The Greasy Spoon

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.

Minestrone Soup

Strangely, I don't think I've written about Minestrone Soup before. I'm not going to patronise you with a description; this is a dish we've all had time and time again, and of course you know how to make your own version at a drop of a hat.

I happen to think that the number one all-time recipe for Minestrone Soup comes from Arrigo Cipriani's The Harry's Bar Cookbook. His slightly refined version includes asparagus, and leaves out the pasta. When I'm cooking it, I like to dice up the vegetables into small pieces; I think it improves the look of the finished dish.

Here's how to make it, courtesy of Mr Arrigo Cipriani. (It will serve six people):

Heat up two tablespoons of olive oil in a heavy pan, and melt in a tablespoon of butter. Add a diced medium sized onion, and sauté over a medium heat until well browned. 

Now it's time to add the vegetables: a diced celery rib (peeled), two thinly sliced leeks (white part only), a large tomato (cored and diced), two small diced zucchini, a small wedge of Savoy cabbage (shredded and chopped), a medium potato (peeled and cut into small dice), a medium sized carrot (peeled and diced), and six asparagus spears (cut into slices). Throw in a bayleaf, and season with sea salt and black pepper. Cook on a medium heat and stir for about fifteen minutes.

Add two litres of stock (chicken or vegetable, I'll leave that one up to you), and ⅓ cup of tomato sauce. If you don't want to make your own, you could always use tomato purée. Bring the soup to the boil, reduce the heat and simmer, partially covered, for fifteen minutes.

Remove the bayleaf, stir in a tablespoon of butter, and check the seasoning. Serve very hot with grated parmesan cheese.

 

Caesar Salad

Caesar Salad is one of those classic dishes that has been over-tweaked, bastardised, and generally ruined by self-indulgent chefs over the years. The best Caesar Salad is the original Caesar Salad.

It was invented by Caesar Cardini in 1924. Cardini was a chef working at the Hotel Comerical in Tijuana- the Mexican town a few miles from the Californian border. During Prohibition, large parties of Americans used to cross the border in search of booze. The story goes that Cardini created the salad when a large party of hungry Americans turned up for the Fourth of July celebrations. He had run out of food, so made do with what he had left over.

Julia Child, the great food writer, apparently telephoned Cardini's daughter to get the authentic recipe- and came up with this. And who are we to argue with either of them?

First, you need two small heads of Romaine lettuce, preferably organic. Tear the lettuce into large shreds. Add two coddled eggs. Coddling is a technique where you only boil the eggs in their shell for one minute, so that you end up with a runny yolk. Add half a teaspoon of sea salt, and freshly ground black pepper; the juice of two lemons, ten drops of Lea & Perrins' Worcestershire Sauce, half a cup of fresh grated Parmesan cheese, and half a cup of garlic oil. Garlic oil is just a good quality Virgin or Extra Virgin olive oil, infused by some garlic cloves for a day or so.

Toss the salad, so that the ingredients combine with the runny egg yolk, and lettuce leaves are well coated. Finish off the dish with some freshly prepared croutons. This is just deep-fried bread- cut into cubes. For some reason, slightly stale bread makes better croutons. You've probably noticed that I haven't added anchovies to my Caesar Salad. I have a strong hunch that the original recipe didn't include them, and I've tried to keep it authentic.

The Humble Cabbage

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aziz of Marrakech's Courgette Soup

More on things Moroccan.  The food at the Riad Enija was excellent. The owner, Björn (a former architect with UNESCO) reckoned that his chef, Aziz, might be one of the best chefs in all Marrakech.  This could be true. The food, although simple, was delicious.  We signed up for the Riad's cookery "course" (in effect, more of a cookery demonstration) and watched as he prepared a smooth melon and ginger soup, followed by a tajine, cooked with baby okra which we had bought at the spice and vegetable market in the Mellah (the walled Jewish quarter) that morning.

