The Greasy Spoon

Coronation Chicken

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

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

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

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

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

Ingredients (Serves 8):

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

Instructions:

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

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

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

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

5. Strain and leave to cool.

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

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

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

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

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

English Wine

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

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

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

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

Earl Grey Tea

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Arabella Boxer's Book of English Food

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

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

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

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

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

Red Onion Marmalade

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

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

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

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

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

That's it...

Jugged Peas

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

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

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

You won't be disappointed...

Hot Cross Buns

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mussels in Cider

Some of my earliest food memories are from childhood holidays in France. This involved long, soporific car journeys in the family Citroen (with pneumatic suspension); to Brittany and to the South of France. In these enlighted times we're now all a bit blase about good food, but back then, l'escargots, cuisses de grenouilles, and moules mariniere were a big deal for us kiddywinks brought up on fish-fingers, lemon meringue pie, and Heinz alphabet spaghetti.

The War had a lot to do with it. Rationing lasted until the 1950's, and the sense of culinary adventure (if it ever existed) was lost for good. I think this still applies. Okay, everyone over here is obsessed with celebrity chefs, and buy their glossy coffee-table books by the yard, but I doubt any of them are read- or- heaven forbid- actually used.

This made me think about that French classic, moules mariniere, or, mussels cooked in wine (or cream), with garlic and parsley. It's a great dish, no doubt about it; but I'm going to put my gastronomic reputation on the table by telling you that I think the traditional British version is better. This uses cider, instead of white wine. Cider is less acidic, and, in my opinion, creates a better balance for the sauce. Here's how you make it.

Saute some chopped shallots in a large pan, with a bayleaf, and a sprig of thyme. Add a crushed garlic clove. Next, pour in a bottle of dry cider. Try and use a decent cloudy organic cider, such as Sedlescombe Farmhouse Cider from Sussex, rather than the sweet fizzy stuff. Bring to the boil, and evaporate the alcohol. Now it's time for the mussels.

If you're buying fresh mussels, it's important that they are prepared carefully. First, throw out any mussels which are open, or even slightly open. Scrub the mussels with a brush to remove the "beards' and the "tufts" that you will see growing out of the closed shells. Next, soak the mussels in a basin of fresh water for a few hours, to remove any sand or grit. Take them out, put them into a colander, and place them under a running tap.

Once the mussels have been properly washed and cleaned, add them to the pan, cover tightly, and boil them over a high heat, shaking the pan all the time as they cook. After about five minutes, the mussels should be ready. Throw out any mussels which have not opened.

Strain the liquor into another pan, and add a dollop of double cream. Double cream is less likely to curdle than single cream. Stir it around, and cook it down for a minute or so. Season with a decent sea salt, and chunky black pepper, and then pour it back over the mussels. Garnish with lots of chopped fresh parsley.

Saute of Calves Liver with Irish Whiskey and Tarragon

I thought today was St Patrick's Day. I was wrong. Apparently, The Church moved the date to the 15th March, so that it didn't clash with Holy Week. Anyhow, I was planning to give you something with the taste of the Emerald Isle, and St Patrick's Day or not, this recipe's still a good 'un.

It's from that temple of gastronomic excellence, Ballymaloe House; near Cork in Southern Ireland. Ballymaloe is a rather beautiful Country House, which the talented Allen family have turned into a restaurant and cookery school. They specialise in the sort of food I approve of: British and Irish dishes cooked with the correct French techniques; so you will encounter simple delights such as Irish Stew, Steak and Pigeon Pie, Bacon and Cabbage, Lobster in a Cream Sauce; and Irish Soda Bread.

First, heat some unsalted butter in a heavy frying pan until it foams. Take some sliced calves livers and dip them in flour which you have previously seasoned with salt and pepper. Fry the liver on both sides.

I must stress at this point that I like my liver pink- that means that it requires very little cooking. Of course, it's all about personal taste, but who likes an over-cooked liver that tastes (and looks) like a leathery old boot?

Push the cooked livers to one side of the pan, and pour in a generous dash of Irish Whiskey. Note that I have spelt it with an 'e'- Scotch Whisky is something slightly different. Tilt the pan towards the gas, and the whiskey will ignite. When the flames have died down, add some concentrated meat stock, a crushed garlic clove, and some chopped fresh tarragon. Bring to the boil and reduce the sauce.

Incidentally, if you didn't already know, reduction means that you boil a sauce at a high heat, without stirring. This action burns off the water in the sauce, and concentrates the flavours. You might have to loose about half the sauce to evaporation, before the sauce noticeably starts to thicken up.

