk.  It's a decent bit of kit and indispensable if you are going to make your own purées, sauces and soups.

Leave the tomato juice to cool, and stir in a tablespoon of horseradish concentrate. Let it infuse for about ten minutes and then pass the sauce through a sieve. That make's a basic tomato juice.

To make the ketchup: take 300ml of the tomato sauce and reduce it in a small pan, until it thickens up. Remove it from the heat, let it cool down and stir in two tablespoons of the horseradish concentrate. Chill in the 'fridge. Perfect with oysters.

Retro Sweetcorn Relish

 

 

We've got two corn-on-the-cobs left over in our weekly Abel & Cole vegetable box, and I was racking my brains thinking what to do with them. Last year I invented a rather good sweetcorn relish- which was very similar to the stuff you used to be able to buy in jars. It's white trash diner food, and I like it.

Chop or slice up some shallots and fry them in grapeseed oil. Next, tip a tin of sweetcorn (or better still, some fresh cooked sweetcorn) into a bowl, and mix in some diced green and red peppers, a dash of white vinegar, a spoonful of sugar, and a teaspoon of garlic powder. Season with sea salt and white pepper, and finish off the job with a spoonful of starchy cornflour.

Add the cooked shallots to the mixture and heat up the thing slowly in a small pan, so that the cornflour cooks properly. The finished result was cotton pickin' authentic. Perfect with burgers, even better with fried chicken.  I rest my case.

The Greasy Spoon's Perfect Bloody Mary

 

I'm sitting here after a pretty stressful week (we're moving house) and sipping an almost perfect Bloody Mary cocktail. It's almost perfect, but it's not cold enough and it's crying out for a dash of dry sherry. 

I've always thought that the three most famous cocktails in the world are (in no particular order), the Dry Martini, the Margarita, and the Bloody Mary. I've tried making Bloody Marys in various ways, but time after time, I return to The Greasy Spoon's own recipe, which, as I'm a kind sort of chap, I'm about to share with you. 

Remember, as with so many other things in life, keep it simple, don't try and doll it up with extra ingredients (I'm not convinced by the addition of creamed horseradish, or chunky black pepper, although steeping a peeled horseradish root in your bottle of vodka sounds like a good idea ) and stay off the gimmicks:

First, you put some ice into a cocktail shaker. Next, pour in a decent slug of Stolichnaya vodka, and top up with a good quality tomato juice. Add a dash of Tio Pepe, a squeeze of lemon or lime juice, a pinch of cayenne pepper, celery salt, a few shakes of my favourite Tabasco and Lea & Perrin's Worcestershire Sauce. 

Do the Hokey Cokey and shake it all about.  Strain it off into a glass and add, if you must, a stick of celery. You'll find that the lemon juice smooths it out, and the sherry gives it an added kick.

I don't like lumps of ice floating around in my Bloody Mary, and think it's much better if strained off.  But the drink's at its best if served very cold, so keep the vodka buried away in the 'fridge, as the Russians do. You'll find the vodka goes thick- and that's the way to keep it if you're going to drink it neat, as an accompaniment to blinis and caviar.

Lüchow's German Cookbook

 

 

Here's an interesting and reasonably scarce book I've just bought on ebay for a few pounds. It's Lüchow's German Cookbook, written by Jan Mitchell, and first published in 1955.  Actually, this is the first British Edition, and the first American edition was published a few years earlier.

According to wikipedia:

"Lüchow's was a restaurant in New York City formerly located at 110-112 East 14th Street, with the property running clear through the block to 13th street. It was founded in 1882 when a waiter, August Lüchow, purchased the German restaurant and beer garden he had been working at, and remained in operation for a full century, closing in 1982 after a suspicious fire gutted the building.

The decor included over sixty paintings, many by well-known artists such as Francisco Goya, Anthony Van Dyck, Van Mienis, Snydes and Sweden's August Haagborg. The Haagborg was purchased by Lüchow at the 1904 St Louis World Fair. There was also a collection of over two hundred beer steins, and a number of mounted hunting trophies made from animals shot by Lüchow. In 1957, the restaurant included seven dining rooms, among them the Hunting Room, which contained the trophies, and the Niebelungen Room, decorated with murals based on Richard Wagner's Ring Cycle operas."

I was amused to see that none other than the great Marlene Dietrich was a regular patronne (of course she was!), and that her favourite dish was Vienna Backhaänderl, with which she drank Moselle (of course she did!). 

Those were the days. How refreshing to be able to stroll into your local German restaurant, sit underneath a Goya say, or a Van Dyck and order a Schnitzel Hostein, washed down with an excellent sweetish Hock. 

Here's the Lüchow recipe for "Marlene Dietrich's Vienna Backhaänderl", aka "Viennese Baked Chicken":

3 young chickens (about 2 ½ pounds each), cleaned and drawn

1 tablespoon of salt

1 cup flour

3 eggs, beaten with ¼ cup of water

2 ½ cups fine bread crumbs

Fat for deep frying

1 lemon, sliced

 

Rinse chickens; drain. Cut each in half, pat dry. Sprinkle with salt. Roll each piece in flour. Dip in egg, then in crumbs. Fry in hot fat, lowering each piece carefully into fat to avoid shaking crumbs off. When golden brown, place in baking pan, and bake in hot oven (400℉) until well browned. Lower heat to 325℉ after crust is firm, and continue baking until done; about 40 minutes in all. Place on thick paper towelling in a pan; set in oven, but leave oven door open. Season lightly with salt. Garnish with lemon, and serve on warmed dish. Serves 6.

