The Greasy Spoon | It's not just about Haute Cuisine...

Spiced Apple Chutney

 

 

A Happy New Year. As a self-confessed contrarian, I've suddenly decided that I rather like January. As much as I adore Christmas, it does go on a bit, doesn't it? An old friend of mine used to display a banner in his drawing room with "Christmas Must Go!" emblazoned across it. I'm beginning to understand what he felt like. Over the years I've also slowly come to the conclusion that what I really enjoy at Christmas is not the ubiquitous Turkey (dry this year, one of those things), but, instead, a succulent self-cooked, honey and mustard glazed ham (recipe from Sarah Raven), served up with home-made potted mushrooms, and chutney.

This year my mother gave me a pot of her very own "Spiced Apple Chutney", and I have to say, hand on heart, this is probably the best chutney I have tasted in a very long while. Perhaps ever. She discovered the recipe in a book on Indian food, but was a bit vague about what exactly the title was- so my apologies to the author for not being able to tell you the exact source. The chutney's almost a vegetarian curry in its own right; I think that might be part of its very considerable appeal. It's also fairly easy on the vinegar, which helps.

Peel, core and slice up 900kg of cooking apples. Put them into a bowl and sprinkle them with sea salt flakes. Set aside. Grate half a head of garlic and half a knob of fresh ginger. Slice up the remaining halves thinly.

Heat up a large pan and add a dash of oil. Fry the ginger and the garlic until slightly golden. Add 2 tablespoons of mustard seed, one teaspoon of fenugreek seed, 15 peppercorns, two teaspoons of powdered cumin, one teaspoon of chilli powder, one teaspoon of tumeric, and 3-4 chopped green chillis (removing the seeds with your knife. Fry gently for a few minutes.

Add the sliced apples, 150ml of cider vinegar, and 110g granulated sugar. Stir and cook slowly for about thirty minutes or so. Cool and decant into sterlised screw-top jars. The chutney needs to mature for a few months before eating.

I really do hope you are tempted to make this. It's a classic chutney and utterly delicious.

 

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The Last Days of The Raj: Food in British India

 

 

The Veerasawmy, from an old postcard

 

The Veeraswamy (99-101 Regent Street, London W1) is said to to be the oldest Indian restaurant in Britain. It was founded in 1926 by Edward Palmer, a retired Indian army officer. Palmer is an interesting character. From an Anglo-Indian family, his grandfather founded a Hyderabad banking house in the 18th century, and his grandmother was Indian. His great grandmother was the Princess Begum Fyze Baksh. Palmer's company E. P. Veerasawmy & Co. (note the slightly different spelling) ran the Indian foods section at the British Empire exhibiton in 1924, selling spices, chutneys and curry pastes to the British public- this must have seemed deeply exotic at the time.

 

 

 

In 1936 he published "Indian Cookery: For Use in All Countries". This is a rare book in first edition, and difficult to find, but I see that a paperback edition, published by Mayflower in 1972, is readily available, and there are various other fun editions you can get your teeth into:

 

 

 

In 1930, The Veerasawmy was taken over by the Conservative MP, Sir William Steward. The restaurant was popular with all the usual Society suspects of the day: Edward, Prince of Wales, Mrs Simpson, Winston Churchill, Charlie Chaplin. And it's still there (although you will find the decor much changed), managed by the owners of Chutney Mary, and the brilliant and highly affordable chain, Masala Zone- which I would recommend without hesitation. 

I'm interested in Anglo-Indian food. Like so many other people in this country, I have (or have had) relations who lived in India. My great uncle, from memory, had been in the Indian Army. One of my all-time favourite dishes is kedgeree- that savoury Anglo-Indian confection of rice, smoked fish, chopped eggs and "curry" flavourings. Piccallili (which I wrote about yesterday) is another example. It's sort of in the blood. There are some who will say that Anglo-Indian food is not authentic; a bastardised version of the real McCoy. This may or may not be the case, but it exists (if slightly out of fashion) and for me, that's as real as it gets.

