The Greasy Spoon

Constance Spry's Original Coronation Chicken

 

 

With Her Majesty The Queen's Diamond Jubilee- and River Pageant- just around the corner, I thought it appropriate to turn our thoughts to Coronation Chicken. I admit that I like it. It's slightly bland, perhaps even a trifle naff, but the original Constance Spry recipe is, undoubtably, a classic; far better than the ubiquitous, bog-standard chicken, mayonnaise and curry powder versions you will have come across. It's going to be worth making that special effort:

 

Constance Spry's Original Coronation Chicken

Ingredients (Serves 8):

2.3kg (5lb) chicken

1 tbsp vegetable oil

1 small, finely chopped onion

1 tbsp curry paste

1 tbsp tomato purée

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 purée, wine, bay leaf and lemon juice.

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

5)  Strain and leave to cool.

6)  Purée 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 purée.

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.

 

I've got another bit of good news: I've started another blog. It's called The Education of a Gardener, a title nicked unashamedly from the great landscape architect, Russell Page. It's a sort of diary or scrapbook about my efforts to transform a tiny, dingy London backyard into a garden. It's going to be a very different blog from The Greasy Spoon. Simpler, less cluttered. I'm really not worried about how many people can be bothered to read it; it's going to be more of a personal diary, a chart of my progress; my struggle to turn a depressing, shady backyard into a something that I can call truly, a garden.

 

The London Grill

 

 

Oh Crikey, who remembers Heinz's London Grill?  Baked Beans, Pork Sausage, Bacon and Nuggets of Kidney all bound up in the famous Tomato Sauce. In a green tin with the legendary Heinz label. And, apparently, there was "West End Grill" too; with mushrooms in it, rather than the kidneys. I'm assuming that Heinz suddenly woke up to the reality that many buyers out there weren't that keen on the noble kidney. Or maybe it was the other way round, and West End Grill came before the London Grill?

It might be a chicken and egg situation here. There's something slightly rakish about the word(s) "The West End", conjuring up images of The Stork Club, Dancing Girls, the neon lights of Piccadilly Circus, languid lunches in Charlotte Street, pea-souper fogs, Stephen Ward's cream Jaguar XK120, green-painted coffee stalls in the early hours of the morning: After The Ball is Over. I suppose Heinz were hoping that some of this sophisticated imagery would rub off on to their creations.

But as Sir John Betjeman once wrote (with apologies to Slough):

"Come, bombs and blow to smithereens
Those air-conditioned, bright canteens, 
Tinned fruit, tinned meat, tinned milk, tinned beans, 
Tinned minds, tinned breath...

But spare the bald young clerks who add
The profits of the stinking cad;
It's not their fault that they are mad, 
They've tasted Hell.

It's not their fault they do not know 
The birdsong from the radio, 
It's not their fault they often go 
To Maidenhead

And talk of sport and makes of cars
In various bogus-Tudor bars 
And daren't look up and see the stars
But belch instead..."

 

The Savoy's Cream Cheese and Marmite Sandwiches

 

 

 

 

I'm currently reading Matthew Sweet's The West End Front, The Wartime Secrets of London's Grand Hotels. It's a terrific book: the blurb on the back reads: "A Lost World of Scandal, Intrigue and Fortitude...The Ritz, The Savoy, Dorchester and Claridge's- during the Second World War, each was a kind of Casablanca. Their bedrooms, hallways and grillrooms teemed with Spies, Con-Artists, Deposed Royals and the exiled governments of Europe..."

This is all very Patrick Hamilton:

 

 

In 1941, the Food (Restrictions on Meals in Establishments) order came into force. All restaurants were required to offer a three course dinner or lunch for no more than five shillings a head, although luxury foods (such as lobster, caviar and oysters) could still be supplied with a surcharge. Young officers, home on leave, could take their girls to The Ritz, Dorchester or Savoy for a very reasonable sum; and as a result, these hotel restaurants became extremely buzzy places indeed.

I've always been fond of The Savoy, ever since my father took me there at the age of eighteen (or was it twenty one?) to savour my first Dry Martini at the American Bar, as mixed by the legendary Peter Dorelli. Remember that back in the 60's and early 70's my father used to handle the advertising for the Booth's Gin account, so he was rather up on this sort of thing.

The Savoy Hotel, incidentally, has very recently been completely re-vamped in a multi-million pound make-over by the Canadian group, Fairmont. I've no time for this: the reproduction paintings are truly dreadful- an insult to your intelligence; it probably never occured to the re-vampers that actually, this or that painting is really rather famous, and as it's currently in the so-and-so museum or gallery, the Savoy Hotel version is obviously not going to be the real-thing. And anyone with an eye is going to realise immediately that the textures and colours are all wrong, wrong, wrong.

Let's move on, before I start shouting at my computer screen (this seems to be happening more and more as I get older, it's a horribly unattractive trait, I do realise). So I've pulled out of my bookcase Anton Edelmann's The Savoy Cookbook, a worthy thing published by Pavilion. I like the sound of their "Marmite and Cream Cheese Sandwiches":

You take four slices of thin white bread (Waitrose stock this), and then spread two slices with Marmite very sparsley. You spread the cream cheese (ie Philadelphia) on the other two slices of bread, and then combine the two pieces of bread. The crusts are cut off, and each sandwich cut into three equal fingers.

Note the curious fact that The Savoy cut their sandwiches into fingers, not triangles. I've rabbited on about this before- it's one of the Great Truths of Life.

 

It's a wild world

 

 

It's wild garlic time. We get ours from the Pimlico Road Farmer's Market on Pimlico Green. £1.50 a bunch. I like this time of the year; when the boredom and horror of steely grey Feburary suddenly turns into the promise of a raw Spring. The Boat Race...The Grand National...Easter...Daffodils...Chocolate Eggs...Hot Cross Buns. And the whiff of raw garlic in the hedgerows. A few years ago, I was driving along a lane in South Oxfordshire and suddenly, there it was- a distinctive whiff of garlic coming from the grassy verge.

I'm very keen on a simple risotto made from English wild garlic. You'll find that the taste of wild garlic is much more subtle than the standard stuff, so dismiss any worries about any overpowering garlicky tastes. By the way, the look of wild garlic is a bit different too: it comes in the form of slightly limp, green leaves (not entirely unlike spinach) and you use these chopped leaves, rather than the bulb. You'll find that the wild garlic will keep if you stick it into a vase of water. I've just posted two helpful videos on The Greasy Spoon page on Facebook: they'll tell you all about wild garlic; how to find it and how to use it.

Here's how I make a delicious wild garlic risotto: I chop up a small onion and sauté it in hot butter, before adding Carnaroli rice (allowing the rice to soak up the hot butter). Ladle in a small quantity of hot, steaming vegetable stock and stir like mad, until the rice has absorbed the stock.

Carry on ladelling in the hot stock until the Carnaroli rice is ready: this is the art of risotto making. You want the rice grains to remain firm (with a "bite") yet, at the same time, to be bound up in a creamy, starchy, slightly soupy liquid. It might take about half an hour to make it properly. I find that it always takes longer to make than recipe books suggest.

And do beat the rice like mad- as this releases the starch from the grains. I'm currently in favour of Carnaroli rice: I find that this makes a slightly creamier risotto, although of course, arborio rice would be fine too. 

 

Anyway, back to the recipe. About ten minutes from the end, I add the chopped up wild garlic. Wild garlic has a very subtle taste, so I would recommend that you add quite a bit of the stuff: the risotto can certainly take it. I was also keen on the idea of turning the risotto a green colour- this will happen if you add enough. Check the seasoning and when you reckon the risotto's ready, add a small dash of white wine. This will stop the risotto from cooking.

Finish it off with a small helping of grated Parmesan- or indeed, a British cheese. This is Anglo-Italian food at its best.

And last, and certainly not least, I have started writing for The Dabbler. Some of you may know this site- it's an excellent (and slightly quirky) Culture Blog, well worth subscribing too. I was amazed to discover that I had won a Dabbler prize- a bottle of Ten Year Old Single Malt Glengoyne Whisky...

Lazy Spinach and Prawn Biryani

 

 

I'm going to deviate from the path with this one. Normally on The Greasy Spoon, I try to cover classic food and get to the bottom of authentic recipes. Hand up, I admit that the recipe I'm about to give you ain't a proper biryani- it's undoubtably a bastardised version, but so juicy, quick and delicious, I couldn't resist posting it. It's based on a recipe from allrecipes.co.uk, but I've unashamedly changed it in various ways.

What is a biryani?  I'm afraid many people in Britain just assume it's "Indian"- whatever that means. The story of the biryani, however, is far more complex. It originated in Persia, the name coming from the Persian word beryā(n) (بریان) which means "fried" or "roasted" and was brought to South East Asia by spice traders. It's a popular dish in India (many different versions), Pakistan, Burma, Thailand, Sri Lanka, The Middle East (including Iran and Iraq), Singapore, Malaysia, and Indonesia.

It's a combination of rice, spices, vegetables, fish eggs and meat. For an authentic biryani, the rice and curried sauce should be cooked separately, and then combined together at the end in layers, forming a contrast between the lightly spiced rice, and the intense flavours of the sauce, meat or vegetables. It's similar in a way to our very own kedgeree- which, of course, has its roots in the British Raj.

My "after-work" version is more of an Anglicised pilaf, I suppose. You could of course tweak it to become a proper biryani- by steaming basmati rice (with the lid on) and cooking this separately, creating some sort of a spicy sauce, and then combining it all together before serving. Fried crunchy, sliced onions would be an authentic and delicious garnish.

 

His Highness The Maharaja Bhupinder Singh, GCSI, GCIE, GCVO, GBE

 

Heat up a saucepan and add a dash of cooking oil. Add a thinly sliced onion, a sliced red chilli, and a knob of fresh ginger, (peeled and chopped). Cook on a medium heat for a few minutes until soft.

Now it' time for the spices. You're going to use cumin, coriander, turmeric and nutmeg. I would suggest that you buy the cumin and coriander as seeds, and then grind them up in a pestle and mortar until they become a fine powder. A tablespoon or so should be fine. I'm afraid that the turmeric came from the jar (about a teaspoon). The nutmeg was grated directly into the saucepan: I've got a little nutmeg grater which my mother-in-law (Gawd bless 'er) gave me for Christmas. Cook on a lowish heat for a few more minutes, so that the spices are cooked properly. The aim is to cook the spices, but not to burn them.

Stir in 225g of Uncle Ben's Long Grain Rice. This cheat's rice has had the starch removed, and so won't go mushy in the cooking. It's excellent for pilafs, in my opinion. If you were planning to use Basmati rice, you would need to rinse it first, and then "steam" on a low heat for about ten minutes with the lid on.

Stir in a tin of chopped tomatoes, and top up with hot fish stock. Add a pinch of sugar, and a pinch of salt. By the way, further cheating at this stage, as I added a dollop of Umami paste, the mysterious "fifth taste sensation" (a sort of cross between anchovies and tomatoes in flavour). Simmer the biryani on a low to medium heat, until the rice has cooked. If you think it needs it, top it up with boiling water now and again.

When the rice is cooked, stir in two packets of plebby prawns (these are those pre-cooked tiny, shrimp-like pink things you can buy in the supermarket). Take the birayni off the heat, and stir in a packet of spinach. You'll find that it wilts easily in the heat. Finish the dish off with a generous helpings of chopped fresh coriander.

If you want to research biraynis further, have a look at this video in which master chef Padma Lakshmi cooks a Royal Biryani for two hundred children in Hyderabad.

 

 

Greenall's Gin

 

 

 

 

Currently the routine gin of choice in The Greasy Spoon Residence. It's a classic no-nonsense gin in the London Dry manner: crisp and clean, with juniper and citrusy tastes. I've discovered that it makes a fabulous G & T when mixed with Fever Tree Naturally Light Tonic. A subtle, light and deliciously clean drink, especially when mixed with a slice of lime.

Founded in 1761, G & J Greenall is one of the older distilleries, which also happens to make the perfectably drinkable and reasonably priced Sainsbury's own brand gin. They also distill Bombay Sapphire. Personally, I find Bombay Sapphire a bit too sickly and floral for my taste; originally aimed at the 80's cocktail crowd- the sort of people who added cherries to their drinks, wore Hawaiian Shirts with Ray-Ban wayfarers and approved of cocktail umbrellas.

