The Greasy Spoon

Polish Food Revisited...

Apologies for my absence; the workload at The Counting House has been phenomenal, and I've been crawling back to my hovel exhausted, and lacking my usual joie de vivre. Having said that, on Sunday, I took The Girl to The Wallace Collection to have a look at Fragonard's rather racy painting "The Swing"; and on the way back to The Silver Beast- parked rakishly (and badly) in Manchester Square, we passed none other than Stara Polska- or if you have been following this blog, "Old Poland".

Well, we had to stop by and have a late lunch; and I had a second opportunity to re-try their White Borscht. I've had an email from Nancy of Vancouver, who has very kindly pointed me in the direction of a website with an authentic recipe. If you want to have a look at this site, here's the link: http://www.soupsong.com/rbarscz.html

Otherwise, here's my take on it: First, you need to make a Barscz. In a mixing bowl, mix together a quarter of a pound of dark rye flour, with four cups of warm water. Lie a drying up cloth over it, and leave in a warm place for five to six days, stirring once a day, so that it starts to ferment.

Bring a quart of water to a simmer on the hob. Beat together an egg, and a cup of milk, and then stir it into the simmering water. Turn up the heat, let it thicken, and then stir in the Barscz which you've made previously. Thicken it up even more, and season with salt and pepper.

In a serving bowl, place rye bread (torn up into chunks), a sliced hard-boiled egg, sliced smoked sausage (kielbasa), and freshly grated horseradish mixed with a little white vinegar.

Ladle in the prepared Barscz stock, and finish off the soup with a bit more grated horseradish. Check the seasoning and serve.

I reckon that's almost exactly what I had at Old Poland, except they probably add some garlic, and also garnish the whole shooting match with parsley. Incidentally, the label I've used as an illustration is for the excellent Zwiec Polish beer. Don't ask me how to pronounce it exactly, but I like the stuff, and of course, it goes beautifully with hearty Polish food.

White Borscht

Last night, I was taken to a new Polish restaurant in Marylebone- close to St Christopher's Place. It's called Old Poland. It was a funny, ramshackled sort of a place, with stuffed squirrels in glass cases, and uninvitingly hard wooden benches. But the food was rather good- I reckon that the couple who run the place had probably just arrived off the boat, so the food seemed genuinely authentic; I hope they do well.

I had a delicious White Borscht soup. I've never had this before, assuming wrongly that all borschts were made from beetroot, and therefore pink in colour. Apparently, Polish White Borscht is a traditional Easter Dish. It was sour in taste (with a hint of horseradish?), with garlic, slices of sausage, and sliced hard boiled eggs. I've trawled the net looking for an authentic recipe, but so far haven't found one.

As I've got a hard day ahead of me at the Blacking Factory, I'm going to have to put this one on hold for the time being, and report back later. If anyone out there in cyberspace can send me a decent recipe for this, please do, and I'll post it up on The Greasy Spoon. Over and Out.

Russian Blinis

Did you know that today, Epiphany Eve, is Twelfth Night? It's all very complicated and historical- and in part, I think, to do with the Old and New Calenders (the Russian Orthodox Chrismas is on January 7th); though I reckon it was also the day when the Magi (ie the Three Wise Men) finally arrived at the manger. So what better, than to have a look at Russian food?

I love blinis. They're small pancakes, and you top them up with goodies like caviar, and smoked salmon. Fresh caviar has recently been banned, because of the decline in sturgeon stocks- so make do with smoked herring roe, or that delicious Japanese stuff- which looks like caviar, but is bright orange in colour.

Blinis are reasonably easy to make. A few years ago, I was lucky enough to find a small blini pan at that Parisian temple to Mammon, Fauchon. They also used to sell ready made Blini mixture in jars. Maybe they still sell them? Next time I'm in Paris I'll stock up. Otherwise, this is how it goes:

Dissolve a tablespoon of active dry yeast in four tablespoons of lukewarm milk. Next, stir in one teaspoon of sugar, and a half a pint of the milk. Add 4oz (120g) of buckwheat flour, and stir like mad, until you get rid of the lumps. You've done all this in a bowl. Cover it with a cloth, and leave it to rise (you hope!) for about an hour.

