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.

 

Omelette Baveuse

 

I've got a thing about omelettes at the moment. The "runny" variety, as made in France. I'm not sure if I'm a bona fide Francophile (I veer between a wild enthusiasm and an Anglican suspicion), but I do think that, apart from the Euro, there are many things that the French get right, and omelettes are most certainly one of them. 

This is classic, Sunday night food: you take a non-stick, lightly oiled heavy saucepan, and heat it on a medium flame. Three eggs are beaten up with a dollop of crème fraîche, a pinch of salt and a pinch of white pepper. Add a knob of butter to the hot pan, turning the heat down to low. Swirl the butter around the pan as it froths.

In goes the egg mixture. Shaking the pan as you work, draw the runny mixture into the centre of the pan with a spatula or a fork. As the omelette cooks, the liquid egg will fill in the empty spaces. Carry on shaking the pan to make sure the edges don't stick.

I like my omelette to be soft- and that is indeed the aim of the Baveuse. To serve, fold over the omelette from both sides towards the middle and turn out on to a plate.

That's how to make a classic omelette. The secret is to use a lowish heat, work with speed, and keep it runny. Once you've mastered the technique you can start experimenting with fillings- chopped tomatoes, bacon, herbs and of course, cheese.

Incidentally, I'm currently experimenting with grated cheese and a dash of cognac; both added to the egg mixture before the beating stage. I like the sophisticated combination of cognac and eggs, although I appreicate that this is not going to be everybody's cup of tea.

There's also the question of when to add the salt. In researching this post, I found a video on Youtube featuring a certain Mr Gordon Ramsay teaching Joan Collins how to make an omelette. There was a scary frisson between the two of them, the "bat's squeak of sexuality", as Evelyn Waugh put it so brilliantly in Brideshead. Gordon reckons that if you add salt to the egg mixture it will turn the omelette "a bit grey". I'm definitely not convinced by this- and bet my bottom dollar that in a blind tasting (or indeed viewing) he wouldn't be able to tell the difference.

 

 

If you're interested in classic recipes and how to get them just so, may I recommend to you Felicity Cloake's Perfect- 68 Recipes for Every Cook's Repertoire. Ms Cloake writes a column for "The Guardian". The book does exactly what it says on the tin. 

 

 

 

Chinese Chicken in a Black Bean Sauce

 

Last night I dreamt again of Chicken in a Black Bean Sauce. Nothing special, just the ordinary, slighty tacky dish you get delivered from a Chinese takeaway, the sort of thing you might eat with chopsticks in front of the television, straight from the tin-foil carton. Strips of chicken, bound in a starchy, slightly piquant, peppery black sauce, stir fried with crunchy green peppers. Always crunchy green peppers.

As with Indian food in this country, I expect that Chicken in a Black Bean Sauce is about as authentic as a pizza cooked with pineapple; not of course that I am recommending you add pineapple to your pizza; that would be a heresy. But just sometimes, there's something comforting about re-creating simple, bastardised dishes: I think they've become modern classics in their own right.

Researching the recipe, I found all sorts of versions on the net. Some were spicier than others; one even used grated orange and ginger. I've come up with a simple, relatively authentic recipe you can easily make at home, although I admit that I have no idea if this is exactly how your local Chinese take-away makes it. Please feel free to add your own twists. You'll see that I have deliberately avoided using that pre-made black bean sauce you can buy in a tin. You can buy packets of fermented black beans (soy beans which have been dried and fermented in salt and spices) and from Chinese grocery shops. We're lucky enough to live relatively close to London's China Town. If you don't, I think you can buy these on the net. Incidentally, they're a different thing from the black beans used in Mexican or Caribbean cooking, which you can buy tinned from supermarkets. Here's how you make Chicken in a Black Bean Sauce:

First, you will need to make up your own black bean sauce mixture. In a bowl, combine the following ingredients: two heaped tablespoons of Chinese fermented black beans (rinsed and mashed), two cloves of minced garlic, one tablespoon of dark soy sauce, one teaspoon of Chinese oyster sauce (from the bottle), one teaspoon of sugar, two teaspoons of cornstarch, 1/2 cup of chicken stock, and a dash of rice wine or sherry. Put to one side.

Heat up your wok over a medium heat, and add a dash of toasted sesame oil. Warm for about thirty seconds. Add a teaspoon or so of minced garlic and your home-made black bean sauce. Cook, stirring for thirty seconds.

Add some chicken (which you've previously cut into thin strips) and cook through. If the sauce gets too thick (or there's not enough of it) add some more chicken stock or water. Cook, stirring occasionally so that the sauce doesn't stick to the wok.

When the chicken's almost cooked, add diced onion, sliced spring onions, green pepper (cut up into chunks), a further generous dash of soy sauce (this will help to turn the sauce a darker colour) and lots of fresh black pepper. Cook quickly (so that the vegetables are still crunchy) and serve. Steamed rice would be just the ticket.

 

It's a wild world

 

 

It's wild garlic time. We get ours from the Pimlico Road Farmer's Market on Pimlico Green. £1.50 a bunch. I like this time of the year; when the boredom and horror of steely grey Feburary suddenly turns into the promise of a raw Spring. The Boat Race...The Grand National...Easter...Daffodils...Chocolate Eggs...Hot Cross Buns. And the whiff of raw garlic in the hedgerows. A few years ago, I was driving along a lane in South Oxfordshire and suddenly, there it was- a distinctive whiff of garlic coming from the grassy verge.

I'm very keen on a simple risotto made from English wild garlic. You'll find that the taste of wild garlic is much more subtle than the standard stuff, so dismiss any worries about any overpowering garlicky tastes. By the way, the look of wild garlic is a bit different too: it comes in the form of slightly limp, green leaves (not entirely unlike spinach) and you use these chopped leaves, rather than the bulb. You'll find that the wild garlic will keep if you stick it into a vase of water. I've just posted two helpful videos on The Greasy Spoon page on Facebook: they'll tell you all about wild garlic; how to find it and how to use it.

Here's how I make a delicious wild garlic risotto: I chop up a small onion and sauté it in hot butter, before adding Carnaroli rice (allowing the rice to soak up the hot butter). Ladle in a small quantity of hot, steaming vegetable stock and stir like mad, until the rice has absorbed the stock.

Carry on ladelling in the hot stock until the Carnaroli rice is ready: this is the art of risotto making. You want the rice grains to remain firm (with a "bite") yet, at the same time, to be bound up in a creamy, starchy, slightly soupy liquid. It might take about half an hour to make it properly. I find that it always takes longer to make than recipe books suggest.

And do beat the rice like mad- as this releases the starch from the grains. I'm currently in favour of Carnaroli rice: I find that this makes a slightly creamier risotto, although of course, arborio rice would be fine too. 

 

Anyway, back to the recipe. About ten minutes from the end, I add the chopped up wild garlic. Wild garlic has a very subtle taste, so I would recommend that you add quite a bit of the stuff: the risotto can certainly take it. I was also keen on the idea of turning the risotto a green colour- this will happen if you add enough. Check the seasoning and when you reckon the risotto's ready, add a small dash of white wine. This will stop the risotto from cooking.

Finish it off with a small helping of grated Parmesan- or indeed, a British cheese. This is Anglo-Italian food at its best.