Once the sauce is syrupy, take it off the heat, and stir in a few tablespoons of cream. Simple isn't it? And if you stick to my advice, and don't overcook the liver, you can't go wrong.

Welsh Potato and Leek Cakes with Mint

Last Saturday, the 1st March, was St David's Day; St David being, of course, the patron saint of Wales. We have a rather quirky tradition over here, in which anyone with Welsh connexions stuffs a leek into their buttonhole. Incidentally, The Prince of Wales was being interviewed on television last night, and I noticed that instead of a leek, he was wearing a nifty Welsh Onion (or scallion) in the buttonhole of his Anderson & Shepherd suit. Anyway, on with the food: Here's a Welsh themed recipe for you.

How about some potato and leek cakes? They're simple to make, and would go brilliantly with Welsh lamb (you want it pink), and a glass of something red and juicy, like a Rhone, or a Beaujolais.

First, peel some potatoes, and let them stand in salted water, so that some of the starch drains out. Take out the potatoes, and pat them dry with kitchen paper. Next, shred them in a Magimix, or similar machine. Pat them dry again. As we are going to fry them, you want to remove as much water as possible. If they're watery, they'll boil, rather than fry- and you don't want that.

Chop up some leeks or some Welsh Onions into thin slices. In a mixing bowl, combine the potato shreds with the leeks, and season with lots of salt and black pepper. Add some chopped fresh mint leaves, discarding the stalks. Using your hands, form the mixture into patties or small cakes. Chuck a knob of unsalted butter into a hot non-stick frying pan, and add a splash of olive oil. Fry the cakes quickly on both sides, until they are golden brown. Eat.

Horseradish Sauce

Do you like genuine horseradish sauce? By that, I don't mean the stuff you get in jars from the supermarket, but instead the real, home-made version.

Horseradish (Armoracia rusticana, syn. Cochlearia armoracia) is a perennial plant of the Brassicaceae family, which includes mustard, wasabi, and cabbages. Horseradish was cultivated in antiquity, and, according to Greek mythology, the Delphic Oracle told Apollo that the horseradish was worth its weight in gold.

The photograph shows horseradish roots. You eat the roots, not the green leaves of the plant. You should be able to buy a root from your local grocer, or if you are lucky enough to have one, a farmer's market. Here's my recipe to make a classic English horseradish sauce. It goes well with beef, and smoked fish, like eel and mackerel.

Clean and peel a horseradish root. Grate about two heaped tablespoons of the prepared root into a mixing bowl. Add a dollop of English mustard, a dash of white wine or cider vinegar, salt, pepper, and sugar. Whip up a quarter of a pint of cream, and mix it carefully with the other ingredients.

Baked Beans

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

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

Anyway, Baked Beans. Baked Beans have a mysterious past, and are probably descended from the cassoulets of Southern France. I suspect, of course, there is also a considerable American influence. The first tinned Baked Beans were produced by the Burnham & Morrill Company in 1876, for use by the fishermen of Maine.

But why the 57 varieties? It's nothing more than Henry Heinz's clever marketing ploy, first used in 1896; and has nothing to do with how many different products Heinz was selling at the time. There's a photograph of the Baked Bean King, below.

I do make my own home-made Baked Beans from time to time, but frankly, I reckon the genuine stuff in the tins (and always by Heinz) is the best bet. If you do want to make your own, its simple: just heat up some cooked haricot beans in stock, add some tomato puree, onion salt, pepper, a tiny bit of vinegar, and some sugar.

And remember, if you're going to cook dried beans, it's essential that you soak them in water over-night, otherwise you could suffer a serious stomach upset. You've been warned!

Shirred Eggs with Scallops

Working as I do in the antiques and auction business, I'm often lucky enough to pick up interesting bargains. The latest acquisition to my modest cookery library is a copy of the Bestway Cookery Gift Book, circa 1938. It's a smallish, slightly stained volume, which has the added plus of having once been part of the Anton Mosimann Collection. If you see any similar books from the 1930's, I would urge you to buy them, as cook-books from this period are becoming increasingly hard to track down.

I had a look to see if there were any recipes which I could post on The Greasy Spoon. Tastes change, and I reckoned that dishes like Gooseberry Custard, and Monday Pudding, wouldn't go down that well in today's world of sun-dried tomatoes, and properly cooked squid-ink risotto.

However, I found a simple recipe for Shirred Eggs with Scallops, which I think, would make an excellent first course. I've adapted it slightly.