Melt some butter, and mix it with three egg yolks, and four tablespoons of sour cream. Add this to the risen flour mixture, along with a quarter of a pint of milk, a teaspoon of salt, and 6oz (170g) plain flour. Beat it again, to get rid of the lumps, and leave covered for two hours. It should rise even more.

Finally, beat up a quarter of a pint of double cream until stiff. Beat three egg whites (hopefully, you've got them left over from the yolks), and fold them into the double cream. Fold this mixture into the batter, and let it rest for thirty minutes. If it's too thick, add some warmed milk.

See why it's easier to buy the Fauchon ready-mixed blini powder? But, let's carry on. Heat up a cast iron pan, and spread it with oil and butter. Take a dollop of the blini mix, and spread it around the pan. Cook it for a few minutes, and then flip it over.

And remember the old Russian saying: Pervyni blin komom: the first blini's a lump! Blini nos. 2, 3, & 4 should be much better. Stack them up on a plate, and serve with caviar, mock caviar, or smoked salmon with sour cream. Neat vodka (kept in the 'fridge until it goes thick), would be a good plan, too.

Christmas Herring Salad

A German style Christmas market has come to town. I haven't been yet, but all sorts of stalls, fairground rides, and ice-rinks have gone up in Hyde Park. And for once, it's suddenly cold and frosty here in London.

Every Christmas I make a German or Scandanavian style Herring Salad. I was given the recipe by my great uncle whose family originally came from Cologne. He treated the enterprise as a work of art, and "built" up the salad over three or four days; however I recently ran into a Swedish girl at a cocktail party who insisted that it needed to be made quickly- and then finished off immediately. I'm going to go with my great-uncle on this one, as the vinegars in the salad should act as a preservative. Want to make it? This is how you do it:

You need a large mixing bowl. Chop up some herring. You are supposed to use salted herring, but I use Scottish roll-mops- which are herring marinated in vinegar and spices. Add some diced cooked potatoes, peeled diced apples, diced gherkin, chopped celery, chopped anchovies, and ham- chopped up into small pieces. Mix it all around. Throw in a handful of capers, and some diced cooked beetroot.

The beetroot will make the salad go an interesting bright pink colour. Next, mix up a vinaigrette. That's just a small dollop of mustard mixed with sugar, and wine vinegar to form an emulsion, with oil added slowly. I suggest you use a light oil, such as sunflower oil, rather than olive oil for this one. Olive oil is too Mediterranean in style and flavour.

Finish off the salad with lots of chopped dill, and chopped egg white. It's delicious.

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.

Marinated Haddock with Prawns and Dill

This recipe comes from Nathalie Hambro's Simple Fare (1986), one of the more interesting cook books in my collection. As well as being a fashion designer, and all-round style guru, Nathalie Hambro is one of the most innovative and inspiring cookery writers out there, and if you are looking for fresh ideas, I whole-heartedly recommend her books. Most of them, I think, are out of print, but can be bought easily from amazon.co.uk, or abebooks.co.uk.

I like this recipe for its Baltic, or Nordic, overtones, and it's very easily made with the simplest of ingredients. Here's how you do it:

Line a dish with tin foil. Spread some dill over the foil, and season with sugar, Maldon salt, and black pepper. Next, place a fresh smoked haddock fillet over the dill. Normally I would use undyed haddock, but for this recipe I've found that the dyed yellow haddock works better. The Haddock needs to be as fresh as you can get it. Cover the fish with more dill, sugar, salt and pepper. It's best to use more sugar than salt, and to go easy with the pepper. Sprinkle some large peeled prawns on top. Wrap the whole thing up tightly with the tin foil, and stick it into the 'fridge, with a weight on top, for at least 24 hours- preferably longer.

When it's ready, slice the haddock into long, thin pieces. It's slightly like Japanese sushumi. Arrange it in a serving dish, with the prawns. Take some spring onions, and cut them in four lengthways. Soak them in a bowl of ice-cold water- after a few minutes the green tops with start to curl-up- which looks impressive, for virtually zero effort. Take them out, drain them; and stick them in with the marinated haddock and the rest of the prawns.

