The Greasy Spoon

Taste the Mystery of the Orient...

A few weeks ago- purely in the interests of nostalgic experimentation, you understand- I made myself a Vesta curry. Those of you of a certain age should know all about this: the Vesta range offered a tantalising choice, which included "indian" curry, chow mein, and I think, "Spanish" paella. Inside the brightly coloured boxes, which conjured up images of sophisticated exotica, were sachets of dried noodles, dehydrayted bits of this and that, and- oh joy to behold- soy sauce, or some sort of mango chutney, thrown in as an extra goodie.

Now, the amazing thing, is that Vesta are still in business; and their product still, more or less, looks like it did thirty years ago. And it tastes the same, too. I followed the instructions down to the letter; adding the powder to a saucepan, topping it up with cold water, and then simmering it gently for- I think- fifteen minutes, twenty six and a half seconds. The result was, as Her Majesty might have said, "surprising": a watery, saline mess, studded with dried-up, bullet-like peas suffering from an identity crisis; the sheer horror of it all (almost as bad as being a participant in an Hieronymus Bosch tableau vivant) still lingering in my befuddled and confused brain to this day.

Have tastes changed that much over the years? I suppose that back in the 1970's, clever admen could evoke the sophistication of places like Spain and India, which, in those far off halycon days, were beyond the reach of ordinary people, more used to taking a boat out on the Broads for their summer holidays.

They used the same technique to sell the Mastermind board game (Game of the Year 1972), which had pictured on its box a suave, mysterious, and bearded Man of Taste; his dead-sexy Hong Konganese side-kick (young enough to have been his grand-daughter) standing alluringly behind the smoked glass coffee table. Most disappointingly to my ten year old mind (reared on a television diet of The New Avengers, Hadleigh, and The Persuaders), the game turned out to be just a small, grey plastic board, with a collection of brightly coloured plastic pegs which soon got gobbled up by my mother's frantic hoovering.

I'm glad to say the advertising agencies are still at it today: just remember, that charming little jar of Mrs Bridge's Home-Cooked Farmhouse Surprise, was probably manufactured- and manufactured is the right word here- in some Kafkaesque unit in the Slough Trading Estate. On a similar tack, I've often wondered if 'Free Range Eggs' really do mean free range. That could be a good idea for a future post. So, until then my amigos, adios...

The Galloping Gourmet

Hands up who remembers "The Galloping Gourmet"? Graham Kerr was a suave, international man of mystery type, who just so happened to be a dab hand in the kitchen as well. He would leap around his trendy 70's pine-lined kitchen, possessed with some sort of a manic zeal, and rustle up things with copious amounts of cognac, cream, and butter. The inspirational highlight of the show was always at the end, when he would run into the audience and pull out a blonde dollybird by the hand- conveniently sitting in the front row- to join him in a candlelit diner a deux, just as the credits started to roll.

I have a feeling that all that cream and cholesterol caught up with him, and poor old Graham eventually had a massive heart attack, turned to God, and abandoned television cookery for good.

Having said that, a few years ago, I was holed up in a divey motel in Santa Monica for a few days, and with nothing else to do, switched on the rickety television set. And what did I see? None other than the great man himself- back on our screens in a fresh outbreak. Some sort of thing about healthy food. He seemed to be obsessed with spray-on olive oil in an aerosol can, the idea being that- shock horror- olive oil was bad for you. What on earth was all that about?

I am delighted to say, that this neurosis has yet to arrive on the shores of Perfidious Albion, and as far as I am aware, over here olive oil is still considered a good thing. I buy rustic, green-coloured, extra- virgin olive oil in large bottles, and use it liberally. Farchioni Cold Pressed and Unfiltered Il Casolare is the brand of choice. It's not that expensive, and comes from Umbria in Sunny Italy. And it's good for you. Believe me...

Christmas Herring Salad

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

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

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

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

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

Braised Red Cabbage

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

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

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

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

Welsh Rabbit

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

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

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

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

Gingerbread

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Guinness

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bang Bang Chicken

Apologies for my absence over the last few days. On Friday I was invited to a Bond-themed party, and was told to come in fancy dress. I rocked up in full naval rig; finding to my horror that no-one else had bothered, so ended up feeling like an extra from Follow the Fleet surrounded by kids in jeans and t-shirts. Heigh ho.

Anyway, this morning's gem of wisdom is taken from A. A. Gill's excellent book on The Ivy Restaurant in London's Covent Garden. I had a feeling that Bang Bang Chicken was one of those dishes that had been bastardised by British and American Chinese restaurants- but I've discovered that it is a reasonably authentic Szechuan thing. This is how you make The Ivy version:

Spoon 250g smooth peanut butter into a bowl, and place it over a saucepan of hot water for about ten minutes. The peanut butter should soften up- and you need to stir it now and again. Remove from the heat and stir in a dash of sweet chili sauce. Then add five tablespoons of sesame oil, and six tablespoons of vegetable oil. Stir carefully so that they form an emulsion.

Get hold of a smoked chicken, remove the skin, and take the meat off the bone, shredding it as you go. Put to one side.

Now for the Chinese style vegetables. This is easy. It's just two carrots, peeled and finely shredded; spring onions and cucumbers cut into strips, and shredded in the same way. Pile them up on a plate and sprinkle them with rice vinegar. Arrange the chicken on top, and pour over the peanut sauce. Finally, finish the dish off, by sprinkling some toasted sesame seeds on top.

Pheasant with Juniper Butter and Pear

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lancashire Hot Pot

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

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

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

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

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