Take some fresh, medium-sized scallops, cut them into quarters, and flash-fry them in a pan. They will need very little cooking. Put the scallops into a ramekin dish. Next, make a white sauce in the usual way. Remember, that's butter, flour, and then milk, and a bit of nutmeg. Pour the white sauce over the scallops, and then break a fresh egg onto the top. Season with salt and pepper, and add a knob of unsalted butter. Bake in a medium oven, until the eggs are set; and then decorate with some chopped parsley. Ideally, you want the egg yolks to remain soft, and slightly runny.

Grilled Mackerel with Green Goosberry Sauce

By now, you should know how much I love fish. Catching the blighters is fun too. We used to go fishing in Scotland, and I remember the excitement of dangling your brightly coloured lure over the side of the boat, and then the sudden adrenalin rush as you realise that that there are wriggly, silvery mackerel (flashing blue in the sunlight), tugging hard at the end of your line.

Here's a very British recipe for Grilled Mackerel with an interesting Gooseberry Sauce. When was the last time you had Gooseberry Sauce? I'm all for it- and the sharp flavours of the gooseberries contrasts well with the oily fish.

Take 1/2 a pound of green gooseberries, top and tail them, then put them into a pan of boiling water, and simmer them until they turn yellow. Next, strain off the water, and pass them through a sieve, so that you end up with a puree. Add a tablespoon of sugar to the mixture.

Melt a knob of butter in a hot pan, and then stir in some flour to form a roux in the normal way. As always, make sure the flour is slightly cooked, stirring the roux until you get a smooth buttery paste. Then, pour in about half a pint of boiling water and stir. Take off the heat, and start adding small pieces of butter, piece by piece, until you have a smoothish sauce. Stir in the gooseberry puree, and season with chopped fennel, salt and pepper, and some grated nutmeg.

The Mackerel are easy. Take your gutted fish, and make four diagonal cuts into the fish on either side. Season with salt and pepper, and rub the inside and outside with lemon juice. Brush with oil, and grill them for about fifteen minutes. Serve with a lemon wedge, and the Green Gooseberry Sauce.

Mushy Peas

I used not to like Mushy Peas- or at least, thought that I didn't. That was until I had some a few months ago, along with an excellent hunk of battered cod. I've decided it's all about how they're cooked. Properly made Mushy Peas are a completely different ball-game from the over-cooked, watery mess that they used to feed us with at Dotheby's Hall.

So how to make it? First, I suggest using petits pois, rather than garden peas. Petits Pois are small-sized French peas, which you should be able to find at your local supermarket. They're also slightly sweeter too. I have no problem with frozen petits pois. No problem at all. Sometimes, just sometimes, frozen (or canned) ingredients can be as good as the fresh version. It's the same thing with tinned sweetcorn. Anyway, on with the recipe.

Cook the petits pois rapidly in salted boiling water, until they are slightly soft. You've previously added a sprig of mint to the water. Then plunge them into cold water. This should set the colour. You want them to be a bright, fresh green. If you overcook them, and leave them to hang around- they will turn brown.

In a pan, saute a chopped shallot in butter, until soft. Add the petits pois, a further sprig of mint, and a dash of stock. Cook for a minute or so, until the stock is reduced, then pulse the cooked petits pois in your Magimix. Hit the "pulse" button a few times: in this case, I don't like a smooth puree, but rather, prefer the peas to be "crushed", so that they keep their shape. Season with Maldon Salt and chunky black pepper. Wonderful with Fish and Chips.

The Honourable Haggis

His knife see rustic Labour dicht, An' cut you up wi' ready slicht, Trenching your gushing entrails bricht, Like ony ditch; And then, O what a glorious sicht, Warm-reekin, rich!

As you've probably gathered, tonight is Burns Night. Scots around the world gather to eat Haggis, tatties, and bashed neeps, and address the noble Haggis with ceremony and reverence. Actually, there's a good reason to eat Haggis all the year round, and it's perfect as a late night television snack.

For those of you who claim not to like it, I don’t know what all the fuss is about. Okay, it might sound- how can I put this- slightly gothic, but in reality it tastes a bit like a spicy meatloaf. Mind you, all that stuff about “trenching your gushing entrails bricht” doesn’t exactly help the cause.

The Macsweens brand is the Haggis of choice, but most brands share the following ingredients in common: the sheep’s “pluck” (heart, liver, and lungs), suet, spices, salt, and some form of oatmeal, all boiled up in a sheep’s stomach; though I reckon that most of the Haggis’s you buy at the supermarket have an artificial casing.

And then there’s the million dollar question of how to cook the thing. I favour wrapping it up in tin foil, and roasting it in the oven, though some aficionados like to simmer theirs in boiling water.

