I've recently been reading up on an old 70's cult favourite, the Snaffles Mousse. For those who don't know, Snaffles was a fashionable basement restaurant in Dublin, and the Snaffles Mousse was the signature dish of its proprietor, Nicholas Tinne. The hilarious thing about Snaffles Mousse is that it's just a mixture of Philadelphia cheese and Campell's consomme soup- but it tastes like a sophisticated and creamy smoked fish mousse. Well, Up to a point, Lord Copper.

There's also quite a bit about it on the internet, including a new interpretation by none other than Simon Hopkinson. Simon Hopkinson (co-author of The Prawn Cocktail Years) is currently my number one culinary hero, and what he says and does, in my eyes can do no wrong.

Here's my take on the fabulous Snaffles Mousse. It's based on Nicholas Tinne's original recipe (as published in The Good Food Guide Dinner Party Book (published 1971), but includes Simon Hopkinson's refinements, and if I may make so bold Master Copperfield, one or two of my own tweaks as well:

Take a leaf of gelatine and soak it in cold water until it's soft. Open up a tin of beef consomme soup (I fear Campbell's is no longer with us in Perfidious Albion, so use Baxter's), and heat up about two tablespoons of the stuff in a small pan.

Once the consomme is hot (but not boiling), lift the gelatine out of the water, give it a squeeze to get rid of the excess water, and chuck it into the hot consomme. Swirl it together to melt the gelatine, and set aside to cool down.

Pour the remaining consomme into a liquidizer, and add 300g (that's a pack!) of Extra Light Philadelphia cheese, two teaspoons of curry paste, a crushed garlic clove, the juice of a lemon, and the remaining hot consomme/gelatine mix. I used two teaspoons of Patek's Madras paste. It was far too strong. Simon Hopkinson used Patek's Tikka paste which should be milder, but I would suggest that you go easy on the curry paste- you are not making a curry mousse, rather a mousse with a hint of curry, if you get my drift.

Check the seasoning, and then whizz it all together until smooth. The longer you blitz it, the smoother it will be. Strain it through a sieve. This will help to get rid of the uncooked bits from the curry paste. Pour it into a bowl, and then whisk it like mad, and by hand, until frothy. This will help to lighten it up.

Pour it into ramekin dishes, and bung it in the 'fridge. Once it has set, take it out, and cover the top with a layer of prawns. Finish the dish off with a layer of mock caviar. I've ditched the standard over-salty stuff, and now use Onuga herring roe. This has a subtle, delicious and smoky taste, and I would throughly recommend it.

As a further refinement, I'm interested in using Campbell's chicken consomme (rather than beef)- I have a hunch that this would make an even lighter, creamier mousse; but I seem to remember hearing that Campbells' is no longer available over here. If any reader can enlighten me on this one, I would be most grateful.

The first thing you notice about Belgium is the driving. It's utterly insane. I'm not being unfair, because I liked Belgium, especially the food- which was superb. But by god, you take your life into your hands when you cross the border.

First, the autoroutes are peppered with deep, crater-like pot-holes, and weed-like triffids. Not much fun when you hit them at 120k an hour- which is the sort of speed most Belgian drivers seem to think is on the slow side. Secondly, the roads are full of rickety white vans, driven by intense, long-haired, Goth-like individuals- meandering at speed from one lane to the other. You'll see lots of these in your rear-view mirror- especially as they're about to ram you from the derriere. Enough...I liked the place.

The good news is that the food is universally excellent in Belgium. I've even heard it said that the food in Belgium is better than in France. Certainly, at the various low-key places we stopped off at, the food was fab.

We found a simple cafe in the square at Ypres- opposite the old Cloth Hall. This famous Medieval building was almost completely destroyed in the First World War, and then rebuilt in the 1920's' though, apparently, was only completed in the 1960's. It seemed extraordinary that this peaceful, and charming Flemish square was the same place illustrated in the photograph below.

We ordered the national dish: moules, pommes frittes, and mayonnaise. I was interested to see that the Belgians added chopped leeks, chopped celery, and carrots (cut into tiny julienne) to their liquor. Although ours was based on a dry white wine, I gather they also use Belgian beer as a substitute.