I've built up a modest collection of books on the topic:

 

David Burton, "The Raj at Table", Faber, 1994

 

Jennifer Brennan, "Curries & Bugles",  Harper Collins, 1990

 

Lizzie Collingham, "Curry, A Tale of Cooks & Conquerors", Random House, 2006

 

Rhona Aitken, The Memsahib's Cookbook, Piatkus Books, 1993

 

Pat Chapman's "The Taste of The Raj", Hodder & Stoughton, 1997

 

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Rogan Josh

 

 

Oh, how I love youtube. It's that serendipity thing going on. You've got an hour or so to spare, and just through random coincidence and one thing leading to another, you discover infinite numbers of new sub-cultures you didn't even know existed.  And that's how I came across Chef Harpal. I have no idea if he's a huge culinary star in India, Australia, Singapore- or wherever. But what I do know is that his take on Rogan Josh is extremely delicious- and for those of you with that certain chili kick, this is going to be right up your street. Incidentally, there's no tomato or tomato sauce in it whatsoever.  All the red 'fiery' bit comes from the chili. 

If you've got the time and inclination, have a look at his video, as posted below. If you haven't, here's my version of Chef Harpal's Rogan Josh: 

In hot oil, you fry: a cinammon stick, a few cloves, a bayleaf, a few black cardamoms, and a kilogram of thinly sliced onions. Cook until the onions are beginning to turn slightly brown. Add a tablespoon of garlic paste, and then a tablespoon of ginger paste. Take a shoulder of lamb, and cut it up into chunks. Fry until evenly coloured and the lamb is soft. Add water or stock, and a generous dash of sea salt. Cover and cook for about twenty five minutes. 

Mix up a decent tablespoon or so of chili powder with water, to form a loose, liquidy paste. This is one of Chef Harpal's nifty tricks. It helps to release the oils and bind the chili to the sauce. Don't add the chili powder as it is. Throw in a teaspoon of crushed fennel seeds and a teaspoon of crushed, powdered ginger. Let them cook for a few minutes and then turn down the heat and mix in about half a cup of whisked yoghurt. Simmer until the lamb is tender.

 

 

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Lazy Spinach and Prawn Biryani

 

 

I'm going to deviate from the path with this one. Normally on The Greasy Spoon, I try to cover classic food and get to the bottom of authentic recipes. Hand up, I admit that the recipe I'm about to give you ain't a proper biryani- it's undoubtably a bastardised version, but so juicy, quick and delicious, I couldn't resist posting it. It's based on a recipe from allrecipes.co.uk, but I've unashamedly changed it in various ways.

What is a biryani?  I'm afraid many people in Britain just assume it's "Indian"- whatever that means. The story of the biryani, however, is far more complex. It originated in Persia, the name coming from the Persian word beryā(n) (بریان) which means "fried" or "roasted" and was brought to South East Asia by spice traders. It's a popular dish in India (many different versions), Pakistan, Burma, Thailand, Sri Lanka, The Middle East (including Iran and Iraq), Singapore, Malaysia, and Indonesia.

It's a combination of rice, spices, vegetables, fish eggs and meat. For an authentic biryani, the rice and curried sauce should be cooked separately, and then combined together at the end in layers, forming a contrast between the lightly spiced rice, and the intense flavours of the sauce, meat or vegetables. It's similar in a way to our very own kedgeree- which, of course, has its roots in the British Raj.

My "after-work" version is more of an Anglicised pilaf, I suppose. You could of course tweak it to become a proper biryani- by steaming basmati rice (with the lid on) and cooking this separately, creating some sort of a spicy sauce, and then combining it all together before serving. Fried crunchy, sliced onions would be an authentic and delicious garnish.

 

His Highness The Maharaja Bhupinder Singh, GCSI, GCIE, GCVO, GBE

 

Heat up a saucepan and add a dash of cooking oil. Add a thinly sliced onion, a sliced red chilli, and a knob of fresh ginger, (peeled and chopped). Cook on a medium heat for a few minutes until soft.