And last, and certainly not least, I have started writing for The Dabbler. Some of you may know this site- it's an excellent (and slightly quirky) Culture Blog, well worth subscribing too. I was amazed to discover that I had won a Dabbler prize- a bottle of Ten Year Old Single Malt Glengoyne Whisky...

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.

 

 

Chicken Tagine with Preserved Lemons and Green Olives

 

 

As promised, here's a recipe for a classic Moroccan Chicken Tagine with Preserved Lemons and Green Olives. I've based it on a dish from the 280 year old Riad Enija- this was a mouth wateringly hip establishment in Marrakesh we were lucky enough to stay at for our honeymoon a year or so back, lovingly restored by a Swedish UNESCO architect, his slightly Gothic wife and their slinky Pharonic stray cats. 

My last post described how to make the Preserved Lemons. First, you will need to make a marinade. In your favourite mixing bowl combine: lemon juice, the pulp (ie interior flesh) from the Preserved Lemons, salted butter, chopped onions, minced garlic, saffron strands, pepper, chopped and peeled ginger, sea salt, chopped parsley and "ras-el-hanout".

 

 

"Ras-el-hanout" is a spice mix or paste, which you can easily grind up yourself in a pestle and mortar. There are no rules, per se, but it the mix could easily include cardamom, clove, cinnamon, ground chili pepper, coriander, cumin, nutmeg, peppercorn and turmeric, all according to your own taste or whim.

Marinate the jointed chicken for about half an hour. Next, heat the base of a tagine on your stove. A tagine (as I'm sure all you Sunday Times and Observer readers know only too well) is a decorative Moroccan clay cooking pot, which you should be able to buy easily enough online, or of course, from Morocco itself. It's a sort of cross between an earthenware cooking pot and a clay pan. Please bear in mind that it's essential to buy a metal "heat diffuser" to place underneath it, otherwise the tagine will almost certainly crack. The conical funnel bit (or lid) heats the food from all sides.

The tagine will get blisteringly hot: you bring the piping hot tagine to the table and your friends will be amazed and delighted as you whisk off the top to reveal the sizzling chicken tagine beneath. The tagine is then served directly from the pot. I'm also tempted to buy one of those rather chic, but pricey, Emile Henry tagines, which you can buy on amazon. Expensive, but much more convenient, as there's going to be no need for the diffuser.

Add a dash of sunflower oil to the base of the tagine and warm it through. Throw in the marinated chicken and brown. Rinse the Preserved Lemons, scrape off any remaining pulp from the inside and cut the skin into thin strips. Scatter over the chicken in the tagine.

Add a little water. Place the lid over the tagine and leave to simmer for an hour. Check from time to time that it has not dried up, and if it's in danger of doing so, add some more water. About fifteen minutes before the cooking time is up, add the de-stoned green olives. Check the seasoning and scatter with freshly chopped mint. Serve with cous cous. 

An extremely simple, but effective dish, courtesy of Azziz of the Riad Enija, Marrakesh.

 

 

Patrick Lichfield (1939-2005)

Paul and Talitha Getty, Marrakech, Morocco, January 1969, for American Vogue, from an edition of 50.

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

 

The Ivy's Hamburger

 

 

Rummaging through some old newspaper cuttings from the '90's, I found this old photograph of the famous Ivy restaurant (founded 1917), with a super-imposed photograph of Charles Laughton in the 1933 picture, "The Private Life of Henry VIII".

This is how The Ivy used to be- the favourite playground of the luvvies of the silver screen: Larry, Vivien, Noel, Ivor and Sexy Rexy. I love the wood panelling, the Tudorbeathen leaden lattice windows and the naff neo-classical statues. How I would give my teeth (what's left of 'em) to go back in time and enter those hallowed portals!

 

In 1990, Caprice Holdings "restored" and relaunched the restaurant; supposedly to its "former glory". I've got mixed feelings about the new Ivy. By then the restaurant, it is true, had become a shadow of its former self, semi-derelict, and in desperate need of a makeover; but the 1990's re-incarnation was, with hindsight, a bit Footballer's Wives, (to be fair, a reflection of the then fashionable age of one Mr Anthony Blair and the cringe-inducing Cool Britannia); service was impeccable, but the whole place lacked the elan and dash of its previous incarnation. 

 

Back in the 90's (as with Terence Conran's "Quaglino's"), it was extremely difficult to get a table; these days, I gather, it's an easier ticket, and reservations can be booked on a few weeks notice. 

If you're still interested, A.A. Gill's The Ivy, The Restaurant and its Recipes is the definitive guide. I've already covered The Ivy's Chicken Masala (which is included in A.A. Gill's book)- an excellent and delicious dish, which has the slightly unusual trait of being thickened with chopped aubergine.

Here's A.A. Gill's take on the Ivy's Hamburger. I've always had a slight problem with my own home-made hamburgers: I make a delicious mix, but then add too much liquid (or too much beaten egg), so that when it comes to the "pan-frying" bit, the meat crumbles, and doesn't hold together. This is the official Ivy version. Admittedly, it's pretty basic, but I think it's worth publishing online:

Mix up a good quality minced beef, and mould into balls or patties. Put the burgers into the 'fridge to set. Whisk together tomato ketchup with American mustard (French's mustard would be ideal) to make the sauce.

Lightly toast some baps, and keep them warm. Cook the burgers on a griddle or a smoking hot pan (not under a grlll, as this could boil the meat). 

Serve the burgers in the warm baps with slices of red onion, gherkin, beef tomato and the Ivy hambuger sauce.

 

 

Beef Stroganoff

 

 

 

Remember Beef Stroganoff?  Many moons ago, my mother had a fledgling enterprise selling pre-cooked dinner party food to local housewives who couldn't be bothered to cook. Dishes were rustled up ahead of time, frozen, and then delivered to her clients in our rusting Lancia. I suspect there was quite a bit of fibbing going on, and the naughty dinner party hostesses would pretend that they had cooked it themselves. It was all very Stepford. From memory, Beef Stroganoff was one of the best-sellers on her menu. Strips of filet beef, cooked briefly, and bound in a mustardy sauce.

What exactly is Beef Stroganoff?  That's a very good question. In the authoritative The Prawn Cocktail Years, Simon Hopkinson and Lindsey Bareham reckon that the origins of the dish are suspect, and about as Russian as I am Chinese. My own guess was that it might have had something to do with that fascinating post-Revolutionary period in America, when Hollywood was awash with dubious Russian counts and every exile worth their salt was cousin to the Tsar. Wikipedia, however, is a mine of information on the subject, pin-pointing the birth of the dish to Elena Molokhovet's classic Russian cookbook of 1861: "Beef à la Stroganov with mustard, a simple concoction of fried beef cubes in a mustard and sour cream sauce". Stroganoff also appears in the 1938 edition of Larousse Gastronomique, but with the addition of onions and the option of tomato paste.

Here's my recipe for a classic Beef Stroganoff. I'm of the opinion that you need to cook the beef very quickly; the steak needs to be tender, rather than chewey. It's not really a stew. This should make enough for about four people.

You take 600g or so of filet steak, and cut it into slivers. The meat is seasoned and fried very quickly in a hot frying pan, until it's browned, but still relatively rare. Don't crowd the pan, otherwise the beef will stew, rather than fry; for the best results it could be a good idea to fry the meat a few pieces at a time. Take out the browned meat, and set aside on a plate.