Belgian beer is one of the reasons to visit Belgium. It's lovely stuff; and oh so superior to that fizzy water they call "beer' in the U S of A. Trappist beers are of interest. For a beer to qualify for this category, the entire production process must be carried out by, or supervised by, Trappist monks on the site of a monastery. Only seven monasteries currently meet this qualification, six of which are in Belgium and one in the Netherlands. The current Trappist producers are Achel, Chimay, Koningshoeven (the Netherlands), Orval, Rochefort, Westmalle, and Westvleteren.

There's a particularly good wikipedia article on the subject, which I would recommend that you have a look at, if you've got the time and inclination: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Belgian_beer

I'm finishing up with a bonus photograph of the Battlefield of Waterloo. I took this shot from what would have been Napoleon's lines- looking directly towards La Haye Sainte Farm House (that's the small white blob in the middle). The mound on the left is the Waterloo Memorial. The place, although fascinating, was a terrifying tourist trap. The local restaurant sold Burger a la Ney, Omelet Wellington, and Steak Hougoumount. You have been warned...

Baden-Baden turned out to be a German version of Bath, or Cheltenham- an elegant, monied kinda town, where the Herrenvolk go on holiday to have sterilised mineral waters (and other similar delights) shot up their backsides. I liked the place. In such a refined environment, we were expecting lighter foods: carrot juices, infusions, Ryvita bread- that sort of thing. The reality was entirely different.

First stop was at a Lowenbrau biergarten. Here, burly waiters in Lederhosen brought vast plates of sauerkraut, sausages, pasta (schupfnudein), pork knuckle, bread dumplings (knodel), and the like. Judging by the Gothic proportions of most of our fellow diners' stomachs (indeed, their toes must be a distant memory), helpings of this enormity are probably de rigeur in the Fatherland.

I ordered a beer. This arrived in a flagon about three feet high (I kid thee not), and I could barely lift the blasted thing off the table. For breakfast we had hearty heaps of bratwurst, smoked salmon, goat's cheese, black pudding, smoked meats, and black bread.

It's not that the food is particularly bad in Germany; it's not. It's just that after a few days of gi-normous knodel, Black Forest Gateau, stomach slapping, and beer burping, you start to dream longingly of the lighter food cooked by our French cousins, over to the West.

Heidelberg had a grungier atmosphere to Baden-Baden, and is bathed in a rather beautiful, glowing, reddish light. A distinguished university town, it was one one of the few German cities to have survived intact after the Second World War. It's also home to the slightly sinister duelling fraternities, for which I have a burgeoning fascination. The students still wear the uniform of cap, breeches, and coloured sash.

The town is overlooked by the ruins of Heidelberg Castle. In the cellars is the enormous 18th century tun- or vast barrel (Das Grosse Fass) constructed by the Prince Elector Karl Theodor to hold fifty-eight thousand gallons of wine. The tun was looked after by one lucky Tyrolean midget called Perkeo.

There are some elegant food shops in Heidelberg selling biscuits, gingerbread, cake, sweets, and other goodies. Bread is good in Deutschland. Particularly delicious were the Apfelchips- presumably apples sliced very thinly, dried, and then deep-fried, with a sprinkling of sugar.

On The Greasy Spoon tomorrow: the paradox of Belgium. Is Belgian food better than French food? We take our lives in our hands by driving to Waterloo...

Next stop was the spooky Chateau de Jaulny in Lorraine. This unfashionable part of North Eastern France is remote, and off the tourist track- which being an admitted "contrarian" was one of the reasons for going there in the first place. The countryside is beautiful, if slightly desolate, and relatively unpopulated; with the lovely, fast, empty French roads surrounded by deep, dark forests, and undulating hills. Perfect werewolf country.

Jaulny stands silhouetted on a ridge, and has a whiff of Transylvania about it. The chateau may have once been the residence of none other than Joan of Arc.

Madame was charming, and explained that the stuffed wolf's head mounted on the stone wall in the Hall (which would have done Hammer proud) had been shot by one her ancestors at beginning of the last century. Wolves, apparently have now been re-introduced into France, and are now making their way back to Lorraine. After two unsettling nights (is Jaulny haunted?), we crossed the Vosges mountains into Alsace.

Alsace is a fascinating part of France. Until the end of the First World War it was part of Germany, though today it is a curious hybrid- the look is decidedly German, though the feel of the place is French. As soon as you leave Lorraine, things start getting Germanic: chalets appear; churches start aquiring onion domes, you start to get towns ending in "burg", and "heim"; supermarkets sell canned goat cheese terrine, the hills are alive with the sound of. And this applies to the food, too. If you're going to enjoy Alsatian food, the charming town of Colmar is probably a good place to do it.