Greenall's have very recently redesigned their packaging, presumably aiming the brand at a younger market. Gin's suddenly hip again! But of course!  Gin never went away, did it?  This time round, I like the clean lines of their new look, and the rather Forties looking- and very British- typeface.

There never was such a goose!

 

 

There never was such a goose. Bob said he didn't believe there ever was such a goose cooked. It's tenderness and flavour, size and cheapness were the themes of universal admiration. Eked out by apple sauce and mashed potatoes, it was a sufficient dinner for the whole family; indeed as Mrs Cratchit said with great delight (surveying one small atom of bone upon the dish), "they hadn't ate it all at last!"

 

This Christmas, as there's only going to be four of us, we've decided to have a shot at goose, rather than turkey. I'm looking forward to this immensely: there's just something terribly Dickensian and Christmasy about our old friend the goose, isn't there?

 

Up until the 1890's, most people in England didn't eat turkey because it was too expensive. That's why it's such a big deal when Ebeneezer Scrooge orders the massive prize turkey for the Cratchits, who normally would be huddled round their scrappy little goose come Christmas Day.

Coming to think of it, I've got a slight problem with all of this. Scrooge sends the prize turkey round to the Cratchits on Christmas morning. By the time it's been ordered, delivered to Camden Town from Clerkenwell, stuffed, and roasted at the local baker's shop, it's going to be way past the Cratchits' bedtime, and poor old Bob's got to be up the next day at the crack of dawn to toil away in Scrooge's counting house. Heigh ho.

But which one is better? The goose or the turkey? I like turkey, I do. But it has a tendency to become dry and stringy, and by Boxing Day most sane people are fed up with it; even when it's turned into our notorious Boxing Day Turkey Curry.

There's no doubt that a fresh turkey is preferable to a frozen one. If you do have a frozen one, for God's sake make sure that it's thawed properly, otherwise you could find yourself into serious trouble. If you can, try and get the gamey tasting English Black Norfolk, or the American Bronze variety. And some more advice if you'll allow me: stuff the bird at the last minute, rather than the night before.

The immediate problem with goose is that there just isn't going to be enough meat on the thing. If you've got lots of friends and family coming round, then some of them are going to go hungry. It tastes delicious, and has a rich and gamey flavour, but there's also going to be lots of fat. I'm fine with that, but there will inevitably be some poor souls out there who'll run for the hills. Paul Levy also reckons that the goose is really at its prime come Michaelmas (ie September) rather than December.

So my advice on this one: if there are just a few of you- go for goose, and sit back and enjoy the rich and subtle flavours; if you've got a horde coming round, go for turkey, but try and get a properly reared and decent variety, and cook it with care. I know this is expensive, but as it's only once a year, I think it's going to be a good investment.

 

Alastair Sim with The Ghost of Christmas Present, A Christmas Carol, 1951

 

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.

 

 

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.

 

 

It's Christmas Pudding Time...

 

 

Believe it or not, it's time to make your Christmas Pudding. Here in London, Christmas seems to start earlier and earlier. The television advertising spree has begun, and suddenly our screens are full of earnest, eager types wrapped up in noddy hats and woolly scarves, grinning kiddywinks, and beaming Old Dears. Teflon snowflakes are having a field day. The lights have gone up in Sloane Square too, yet the leaves are still on the trees. Look, I love Christmas, please don't get me wrong: I'm no Scrooge; but often the expectation is, truthfully, more enjoyable than the actual event itself. But London is particularly pretty in those two weeks leading up to Christmas, and I can't think of a better place in the world to be at this time.

Right now is the time to start making your Christmas Pudding; and if anything it may even be a bit on the late side. Traditionally, the Christmas Pudding was made on "Stir-Up Sunday", which was the last Sunday before Advent, (about four to five weeks before Christmas Day), but in our family we used to make it as early as late October. I love Christmas Pudding. The way your spoon plunges into the moist (you hope!), rich, fruity mass; and the contrast with the smooth, rich, alchohol infused brandy butter.

Here is my tried and tested recipe for Christmas Pudding. It's based on our age-old family recipe (which I suspect was nicked from Cordon Bleu), but I've "improved" it with the addition of Guinness and Black Treacle. It went down extremely well with my brother-in-law, who gobbled down the lot, and apparently, declared it "one of the best Christmas Puddings he had ever tasted"; in fact- "never was there such a pudding". Incidentally, as an experiment last year, I added Scotch Whisky instead of the traditional brandy- and it sort of worked, although the resulting smoky taste was not really that appropriate. So back to good old Cognac it is.

 

 

Here's the recipe:

Stir up all the following ingredients in a pudding basin:

350g Mixed fruit and peel (this means crystallised peel, dried apricots, currants, saltanas, raisins, grated lemon rind, and grated orange rind)

50g Chopped glacé cherries

25g Flaked almonds  

50g Dried suet (you can't get the proper stuff anymore- the EU has made it illegal)

35g White breadcrumbs 

35g Plain flour 

70g Moist dark brown sugar 

50g Grated apple 

A dash of mixed spice and grated nutmeg. Some weirdos add carrot- but very sensibly, I leave this one out.

Once you've stirred all the ingredients together, mix in the following ingredients:

Two beaten eggs

The juice of half a lemon and half an orange

Two tablespoons of a dark stout (ie Guinness)

A tablespoon of black treacle 

A dash of decent Cognac (ie Brandy or Armagnac)

Stir it up like mad. Now's the time to add the mixture to a basin. Recently, I've had this thing about those old-fashioned ball-shaped puddings- the ones you see in the Victorian illustrations of Phiz and in Walt Disney. A few years ago, I managed to track down a ball-shaped pudding mould from Divertimenti in the Fulham Road, and used that- but a traditional ceramic pudding basin is just dandy.

Smear the inside of the basin with butter. This will stop the pudding sticking to the side. Pour in the mixture. Top off with a piece of buttered greaseproof paper, ideally cut down to fit. Finally, place a cloth over the basin, and tie it off at the top with a bit of string.

Steam it for five to six hours. This means getting hold of a large pan, filling it about a quarter full with water and bringing it to the boil. Place the pudding in the middle of the pan, and put the lid on. The steam will rise up within the pan, and cook the pudding. Once it's cooked, leave it in a cool place with a piece of tin foil on top. It will mature in the run-up to Christmas. On the great day itself, you will need to steam it for a further three hours.

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

Devilled Kidney Canapés

 

 

With Hallowe'en today, and Guy Fawkes Night and the Mexican Day of the Dead just around the corner; this time of year calls for a certain type of food: it needs to be warming, probably spicy too (with a nod to Mexico and all things "devilled"); I also like the idea of small, easily made tapas-style dishes and canapés. Perfect to serve up to any friends who drop by for Bonfire Night drinks.

About three years ago, I covered Devilled Kidneys on The Greasy Spoon. I cannot stress how surprisingly delicious these are- utterly wicked. I had the bright idea this morning of serving them as canapés; although bear in mind that you'll need to cut up the kidneys into small, bite-sized pieces and cook them extremely briefly.

First you heat up a bit of oil in a hot pan. Cut your lamb's kidney's into quarters, first trimming away the whitish core, and any white stringy bits. Chop the quarters up into smallish dice. Drop the chopped kidneys into the pan, and sauté them very briefly. Add a dash of dry sherry, bubble it away, and then add a further dash of cider vinegar.

Stir in a spoonful of redcurrant jelly, and allow it to melt. Add a generous slug of Worcestershire sauce, a dollop of yellow English mustard (Colman's is ideal), and ground black pepper. 

Season with a decent pinch of sea salt, and mix in a spoonful of so of double cream. Bubble away quickly until glossy.

To serve: take a slice of bread and cut into bite-size crutons or squares (I like them to be reasonably small). Fry in a shallow pan with groundnut oil until golden brown. Spoon the devilled kidneys onto each cruton. Arrange on a plate, season with cayenne pepper and sprinkle over chopped parsley or chives.

Go on, be a devil- you'll love 'em.

Incidentally, the rather haunting photograph at the top of the page is taken from Ossian Clark's "Haunted Air- a collection of anonymous Hallowe'en Photographs from America, c.1875 - 1955", published by Jonathan Cape in 2010. Ossian Clark has collected hundreds of vintage snaps found in flea-markets, car boot sales, junk shops and the like. I haven't bought this book yet, but I'm intrigued. What I've seen so far seems strangely moving (the lives of ordinary suburban and working class American families- now forgotten but captured in time), surreal, weird, and genuinely frightening.

Innis & Gunn Beer

 

 

 

This has been a recent discovery: it's Innis & Gunn beer from East Lothian, Scotland. It's got an especially scrumptious taste- butterscotch, toffee, hints of vanilla, caramel. Despite the Victorian style label, the brand was only established as recently as 2003, and the "unique" brewing process was discovered by accident.

The beer is brewed at Dunbar, East Lothian, before being matured in American White Oak Bourbon barrels for thirty days, and then for a further forty seven days in a marrying tun. There's also a limited edition beer, matured in Navy Rum barrels.

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 Greasy Spoon visits...The Fox and Hounds, Hunsdon, Hertfordshire

 

 

 

Photograph: Local_man

 

I like Hertfordshire. If you don't know England, this is an understated county of meagre size, found to the north of the London suburbs. Here the urban sprawl gives way to a rolling landscape: golden wheatfields, red-brick shuttered cottage ornées, church spires and tarred clapboard barns. Very Biedermeier. It reminds me in a way of the Belgian countryside around Waterloo; of Benjamin Pollock's re-imagining of the battlefield for the tuppence coloured sheets of the Victorian Toy Theatre. Or so I so imagine, conveniently forgetting the brave new world of Stevenage and Welwyn Garden City, where the post-war architects reinvented the English market town for the nuclear age, and bowler hatted bureaucrats dabbled in the dark art of social engineering.

It was at Hatfield, sitting beneath the branches of an oak tree in the autumn of 1558, that Elizabeth Tudor first learnt she was Queen of England; the famous oak now felled, a victim of the all-pervasive tyranny of Health and Safety.

 

Attributed to William Scrotes (fl. 1537-1554), The Princess Elizabeth, circa 1546, Royal Collection, Windsor Castle

 

We had a relaxed Sunday to kill in Hertfordshire, and decided to try the Fox and Hounds at Hunsdon for a light and late lunch. It's about an hour's drive from the Big Smoke. The Fox and Hounds describes itself on its website as "one of the most romantic restaurants in the South East". Well.

As a gastropub, The Fox and Hounds is pleasant enough: it's been Farrow and Balled, with a ubiquitous, slightly anti-septic, re-jigged saloon, now de rigueur of the Home Counties canteen: box framed modern prints, open brickwork, scrubbed tables and a separate "dining room", leading off a corridor framed with photo-copied reviews by the likes of city sophisticates such as Tom Parker Bowles.

Personally, I miss the days when pubs were pubs; when public bars sported cracked daguerreotypes, worn brasses, dart boards, Landseer engravings, nicotine stained ceilings, dusty oak settles and a sleeping tortoiseshell cat, accompanied with nothing more than the tick-tock of a longcase clock. Where a steak and kidney pie would be served in a ceramic pudding basin.

The Fox and Hounds was more or less empty apart from two pink-skinned, bald headed gentlemen in tight England t-shirts who gave us filthy looks as we dithered over where to sit. Actually, I tell a lie. They weren't dressed like that, but they could have been, so I trust you'll get the picture. But this is all beside the point. The food was excellent. Really, utterly lip smackingly good, and the service was charming. Which helps.

I had the "Lamb's Sweetbreads in a Curried Sauce". The sweetbreads were perfectly cooked: crisp and caramelised on the outside, soft inside, and served in a piping hot black iron skillet with fresh, slightly undercooked green peas and a creamy, aromatic curry sauce. Mrs Aitch's "Calf’s Liver Persillade & Duck Fat Potato Cake" was a briliant choice on her part, the liver beautifully cooked, with the parsley and garlic "melting" (her words) over the generous helping of offal beneath.