Add a knob of butter to the pan, and cook some finely sliced onions until golden. Take them out of the pan and set them aside. Add a further knob of butter to the pan and add 350g of sliced button or baby mushrooms. Once cooked through, remove and add to the onions.

Turn down the heat, and carefully spoon 400ml of soured cream into the pan. Mix in a generous dollop of French mustard, and a small spoonful of tomato paste for colouring. Simon Hopkinson and Lindsey Bareham add paprika at the mushroom stage (cooking the spice in the hot butter for a minute or so), and there's nothing wrong with that. But The Greasy Spoon version is, perhaps, the more authentic and I don't think the dish should be too spicy. Is it possible to make a virtue of the bland?

Warm the sauce through, and combine the cooked mushrooms and onions back into the pan. Simmer the Stroganoff very gently for around ten minutes. I really do prefer the beef to be rare- but I understand that this is very much a matter of personal taste.

To finish off the dish, check the seasoning, and stir in generous amounts of freshly chopped dill and a squeeze of lemon juice. You serve it with plain rice.

 

From left to right: Maria, Alexandra, Alexei, Tatiana, Nicholas II, Olga, Anastasia, 1911

Rum Butter Shrimp

 

 

Oh Jiminy Cricket, this is truly delicious! You get hold of some raw, peeled shrimp (as it's a Southern dish, I'm not going to call them prawns), season them with salt and pepper, and fry them briefly in butter, until they turn pink. Personally, I like mine slightly underdone, and the moment they turn, I call it a day. Using a slotted spoon, you take the cooked shrimp out of the pan, leaving the butter behind.

Next, you add a further dollop of butter to the hot pan, let it bubble and in the meantime chop up some fresh tarragon leaves (picked off the stalk) with some spring onions (otherwise known as scallions). Cook these very briefly in the butter.

Deglaze the pan with a slosh of rum (I used Mount Gay- alas, recently re-branded into some awful corporate bottle, but the rum's still the same), flambé to burn off the alcohol, and toss the shrimp back into the pan with the sauce. Bubble for a minute or so, check the seasoning and serve.

The interesting combination of shrimp, butter, rum and tarragon is fabulous.

 

 

Tom Ripley's Venetian Lemon Chicken

 

 

I bought an amusing little book yesterday. It's called Recipe for Murder: Frightfully Good Food Inspired by Fiction by Estérelle Payany. The blurb on the back says: "Allow yourself to be lured into the kitchen by the great gourmet-villains of popular literature, from Lady Macbeth to Dr. Jekyll, to the Marquis de Sade and Hannibal Lecter". It's enormous fun, and there are lots of stylish illustrations by Jean-François Martin in the manner of Richard Hamilton.

I like the look of Count Dracula's "Paprika Hendl" and Fantomas' "Truffled Eggs without Truffles". But the recipe that immediately leapt out of the page was "Tom Ripley's Venetian Lemon Chicken". I'm a massive fan of Patricia Highsmith's "Ripliade"- the five crime novels published between 1955 and 1991, featuring the cultured and sophisticated Mr Ripley- the reluctant con-man, murderer and art fraudster.

 

I made this dish last night and the results were fabulous. A worthy candidate for "The Best of The Greasy Spoon" - when (and if) I ever publish it.

You take a chicken breast and beat it out flat to form an escallop. You fry the escallop in hot olive oil until it is cooked on each side, flipping it over in the process, which should take a minute or so on each side.

The fried chicken is then removed and put to one side. You chop up half a large red onion into dice and sweat it in the oil (with the heat turned down to low) until translucent. The juice of two large lemons, the zest of half a lemon, and a tablespoon or so of honey are added.

You return the fried chicken to the pan, and cook it gently in the tangy sauce for about five minutes. Finally, fresh thyme leaves are sprinkled over the sauce (making sure that the leaves are pulled off the woody stalks), and the dish is seasoned with salt and pepper, in the time honoured tradition.

It's a remarkably pretty dish: rose-pink in colour (from the red onions); studded with the fresh green of the thyme, and it has a deep citrusy taste; healthy too: just fresh lemon juice and honey. No stock, no cream; fast cooking. Ideal for a quick summer lunch al fresco.

Incidentally, I've got no idea if this is indeed a genuine Venetian recipe (I couldn't find anything similar in any of the books I've got on Venetian food), or actually features in any of the Ripley books; although I have a vague memory of Tom eating this in the last few pages of "The Talented Mr Ripley". An excuse to re-read the entire Ripley series over the coming summer.

 

Wild Garlic

 

 

 

We've just come back from an invigorating five day trip to South Cornwall. It was warm enough to enjoy a simple lunch al fresco at the ever-wonderful Tresanton Hotel in St Mawes. The slightly Agatha Christie-ish ambience of the upper terrace (with its ocean-liner metal railings, sea views and steamship loungers) remains unchanged: fans of "Peril at End House" (first published in 1932) will know what I'm talking about.

 

 

On Monday we dropped in at Rick Stein's Seafood Restaurant in Padstow and enjoyed an intensely flavoured bouillabaisse (Cornish style) with crutons, red pepper aioli and grated cheese; roasted Hake (served in a piping hot earthenware dish with puy lentils) and a pretty concoction of lobster and crab wrapped up in puff pastry and served with a pinkish lobster sauce.

The Seafood Restaurant at Padstow has to be one of my all-time favourite restaurants and, in my 'umble opinion Master Copperfield, remains consistently excellent. The discreet service is of the highest professional standard: raise your eyebrow and in an instant there will be a helpful waiter at your side; tables are spacious and the atmosphere is relaxed. The food is unpretentious and utterly delicious.  I can't recommend the place enough.

I've always had a thing about Cornwall- as a child, we used to spend our summer holidays at the charming sea-side town of St Mawes. It really is the most romantic destination: 

 

The mysterious St Michael's Mount.

 

Caerhays Castle: "Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again..."

 

The Cornish lanes and hedgerows are full of wild flowers, (including violet coloured wild orchids) and at this time of the year, daffodils. A thought occured to me on our drive home over Salisbury Plain and past Stonehenge: the verges of Wiltshire's main roads are barren; and in the case of South Buckinghamshire, I regret to report, littered. Does an enlightened Cornish county council have an active policy to encourage wild flowers?  Or is it that in counties such as Wiltshire and Oxfordshire, with large-scale and mechanised farming, wild flowers are killed by the spillover from intensive crop spraying?

It's the time of year to pick and use wild garlic (Allium ursinum). It can be found in damp woodlands and hedgerows, and gives off an evocative, garlicky smell which can't be missed. I love its subtle taste. Funnily enough, unlike the standard variety in which you use the bulb, with wild garlic you eat the green leaves. In London we have to buy it from specialist shops, the superior supermarkets (such as Wholefoods) or your local farmer's market.

I'm going to make a creamy and simple risotto, flavoured with my favourite wild garlic. If I chop up the leaves small enough, I'm hoping that this will make the risotto turn a pale light green colour.

Mrs Kennedy's Green Risotto

 

 

I bought an entertaining second-hand book the other day. For a few pounds on abebooks.co.uk. It's called (hilariously) "Cooking for Madam". Marta Scubin was Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis's private cook, and her book tells the story of her career with Mrs Onassis, and shares the secrets of their Fifth Avenue kitchen.