Now it' time for the spices. You're going to use cumin, coriander, turmeric and nutmeg. I would suggest that you buy the cumin and coriander as seeds, and then grind them up in a pestle and mortar until they become a fine powder. A tablespoon or so should be fine. I'm afraid that the turmeric came from the jar (about a teaspoon). The nutmeg was grated directly into the saucepan: I've got a little nutmeg grater which my mother-in-law (Gawd bless 'er) gave me for Christmas. Cook on a lowish heat for a few more minutes, so that the spices are cooked properly. The aim is to cook the spices, but not to burn them.

Stir in 225g of Uncle Ben's Long Grain Rice. This cheat's rice has had the starch removed, and so won't go mushy in the cooking. It's excellent for pilafs, in my opinion. If you were planning to use Basmati rice, you would need to rinse it first, and then "steam" on a low heat for about ten minutes with the lid on.

Stir in a tin of chopped tomatoes, and top up with hot fish stock. Add a pinch of sugar, and a pinch of salt. By the way, further cheating at this stage, as I added a dollop of Umami paste, the mysterious "fifth taste sensation" (a sort of cross between anchovies and tomatoes in flavour). Simmer the biryani on a low to medium heat, until the rice has cooked. If you think it needs it, top it up with boiling water now and again.

When the rice is cooked, stir in two packets of plebby prawns (these are those pre-cooked tiny, shrimp-like pink things you can buy in the supermarket). Take the birayni off the heat, and stir in a packet of spinach. You'll find that it wilts easily in the heat. Finish the dish off with a generous helpings of chopped fresh coriander.

If you want to research biraynis further, have a look at this video in which master chef Padma Lakshmi cooks a Royal Biryani for two hundred children in Hyderabad.

 

 

Aloo Gobi

 

 

 

I've currently got this thing about caulifower; in truth, it's developing into a bizarre craving. I'm not sure what it is exactly that I like about cauliflower. Is it the slightly peppery, mustardy flavour? Or the crunchiness of the stuff when it's slightly undercooked?

Aloo Gobi is the dish of the moment- potato is the aloo bit, and caulifower the gobi. It's a dry curry from Northern India, and easy to make; or at least, I thought it was until I tried using the recipe from Manju Malhi's otherwise excellent book, "Brit Spice".  

 

 

I think I like this book: it's well laid out using decent, clear typography, has excellent photographs, and the cover shows a wholesome looking girl (presumably the author) chopping up some coriander. The blurb on the front cover (courtesy of The Guardian) says "Manju Malhi is being billed as the Next Madhur Jaffrey".

I followed Ms Malhi's instructions to the letter: tip half a teaspoon of cumin seeds into three tablespoons of olive oil or vegetable oil and fry for a few seconds. So far, so good. Next, you add a chopped onion, a peeled and diced potato and a chopped and seeded green chili and fry for five minutes, before adding 200g (7oz) of caulifower florets and stir-frying for a further thirty seconds.

Turmeric, coriander and salt are stirred in, and the dish is covered and cooked on a low heat for five minutes. Chopped tomato is folded in, and the aloo gobi is cooked, covered, for a further three minutes.

And the result?  Delicious flavours, but both the potatoes and cauliflower remained severely undercooked. I realise "Brit Spice" is meant to be about modern, fast Indian cookery with a British twist: busy lives and all that; but this is taking fast food to extremes. Also, the cauliflower florets were too large, but that was my fault. I'm fine with the idea of keeping the caulifower crunchy, but undercooked potato ain't a good idea.

Sometimes I wonder if editors actually test the recipes they publish? I have a sneaky feeling that we could be looking at a typo here and the potato, onions and chili should be cooked for fifteen minutes at the start, and not five minutes, as published. The cooking time for the cauliflower could probably be increased by a further five minutes, too.

But it's an interesting question. How many recipes out there from well-known cookery writers are actually just plain wrong?  I seem to remember reading about the famous case of Robert Carrier and his Chili Con Carne, when because of some misprint, thousands of eager cooks across the land spooned in five tablespoons of hot chili powder rather than four teaspoons, or whatever it was supposed to be. And this was in 1965 (or whenever it was), a time when most Britons thought garlic was the mark of The Beast. 