Eating it is simplicity itself: slice open the casing with a knife, and spoon out the moist, peppery meat onto your plate. It works beautifully with a peaty Single Malt such as Laphroaig (which if you've ever been to the Outer Hebrides, should remind you of the brown coloured loch water which comes straight from the tap), and I like to pour this over my Haggis once it's cooked.

The Duke of Windsor's Haddock Soufflé

My old friend, Nick "Moussaka" Good, has come up with an excellent take on a traditional soufflé. For some bizarre reason he has an obsession with the scary Fanny Cradock (to those who don't know, she was one of the first British television cooks; competent no doubt, but caked in make-up, and altogether like some psychedelic creature from Planet Nine). Anyway, I'm a fan of the Duke of Windsor- or at least his rather rakish dress sense. Nick writes:

"Last year I decided to become proficient in making soufflés. It’s all about getting the oven hot enough, the sauce right, whipping egg whites to perfect peaks, and bringing it all together at the right time in the right order.

There’s nothing vulgar or "chuck it all together" about a soufflé. It takes patience, practice and the acceptance of initial failure or at least disappointment. Also they really don’t rise up quite like they do in films. If however you follow the rules you will succeed and produce something worthy of enjoyment.

Carrier and Kerr recipes are fine (Brisbane Bay prawn soufflé is fantastic but a little OTT for the beginner) but there is only one soufflé teacher for the masses: Fanny Cradock.

Follow Fanny’s instructions and you’ll have perfect soufflé, diverge but a half inch (centimetre for those in the Common Market) and you’ll be doomed to a sloppy mess. Such is the way of the soufflé.

Fanny suggests various basic recipes to cut your teeth on, but here is her recipe for Haddock Soufflé which is utterly delicious. Being Fanny this is not just any old Haddock Soufflé, but the recipe given to her and Johnnie by the Duke of Windsor when they dined at the Windsor’s Paris house in 1956.

You will need:

½ pint whole milk
¼ pint single cream
½ lb uncooked smoked haddock
1½ oz flour
1½ oz butter
8 egg whites
3 oz grated parmesan
1 egg spoonful dry mustard powder
½ egg spoonful nutmeg
Generous grate of black pepper
1 level teaspoonful salt
Teacup of small croutons

Cook the haddock gently in a milk and cream mixture for ten minutes. Remove, cool and flake the fish. Reserve the milk mixture for soufflé.

Heat your oven to 225 Degree Celsius (very hot!). Butter an eight inch diameter soufflé mould.

Reheat the fishy milk mixture in a small pan over a low heat.

Whip the egg whites with a rotary hand whisk (not an electric whisk or you’ll overdo it) to firm peaks in a very clean large bowl.

Dissolve the butter in a second, larger pan. Add the flour to the butter, stir to a soft, pale coloured ball in pan and add a quarter of the warm milk mixture. Wait a moment for the milk to boil, then stir thoroughly. Take it from the heat and beat well. Repeat with the second quarter of the milk and add half the cheese. After the second beating add the remaining milk, the seasoning and rest of the cheese and, when milk boils again, beat very thoroughly. Take this sauce off the heat and beat out some of the steam for approximately one minute.

With a large metal spoon (preferably silver but never wooden) loosely stir in the flaked haddock, the croutons, then the egg whites. Level this off into the soufflé mould with the large metal spoon.

Bake the soufflé for twenty minutes. Never open the oven door to have a peek whilst it’s cooking.

Enjoy with a white wine dry enough to cope with the eggy saucy goodness! "

Savouries

I'd like to shout the cause for Savouries from the rooftops of Olde London! Not really being a pudding sort of person, I'm a huge fan. Savouries are a peculiarly English sort of thing, rarely served here anymore (apart from at crusty old-fashioned London clubs), and, I doubt very much, anywhere else in the world.

What are they? They were (or are) a popular- and rather masculine- substitute for the pudding course, and usually involved some form of toast, mushroom, egg or smoked fish, and then flavoured with spicy stuff like Lea & Perrins, and Cayenne Pepper.

I've taken two recipes from Arabella Boxer's Book of English Food. This gem of a book is all about English food from the 1920's and 1930's. For some reason, it's almost impossible to find (was the print run miniscule?), and I had to pay a crazy amount on the internet for a copy- and it took me about six months to track one down.

Anyway, if you're tempted to make a savoury; here's how you do it: First Mushrooms on Toast (or Champignons en Croute, as they rather cheekily used to call it at The Gasworks Restaurant, Chelsea, circa 1985). Take some slices of white bread, remove the crusts, and then cut them into small to medium sized squares. Spread both sides very thinly with butter, and then bake them for 10-15 minutes on your oven rack at 400 F (200 C), until they are golden and crisp. Frankly, it might be easier to just fry them in olive oil in a pan.