Now I've currently got a thing about simplicity in food. Classic dishes cooked properly, with attention to detail and using the correct techniques. Arranged artistically on the plate. The right size of helping too; veering on the belt-tightening side of restraint, and avoiding the vulgarity of excess. Mrs Onassis appears to have been very keen on this sort of food. Simple dishes such as "Roast Lion of Veal with Morel Mousse", "Pear Sorbet", "Tarragon Chicken", "Mousseline Sauce" and "Mussel Salad". I like the sound of the last one. It's a plain green salad, with mussels removed from the shell, and served with a saffron flavoured creamy viniagrette and an empty mussel shell or two for decoration.

 

 

I'm also enjoying her "Green Risotto". It's a simple risotto flavoured with puréed spinach. The latter turns it a lovely, vivid green colour.

You heat some olive oil in heavy saucepan and sauté some chopped onions. Next, you add about 1½ cups of arborio rice and let the rice grains coat themselves in the hot oil. I'm sure you all know how to make proper risotto: add a splash of white wine to the rice and let it evaporate. Ladle in the steaming hot stock bit by bit, until the rice absorbs the liquid; stirring and beating away at it like mad, so that the starch is released from the rice. Carry on stirring until the rice is cooked.

The trick is to get the rice al dente (ie slightly firm) yet bound in a starchy, creamy sauce. It will take about twenty five minutes. Then it's time to add the spinach. 

In her book, Marta puts ten fresh wet spinach leaves into a blender and whizzes them up into a paste. Having tried it myself, I'm not sure about this method. What you end up with is thousands of very tiny uncooked spinach particles suspended in water, and your risotto will end up flecked with green. Instead, try steaming your spinach leaves briefly before-hand, and then when you come to whizz them up, they should make a much smoother purée. If neccessary, add a bit of water to the mix.

Stir the green spinach purée into the risotto, and serve with shavings of parmesan cheese.

 

Chicken Véronique

 

 

 

Last week I managed to save a complete set of the 1968 Cordon Bleu Cookery Course, all 72 of 'em in a near mint condition.  A friend at work was about to chuck them away into the skip.  They make fascinating reading: a time-warp into a familiar, but very different age.

I'm amused by the photograph from the very first issue, which I've posted above.  A youngish couple are having the in-laws to dinner.  For the first time at the new flat?  There's bound to be a bay tree and carriage lamp outside the glossy front door.  Daddy's very much the silver-haired roué, the clubbable chairman (something in plastics?)  Bet you anything he drives a Jag, and keeps a mistress holed up in a tiny flat in Dolphin Square.  He's holding forth while his long-suffering wife (Jackie Kennedy shift-dress and pearls), sits patiently "Yes, Dear, No, Dear, Three Bags Full, Dear". 

Youngish Hubbie looks like an International Man of Mystery; probably a thrusting young exec.  If he plays his cards right, Daddy might get him a directorship at the family firm.  Our heroine's a secretary at some fashionable advertising agency somewhere.  J Walter Thompson?  Though God Knows how she finds the time to cook: the Cordon Bleu Cookery Course is quite clearly aimed at women who don't go out to work; the draconian instructions include a precise timetable for operations: 8.43am  Light the Oven,  9.59am  Truss the Chicken.  That sort of thing.  The couple's London pad is slightly trendy- the Victorianesque French Horn print is very Conran.  And what is she gazing at so proudly?   It's none other than our old friend, Chicken Véronique!

 

 

Here's how to make the dish, with precise instructions from the Cordon Bleu Cookery School, 1968.

First, you need to season the inside of a trussed chicken, but are not allowed to season the outside, as the salt will "draw out the juices, and prevent browning".  (Hang on!  Is this really true?  Simon Hopkinson does. Not sure about that one).  The trussed bird will keep its shape, and be easier to carve. (Yup, that sounds right).

Next, you rub the chicken with butter, and put 3-4 sprigs of tarragon inside, along with a further nut of butter.  The chicken is placed in a roasting tin, with ¼ pint of chicken stock, covered with buttered paper, and roasted for an hour at 400 F.  After the first 15 to 20 minutes, the chicken should be removed from the oven and basted; and then basted again after another 15-20 minutes, turning the chicken around, each time.  The buttered paper should be removed a few minutes before the end of the cooking, to brown the bird. 

The hot chicken is then removed to a wooden board, jointed and carved.  The remaining juices in the roasting tin are reduced over a steady heat until "brown and sticky".  Another ¼ of a pint of chicken stock is added to the pan to make a gravy, which is then strained into a small saucepan and thickened with ½ teaspoon of arrowroot mixed with a tiny bit of water.  (Add the arrowroot mixture away from the heat, and then stir until boiling).  Two tablespoons of double cream are stirred into the gravy.

Peel and pip some white or muscat grapes (you can blanche them in boiling water to help the process), and drop them into the gravy.  The chicken pieces are arranged on a silver-plated oval-shaped serving dish, the gravy is spooned all over it, and the grapes arranged all over the chicken.  The remaining gravy and grapes (not sure about keeping the grapes in the gravy, very odd) are served separately in a sauceboat.  

Hmmm.  Chicken with Gravy.  Served with Grapes.

What do you think?  The way forward, or a definite step backwards?

 

Chicken Maryland

 

 

 

Mrs Aitch is going to hate this one.  She's not normally fussy; not fussy at all, but she really hates bananas. In the same way that I loathe mashed potato.  If you are ever lucky enough to invite us to dinner, the worst scenario would be shepherd's pie as a main course, and banoffee pie as a pudding.  

To us Brits, American food can sometimes seem a bit Gothic.  I would include Chicken Maryland in this category.  Or, if not Gothic, certainly slightly weird.  A bit white trashy, perhaps?  Duelling banjos, denim dungarees and mobile homes raised on bricks.  Scrap metal yards and ravenous doebermanns. Maybe I'm being horribly unfair? Any observations are certainly not meant to be critical. After all, we're the nation which tucks into haggis, jellied eel and stargazey pie.

 

 

In America, Chicken Maryland is served with "gravy"- what we call in Blighty a "white sauce", or in The Great Republic, "Béchamel Sauce".  I suspect that the addition of banana fritters may be a British interpretation, and if so, I apologise.  If any Southerners out there in cyberspace think that the following receipe is inaccurate, please email me, and I will gladly post up a correction.

Okay.  That's that one out of the way.  Here's The Greasy Spoon's take on Chicken Maryland.  I've based this version on the recipe in Simon Hopkinson and Lindsey Bareham's excellent book, "The Prawn Cocktail Years".  I can't recommend it enough:

Take some chicken thighs (an excellent and affordable cut, by the way), rip off the skin and dip them into seasoned flour, and then again into a bowl of beaten egg.  Shake off the egg, and dip them into the seasoned flour for a second time.  In a deep frying pan heat up 100g of unsalted butter and 75ml  of sunflower oil, until frothy.  Put in the floured chicken piece, and fry gently.  The secret here is not to crowd the pan.  If you do so, your chicken will start to stew, rather than fry, because of the fall in temperature.  So, fry the chicken a few pieces at a time.  On a lowish heat.  It should take about half and hour.  Make sure you turn the chicken pieces about half way through the cooking time.