 

 

The Perfect Chip

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

There was an excellent article by Christopher Hirst in The Independent yesterday, about how to make the perfect chips, sorry, America- "freedom fries". After much experimentation and angst he came up with a method loosely based on Heston Blumenthal's:

 

500g Arran Victory (Waitrose Heritage Potato) or Maris Piper potatoes.

1) Peel and chip 400/500g potatoes, and then wash them thoroughly.

2) Boil a pan of large salted water. Add  the chips and return to the boil, and then reduce to a gentle simmering for ten minutes.

3) Remove the chips from the water, and leave to cool on a cake rack. When cool, chill in the 'fridge.

4) In a heavy bottomed saucepan, heat 1.5 litres of groundnut oil to 130C. Using a wire mesh basket, fry the chips for nine minutes.

5) Remove the basket, and shake off the oil. Cool the chips on a cake rack, and then chill in the 'fridge for the second time.

6) Heat the oil to 190c. Fry the chips in a mesh basket for 2-3 minutes, until they are golden. Drain the chips, then spread them on a double layer of kitchen paper. Serve immediately.

Philadelphia Dreaming

 

 

One of the fascinations of old cookery books is the way they reflect the social history of their time.  A few years ago I came across a copy of The Philadelphia Cookbook of Town and Country, written by a certain Mrs Anna Wetherill Reed, and published by Barrow & Co. of New York in 1940.

The American East Coast in 1940!  This was the pre-war world of Cary Grant and Katherine Hepburn in George Cukor's Bringing Up Baby- or, at least, as imagined by Hollywood film producers in Los Angeles, and later reinvented by Ralph Lauren and Martha Stewart: a world of clipped, almost English accents, foxhunting, tail-gate picnics, drystone walls, Bloody Marys, gymkhanas, rambling clapboard houses, cosy family Christmases, Dry Martini cocktails, expensive cars and luxury household gadgets.  And it was, if I may make so bold Master Copperfield, a pretty darn good place to be - as long as you were born with a silver spoon in your mouth, or even perhaps, a silver plated spoon.

 

In The Philadelphia Cookbook, Mrs Wetherill Reed gives us useful suggestions for "Supper After the Opera", "A Colonial Dinner on Washington's Birthday", "A Formal Dinner for a Debutante", "Luncheon Before the Spring Races", "Luncheon on the Terrace After Swimming", "Dinner for a Well-to-do Bachelor Uncle", and slightly bizarrely, a "Gay Nineties Dinner for Grandma on Mother's Day".  I'm sure you're getting the drift, if not already crooking your little finger.

But slightly surprisingly, there are masses of practical recipes in there that you could easily make today without raising an eyebrow. So often old cook books fail miserably in this area; especially for some reason if they were published in the early 1970's, and written by a one Mr. Vincent Price. Picked at random (and in no particular order) we have: Hell Fire Stew (that's really devilled Navarin of Lamb with Worcestershire sauce), Veal and Ham Pie  (recipe kindly provided by The Philadephia Club), Mushroom Filling for Wild Duck, Maryland Mint Julep, Welsh Rabbit a la Yale Club, Dandelion Salad and Frizzled Beef a la King (recipe most kindly provided by The Cosmopolitan Club).

I quite liked the look of Jellied Essence of Tomato. First, you soak a leaf of gelatine in cold water. Next you heat up strained tomato juice, clarified chicken stock, a piece of lemon rind and the juice of half an onion. You add the dissolved gelatine, and stir it around, until it is well mixed in. Finally, you strain it, season with salt and a dash of cayenne pepper, turn it into a wet mould, and chill.

Okay, it's a trifle weird, I admit- but don't you think it might be a good base for something slightly more up to date and of greater interest? I would definitely use a clear and delicious tomato consommé (tomato pulp and a bit of sea-salt placed in a sieve, and left to drain overnight in the 'fridge), go a bit easy on the gelatine (to avoid the rubber effect) and get rid of the onion juice (what on earth was that all about?).

Instead of turning it into moulds, I suggest it would look better in ramekin dishes, and I think it definitely needs something juicy suspended in it.  Crayfish Tails?  They would work very well with the slightly spicy tomato.  Maybe it needs to be slightly spicier? What about a dash of Tabasco?  Does anyone out there in cyberspace have any bright ideas? This could be the birth of a famous new dish...

 

Coleslaw

 

Having some time on my hands, I recently spent an hour or so wandering around the basement of the newly refurbished Fortnum's. The refit, in my opinion, has been spectacular, and there are all sorts of interesting stands selling fish, game, terrines, pies and the like.  I bypassed a goose (yours for a hundred quid, Guv), and headed for the salad counter, where they were selling kedgeree (with saffron infused basmati rice) and their very own coleslaw made to a secret Fortnum & Mason recipe.