Colmar is a Medieval huddle of half-timbered and shuttered houses, cobbled streets, winstraubs, and buxom waitresses in the traditional dirnl. Lots of gingerbread, too.

One of the most delicious Alsatian specialities is the tarte aux flambee. This is similar to pizza, but has a thinner, more delicate crust. The traditional tarte has onion and smoked pork; though in a smallish restaurant opposite the kofihaus, The Girl had a superb asperges blanc tarte, washed down with a carafe of the excellent Alsatian wine.

Another Alsatian dish is sauerkraut, or charcoute. Pickled cabbage is stewed gently for three hours, often with a splash of Reisling at the end of the cooking period, and then served with sausages, bacon, and smoked pork.

Before we left Colmar for The Fatherland itself, I had another chance to sample the delights of the tete de veau. Well, I had to, didn't I? This one was well-prepared, with the chunks of pink coloured simmered meat, (and the accompanying gobbets of brains and fat) arranged in an earthenware pot. With the viniagrette, came a mayonnaise and caper sauce.

Camp Followers of The Greasy Spoon will have noticed that Yours Truly has been away for the last few weeks. I'm not especially apologetic, as The Girl and I have just spent the first half of August on a driving holiday around North Eastern France (destination Alsace Lorraine), Belgium, Luxembourg, and the western reaches of Baden-Wurttemberg, which of course, as you all know, is in sunny Deutschland.

One of the raison d'etres of the holiday was the food. I was curious about the cuisine of Alsace- which has a fantastic reputation, and is partly Germanic, partly French (Alsace and large parts of Lorraine were annexed by the newly created German Empire after the Franco-Prussian war of 1870). It didn't fail to disappoint. But more of that later.

First stop was at a chateau close to the Somme battlefield, near Arras. Lovely house, but an immensely sad place, being as it was only a few kilometres from the former Front Line. After all these years, the ghosts of those desperate battles of the summer of 1916 still linger on. The breakfast table was graced by a glass bottle of pure, filtered apple juice, made by the local villagers. Apples, and that means cider too, are a feature of this area, which slightly surprised me, thinking as I did that this sort of stuff was more commonly found in Normandy.

We had a fantastic dinner at a low-key restaurant, La Cote d'Agneau, in the small town of Doullens. Service was pretty dopey, but By Gum, the food was good: lovely, intense flavours- a fabulous foie gras terrine, and rich, roasted tomatoes left to stew on the vine.

I noticed that the French tend to flavour their food far more than we do in England; they're generous with their salt and pepper; and I suppose that this is one of the reasons why they tend not to have salt and pepper pots on the table. This is a tip we can easily copy in our own kitchens.

Despite current opinion, I still reckon that French food is generally far superior to British food. Here in London, we've got lots of excellent (and expensive) restuarants patronised by the reasonably affluent, and well-off; but if you drive out to the English countryside, it can be a very different story. In France, the general attitude is different. You can eat in some dusty restaurant in a deserted ghost-town of a village, and the food, although not necessarily superb, will still, generally, be pretty darn good. Shops sell local produce of a superior quality (often organic), and the standard offered by supermarket shines in comparison to the unimaginative, chemical blandness of British supermarkets.

After a night of sin at the ultra haut bourgeois Chateau d'Etoges (serried ranks of shiny cars, pushy wine-waiters, a superb dinner, and a much needed bottle of the excellent local Borel-Lucas champagne) we sped on to Epernay, where we shacked up at the Pierson Whittaker Champagne House.

The Champagne industry is centred on the two towns of Rheims and Epernay. We toured the celllars of the House of Tattinger, founded relatively recently in 1932. They were extraordinary. The offices of Tattinger are on the outskirts of Rheims, and above ground are both modernist, and extremely slick. But directly underneath this temple of corporate efficiency is a labyrinth of ancient monastic cellars, stocked with thousands of bottles of maturing champagne. Incidentally, in case you're wondering, Champagne is generally cheaper in the local supermarkets of the Rheims area- and there are definitely some bargains to be had out there. However, in the rest of France, the price of champagne is almost up to UK levels- and that means it's currently pretty expensive.

Tomorrow, in the next exciting installment of The Greasy Spoon: werewolf country, the delights of Colmar, and the gothic horror of German "cuisine"...

It's July, it's holiday time, and I'm thinking "South of France". What better than a Salad Nicoise? By the way, Nicoise, if you've ever wondered, means 'from Nice".

