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.

 

Salad Olivier

 

 

Remember this old favourite?  Otherwise known as the Russian Salad, it was invented by Lucian Olivier, a Belgian chef who ran the fashionable Hermitage restaurant in Moscow during the late nineteenth century. Olivier's salad, apparently, became quite a cause célèbre with le gratin; and enjoyed the patronage of the grand matrons of Muscovite Society. The Hermitage restaurant closed down in 1905, and Lucian Olivier died at the relatively young age of 45. If you're so inclined to pay your respects, he's buried in the Vvedenskoye Cemetry. And the closely guarded secret recipe for his famous salad went with him to the grave. Or did it?

What's in it, I hear you ask?  That's a very interesting question and much open to debate. There's quite a bit of stuff about it on the net; the subject's almost becoming a sub-culture in its own right. The original recipe included all sorts of exotic lovelies: grouse, veal tongue, caviar, crayfish tails, capers and even smoked duck- this was a fabled dish from Pre-Revolutionary Russia after all; nothing like that awful Heinz Russian Salad thing that came in a tin, and looked suspiciously like Oskie the Cat's sick.

 

Nicholas II and Alexandra, in 17th century fancy dress for the Winter Palace Ball, St Petersburg, 1903.

 

Anyway, a certain- and enterprising- Ivan Ivanov, a sous-chef at the Hermitage restaurant, plucked up enough courage to steal the recipe. Look upon his dastardly plan as a late nineteenth century pension pot. Now Olivier prepared the wretched salad himself- and only by himself. No other chef was allowed anywhere near him while he made it. Fortunately he was suddenly called away to deal with some emergency. While Oliver was gone, Ivan sneaked into the kitchen and managed to work out, at the very least, how the secret dressing was made.

Ivan left the Hermitage and went to work for Moskva, a local restaurant with an inferior clientele. A few weeks later, low-and-behold, a new salad appeared on the Moskva menu- the "Capital Salad" which, most suspiciously, looked and tasted very much like the original Olivier salad from the Hermitage restaurant. Naughty old Ivan.

The story goes that Ivan then sold the recipe to various publishing houses. One of the first printed recipes for Olivier salad, by Aleksandrova, appeared in 1894. It included grouse, potatoes, gherkins, lettuce leaves, crayfish tails, capers and aspic. All bound in a Provençal dressing.

Here's my take on Salad Olivier, based on a recipe from the fanastic Taste of Russia by Darra Goldstein. It will serve about eight people. "A Taste of Russia" is one of my favourite cookery books. It rediscovers the cuisine of Pre-Revolutionary Russia; the food from the days of the Romanov Tsars. It's a terrific book.

 

In a large bowl, mix: 225g cooked potatoes (cut into dice), a large cooked carrot (cut into dice), two apples (chopped into dice), one peeled orange (membranes removed, and cut into chunks), two spring onions (chopped), and 120g peas.

Mix in 225g of cooked chicken (which you have previously chopped up into bite-sized pieces.

Make a dressing: Press three hard-boiled egg yolks through a sieve into a small bowl. Mix in two dollops of olive oil and stir, to form a smooth emulsion. Add two tablespoons of cider or wine vinegar and eight tablespoons each of mayonnaise and soured cream. Season, and pour over the vegetables and the chicken, keeping some of the dressing back.

Let it chill in the 'fridge overnight. To serve, form the salad into a neat mold or mound, and pour over the remaining dressing. Garnish with fresh dill. You could of course, for a more piquant taste, ditch the orange and include diced gherkin. An authentic addition. I think it would work. 

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

 

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.

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.

Miniature Blini Canapés with Herring, Keta Caviar and Dill

 

 

 

I came up with this idea for canapés on New Year's Eve, and they went down a treat.  I expect someone's thought of them before, but they were utterly delicious, and I would, without any hesitation, serve them again.  

First, you need to get hold of some miniature blinis. Mine came in a packet from Sainsbury's, but they were fine. You'll find that they have been pre-cooked, so you will need to heat them up in the oven for about five to ten minutes.  Grate some fresh horseradish into several spoonfuls of sour cream (making sure you grate across the base of the root) and add a squeeze of lemon juice.  

Spread the blinis with the sour cream, horseradish and lemon juice. Cut up some cured herring (ie marinated roll-mops) and place a small "square" of the herring onto the blinis. Top up with a teaspoon of keta caviar (that's that wonderful juicy orange stuff from H. Forman & Sons) and arrange the blinis on a serving plate.  Finish the canapés off by sprinkling freshly chopped dill over the canapés and the plate.  Happy New Year!

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.

Paul Levy's "The Feast of Christmas"

 

 

Of the numerous "Christmas" cook books, Paul Levy's The Feast of Christmas is without doubt my favourite, combining as it does, a literate and erudite examination of Christmas customs and folklore, and some excellent recipes from the likes of Ken Hom, Claudia Roden, Frances Bissell, Raymond Blanc and M.F.K Fisher.  Apparently, on Christmas Day they all gather around Paul's scrubbed kitchen table, and take turns to cook.  Can you imagine?

The "Feast of Christmas" was published by Channel 4 to co-incide with his Channel 4 television series, made back in 1992;  when Channel 4 was a challenging and intelligent television channel, rather than what it has become now.  In the good old days, before they churned out cheaply-made dross.  Before Big Brother. You should be able to buy a second-hand copy of "The Feast of Christmas" through either amazon.co.uk or abebooks.co.uk for a very affordable price.  I've currently got a paperback copy, and need to upgrade to the hardback.