My plaice was a trifle undercooked for my liking (maybe that's a personal choice?) but served with lovely crunchy salty samphire. Bread was, presumably, home-made and genuinely delicious. The bar was stocked with interesting local ales from Adnam's and the Red Squrirrel brewery at Hertford. Service was friendly, welcoming and efficient.

  

Witchfinder General (1968), Tigon British Film Productions, directed by Michael Reeves

Architecturally, Hunsdon village is slightly enigmatic. I hadn't realised that the East Anglian vernacular extended so far to the west. The white-painted clapboard cottages, lattice windows, and timber framed houses are more typical of the flat counties of Suffolk and Essex; reminiscent of the locations used in Michael Reeve's "Witchfinder General". There's even a painted village sign over-looking the immaculate Green; the only thing missing was the village pillory.

 

The Fox and Hounds, Hunsdon, Ware, Hertfordshire, SG12 8NH (01279 843999)

The English Marrow

 

 

When was the last time you enjoyed a helping of marrow?  That's exactly what I'm talking about- the ever so 'umble, green-skinned English marrow, and it's currently in season. Right now. As a vegetable it's more or less disappeared from our plates; usurped by the courgette- the once trendy, now ubiquitous "zucchini" (the darling of the gastropub and aspirational bistro) and the various squashes and pumpkins of the American East Coast: the autumnal butternut squash (now beloved of the British supermarkets) immediately springs to mind.

But there's something attractively nostalgic, and unpretentious about the common marrow isn't there? The whiff of Dad's allotment, the village fete, garden potting, vintage Dandelion Wine '53, musty pigeon-racing sheds, home-made piccalilli, and crushing up the laburnum pods to get rid of the nagging missus. I'm sure my grandmother used to serve it up in an early Victorian Mason's Ironstone tureen. The marrow- you understand- not crushed laburnum. It's all so incredibly English.

I love marrow, its subtle watery taste and all the summery assocations that go with it. I heard Allegra McEvedy (of Leon fame) singing its praises on the radio a few days ago; and she's absolutely right. Not only is it nutritious, it's also extremely cheap, and, amazingly, still available at the dreaded Sainsbury's- although you'll find that Waitrose doesn't stock it. Far too upmarket.

 

In my last post I wrote about an excellent marrow dish I enjoyed at the Canton Arms. I went back there a day or so ago and had it yet again. This time round I've now worked out more or less exactly how it was made. I'm calling it "Gratin of English Marrow with Cannellini Beans and Rocket Pesto". An Italian take on an English classic.

First, you need to make a simple Tuscan style white bean stew. Chop up some shallots and sweat them in olive oil and butter until soft. Crush a clove of garlic and cook for a few mintues. Add the cannellini beans (I admit to using tinned) and vegetable stock, and simmer gently for an hour or so (or until the stew is reasonably thick and starchy) with a bayleaf and a few chopped up small tomatoes. If you're using uncooked beans, you'll need to soak them overnight in cold water, and then cook them for a longer time; quite possibly for up to two hours.

When the time's up remove a few spoonfuls of the beans, and purée them into a paste along with a tablespoon or so of the cooking liquid. Add this purée back into the pot: this will help to thicken up the stew. Check the seasoning and remove the bayleaf.

In the meantime, cut the marrow into large chunks, keeping the green skin on, but spooning out all the seeds and stuff you'll find in the middle bit of the vegetable. Steam the marrow until tender. 

To assemble the dish: take an oven-proof gratin dish and ladle in the cooked bean stew. Add the cooked marrow to the dish, making sure that it's well covered by the stew. Sprinkle the top with white breadcrumbs, and dot with rocket pesto. This might be a combination of rocket leaves (sans the stalks), garlic, parmesan, walnuts, olive oil, sea salt and black pepper, which you've previously whizzed up in your Magimix or food processor.

Check the seasoning and flash the gratin under a very hot grill. Serve it piping hot straight from the dish. I'm not a vegetarian by any means, but sometimes it makes an enjoyable change to ditch the meat and eat something like this. It's an excellent dish.

Simon Hopkinson: The Good Cook

 

 

 

I'm a massive fan of Simon Hopkinson and I was thrilled to learn that he's got a new book out; although I couldn't find any news about the publication date. It's a tie-in for his new television series. This is really good news: the current crop of so-called "celebrity" chefs are, in my opinion, dire (with the notable exception of one Nigel Slater). Can't wait.

Eggs Drumkilbo

 

 

Last week's Royal Wedding was terrific fun, and here in London we've all had a ball. Hats off to the Middleton family who handled the whole thing brilliantly. Can you imagine walking down that aisle in front of an estimated two billion people? Our Kate looked fantastic, and I have to admit to shedding a manly tear to Parry's beautiful anthem "I Was Glad"- it always gets to me for some reason. A good day for the country, I think.

I was interested in Anton Mosimann's unpretentious menu for the reception at Buck House afterwards. It struck just the right note- as with the wedding, showing just the right amount of understatement (not including, of course, poor Princess Beatrice's bizarre alien fascinator) and included: Cornish Crab Salad on Lemon Blini, pressed Duck Terrine with Fruit chutney, miniature watercress and asparagus tart, quails eggs with celery salt, Scottish langoustines with Lemon Mayonnaise, Bubble & Squeak with Confit Shoulder of Lamb, Smoked Haddock fishcake with Pea Guacmole, Rubarb Financier and Blood Orange Pâté de Fruit. The champagne was Pol Roger NV Brut Reserve. This is Modern British food at its best.

 

The Middletons stayed at the excellent and discreet Goring Hotel (not far from our hovel, I have to admit) and I was amused to see that they have the nerve to serve Eggs Drumkilbo on their menu. Eggs Drumkilbo was a favourite of the late Queen Elizabeth, the Queen Mother (Gawd bless 'er), and has recently been described by the food critic, Giles Coren, as "so awful it's almost good". It's a splendid old thing, with Lord knows how many flavours going on in there; completely over-the-top and utterly unfashionable. It was served at previous royal weddings. Here's how you make it: 

Eggs Drumkilbo

1 lobster
225 gm (8 oz raw prawns)
8 good tomatoes
8 hardboiled eggs
fresh mayonnaise
a little tomato purée
anchovy essence
Worcestershire sauce
Tabasco sauce
Salt and freshly ground black pepper
2 tablespoons aspic powder
white wine or water

Cook the lobster and prawns. When cooled and shelled, dice the flesh of both. Dip the tomatoes into boiling water for half a minute, then skin and de-seed them. Dice the flesh and add to the lobster and prawns. Remove the whites from two of the eggs and discard and discard. Dice all the yolks and the rest of the whites, and add to the mixture. Mix all the ingredients with sufficient mayonnaise, flavoured with tomato purée, anchovy essence, Worcestershire and Tabasco to taste, to produce a good, fairly stiffish consistency. Check the seasoning.

Dissolve the aspic in a little boiling white wine or water, but do not let it actually boil. Stir into the mayonnaise mixture, making sure it is evenly distributed. Pour into a rinsed mould, or a pretty glass dish if you don’t want to unmould. Chill until well set.

Unmould or not, and serve as a first course with brown bread and butter or fingers of mustard and cress sandwiches.

 

Wild Garlic Risotto

 

 

On Saturday I made a deliciously simple Wild Garlic Risotto. The Girl managed to track down some wild garlic (also known as Ramsons) from the Pimlico Green Farmer's Market. If you live in the country, you might be able to find some growing in woodlands. They're currently in season.

I'm very keen on "simple food done well"- it's becoming a mantra. This fitted the bill perfectly.

I chopped up a small onion and sautéed it in hot butter. Next, I added Carnaroli rice and let the rice soak up the hot butter. I ladelled in a small quantity of hot, steaming vegetable stock and stirred like mad, until the rice had absorbed the stock. Then, I carried on ladelling in the hot stock until the Carnaroli rice was "ready".

This is the art of risotto making. You want the rice grains to remain firm (with a "bite") yet, at the same time, to be bound up in a creamy, starchy, slightly soupy liquid. If you make it properly, this might take about half an hour. Beat the rice like mad- as this releases the starch from the grains. 

I'm currently in favour of Carnaroli rice: I find that this makes a slightly creamier risotto, although of course, arborio rice would be fine too. 

We're off to Venice in a few days time, and no doubt we'll bring back some proper Italian risotto rice to add to the larder. I've got a theory that the Italians keep back the best rice for themselves, and fob off the rest of Europe with lesser brands.

 

 

 

Anyway, back to the Wild Garlic Risotto. About ten minutes from the end, add the chopped up Wild Garlic. It comes in the form of slightly limp, green leaves (not entirely unlike spinach) and you use these chopped leaves, rather than the bulb. Unlike the standard variety, Wild Garlic has a very subtle taste, so I would recommend that you add quite a bit of the stuff: the risotto can certainly take it. I was also keen on the idea of turning the risotto a green colour- this will happen if you add enough. Check the seasoning and when you reckon the risotto's ready, add a small dash of white wine. This will stop the risotto from cooking.

I served the risotto with some fried shallots- for extra crunch, but The Girl pointed out that the dish didn't need it- and she was absolutely right, as I have to admit, she often is. I would recommend that you more or less leave the risotto as it is, but top it off with a small helping of grated Parmesan- or indeed, a British cheese. Why not?

 

 

 

Cauliflower

 

Recently the poor cauliflower seems to have come under quite a bit of bad press. First there was Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall announcing to the world that he doesn't like the stuff; and then there's the worrying fact that recent sales of the vegetable have slumped by 35%.

Well, I do like it. And I'm also a fan of the fascinating Romaine or Romanesco variety, as pictured above. Even if the rest of the world isn't- because it looks like a UFO, or a sinister organism from John Wyndham's "Day of The Triffids".

 

 

My dear old grandmother used to cook cauliflower in the traditional English way- and this is how I prefer to serve it:

The cauliflower is not broken up into florets, but steamed whole (for about 20 minutes, or so, until done), drained well and then served in a porcelain tureen (with a lid), and coated with a traditional white (or cheese) sauce, with a subtle seasoning of nutmeg and black pepper. I haven't seen cauliflower served like this for a long, long time.

The other, more popular way, is for the cooked cauliflower to be broken up into florets, and served in a dish, with a cheese sauce and breadcrumbs, and flashed under the grill for a minute or so, until brown.

Raw cauliflower's got a peppery, crunchy taste. It's not so great when it's over-cooked, so make sure, if anything, that you under- rather than over- cook it.

Avocado Bering

 

I've had great fun re-discovering the Roux Brothers' old 1980's television series on youtube: Roux Brothers. For anyone wanting to learn the techniques of classic French cookery, this is the series for you: no background music, no trendy hand-held camera shots, or an emphasis on style over content; this is television aimed at viewers who have an attention span longer than three minutes, and just want to learn how to cook properly.

That's exactly right- it's just two middle aged chefs, both at the top of their game, Albert (he's the fat one from Le Gavroche) and Michel (he's the thin one from the Waterside Inn at Bray) standing in a badly lit (by today's standards) studio and talking directly to camera. And Mein Gott, in just a few minutes you can learn infinitely more from those two, than from any of the over-produced cheffy programmes I've seen on television recently.

 

 

 

I liked Albert's "Avocado Bering". You take an avocado pear (I think the hass variety with the knobbly skin tastes the best) and slice it in half. You brush the exposed flesh with lemon juice to stop it going black. You slice a small wedge off the bottom of the avocado, so that it stands up straight on the plate.

Next you mix up some fresh crab meat with a rose-marie sauce made from mayonnaise, tomato ketchup, Lea & Perrins, Tabasco, salt and pepper and a spoonful of cognac. You spoon the crabmeat and sauce into the cavity of the avocado, and then spoon further unadulterated rose-marie sauce over the crabmeat and sauce. More sauce on top of the crabmeat and sauce combination, if that makes sense.

Albert garnished it with half a black olive so that it ended up looking a bit like a nipple- but if you've read my previous post, you'll know all about my current feelings on garnishes, and I would recommend that you avoid this. Avocado Bering! Incredibly old-fashioned (even then; back in the 1980's), very simple, relatively unsophisticated- and strangely satisfying.