Like other famous dishes, there's lots of different ways out there to make this salad; and as usual, the way that you make it, is better than the way your neighbour makes it.

I reckon that the classic Salad Nicoise has the following ingredients: lettuce, tinned tuna fish, cooked green beans, black olives, tomatoes, baby new potatoes, hard-boiled eggs, anchovies, and just possibly capers. The whole shooting match is then tossed in a garlicky French dressing. I make sure that the beans are crunchy, and slightly undercooked, and the so-called "hard" boiled eggs have a soft yellow yolk.

I'm currently rather keen on a rather nifty new way of serving this dish. Instead of mixing it all together in a salad bowl, try arranging the ingredients separately on a long white serving plate (the sort of plate you would serve a salmon on). You can then either dress the thing with the viniagrette, or as I do, place a dollop of mayonnaise at the end of the dish. An aioli (ie garlic mayonnaise) would work beautifully here.

This method looks stunning visually, and picky guests (lots of them around these days, I'm afraid) have the choice of avoiding the anchovies or the capers, or anything else they don't like the look of. Good idea, what?

I realise that I haven't written anything on The Greasy Spoon for some time. Apologies- my trusty mac needed urgent repair; and, darn it, that took over a week. Anyway, I'm back now with a post about the perfect fried egg.

I saw Gary Rhodes talking about this on televison a few days ago. Gary Rhodes is one of the few television chefs I admire: his technique is, of course, top notch, and I like the way he hasn't sold out to the celeb culture, in the manner of Ramsay et al.

In a hot non-stick pan, melt a knob of unsalted butter. Crack the eggs onto a plate, and then slide them carefully into the hot butter. If you egg is fresh, the egg white will stay firm. If your egg is stale, the white will become watery, and spread out all over the place. Ideally, your eggs will be fresh.

Season them with salt and pepper, and cook them gently on a low heat, letting the egg white bubble up around the yolk. Baste the eggs with the hot butter. That's it. I like my egg yolk to be runny- though of course, as ever, it's all a matter of personal taste, isn't it?

A few weeks ago- purely in the interests of nostalgic experimentation, you understand- I made myself a Vesta curry. Those of you of a certain age should know all about this: the Vesta range offered a tantalising choice, which included "indian" curry, chow mein, and I think, "Spanish" paella. Inside the brightly coloured boxes, which conjured up images of sophisticated exotica, were sachets of dried noodles, dehydrayted bits of this and that, and- oh joy to behold- soy sauce, or some sort of mango chutney, thrown in as an extra goodie.

Now, the amazing thing, is that Vesta are still in business; and their product still, more or less, looks like it did thirty years ago. And it tastes the same, too. I followed the instructions down to the letter; adding the powder to a saucepan, topping it up with cold water, and then simmering it gently for- I think- fifteen minutes, twenty six and a half seconds. The result was, as Her Majesty might have said, "surprising": a watery, saline mess, studded with dried-up, bullet-like peas suffering from an identity crisis; the sheer horror of it all (almost as bad as being a participant in an Hieronymus Bosch tableau vivant) still lingering in my befuddled and confused brain to this day.

Have tastes changed that much over the years? I suppose that back in the 1970's, clever admen could evoke the sophistication of places like Spain and India, which, in those far off halycon days, were beyond the reach of ordinary people, more used to taking a boat out on the Broads for their summer holidays.

They used the same technique to sell the Mastermind board game (Game of the Year 1972), which had pictured on its box a suave, mysterious, and bearded Man of Taste; his dead-sexy Hong Konganese side-kick (young enough to have been his grand-daughter) standing alluringly behind the smoked glass coffee table. Most disappointingly to my ten year old mind (reared on a television diet of The New Avengers, Hadleigh, and The Persuaders), the game turned out to be just a small, grey plastic board, with a collection of brightly coloured plastic pegs which soon got gobbled up by my mother's frantic hoovering.

I'm glad to say the advertising agencies are still at it today: just remember, that charming little jar of Mrs Bridge's Home-Cooked Farmhouse Surprise, was probably manufactured- and manufactured is the right word here- in some Kafkaesque unit in the Slough Trading Estate. On a similar tack, I've often wondered if 'Free Range Eggs' really do mean free range. That could be a good idea for a future post. So, until then my amigos, adios...