Stangely, curry might now almost considered to be The National Dish.

Chicken Curry in the English Style

 

I'm a huge fan of genuine Indian food, believe me. The sort of street food served by restaurants such as the excellent Masala Zone. But I'm also fond of our own bastardised British versions too- as peddled by the Cordon Bleu Cookery Academy, circa 1959. Here's my own recipe for a delicious and simple chicken curry. Most Indians worth their salt will turn their noses up at it, but I find it strangely satisfying; and it's extremely easy to make too.

First, you need to sweat some chopped onions, celery and garlic in oil. Next add some apple chopped into chunks. Stir in a tablespoon of curry paste, and some turmeric. Cook this for a few minutes. In the meantime, season some de-boned chicken thighs with salt and pepper, and dust them with some flour. Add these to the pan. Cook for several minutes, until the chicken begins to colour. Now add some chicken stock (preferably home made, otherwise Marigold reduced-salt bouillon is just the ticket), and simmer for about ten to fifteen minutes.

Next, pour in some coconut milk. Simmer for about half an hour until the chicken is cooked. You should end up with a thickish sauce. Add a teaspoon of redcurrent jelly (yes, redcurrent jelly).

Serve with chopped coriander. Instead of plain rice, try my Lemon Rice instead. This is just ordinary rinsed Basmati Rice, which has been cooked in a bit of stock, lemon juice, lemon zest, and a few cardamom pods.

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The Greasy Spoon visits... Khan's of Westbourne Grove

 

 

I'm back. First, you may remember that I had that awful bitter taste thing going on in my mouth after eating a packet of rancid Chinese pine nuts, and frankly, as the taste lasted over a week, I just wasn't in the mood for writing anything about food, let alone even thinking about it. It was as if I was constantly licking my tongue against an aluminium panel. Secondly, my modem decided to finally give up the ghost, so I was offline for a few days, and peace and harmony reigned supreme.

But last week, my taste buds had recovered enough to revisit that former favourite: Khan's, the Indian restaurant in Bayswater. In the event, this became an irrelevance, as all we encountered was bland food and, frankly, pretty rude service.

Khan's was founded, I think, in 1977. My father used to work for an advertising agency around the corner, and I remember being taken there to admire the murals and palm tree columns holding up the ceiling. That's about the only good thing about the restaurant- it used to be a Jo Lyons Corner House- and the ghosts of tea-time orchestras, walnut cake and waitresses with starched pinafores still linger; at least, to those of us with over-active imaginations.

And the first impressions of Khan's are still good, even if it is a paper napkin sort of place. Waiters in white jackets bustle around in Italian style, the palm trees give off a whiff of the Raj, and the murals are still there- if now repainted in a kitsch turquoise and beige.

We were shown to a rickety table. As the restaurant is Muslim owned, alcohol is now banned, so we ordered alcohol-free Cobras, which were surprisingly drinkable- even if alcohol-free beer is a confusing paradox in itself. Service was erratic. The beers arrived and were handed to us, as if- God forbid- we were at some sort of Antipodean barbeque.  

Poppadoms and chutneys arrived on time. The Poppadoms came, I guess, straight from the packet, and the chutneys were boring, thin and unappealing, though the lime pickle tasted all right, and had probably been made in house. I ordered a "Meat" Madras, and a mushroom side dish. The "meat" came in small grey lumps (dyed orange by the sauce) and looked suspiciously processed. The Girl had some sort of chicken thing with radioactive rice (I'm almost falling asleep as I write this). And when the waiter finally brought himself to bring it to us, he spent the whole time chatting away to the people on the next table as he dumped it all on ours. Don't think he could be bothered to look us in the eye once. Enough!  Frankly, the whole place was such a yawn, I can't even be bothered to write about it anymore.