There are other Christmas books on the market: Nigella Christmas: Food, Family, Friends, Festivities, and that old chestnut, Delia Smith's Christmas. They are both still on the bestseller lists. I've got mixed feeling about both of those two. Delia's recipes are often good (I detect the influence of Simon Hopkinson), but there is just something too perfectionist and goody-goody (butter's a sin!) about her style.

 

Nigella's the opposite: she looks fab (a lip smackin' mid-life fantasy), but I'm disturbed by all the late night 'fridge raiding "finger in the taramasalata" stuff going on- and I hate to say it, I'm not sure that her slightly mucky recipes are up to the ticket, either. Dunno.

Elizabeth David's Christmas is another good 'un. Published after her death, and edited by Jill Norman, Elizabeth David's Christmas includes 150 Christmas recipes from her private papers. These include Marcel Boulestin's  "Turkey, Roast Capon with Tomatoes and Rice and Walnut Stuffing", "Fish Consommé", and "Lemon and Celery Sauce".

Coca-Cola Glazed Ham

 

 

 

Last Christmas or so, I wrote a post about a slightly weird recipe: "Ham Glazed in Coca-Cola".  It's still one of my most popular posts, and as I'm currently getting increased hits (no doubt because of Thanksgiving), I'm going to give you the recipe again.

It doesn't sound that great, does it?  However, as Coke is really just a very sugary, brown and fizzy syrup, there's no reason why it shouldn't work nicely with a lovely, juicy ham.  And the recipe's an old favourite from the American Deep South, too- which is no bad thing.  So, here's how you make it:

Put in a medium sized unsmoked gammon into a large pan.  Add a peeled onion (for flavour), and then pour in a litre of coca-cola.  Bring to the boil, put the lid back on, and turn down the heat.  Let the ham braise in the liquid for 2 ½ hours.

Take the gammon out of the pan, and let it rest.  Remove the skin and preheat your oven to 210˚C.  In the meantime, mix up a glaze from 100g breadcrumbs, 100g brown muscovado sugar, two tablespoons of French Dijon Mustard, and a tablespoon of Colman's Mustard Powder.  With a sharp knife, scour the gammon to make a criss-cross pattern. Stir in a spoonful or so of coca-cola into the sugar and mustard mixture, and then slap it onto the gammon. 

Roast the gammon in the hot oven for about ten minutes, or until the glaze has cooked.

 

The Mexican Day of the Dead

 

 

I think I first became aware of the Mexican Day of the Dead after reading Malcolm Lowry's novel, "Under the Volcano". There was also a film with Albert Finney and the She-Who-Can-Do-No-Wrong Jacqueline Bisset, in which Finney plays a drunken British diplomat.

 

Mexicans celebrate the Day of the Dead on November 2nd. It's an extraordinary festival: families pray for the souls of the departed, and death is celebrated with dancing, sugar skulls, flowers, colourful altars and carnival.

I love authentic Mexican food, and it's only recently that the proper thing has begun to arrive in London. Up until now, we've had to put up with Tex-Mex restaurants (as beloved by students and the disenfranchised); the sort of places where they make you wear silly hats and pour Margaritas down your throat; not the same deal at all. Incidentally, I once had a fantastic chivichangas (fried burritos) at a drive-in gas station in San Diego, a few miles from the Mexican border. You paid a dollar or so through a grill, and then a few minutes later a tanned hairy hand appeared through a hole in a wall with your hot food. Fast Food in the best sense.

 

 

We're going to cook something Mexican tonight. I like Elizabeth Lambert Ortiz's book "The New Complete Book of Mexican Cooking". "Fish in Almond and Coriander Sauce" (Pescado en Salsa de Almendra Verde) is on the menu. 

First, you simmer some non-oily white fish (cod?) in stock. Normally, I would place the fish in the cold water or fish stock, and then bring to the boil. Once it's simmering, I immediately turn off the heat and put on the lid, and then leave the fish to "cook" in the hot water for about five to ten minutes. You'll find this is an excellent way to cook fish, and will give you perfect results every time.

 

Remove the fish, and set aside. Pour the hot fish stock into a jug. In a small frying pan, heat up a few tablespoons of olive oil, and fry a clove of garlic with a slice of white bread, until the bread is golden on both sides. Remove the garlic and chop up the fried bread, coarsely. In your food processor, whizz up the chopped fried bread, 50g (2oz) finely ground almonds, two jalapeno chillies (de-seeded and chopped) and half a cup of fresh chopped coriander leaves; and then thin it out with the reserved stock. Heat, check the seasoning and pour over the fish. Serve with rice.

I've got no idea what this is going to be like, but it sounds interesting, and the cooking techniques are relatively simple.

Devilled Quails Eggs

 

 

 

I'm writing this as the gloom descends on a Hallowe'en afternoon.  I've always been fascinated by Hallowe'en: as a child in England, it was barely celebrated, apart from a few cartoons on the BBC and a spooky tale or so read out aloud at nursery school.  I've been reading up on Hallowe'en and according to the Oxford Dictionary of Folklore, it's quite possible that all that pagan stuff about Celtic fire festivals and the like is a fantasy, invented by Sir James Frazer in the "Golden Bough", and that Hallowe'en's origins are, indeed, Christian and Scottish, where it was known as "Nutcrack Night".  During the 19th century, Hallowe'en was associated with fortune telling and love divination: young girls would learn who their future husbands would be.