I've just been sorting out my collection of books on food and wine. I never intentionally set out to collect this sort of thing; but being a second-hand bookshop junkie, have, over the years, amassed a wide assortment of interesting old books on all sorts of different subjects. This is a first edition of Michael Smith's Fine English Cookery, published in 1973. And how things have changed! Michael Smith, for example, tells us how to make a traditional kedgeree with tinned salmon. And that's what's interesting about these fascinating old books. Who today would make Bon Viveur's blue-dyed egg canapes, with anchovy garnish, and lover-ly piped mashed potato?

The internet has had a beneficial knock-on effect on the price of some of these books, and it's now easy to get online, and discover just how much that old dog-eared copy might actually be worth. Take Floyd's Food, for example. I've got a slightly grubby copy of it, much used over the years, and stained with the shipwreck of time. But it's rather valuable. This was one of the very early Keith Floyd books, published in a tiny print run by a local Bristol publisher just before "Floyd on France" made him famous. For Floyd "completists", that's the hard one to track down. The first edition of Marco Pierre White's White Heat is another sought after title.

I'm currently looking out for cookery books published in the pre-war era. They're the sort of thing which you used to be able to find relatively easily, but now are becoming increasingly scarce. Books from the 60's and 70's are still available- and could be a good area for starting a collection. They're also fun- and often have great graphics.

Take The Bachelor Chef, for example. Written by the elusive "Simon Tiffany", and published by Arlington Books of St James's in 1965, it's full of dodgy recipes involving cans of this, and cans of that; a self-help manual for wannabe playboys, and international men of mystery. Lots of hilariously kitsch drawings too, in the manner of the late Stephen Ward.

"Why candles?" objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. "In two weeks it'll be the longest day in the year." She looked at us all radiantly. "Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it."

Midsummer is a fascinating time of the year. For starters, it's associated with all sorts of curious folklore, magic, and mythology; and the long summer days give opportunity for parties, and lazing around in the garden after work. Traditionally, the 24th June is St John's Day, or Midsummer Day; even though the true solstice is on June 21st. So last weekend, we drove up to Worcestershire to see two great, and important English gardens, Hidcote Manor, and Kiftsgate Court; both currently flowering in all their full glory.

On the way back, I persuaded The Girl to stop off in Oxfordshire, and pay our Midsummer respects to The Rollright Stones. This is a lesser known megalithic
stone circle, which dates back over three and half thousand years. As I expected, there were a few pagans (with flowers in their hair) milling around the circle, and soaking up the vibes. I took a quick photograph of the "Whispering Knight"- which is a large, single stone, standing about a hundred yards away from the main formation.

Anyway, back to things culinary. If you're going to have a party at this time of year, one of the most perfect dishes you can offer your guests is a classic whole poached salmon. For this, I would strongly advise that you invest in a fish kettle. This is a great bit of kit: it's just a long, rectangular, metal pan with a lid- big enough to hold a large salmon.

To poach the salmon, you need to fill the kettle up with cold water, to which you've previously added a few peppercorns , a bayleaf, and a bouquet garni. Place the gutted salmon into the water, and bring the kettle to a slow boil on top of your stove. Once the water is beginning to simmer, put the lid back on, and turn off the heat. Let the fish stand in the hot water. This is a great tip for cooking fish. It stops the flesh from falling apart, and ensures that the fish remains very slightly undercooked (you want that), and moist, too. You'll be able to tell when the fish is cooked: when the flesh begins to flake gently away, and the eyes of the fish turn opaque.

Take out the cooked salmon, and lie it on a plate. Let it rest for a bit. Try and keep the fish as whole as you can. Remove the skin, and the fins, but keep the head and tail. Next, you need to remove the backbone. Run a knife along the top of the fish, and then make a cut to remove the head. The goal is to take off the top fillet, remove all the bones, and then reassemble the fish. Don't worry too much if the fish breaks up a bit, as we're about to disguise this with cucumber.

Once you're happy that most, if not all of the bones, have been taken out, start cutting up a cucumber into thin slices. Overlap these on the top of the salmon, so that they look like scales. So to recap: you've got a de-boned poached salmon, with the head and tail still intact. The centre section (ie the pink flesh) is now covered with cucumber scales.

If you're in a really cheffy (albeit retro) mood, you can now glaze the salmon with aspic. If you can't be bothered, serve it as it is. In both cases, you'll need a nice, stiff mayonnaise to go with it, preferably made by yours truly. For variety, it could be fun to add some chopped dill, and a squeeze of lemon to the mayonnaise. Serve the finished salmon on a bed of watercress.