I'm a complete sucker for this sort of thing- all you have to tell me is that such-and-such was invented by a doctor so-and so, purveyor to connoisseurs and the nobility of Europe, and made to a secret family recipe handed down over ten generations, none genuine without this signature, Squire- and I'll buy it.  I'm a marketing man's dream, I'm afraid.

So, I sniffed around the coleslaw trying to work out what was in it.  I've done a bit of research into coleslaw (a "cole" by the way, was an old-fashioned word for cabbage), and have come to the conclusion, that apart from cabbage, and perhaps mayonnaise, anything goes.

I'm going to make my very own secret version coleslaw, this weekend. And what's going to go in it?   Cabbage and Mayonnaise?  Yes. Carrots?  Yup. Definitely. Cheese?  Probably. Apple?  Perhaps.  A dash of a decent cider or tarragon vinegar might be a good plan as well. I'm wondering if a red chili might be a good idea, or is that a complete no-no? I'm sure that all the ingredients need to be shredded up very, very thinly- I've had coleslaw in the past which had thickish chunks of cabbage, and it didn't seem right. This is going to be fun: I'm feeling hungry all ready.

Smoked Haddock Chowder

 

 

January: cold, wet, dark, gloomy, and depressing; financially embarassing, too. No folks, it ain't my favourite month, and to combat all this, I need gutsy, unpretentious, winter food, as I'm sure you do as well.

Chowder is a classic American East Coast dish, usually a creamy soup enriched with salt pork fatback and traditionally thickened with crushed saltine crackers or corn. I've no doubt that each State or city have their own way of making it. Massachusetts will say this, Rhode Island will say that. Manhatten adds tomatoes, while in Maine, apparently, this is/was illegal. Here's my Limey take on it. I think smoked haddock (one of my all-time favourite fishes) works well. If Americans want to bombard me with abusive chowder emails- that's fine- please do; go ahead.  All I know is that it works, and I like it.

First, cook the smoked haddock. Try and buy a smoked, undyed fillet. The bright yellow fillets you see in the supermarket have been artificially dyed with all sorts of nasty chemicals. Undyed smoked haddock is a lovely, light cream colour. It's more expensive. but worth the extra cost, as the taste is far more subtle. In effect, the smoked haddock has already been cooked, so it will need very little poaching. Place it in a pan with a decent amount of water, to which you have added a bayleaf, a carrot, a small onion and one or two peppercorns. Bring it to the boil, turn off the heat and put the lid on the pan.

Next, in a large pan sauté some chopped salt pork or pancetta in unsalted butter. Add some finely chopped celery and onion or shallots. Pour in the poaching water from the haddock, and add some potatoes, which you've previously skinned and chopped up into smallish cubes. When the potatoes are almost cooked (which won't take that long), add milk and cream, and then the smoked haddock which you've broken up into large flakes.

Check the seasoning: chunky black pepper would be good, and it may or may not need sea salt, depending on how salty the haddock is. Add some fresh thyme and simmer the chowder gently for ten minutes. Serve with crackers.

Coca-Cola Glazed Ham

 

 

There's an urban myth currently doing the rounds that Santa Claus (or as we say here in Blighty, Father Christmas) was invented by the Coca-Cola Corporation of America. Well, there's a little bit of truth in the story. Santa Claus is an amalgamation of the 17th century English folk personification of Christmas, "Father Christmas" , and the 19th century "Saint Nick" of Clement Clarke Moore's poem, "The Night Before Christmas". Father Christmas was usually portrayed as a scrawny, bearded old man wearing a fur robe, and the "Spirit of Christmas Present" in Charles Dickens's "A Christmas Carol" was illustrated wearing a similar robe, but in green. In Europe, "St Claus" was sometimes imagined as a sprightly little elf. 

The modern image of Santa Claus (the one you see at your local department store grotto); the red cap and suit, huge buckled belt, enormous stomach, black boots and Mr Kiplingesque whiskers was, in part, invented by a series of Coca-Cola advertisments illustrated by Haddon Sundblom. These ran from the 1930's.

Talking of Coca-Cola, I've got a slightly weird recipe for you: it's "Ham Glazed in Coca-Cola". Okay, it doesn't sound that great; but as Coke is really just a very sugary, brown, fizzy, syrup, there's reason why this shouldn't work nicely on a lovely, juicy ham. And the recipe's an old favourite from the American Deep South, too. Here's how you make it:

You get hold of a large pan, and into that you place a medium sized gammon. Throw in a peeled onion (for flavour), and then pour in a litre of coca-cola. Bring to the boil, put the lid back on, and turn down the heat. Let it braise in the liquid for 2 1/2 hours.

Take the gammon out of the pan, and let it rest. Remove the skin and preheat your oven to 210C. Meanwhile mix up a glaze from 100g breadcrumbs, 100g brown muscovado sugar, two tablespoons of French Dijon Mustard, and a tablespoon of Colman's Mustard Powder. Add a spoonful or so of coca-cola to the mixture, and then slap it onto the gammon.  Roast the gammon in the hot oven for about ten minutes, or until the glaze has cooked.

Incidentally, I've just had an interesting comment from "carrotosaurus": it's a recipe for White Borscht. Go and have a look...