My grandmother taught me how to carve lanterns, but from turnips- rather than pumpkins.  Recently, under American influence, Hallowee'en has become much more popular in England.  We've just barricaded our front door and battened down the shutters in preparation for the annual onslaught: London street urchins hammering on the door and rattling the letterbox: "'ere, mister!  we know you're there!"

Hallowe'en food should be spicy (especially with the Mexican Day of the Dead just around the corner) and I gather that in the American Deep South, devilled eggs are traditionally served.  But I'm not keen on the idea of serving up stuffed chicken's eggs as a canapé. They're too large, and I think would be a bit clumsy, and even slightly Gothic.  So I've adapted the idea, but using tiny quail's eggs, instead.  This works much better and they were utterly delicious.  We scoffed a plate of them this morning.

Place your quails eggs in a pan of cold water, and bring to the boil. Turn off the heat, put back the lid, and let them stand in the hot water for four minutes. Plunge the cooked eggs into a pan of cold water. To shell them, gently roll the eggs on a hard surface, so that the shells crack. You will find that the quail's eggs have a tougher membrane than chicken's eggs, and once you've carefully removed it, you'll find the shell easier to remove.  But it's delicate work.

Slice the cooked eggs in half, and spoon out the cooked yolk and place in a mixing bowl.  Add a light mayonnaise, a few dashes of Tabasco, a dollop of Dijon mustard, cayenne pepper and celery salt for seasoning. Whisk up the ingredients together until smooth.  Using a piping bag, pipe the devilled mixture back into the quails egg halves.

Arrange on a plate, and sprinkle with finely chopped chives.

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.

New Year's Day Chili

 

 

I think there's nothing better than tucking into a satisfying and hearty bowl of cowboy chili on a raw New Year's Day. It just seems so right. After all that Christmas over-indulgence, you want something simple, yet, if you're greedy like me, a limp bit of lettuce ain't going to pass muster. You're also probably feeling a trifle frazzled after the New Year's Eve revels.

Regrettably, Chili con carne is often nothing more than stewed mince, kidney beans and a bit of chili powder. Here's my idea for a more sophisticated version:

Sauté some chopped onions, garlic and chopped red chilis in oil and butter.  Stir in some good chili powder, oregano, cumin, and paprika. Now add the beef (or pork); or a combination of the two. You can either chop the meat into chunks, or put it through a mincer (if you've got one). Cook for a bit until the meat is sealed and coloured.

Next, add some stock, beer (the Mexican beer, Corona, is excellent), and a splash of Tabasco. Let the chili simmer slowly at a low heat, until the meat is cooked. You want the sauce to be reasonably thick. When the meat is nearly done, add some tomato purée, or even better, sun-dried tomato paste, and grate in some bitter chocolate- the sort of quality chocolate (high in cocoa solids) you can buy in delis and specialist shops. Season with salt and pepper to taste.

Finally, stir in some cooked beans (Kidney, Haricot, or Black Beans are fine, I'm not really that fussed). Serve with some grated cheese on top, sour cream, and saltine crackers.

To all the readers of The Greasy Spoon: A Very Happy New Year!

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...

Coca-Cola Ham

 

 

Last Christmas or so, I wrote a post about a slightly weird recipe: "Ham Glazed in Coca-Cola". It's still one of my most popular posts, and as I'm currently getting increased hits (no doubt because of Thanksgiving) I'm going to give you the recipe again.

It doesn't sound that great, does it? However, as Coke is really just a very sugary, brown and fizzy syrup, there's no reason why it shouldn't work nicely with a lovely, juicy ham. And the recipe's an old favourite from the American Deep South, too. So, here's how you make it:

Put in a medium sized gammon into a large pan. Add a peeled onion (for flavour), and then pour in a litre of coca-cola. Bring to the boil, put the lid back on, and turn down the heat. Let the ham braise in the liquid for  2 ½ hours.

Take the gammon out of the pan, and let it rest. Remove the skin and preheat your oven to 210˚C. In the meantime, mix up a glaze from 100g breadcrumbs, 100g brown muscovado sugar, two tablespoons of French Dijon Mustard, and a tablespoon of Colman's Mustard Powder. Stir in a spoonful or so of coca-cola to the mixture, and then slap it onto the gammon. 

Roast the gammon in the hot oven for about ten minutes, or until the glaze has cooked.

 

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.

Stone's Chop House Pancakes

With Shrove Tuesday looming (it's on the 24th February), here's a genuine pancake recipe from Stone's Chop House. Stone's was a famous old restaurant in Panton Street, near Piccadilly Circus, London. I fear it went out of business many moons ago. Here's the recipe (taken word-for-illiterate-word) from "The Best of British Cooking" published as a "book cassette" in the very early 1970's:

For 4

6 eggs

6oz caster sugar

2 tbsp double cream

2 sliced cooking apples

2 oz raisins

2oz butter

1/2 tsp cinnamon

2 tsp rum

Separate eggs and mix yolks with cream. Whip whites with sugar then fold into mixture. Pour into small frying pan (4 in for 1 pancake) heated and buttered. Place in oven for about 5 minutes at 400F (Mark 6). Remove and tip out pancake and fill with filling made by putting apple, raisins, butter and cinnamon in a pan and heating and adding rum at the end. Fold and serve, sprinkling with icing sugar.