 

 

Wild Garlic

 

 

 

We've just come back from an invigorating five day trip to South Cornwall. It was warm enough to enjoy a simple lunch al fresco at the ever-wonderful Tresanton Hotel in St Mawes. The slightly Agatha Christie-ish ambience of the upper terrace (with its ocean-liner metal railings, sea views and steamship loungers) remains unchanged: fans of "Peril at End House" (first published in 1932) will know what I'm talking about.

 

 

On Monday we dropped in at Rick Stein's Seafood Restaurant in Padstow and enjoyed an intensely flavoured bouillabaisse (Cornish style) with crutons, red pepper aioli and grated cheese; roasted Hake (served in a piping hot earthenware dish with puy lentils) and a pretty concoction of lobster and crab wrapped up in puff pastry and served with a pinkish lobster sauce.

The Seafood Restaurant at Padstow has to be one of my all-time favourite restaurants and, in my 'umble opinion Master Copperfield, remains consistently excellent. The discreet service is of the highest professional standard: raise your eyebrow and in an instant there will be a helpful waiter at your side; tables are spacious and the atmosphere is relaxed. The food is unpretentious and utterly delicious.  I can't recommend the place enough.

I've always had a thing about Cornwall- as a child, we used to spend our summer holidays at the charming sea-side town of St Mawes. It really is the most romantic destination: 

 

The mysterious St Michael's Mount.

 

Caerhays Castle: "Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again..."

 

The Cornish lanes and hedgerows are full of wild flowers, (including violet coloured wild orchids) and at this time of the year, daffodils. A thought occured to me on our drive home over Salisbury Plain and past Stonehenge: the verges of Wiltshire's main roads are barren; and in the case of South Buckinghamshire, I regret to report, littered. Does an enlightened Cornish county council have an active policy to encourage wild flowers?  Or is it that in counties such as Wiltshire and Oxfordshire, with large-scale and mechanised farming, wild flowers are killed by the spillover from intensive crop spraying?

It's the time of year to pick and use wild garlic (Allium ursinum). It can be found in damp woodlands and hedgerows, and gives off an evocative, garlicky smell which can't be missed. I love its subtle taste. Funnily enough, unlike the standard variety in which you use the bulb, with wild garlic you eat the green leaves. In London we have to buy it from specialist shops, the superior supermarkets (such as Wholefoods) or your local farmer's market.

I'm going to make a creamy and simple risotto, flavoured with my favourite wild garlic. If I chop up the leaves small enough, I'm hoping that this will make the risotto turn a pale light green colour.

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!

Jerusalem Artichoke Soup

 

 

We served this soup to our lucky guests on New Year's Eve. Jersualem Artichokes are currently in season. They're nothing to with artichokes by the way: bizarrely, they're actually the tuber of a species of sunflower, Helianthus tuberosus; Winter root vegetables. They look a bit like small, knobbly potatoes, with a pinkish coloured skin, and were grown by the Native American Indians long before the arrival of the European settlers. I love their subtle, slightly earthy taste.

And there's something else about Jerusalem Artichokes you need to know: apparently they make you "windy", whatever that means. Every time some television chef mentions Jerusalem artichokes on screen, they suddenly "come over" all coy (the otherwise excellent Nigel Slater was a recent culprit), it's slightly bugging; my theory is that if you cook them well enough, you shouldn't have any problems.

Here's how I made the soup. It was velvety smooth; and utterly delicious:  Chop up some an onion or two and fry gently in butter and oil with some chopped celery. In the meantime, take your Jerusalem Artichokes and using a peeler, remove the skin. You might find it easier to cut off the knobbly bits first. Plunge the peeled artichokes into a bowl of cold water into which you've given a good squeeze of lemon. This will stop your artichokes turning grey. You'll find that they start changing colour very quickly if you don't.

Chop the artichokes into small pieces, and add them to the hot pan. Stew them gently with the onions and the celery for about fifteen minutes. When they're soft, pour in some stock (I used an excellent, slightly salty ham stock), and simmer for a further twenty or so minutes.

When the artichoke pieces are cooked (ie soft), transfer the contents of the pan (the artichokes and the hot liquid) to your magimix or blender, and puree the mixture until smooth. The soup will be a creamy-white colour. Push through a sieve into a clean pan (this will help to make the soup velvety-smooth), check the seasoning (I used an oak-smoked salt from Waitrose to give the soup a slightly smokey flavour, lots of freshly grated nutmeg and some white pepper) adding a decent squeeze of lemon juice, and stir in several tablespoons of double cream to taste. Stir carefully and simmer gently for a few more minutes until hot enough.

Serve with crisp croutons and garnish with fresh dill.

Chestnut Stuffing

 

 

 

Where have the London roasted chestnut street sellers gone? Not that long ago, they were all over the place- in Piccadilly, outside The Ritz, several in the Charing Cross Road; quite a few near Oxford Circus. I liked the way they stacked up their hot chestnuts on their grimy braziers- in rows, and in little paper bags.

I love Chestnut Stuffing.  Buy a packet of peeled chestnuts. Cut them in half, and then fry 225g of chopped streaky bacon. Turn up the heat, and add the chestnuts.  Fry them on a high heat. Remove the chestnuts, and add 50g of butter to the pan, so that it mixes in with the bacon.  Add 110g fresh brown breadcrumbs, and fry until brown. In a separate bowl, mix up the chestnuts, the breadcrumbs and bacon, a bunch of chopped watercress, a beaten egg, and season with lots of sea salt and pepper, and a tablespoon of caster sugar.

Still on the subject of chestnuts, if you've ever wondered, here's how they make marron glacés in France: the chestnuts are blanched in lightly salted water to loosen their membranes. The membranes are removed. Next, the chestnuts are simmered in a vanilla flavoured sugar syrup for up to twenty four hours. Finally, the marron glacés are dried out in a hot oven.

The Greasy Spoon visits... Marco Pierre White (Wheeler's of St James's)

 

 

 

I had been looking forward to eating at the new Wheeler's for months. The old Wheeler's was an established fish restaurant, beloved by many, and in latter days a chain, which sadly, died a slow death after it decided to serve up pre-cooked dishes, manufactured in a warehouse somewhere, delivered by white van and then re-heated-in the restaurant. Marco Pierre White launched the new brand in 2009 in a joint enterprise with Sir Rocco Forte of hotel fame. The new Wheeler's incidentally, is on the site of the old Madame Prunier's fish restaurant in St James's Street.

 

Now I happen to have my golden Fauntleroy locks shorn next door at a vast expense, and over the last year or so, had often sauntered past Marco Pierre White's newish restaurant. It looks dreadfully smart from the outside, and dreadfully expensive. It turned out that I was to be wrong on the first count, and utterly correct on the second.

A few weeks ago, Mrs Aitch very kindly decided to treat me to dinner for my birthday. We decided to head for Wheeler's. The front of the restaurant looks promising- a tiled, fin de siècle style oyster restaurant of the old school, albeit empty; though our faces were to fall when we led into the main restaurant: a cavernous hanger, painted in a shiny red gloss (worthy of a tart's boudoir or a 70's Strikes 1926 burger joint), uncomfortable black lacquered cane seated cafe chairs, and decorated with semi-pornographic Bob Carlos Clarke photographs, of gigantious proportion. Look, heavens, I'm no prude, but there's a time and a place for everything, and I have to admit that I found the prints utterly distracting. There I was supposed to be looking at the lovely Mrs Aitch, but instead, found my eyes drifting towards nubile derrières, clad in oh-so kinky, skin-tight shiny black rubber.

 

 

I suppose the two big celebrity chefs of recent years have been Marco Pierre White and Gordon Ramsay. Rock n' Roll Aristocracy versus Footballer's Wives. Of the two styles, I infinitely prefer the former: all Wiltshire long barrows, covert coats with velvet collars and Bristol motor cars. And St James's is very much my sort of place. There's the endlessly fascinating London Library, the understated Budd of Piccadilly Arcade (where you can buy those knitted silk Mad Men ties), Christie's in King Street, that slightly naff bronze statue of Beau Brummell in Jermyn Street, the impeccable New & Lingwood, and probably the greatest bookshop in London (quite possibly in the world), Hatchards, where, under the addiction of some form of bibliomaniacal crack-cocaine, I have spent my inheritance over the last twenty years.

The potted brown shrimps were good. Mrs A though her smoked eel a trifle bland, and her Halibut Provencal "passionless" (her words). My halibut was reasonably good, though a bit on the dry side. The caulifower cheese was good, and the braised red cabbage, excellent. We orded a Gavi de Gavi and were told by the sommalier that it wasn't cold enough, and that they wouldn't recommend it. I found this slightly annoying. Why have a wine on the list, if you are incapable of selling it?  Am I being unfair?  But service was fine, and the sommalier was charming- a substitute Italian white was conjured up immediately at the same price.

The restaurant was more or less empty apart from an odd looking clientele. To our left, a silver-haired military type wearing a regimental tie entertained a svelte gentleman with a David Niven moustache (possibly Nigerean?). They moved tables to be out of ear-shot. Were they planning a parachute drop on the former Nyasaland? Otherwise, there were some nonegarian Teutons with bulbous girths, reminiscent of Baron Bombast in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. And a few goofy-looking American tourists. Swinging London it wasn't.

It was all at terrific shame. It wasn't bad, but it wasn't especially good, and for the money Scott's or J. Sheekey would have been a better choice. And Mein Gott, Wheeler's was expensive. Jaw-droppingly expensive. It came to £162 for the two of us. This didn't include a pudding, and we stuck to the less expensive items on the menu. Dressed Cornish Crab with sauce mayonnaise cost £15.50, Wheeler's Classic Fish Pie is £15.50, and Terrine of Foie Gras is £14.50. Mrs Aitch found it all a bit formulaic, and I think she is right: I'm not entirely convinced that Marco has had much to do with the restaurant, apart from lending his name to the enterprise and dropping by to have a look now and again. Four and a half out of Ten. Sorry.

 

Wheeler's of St James's, 72-73 St James's Street, London SW1A 1PH (020 7836 651)

 

Sunday, Bloody Sunday

 

 

 

I've always found Sundays slightly depressing.  I'm not sure exactly why this is.  It might be a school thing; the hanging around waiting for Monday morning, the hanging around waiting for hotel bars to open.  I'll explain.  In the early 1980's it was still illegal to buy a drink on a Sunday, until I think, half past twelve, and on the occasions when my parents or grandparents took me out from boarding school, there was much driving around the sodden, empty Gloucestershire countryside- killing time.  Surreal.

Joseph Losey captures the mood brilliantly in his 1967 film "Accident".  There's a wonderful sequence in which Dirk Bogarde, playing a frustrated Oxford don on the verge of a mid-life crisis, hosts a languid Sunday lunch party, which degenerates into late afternoon, drunken stupor, revealing jealousies and half-concealed rivalries.  Late August with wasps.

 

And there's all that Dickensy, tea and crumpets stuff on television.  "The Antiques Roadshow", The BBC Tea-Time Period Drama (though I am currently loving "Downton Abbey" on ITV).  It's all a bit mumsy, knowing and slightly gloomy isn't it?  No, I don't like Sundays, and prefer the promise of a Friday evening or the zip of a breezy Saturday morning.

And what do people always serve you for a late Sunday afternoon lunch?   Roast chicken.  Without fail.  And there's another thing I'm not keen on.  You get invited for Sunday lunch; it's served up at about three in the afternoon.  The result?  Further hanging around as you become reaquainted with the gin bottle, and then a frustrating drive through a traffic-jam back to your dark and cold hovel very late in the evening.  I was once invited to a lunch party in Wiltshire.  Lunch wasn't served until about half past three in the afternoon; and ravenous, I went for a walk, and in desperation started eyeing up some rather juicy looking free-range chickens running around in a field.

So why not give the ubiquitous chicken and gravy a miss, and serve up a succulent, crispy roast duck with tangy orange sauce instead?  A breath of fresh air.

This is the way I roast duck.  As a method, it's a good one, and works.