One of the first dishes we sampled at the Riad was Aziz's courgette soup. I'm not sure if it was especially Moroccan, but who cares?- it was outstandingly good. Smooth, piping hot, creamy- with dollops of taste, and a nice, clear, fresh green colour to boot. I persuaded him to give me the precise recipe. Here it is, courtesy of Aziz of Marrakech:

You take a large pot, and into that you put: a kilo of chopped baby courgettes (zucchini), two crushed garlic cloves, a sliced white onion, parsley, 20g butter, and a dash of a decent salt. You pour in 1 ½ litres of water, and simmer for half an hour on the stove.

After the time is up, take it off the heat and pulse the liquid with a blender until it is smooth. Taste and if needed, add more seasoning, including pepper. Aziz showed us a jar of those mixed coloured peppers in red, green and "white" and gave us the thumbs up sign- or Moroccan equivilent; he seemed, for some reason, to have an aversion to black pepper.

Strain it through a sieve and serve hot.

Jellied Eels Revisited

I first wrote about jellied eels back in 2007, when we had a look at Tubby Isaac's famous East End eel stall. I've still got mixed feelings about jellied eels. I want to like 'em, and I'm almost at the point of becoming an aficinado, but if the truth be told, given half the chance I would sooner plump for a decent oyster on the shell, or a lovely cut of smoked eel with horseradish sauce.

Back in the good old days of muffin men and dancing chimney sweeps, eels were the staple diet of the London poor. The Thames Estuary is full of the critters, and as the Thames is now so much cleaner than it was say, forty years ago, eels are coming back in force.

I suspect the best way to enjoy jellied eels is to cook them yourself. A few months ago, I had a bowl of jellied eels as a first course (from memory, I think it was at Jack's Place in Battersea); and I don't remember them being especially good (not that I want to denigrate Jack's in any way; a splendid institution and long may it thrive!).

I've trawled through several very old-fashioned Mrs Beeton type cook-books on your behalf, and come up with a definitive recipe:

First, catch some eels. Chop them into 2 inch thick pieces, and plunge them into a large pan of boiling water with a generous dash of sea salt. Take them off the boil, and let them stand for five minutes.

Next, take a pan or dish, and throw in the eels. Pour in a pint of water (so that the eels are covered), and add three tablespoons of malt vinegar, a squeeze of lemon juice, some thinly sliced onions, carrots and celery, a bayleaf, a few peppercorns, sea salt, chopped parsley, and nutmeg.

Bring to the boil, reduce and simmer for twenty minutes, until the eels are tender. Remove the cooked eels and place them in a deep serving dish or bowl. Strain the 'liquor' over the eels, and when cool, bung it into the 'fridge.  Eels are naturally gelatinous, so the liquid should set.  If it doesn't, be prepared to add some liquid gelatine to the mix. According to one book, the chopped parsley gives "the jelly the traditional hint of green, like the sea". What a nice idea.

Serve the jellied eels with chili vinegar.

Crispy Squid

I'm fortunate enough (or unlucky enough, depending on your point of view) to work next door to the new Westfield Shopping Centre in darkest Shepherd's Bush. For those of you who don't know about it, this is a spanking brand new Shopping Mall built on American lines, and apparently, the largest shopping complex in Europe.  I'm sure you'll get the picture: squeaky clean chain shops, giggly teenage girls hanging out in pairs, bland post-modern architecture, bored looking Security Guards talking into mobiles. Escalator Heaven.

It's a useful place to get a quick lunch, and I've been to that fast-food Chinese place on the first floor a few times. They cook an excellent, crispy squid, which they serve with black pepper, salt, and thinly sliced chili; along with a further chili dipping sauce. It's delicious and given me a quite a taste for the thing.  It would make an excellent Chinese influenced canapé, and I think, would work well with a Dry Martini. It needs to be served very hot, and very crispy. The following recipe is based on Rose Prince's version in the Daily Telegraph:

Use fresh squid. Cut them open lengthways and remove the insides including the hard quill. With a pair of scissors cut away the tentacles and any hard, boney bits. Dry the squid with paper towels, and then score one side of the squid with a sharp knife to make a lattice pattern. Cut the squid into bite sized pieces.