New Year's Eve Canapés

 

 

Peppadew's are currently very much in vogue. They're a brand of miniature piquanté peppers from South Africa. They're sweet and slightly spicy, and perfect for making quick canapés if you've got friends coming round tonight for the New Year's Eve celebrations tonight (I'm writing this at lunchtime, so you've just got enough time to dash round to the shops and track down a jar).

You will find that you can stuff them very easily. How about a mixture of some type of salty blue, or otherwise soft, cheese, some chopped pine nuts, some chopped capers, and some finely chopped parsley, chives or coriander?

A big thank you to all the readers of The Greasy Spoon. My readership is up- long may that trend continue! I look forward to new food discoveries in 2009: so please keep those comments and emails coming in.

Happy New Year!

 

Champagne Cocktail

 

Here's a great idea for the Hogmany revels tomorrow: it's a Champagne cocktail with Sloe Gin. Like many of the best ideas, it's utterly simple.  Just add a dash of Sloe Gin to a decent Champagne, which, naturellement, you've previously chilled 'on ice'. A perfect winter cocktail, and British in spirit, too; which is no bad thing. For my other Champagne Cocktail recipe, have a look at my post from last year.

I've still got some of the Sloe Gin left from '07. If you remember, I added a bit of almond essence, and having tasted the stuff, I've now decided this is the way forward. The gin's turned a nice, brownish colour too. Sloe Gin improves with age. Definitely.

Happy Christmas

 

It's Christmas Eve, and I'm retreating to the country for a few days.  Today's post is less about food- and more about people who don't have much of it.  

Crisis at Christmas is a superb British charity that helps homeless people- who may be on the streets for a variety of reasons beyond their control. With its emphasis on the family, Christmas for some people can be a time of immense loneliness: I can't think of anything sadder than the single Christmas Puddings you can buy in the supermarkets. Please click on the link, and go to the Crisis at Christmas website.  It will tell you far more than I can. A small donation will help to improve someone's Christmas next year.

I wish you all a very Happy Christmas, and I'll catch up with you when I get back from the revels.

Joy to the World!

Brandy Butter

 

 

Essential with Christmas Pudding or Mince Pies. 

Place 8oz (225g) unsalted butter into a bowl with 6oz (175g) icing sugar. Mix them up well, and then slowly pour in three tablespoons of cognac. Add the grated peel of an orange, and a small splash of fresh orange juice. Pat into a jar, and keep in the 'fridge.

Turkey and all the Trimmings

Christmas Turkey and all the Trimmings!  How those words fill me with dread. I'm sure you know why. It conjures up visions of: stale food kept under hot lamps, old people's homes, Bisto packet gravy, office parties, forced jollity, soggy Brussels Sprouts, paper crowns (both on the head and on the bird), dry turkey, and last and least, ready made packet stuffing.

It doesn't have to be like that.  Cooking a Christmas dinner or lunch is not especially difficult; it just needs a bit of planning. Here are some nuggets of wisdom:

The Turkey 

If at all possible, try and buy a fresh bird, and avoid a frozen specimen. If you've left it too late and are forced to buy a frozen bird, for God's sake make sure that it is properly de-frosted. Rub the turkey with butter, and season it with salt and pepper. Place rashers of bacon over the breast.  Wrap the turkey in tin foil, so that there is air circulating around the bird. Being impatient, I'm a fan of the fast school of cooking. Preheat the oven to 200C (400F, gas mark 6) for birds weighing up to 6kg (13lb). Cook them for 26 minutes per kg (12 mins per lb).  Once the turkey's properly cooked, let it rest for at least 15 minutes. Cover the bird with tin-foil, and a cloth while its resting.  This will help to keep it moist.

The Stuffing

For health reasons, it's not a good idea to stuff the turkey the night before.  If possible, stuff the bird just before it goes into the oven.  My chestnut and watercress stuffing is delicious.

Sausages

I like to put chipolatas around the bird. Check them towards the end of the cooking period, to make sure they don't burn.

Roast Potatoes

Skin your potatoes, and par-boil them for ten minutes.  Drain, and put them back in the saucepan.  Put the lid back on and shake the pan around so that they get fluffy.  Another way to do it, would be to scrape them with a fork.  Melt some goose fat (available tinned in supermarkets) in a roasting tin, and add the potatoes, making sure that they get covered with the fat. They'll take about 40-50 minutes in a hot oven.

Roast Parsnips

Cook in a similar way to the potatoes, making sure that they are basted in fat before the go into the oven.  I find that parsnips cook quicker than potatoes, and should take about 30 minutes. Make sure they don't burn.

Brussels Sprouts

Not everyone's cup of tea by any account. No need to make a deep "cross" in the root, and if you're going to boil them, make sure that they are slightly undercooked and crunchy.  Put masses of sea salt into the water (this will help keep them green), and plunge them straight into the rapidly boiling water. To be different, try Brussels Sprouts in Riesling with Bacon.

Cumberland Sauce

Try The Greasy Spoon's version of this lovely, tangy sauce.

Bread Sauce

I love this traditional English sauce, which is also excellent with game. Make sure it's not too thick. Here's the link.