In the meantime, mix together 100g sweetcorn (tinned is absolutely fine, to be frank, I can't detect any difference), two small egg yolks, and salt and pepper.  Beat two egg whites until frothy, and gently fold them into the mixture.  Add a tablespoon of baking powder, and about 50-75g of breadcrumbs, until it forms a thickish batter.  Place to one side.

Take out the chicken pieces and keep them warm in a rack in a hot oven.  Strain off the hot chicken oil, leaving just enough in the pan to fry the sweetcorn fritters.  Drop tablespoons of the sweetcorn batter into the reserved hot oil, and fry for a couple of minutes on each side, until puffed and golden.  Drain on kitchen paper, and keep warm in the oven with the chicken.

Take 100ml of chicken stock, and reduce it by three-quarters.  Fry four small sliced bananas in unsalted butter, until golden, sprinkling them with some brown sugar as you do,  so that they begin to caramelise.  Grill some rashers of streaky bacon, until crisp.  Pour 100ml of double cream into the reduced chicken stock, and bring it back to the boil.  Reduce until slightly thickened, and squeeze in some lemon juice.  Check the seasoning and stir in some freshly chopped flat parsley. 

Arrange the fried chicken on a large plate with the sweetcorn and banana fritters, and crispy bacon pieces.  Spoon the "gravy" over the fried chicken, and serve the rest in a sauce boat.  Garnish with chopped flat parsley.  That's it.  Quite a lot of bother, in some ways; but strangely satisfying.  A perenniel favourite.

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.

 

Sunday, Bloody Sunday

 

 

 

I've always found Sundays slightly depressing.  I'm not sure exactly why this is.  It might be a school thing; the hanging around waiting for Monday morning, the hanging around waiting for hotel bars to open.  I'll explain.  In the early 1980's it was still illegal to buy a drink on a Sunday, until I think, half past twelve, and on the occasions when my parents or grandparents took me out from boarding school, there was much driving around the sodden, empty Gloucestershire countryside- killing time.  Surreal.

Joseph Losey captures the mood brilliantly in his 1967 film "Accident".  There's a wonderful sequence in which Dirk Bogarde, playing a frustrated Oxford don on the verge of a mid-life crisis, hosts a languid Sunday lunch party, which degenerates into late afternoon, drunken stupor, revealing jealousies and half-concealed rivalries.  Late August with wasps.

 

And there's all that Dickensy, tea and crumpets stuff on television.  "The Antiques Roadshow", The BBC Tea-Time Period Drama (though I am currently loving "Downton Abbey" on ITV).  It's all a bit mumsy, knowing and slightly gloomy isn't it?  No, I don't like Sundays, and prefer the promise of a Friday evening or the zip of a breezy Saturday morning.

And what do people always serve you for a late Sunday afternoon lunch?   Roast chicken.  Without fail.  And there's another thing I'm not keen on.  You get invited for Sunday lunch; it's served up at about three in the afternoon.  The result?  Further hanging around as you become reaquainted with the gin bottle, and then a frustrating drive through a traffic-jam back to your dark and cold hovel very late in the evening.  I was once invited to a lunch party in Wiltshire.  Lunch wasn't served until about half past three in the afternoon; and ravenous, I went for a walk, and in desperation started eyeing up some rather juicy looking free-range chickens running around in a field.

So why not give the ubiquitous chicken and gravy a miss, and serve up a succulent, crispy roast duck with tangy orange sauce instead?  A breath of fresh air.

This is the way I roast duck.  As a method, it's a good one, and works.

Preheat your oven to 230C/450F/Gas mark 8. Prick a dressed duck all over and wipe the skin, so that it's dry.  Rub salt and pepper over it, and sprinkle some of the salt and pepper into the cavity. Place the duck on a wire rack, and then put the rack within a baking tray.  This will enable hot air to circulate underneath the duck, and most importantly will let you catch the duck fat as it drips off; and there's going to be quite a bit of fat.

Roast in the oven for twenty minutes, and then turn the temperature down to 180C/350F/gas mark 4.  Roast for a further forty minutes, or until you think it is ready.  The skin should be crispy, and the meat succulent.  As the duck roasts, you will find that the tray underneath will fill up with hot fat.  It's most important that you should remove this at regular intervals, otherwise the fat will start to smoke, and you'll think that your oven's on fire.

The orange sauce is easy.  I pour orange juice into a smallish pan, add a bit of chicken stock, a dash of white balsamic vinegar, about two tablespoons of honey, grated orange zest and star anise.  Heat and let it bubble away for a minute or so.  Next add a generous slug of Grand Marnier and reduce the sauce by about half on a high heat.  To thicken up the sauce, mix up a teaspoon of arrowroot with water to form a slurry and stir it in.  Whisk in a knob of butter, which will give the sauce a nice glaze.  Remove the star anise before serving.  The sauce should be reasonably thin.

 

 

Anton Mosimann's Courgette and Thyme Risotto

 

 

 

We've just got back from a quick sojourn around the Italian Lakes; Lugano to be more precise, on the Italian-Swiss border. If you've never been there, I would urge you to go- the area is of course, stunningly beautiful, the food is excellent, and the place is relatively easy to get to, being only an hour or so's drive away from Milan.

 

Lake Como amused me. We had pistacchio gelati, sitting out on the terrace of the excellent Villa d'Este, watching playboys zooming around in Riva speed boats (all varnish and chrome), and flying boats taking off from the lake. It was very Talented Mr Ripley- a throwback to the 1950's. I gather George Clooney lives in the Villa Oleandra nearby. I also got to drive a Lancia again for the first time in twenty years. A trip down memory lane this was, as the car I first learnt to drive was my grandfather's highly unsuitable 1969 Lancia Flavia: all fuel injection and retro teak dashboard with an interesting array of coloured knobs and satsifying buttons to fiddle with. Anyway. Risotto.

I've got a theory that the Italians keep back the best risotto rice for themselves. Has anyone else noticed this? A year or two ago, we bought some arborio rice from a little shop in a backwater in Venice, and my god, it tasted so much more authentic than the imported stuff you buy from Sainsbury's. Having said that, I've discovered that Tesco sell an excellent arborio rice under their own name which seems to give very genuine, top notch results, and I would recommend this without reservation.

One of the best risotto recipes I've come across is in Anton Mosimann's "Cooking with Mosimann".  Remember old Anton?  He was that Swiss chap with the moustache, who elevated precision to a fine art, and had something to do with nouvelle cuisine back in the 1980's. You don't seem him on television much these days, and I assume he's gone into semi-retirement, which is a great shame, as I've been re-visiting his books and finding his recipes to be comparatively straightforward by today's standards and of course, as you would expect, technically excellent. Here's his recipe for a simple risotto cooked with courgettes and thyme. The addition of turmeric thickens it up and turns it an interesting, yellow colour, although I would be tempted, by way of experiment, to substitute the turmeric with a few saffron threads instead.

Melt 25g of butter in a hot pan. Chop up a small onion into fine pieces and cook it in the butter with a sprig or so of fresh thyme. Cook until soft, but not brown. Stir in 200g of arborio rice with a decent pinch of turmeric, and make sure the rice is coated in the hot butter. Again, do not brown. Pour in 150ml of steaming hot vegetable or chicken stock. Stir like crazy. The rice will release starch. Starch is what makes the risotto creamy. Over a medium heat, carry on adding 250ml of hot stock in small quantities, until the rice has absorbed it. You know how to do this, I don't really need to tell you: add a bit of stock, stir until most of the stock has been absorbed, add a bit of stock, stir.