Heat up some groundnut oil in a wok. Groundnut (or peanut) oil is excellent because it has a high smoking point. Carefully drop a tiny globule of water into the hot oil.  If it sizzles, you will know that it is ready.

Dip the squid into some flour, and fry in small batches for two minutes.  If you overcrowd the wok this will lower the temperature, and stop the squid from frying properly. Remove the crispy squid and let them cool down in a paper-lined sieve or colander.

When the time comes for you to eat them, reheat the oil and re-fry the squid for 3-4 minutes, or until they are a pale golden brown.

Serve them with fine salt, freshly ground black pepper, strips of red and green chili and a chili dipping sauce.

Soufflé Heaven

I'm amused by soufflés. There's just something terribly camp about them, isn't there?  I'm not exactly sure what it is: the acute accent on the e? Or the high drama of 'The Rise", perhaps? The fact that the Table has to wait for the Soufflé, rather than the Soufflé having to wait for the Table- giving you the chance to fuss dramatically around the kitchen, and then to have queeny hysterics when your soufflé collapses. 

Control Freaks love them, too. There's all that stuff about the right temperature, the correct way to beat the egg whites, the proper way to do this, the proper way to do that. So I was quite happy to leave this one to The Girl, who came up with a fabulous aromatic soufflé, flavoured with tarragon.

I will go as far as saying that I think her soufflé was the best one I've ever had.  Tarragon, as you will remember, has an intense aniseedy, licoriquey, Pernod-y taste, and is considered by le gratin to go extremely well with poultry. It worked well with the cheese in the soufflé, and gave the dish a punchy, herbal flavour. If you like tarragon, you're going to love it. Not that I want to patronise you in any way; I am aware that most subscribers to The Greasy Spoon have probably made more soufflés, than I've had hot dinners:

First you need to turn on you oven. It's really important that you get your oven really hot (200C) as this sudden heat is what makes ths soufflé rise. Get hold of a soufflé dish, and smear the inside with the greasy bit of a butter wrapper. 

Next, it's time to make a roux. You'll remember how to do this. Flour cooked in a large knob of butter, stirred until smooth, and then turned into a sloppy kind of sauce with the addition of milk. Keep the pan on a gentle heat and stir or whisk like crazy, until all the lumps have been removed.

Remove from the heat, and let the white sauce cool down a bit (you don't want the eggs to cook as yet). Whisk in three egg yolks, add a dollop of mustard, grate in some Gruyère cheese, and throw in a good handful of tarragon leaves. Season with salt, pepper and lots of grated nutmeg.

Whisk up three egg whites until they're stiff. It's very important not to get any fat in the mixing bowl (ie egg yolk) as this will prevent the egg whites thickening up. The mixing bowl needs to be extremely clean. Finally, mix the egg white into the cheesy, herby, white sauce, using gentle hand movements. Use a metal spoon.

That's about it. The soufflé mixture, not surprisingly, goes into the soufflé dish, and the dish goes into the hot oven. Half an hour later it should be ready. If it hasn't risen properly, you can blame me, this blog, the cat's mother, and the world in general. Nothing like throwing a tantrum to clear the air, is there?

Potted Crayfish in Tomato Consommé

I've had computer angst: I had written what I thought was a rather erudite and witty post about my attempt to try out my new recipe, Potted Crayfish in Tomato Consommé, on my future mother-in-law; and my computer went up the creek. Apologies.

I'm not going to re-write the article, that would be too complicated (it included a philosophical aside on the bucolic delights of crayfishing in Wiltshire, worthy of The Compleat Angler, itself); but I am going to tell you how to make my potted crayfish recipe in the comfort of your own kitchens.  The recipe worked well, although as I suspected, my spicy red pepper sauce was far too powerful for the delicate tomato jelly, and the dish would be more suitable for a summer's evening in the garden, than a miserable, cold and wet January.