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.

I don't think I've yet written about the ubiquitous avocado. It's hard to remember, but not that long ago, avocados were seen as exotic and sophisticated, and usually known as avocado pears.

Nowadays, of course, they're all over the shop, and probably seen as a little bit passe; the staple fodder of dubious bistros, and pretentious, second-rate restaurants. So, I've decided to have a closer look, and see if there's more to them than initially meets the eye.

The avocado (Persea americana) (from Nahuatl Aguacatl: agua-kah-tl), is native to Mexico, Central and northern South America, and classified in the flowering plant family Lauraceae. Avocado trees were cultivated in pre-Incan settlements with archeological evidence dating to 750 B.C.

The avocado of choice is the Hass variety, which grows in California. That's the one with the dark green knobbly skin (pictured above). It has a lovely, creamy, nutty taste, and is, in my opinion, superior to the smooth skinned varieties.

Avocados are full of fat, but the good news is that this fat is a monounsaturated fat, which is supposed to be good for you.

One of the best things you can do with avocados is to make guacamole. Originally an Aztec dish, it's easy to make, and goes brilliantly with things Mexican. Here's my own recipe for it. I prefer the texture to be a bit chunky, rather than completely smooth.

In a bowl, half-mash up some hass avocados, and then gently fold in red tomatoes (chopped into small pieces), a minced red onion, lime juice, finely chopped red chili, sea salt, a dash of Tabasco sauce, paprika, black pepper, and some chopped fresh coriander.

And finally, a useful tip: when preparing avocados, immediately sprinkle the exposed flesh with lemon juice. This will stop the avocado turning brown.

Today's post is about sandwiches. I'm not talking here about baguettes, club sandwiches, baps, or anything Franco-American; instead, I mean the good old fashioned, traditional, quintessentially English, finger sandwich- delicate tea-time treats, made from soft white bread. This is a disappearing art, which frankly, you're far more likely to encounter these days in a smart hotel somewhere, than in a private drawing room.

Legend has it that they were invented by John Montagu, the 4th Earl Sandwich (a member of the Hell Fire Club), who was supposed to have called out to his servant: "My Man, bring me some ham, between two slices of bread!", so that he could carry on gambling at the tables, uninterrupted. Actually, sandwiches were probably in existence before then, but it's true, at least, that he gave his name to the thing.

Here are some of my ideas for a classic set of sandwiches. It's essential that you use a pre-sliced white sandwich loaf, and that you cut them across lengthways- so that they form "fingers". The sandwiches can then be assembled on the serving plate to form a "block" (if that makes sense) and then decorated with watercress on top. I'm not that keen on sandwiches cut into triangles.

First, tomato and watercress. Take two slices of white bread, and cut off the crusts. Spread them with soft unsalted butter, and then create the filling from sliced tomatoes (patted dry to remove any moisture), and chopped watercress. Season with salt and pepper, and then cut the sandwich carefully into fingers.

Secondly, cucumber. Unsurprisingly, it's the same procedure as the above, except the filling's made from thinly sliced cucumbers (which have been patted dry, and had the skin removed). Season with sea salt and pepper. I love the combination of the delicate cucumber, with the salt, and the butter. Surprisingly refreshing- especially with a cup of near-scalding Earl Grey on a hot summer's afternoon.

Finally, Queen Alexandra's Sandwiches; classic Edwardian sandwiches with a savoury taste. First, make a mustard butter. This is just unsalted butter (left at room temperature), mixed with a mild French Mustard (say, Dijon), and lemon juice. Spread the sandwich loaf slices with the mustard butter.

Next, lay thin slices of tongue onto the buttered bread. The filling's made from chicken and mayonnaise. Poach some chicken breasts until cooked, and then mince them up. Bind them in home-made mayonnaise, and flavour it with a few drops of Tabasco sauce. Sprinkle with a new layer of mustard and cress, and season with sea salt and black pepper.

As before, top off with another layer of white bread, remove the crusts carefully, and cut into fingers.

Isn't Coronation Chicken a bit of a joke? I've got childhood memories of dubious buffet parties where Coronation Chicken was served; yellow in colour, looking a bit like vomit studded with sultanas, okayish in taste- but my god; bland, bland, bland.