Eggnog

Oh crikey, I'm not even sure if I like eggnog.  You see, in England, we hardly ever have it. To be entirely honest with you, until I started writing this post, I didn't really know what it was. Okay, I knew it had egg in it, perhaps a splash of cognac too, but that was about it. Even thought it might have had something to do with Advocaat, which in a sense, it has, as they're made from similar ingredients.

There's an interesting article on the history of eggnog on the net. It originated in England, apparently, and then became popular in the United States, especially at Christmas.

I found a recipe for a Mexican version of eggnog in Elisabeth Lambert Ortiz's excellent little book, The Festive Food of Mexico: Ponche de Leche y Emas y Cognac.  Her recipe will make 4.5 litres of the stuff.

Beat 15 egg yolks with 450g caster sugar in a large bowl until light and lemon coloured. Whisk in 2 litres of milk.  Pour the mixture into the top of a double boiler set over hot water and cook.  Stir at a very low heat until the mixture is thick enough to coat a spoon.  Remove from the heat and stir in a tablespoon of grated orange peel. Whisk in a bottle of cognac (or other brandy). Serve in tots or small punch cups topped with a little grated cinammon, and one or two wafer thin strips of orange peel for decoration. If you're in the mood, you can also put a cinnamon stick into each cup.

Convinced by all this? I'm not entirely sure...

The Greasy Spoon visits...The Old Ebbitt Grill, Washington D.C.

 

 

I've just got back from a quick business trip to Washington D.C. I like Washington: it's a grown up sort of place; understated, with fabulous museums and art galleries, swanky hotels, oodles of history, and fabulous eighteenth century colonial architecture in the Georgetown district.  Having a bit of time on my hands, I took refuge from the pouring rain at the Old Ebbitt Grill on 15th Street- almost literally a stone's throw from The White House; incredibly convenient for a certain Mr Barack Obama if he's suddenly feeling a bit peckish.

The Old Ebbitt Grill is a Washington institution, and many famous American politicians, movers and shakers have crossed its threshold over the years. The original restaurant was founded in 1856, and moved to it's present address in the 1980's. You could see this clearly in the decor: there was a nice old 19th century dial clock over the door (presumably brought over from the original restaurant), acres of dark mahogany and various historic bits and pieces scattered around the restaurant, but the whole effect was ruined by the huge and tacky wall murals, painted in particularly nasty shades of turquoise and beige.  

This reminded me of the fate of P.J. Clarke's in Manhatten. This used to be a lovely, shabby, Irish bar on 55th and 3rd; the haunt of Truman Capote, Jacqueline Kennedy and the like; with a dirty, cracked photograph of Abe Lincoln above the counter, grumpy Irish bartenders, and a 50's Juke Box that didn't work. And what did the new owners do?  They closed it down; ripped out all the original fittings, and then put everything back in again, exactly how it was- except, and it's a huge except, everything was not only identical, but also happened to be brand, spanking new. 'orrible.

Service at the Old Ebbitt was good, and I ordered Eggs Chesapeake with hash browns. This was a local variation on Eggs Benedict, with Maryland Crab Cakes thrown in for good measure, and a Hollandaise Sauce flavoured with Old Bay Seasoning.  

It should be easy to put together. Make Eggs Benedict in the usual way, but place the Maryland Crab Cakes on top of the ham slice, cover them with the top of the muffin, and then pour over the Hollandaise Sauce, to which you've previously stirred in a spoonful or so of spicy Old Bay Seasoning. It's simple, classic American food at its best.

Steak Tartare

 

 

A few months ago, I met some friends at Brown's Restaurant in Maddox Street. Brown's is an established chain of East Coast style restaurants- you know the sort of place, red checked table cloths, open brick walls, French café chairs. The waiter asked me how I liked my steak cooked and I said 'rare'. Shaking his head, he told me that 'under company policy' they were not allowed to cook rare steaks. What utter lunacy is this?  Are we not responsible for our own decisions?  I've eaten plenty of rare (and with my own werewolf tendencies, I really do mean rare) steaks in my time, and not once, I repeat once, have I ever had any sort of stomach upset. And if the meat is of the highest quality and fresh too...

(Actually, on reflection, I might just possibly be telling a fib. A few years back, I had an excellent Steak Tartare at Le Procope in Paris. Later that evening, I tucked into a plate of marinated, raw herring at a dubious place up in Monmartre. A few hours later, I was violently sick. If I had to put a bet on it, I would point a long finger at the herring).

 

What is Steak Tartare?  It's chopped up raw beef steak (or horse-meat), served with onions, capers, Worcestershire sauce and often, a raw egg.  Supposedly invented by the Tartars, I suspect that Steak Tartare is a 20th century dish of no great antiquity. Luchow's, the Manhatten restaurant founded in 1882 by Guido August Lüchow, has a recipe for Steak Tartare in their cookbook, published in 1952.  

Here's my way of making it.  I stress that not only will you need the best cut of beef, but the freshest example you can find, too. Do not make Steak Tartare out of any old steak you've had lying around in the 'fridge. If you're going to mix in an egg, make sure, again, that the egg is very fresh.