Preheat your oven to 230C/450F/Gas mark 8. Prick a dressed duck all over and wipe the skin, so that it's dry.  Rub salt and pepper over it, and sprinkle some of the salt and pepper into the cavity. Place the duck on a wire rack, and then put the rack within a baking tray.  This will enable hot air to circulate underneath the duck, and most importantly will let you catch the duck fat as it drips off; and there's going to be quite a bit of fat.

Roast in the oven for twenty minutes, and then turn the temperature down to 180C/350F/gas mark 4.  Roast for a further forty minutes, or until you think it is ready.  The skin should be crispy, and the meat succulent.  As the duck roasts, you will find that the tray underneath will fill up with hot fat.  It's most important that you should remove this at regular intervals, otherwise the fat will start to smoke, and you'll think that your oven's on fire.

The orange sauce is easy.  I pour orange juice into a smallish pan, add a bit of chicken stock, a dash of white balsamic vinegar, about two tablespoons of honey, grated orange zest and star anise.  Heat and let it bubble away for a minute or so.  Next add a generous slug of Grand Marnier and reduce the sauce by about half on a high heat.  To thicken up the sauce, mix up a teaspoon of arrowroot with water to form a slurry and stir it in.  Whisk in a knob of butter, which will give the sauce a nice glaze.  Remove the star anise before serving.  The sauce should be reasonably thin.

 

 

Irish Stew Revisited

 

 

 

There's a sudden nip in the air, and with October just around the corner, I think Irish Stew could be just the ticket. 

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 with any stew), is to cook it for a long time at a low temperature. You want the meat to break down, and the potato to disintegrate slightly- so that it thickens up the sauce.

Take a neck of lamb, and chop it up into chunks. Neck of lamb has to be one of my all-time favourite cuts. It's cheap, and cooks beautifully, becoming soft enough, after an hour or so of slowish cooking, to cut with a fork.

Brown the lamb in a pan with a knob of unsalted butter and a teaspoon of oil. The oil will help to stop the pan burning. Transfer the browned lamb to a casserole dish. 

Next sauté some sliced onions in the butter, and once they've 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, other meat stocks will be fine) and add a sprig of thyme. Cook the casserole in a low to medium oven, until the lamb is tender and on the point of breaking down. You want the potatoes and carrots to remain intact, but yet at the same time, to become slightly soft around the edges. On a low heat this could take up to two hours, so check the stew from time to time.

When you reckon its done, take the casserole out of the oven, and have a look at it. There's a strong chance that you will have a thin sauce, so I would suggest that you thicken it up: spoon out the meat and vegetables and reserve. Pour the sauce through a sieve into a clean pan and mix in a beurre manié (flour and butter mixed into a ball), until the sauce is smooth and velvety. Bubble away for a few minutes. The sauce will thicken.

Pour it back over the lamb and vegetables. Check the seasoning, and add more salt and pepper if it's needed. Finally, serve with generous handfuls of chopped parsley.

Simple, but utterly wholesome and surprisingly satisfying.  Don't stint on the parsley: it can take it.

Cream of Tarragon and Vanilla Sauce

 

 

 

 

 

You know, there really isn't such a thing as a brand new recipe. It's all been done before. The other day, I "invented"- or at least, thought I did- a delicious new piquant sauce based on the licorice flavours of tarragon, combined with the creamy, slightly sugary floral flavour of vanilla; and hey presto! I see that one of the top 50 restaurants in the world already has it on their menu.  Shucks. I think it would work brilliantly with chicken, and perhaps, even better with a meaty fish, monkfish, perhaps- even salmon?

Before I tell you how I made it, here's a brief look at the two main ingredients, tarragon (Artemisia dracunculus) and vanilla. I'm quite keen on growing herbs in our London garden (sometimes it's an uphill struggle), but I've never managed to grow tarragon properly. I gather this is a difficult one. Rather splendidly, Tarragon also goes under the alternative name of "Dragon's Wort". The serpentine shape of tarragon's roots made herbalists believe that it could cure snake bite, hence the Latin "dracunculus", meaning "Little Dragon". There are two varieties of tarragon, French and Russian. Russian tarragon is easier to grow but doesn't taste as good as French tarragon.

Vanilla comes from an orchid native to Mexico and after saffron, is the second most expensive spice in the world. The Spanish word "vainilla" means "little pod". Originally cultivated by Pre-Columbian Mesoamerican peoples, the Spanish conquistador Hernán (or Hernando) Cortés is credited with introducing both vanilla and chocolate to Europe in the 1520's. 

 

 

Here's how to make Cream of Tarragon and Vanilla Sauce, courtesy of The Greasy Spoon:

Melt some unsalted butter in a smallish pan; chop up about three of four shallots and sweat them gently in the butter. Turn up the heat and add a generous slug of a dry vermouth such as Noilly Prat (rhymes with cat). Bubble away to burn off the alcohol. Add a dash of balsamic white vinegar and let the sauce bubble for a minute or so. 

Next, pour in some decent chicken stock, add a scraped out vanilla pod and seeds, and a handful of chopped tarragon leaves. Reduce on a high heat, until the broth is reduced by about half- and starts to thicken. Strain through a seive into a new, clean and cold pan, discarding the tarragon leaves, vanilla and shallots. Alllow the sauce to cool down for a few minutes. 

Very carefully (so that it doesn't curdle) mix in a small tub of double cream. Turn your stove up to a high heat and reduce (with only the very occasional stir) until the sauce is reasonably thick. Check the seasoning and if necessary add some Maldon Sea Salt and White Pepper. For that extra vanilla kick, you could always substitute the Maldon Salt with a pinch or two of Vanilla Fleur de Sel, the delicious (and expensive) vanilla flavoured sea salt you can buy from French delis. Stir in some freshly chopped tarragon leaves. Warm through and serve. This sauce is really about four flavours: aniseed (from the tarragon and the vermouth), vanilla, salt and the sweet-sharp taste of balsamic vinegar. I think it works, and I like it.

The Greasy Spoon visits...The Canton Arms

 

Photograph: Ewan-M

 

I have to admit to a degree of self-interest over the newly re-furbished Canton Arms. You see, if I look out of the window of our drawing room, and crank my head a bit to the left, I can see the place. We're that close. It's at the end of the street where we live. 

We're currently sharing our hovel with a troupe of Polish builders, who, until the recent stock market crash put a spanner in the proverbial works, were about to rip out our slightly naff eighties-style kitchen. The plan was to use The Canton Arms as our local canteen, or failing that, to charm them into starting up a local delivery service.

For those of you who haven't been there yet, The Canton Arms can be found on the South Lambeth Road, directly south of the Secret Intelligence Service building, otherwise known as MI6. It's an ambigious area. No-one's really sure if this is actually Vauxhall or Stockwell, actually. The dreadful Foxtons call it "Little Portugal"- but then they would, wouldn't they? In truth, the Portuguese and Spanish tapas bars of the South Lambeth Road ain't as good as some people like to pretend (and sorry folks, this includes Rabato's.)

The Canton has been taken over by the team behind Great Queen Street in Covent Garden and The Hope and Anchor in nearby Waterloo. And it may be quite a shrewd move on their part, for the whole of Vauxhall (extending into Nine Elms) is about to become a major re-development and regeneration hot spot, with a Manhatten style skyscraper cluster planned for Vauxhall Cross (currently one spaghetti of a junction, dotted with edgy gay night clubs), and a picturesque Thames-side walk way extending past the new American Embassy quarter, all the way to a re-developed Battersea Power Station. There's even talk of a Borough Market style complex on the site of the New Covent Garden Market. And it looks like it's going to happen, for as I write, the cranes and diggers are at work on what I presume is going to be the foundations for the shiny new Vauxhall Tower, just to the left of the eighteenth century Brunswick House, where you can buy bits and pieces of resalvaged Old London at exorbitant prices.  Ah, Brave New World.

The new owners have taken the very sensible option of more or less leaving The Canton Arms alone. They've painted the walls a satisfyingly Victorian plum red, and put up quite a few Art Deco mirrors- but that's about it. The scuffed floorboards have been left uncovered. The front of the pub, remains just that; a pub. At the back is where the action takes place, where the eager (if slightly awkward) staff direct you to the tables. And they seem to be doing well, as on every visit there's been a buzzy atmosphere, fueled by their new clientele- vaguely trendy, media types in late youth, wearing Tom Ford designer glasses. It's also becoming a destination restaurant: last week I saw a prosperous looking young couple arriving at the pub in a chauffeur driven black Mercedes. 

Last night we decided to escape the chaos and drop by for a quick supper; on arrival we were directed to "our table", as one of their chaps rather kindly put it. The staff, by the way, wear black and white striped aprons. As at Great Queen Street, the menu takes the form of an austere bit of paper, and the choice is suitably frugal. Mrs Aitch's "potted shrimps" were served warm, oozed butter and were properly seasoned with nutmeg and spice. My "pressed pig's head" was served in thin slices, and tasted very similar to tongue. Mrs A's sole looked fine, though she felt that the chef might have had shares in Lurpak- for they're very keen on their butter at The Canton. My lamb was nice and pink and came with well cooked courgettes, and a crisp and- yes, again- buttery green cabbage. We ordered a few glasses of the house Beaujoulais and were offered the choice of either "warm" or "chilled". A nice touch, I thought. You can also order wine by the jug.

If you're sitting at the bar and want a snack, their "Foie Gras Toasties" might be just the ticket- I gather that these are already enjoying a certain following among le gratin. Yup, the food's not bad at all; actually, in it's own way, rather good. It's unpretentious, earthy and simple. No bad thing, that: pub's a pub, and who on earth wants their local to serve " a medley of fruits de mer presented on a bed of pampered whatever" ?  Especially if it's on a square plate.

The Canton Arms, 177 South Lambeth Road, London SW8 (020 7582 8710)

Lea & Perrins Tomato and Worcester Sauce

 

 

 

Many of you will know that I am a huge fan of Lea & Perrins; indeed, "The Greasy Spoon" has almost become a tribute website to the stuff.  "Tomato and Worcester Sauce" is their latest sensation. I'm not entirely sure about it: it's a bit like a pair of co-respondent shoes or a variegated shrub- it can't make up its mind whether it's Worcestershire sauce or Heinz-style tomato ketchup.

What does it taste like, I hear you ask?  Well, either like Worcestershire sauce with a dollop of tomato ketchup, or tomato ketchup with a dollop of Worcestershire sauce.  A sort of British version of American barbeque sauce, without the hickory bit.

A few days ago, Mrs Aitch treated me to a superb lunch at The Boundary- currently my favourite number one restaurant.  I would love to know how they made their Bloody Marys.  They were sweeter in taste (sherry and lemon juice?), spicy and dark red in colour.  I've got a sneaky feeling they may have added a significant dash of Lea & Perrin's new sauce.  It's the sort of thing they're selling in the Albion Food Store, which can be found on the ground floor above the restaurant.

Samphire

 

 

 

May I remind you all about wonderful samphire?  At the moment, I just can't eat enough of the stuff. I love its crisp, slightly salty flavour; the way it piles up high on the plate, and the deep green colour it goes when it's been steamed for a few minutes. "Marsh" samphire is the variety you can buy in the shops, and currently, we're getting ours from the fish counter at Waitrose.

What does it taste like?  That's a difficult one. A cross between asparagus and thin green beans, perhaps?  It works beautifully with fish, and should be served with melted butter. I have to admit that I'm currently over-fond of eating it raw, and I'm becoming addicted to it's fabulous salty, juicy and buttery taste. Under-cooking it is the way to go. Why isn't it more widely available?

Hot Cross Buns

 

 

 

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

I love Easter, I really do. Don't get me wrong, I like Christmas too, and would hate to be considered some sort of a tight-fisted Scrooge; but I think it's the combination of chocolate, breezy fresh air, Spring sunshine (if you're lucky), and, as an added bonus, its proximity to the Grand National; which does it for me.

My grandparents used to celebrate the holiday in style, and as well as the ubiquitous chocolate, Easter Egg hunts, and daffodils, we used to have wrapped-up presents too, and a massive turkey. It was just like Christmas, but without the hassle.