As you may have gathered by now, I'm interested in the history of classic dishes, so I decided, as I had some time on my hands, to do a bit of good old fashioned research. I had a sneaky suspicion that Coronation Chicken had been invented for an earlier coronation, say the coronation of George V, or even that ultimate bon vivant himself, Edward VII.

Well, I was almost right. Constance Spry (the trendy 50's florist) "invented" Coronation Chicken for the Queen's coronation in June, 1953. But a very similar dish (ie chicken bound in curried mayonnaise) was invented for George V's Silver Jubilee in 1935. This was called Jubilee Chicken.

I made something similar the other night, to go with a salad. I simmered some chicken pieces in stock, and then bound them in a home-made mayonnaise, added some curry powder and finished off the whole shooting match with some grapes. And that's what you normally get, chicken with curried mayonnaise.

However, I've found the original Constance Spry recipe for Coronation Chicken on the net, and interestingly enough, it's different- and gasp of amazement, includes red wine. Here's the original version:

Ingredients (Serves 8):

2.3kg (5lb) chicken
1 tbsp vegetable oil
1 small, finely chopped onion
1 tbsp curry paste
1 tbsp tomato puree
100ml red wine
1 bay leaf
1/2 lemon juice
4 finely chopped apricot halves
300ml (1/2 pint) Mayonnaise
100ml (4 fl oz) whipping cream
Salt and pepper
Watercress to garnish

Instructions:

1. Skin the chicken and cut into small pieces and grill it until cooked.

2. In a small saucepan, heat the oil, add the onion and cook for about three minutes, until softened.

3. Add the curry paste, tomato puree, wine, bay leaf and lemon juice.

4. Simmer, uncovered, for about 10 minutes until well reduced.

5. Strain and leave to cool.

6. Puree the chopped apricot halves in a blender or food processor or through a sieve.

7. Beat the cooled sauce into the mayonnaise with the apricot puree.

8. Whip the cream to stiff peaks and fold into the mixture.

9. Season, adding a little extra lemon juice if necessary.

10. Fold in the chicken pieces, garnish with watercress and serve.

Clear Gazpacho is one of my favourite summer recipes. It's very easy to make, though slightly time consuming- but could be made in advance, and then assembled at the last minute.

It uses similar ingredients to a traditional gazpacho soup, but, instead, has as a base a mouth watering, flavour infused, clear, tomato "consomme".

Take a largish quantity of ripe red tomatoes, and blitz them in your mixer with some sea salt. The riper the better, as the salt helps to draw out the juices. Next, line a sieve with muslin or coffee filter paper, and fill it up with the tomato pulp, placing a large bowl underneath. Stick it in the 'fridge, and let the "tomato water" drip slowly into the bowl. When I'm in the mood, I sometimes add some crushed mint leaves to the pulp as well.

The next morning you'll have a bowl full of an amazingly clear, rose-coloured, light but flavour-rich, tomato stock. The first time I made it, I was amazed. Add a bit more salt to it, if it needs it.

Pour the cold tomato water into bowls. Garnish with thinly sliced radishes, cubed avocado, sliced baby tomatoes, apple cut into tiny batons, red chili cut into wafer thin julienne, red, yellow, and green peppers, courgettes, and chopped basil.

The secret is to try and cut the ingredients into the smallest shapes you possibly can: these can include batons, diamonds, cubes, and thin strips, as the mood takes you. If they're small enough, they should float on top of the soup with ease. Serve it chilled.

That's it.

This is simple, and so-very English. It's just whipped double cream, broken up meringue pieces, and chopped up strawberries, served in a glass bowl. Ideal for picnics beneath the Immortal Elms, if Dutch Elm Disease hasn't got there first, that is.

I like to add a dash of brandy to the cream. Instead of the meringue, you could also use sponge fingers.

When I was eighteen, my father was extremely generous about all that "rites of passage" stuff. This included a pint of warm bitter at our local pub in Buckinghamshire, The White Hart, where by chance, a troupe of retired civil servants from Slough, masquerading as bearded Morris Men in skin tight breeches, pranced around to the strains of "zummer-is-a-cummin-in".

More promising, was my first visit to the Savoy Hotel, where my father introduced me to the now legendary Peter Dorelli, the head barman at The American Bar. We had Dry Martinis- of course we did. And Dry Martinis, mixed properly; none of that bizarre Fleming "shaken not stirred" rubbish. Instead, the iced gin was poured into a pitcher with ice, stirred around with a few drops of Noilly Pratt, and then strained out into a small iced tumbler, with a twist of lemon. If you want to learn more, the bible of choice is: Stirred not Shaken, the History of the Dry Martini, written by my father's old colleague, John Doxat, with an introduction by none other than Kingsley Amies.