And it's a great shame, as Khan's could, indeed, be excellent. The space is potentially fantastic, and has oodles of character. I like the bustling brasserie-like atmosphere, and the look of the waiters in their smart white jackets and black trousers. If you sacked the head chef, and gave the waiters each a copy of "How to Win Friends and Influence People", courtesy of Dale Breckenridge Carnegie, Khan's could be a great destination restaurant. Currently, it's not. 

And one last word on the subject: Khan's has an irritatingly slick and self-indulgent website, in which they suggest, I quote: "I suppose its (sic) fair to say that Khan's of Westbourne Grove, W2, is probably the most famous Indian restaurant in London."  Ever heard of The Veeraswamy, chaps? The Bombay Brasserie?  Or Chutney Mary?

 

Image by Kake Pugh via Flickr

 

 

 

Khan's, 13-15 Westbourne Grove, Bayswater, London, W2 4UA (020 7727 5420)

The Greasy Spoon visits... Moti Mahal

 

 

Photograph: Kake Pugh

 

I'd read good things about Moti Mahal, the oopmarket Indian restaurant of gourmet persuasion in Covent Garden, and was looking foward to our visit. We tried to get in without a booking just before Christmas, and of course, the restaurant was packed out; but the front of house staff were charming and said they would be delighted to see us again; so I booked a table last Tuesday, only to find the restaurant fairly empty. 

Before I go anywhere, I would like to officially put on record just how expensive Moti Mahal was. Jaw droppingly, go and jump off a skyscraper, expensive. Now, I'm not some mean, Scrooge-like, god-fearing, flint-like penny pincher, take my word for it, and I never mind splashing out when the occasion demands (as indeed it did on Tuesday night, when The Girl in her wisdom agreed to marry me), but I do like to get something back for my hard earned coppers; and with hindsight the Moti Mahal makes that glamorous old thing, Le Caprice, seem rather good value. 

And, with restaurants, value is not just about the food, it also includes the atmosphere, and obviously the service. The decor at Moti Mahal disappoints: you're lured inside by an interesting array of blue glass bottles in the window, but the interior, frankly, was bland and uninspiring: pale walls, a few tables dotted about, and a bar in the Los Angeles airport style (yawn). I can't even remember if there were any interesting pictures on the wall? It reminded me a bit of one of those local restaurants you find in places like Fulham or Chiswick (nothing intrinsically wrong with them, but lost in a sea of magnolia and ghastly good taste); and made me think longingly of that lovely conservatory at Chutney Mary, or indeed the kitsch trompe l'oeil and palm trees at Khan's in Westbourne Grove.

I can find no fault with the staff- they were all charming and efficient, in an understated way, and made minimal fuss, though lacked the professionalism of a restaurant at the top of its game, and which, at the prices Moti Mahal are charging, you might, not unreasonably, expect. 

The food was good. Typically, I went for the rabbit kebab spiked with cinnamon crack pepper, and served on an asparagus n' chestnut roesti (Gilafi Khargosh ki Seekh), half expecting Neanderthal-like hunks of pink rabbit flesh stuck on a barbeque stick, but instead, getting two juicy and delicately spiced rolls of meat, which to look at reminded me of those hot, steamy towels you're given to wipe your sweaty face with after coffee and a mint chocolate, and reminded The Girl of something else.

Lamb Biryiani 'scented ' with green cardamom (Matkey ki Gosht Biriyani) came in a small earthenware pot, again delicious, but considering it was supposed to be the main course, mean. The Girl skipped her first course and went for the wild bream with garlic, baked Devon Crab, and bean cakes with quails' eggs (Surkh Lasooni Macchi), and pronounced it all finger lickin' good, with the fish perfectly cooked, and the bean cake with quail's egg fabulous.The wine list was suitable for all the spice floating around, so I went for a Reisling, rather than a pricier Gerwuztraminer.

So, mixed feelings.  Would we go again?  Yes, if I conveniently happened to leave my wallet behind, and some kind soul was paying the bill. For my money, I'd rather have spent an evening at J. Sheekey's or Le Caprice- and with hindsight either of those two places would have been more suitable for that particular night of wit and romance, but- hey! "if you can't fail, you can't do anything", as I believe the late Eric Thompson (of Magic Roundabout fame) once said.