Gravy

Home-made si vous plait. Bisto's a dirty word. It's simplicity itself.  Once you've removed the turkey from the roasting pan, you will see that there is a bit of fat and various bits of pieces left in the bottom of the pan. Keep the pan on the heat, and stir in a spoonful of flour. Whisk it into the fat, to remove any lumps. Cook the flour for a few minutes.  Add a decent splash of wine and some stock, and let it bubble away.  Add a spoonful of redcurrant jelly, and season with salt and pepper.  I like to add a dash of soy sauce, which helps the gravy to turn a nice brown colour.  If the gravy's too thick, add some more stock. Personally, I like my gravy to be thin. It's a personal thing.

Hideous gadget, so kindly meant...

Are you fed up with Christmas yet?  Want me to go on?  For this post, I thought I would have a look at kitchen equipment, especially as it's the sort of thing that you might be giving as a present. 

I'm fascinated by the concept of kitchen equipment- the sort of stuff that people buy for show, and then never use.  I suppose Terence Conran invented the whole caboodle, back in the Sixties, with his innovative market stall-like displays at Habitat in the King's Road, Chelsea. You know the sort of thing: blue and white striped Cornish ware, copper pans, red enamel coffee perculators, 19th century French dial clocks, and scrubbed pine tables. All offset by a framed Toulouse-Lautrec poster of the Folies Bergère. This was a new non-aristocratic, democratic look for the upper middle and professional classes, with a nod to the Welsh Methodism of Laura Ashley. An amlgamation of Mrs Bridge's "downstairs" kitchen, and the rustic charms of the imagined French countryside.  It said "I'm a sophisticated urban person, but I don't have servants".

One of the highlights of the Christmas season used to be my annual Christmas Eve visit to The General Trading Company  in Sloane Street. Here, a guaranteed quota of gormless, spaced-out men wandered around like Neanderthals, while dippy alice-banded girls flirted with their hair, and flogged them useless ethnic nick nacks from Sri Lanka. You see,  typically, I always leave my Christmas presents to the last minute.  

Incidentally chaps, probably about the worst present you can give to a girl is kitchen equipment. It's a funny thing. For some reason, women seem to think that it relegates them to the status of kitchen slave, by appointment. A few years ago, I very generously gave a pasta machine to my then girlfriend, and she went ballistic.  The ultimate Christmas present nightmare would be a Magimix stuffed with kinky lingerie.

I would be delighted if anyone gave me some kitchen stuff- even a humble wooden spoon. Tom Parker Bowles wrote an excellent article recently, in which he urged readers to dispose of their gimmicky gadgets, and, instead, buy a few, high quality (albeit expensive) kitchen utensils. Brands of note are: Wusthof (knives), Le Creuset (pots), Stellar (pans), Mauviel (copper cookware), and Anolon Professional (non-stick). You have the advantage that these will probably last you a life time.

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, 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.

Chestnuts

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 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 Medieval Christmas Banquet

 

 

 

I'm quite curious about the food people ate in the Middle Ages. In The Big Fat Duck Cookbook, Heston Blumenthal mentions his fascination with a bizarre 14th century French cookery book, Le Viander de Taillevent, in which a chicken is plucked alive, basted with soya, wheat-germ and dripping to simulate roasting, coaxed asleep, and then 'brought back to life' at the table.

In case you're wondering, the rather beautiful illustration is from the Duc de Berry's Book of Hours and depicts the month of January. It probably shows the Twelfth Night banquet, as during the Middle Ages the focus of the Christmas festivities tended to be during the Twelve Days of Christmas, and after the Advent Fast.

I've adapted a 15th century  English recipe for "Goose in a Garlic and Grape Sauce" which you could easily make at home. I haven't tried it yet, so I've no idea what it tastes like- it could be foul:

You make a stuffing out of garlic cloves, seedless grapes, chopped parsley and salt, and then stick it up a goose. Roast the bird in an oven set at 350༠C (twenty minutes per pound). When you're happy that the goose is cooked, take it out of the oven, and set aside to cool.

Spoon out the cooked stuffing and blend it in a food processor, adding three hard-boiled egg yolks, and half a cup of cider vinegar. Spoon the finished sauce over the goose.

Coca-Cola Glazed Ham

 

 

There's an urban myth currently doing the rounds that Santa Claus (or as we say here in Blighty, Father Christmas) was invented by the Coca-Cola Corporation of America. Well, there's a little bit of truth in the story. Santa Claus is an amalgamation of the 17th century English folk personification of Christmas, "Father Christmas" , and the 19th century "Saint Nick" of Clement Clarke Moore's poem, "The Night Before Christmas". Father Christmas was usually portrayed as a scrawny, bearded old man wearing a fur robe, and the "Spirit of Christmas Present" in Charles Dickens's "A Christmas Carol" was illustrated wearing a similar robe, but in green. In Europe, "St Claus" was sometimes imagined as a sprightly little elf. 

The modern image of Santa Claus (the one you see at your local department store grotto); the red cap and suit, huge buckled belt, enormous stomach, black boots and Mr Kiplingesque whiskers was, in part, invented by a series of Coca-Cola advertisments illustrated by Haddon Sundblom. These ran from the 1930's.

Talking of Coca-Cola, I've got a slightly weird recipe for you: it's "Ham Glazed in Coca-Cola". Okay, it doesn't sound that great; but as Coke is really just a very sugary, brown, fizzy, syrup, there's reason why this shouldn't work nicely on a lovely, juicy ham. And the recipe's an old favourite from the American Deep South, too. Here's how you make it:

You get hold of a large pan, and into that you place a medium sized gammon. Throw in a peeled onion (for flavour), and then pour in a litre of coca-cola. Bring to the boil, put the lid back on, and turn down the heat. Let it braise in the liquid for 2 1/2 hours.