In a small bowl, mash up some anchovies, capers and Dijon mustard. Add the minced beef steak, and fold in some chopped red onion, chopped flat leaf parsley, a dash of Tabasco, a dash of Worcestershire Sauce and a few chili flakes. A spoonful of olive oil goes well, too. If it's your thing, break in a small, fresh egg. Season with lots of salt and pepper, shape the Tartare into a round and serve it with chips in the French manner.

Sweetcorn Relish

 

 

After all this talk about finger sandwiches, Eton Mess, and avocados, it's time for something a bit more robust.

I've got a secret yearning for sweetcorn relish. It's American white trash, diner food at its best. Bick's, the Canadian brand, does a great range of "relishes" and I love the retro packaging, too.

A few days ago, I decided to create my own sweetcorn relish, in true diner style. It worked well, and was similar to the stuff you buy in jars.

Here's how I made it: First, I chopped up some shallots, and cooked them in oil. Next, I tipped a tin of sweetcorn into a bowl, and mixed in some green and red peppers (chopped into tiny cubes), a splash of white vinegar, a spoonful of sugar, a teaspoon of garlic powder; seasoned it with sea salt and pepper, and finished off the job with a spoonful of starchy cornflour. I added the cooked shallots to the mixture and heated the thing slowly in a small pan, so that the cornflour cooked properly.

The finished result was pretty darn authentic. For extra heat, you could also add some red chilis, sliced very thinly into strips- I hesitate to use the French term julienne, as in this case, it just doesn't seem appropriate. Perfect with burgers, even better with fried chicken.

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.

Baked Beans

 

 

One of the amusing things about Fortnum & Mason in London's Piccadilly, is that they stock Heinz Baked Beans. Apparently, they always have, and always will. During the late nineteenth century, Baked Beans were considered a delicacy, and were extremely expensive. They still are- if you insist on buying them at Fortnum's.

Incidentally, when you're next in The Big Smoke, drop into the newly re-furbished Fortnum & Mason. I think they've done a terrific job, and managed to keep the old-style charm of the place, even though they have completely re-built the interior, and made it into the sort of store genuine Londoners might shop at; rather than just for the good ol' tourists (God bless 'em)- and that's how it always used to be.

Anyway, Baked Beans. Baked Beans have a mysterious past, and are probably descended from the cassoulets of Southern France. I suspect, of course, there is also a considerable American influence. The first tinned Baked Beans were produced by the Burnham & Morrill Company in 1876, for use by the fishermen of Maine. But why the 57 varieties? It's nothing more than Henry Heinz's clever marketing ploy, first used in 1896; and has nothing to do with how many different products Heinz was selling at the time. There's a photograph of the Baked Bean King, below.

I do make my own home-made Baked Beans from time to time, but frankly, I reckon the genuine stuff in the tins (and always by Heinz) is the best bet. If you do want to make your own, its simple: just heat up some cooked haricot beans in stock, add some tomato paste, onion salt, pepper, a tiny bit of vinegar, and some sugar. And remember, if you're going to cook dried beans, it's essential that you soak them in water over-night, otherwise you could suffer a serious stomach upset. You've been warned!

 

Jambalaya

 

 

I'm currently fascinated by the food of the American Deep South, with its Creole, Cajun, French and Spanish influences. Jambalaya is the Deep South's version of Spanish Paella. There are many different variations, and local recipes, but the general rule of thumb is that Creole jambalaya includes tomatoes, but Cajun jambalaya doesn't.

Here's The Greasy Spoon's Creole version. I've included smoked paprika, cayenne, and Tabasco for added spice, but I'm aware that not all jambalayas include hot ingredients, so I'll leave it up to you.

First, I cook some chicken pieces, and smoked sausage in olive oil, until brown. Next, I add some chopped garlic, some chopped tomatoes, and the "Holy Trinity" of chopped onions, green bell peppers, and sliced celery to the pot. Sprinkle them with smoked paprika as they cook. Throw in a handful of rice (I use Uncle Ben's Long Grain), and pour in some fish or chicken stock.

Season with salt, Cayenne Pepper, and a dash of Tabasco. Let the jambalaya simmer away for about 45 minutes. Towards the end of the cooking, stir in some pre-cooked prawns (i.e. pink). If you want to use uncooked prawns (i.e. brown), you will need to cook them at the very beginning along with the chicken and the sausage. Serve in a bowl, and eat with a spoon.

Maryland Crab Cakes

 

 

This is one of the all-time great American recipes, comfort food at it's best; and it's relatively easy to make too. Traditionally, the Blue Crab from the Chesapeake Bay area is the one to go for, but I have to accept, reluctantly, that this side of the pond, other varieties of crab will have to do. Die-hards might also want to add Old Bay Seasoning, which is a spicy American herb and spice mix. As I don't seem to be able to get it here (maybe I should try the excellent Wholefoods in Kensington High Street?), I've substituted a very similar spice mix.

Take some juicy crab meat and put it into a mixing bowl. Add a cup of mayonnaise, a tablespoon of mustard powder (I use Colman's), a beaten egg, a teaspoon of Lea & Perrins, the juice of a lemon, and some chopped parsley. Mix it all together.