Chop up some decent brown mushrooms and fry them in butter for several minutes until they are soft. Lots of water should come out- you want to drain that off.

Next, make a classic white sauce. You should remember this from other posts: a knob of butter in the pan, flour- to make a roux, then milk and a bit of stock, salt and pepper. You want the white sauce to have a creamy consistency. Mix it in with the mushrooms, and add chopped parsley, and a splash of Lea & Perrins. Pour the mushroom mixture onto the fried bread squares, and then top off the dish with a grilled mushroom. You can serve them on a plate with a watercress garnish.

The other recipe is for Scotch Woodcock. This has nothing to do with Woodcock, game, or birds of the feathered variety. You take some anchovy fillets, and soak them in milk for about ten minutes. Make some fried bread squares (as before). Next, mix up some scrambled eggs the classic way- remember, just butter and eggs on a very low heat, and definitely no milk. But stir in some cream, salt and pepper when they are almost done. Pile the creamy scrambled eggs onto the fried bread, top them with two anchovy fillets in a cross pattern, and garnish with capers and a bit of watercress.

Mulled Cider

Old Apple tree, old apple tree; We've come to wassail thee; To bear and to bow apples enow; Hats full, caps full, three bushel bags full; Barn floors full and a little heap under the stairs

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 you are probably not going to start wassailing apple trees in down town Vancouver, I am going to give you my recipe for my very own wassail, Mulled Cider. I prefer it to Mulled Wine, I really do. The problem with Mulled Wine, is that many people get it 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, 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 alchohol 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.

Potted Stilton

More Christmas food from The Greasy Spoon. Stilton is a famous English blue cheese only made in the counties of Derbyshire, Leicestershire, and Nottinghamshire. It has a creamy, crumbly taste which improves with age. It's also quite similar to the Danish Blue.

To make Potted Stilton, you need to mash some up with a third of its weight of unsalted butter. Next add a pinch of cayenne pepper, and a bit of nutmeg. Add some port, and carry on mashing. If it gets too runny, add a good hard cheese to thicken it up.

Pack the cheese mixture into a ramekin dish, and bung it in the 'fridge. It will make an interesting alternative to the cheese course, and is highly, highly suitable for this time of year. Drink it with port- if you're extremely fortunate, something like a Fonseca '63. I'm lucky enough to have a few bottles of the stuff left, but recent tastings have been a bit disappointing. It was probably at its peak about five years ago, so need to drink it up fast. Life is so darn hard.

Cumberland Sauce

One of the best English Christmas traditions is the Christmas ham. As well as turkey or goose, many families order in a York ham- dry cured and matured over a period of at least ten weeks. Let's be honest: it's probably more delicious than the turkey, especially when cut into impossibly thin slices and served on your plate with Cumberland Sauce.

I'm sorry America, but Cranberry Sauce looses hands down in the Christmas sauce stakes! English Cumberland Sauce is infinitely preferable. And I would love to persuade you to give it a shot this year, instead. Try it out- and report back. This is how you make it:

Peel of the skin of an orange, and then cut the skin into julienne (or 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.

Redcurrant jelly is best described as a smooth English jam (made obviously from redcurrant berries) which we normally eat with lamb. It's available ready-made in jars- though I have to admit, I'm not sure if it's easily obtainable in America; so you may have to track it down on the internet, or see if you local deli stocks it. The redcurrant jelly will act as a thickening agent, but true Cumberland sauce should really have a thinnish consistency, so try to keep it reasonably thin- if it coats the back of a spoon, you know it's about right.

Next, pour in a decent slug of port, and the juice of one orange, and half a lemon. Stir well, then add the blanched orange strips, which you've taken out of the hot water, and drained.

You will be left with a thickish, 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. Utterly nostalgic. Oh- and one last word of advice: Cumberland Sauce should always be served cold, so don't try and warm it up; that would be a huge mistake...

Anchovy Butter

I love anchovies. They're a small, silvery salt-water fish found in the mild waters of the Med, and the warmer reaches of the Atlantic. The Romans were crazy about them and used them extensively in their cooking. The anchovies we're used to in Britain are cured in salt, and then packed in olive oil- which gives them a powerful, extremely salty flavour. Last summer when I was on holiday in Positano, I sampled the unsalted local variety- arranged simply on a plate with torn basil leaves and olive oil; and my god, they were good.

So today, I've come up with an oh-so-simple recipe for anchovy butter. You can use it with fish, or just simply spread it on your toast; and if warmed up gently, it would make an excellent sauce.