Take the gammon out of the pan, and let it rest. Remove the skin and preheat your oven to 210C. Meanwhile mix up a glaze from 100g breadcrumbs, 100g brown muscovado sugar, two tablespoons of French Dijon Mustard, and a tablespoon of Colman's Mustard Powder. Add a spoonful or so of coca-cola to the mixture, and then slap it onto the gammon.  Roast the gammon in the hot oven for about ten minutes, or until the glaze has cooked.

Incidentally, I've just had an interesting comment from "carrotosaurus": it's a recipe for White Borscht. Go and have a look...

Christmas Pudding

 

 

Christmas Pudding is a British obsession; I don't think our American cousins are that keen on it, which is a great shame, 'cos it's a fine old thing. I love Christmas Pudding. The way your spoon plunges into the moist (you hope!), rich, fruity mass; the contrast with the smooth, rich, alcohol infused brandy butter, and the noble tradition of soaking the pudding in even further brandy, and then setting it alight. 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). This is the way I make it:

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 whisky 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 that you see in Dickens and 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.

 

The Christmas Larder

 

 

As a child, I always knew that Christmas had arrived by the encouraging state of our 'fridge.  My mother was (is) an excellent cook; and at Christmas, this meant: Glazed York Ham, Potted Mushroom Salad, Cumberland and Cranberry Sauce, Home-Made Chutneys, Sage Stuffing, Gravlax with Dill Sauce, Smoked Eel, Spiced Beef, Mince Pies and Christmas Pudding.

I have to put my hand up and admit that I am a hypocrite.  In yesterday's post I accused Nigella Lawson of late-night 'fridge raiding, and when it comes to the jar of Potted Mushroom Salad lurking tantilisingly  in my mother's 'fridge, I am utterly guilty of this crime myself.

Here's how you make Potted Mushroom Salad: You'll need 900g of mushrooms. I would suggest that for extra flavour, you go for the brown chestnut variety; button mushrooms are, frankly, a bit of a yawn. Chop up the mushrooms into quarters, and then sauté them in a mixture of butter and oil at a high heat.  The addition of oil will help to stop the butter burning.  Add two crushed cloves of garlic, and cook briefly, making sure the garlic doesn't burn.

Turn down the heat, and pour over 150ml of white wine, or a decent cider, and then add plenty of salt and pepper. Crank up the heat, and bring the mushrooms and wine to the boil. Keep at it, until there is hardly any liquid left in the pan.  This will take, say, ten minutes.

Reduce the heat, and leave the mushrooms to cool. Mix in some finely chopped parsley. (Chop the parsley up as finely as you can, otherwise it will go soggy). Spoon the mushrooms into sterilised jars with an airtight lid, and top the mushrooms up with French Dressing. The dressing's up to you- I make a classic dressing from mustard, olive oil, white wine vinegar, salt and sugar.

That's it.

The Feast of Christmas

 

 

 

It's December, it's Advent. Here in London, it's suddenly cold. With the run up to Christmas, I'm going to be concentrating on Christmas food, but we're going to kick off with a look the dreaded Christmas cookery book market.  

Come mid-November, the bookshops are suddenly awash with Christmas themed cookery books. I had a quick look at the best-selling lists on amazon.co.uk:  Nigella Christmas: Food, Family, Friends, Festivities is currently in the lead at number one, with that old chestnut, Delia Smith's Christmas coming up fast from behind at number three.  I've got mixed feeling about both of those two.  Delia's recipes are often good (I detect the influence of Simon Hopkinson), but there is just something too perfectionist and goody-goody (butter's a sin!) about her style. Nigella's the opposite: she-er- looks fab (a saliva inducing mid-life fantasy) but  I'm disturbed by all the late night 'fridge raiding "finger in the taramasalata" stuff going on- and I hate to say it, I'm not sure that her rather mucky recipes are up to the ticket, either.

No, for me, the Christmas book of choice has to be Paul Levy's The Feast of Christmas. This is one of my all-time favourite food books, if not my favourite book of all time. Paul Levy is a highly literate food critic, and writes beautifully. The Feast of Christmas was originally a publisher's tie-in for a television series shown some time ago on good old Channel Four (back in those halcyon days when it was producing stimulating and intelligent television programmes). Paul Levy looks at the mythology and history behind Christmas, and includes Christmas recipes from food writers such as Claudia Roden, Ken Hom, Frances Bissell and M.F.K. Fisher. It's The Greasy Spoon's Book of the Month.

Elizabeth David's Christmas is another good 'un. Published after her death, and edited by Jill Norman, Elizabeth David's Christmas includes 150 Christmas recipes from her private papers.  These include Marcel Boulestin's Turkey, Roast Capon with tomatoes and rice and walnut stuffing, Fish Consommé, and Lemon and Celery Sauce.

Bonfire Night Bullshot

 

 

Until recently Hallowe'en wasn't particularly celebrated in the British Isles. The odd mask might have appeared in the local newsagents, and children at school might have peformed some sort of spooky play at school, but that was about it. Instead, the emphasis, at this time of year, was on Guy Fawkes Night, and that meant private bonfire parties, fireworks, bangers and "Penny for the Guy" on the Fifth of November.