"Hot Cross Buns" have an evocative taste. What is it about them?  The combination of buttery, yeasty tastes with the sweetness of the currants? Maybe that's it. Hot Cross Buns are one of those traditional dishes whose origins have been lost in the mists of antiquity. The "crosses" were supposedly meant to ward off evil spirits, and the buns, apparently, were banned by the Protestant church for being too popish. Anyway, you eat them tomorrow, on Good Friday. I've adapted the recipe from Sara Paston-William's definitive book, "Christmas and Festive Day Recipes".

 

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

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

Turn the dough onto a floured board, and knead it with your hands until the dough is elastic. Place it in a warm, greased bowl; sprinkle with flour, and cover with a kitchen towel. If you leave it in a warmish place, the dough should rise.

Once it has doubled in size (this might take over an hour), knock it down, and leave it to rise again for another half an hour. Form the dough into smallish buns. Reserve some of the dough, and roll it out flat. Cut the dough into strips, and place on the top of each bun to form a cross. Set them aside to rest for about fifteen minutes.

Bake them in a pre-set oven at 425F (220C). It might be a good plan to place a tin of water at the bottom of the oven to create a steamy atmosphere. After twenty minutes, the buns should be cooked.

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

Béchamel Sauce

 

 

 

As promised, here's a recipe for the classic Béchamel Sauce. In England it's known as a "White Sauce".

 

According to the Larousse Gastronomique, the sauce is named after the "Marquis de Béchamel, Marquis de Nointel (1630–1703), a financier who held the honorary post of Chief Steward to Louis XIV.  Béchamel is an improvement upon a similar, earlier sauce, the Tuscan "salsa colla", imported from Italy to France by Catherine de' Medici.  It first appeared in "Le Cuisinier François", published in 1651 by François Pierre La Varenne (1615–1678), chef de cuisine to Nicolas Chalon du Blé, Marquis d'Uxelles.

The Escoffier method is considered to be definitive: make a white flour butter roux from equal parts of unsalted butter and flour, i.e. melt a big knob of unsalted butter in a hot small pan, and stir in an equal measure of flour. Next, gradually whisk in hot milk. As the flour cooks, it will form a smooth sauce. Season with sea salt, add an onion studded with a clove, and cook for eighteen minutes.

Hollandaise Sauce

 

 

 

I'm sure you all know how to make Hollandaise Sauce. You'll need it to make Omelette Arnold Bennett.  If you've forgotten, here's how: Melt 225g (8oz) of butter in a pan. In the meantime, liquidize two egg yolks with the juice of one lemon and season with white pepper. When the butter is hot, turn the liquidizer on full blast, and slowly pour in the butter.

That's it. Make sure it's served hot, and that it doesn't get too thick. Nothing worse than luke-warm and gloopy Hollandaise Sauce. And it's perfect, of course, with English Asparagus- not long to wait now..

Omelette Arnold Bennett

 

 

 

Hands up who saw that Sophie Dahl cookery television programme the other day?  Now, I'm an avid follower of Roald (who's Harry Potter?) and his extended family; and since the age of six I've been a huge fan of anything and everything Dahl-esque: transatlantic peaches, Gypsy caravans, Patricia Neal's cheekbones, chocolate factories, Quentin Blake's illustrations, and All Things Unexpected. 

In the programme, the delicious Miss Dahl (hang on, shouldn't she be the delicious Mrs Cullum?) rustled up a few bits and bobs in a retro-looking kitchen, and let us into a few charmingly girly secrets. And that was about it. Nothing more. Safe television, bland.

She looks great (amazingly like her grandmother) and her food looks good, but crikey o' reilly, I look back on the enthusiasm of the early Keith Floyd or the ravings of a certain Mrs Cradock with genuine nostalgia, and for the days when old pros like Anton Mosimann or Albert Roux stood in some boring, brightly-lit studio somewhere, with a set of sparkling saucepans and a brand new gas stove and just showed us how it was done properly.

The girl likes cooking, I have no doubt about that, but I don't detect a genuine obsession for food there- she's the star and the food is almost incidental. And I doubt it's her fault. I can just see it. Some thrusting young television exec takes her out to lunch at Sketch, or somewhere like that, and there's lots of exciting talk: "The New Nigella"..."You'll be huge, darling" (as if she already isn't- or wasn't)..."massive book sales", and so on, and so on. And who can blame her for taking the bait?  I would. You would. My Cat would.

The trouble is that, currently, the British Broadcasting Corporation is one gigantic yawn when it comes to food. And I have a solution: may I suggest that the BBC clears all its food programmes off the schedules for a year (bit of a problem there, I admit, as this accounts for nearly all their programming, and I can see a queue at the Shepherds Bush unemployment office of hairy bikers, voluptious Belgravia housewives, fat ladies, bald masterchefs, and pock-marked prima donnas), and then after, say, a year of food abstinence, commissions one new food programme of intelligence, content, integrity and dare I say it, quirkiness?  And one programme only.

There. I've had my little rant.  And I've gone off on a tangent too, as this post was supposed to be about Omelette Arnold Bennett, which the supermodel showed us how to cook. It was an inspired choice, as Omelette Arnold Bennett is delicious, and thinking about it, I'm amazed that I haven't covered it before. It's very much a Greasy Spoon type dish. Here's how I make it (this will make two omelettes) and you'll need to make up some Béchamel and Hollandaise sauce before hand.  If I haven't written about these two sauces before, by golly, I'm just about to over the next few posts.

Poach 150g skinned haddock fillets in a mixture of milk and water. I would recommend using undyed haddock, rather than the yellow dyed stuff.

A fool proof cooking method is as follows: put the fish into cold water, bring it to the boil, put on the saucepan lid, and then turn off the heat. The fish will sit in the hot water and cook slowly, to taste. When you're happy with it, take the haddock out of the pan, drain and flake up the fish. I like my fish to be very slightly under-done. 

Whisk up six eggs, add half the flaked haddock and season to taste. Heat an omelette pan, add a knob of butter and swirl it around. Add enough egg mixture to cover the pan, and stir immediately, tipping the pan quickly, to allow the runny egg mixture to fill the gaps. Work like a navvie, without pause. Knowing how to make an omelette is an art, something you will need to practise. Mrs Aitch is extremely good at it; I am not. Once the omelette has lightly set, slide it out on to a plate.

Mix a cup of Béchamel Sauce with three tablespoons of Hollandaise Sauce. Add the remaining smoked haddock flakes and fold in a largish tablespoon of whipped double cream. Cover the omelette with this mixture, sprinkle with some freshly grated Parmesan Cheese and bake under a hot grill until glazed.

And who was Arnold Bennett?  It's amusing how celebrity and transience go together like tea and biscuits or Jekyll and Hyde. Back in the 1920's Bennett was a famous man of letters, and a director of The Savoy Hotel to boot; where the famed omelette was invented for him.  As Andy Warhol said: "in the future, everyone will be world famous for fifteen minutes".

 

Scrambled Eggs Revisited

 

 

 

We had the usual lazy Sunday: lots of lounging around on sofas; newspapers sprawled all over the floor, Alfred Hitchcock's "Suspicion" on the television- that sort of thing. There was a short article in one of the colour supplements (was it "The Sunday Times", or even the dreaded "Stella"?) about scrambled eggs. Which set me thinking: what is the best way to make the perfect scrambled eggs?

Back in the 80's, I had an interesting plate of scrambled eggs at the Hilton Hotel in Park Lane. This was a breakfast affair- we had all been to some charity ball at the Dorchester, and drifted in to the Hilton at seven o' clock in the morning, feeling shattered. The scrambled eggs were bright yellow in colour. And I really mean bright yellow.

Now I'm sure that The Hilton use some sort of rare organic hen's egg (the shell no doubt mottled in a delicate Eton Blue); and I would hate to imply that their chefs took short cuts in any shape or form (this was the 1980's after all); but I have to state that the long finger of suspicion pointed to the remote possibility that they had used yellow food dye in the cooking process. Quelle Horreur.

 

Up until now, I've made scrambled eggs in the Escoffier tradition, and I wrote about this on The Greasy Spoon a year or two back:

"Break eight good eggs into a mixing bowl. Blend them very very gently with a fork. You do not want to beat them. You do not add water or milk. That's what Irish cooks did in the 1950's. You don't want to add salt at this stage, either, as it makes the eggs watery.  Not good.

I think it was the restauranteur, Marcel Boulestin, who suggested that Escoffier also rubbed garlic onto his fork to add a bit of flavour to the eggs. I'll have to check up on that one- I may be wrong.

Anyway, heat up a small copper pan. Add a knob of unsalted butter. Pour in the eggs, crank down the heat, and start to cook them at an extremely low temperature. In a professional kitchen they would probably use a "bain-marie". That means placing the smaller pan over a larger pan full of simmering boiling water.

As I've got a job of sorts to hold down, and have limited time, I don't do this; but I can only stress that for it to work, you need to set your heat to the lowest possible setting. Stir slowly with a wooden spoon from the middle, so that the egg sets in creamy curds.

This is a real art. You don't want the egg to stick to the pan, yet at the same time, you want the egg to set. When the eggs are almost ready, stir in some cream. Quickly remove the eggs from the heat. They will carry on cooking in the pan. Now you can stir in some more butter to taste, and season with salt, pepper, and if you're in the mood, chopped chives."

But we can improve on this. Elizabeth David came up with a brainwave. She deleted an egg white. So if you're using say, four eggs- use four egg yolks but only three egg whites. This will make your scrambled eggs yellow. No need for food dye. And that's how you make the Perfect Scrambled Egg.

 

Aloo Gobi

 

 

 

I've currently got this thing about caulifower; in truth, it's developing into a bizarre craving. I'm not sure what it is exactly that I like about cauliflower. Is it the slightly peppery, mustardy flavour? Or the crunchiness of the stuff when it's slightly undercooked?

Aloo Gobi is the dish of the moment- potato is the aloo bit, and caulifower the gobi. It's a dry curry from Northern India, and easy to make; or at least, I thought it was until I tried using the recipe from Manju Malhi's otherwise excellent book, "Brit Spice".  

 

 

I think I like this book: it's well laid out using decent, clear typography, has excellent photographs, and the cover shows a wholesome looking girl (presumably the author) chopping up some coriander. The blurb on the front cover (courtesy of The Guardian) says "Manju Malhi is being billed as the Next Madhur Jaffrey".

I followed Ms Malhi's instructions to the letter: tip half a teaspoon of cumin seeds into three tablespoons of olive oil or vegetable oil and fry for a few seconds. So far, so good. Next, you add a chopped onion, a peeled and diced potato and a chopped and seeded green chili and fry for five minutes, before adding 200g (7oz) of caulifower florets and stir-frying for a further thirty seconds.

Turmeric, coriander and salt are stirred in, and the dish is covered and cooked on a low heat for five minutes. Chopped tomato is folded in, and the aloo gobi is cooked, covered, for a further three minutes.

And the result?  Delicious flavours, but both the potatoes and cauliflower remained severely undercooked. I realise "Brit Spice" is meant to be about modern, fast Indian cookery with a British twist: busy lives and all that; but this is taking fast food to extremes. Also, the cauliflower florets were too large, but that was my fault. I'm fine with the idea of keeping the caulifower crunchy, but undercooked potato ain't a good idea.

Sometimes I wonder if editors actually test the recipes they publish? I have a sneaky feeling that we could be looking at a typo here and the potato, onions and chili should be cooked for fifteen minutes at the start, and not five minutes, as published. The cooking time for the cauliflower could probably be increased by a further five minutes, too.

But it's an interesting question. How many recipes out there from well-known cookery writers are actually just plain wrong?  I seem to remember reading about the famous case of Robert Carrier and his Chili Con Carne, when because of some misprint, thousands of eager cooks across the land spooned in five tablespoons of hot chili powder rather than four teaspoons, or whatever it was supposed to be. And this was in 1965 (or whenever it was), a time when most Britons thought garlic was the mark of The Beast. 

Stangely, curry might now almost considered to be The National Dish.

Vichy Onions

 

 

 

If you're looking for a side dish that's slightly different, this is the perfect recipe. It's similar in style to "Vichy Carrots", which are glazed baby carrots cooked in a bit of sugar and mineral water from the Vichy area of France.

Buy or dig up some baby onions. You could also use shallots, but I think the baby onions will hold their shape better. In a small pan, saute them very slowly in butter for a minute or so.

