The Greasy Spoon

Chicken Curry in the English Style

I'm a huge fan of genuine Indian food, believe me. The sort of street food served by restaurants such as the excellent Masala Zone. But I'm also fond of our own bastardised British versions too- as peddled by the Cordon Bleu Cookery Academy, circa 1959. Here's my own recipe for a delicious and simple chicken curry. Most Indians worth their salt will turn their noses up at it, but I find it strangely satisfying; and it's extremely easy to make too.

First, you need to sweat some chopped onions, celery and garlic in oil. Next add some apple chopped into chunks. Stir in a tablespoon of curry paste, and some turmeric. Cook this for a few minutes. In the meantime, season some de-boned chicken thighs with salt and pepper, and dust them with some flour. Add these to the pan. Cook for several minutes, until the chicken begins to colour. Now add some chicken stock (preferably home made, otherwise Marigold reduced-salt bouillon is just the ticket), and simmer for about ten to fifteen minutes. Next, pour in some coconut milk. Simmer for about half an hour until the chicken is cooked. You should end up with a thickish sauce. Add a teaspoon of redcurrent jelly (yes, redcurrent jelly).

Serve with chopped coriander. Instead of plain rice, try my Lemon Rice instead. This is just ordinary rinsed Basmati Rice, which has been cooked in a bit of stock, lemon juice, lemon zest, and a few cardamom pods.

Pheasant Casserole

Here's a post I wrote last year about pheasant casserole. For me, it's nostalgic, comfort food at its best, evocative of the English Countryside in autumn:

Pheasant Casserole! I can't think of anything more suitable for a cold November. I once had it at a Sunday lunch party, served with a jug of foamy Black Velvet- and this worked surprisingly well. If you don't know anyone who shoots, pheasant are amazingly cheap to buy, either from your local butcher or decent supermarket such as Waitrose. I've plucked a few pheasants in my time, and I have to say that I'm not sure that it's worth the hassle, when you can a) get the butcher to pluck them for you (and do a much better job) or b) buy them from the shops, ready plucked, for a few quid.

Here's my family recipe for pheasant casserole (from The ABC of Tried and Tested Recipes), which I've adapted slightly from the original version. Take a large cock pheasant and fry it in butter and oil, until lightly browned. Add a dash of cognac, and flambé it quickly until the flames die down.  Remove the pheasant and put it into a casserole.

In the same pan, fry some chopped bacon, diced celery and carrots cut into batons.  Add two tablespoons of flour, and cook. After a few minutes pour in half a bottle of red wine (I suggest using a Burgundy or a Rhone) and top up with some chicken stock.

Bring to the boil, and simmer gently so that the alcohol burns off.  Pour it over the pheasant in the casserole and add 50g button mushrooms and 175g button or baby onions.

Cook in a moderate oven for just over an hour. Pheasant has a tendency to get dry and stringy very quickly, so I've cut down the cooking time. I'm sure you'll get the drift: you want lots of sauce, and you need to make sure that you don't over cook the pheasant.

When you reckon the pheasant is ready, take the casserole out of the oven and let it cool down. Lift out the pheasant and carve it up: cut the legs and wings off and carve the breasts. Place the carved meat in a flat casserole dish with the sliced breasts in the centre, surrounded by the legs and the wings.  Place the vegetables, mushrooms and onions over the pheasant.

Strain off the sauce through a sieve into a small sauce pan-  this will get rid of all the nasty bits and pieces. Add two teaspoons of redcurrant jelly to the sauce and  chuck in some crushed juniper berries. I'm currently crazy about juniper (which, of course, is used to flavour gin).  It has a rich, pine-nut, woodlandly sort of  taste and works beautifully with game. Check the seasoning. When the sauce is at the right consistency, pour it back over the pheasant.

Serve the casserole with parsnip chips.

Braised Red Cabbage

 

I've just read an article in The London Times about a new edition of the classic board game, Cluedo (or Clue to my American readers). I trust that many of you will have spent many happy and instructive hours of your youth playing this slightly ridiculous game, invented in England by a certain Anthony E. Pratt in 1949. How can we forget the vampy Miss Scarlett, that sinister old codger, the Rev. Green; the Library, the Lead Piping, the Conservatory, the Revolver, or the slightly scary Mrs Peacock? 

Well, I've got some really depressing news for you: the thrusting young execs of the American games company, Hasbro, have taken over good old Waddington's and have revamped the game to what they consider to be modern taste: Colonel Mustard is now "Jack Mustard, the ex-professional football player", Professor Plum is now "Victor Plum, a celebrity internet millionaire", the Ballroom is now the Spa, the Hall is now a Home Cinema, the lead piping is now a baseball bat. The evocative 1940's film-noir graphics have been given a naff computer game style makeover. Is nothing sacred any more? It's just not cricket.