Now for The Greasy Spoon's "Old Bay Seasoning" mix. Grind up some celery salt, mustard seed, cinammon, powdered ginger, peppercorns, and a bayleaf until you have a reasonably fine powder. Add a teaspoon or so of this to the crab mixture. Next you need to add some form of breadcrumbs. I find it easiest to use about seven crushed Saltine Crackers, and I suspect this is more authentic. The easiest way to crush them is to put the crackers into a plastic bag, and then bash them with a hammer.

Chill the mixture for about two hours in the 'fridge. To cook them, all you need to do is to drop them into hot oil (say, in a wok), and fry them until they are golden brown. Utterly delicious: the taste of the East Coast.

Yellow Pepper Relish

 

 

This is a quick and easy thing I invented yesterday, and it worked out perfectly. First, I steamed two yellow peppers until they were cooked (first removing the inner pith and seeds with a sharp knife) and then peeled off the skins, so that only the soft yellow flesh was left.

Next, I whizzed up half a red onion in the trusty Magimix, together with a red chili (though, of course you could also use a green one), and two cloves of garlic. Once they had all been thoroughly chopped up, I added the yellow pepper flesh, and using the "pulse" button combined the ingredients carefully. You don't want the peppers to break down too much. Then it was a simple matter of adding fresh lime juice, lots of Maldon Salt, and a good quality Extra Virgin Olive Oil.

It would work brilliantly with cold beef, and the yellow colour is interesting. The sweetness of the peppers balances out well with the sharpness of the lime. Try it, and I don't think you will be disappointed.

Caesar Salad

 

 

Fed up with rich Christmas food? Then the famous Caesar Salad could be the answer to your prayers. Caesar Salad is one of those classic dishes that has been over-tweaked, bastardised, and generally ruined by self-indulgent chefs over the years.

The best Caesar Salad is the original Caesar Salad. It was invented by Caesar Cardini in 1924. Cardini was a chef working at the Hotel Comerical in Tijuana- the Mexican town a few miles from the Californian border. During Prohibition, large parties of Americans used to cross the border in search of booze. The story goes that Cardini created the salad when a large party of hungry Americans turned up for the Fourth of July celebrations. He had run out of food, so made do with what he had left over.

Julia Child, the great food writer, apparently telephoned Cardini's daughter to get the authentic recipe- and came up with this. And who are we to argue with either of them?

First, you need two small heads of Romaine lettuce. Tear the lettuce into large shreds. Add two coddled eggs. Coddling is a technique where you only boil the eggs in their shell for one minute, so that you end up with a runny yolk. Add half a teaspoon of salt, and freshly ground black pepper; the juice of two lemons, ten drops of Lea & Perrins, half a cup of fresh grated Parmesan cheese, and half a cup of garlic oil. Garlic oil is just a good quality Virgin or Extra Virgin olive oil, infused by some garlic cloves for a day or so.

Toss the salad, so that the ingredients combine with the runny egg yolk, and lettuce leaves are well coated. Finish off the dish with some freshly prepared croutons. This is just deep-fried bread- cut into cubes. For some reason, slightly stale bread makes better croutons. You've probably noticed that I haven't added anchovies to my Caesar Salad. I have a strong hunch that the original recipe didn't include them, and I've tried to keep it authentic.

Thanksgiving Blues

 

 

Today is Thanksgiving, and amongst other things, also the anniversary of the assassination of JFK back in 1963. I once made a futile attempt to cook a Thanksgiving Dinner for an American family in Los Angeles. The turkey was dry, and over-cooked, and I soon discovered that what we call "gravy" back in England, was, to Americans, a white sauce made from a roux of butter, milk and flour.

I expect my American readership to be down today, as you will all be stuffing yourselves with turkey, cranberry sauce, baked ham, pumpkin pie and the like. It's one of the reasons Americans tend not to have turkey for Christmas Day; by that date, you're probably all sick of it. However, one of the better dishes from Thanksgiving are Candied Yams, and of course, you don't have to limit yourself to making them only for Thanksgiving.

Yams are sweet potatoes. Scrub them all over and then steam them for about thirty minutes. Take them out, and put them to one side. In a small saucepan, make a caramelised sauce. Melt some unsalted butter, add some sugar, Maldon Salt and pepper, some grated ginger, and a bit of stock. Cook for a few minutes. When you have a thickish sauce, pour it over the steamed yams, and bake them in the oven for about fifteen to twenty minutes. Sprinkle some chopped parsley over the finished yams and serve.

Oysters

 

 

One of my all-time favourite restaurants is the incongrous Grand Central Oyster Bar in New York, situated directly beneath the Railroad Station Terminal in Midtown Manhatten.

Grand Central was built between 1903-1913 in the Beaux-Arts style, and the Oyster Bar ("Below Sea-Level") is a sprawling labyrinth of Byzantine influenced vaults decorated with glittering mosaics. I like the huge choice of oysters chalked up on the menu there. The agonising decision you have to make between say, Martha's Vinyard oysters on the one hand, or Chesapeake Bay molluscs on the other.

I've no truck with those poor souls who insist on cooking their oysters using bizarre recipes involving breadcrumbs and grills. For me, oysters should always be eaten raw, on ice, straight from the shell, perhaps with a dash of our old friend, Tabasco, or a squeeze of lemon juice.

 

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There are three types of oyster. The Pacific, Olympia, and Atlantic. Pacific oysters are the most prolific, and tend to have a creamier taste. The Olympia is found again, in the Pacific Ocean, but limited to Washington Sound. They're a small oyster with a full taste.