As you're stirring, mix in 250g of courgettes, cut into small diced cubes. I tend to cut up my vegetables for this sort of thing into fairly small dice, as I think, visually at least, it looks neater, and it will take less time to cook. It's important not to overcook the rice. The Italians like their risotto rice to be reasonably firm, yet bound in a creamy, fairly sloppy sauce. This is the great art: firm rice, wet sauce; and it's not especially easy to get right the first time you make it.

Just before you reckon the rice to be ready, pour in 50ml of dry white wine. This will stop the cooking. Stir in a knob of butter, check the seasoning, and serve with freshly grated parmesan cheese.

 

Soused Mackerel with Cider and Thyme

 

 

 

Recently, Lucas Hollweg wrote about a similar recipe in The Sunday Times style magazine. Soused Mackerel is a North European classic.  "Sousing" means to pickle.  I've used mackerel in this dish, but, typically, you could use any other oily fish such as herring ("maatjesharing" in Dutch or "matjes" in German and Swedish), and it might be an intriguing exercise to try the dish out with smoked haddock, instead. I think it would work. 

In my version, I've used cider; as many of you will remember, I favour the use of cider in my cooking over white wine (it also gives this particular dish an added North European slant); but you could of course, use a dry white wine instead. The following recipe will serve four hungry people:

First, you'll need eight mackerel fillets. Living in central London, I bought my mackerel from the local supermarket and filleted them myself, as the so-called "fishmonger" behind the counter told me that he "hadn't been trained to fillet, had he?".  I raise my eyes to heaven. Filleting is pretty straightforward, and would make a good subject for a future post. I managed to do a reasonable job- even without a proper filleting knife: our kitchen is currently in chaos.

Clean the mackerel fillets and arrange them in a flat dish. Sprinkle them with sea salt, and leave them for at least half an hour.

In the meantime, heat up your oven to 220C.  Into a saucepan put: two thinly sliced red onions, one thinly sliced carrot, three cloves of peeled whole garlic, several sprigs of thyme, two bay leaves, two cloves, a small handful of black peppercorns, 500ml of a decent dry cider, and 120ml of cider or white wine vinegar. This will make your brine. Add 150ml of water and bring it to the boil. Simmer for ten minutes, add three small slithers of lemon peel, and simmer away for a five further minutes.

Wipe the surplus salt away from the fish, and pour over the hot liquor. Cook in the hot oven for up to nine minutes or so- until the fish is just about cooked through. Cool in the 'fridge and leave overnight. You will find that the red onions make the liquor go a subtle tinted rose-pink colour.  

Check the seasoning, and serve cold with a generous amount of chopped parsley and hunks of warm bread to mop up the juice. If you're fussy about presentation, it might be an idea to remove the lemon peel and the cooked thyme (which will have gone a bit soggy and brown during the cooking), replacing it with a few fresh sprigs. Incidentally, I served my fish with the silvery skin of the mackerel intact; you could of course, remove this after cooking.

Ideal for a summer buffet in the garden.

Egon Ronay

 

 

 

Sad news about old Egon Ronay, who has just died at the grand old age of 94. A year or so ago, I wrote this post:

Remember Egon Ronay?  He was that rather dapper Hungarian who published a series of restaurant guides; in vogue a few years ago. One of the favourite books in my modest cookery library is Egon's "The Unforgettable Dishes of My Life', published in 1989. If you're interested in getting hold of a copy, you should be able to get track one down from either amazon.co.uk, or that marvellous antiquarian book website, abebooks.com.

The book's very much a personal thing, with recipes that have held meaning to him for various reasons over the years. That's something I like about food: the way a certain dish can bring back memories, or have some literary or historical connotation. Without, I hope, getting too hyper-intellectual, wasn't that what Proust was all about?  You know, the madeline dipped into the lemon scented tea and all that?

Anyway, here's his recipe for "Roast Red Mullet with Cumin Sauce". Hopefully you will be able to buy one from your local fishmonger- if you have any left in your neighbourhood that is.  In London, they're more or less gone, and have been replaced by the fish counters of your local supermarket. And Sainsbury's ain't nearly as good as it used to be.

Clean and gut a red mullet, keeping back the bones and the livers. Cut off the heads and the tail. Put the heads, tail, and bones into a saucepan, and add leeks, shallots, white wine, and salt. Pour in two pints of water, and bring to the boil. Skim off the scum as it floats to the top. Cover the saucepan, and simmer for about twenty minutes. Hey presto! You will have a fish stock.

Add two teaspoons of cumin seeds and reduce three quarters of a pint of the stock, until the it takes on a syrupy consistency. Add half a pint of double cream and the red mullet livers, and boil for fifteen seconds. Liquidise in your magimix or blender, and then pass it through a sieve. That's the sauce finished.

Brush the cleaned mullet with oil, and wrap it in foil, first seasoning it with a generous amount of sea salt and chunky black pepper. Place the fish on a baking tray, and cook in the oven at 220C (425F) until the fish is cooked. The flesh will flake up a bit when it's done. Arrange the cooked fish on a plate, and pour the sauce around it.

Tartiflette

 

The ski-ing season's upon us, and chalet food makes me think of Tartiflette. Tartiflette's a French dish from the Savoie region, which originated in the Aravis valley, the home of Reblochon cheese. Curiously, it was invented as late as the 1980's in an attempt to boost sales, and then heavily promoted by the relevant trade unions to increase employment in the area. 

This is how you make it: First fry some chopped smoked bacon, and sliced onions for about five minutes in your favourite pan. If you've got some goose fat, use that.

Next, slice up some waxy potatoes, and arrange them in a bottom of a dish, which you've previously greased with the goose fat. It might also be a good plan to rub half a garlic clove over the dish as well- this will give the Tartiflette a subtle garlicky flavour, without killing off all the other flavours in the dish. Season the potatoes with salt and pepper, and then cover them with the cooked bacon and onions. 

Add a layer of Reblochon cheese which you have cut into small cubes. It would be worth you while to track down some authentic Reblochon- as this gives the dish its authentic edge. Try you local deli, and see if they stock it. If they don't it's always worth making a fuss- in the nicest possible way of course, and they may be able to get some in for you. 

Finally, it's a simple matter of adding another layer of sliced potatoes, some more cheese, and finishing off the thing with a carton of double cream, unsalted butter and more salt and pepper. Bake in the oven for over an hour, until the cheesy cream topping goes brown and crusty.

 

 

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!

Fondue

 

 

Back in the late 1960's, our Swiss au pair brought back a funky fondue set. I remember it well: a beaten copper affair, raised on a nifty wrought iron stand.

I happen to think that the best fondues use authentic cheese recipes. Recently, however, a bad, mad, and dangerous tendency has crept in for sickly, over rich chocolate fondues with cake, strawberries, sweeties, and the like. Please avoid them at all costs.

Here's how to make a genuine Swiss cheese fondue: grate ½ llb of Swiss cheese (Emmenthaler is ideal), and ½ llb of Gruyère into a pan. Start melting the cheese on a medium heat. It's important not to boil the cheese, over-stir it, or let it get cold. All these things will encourage separation and stringing.