From a commercial point of view, I'm not convinced that Hasbro have done a sensible thing.  If it ain't broke, don't fix it; tamper with the classics at your peril. It's the same with food. Often, you'll find some young new turk who thinks that he can improve upon a classic dish by giving it a twist.  Gary Rhodes tried this with his "New British Classics". Sometimes it worked, quite often it didn't.

Here's a recipe for Braised Red Cabbage. It's a classic British dish. It is is what it is. No extra squeezes of orange juice to give it "added lift". But it's more than just cabbage- there are other ingredients in there as well, and the dish has a tangy, piquant flavour which is addictive. It's also suitable for this time of the year. 

Take a red cabbage, slice it in two and take out the core (that's the hard bit in the middle). Cut up the cabbage into thin slices. 

Next, slice up some apples in the same way, removing the cores. Put them in a casserole dish with the cabbage, and some diced streaky bacon.

In a separate pan heat up a generous dash of port, two tablespoons of red wine vinegar, and two tablespoons of caster sugar. Bring to the boil, and then simmer gently for a few minutes.

Pour the liquid over the cabbage, bacon and apples, and season well with salt and pepper. Shove the dish (with the lid on) into a medium oven and cook for an hour or so.

Irish Stew

London this morning is grey and overcast, the atmosphere heavy with an oppressive gloom. It's even slightly foggy. That's one of the odd things about this city of muffin men and dancing chimney sweeps: the way the weather changes at a drop of a hat; yesterday for example, we enjoyed the most glorious, warm, autumnal day bathed in a golden light. Now, I don't usually write about the weather (finding the subject, like cricket, slightly tiresome) and I would dispute the idea that the British are a "weather-obsessed" people. This dubious award goes to the Americans. Have you ever noticed how the Americans are obsessed with temperature? I once asked an American how he was, and was told "twenty three degrees".

Anyway. To alleviate all this gloom, I've suddenly got this thing about Irish Stew. Traditionally, Irish Stew consists of just lamb or mutton; onions, potatoes and water. Purists will tell you that carrots should not be added, but I was having a chat with an Irish friend about this recently, and she insisted that she includes carrots in her version. The secret with Irish Stew (as indeed with any stew), is to cook it for a long time at a low temperature. You want the meat to break down, so that it's hanging off the bone, and the potato to slightly disintegrate, so that it thickens the sauce.

Take some Lamb Chops, and brown them in a pan with a knob of unsalted butter. Transfer them to a casserole dish. Next, saute some sliced onions in the butter, and when they're cooked add them to the casserole. Peel some carrots, and slice them into quarters, lengthways. Add them to the casserole- on top of the onions. The aim is to build up your vegetables in layers. Add another layer of onions. Finally, add some peeled potatoes, which you have chopped into quarters, lengthways. Season with sea salt and ground black pepper.

Now pour in some stock (ideally lamb stock if you have it), and add a sprig of thyme. Cook the casserole in a low to medium oven, until the lamb is cooked properly (ie just about to fall off the bone), and the sauce is reasonably thick. On a low heat this may take at least two hours.

Take the casserole out of the oven, and have a look at it. If you want to thicken the sauce, you could always add a roux- which is butter and flour mixed together to form a small ball. Check the seasoning, and add more salt and pepper if it's needed. Finally, serve with a generous amount of chopped parsley.

Sloe Gin

It's that time of the year again: Sloe Gin Time. Sloe Gin is a liqueur made from the sloe berries of the Blackthorn bush, which grow in the hedgerows of the English countryside. By ancient lore, they're picked at the end of October (around Hallowe'en and supposedly just after the first frost); but with global warming, I can't quite work out if you should pick them earlier, or pick them later.  Anyway, they're quite easy to spot- medium sized purplish coloured  berries with a slight dusty bloom. I get mine from an idyllic spot I know in Oxfordshire- that is if the good burghers of Wallingford haven't got there first. Sloe gin is easy to make at home.

First, you need to pick a decent amount of ripe sloe berries. If you live in the city, you can buy sloe berries on ebay. I think it's probably a good idea to freeze the berries first to simulate the effects of a first frost. The freezing process will help to break down the berries, and extract the juices. 

Then you need to prick each berry, so that the juices can be released.  Traditionally this was done with a silver fork.  I'm not exactly sure why, but it certainly adds to the mystique. 