 

Moti Mahal, 45 Great Queen Street, Covent Garden, London, WC2B 5AA  (020 7240 9329)

Hug a Hoodie: Hot Stuff Revisited

 

 

 

A few days ago, I was amazed to discover that a foodie friend of mine (over here for a few months from Bangkok) had never been to the cult South London Indian restaurant, Hot Stuff.  Hot Stuff reminds me of one of those tiny local restaurants you can find in France: a few tables, an enthusiastic patron, and a loyal clientele.  The food at Hot Stuff is not going to win awards, but it's still pretty darn good, and a refreshing change from the delights of the Pimlico Curry Centre.

Hot Stuff is found in that windswept hinterland between Vauxhall, Stockwell and Clapham, just south of the river Thames. If you stretch your imagination and ignore the gang-land graffiti, 60's brutalist architecture, and otherwise edgy concrete surroundings; it's all a bit reminiscent of the Blitz with green painted vegetable barrows, cobbled streets and a "Knees up Mother Brown" pub on the corner- from which floats the strain of inebriated group singing: "wun wabbit, wun wabbit, wun, wun, wun"; highly appropriate, as the eager chefs of Hot Stuff lurk a few doors up. Hot Stuff doesn't have a licence, so you have to nip next door to the offie to buy marked-up plonk. The enlightened bring beer.

As usual we were met by the affable (albeit slightly eccentric) and transfer-tattoed host, Raj, who suggested that he order for us. Hot Stuff is really just a small room, with a few formica tables squeezed inside, and a blackboard on the wall. You can watch the kitchen from the "restaurant": a team of hoodies (baggy jeans half way down their derrières) all working in unison to the soothing harmonies of Snoop Dog.  The chilli prawns, saag gosht, karai chicken, masala fish, makhini dhal and 'magic mushroom' rice were all good, The nan bread was also delicious.

It's the sort of place where they don't give you a bill ("let's call it twenty quid, mate"), but instead, round it up (or more likely, down), for Hot Stuff is remarkably good value. It would be wonderful it there were more family run restaurants like this in London: serving unpretentious, well cooked food which won't break your wallet. Often, local restaurants still suffer from delusions of grandeur (do the ghosts of Nouvelle Cuisine still linger?) and entirely miss the point.  If you're planning a visit to Hot Stuff, it's essential to book.

 

Hot Stuff, 19 Wilcox Road, Vauxhall, London, SW8 (020 7720 1480)

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Colonel Skinner's Mango Chutney

 

 

At Dotheboys Hall, I remember being fascinated by an ancient copy of Hobson Jobson which I found hidden away on a dusty shelf in the school's Victorian Gothic library. First published in 1903, Hobson was an etymological glossary of Anglo-Indian words and language. A study of words such as Pajama, Veranda, Bungalow, Tiffin, Kedgeree and of course, our very own Curry.

Anglo-Indian food is another fascinating study, in its own right. One of the best books on the subject is David Burton's The Raj at Table, published by Faber & Faber.

Here's a recipe for Colonel Skinner's Mango Chutney. Today, there are various brands out there using this name. Actually, Colonel Skinner's Mango Chutney is something that you will find in the old Anglo-Indian cookery books and the original recipe involved leaving the chutney outside in the backyard to fester under the hot sun for a few days. I tried to find out who the original Colonel Skinner was (sounds Irish?), but without success.

Chop up the following ingredients in your Magimix or otherwise trendy food processor: twelve ounces of dried mangoes, half a pound of brown sugar, ginger, raisins, chillis and garlic to taste. Once they're chopped up, spoon the mixture into a large preserving pan.  Add two and half pints of vinegar and season with salt. Bring to the boil and simmer for an hour. Transfer into sterlilised jars and store in a dark cupboard.