First, you need to make a so-called tomato consommé. Buy some ripe, red tomatoes (the riper the better), and smash them up in the Magimix with a handful of sea salt. I used Maldon's smoked sea salt. Get hold of a sieve, and line it with muslin of coffee filter paper. Fill it up with the tomato pulp, and let the tomatoes drip into a bowl which you've placed underneath. It's probably best to leave it in the 'fridge overnight. In the morning, the bowl will be full of a lovely, crystal clear, rose-scented, intensely flavoured tomato stock.

Next, pack some ramekin dishes with crayfish.  I bought wild crayfish tails from my local supermarket. Okay, they're in a plastic packet, and produced by Joe Lyons (of Corner House fame), but they're surprisingly good: much sweeter and juicier than their prawn cousins. Cut up four gelatine leaves into small pieces, and soak them in about three tablespoons of cold fish stock and lemon juice. Next, melt them very carefully in a bain-marie, making sure they don't boil. When the liquid gelatine is hot and runny, pour it directly into the tomato stock, and whisk the mixture up very thoroughly with a whisk. If there is any fish juice left over from the crayfish packet, add this too.

Finally, pour the tomato consommé over the crayfish, to cover. Now it's time to discuss the spice factor. I tried making a spicy red pepper sauce to drizzle on top of the crayfish, and it didn't work. The flavours were just too strong. But I'm still obsessed with the idea that a touch of spice will work well with this dish- the tomato and crayfish combo is a bit Louisianan, isn't it?  I'm going to add a dash of Tabasco to the tomato consommé at the mixing stage, and see how that works. Just a drop or two. That's all.

Put the ramekins in the 'fridge, and they should set in an hour or so. Oh- and here's a useful tip- take them out of the 'fridge about an hour before you want to serve them. This will help to get rid of that slightly metallic gelatine taste. I think that's about it; though it might need some sort of garnish on top. How about roasted red peppers, with their skins removed, and chopped up into very small pieces, or even better, sliced into julienne ?

Smoked Haddock Chowder

January: cold, wet, dark, gloomy, and depressing; financially embarassing, too. No folks, it ain't my favourite month, and to combat all this, I need gutsy, unpretentious, winter food, as I'm sure you do as well.

Chowder is a classic American East Coast dish, usually a creamy soup enriched with salt pork fatback and traditionally thickened with crushed saltine crackers or corn. I've no doubt that each State or city have their own way of making it. Massachusetts will say this, Rhode Island will say that. Manhatten adds tomatoes, while in Maine, apparently, this is/was illegal. Here's my Limey take on it. I think smoked haddock (one of my all-time favourite fishes) works well. If Americans want to bombard me with abusive chowder emails- that's fine- please do; go ahead.  All I know is that it works, and I like it.

First, cook the smoked haddock. Try and buy a smoked, undyed fillet. The bright yellow fillets you see in the supermarket have been artificially dyed with all sorts of nasty chemicals. Undyed smoked haddock is a lovely, light cream colour. It's more expensive. but worth the extra cost, as the taste is far more subtle. In effect, the smoked haddock has already been cooked, so it will need very little poaching. Place it in a pan with a decent amount of water, to which you have added a bayleaf, a carrot, a small onion and one or two peppercorns. Bring it to the boil, turn off the heat and put the lid on the pan.

Next, in a large pan sauté some chopped salt pork or pancetta in unsalted butter. Add some finely chopped celery and onion or shallots. Pour in the poaching water from the haddock, and add some potatoes, which you've previously skinned and chopped up into smallish cubes. When the potatoes are almost cooked (which won't take that long), add milk and cream, and then the smoked haddock which you've broken up into large flakes.

Check the seasoning: chunky black pepper would be good, and it may or may not need sea salt, depending on how salty the haddock is. Add some fresh thyme and simmer the chowder gently for ten minutes. Serve with crackers.