Paprika

As I wrote about Hungarian Goulash the other day, I thought it would be a good time to investigate paprika. Paprika was unknown in Europe until the discovery of America. It's made by griding up dried red chili peppers to form a colourful powder. It's used in the cooking of Eastern Europe, Spain, Portugal and in the American Deep South; where they cook interesting dishes like Paprika Chicken and Sour Cream. Hungarian paprika comes in all sorts of shapes and sizes: Eros (Hot), Rozsa (Rose), Csemegepaprika (Exquisite Delicate); and there are also smoked varieties for increased flavour.

Here in jolly old England, it can be hard to find the better brands. For years, we've been used to buying our paprika in little glass jars from the supermarket spice rack. Out of sheer laziness on my part, I used an old jar of this the other day, and my goulash went brown in colour; and didn't taste that great- so be warned. But if you have a look in the deli sections, you may well be able to find decent Spanish smoked paprika. It comes in small tins. I'm currently using the "smoked and sweet" version for my goulash, but should also be able to find "bitter sweet" and 'hot".

One of the advantages of the recent influx of East Europeans into London is that Polish food is beginning to creep onto supermarket shelves as a matter of course. I was down at my local corner shop yesterday, and there were interesting jars of pickled sausages and seurkraut, and god know what else, in a newly created section.

I realise that there are less Hungarians here, but it would be lovely to see proper Hungarian paprika making an appearance too. Otherwise it's going to have to be a trip to the new Wholefoods Emporium in Kensington High Street.

Goulash

Did you know that in Hungary, Goulash, or more properly gulyas (meaning a herdsman), is actually a soup? This peasant dish become fashionable in the nineteeth century, when Magyar nationalism reasserted itself in the Hungarian lands of the Austrian Empire.

Like so many other bastardised recipes, genuine goulash is slightly different from Anglo-American interpretations, which have turned it into a thickish stew. Here's the Greasy Spoon version. I've kept the correct ingredients to make it more authentic, but usually go for a thicker, rather than a soupy sauce.

Heat some butter and oil in an oven-proof casserole dish. Slice up some medium sized onions, and cook them gently, until they soften. Next add a sprinkling of caraway seeds, and some crushed garlic. Cook for a minute or so. Now add your beef (which you have previously cut up into cubes; stewing beef is ideal). If you want a thick sauce, you can dust your beef cubes in plain flour, salt and pepper, beforehand. However, a warning. If you want to make friends and influence people in Budapest, this is not the way to do it. Sprinkle in a generous amount of ground sweet paprika, and a handful of salt- so that the meat in the bottom of the pan is well covered. Stir, so that the meat is browned.

Now it's time to add your vegetables. For this dish, I like them diced, with the exception of the peppers, which I like sliced. Into the pot go: diced carrot, a tomato, celery, and sliced green bell-peppers. Pour over some water, or stock, and simmer gently until the meat is nice and soft. If you are using stewing steak, this could take quite a long time. If you're using a more expensive cut, your cooking time will be shorter. I'll leave it up to you.

Towards the end of the cooking, add your diced potatoes, and simmer until they are cooked. Finally, add a few pasta pieces and cook for a further five minutes. Serve the whole shooting match with noodles or hunks of hot, fresh white bread. Oh- and a tip; try and find some genuine smoked hot or sweet paprika (in small tins), which will give your goulash a deep red colour. Avoid at all costs the cheaper stuff (which goes brown) and has a far blander taste.

Russian Lemon Soup

Jiminy Cricket, I love this soup! I've taken it from Dara Goldstein's A Taste of Russia, which is a must for your cookery library if you like hearty East European cuisine. It's extremely simple to make, cleansing, unusual, and most importantly delicious. Here's how you make it.

In your favourite pan cook a handful of rice (I use Uncle Ben's Long Grain American Rice) in unsalted butter until the rice absorbs the butter and becomes transluscent. This should only take a few seconds. Next add some good chicken stock (home-made si vous plait- I'll be coming to this in another post). Simmer for about 20 minutes. You will probably need to add more stock bit by bit- you want to get the balance right between the rice and the liquid. When the rice is cooked, stir in some double cream, and the finely grated rind and juice of a lemon. Keep on stirring to make sure the soup is well blended.

Finally, serve in bowls with a slice of lemon floating on the top and chopped parsley or dill. Make sure that each bowl has a spoonful of the rice on the bottom of each bowl.