Atlantic oysters (as served at Grand Central), have a saltier flavour. I'm currently into the Atlantic type, preferring the ozoney, minerally, salty taste of the sea that hits the back of your throat as soon as you've tipped one of the critters (they're alive!) down there. If you've tended to avoid oysters in the past, may I persuade you to change your mind? Because you're missing out on one of the greatest pleasures in life. It's true. Trust me!

Bananas Foster

 

 

I went to an interesting wine tasting last night, and sampled a yeasty Veuve Clicquot vintage champagne, some excellent single malts, and a range of fabulous salty sherries. As I've just about recovered, this evening I've decided to write about Bananas Foster.

Bananas Foster was invented in 1951 by Paul Blange of Brennan's Restaurant in New Orleans. It's an American classic.

Here's my version: First, catch some bananas. Peel them, and slice them diagonally. In a shallow frying pan, saute the bananas in some unsalted butter. Next, sprinkle on some brown sugar, and some ground cinammon. You want the butter to caramelise in the sugar, so baste the bananas with the sugary, cinnamony butter. After a few minutes, your sauce will go slightly brown. That's how you want it.

 

 

Now for the fun part. Pour in a generous slug of rum. I used Mount Gay rum from Barbados. Mount Gay was first produced in 1703, so it claims to be the oldest rum in the world. And I'm sure it is. I don't doubt that for one minute. Tip the pan towards the gas, and the rum and butter sauce will ignite. If you're one of those unfortunates with an electric stove, use a match.

The whole point of the flambé is to burn off the alchohol and the fats, so that a delicately flavoured sauce is left behind. After a minute or so, the flames will die down. If they don't, you've got a fire on your hands.

Serve the flambéed bananas over some vanilla ice-cream in individual ice cream glasses. Pour over the remaining sauce from the pan, but let the sauce cool down slightly to avoid shattering the glass. Serve it fast- before the ice cream melts. It's simple, it's excellent, it's delicious.

Margarita

 

 

I picked up a taste for the Margarita Cocktail when I was in California. I would argue that it is one of the three greatest cocktails of all time alongside the Dry Martini, and the Bloody Mary. There are various theories as to when and how the Margarita was first born. Carlos "Danny" Herrera is said to have first mixed a concoction of white tequila, lemon juice, and Triple Sec in 1938. He was the barman at the Rancho La Gloria in Tijuana, the Mexican border town where the Caesar Salad had been invented by Caesar Cardini.

Essentially, the Margarita is a mix of Tequila (Silver or Blanco tequilas are preferable to the gold), Triple Sec (ie Cointreau), and Lime Juice (or possibly Lemon Juice). The rim of the glass is moistened with lime juice, and then dipped into salt. Some Margarita afficinados claim that salt was only used to hide the taste of a low-budget tequila, but I have to put up my hand and say that I like the contrast between the salt and the sweetness of the tequila and the Triple Sec.

 

 

I trawled the net for authentic Margarita recipes and found this one from "Drink of the Month" in the December 1953 issue of Esquire Magazine: 1 ounce tequila Dash of Triple Sec Juice of 1/2 lime or lemon Pour over crushed ice, stir. Rub the rim of a stem glass with rind of lemon or lime, spin in salt—pour, and sip. Again, simplicity rules ok? Nothing frozen. No cocktail umbrellas. No extra ingredients. A Margarita is a Margarita. Got it?

Black Bean Soup

 

 

I've had fun researching suitable food for Hallowe'en. Along the way, I discovered Colcannon, a traditional kale and potato dish which is eaten in Ireland, and Gingerbread Husbands, which were eaten by young village girls to make sure they found a husband. And then I hit upon the brilliant idea of Black Bean Soup. It's spicy, warming, velvety, er- black, and with Mexican hints suitable for the Day of the Dead festival on November 2nd, too. Here's my version:

You can either use tinned black beans (which are hard to find in the UK), or dried beans which you need to soak overnight in cold water. In a pan, cook some chopped smoked bacon in butter for a few minutes. Next, stir in a chopped onion, chopped carrot, and two crushed cloves of garlic. It might also be a good plan to throw in a finely chopped green chili. One of those fiendishly hot small ones. I'll leave that up to you.

 

 

Next, you need to add cumin. If you've got time, you can dry-roast some cumin seeds in a hot frying pan, and then when they're popping, take them out and crush them in a pestle and morter. Otherwise you could use powdered cumin. Add the cumin to the pan, and stir in. Cook for a few moments. Tip in the black beans, some chicken stock, and a liberal dash of my favourite Tabasco Sauce.

Simmer on a very low heat with the lid on for about an hour and a half. You want the soup to be thick and velvety. The black beans should thicken everything up. Serve with sour cream, and chopped chives. A spicy Mexican Salsa would be good too.

Luckily, I'm not going to be at home tonight. In recent years, the mean streets of Battersea have become full of roaming gangs of ghouls, witches, Frankensteins and mad axe murderers on Hallowe'en Night. Yup, Tick or Treating has suddenly become big over here. It was quite amusing at first, but last year I found myself under siege, and had to retreat to the back of the house, while the street urchins shouted through my letter box: " 'ere Mishter...we know you're in there", or words to that effect. Well, tonight kiddos, you ain't getting anything from me. That nice Mr Scrooge in Number 43...