 

Dr Kitchener's Curry Powder

 

 

I was leafing through a paperback copy of the original 1861 edition of "Mrs Beeton's Book of Household Management" (Oxford World's Classics) and came across her recipe for Indian Curry-Powder, founded on Dr Kitchener's Recipe. William Kitchiner (1775?-1827) was the author of the "Apicus Redivivus, The Cook's Oracle", first published in 1817.

I'm quite fond of these historic Anglo-Indian curry powders; the sort of thing we chuck into stews and then have the nerve to call "curry". Here's my version of Dr Kitchener's curry powder, as described by Mrs Beeton. I've slightly adapted it for the modern kitchen and added cardamom and black pepper.

 

Add the following ingredients to a mixing bowl: two teaspoons of powdered turmeric, two teaspoons of powdered cinammon,  two teaspoons of powdered ginger, two teaspoons of powdered fenugreek, a dash of cayenne pepper and a good grinding of black pepper. Mix them up so they form a powder.

In a pestle and mortar, grind up the following ingredients until they form a fine powder: two teaspoons of coriander seeds, two teaspoons of mustard seeds, and a few cardamom pods. (You will have to discard the cardamom's outer shells). I love grinding up spices: all those lovely, aromatic smells. When you reckon the ingredients are ready, mix them in with the other spices.  

Keep the finished curry powder in an air-tight container. It should keep reasonably well. Obviously, if you want to make more of the stuff, you will need to increase the quantities. Half the fun of this sort of thing is to play around with the proportions, to suit your own tastes. Secret recipes and all that.

Cardamom

 

 

Yesterday, I wrote about a white chocolate mousse flavoured with a hint of cardamom. Did you know that cardamom was a member of the ginger family?  There are two types of cadamom: green cardamom (Elettaria) and black cardamom (Amomum). The type you buy over here in little jars is more likely to be the green variety. It's quite likely to have come from Sri Lanka too.

Cardamom has a deeply aromatic smell, which reminds me of menthol, or perhaps even mint. The pods contain seeds, which quickly loose their flavour once the pod's broken apart. It's also used to cure toothache, digestive disorders and skin conditions. According to Kew Gardens, it's the third most expensive spice in the world.

 

I like the fact you can use cardamom in both savoury and sweet dishes. If you're cooking basmati rice, try throwing in a few cardamom pods and a squeeze of lemon juice to give it an extra lift.

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, more or less, still 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 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...

Saffron

 

 

Yesterday, I gave you Patricia Wells' Chicken Stewed with Fennel and Saffron. I'm fascinated by saffron. It's expensive- scarily expensive; but luckily you don't need that much of the stuff to bring out the deep yellow colouring and the distinctive, metallic, oily, and petrolly flavours.

The history of Saffron goes back over three thousand years, when it was an important spice in the Ancient World. The name comes from the 12th century Old French word, safran. It's made from the flower of the saffron crocus (Crocus sativus), a species of crocus in the family Iridaceae. Historically, it's also been used both as a medicine and as a dye.

What about the saffron you can buy in the shops today? Where does it come from? Spanish saffron tends to be mellow in flavour and aroma. Italian varieties are stronger. Even stronger still is the saffron grown in Greece, Iran, and India (although the Indian government has banned the export of its high-grade saffron). The pungent "Aquila" saffron (zafferano dell'Aquila) is grown exclusively on eight hectares in the Navelli Valley of Italy's Abruzzo region, near L'Aquila; introduced to Italy by some Dominican monk.

But in Italy the biggest saffron cultivation, for quality and quantity, is in San Gavino Monreale, Sardinia. Another superb saffron is the Kashmiri purple-coloured Mongra or Lacha saffron (Crocus sativus 'Cashmirianus'), which is almost impossible to get hold of, and when and if you do, you'll need to take out a second overdraft. I'm going to finish off by giving you an interesting link to a website I've just discovered: Vanilla Saffron Imports. I know nothing about this company (they're American importers of high-grade saffron), so if you decide to use their services- on your head be it...