In a mixing bowl mash up a pat of slightly soft unsalted butter (ie taken out of the 'fridge for a bit). It's important to use unsalted butter, otherwise the dish is going to be far too salty. Generally, I use unsalted butter anyway in my food, as it leaves you to decide how much salt to put in at the end of the cooking period.

With a fork, mash in your anchovies. When they've been combined, add a squeeze of lemon juice. The lemon juice acts as a balance, and will help to smooth out the salt. I think a dash of ground mace or cayenne pepper would be work well here too. Finally, pack the anchovy butter into small ramekin dishes and keep it in the 'fridge.

Braised Red Cabbage

I promised in my recent Lancashire Hot Pot post to write about Red Cabbage, and this Sunday morning I am being true to my word. Braised Red Cabbage is a classic British dish. It's more than just cabbage- there are other ingredients in there as well, and the dish has tangy, piquant flavours going on. It's also suitable for this time of the year.

You need to get hold of a red cabbage, slice it in two and take out the core (that's the hard bit in the middle). Slice up the cabbage thinly. Next, slice up some apples in the same way, removing their cores in the same way. Put them in a casserole dish along with the cabbage, and some diced streaky bacon.

In a separate pan heat up a good dash of port, two tablespoons of red wine vinegar, and two tablespoons of caster sugar. Bring to the boil, and then simmer gently for a few minutes. Pour the liquid over the cabbage, bacon and apples, and season well with salt and pepper.

Shove the dish (with the lid on) into a medium oven and cook for an hour or so.

Welsh Rabbit

You know, here in Britain we eat strange things: Haggis, Spotted Dick, Deep Fried Mars Bars in Batter, Stargazey Pie, Bread and Butter Pudding, and Welsh Rabbit. Before all you animal lovers out there in cyberspace bombard me with protest emails, I have to stress that Welsh Rabbit is actually a toast and cheese dish.

No-one is exactly sure why it's called this. Some people call it Welsh Rarebit. If you want to make it, it's easy; and perfect as a late night supper snack or TV Dinner. Here's how I do it:

Melt some butter in a small pan. Grate in some cheese. A strong, mature Cheddar is perfect. (Incidentally, in case you didn't know, Cheddar is a town in Somerset, England; and Cheddar is probably our most famous cheese; and cheese is the one thing we probably do as well as, if not better than the French). Next add a dollop of mustard (has to be tangy Colman's, doesn't it?); a dash of Lea & Perrins, and a slug of Guinness.

Meanwhile toast some brown bread, and pour the melted cheese mixture over it. Season with salt and pepper, and then cut the bread into fingers. Finish the dish off by flashing it under the grill for a minute or so. Perfect if you're about to slob out in front of Saturday Night television.

Gingerbread

Today is the Feast of St. Nicholas. Father Christmas, or Santa Claus, is partly derived from this saint. In Holland and other parts of Europe, children put out a boot for Saint Nick on the night of the 5th December to get presents. St. Nicholas has, I think, a creepy assistant called "Black Peter" who gives naughty kiddiwinks a lump of coal.

For me, the run-up to Christmas really starts about now. I was in a Black Cab with a friend a few nights ago, and as we sped through Sloane Square on the way back to the mean streets of Battersea, the Christmas lights looked fantastic. Bond Street is also currently looking pretty amazing. Anyway, as I'm now in that sort of mood, I thought it might be a good plan to have a look at Gingerbread. As a ginger fanatic, I can't get enough of the stuff.

Here is a recipe to make Gingerbread Men (I'm rebelling against the latest politically correct trend to call them Gingerbread People. The world is mad enough as it is). I've adapted this recipe from the internet.

First you need to pre-heat your oven to 170 C. Line a baking tray with baking parchment to stop the Gingerbread sticking. Melt 125g of unsalted butter, 100g dark muscavado sugar, and 4 tablespoons of golden syrup (that's the stuff in those picturesque old-fashioned tins).

Sieve 325g flour, a teaspoon of bicarbonate of soda, and two teaspoons of ground ginger into a bowl, and then stir in the melted ingredients to form a dough. Use your hands!

Turn the dough out on to a lightly floured board, and using a rolling pin, roll the dough out to a reasonable thickeness. I like them quite thick. Now for the fun bit. You can use a Gingerbread Man cutter thing (available from cookshops) to make Gingerbread Men, or if you prefer other shapes, you can make stars, and biscuits, and goodies like that. Place them on the tray, shove in the oven, and cook them for about nine to ten minutes.

When they're cooked properly, you can decorate them with icing. Frankly, I can't be bothered, and they're long gone before then. Patience is a virtue- and it ain't found in me.