If you're fascinated by cocktails, the best book on the subject is The Savoy Cocktail Book. This was first published in 1930, with recipes compiled by Harry Craddock, and the "decorations" by Gilbert Rumbold. The first edition's got a fabulous Art Deco cover, and, for antiquarian book nuts, is eminently collectable. The 1999 revised edition has a number of new cocktails by Peter Dorelli. If you come across a first edition in a second hand book shop, buy it immediately, as the grander rare book dealers sell it for big bucks. Over and Out.

Readers of this blog will remember that I am a champion of small, often quirky, specialised shops struggling against a tide of bland, character redundant chains. I was devasted to learn that "Under Two Flags", a tiny never-never land sort of a shop in St Christopher's Place which sold traditional toy soldiers, had finally shut its doors after god knows how many years. But something lost is often something gained, and on Saturday morning I found a new gem to get excited about. It's called Postcard Teas, the brainchild of Timothy d'Offay, son of the contemporary art dealer, Anthony d'Offay.

Timothy d'Offay is a dealer in rare and fine teas, which he has sourced from all over the world, and I'm pretty sure that his shop in Dering Street (just off the top end of Bond Street, behind Fenwicks), retains it's original early 19th century shop front.

Inside, it's a tiny minimalist sort of space, with a shelf of beautifully packaged teas, and a long Japanese type bench, where you can sit and sample his teas for £1.50 a cup. If you buy a canister, you get this knocked off your bill. God knows how he makes any money at all out of this; it's very much a labour of love.

We sampled a Ginger and Clove tea, which Mr d'Offay told us came from the Handunugoda Tea Estate in Sri Lanka. The Sri Lankans drink it with milk. It was refreshing, with the subtle yet slightly medicinal taste of the cloves coming through strongly in the aftertaste. I reckon this is currently going to be my number one tea for a baking hot summer's afternoon.

And there's another fascinating twist to this noble enterprise. The d'Offays' are fanatical postcard collectors. This is something I've got a burgeoning interest in myself. Postcards took off in the early Edwardian period, and an early postcard collection, apart from being visually beautiful, depicts a lost world before the First World War; so near and yet so far. They're also an important social historical record. Many of the negatives and plates of these photographs will have been lost, and all we have left are the postcards themselves, and with the shipwreck of time, a dwindling supply. I'm currently interested in early Japanese postcards, so I've stuck a recent purchase on the site for you to have a look at.

Postcard Teas has a gallery space downstairs, where they have occasional postcard exhibitions. Their first exhibition was called The American Dream, which showed fascinating real-photo postcards from the American Depression.

As I'm interested in Eastern European food, I use quite a bit of dill in my cooking. I bought a cheap packet of dill seeds a few weeks ago, and was amazed, after sowing them in a small terracotta pot, when they started sprouting in abundance. Herbs are difficult to grow in London, usually due to the lack of clean air, sun (like others, I've got a shady garden), and all the usual problems that come with city gardening.

If you look up dill on wikipedia, you will find lots of info about this fascinating herb. Apparently, it was used to ward off witchcraft and evil spirits.

I use it with fish. It goes beautifully with salmon, and marinated haddock; and many dishes with an East European slant will benefit from its aniseedy, liquorice flavoured taste.

English Wine? I can hear you all spluttering into your glasses of chilled Sancerre. But I'm not talking about British wine, or for that matter, British Sherry- I can remember the horrors of "Olde Sedgmoor"- a so called British sherry, made from sugar, water, and grape concentrate, mixed up in some factory down in the South West; I'm talking about English wine, which wine experts are, at long last, beginning to take seriously.

Think about it: there's no scientific reason why decent wine can't be made in this country- apparently there is less rainfall here than in the Germany, we have lots of suitable sheltered valleys with chalky soil, and with global warming, and resulting rising temperatures, the prospects for the fledgling English wine industry are beginning to look good.

So, a few nights ago, I opened a bottle of Chapel Down Flint Dry. It's supposed to be a bit similar to Chablis, and I certainly got the mineral, dry, flinty flavours. There was a hint of elderflower, too. I liked it!

Next up for a tasting is going to be Denbies Greenfields Sparkling Cuvee (several vintages available) which has consistently won various International Wine Challenge Award medals. I'll report back...