Next, add some meat stock, salt and pepper, and two teaspoons of sugar. The idea is to braise the onions, so you want your stock to come only half-way up the onions. If you're going to add the fizzy water, now's the time to do it, but I'm not entirely convinced that anyone (unless they have super developed taste buds) is going to be able to tell the difference here between using tap water or Vichy water.  After all, there's quite of bit of other stuff going on in there, the sugar, the salty stock, not to mention the onions themselves. Dunno.

Cook gently, so that the stock combines with the sugar and butter, and forms a syrup. Make sure that the onions are well coated; and carry on cooking until the stock/syrup has been reduced. You're looking for nicely caramelised onions. If the heat is too high, they may burn, so watch out for this.

Scotch Eggs

 

 

There was a brilliant little feature on the Robert Elms radio programme yesterday (click here to listen again). It was about Scotch Eggs. Now, I haven't had a Scotch Egg for ages. If truth is to be told, I had almost forgotten about them. And I rather like them. Maybe it's a boy thing? I mentioned it to Mrs Aitch, and she pulled a face and pretended to puke. And I have to admit, now thinking about it, who can forget those dubious Scotch Eggs of past memory?  School-outing Scotch Eggs rolling around in clouded tupperware containers, with dry, blackish egg yolks and soggy breadcrumbs eminating sulphurous lingering odours.

What is a Scotch Egg?  It's a shelled hard-boiled egg, wrapped in a sausage meat mixture, coated in breadcrumbs and then deep-fried. I have no idea if it is genuinely Scottish or not, alhough I hear that the Scots like to dip Mars Bars into batter and then drop them into a deep fat fryer- which could explain many of the strange things that go on north of the border. According to wikipedia (so it must be true), Scotch Eggs were actually invented by the very English Fortnum & Mason in 1851. This has the ring of actualité about it.

Anyway, on the programme, Mr Elms and his guest blind tasted all sorts of tantalising Scotch Eggs from The Hand-made Scotch Egg Company.  This noble organisation will deliver beautifully made Scotch Eggs to your door, individually placed in those pâpier-maché egg trays. And what a choice!

"Colonel" is made from British Saddleback Pork with Shropshire Lad Beer Mustard and fresh watercress. "Pippin" comes with free-range pork, smoked bacon and apples. Or how about "Aztec" ?- that's made from free-range pork, Moroccan harissa, smoked paprika, red chili and dark chocolate. If that strikes you as a trifle over-the-top, they also sell the "Classic Mac"; cooked in the traditional way, with free-range pork, lightly spiced with a blend of seasonings.

I think I'm going to order some for Easter.  Their "wee ones" (smaller Scotch Eggs made from quail's eggs) might work well as some sort of first course?  We shall see.

Gin and Tonic

 

 

Recently, I seem to have reverted to my former tipple of choice, The Gin and Tonic. Our hovel is in danger of becoming a temple to the stuff. As I regretfully say farewell to the years of late youth, I seem to be turning into an updated version of my father. My father was- and is- a creature of habit, and back in the early 70's, come hell or high water, every Saturday morning was spent in ritual fashion, stocking up on Victory Gin from Victoria Wine, and a bag or two of spicy Bombay Mix.

Own brand gins are not to be sniffed at: I've started to drink the excellent and extremely affordable Sainsbury's London Dry Gin, which I can see from the small print is actually distilled by Greenall's up in Warrington (where, incidentally, Bombay Sapphire is made.) It's a clean, light and rather subtle gin and comes highly recommended, although I'm not that happy about the new packaging- until a few weeks ago, it came with an amusing 18th century black and white engraving of St Paul's Cathedral, London Bridge, and the spires of Old London Town. This has now been relegated by some trendy packaging consultant to a small, over-stylised motif in the left hand corner of the label.

Any serious gin drinker will know that the different brands vary dramatically in taste. Bombay Sapphire for example, is highly scented, and in my opinion, slightly too sweet, even a trifle sickly. The brand, too, is not as ancient as the label suggests, and I'm guessing that it's deliberately marketed at a younger metropolitan crowd. Tanqueray Export is popular in America and with its higher alcohol content is excellent for a Dry Martini. Beefeater is a smooth and crisp gin which consistently wins approval in blind tastings, and is reasonably affordable. I'm a huge fan.

I suppose that my interest in gin derives from the days when my father used to advertise Booth's Gin. Booth's was the gentleman's gin, founded in London around 1740, and a favourite, if it is to be believed, of both Her Majesty the Queen, and Her Late Majesty, Queen Elizabeth, The Queen Mother.

 

 

Strangely, "Booth's Finest London Dry Gin" was actually yellow in colour: I seem to remember some story about how the straw in the wooden barrels turned the gin yellow by accident;  a tradition which Booth's maintained until the demise of the company in, I suppose, the mid 1980's. "Booth's High and Dry" (which came in a lovely frosted bottle, a splendid heraldic red plastic lion on a "silver" chain around the neck) was the gin of choice for the connoisseur of the Dry Martini.

As you've probably realised by now, Booth's panelled offices in Park Lane closed their doors for the last time some years back, and the brand was swallowed up by one of the corporate Big Boys, who allowed it to fall into obscurity. There is a gin calling itself "Booth's London Dry" (in a blue plastic bottle, but with the famous red lion) which seems to be still available in the United States, but I read somewhere that it's actually distilled in New Jersey, and I suspect that it has no authentic connection with the original British brand. I really don't know. It's all a terrific shame: it would really make my day to see those suave frosted bottles back on the shelves once again.

Anyway. I digress. What's the best way to serve gin?  The classic gin and tonic is an excellent (and under-rated) drink, and I hate to admit it, not often served properly (and that includes by yours truly himself). Nothing worse than warm gin in one of those cheap hotel glass tumblers with a white line on it, and a limp lemon slice floating around in it.

Ideally, the gin needs to be chilled in the 'fridge, and then poured into a clean tumbler over fresh ice cubes. Schweppes make a classic tonic, though I also happen to like the taste of Britvic (founded in the mid 19th century as the British Vitamin Products Company). It's quite a good idea to buy those small cans of tonic which keep fizzy, as tonic kept in those plastic screw-top bottles tends to go flat. There are some very strange people out there who claim that a slice of cucumber works well in gin. I reckon that's a complete aberration, and am of the firm belief that a slice of lime is your best bet, with lemon coming up from behind in a close second.

That's it.

 

 
 

Sliced Oranges with Calvados and Almonds

 

 

This is a simple dish that we came up with (in other words improvised) over Christmas.  As we didn't have any cognac left, I found a decent bottle of Obertin Calvados on my drinks tray, and used that instead. The results were spectacular- the fruity, applely taste of the Calvados complimented the oranges brilliantly, and brought out the juice.

Slice up some oranges and arrange them in a glass bowl (one of those deep, cut-glass things would be ideal). In the meantime, make a syrup by heating up a few spoonfuls of white sugar in some water. Peel the skin off an orange, and cut it up into very thin strips. Blanche the orange strips in boiling water, and then add them to the syrup.

Pour a decent slug of Calvados into the hot syrup, stir it around, and then pour the now Calvados-infused syrup over the sliced oranges.

Garnish with almonds. If you can be bothered, "dry-roast" or toast the almonds in a hot frying pan, until they are golden brown.

Funnily enough, I think this dish would be ideal for either a raw Winter's day, or a languid Summer's afternoon.

Goose

 

 

"There never was such a goose. Bob said he didn't believe there ever was such a goose cooked. Its tenderness and flavour, size and cheapness were the themes of universal admiration. Eked out by apple sauce and mashed potatoes, it was a sufficient dinner for the whole family; indeed as Mrs Cratchit said with great delight (surveying one small atom of bone upon the dish), "they hadn't ate it all at last"."

There's something terribly Dickensian and Christmasy about our old friend the goose, isn't there? Up until the 1890's most people in England didn't eat turkey, because it was so incredibly expensive. That's why it's such a big deal when Ebeneezer Scrooge buys a massive turkey for the Cratchit family, who would normally be huddled round their scrappy little goose come Christmas Day. 

But which one is better? The goose or the turkey? I like turkey, I do. But it has a tendency to become dry and stringy, and by Boxing Day most sane people are fed up with it; even when it's turned into our famed Boxing Day Turkey Curry. There is no doubt that a fresh turkey is preferable to a frozen one. If you have a frozen one, for god's sake make sure that it has thawed properly, otherwise you and your family could get yourselves into serious trouble. If you can, try and get the gamey tasting English Black Norfolk, or the American Bronze variety.

 And some more advice: stuff the bird at the last minute, rather than the night before. The immediate problem with goose is that there just isn't going to be enough meat on the thing. If you've got lots of friends and family coming round, then some of them are going to go hungry. It tastes delicious, and has a rich and gamey flavour, but there's also going to be lots of fat. I'm fine with that, but there will be some poor souls out there who will want to run for the hills. 

Paul Levy also reckons that the goose is really at its prime come Michaelmas (ie September) rather than December. So my advice on this one: if there are just a few of you- go for goose, and sit back and enjoy the rich and subtle flavours; if you've got a horde coming round, go for turkey, but try and get a properly reared and decent variety, and cook it with care. I know this is expensive, but as it's only once a year, I think it's going to be a good investment. Joy to the World!

Wassail

 

 

 

I've noticed that quite a few readers of The Greasy Spoon have been searching for wassail on the internet. As I'm feeling in a helpful mood, I'm revisiting a post that I wrote last year on the subject. I've also added a nice interactive link to a quirky short film I've found, explaining the wassail tradition in Herefordshire, England. Please take note of my own recipe for Mulled Cider. It's so utterly preferable to the ubiquitous Mulled Wine. I can't stress that enough.

Here's the article:

Wassail is a traditional mulled punch, drunk at Christmas-time in the Northern and Germanic countries. Very Nordic. Wassailing can either mean the singing of carols (at Christmas, the serfs would wassail the Lord and Lady of the Manor), or, as in Gloucestershire, and other western counties, the wassailing of an apple tree- to ensure a good harvest, and drive away the evil spirits. This is done on Twelfth Night. I reckon that The Wicker Man was closer to the bone than many people realise. 

Anyway, although I realise that the chances of wassailing an apple tree in down town Vancouver are practically zero, I'm going to give you my recipe for my very own wassail, otherwise known as Mulled Cider. I prefer it to Mulled Wine, I really do. The problem with the wine version, is that many people get it wrong. Very wrong. They chuck in a bottle of plonk, boil it up, and then add all sorts of other dodgy ingredients, including vodka; and the result is an over-acidic, pungent brew which can leave you with a god-awful hangover. 

Mulled Cider is "different", smoother- and in my opinion delicious. There are no rules; but to get the best results, I suggest that you keep it simple. In a large pan, I pour in a decent dryish West Country or Norman organic cider. Try and avoid the cheaper, sweeter, fizzy stuff.

Next, I cut an orange in half, and add that. Do the same with a lemon. Now it's time for the spices. A cinnamon stick, a few cloves, ground nutmeg, and a kernel of ginger would work well.Taste it!

If it's too dry, add a bit of brown sugar. Start warming it up. You do not want to boil it. Keep it simmering at just below boiling point. If you boil it, all the alcohol will vapourise away- and you want your party to go with a swing, don't you? If you're going to serve it in glass mugs, make sure that you put a silver spoon in the mug first. This will prevent the glass from shattering. 

If you've got time, decorate the wassail with "Lamb's Wool". This is just peeled apple simmered in cider until it goes woolly, and "explodes"; once that's done, you can float the pulp on top of the mulled cider.

 

 

Mince Pies

 

 

Looking back at my posts past, I'm amazed that I've never covered these before. Of course, "mince" pies have got nothing to do with meat or even minced meat; the reason why they're called this goes back to the days of Merry Olde England, when mince pies did indeed include meat, or at least, a "mincemeat" consisting of chopped meat, candied fruit, suet, and sugar, all soaked in brandy. These days, we leave the meat out.

Here's our family recipe for mince pies. Ideally, you leave the mincemeat to mature for god knows how long, but as time is short, I'm sure that it won't be the end of the world if you don't.