The Ivy's Chicken Masala

 

 

In the early days of The Greasy Spoon, one of the most popular posts was my Cordon Bleu influenced recipe for Chicken Curry (English Style). Here's another excellent take on curry from A. A. Gill's The Ivy, the Restaurant and its Recipes. Unusually, it uses cooked aubergine (or egg plant) to thicken the sauce.

Take some chicken thighs, remove the skin, and season them in salt and black pepper. Heat up some ghee (that's the Indian word for clarified butter) in a hot pan, and fry a teaspoon of cumin seeds, two teaspoons of cumin powder, two teaspoons of tumeric, a pinch of saffron, four teaspoons of curry powder, a small cinammon stick, a pinch of curry leaves (or three bay leaves), two teaspoons of paprika, four cloves, a teaspoon of fenugreek seeds, and a teaspoon of mustard seeds.

While the spices are cooking away, add six cloves of crushed garlic, a knob of peeled and finely chopped fresh ginger, and two small chopped chillies. Cook for a few minutes to release all the flavours, but make sure the spices don't burn, so you may have to watch the gas.

Next, put in the seasoned chicken thighs, 200g aubergine flesh (which you've previously skinned, and chopped into small pieces), and two teaspoons of tomato purée. Cook for a further five minutes. Then pour in a litre or so of good chicken stock, and the juice of half a lemon. Simmer for 45 minutes to an hour.

The aubergine should disintegrate and thicken up the sauce. Finish off the dish with cream of coconut (you can buy this in a block, and add it bit by bit), and some chopped coriander. Serve with either Basmati or my Lemon Rice, and some home-made chutney.

Cucumber and Mint Raita

 

 

Last night I went to an almost perfect Indian restaurant. It's called "Hot Stuff" and can be found in the Vauxhall area of South London. Why was it so good? It reminded me a bit of the local restaurants you find in France. Utterly unpretentious, a simple menu; an affable, slighty quirky owner, and most importantly, excellent properly cooked food. It's a tiny place, with only a few tables, and as it seemed to be packed out, you will need to book to get in.

Here's my version of the Cucumber and Mint Raita Sauce we had last night. It would be perfect with poppadoms. Get hold of some yoghurt and beat it with a fork until it's smooth and creamy. Next, add Maldon Salt, black pepper, cayenne pepper, and ground cumin. I suggest that you grind the cumin yourself. In a frying pan, dry-roast some cumin seeds until they start to pop about. Make sure you don't burn them. It will only take a minute or so. Then it's an easy matter to grind them up into a powder in a pestle and mortar.

Add some chopped chili, ginger, some diced cucumber (remove the skin though, otherwise you will get nasty miniscule bits floating around in the finished effort), and finely chopped fresh mint. It would probably be a good idea to whizz the whole thing up in a Magimix, or a similar mixer if you've got one. That's it.

Chicken Curry (English Style)

 

 

I'm a huge fan of genuine Indian food, believe me. The sort of street food served by restaurants such as the excellent Masala Zone. But I'm also fond of our own bastardised British versions too- as peddled by the Cordon Bleu Cookery Academy, circa 1959. Here's my own recipe for a delicious and simple chicken curry. Most Indians worth their salt will turn their noses up at it, but I find it strangely satisfying; and it's extremely easy to make too.

First, you need to sweat some chopped onions, celery and garlic in oil. Next add some apple chopped into chunks. Stir in a tablespoon of curry paste, and some turmeric. Cook this for a few minutes.

In the meantime, season some de-boned chicken thighs with salt and pepper, and dust them with some flour. Add these to the pan. Cook for several minutes, until the chicken begins to colour. Now add some chicken stock (preferably home made, otherwise Marigold reduced-salt bouillon is just the ticket), and simmer for about ten to fifteen minutes. Next, pour in some coconut milk. Simmer for about half an hour until the chicken is cooked. You should end up with a thickish sauce. Add a teaspoon of redcurrent jelly (yes, redcurrent jelly).

Serve with chopped coriander. Instead of plain rice, try my Lemon Rice instead. This is just ordinary rinsed Basmati Rice which has been cooked in a bit of stock, lemon juice, lemon zest, and a few cardamom pods.