For the celebrations tonight, why don't you fill up your hip flask with a hot bullshot cocktail? Normally this is drunk cold, on ice; but I see no reason why it shouldn't be served hot (in a similar fashion to mulled wine or cider) and I have a sneaky suspicion that you might find it even better this way.

Empty a tin of beef consommé soup into a large pan. Pour in a large slug of vodka and add a dash of Lea & Perrins Worcestershire sauce, a squeeze of lemon juice, a pinch of celery salt, and finish it off by seasoning it with salt and pepper.

Warm up the bullshot on a medium heat, making sure that you don't boil it.  If you've got guests, I would suggest serving it in small coffee cans or cups.  If you're going to the Park, I would urge you to fill up your hip-flask and pass it around.

Chorizo and Butternut Squash with Roasted Tomatoes

 

 

As it's Hallowe'en, I've decided to come up with an idea suitable for this most American of festivals. Here in London, it's also suddenly cold and frosty.  I think this recipe would work well. I've gone for butternut squash rather than pumpkin.  It's also simple- and that's no bad thing.

Slice up a red onion and fry it gently in oil and butter. When the onion's soft, turn down the heat to a low setting and add some chorizo sausage, chopped up into cubes. The chorizo should take about ten to fifteen minutes to cook.

In the meantime, remove the skin from a butternut squash, and cut it in half. Chop the squash into small chunks and cook it gently in a separate pan with butter, first seasoning it with a few pinches of nutmeg and some decent black pepper.

Go back to the chorizo and add some crushed garlic. This will take a few minutes to cook. Make sure it doesn't burn.

Finally, remove the cooked chorizo, red onions and garlic and place them into a clean pan. Add the cooked butternut squash, and some baby tomatoes, which you've previously roasted whole in the oven. Warm the pan through, check the seasoning and finish the dish off with some chopped coriander and a squeeze of lemon.

The secret with this recipe is that the three main ingredients are cooked separately in their own juices, and then just gently folded together at the end.  Butternut squash has a delicious, slightly musty, autumnal taste and you don't want that to be overpowered by the spicy paprika flavours going on in the chorizo.

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 as I had some time on my hands, I decided 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 for 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, 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 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.

Stara Polska

 

 

Last night, I was taken to a new Polish restaurant in Marylebone- close to St Christopher's Place. It's called Old Poland, otherwise known as "Stara Polska".

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.

 

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.

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: 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 sea 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.

If Chocolate be the Food of Love...

 

 

I’ve often thought it slightly odd that the Feast of St Valentine (that day of Love and Romance) commemorates a Roman martyr who was tortured and put to death in the most horrible fashion. Having said that, for us simple creatures of the male persuasion, Valentine’s Day can be sheer torture if you get it wrong- and, Jiminy Cricket, can you get it seriously wrong.

If you’re out to impress tonight, I would advise you to avoid restaurants at all costs. You’ll discover dewy-eyed couples holding hands, while swarthy Lotharios flog over-priced roses, serenaded by squeaky violins. It’s like appearing as out of work extras in an old episode of “The Love Boat”.

Instead, how about cooking up a romantic dinner for two over at your place? I would suggest that you keep it simple (a decent steak picked up on your way back from the Counting House would be ideal), and finish it off with strawberries dipped in chocolate.

Get hold of several bars of dark chocolate, and melt them gently in a bain-marie. This just means placing a smaller pan into a larger pan full of barely simmering water. The dark chocolate has more solids, and will be less likely to separate. Stir until you have a smooth sauce. Dip the strawberries in the chocolate, and then chuck them into the ‘fridge. With any luck, they should be set by the time you get onto the pudding course. They would go well with a Sauternes or Tokaji, too.

I’ve always admired that bit in Roman Polanski’s “Tess”, when the rakish Alec d’Urberville dangles strawberries over Nastassja Kinski’s ravishing lips. Here’s your chance! Strawberries are out of season, but who cares?

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). I like to pour this over my Haggis once it's cooked.

 

                 

Champagne Cocktail

 

 

I adore Christmas, believe me. But, Jiminy Cricket, I'm glad when it's all over. I sympathise with a friend who used to hang a banner up in his Drawing Room declaring "Christmas Must Go!". That's why I like New Year's Eve (or Hogmany as it's called in Scotland), even if this means that you might get a dark, hairy stranger in a kilt turning up on your doorstep at midnight with a lump of coal.

 

 

And what to drink, apart from the obvious and excellent choice of Champagne? How about mixing up a chic Champagne Cocktail this evening?

 

Here's a classic 1930's Champagne Cocktail from the Metropolitan Hotel, New York. First you need to soak a sugar cube with a dash of Angoustura Bitters. Put it in the bottom of a champagne flute.

While I'm about it: a quick word on champagne glasses. I use the classic flute shape. You can also use the rather kitsch shallow glass version- which, apparently, was fashioned from Marie Antoinette's left tit. They're fun- but I've been told on good authority that they're not good for the champagne bubbles, and make them go flat rather quickly.

But on with the cocktail: Fill up the glass with a decent Champagne. Laurent Perrier is delicious, relatively affordable, and a brand I'm currently rather keen on. Finish it off with a twist of lemon.

 

 

Champagne afficinados will probably sneer at anyone who tries to make a champagne cocktail, but I like this recipe for its simplicity, and classic origins. I'm off to a New Year's Eve party in Buckinghamshire tonight, but if I'm still alive by tomorrow morning, plan to write about things Bavarian. I would like to thank everyone and anyone who has bothered to read "The Greasy Spoon" over the last few months, and I wish you all a happy and peaceful 2008. Happy New Year!