Carefully stir in two tablespoons of flour or cornstarch. Again, the flour will help to prevent separation. Add a tablespoon of dry mustard.

When the cheese, flour and mustard have melted down, add a cup of dry white wine, a generous dash of Kirsch, a squeeze of lemon juice, and some grated nutmeg. That's it.

You then dip in hunks of fresh white bread into the cheese sauce. Traditionally, if you loose your bread in the cheese, you're supposed to pay a forfeit. Having seen The Stepford Wives, I can imagine the sort of saucy things our parents got up to forty years ago, though I stress that in our family, the forfeit was always a bottle of Kirsch.

 

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.

 

Cajun Duck Gumbo with Smoked Sausage and Shrimps

 

 

Yesterday an old friend came over to our new house for dinner. I decided to make a Cajun duck gumbo. Or at least, I thought I did, as the resulting effort, although relatively appetising, tasted nothing like the genuine dish. So I did some research:

Gumbo is a stew or soup popular in Louisiana and the Southern States of America. It's probably got okra in it, and most importantly, the "holy trinity" of diced onions, green peppers and celery. It's also thickened at the beginning by a roux. Now, this is not just any old roux. There's a whole sub-culture of check-shirted, bearded roux experts out there, ready to tell you at a drop of a hat that your roux isn't dark enough, and that you should have stirred it one hundred and one times anti-clockwise, and in slow-motion.

Forget your namby-pamby Cordon Bleu type rouxs made with a bit of butter and a genteel sprinkling of flour, these Cajun rouxs are macho affairs, made by heating cups of oil to a high temperature in old tin pans, and then stirring in cups of flour, until the liquid roux turns a mahogany colour, or even in some cases almost black. If you've got time, have a look at this excellent website, the Southern Gumbo Trail- which will tell you how to make authentic "Cajun Napalm".

Here's my recipe for Cajun Duck Gumbo:

Heat a heavy pan until it's smokin' hot. Pour in a cup of oil. Let it get hot, then turn down the heat to a low flame. Gradually whisk in a cup and a half of white flour, whisking it the whole time to make sure it doesn't burn. If you cook the roux on too high a heat, not only might it burn, but the oil might separate from the flour. Keep on whisking. I think it's important to have more flour than oil: you want the roux to be slightly sloppy, but you don't want an oil-slick.

You will see that as the flour cooks, the colour will start to turn brown. Keep on stirring. Your goal is to end up with a dark brown, nutty flavoured roux with the consistency of a thick chocolate sauce. Which hasn't burnt. This might take up to half and hour to achieve, but you will end up with an extremely worthy base for your gumbo. Oh and by the way, it's not called "Cajun Napalm" for nothing. Be extremely careful: if you splash a bit of the roux on your skin, it's going to hurt. As I write this, I'm suffering from some darn nasty burns on my fingers, which I wouldn't wish on anyone.

Now it's time to add the "holy trinity" of diced green peppers, onions and celery. Stir it in, and sauté for around five minutes. Add some chopped garlic. Stir. Throw in some chopped up okra. Turn the heat up, and stir the okra in until it's cooked properly, and become less "stringy" and gelatinous. The okra will thicken up the mixture almost immediately. You will see tiny "strings", looking a bit like miniscule white optic fibres. You need to cook the okra until these strings disappear.

Next, add shrimps (prawns), sliced smoked sausage and small chunks of duck. Keep on stirring as it cooks. After about another ten minutes or so, pour in some stock. I used a lovely clear duck stock which I had made by using a very low heat, and then skimming off the scum as it rose to the surface.

Simmer gently for about twenty minutes until the gumbo thickens up. Season to taste and add a generous slug of Tabasco and a teaspoon or so of Cayenne Pepper. Finish off the dish with some chopped parsley, and serve it on a bowl of steamed rice. The gumbo should be a dark brown colour, and that agonising half hour or so of roux stirring will give a complex, deep hickory flavour to the 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.

Pheasant Casserole

 

Here's a post I wrote last year about pheasant casserole. It's nostalgic, comfort food at its best, evocative of the English Countryside in autumn:

Pheasant Casserole! I can't think of anything more suitable for a cold November. I once had it at a Sunday lunch party, served with a jug of foamy Black Velvet- and this worked surprisingly well. If you don't know anyone who shoots, pheasant are amazingly cheap to buy, either from your local butcher or decent supermarket such as Waitrose.

Believe me, I've plucked a few pheasants in my time, and I have to say that I'm not sure that it's worth the hassle, when you can a) get the butcher to pluck them for you (and do a much better job) or b) buy them from the shops, ready plucked, for a few quid.

Here's my family recipe for pheasant casserole (from The ABC of Tried and Tested Recipes), which I've adapted slightly from the original version.

Take a large cock pheasant and fry it in butter and oil, until lightly browned. Add a dash of cognac, and flambé it quickly until the flames die down. Remove the pheasant and put it into a casserole.

In the same pan, fry some chopped bacon, diced celery and carrots cut into batons.  Add two tablespoons of flour, and cook. After a few minutes pour in half a bottle of red wine (I suggest using a Burgundy or a Rhone) and top up with some chicken or game stock.

Bring to the boil, and simmer gently so that the alcohol burns off. Pour it over the pheasant in the casserole and add 50g button mushrooms and 175g button or baby onions.

Cook in a moderate oven for just over an hour. Pheasant has a tendency to get dry and stringy very quickly, so I've cut down the cooking time. I'm sure you'll get the drift: you want lots of sauce, and you need to make sure that you don't over cook the pheasant.

When you reckon the pheasant is ready, take the casserole out of the oven and let it cool down. Lift out the pheasant and carve it up: cut the legs and wings off and carve the breasts. Place the carved meat in a flat casserole dish with the sliced breasts in the centre, surrounded by the legs and the wings. Place the vegetables, mushrooms and onions over the pheasant.

Strain off the sauce through a sieve into a small sauce pan-  this will get rid of all the nasty bits and pieces. Add two teaspoons of redcurrant jelly to the sauce and chuck in some crushed juniper berries. I'm currently crazy about juniper (which, of course, is used to flavour gin).  It has a rich, pine-nut, woodlandly sort of  taste and works beautifully with game. Check the seasoning. When the sauce is at the right consistency, pour it back over the pheasant.

Serve the casserole with parsnip chips.

Irish Stew

 

 

London this morning is grey and overcast, the atmosphere heavy with an oppressive gloom. It's even slightly foggy. That's one of the odd things about this city of muffin men and dancing chimney sweeps: the way the weather changes at a drop of a hat; yesterday for example, we enjoyed the most glorious, warm, autumnal day bathed in a golden light. Now, I don't usually write about the weather (finding the subject, like cricket, slightly tiresome) and I would dispute the idea that the British are a "weather-obsessed" people. This dubious award goes to the Americans. Have you ever noticed how the Americans are obsessed with temperature? I once asked an American how he was, and was told "twenty three degrees".

Anyway. To alleviate all this gloom, I've suddenly got this thing about Irish Stew. Traditionally, Irish Stew consists of just lamb or mutton; onions, potatoes and water. Purists will tell you that carrots should not be added, but I was having a chat with an Irish friend about this recently, and she insisted that she includes carrots in her version. The secret with Irish Stew (as indeed with any stew), is to cook it for a long time at a low temperature. You want the meat to break down, so that it's hanging off the bone, and the potato to slightly disintegrate, so that it thickens the sauce.