First, you need to make the "mincemeat". Peel, core and chop 450g apples and mix them up with 335g raisins, 225g sultanas, 175g shredded suet, 335g soft dark brown sugar, 225g  chopped mixed peel (that's candied fruit), 110g chopped almonds, and a teaspoon of mixed spice.

Grate the rind off a lemon and squeeze out the juice. Pour this into the mixture, and add 110ml of brandy or rum. Ideally, you would leave the mincemeat to mature for up to three months, but as time is short, leave it to mature overnight.

To make the pastry: mix up 335g plain flour, 75g ground almonds, and 75g caster sugar. Stir in two egg yolks and 225g unsalted butter, so that the mixture takes on a breadcrumb type texture. Finally, mix in two tablespoons of cold water. Leave the mixture in the 'fridge for 45 minutes.

Roll the pastry flat, and use it to line small jam jar tart tins. Fill each space with heaped teaspoonfuls of mincemeat, and then top with a smaller circle of pastry. Wet the edges of the pastry and press down well at the sides. Cut a slit or a cross on the top of each pie, and brush with milk or egg white, and dust with caster sugar.

Bake in a moderate oven until the pies start to turn brown.  Serve hot- or cold- with brandy butter. Traditionally, the first mince pie of the season grants you a wish, but only on the condition that you don't talk while you're eating.

 

Smoked Eel with Creamed Horseradish Sauce

 

 

Racking my brains for an appropriate Christmas Lunch or Boxing Day first course, I've come up with the idea of giving 'em Smoked Eel, served with a Creamed Horseradish Sauce. For some reason, this seems to me to be a suitable choice, and I think the subtle smokiness of the eel will balance all the richness and over-stuffing to follow.

If you've never had smoked eel, forget all the "cor blimey, Guv, jellied eel" nonsense. Smoked eel tastes entirely different, and with a properly made horseradish sauce, might even prove to be a sophisticated option.

It's not especially cheap, I have to admit. We've just ordered our smoked eel from the excellent Brown and Forrest, and an 8oz pack of smoked eel fillets (hot smoked over beech and apple) costs £14.00. You will need about 2oz per person.

We're going to serve it with slices of lemon and creamed horseradish sauce. I'm basing this on Simon Hopkinson's version:

First you need to make a horseradish concentrate. Peel a horseradish root and grate it finely across the base of the root. You will need 200g of the stuff.

Next, put the grated horseradish into a food processor. Add five tablespoons of water, two teaspoons of Maldon Salt, one and a half tablespoons of caster sugar, two and a half tablespoons of lemon juice, and two and a half tablespoons of white wine vinegar. Purée the ingredients until smooth. You will be able to keep the horseradish concentrate in a Kilner jar for up to two weeks.

When you want to make the creamed horseradish sauce, it's simplicity itself. Take four tablespoons of the horseradish concentrate you've made earlier, and whisk it into 200ml of double cream, adding a little bit more sugar and salt, to taste.

Cumberland Sauce

 

 

 

 

I had a minor tiff with Mrs Aitch the other day. As we were watching "Delia's Christmas" on television (there's been a fresh outbreak), I suggested, in my superior way, that Delia's version of Cumberland Sauce was too thin. Mrs Aitch pointed out that Cumberland Sauce should never be too thick, and should always be served cold. Well, of course, after a bit of research, I discovered that Mrs Aitch and Saint Delia were right, and The Greasy Spoon was wrong.

I love Cumberland Sauce, and think it's utterly, completely delcious. In my opinion, it's infinitely a cut above the ubiquitous Cranberry Sauce, though I think, from memory, that we're planning to offer both on Christmas Day. Cumberland Sauce works brilliantly with ham, bacon and turkey.

There's quite a bit of useful historical info in Elizabeth David's superb little book, Elizabeth David's Christmas, edited by Jill Norman. I've recommended this one before, and I'm very happy to recommend it again.

According to Mrs David, the first mention of Cumberland Sauce in any published cookery book, comes as late as 1904, in Alfred Suzanne's "La Cuisine Anglaise". The great Alexis Soyer, however, published a similar German recipe for "a sauce to go with Boar's Head" as early as 1853.

Elizabeth David reckoned it to be the best Cumberland Sauce recipe, and it's almost identical to the family recipe I'm about to give you. The only substantial difference is that Soyer added a heaped teaspoon of English Mustard (Elizabeth David uses Dijon) to the redcurrant jelly, and Mrs David specifies Medium Tawny Port.

Peel of the skin of an orange, and then cut the skin into "julienne" (very thin strips). Put the orange strips into a pan with some water and bring to the boil. This will remove any bitterness from the orange peel.

In another small pan, melt four heaped tablespoons of redcurrant jelly, with a teaspoon of ground ginger. Stir well, until the redcurrant jelly and the ginger have combined. (If you're going to add mustard, add it now).

Redcurrant jelly is best described as a smooth English sweet, fruity jam (or jelly to my American readers) which we normally eat with lamb. It's available in ready-made in jars- though I have to admit, I have no idea if it's easily obtainable in America or not; so, if you live on that side of the pond, you may well have to track the stuff down on the internet, or see if you local deli stocks it.

Redcurrant jelly will act as a thickening agent, but true Cumberland sauce should really have a thinnish consistency, so try to keep it reasonably runny- if it coats the back of a spoon, you know it's about right.

Now's the time to pour in a decent slug of port, the juice of one orange, and the juice of half a lemon. Stir well, then add the blanched orange strips (which you've previously taken out of the hot water, and drained).

You will be left with a tangy, fruity, gingery, port-infused dark red sauce- which will act as a balance to the salt in the ham. I can best describe it as the taste of Christmas. Nostalgic. Oh- and one last word of advice from Mrs Aitch: Cumberland Sauce should always be served cold, so don't try and warm it up; otherwise you're going to find yourself in trouble...

Roast Potatoes

 

 

Many of you will know that I have a love-hate affair with the potato. Mashed potato, as far as I am concerned, is the Mark of The Beast; this, I've finally worked out, is a relic of my early days at Dotheboy's Hall. Here, their idea of fun was: soggy fishfingers (courtesy of The Good Cap'n Birds Eye); powdered mashed potato ("Mash Get Smash", that's the stuff the Martians eat), and watery tinned peas. The horror of it!

The kitchen was staffed by two Irish septuagenarian hags in dark blue polyester housecoats; fags dangling from their pursed lips. I'm sure Lord Woolton Pie was on the menu, an economical wartime relic, which survived until the early 70's. The boys did the washing up. This was a voluntary affair, a "volunteers please step forward, sort of thing", and if you were lucky you were promoted to foreman. These plongeurs were paid ½ p a day. The foreman got a penny. That's why I don't like mashed potato.

But roast potatoes, cooked properly, could be a good plan. The other day I found a discarded copy of the London Evening Standard (a rare event, as since it's gone "free" you can't get hold of a copy anywhere), and there was an excellent article about that bald wunderkind Heston Blumenthal, including a recipe for his "perfect roast poatoes".

Now, I'm a huge fan of Heston's, admiring his enquiring historical mind, his sense of the miraculous, and his lack of histrionics; all a refreshing antidote to the current crop of pock-marked prima donnas, otherwise known as "celebrity chefs". So, here's how to make perfect roast potatoes, courtesy of Heston Blumenthal:

The variety of potato is important. Maris Piper or the Scottish varieties, Golden Wonder and Arran Victory are all suitable.

Cut them up so that there are plenty of corners and edges, then cook them in well salted, simmering water until they are just about to fall apart. The trick is to cook them until they're fluffy, but at the same time you do want to keep them in one piece; so you'll need to watch them like a hawk.

Strain the potatoes off, and let them steam-dry. Put them into a pan with either olive oil or beef dripping. You will need a centimetre or so of oil at the bottom of the pan. Cook them in the oven at about 180°C or 190°C. Start turning after half an hour. They'll take between 60 and 90 minutes. Just before they're done, sprinkle with chopped rosemary and sea salt.

 

 

The Official Greasy Spoon Christmas Pudding

 

 

Each year, Christmas seems to start earlier and earlier. The lights have gone up in Oxford Street (do you remember that dreadful "Birds Eye" affair?), and our television set has suddenly erupted into full Christmas mode. Teflon snowflakes are having a field day. I suspect sales of Charles Dickens are on the increase.  And yet, autumn leaves remain: it's still November. The world's gone barmy.

Having said that, right now is the time to start making your Christmas Pudding; and if anything it may even be a bit on the late side. Traditionally, the Christmas Pudding was made on "Stir-Up Sunday", which was the last Sunday before Advent, (about four to five weeks before Christmas Day), but in our family we used to make it as early as late October.

I love Christmas Pudding. The way your spoon plunges into the moist (you hope!), rich, fruity mass; and the contrast with the smooth, rich, alchohol infused brandy butter.

This is the way I make The Official Greasy Spoon Christmas Pudding:

First, you need to stir up all the following ingredients in a pudding basin: 350g mixed fruit and peel (this means crystallised peel, dried apricots, currants, saltanas, raisins, grated lemon rind, and grated orange rind); 50g chopped glace cherries, 25g flaked almonds, 50g dried suet (you can't get the proper stuff anymore- the EU has made it illegal), 35g white breadcrumbs, 35g plain flour, 70g moist dark brown sugar, 50g grated apple, and a dash of mixed spice and grated nutmeg. Some weirdos add carrot- but very sensibly, I leave this one out.

Once you've stirred all the ingredients together well, mix in two beaten eggs, the juice of half a lemon and half an orange, pour in two tablespoons of a dark stout (ie Guinness), a tablespoon of black treacle, and a dash of decent Scotch Whisky. Most recipes will tell you to add brandy, but being a contrarian, I've decided that Scotch works better. Stir it like mad.

Now's the time to add the mixture to a basin. Recently, I've had this thing about those old-fashioned ball-shaped puddings- the ones you see in the illustrations of "Phiz" and in Walt Disney. A few years ago, I managed to track down a ball-shaped pudding mould from Divertimenti in the Fulham Road, and used that- but a traditional ceramic pudding basin will be just dandy. Smear the inside of the basin with butter. This will stop the pudding sticking to the side. Pour in the mixture. Top off with a piece of buttered greaseproof paper, ideally cut down to fit. Finally, place a cloth over the basin, and tie it off at the top with a bit of string.

Steam it for five to six hours. This means getting hold of a large pan, filling it about a quarter full with water and bringing it to the boil. Place the pudding in the middle of the pan, and put the lid on. The steam will rise up within the pan, and cook the pudding. Once it's cooked, leave it in a cool place with a piece of tin foil on top. It will mature in the run-up to Christmas. On the great day itself, you will need to steam it for a further three hours.

Irish Soda Bread

 

 

The great thing about Irish Soda Bread is that it's so incredibly easy to make, always works out, and only takes about half an hour. I also happen to like it, and think it would work well with a lovely bowl of hot Irish Stew. So if you're tempted to make your own bread, but can't be bothered to faff around with scary yeast mixtures- this is the one for you.

I've taken the recipe from Terence and Vikki Conran's Classic Conran Cookbook. This is one of the best cookery books I've got on my over-laden bookshelves. If you haven't got a copy, I urge you to head for your local bookshop and order a copy.

Back to the Soda Bread. Pre-heat your oven to 230 C (450 F). Put in a baking sheet and warm it up. Meanwhile sift 350g wholemeal stone-ground flour, 220g plain white flour, a teaspoon of salt, and a teaspoon of bicarbonate of soda into your favourite bowl and mix them up well.

Rub in 20g butter. That means mixing the butter into the flour with your hands. Strangely satisfying. Now mix in 300ml of buttermilk. The buttermilk contains lactic acid, which will react with the bicarbonate of soda to form tiny bubbles of carbon dioxide.

By now you should have a soft, but not sticky dough. Next flour a board or work surface and turn your dough out onto it. Knead it lightly. Shape it into a flattish round, and cut a cross onto the surface. Place the loaf onto the hot baking sheet, and bake in the oven for ten minutes. Once that's done, turn the oven down to 200 C (400F) and cook for a further fifteen minutes.

And that's it. You can find out if it's ready by tapping the base. If it sounds hollow- it's ready. Finis.