Guinness

Today's post is about that classic stout, Guinness. Guinness is a form of porter, a beer which originated in London in the early eighteenth century, and has been brewed at the St James's Gate Brewery in Dublin since 1759. The dark colour, and bitter flavour comes from unfermented roasted barley. The creamy head comes from nitrogen.

I've got a great recipe for you: Beef Stew in Guinness with Parsley Dumplings. What could be better for a cold December day? This is my own recipe.

It's easy to make, but remember, as ever, keep the stew cooking at a low temperature for at least three hours. This will help the toughish cut of beef to break down. Let's start:

Slice up some onions, and saute them in butter. Chop up some stewing steak, dust it with flour, salt and pepper, and fry it in the butter. When the meat is brown, add some beef stock, and a pint of Guinness. Bring to the boil to burn off the alchohol, and then reduce to a simmer. Add a dash of good old Lea & Perrins. Next throw in some carrots, which you've previously peeled and cut into batons. Add a tablespoon or so of tomato puree. This will help to thicken it up even further.

Simmer in a medium oven for at least three hours. At least. You should end up with a reasonably thick sauce, and nicely cooked beef- which should be beginning to break down.

Now it's time for the dumplings. Very easy to make. In a bowl mix some dried suet (the EU has banned the real thing; what on earth's going on there?), with twice the amount of self raising flour. Add some salt and pepper, and some chopped parsley; and form smallish balls with your hands. Float the uncooked dumplings on top of the stew, and shove the thing back into the oven. Cook until the dumplings have risen and the flour in them has cooked. It shouldn't take too long. Ideal for December. I like it.

Pheasant with Juniper Butter and Pear

Another gem from Nathalie Hambro. Remember our old friend, Juniper, from the gin post? The woody, aromatic flavours of the juniper berry work beautifully with game. I also like this recipe because it uses a chicken brick- and that is essential if you don't want the pheasant to dry out. As much as I love pheasant, the meat has a worrying habit of drying out, and the chicken brick will stop this happening. You should be able to get a chicken brick from Habitat.

Soak the chicken brick in cold water for about ten minutes. The clay in the brick will absorb the water. When the brick gets hot, the water turns to steam; and with all that moisture floating around, the pheasant will stop getting dry.

Take hold of your plucked pheasant, and wash it thoroughly. Peel a pear, and push it into the cavity of the pheasant. This will also help the pheasant to remain moist. Season the pheasant with salt and pepper. Crush some juniper berries, and rub them all over the pheasant. Saute the prepared bird in a pan with some butter and oil, for about six minutes, so that it is lightly browned all over.

Line the bottom of the chicken brick with tin foil, and put in the pheasant with its juices. Replace the top of the chicken brick, and bake in a preheated oven at 240C for an hour.

Now for the juniper butter. Finely chop up some shallots, and some garlic. Melt some butter in a pan, and add the garlic, shallots, and the crushed juniper berries you've got left over from the pheasant. Simmer for about twenty minutes. Take off the heat, and add the juice of two lemons, some chopped chives, and season with salt and pepper.

Serve slices of the cooked pheasant with a small helping of the pear (in effect a stuffing), and the juniper butter sauce.

Lancashire Hot Pot

What is the difference between Irish Stew, and Lancashire Hot Pot? Well, to be honest, not much. One comes from Ireland, and the other from the county of Lancashire in the North of England. Both should include lamb, potatoes, and onions. I've done my research this morning to discover the definitive version, and I would suggest that perhaps, the English version has greater flexibility. Whether this is a good thing or not is a moot point.

Lancashire Hot Pot was a working man's dish, and probably originated in the nineteenth century, during the period of flat caps, whippets, and satanic mills. Some people insist on beef, but I'm sure that the original dish used lamb. But there is one important historic difference. Lancashire Hot Pot should include oysters. A hundred years ago, oysters were much cheaper than they are today, and were considered a staple of the poor man's diet.

Take neck of lamb, and cut into chunks. Incidentally, neck of lamb is a fantastic cut to bear in mind for another time, and not too expensive. Season them with salt and pepper, and sprinkle them with flour. Arrange the lamb on the bottom of a casserole dish. Next get hold of some onions, and slice them up thinly. Sweat them in a frying pan in some butter on a lowish heat, for about five minutes. When they're done arrange them over the lamb. Next, slice up some carrots into batons, and arrange them over the onions. Throw in some oysters, and add another layer of onions. Finally, slice up some King Edward potatoes, and arrange them so that they cover the whole stew. Season again, with salt and pepper, and brush the potato slices with butter. This will stop them burning. Last but not least, add some chicken stock, so that the stock comes up to just below the potatoes.