Next, you need to get hold of some gin.  I use Plymouth Gin, the traditional tipple of the Royal Navy.  One year as an experiment, and in a misguided attempt to be trendy, I made a batch from vodka; it was okay, but I missed out on the junipery flavours that gin gives you. It's easiest to make your sloe gin in the gin bottle itself, but if you're really keen you can use one of those large demi-john glass jars used for home brewing.

Using a funnel, pour your pricked berries into the gin bottle, so that they come up to between a third and a half way.  Drink the surplus gin.  Now it's time to add some sugar. (Up to about a third of the gin bottle is probably right). So you will now have a bottle of gin, with the berries coming up to about half-way, and sugar up to about a third of the way. I hope that's clear.

To give my Sloe Gin extra flavour, I add a teaspoon of almond essence, a clove and a stick of cinnamon, for added spice. Screw the cap back on tightly, and shake the bottle like crazy. The gin will start to turn a pink colour.  Store it away in a dark cupboard, shaking daily for two weeks, and then once a week thereafter.

Over the next few weeks, your sloe gin will start to take on a darker, rich-ruby red colour, and will begin to thicken up.  In theory, it will be ready to drink after about three months, but I find the longer you keep it, the better it gets.  I had some in my cupboard for years- and it kept on improving with age.  When it's ready, you will obviously need to get rid of the berries, and strain it off several times over. Sloe Gin has a rich, spicy, woody, plum-like flavour, which is perfect as a winter tot, or as a traditional Hunting stirrup cup.

The Humble Cabbage

With the nights drawing in, and winter just around the corner, there's nothing more welcoming than a humble, everyday cabbage. Cabbage is one of those vegetables which everyone thinks they know how to cook, but in fact, is actually quite hard to get right.

There seems to be a general assumption amongst the cognescenti that cabbage should be cooked to a crunchy texture; well, Up to a Point, Lord Copper: quite often this just means that the cabbage is undercooked- and you'll encounter this in Gastro Pubs up and down the kingdom. 

On the other hand, I have nausea-inducing memories of the cabbage as served up to us at Dotheboy's Hall: this involved boiling water, a kitchen timer set to four and a half hours, the colour yellow, and a terrifying smell reminiscent of the Slough Gasworks. In the world of cabbage, you just can't win.

There are two methods of cooking cabbage. With the "fast-cook" method you slice up your cabbage and plunge it into rapidly boiling salted water. When it's cooked (difficult one to get right, that- you want it crunchy, yet not too crunchy), take it out of the pan and drain it in ice-cold water. This will help to set the colour green. Throw it into a small pan, warm it in butter and season to taste. Make sure that all the water has drained off properly. As I'm impatient (and also greedy), I have a tendency to do this in a rush (a "bull in a china shop", as my piano tutor used to say) and end up with nasty pools of water floating around on the plate.

The second method is the "slow-cook" or braising method, as favoured by the French (and The Greasy Spoon's grandmother). Yes, the cabbage will go yellow, and it will smell of sulphur, but if it's cooked very, very slowly, this might (just about) be a good thing. Simon Hopkinson, in his excellent book Roast Chicken and Other Stories, mentions John Tovey's recipe in which the cabbage is braised very slowly in butter, white wine and juniper berries. This sounds like the sort of dish they serve in Alsace, and my instincts tell me that a Reisling or Gewürztraminer would be just the ticket.

I've also found an old-fashioned French recipe for "Cabbage Soup with Diced Bacon". Chop up a green cabbage into small pieces and rinse it in vinegar and water. You then fry some chopped garlic in butter, and add diced bacon. After a few minutes add the cabbage and pour in some chicken stock. Simmer the soup very slowly for up to an hour. Serve in earthenware tureens with croutons sprinkled on the top.

If you're going to use the "slow-cook" method, a heat diffuser might be a good plan. This is a simple device which you place directly on top of the gas hob, and spreads the heat.  It will allow you to cook food at a snail's pace.

Floyd bows out...

Sad news about old Keith Floyd. If his more recent appearances seemed a bit contrived, world weary and lacking in genuine enthusiasm, his earlier programmes (such as Floyd on Fish and Floyd on France) were wonderful.

According to today's Evening Standard, Floyd's last lunch consisted of: Champagne, Pouilly Vinzelles 2006, oysters, potted shrimps, Nature Perrin and Fils Conte de Rhone 2007, Red-legged partridge with bread sauce, and pear cider "perry" jelly.

And who can forget Mimi of Biarritz and the correct way to cook piperade?