The Twelve Days of Christmas

 

 

King Arthur lay at Camelot upon a Christmas-tide, with many a gallant lord and lovely lady, and all the noble brotherhood of the Round Table. There they held rich revels with gay talk and jest; one while they would ride forth to joust and tourney, and again back to the court to make carols; for there was the feast holden fifteen days with all the mirth that men could devise, song and glee, glorious to hear, in the daytime, and dancing at night.

Traditionally, The Twelve Days of Christmas starts on Christmas Day, and ends on Twelfth Night. It was a time of great Medieval feasting and revelry. I'm very fond of St George's Hall, Windsor, which is an early Victorian fantasy of what a Medieval Hall should look like; and the recent restorations after the disastrous fire have been superb. There's a suit of armour there, stuck up in front of a great roundel on the wall- with all the overtones of Arthurian legend and the great Medieval poem, Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. And how suitable for a Christmas feast! In a similar vein, the engraving below shows the famous Boar's Head being brought into The Queen's College, Oxford. The boar is paraded into the Hall, to the strains of the fifteenth century Boar's Head Carol.

 

 

 

Still on the subject of Christmas food, I've got a great family recipe for Candied Fruit.

First, you need to get hold of five large oranges. Cut them in half, and squeeze out the juice. Discard the flesh, but not the pith. Next, cut the peel into strips about half an inch wide, and place them into a saucepan. Cover with boiling water and simmer for about five minutes. Drain and repeat this four times, using fresh water each time.

In a large pan, pour 250 ml (8 fl oz) of water over 1 1/2 lb of granulated sugar, and dissolve the sugar over a gentle heat. Add the orange peel, and cook them slowly, with the lid partially on, until they are soft. This should take about half an hour- or a bit longer. Leave them to cool down, and then sprinkle them with caster sugar.

Leave out to dry for a day or so- and then store them away in an air-tight tin. They are utterly delicious, and would make an original- if simple- present for someone. You can also try the same technique on lemons, but we all reckoned this Christmas, that the orange version was probably better. But as always, it's a matter of personal taste, isn't it?

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 or Katmandu, 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.

Gravy

 

 

I hope- pray even- that this Christmas you are going to make some genuine, home-made gravy. I know that some poor souls out there skip this, and make that stuff straight from the packet. And I loathe that. Starchy, synthetic, a nasty brown colour, gloopy- quite horrible. Ruins everything else on the plate.

What is gravy? I had a few protest emails when I had the temerity to suggest that "gravy' in the United States, is what we call a white sauce. Ok, ok, I realise now that this is a term from the Deep South, and that some of you up on the East Coast have a similar thing to us in Britain. Serves me right for hanging out with a bunch of wannabe Confederates.

Proper gravy (or jus, if you live in Hampstead) should be thin (I can't stress that enough), and made from the juices left over from your turkey, beef, or joint.

Once the meat has cooked, lift out your joint, and let it rest. You will have the oven pan left over with the meat juices left behind, and probably some caramelised burnt bits as well. Pour off the surplus fat floating on the top.

Over a moderate heat, stir in a small bit of flour, so that it soaks up the juices, and let it cook for a bit. It's now time to deglaze the pan. This means adding liquid to soak up the burnt bits left on the bottom of the pan. You can use wine, or stock- or a combination of both. For stock, I normally use the water left over from any vegetables that you are cooking at the same time. If you're making a light coloured gravy, say for chicken or turkey, I would use white wine. If you're making a darker gravy for beef, I would use a red, say a Beaujolais.

Let it bubble away, and then finish it off with a tiny splash of soy sauce. This adds a bit of colour, and intensifies the flavours. Strain off the gravy, and serve it in a sauce boat. I prefer my gravy to be very thin, light as well, and it's important when you serve it, not to let it swamp everything else on the plate. Apart from that, it's all pretty straightforward. Good Luck!

Never Was There 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!"

I've decided this cold and hoary morning (it's seven o' clock!) to write about the Christmas goose. 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!

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 (ie 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...

Thanksgiving Blues

 

 

Today is Thanksgiving, and amongst other things, also the anniversary of the assassination of JFK back in 1963. I once made a futile attempt to cook a Thanksgiving Dinner for an American family in Los Angeles. The turkey was dry, and over-cooked, and I soon discovered that what we call "gravy" back in England, was, to Americans, a white sauce made from a roux of butter, milk and flour.

I expect my American readership to be down today, as you will all be stuffing yourselves with turkey, cranberry sauce, baked ham, pumpkin pie and the like. It's one of the reasons Americans tend not to have turkey for Christmas Day; by that date, you're probably all sick of it. However, one of the better dishes from Thanksgiving are Candied Yams, and of course, you don't have to limit yourself to making them only for Thanksgiving.

Yams are sweet potatoes. Scrub them all over and then steam them for about thirty minutes. Take them out, and put them to one side. In a small saucepan, make a caramelised sauce. Melt some unsalted butter, add some sugar, Maldon Salt and pepper, some grated ginger, and a bit of stock. Cook for a few minutes. When you have a thickish sauce, pour it over the steamed yams, and bake them in the oven for about fifteen to twenty minutes. Sprinkle some chopped parsley over the finished yams and serve.