Cook in a pre-heated hot oven for about thirty minutes, and then turn down the heat to about 130C and let it simmer for two and half hours. To finish the dish off, take of the lid, crank up the heat to about 200 C and roast it for a further half and hour or so. This will brown up the potato layer on top. Remember kiddos, the secret of cooking British style stews, is long, slow cooking at lowish temperatures. This will break down the meat. If you cook it too fast on a high heat, your meat will have the texture of rubber.

Traditionally, Lancashire Hot Pot is served with braised red cabbage. This is an old English favourite. Red cabbage sliced up, pickled in vinegar, and braised in stock. Another day, I'll initiate you into the secrets of that one.

Braised Fennel with Orange and Pernod

Another classic from The Greasy Spoon, to which I've given a subtle twist. Fennel has that lovely licourishy, aniseedy taste; and this recipe brings out these flavours to the full. The photograph shows a selection of fennel bulbs at a local farmers' market.

Trim the fennel and cut them into wedges. In a pan, saute them in unsalted butter, so that they get brown all over, and slightly caramelised. Next, you're going to braise them. Braising is an old-fashioned technique, which uses a small amount of liquid. In effect you are using the rising steam as a cooking method, and you will be left with a thickish sauce which is created by reduction.

When the fennel wedges are sufficiently brown, add a teaspoon of sugar, salt and pepper, a splash of fresh orange juice, a small dash of Pernod, some meat stock, and a dash of balsamic vinegar. The liquid should come about a quarter to half-way up the pan. Bring to the boil (you want to burn off the alchohol from the Pernod), then turn down the heat and simmer, basting the fennel now and again with the sauce. Put the lid back on the pan.

After about fifteen minutes or so, your fennel should be nicely braised, and glazed by the orange and balsamic sauce. It might be a good idea to shake the pan now and again, while the brasing is going on to stop the fennel burning. Arrange the cooked fennel in a dish, and pour over the reduced sauce.

Oysters

One of my all-time favourite restaurants is the incongrous Grand Central Oyster Bar in New York, situated directly beneath the Railroad Station Terminal in Midtown Manhatten. Grand Central was built between 1903-1913 in the Beaux-Arts style, and the Oyster Bar ("Below Sea-Level") is a sprawling labyrinth of Byzantine influenced vaults decorated with glittering mosaics.

I like the huge choice of oysters chalked up on the menu there. The agonising decision you have to make between say, Martha's Vinyard oysters on the one hand, or Chesapeake Bay molluscs on the other. I've no truck with those poor souls who insist on cooking their oysters using bizarre recipes involving breadcrumbs and grills. For me, oysters should always be eaten raw, on ice, straight from the shell, perhaps with a dash of our old friend, Tabasco, or a squeeze of lemon juice.

There are three types of oyster. The Pacific, Olympia, and Atlantic. Pacific oysters are the most prolific, and tend to have a creamier taste. The Olympia is found again, in the Pacific Ocean, but limited to Washington Sound. They're a small oyster with a full taste. Atlantic oysters (as served at Grand Central), have a saltier flavour. I'm currently into the Atlantic type, preferring the ozoney, minerally, salty taste of the sea that hits the back of your throat as soon as you've tipped one of the critters (they're alive!) down there.

If you've tended to avoid oysters in the past, may I persuade you to change your mind? Because you're missing out on one of the greatest pleasures in life. It's true. Trust me!

Christmas Pudding

Look, this may seem completely loopy-loo, but 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. Nearer Christmas, I'll have fun writing about that festive sauce. 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, add 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 Dickens and in Walt Disney. 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.

Brown Sauce

Nothing can be more reminiscent of a British Greasy Spoon than a bottle of H P Sauce. H P Sauce was invented by Frederick Gibson Garton, a grocer from Nottingham, in 1896. He named his tangy new concoction after the Houses of Parliament in London. For years H P Sauce was made in a factory in Birmingham, but now- shock horror- the stuff is made in the Netherlands.

What's it made of? Well, amongst other things, Malt Vinegar, Dates, Molasses, Onion, Tamarind, Garlic and Mustard Flour. The rival brown sauce, Daddie's Favourite, was launched in 1904, and, apparently, is still in production, though I haven't seen a bottle on the shelves for years. Both brands are now owned by none other than our old friend, Heinz.

Brown Sauce is an acquired taste, and I suspect that anyone not born on the Perfidious Isle is probably going to hate it. Personally, I have a nostalgic thing about the fruity combination of brown sauce mixed with a runny fried egg. But then, our American cousins eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, which sounds to me like something from Planet Nine. Enough said.

Oranges with Cognac and Caramel