The Greasy Spoon visits... The Royal Standard of England

I've been going to the Royal Standard of England for God knows how many years now.  It's supposed to be the oldest freehouse in England, and I have no particular reason to doubt it. The building looks old enough- a Quakerish brick and timber pub in the seventeenth century South Buckinghamshire style, bordered by a brick-and-flint wall, and found down a single track, pot-holed lane near Forty Green, Beaconsfield, on the outskirts of London, where the outer suburbs meet the mucky countryside of "Tinker Country". Here, the scrapmetal heaps of road-side gipsy encampments sit uneasily next to the cliquey golf courses of Bekonscot Man, where hearty middle-aged execs (clad in the latest polyester plaid and natty Pringle v-necks) practise their swings and entertain the Boss.

In the days when I was still wearing shorts and humouring my pyromaniacal tendencies with a magnifying glass and a pile of smouldering leaves, they used to serve 'Owd Roger'- an especially dark and black bitter of superhuman strength with the density of pond water and, which, according to local lore, was limited to one pint per burgher. This was the stuff which put hairs on your chest. Those days are now past, and there is no sign of "Owd Roger" on the menu, which is a pity, as I look back to those days of inebriated discovery with nostalgia.

In a world now dominated by Farrow & Ball and its many acolytes, I am delighted to say that The Royal Standard is a rare example of a pub which has actually improved with age. The interior is slightly grotty, with muzak and dubious sub-Rothko contemporary paintings banned. The food is excellent, too- which helps.

Mrs Aitch ordered fish and chips (£12), and that is exactly what she got- a beautifully cooked, generous helping of cod wrapped in a thick, traditional batter, served with chips of the chunky  persuasion. I ordered the Steak and Kidney Pudding with cabbage (£12), and a pint of the local Chiltern Ale. Again, it was properly cooked, with a suety pudding crust as your dear old Grandmother might have made, with thick, meaty gravy, and a verdant cabbage. It's always a good sign when pubs stock local beer, and the Chiltern Ale lived up to expectations.

The Mutton Shepherd's Pie (£10), Buckinghamshire Bacon Badger (£12), Braised Elwy Valley Welsh Lamb Shank, with sauteed potatoes and roasted vegetables (£16), and Bramley Apple Crumble (£5) all looked excellent.  The Malt Whisky list looks interesting, too with Laphroaig, Bruichladdich, Dalwhinne and the Welsh whisky, Penderyn at £2.75 a shot.

How wonderful to find a pub serving Apple Crumble!

The Royal Standard of England is Pub of the Year, 2009.

The Royal Standard of England, Forty Green, Beaconsfield, Buckinghamshire, HP9 1XT (01494 673382).

Last Chance Cucumber Sandwiches

I always find this time of year- very late August, very early September- slightly wistful, if not poignant.  Summer is probably over, but with any luck might just about survive for an extra week or so of golden heat- but with an added autumnal nip in the atmosphere.

F. Scott Fitzgerald captured this brilliantly in perhaps, my all-time favourite novel, The Great Gatsby: Gatsby decides to take a dip in his swimming pool for the first time (it's late Summer) and gets gunned down by George Wilson, the garage owner who thinks Gatsby has murdered his wife in a hit and run accident.  Here is Fitzgerald describing the blood- red autumnal leaves floating on the swimming pool surface:

"with little ripples that were hardly the shadows of waves, the laden mattress moved irregularly down the pool. A small gust of wind that scarcely corrugated the surface was enough to disturb its accidental course with its accidental burden. The touch of a cluster of leaves revolved it slowly, tracing like the leg of transit, a thin red circle in the water."

Now, I adore cucumber sandwiches- honestly, I think there is nothing better on a hot June afternoon than a near-scalding cup of Earl Grey tea, and a plate of properly made, slighty salty English cucumber sandwiches; and I suspect that early September is probaby the latest you can get away serving them.

Here's how I make them. I like traditional finger sandwiches (ie sandwiches cut lengthways) and look upon those triangular abominations with distaste. I hope you will follow suit.

First you need the proper bread. For traditional English sandwiches forget anything brown, healthy, hippy or wholemeal.  No, you need a traditional pre-sliced white, refined sandwich loaf of bread. Easier said than done, as every time I go to the supermarket, I search in vain for the stuff. So, for the time being, medium cut pre-sliced white bread will have to do.

Spread the bread with softened unsalted butter. Next, get hold of some cucumbers, remove the skin and slice them up so that they are very thin. Pat them dry (a good tip that, as there is nothing worse than soggy sandwiches).  Spread the thin cucumber slices over one side of the bread.  Sprinkle with sea salt and some pepper. Place another slice of bread on top, and remove the crusts. Slice the sandwiches lengthways to form fingers.  You can then stack the sandwiches on a plate to form a neat square, and if you're that way inclined, decorate with a few sprigs of watercress.

That's how to make a proper English cucumber sandwich. Trust me.

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.