 

Pumpkins

 

 

Yesterday I admitted that I didn't like the taste of pumpkin. Several years ago, in a moment of madness, I tried to make pumpkin soup from the remains of a jack o' lantern. It was disgusting. I've learnt since then that many of the jack o' lantern pumpkin varieties are inedible, so I expect I'm being unfair, and probably escaped a trip down to casualty with food poisoning.

Anyway, I've had a comment from the mysterious "nlm", who has come up with a brilliant recipe for Pumpkin Chutney. This is similar to a local chutney made in India. Here's how you make it.

Chop up 2.7kg of pumpkin flesh into cubes. Put it into a bowl and sprinkle with Maldon Salt. Leave it overnight. The salt will draw out all the juices. The next morning drain off all the surplus water, rinse the pumpkin, and drain again.

Next peel three oranges, and two lemons, removing all the skin, pips, and pith. Tip them into a large pan along with the pumpkin. Add 500g of light muscovado sugar, and 600ml of cider vinegar. Bring to the boil, and then simmer for forty minutes. When it's ready, pour into sterilised jars. You can sterilise your chutney jars by "cooking" them in the oven first, but at a lowish heat so that the glass doesn't shatter.

I haven't tried this chutney yet, but I like its simplicity- and that's often the best way. The balance between the salt, sugar, and acidity sounds spot on too. I have no idea how long it would last for- but I suspect several weeks, if not a month or so. The salt should act as a preservative. And it makes a change from the dreaded Pumpkin Pie.

Tomato Ketchup

 

 

I know there are other brands on the market, but for me, tomato ketchup has to be Heinz tomato ketchup. In 1801, a recipe for tomato ketchup appeared in an American cookbook, the Sugar House Book; and by 1837, a certain enterprising character, Jonas Yerks (great name!) was selling it across America. F & J Heinz first marketed their version in 1876.

What's in it? Well, tomatoes (obviously), vinegar, salt, allspice, cloves, and cinnamon. I've tried to make it at home (by reducing tomatoes, adding a bit of sugar and some decent vinegar), but although the results have been reasonably good, I still prefer the famous stuff in the bottles.

Oh- and I miss the glass bottles. I know that the new plastic squeezy ones are much more practical, but there was something wholesome about the old classic glass bottles- even though you had to turn them upside down to get anything out, and then suddenly all the ketchup would be over the floor.

 

 

Why the 57 Heinz varieties? It was an original slogan of the H. J. Heinz Company of Pittsburgh; used as a marketing tool. Although the company had more than 60 products in 1892, the number 57 was chosen because the numbers "5" and "7" held a special significance to Mr Heinz.

In a later post, I'm going to have a look at two British classics: HP Sauce, and Daddie's Favourite Sauce- two variations on brown sauce made from molasses. I have a feeling that Daddie's is now defunct. Put it this way, I haven't seen a bottle on the shelves for a long, long time. The world is becoming too sophisticated, by half.

Eggs Benedict

 

 

I think my favourite American dish has to be Eggs Benedict. There's just something about its simplicity: the runny poached eggs, the buttery Hollandaise sauce, and the crisp bacon or ham, contrasting with the soft English muffins.

There are various theories as to how it was invented; one being that the legendary Oscar Tschirky (of Waldorf Salad fame) put it on his hotel breakfast menu after Lemuel Benedict, a retired Wall Street stockbroker, came up with the idea as a cure for his hangover in 1894. This may or may not be the case.

 

Anyway, I've had various versions of it over the years, including Eggs Benedict with scallops; but if you want to make the original and genuine dish- this is how you do it. First, you need to make a classic Hollandaise Sauce:

Melt 8oz (225g) of butter in a pan. Meanwhile liquidize two egg yolks, the juice of one lemon, and freshly ground black pepper. When the butter is hot, turn the liquidizer onto full, and slowly pour in the butter. Next, poach some large eggs in salted water. Toast the English Muffins, and spread them with butter. Put some slices of ham, or Canadian Bacon on top of the muffins, and top with the poached egg. Pour over the Hollandaise sauce and serve immediately.

Clamato

 

 

For years, I've always assumed that Mott's Clamato was Canadian. Well, I was wrong. It's not. It was originally American. The drink was invented in 1966 by the Duffy-Mott company of New York.

If you don't know it (and there may be many in Britain who don't), it's a blend of tomato juice and clam juice, with a few extra spices thrown in.

The Canadian connexion comes from the Bloody Caesar, Canada's favourite cocktail. In 1969, Walter Chell was challenged to create a new cocktail to celebrate the opening of a new restaurant, Marco's, in Calgary. He came up with a variation on the Bloody Mary, but decided to add clam juice to the tomato juice instead.

 

 

 

Today, Mott's Clamato is owned by Cadbury-Schweppes, and is popular throughout North and South America. It's estimated that approximately 70% of Clamato sold in the United States is bought by Hispanics. The Mexicans mix it with Budweiser beer to make the Chavela cocktail. I think I'll stick with the Ceasar for the time being.