Take some Lamb Chops, and brown them in a pan with a knob of unsalted butter. Transfer them to a casserole dish. Next, sauté some sliced onions in the butter, and when they're cooked add them to the casserole. Peel some carrots, and slice them into quarters, lengthways. Add them to the casserole- on top of the onions. The aim is to build up your vegetables in layers. Add another layer of onions. Finally, add some peeled potatoes, which you have chopped into quarters, lengthways. Season with sea salt and ground black pepper.

Now pour in some stock (ideally lamb stock if you have it), and add a sprig of thyme. Cook the casserole in a low to medium oven, until the lamb is cooked properly (ie just about to fall off the bone), and the sauce is reasonably thick. On a low heat this may take at least two hours.

Take the casserole out of the oven, and have a look at it. If you want to thicken the sauce, you could always add a roux- which is butter and flour mixed together to form a small ball. Check the seasoning, and add more salt and pepper if it's needed. Finally, serve with a generous amount of chopped parsley.

Chicken Kiev

 

 

Last night I made an almost perfect Chicken Kiev. It's not especially difficult to make, but my previous attempt ended in failure, with a burnt outside, and a raw inside. Not good.

Some of you out there think that Chicken Kiev is a classic Ukranian dish- perhaps. More promising is the information provided by Alasdair Scott Sutherland's fascinating book The Spaghetti Tree, Mario and Franco and the Trattoria Revolution, which reckons that the Kiev (albeit without the garlic) was initially brought over by some Polish restauranteurs after The War, and then re-invented and italianised by the trendy La Trattoria Terrazza during the 1960's.

Franco and Mario added grated parmesan and garlic to the dish, and this undoubtably gives it a je ne sais quois. Here's how to make my definitive version:

First make the butter mixture. This is just salted butter mashed up in a bowl with lots of chopped parsley, some lemon juice, a few shakes of Tabasco, some freshly grated parmesan cheese, a decent dollop of crushed garlic, and freshly milled black pepper. Fashion the butter into a quenelle shape with a spoon, and let it stiffen up in the 'fridge.

Next, get hold of a chicken breast, and take a good look at it. There should be an extra bit of meat (almost forming a flap) on the side. Run a sharp knife along the edge and remove this, so that you end you with two pieces of chicken meat.

Beat them flat with a kitchen mallet, and then season them with sea salt and black pepper. Brush with a beaten egg, and lightly dust with seasoned flour. Put the quenelle of garlicky butter onto the larger bit of chicken. Place the smaller piece on top, and try and pinch the two pieces of chicken together, so that the butter is sealed inside. Wrap up the finished effort tightly in some cling film, and shove it into the 'fridge.  This should help it stick together. Then you can roll the chicken in the seasoned flour, and then brush it with the beaten egg. 

Finally, dip the Kiev into seasoned breadcrumbs, making sure that the chicken is well covered. Deep fry in oil, until the breadcrumbs turn golden brown. Make sure that they don't burn. It should take about five minutes.

I'm not completely sure what shape the Kiev should be. If you follow my method, there's a tendency for the Kiev to end up a turd-like sausage shape. I've got a hunch that it might look better if it's in a round, or at least a kidney or tear-drop shape. I'll leave that one up to you; it's going to taste the same isn't it?

 

Boiled Bacon and Cabbage with Parsley Sauce

 

 

 

The Greasy Spoon's Book of the Month for April is A Life With Food by Peter Langan, annotated and with a memoir by none other than Brian Sewell. I love this book. It's an idiosyncratic account of the life of the late, eccentric restauranteur, Peter Langan, his restaurants and his art collections.

Odin's has some fabulous Modern and Edwardian British paintings, which is not surprising as many of them were chosen by the great Mr Sewell himself. There's a terrific Laura Knight to the right of the main entrance, a fabulous Harold Gilman in the main dining room and a naughty drawing by Ron Kitaj displayed at table level. 

Here's a very Irish recipe from the book for Boiled Bacon and Cabbage with Parsley Sauce:     

"There are two dishes that are Irish to the core- this is one of them. If it is smoked gammon, soak it overnight in water, and then put it into fresh cold water and bring it to the boil. Remove, skim and simmer for 30 minutes per lb.

The old Irish way is to add the cut up cabbage to the pot for half an hour toward the end. I do not like this. I prefer to boil the cabbage separately for 3-5 minutes. It is a crisp foil to the slowly cooked bacon.

The parsley sauce is simple. Melt 1oz of butter, add 1 oz of flour and cook until the flour is well blended. Add 1/2 pint of the cooking liquid slowly to begin with then the 1/2 pint of milk, stir, bring to the boil and simmer. Add a bunch of freshly chopped parsley- do not cook it in as most idiot restaurants do.

The bacon, crisp cabbage, and fresh parsley sauce could be the country's greatest dish. Serve it with floury boiled potatoes in their skins."

 

 

Toad in the Hole with Onion Gravy

 

 

Mein Gott, this one takes me back: Toad in the Hole is perfect fodder for a Saturday Lunch. I feel strongly that there are certain dishes that are best suited to particular days of the week; and for some weird reason Toad means Saturday lunch. Not Sunday or Tuesday, or even Friday for that matter. Saturday. 

Incidentally, as much as I am curious to sample one of those tantalising little critters, the 'toad' is some sort of English slang for sausage. It's a bit like Welsh Rabbit (which ain't a rabbit), or Scotch Woodcock (which ain't a woodcock, either).

Back to the Toad: Heat your oven to 220C (425F). Get hold of some decent, fat, organic sausages and chuck them into a roasting tin with a few knobs of lard. You could have fun experimenting with different types of sausage.  The better your sausage, the better your Toad in the Hole will taste. Cook the sausages in the oven for about ten minutes.

Meanwhile, mix up the batter. Sieve 4oz (110g) of self raising flour into a bowl, and add a pinch of salt and some pepper. Make a hole or a "well" in the centre of the flour, and pour in 5 fluid oz (150ml) of semi-skimmed milk into the hole. Crack in an egg, too. Mix the flour, milk, and egg up very gradually with a wooden spoon.  Beat well, and then add the same amount of milk, again. Pour the finished batter over the sausages, and cook them in the oven for a further 45 minutes or so, until the Toad is risen and browned.

The Onion Gravy is a cinch. You slice up some onions, and brown them in a frying pan. If you add a few pinches of sugar and salt, this will help them to caramelise. You want them to get brown and a bit burnt. This is a good thing. Add a tablespoon of flour, and let it cook in the oniony fat. Once the onions and flour are brown enough, you can deglaze the pan with some stock, water, and perhaps, a slug or two of white wine. Instead of gravy browning (what's that?), I use a few drops of Soy Sauce, which will give the gravy an even richer colour and taste. A teaspoon of redcurrent jelly is not a bad plan, either. Onion Gravy should be thin.

All about Kedgeree...

 

Being English (and a bit Scottish too, if I go back far enough), I reckon I'm a bit of an expert on Kedgeree. I hope you won't find this arrogant, it's not supposed to be; but I'm sure that us Anglo-Saxons are the only people who make this dish, and I'm all for spreading the word. In truth, I'm an unashamed, fully signed-up, kedgeree anorak.

Last year, I wrote a post about kedgeree, and it you're interested in the history of the dish and its Anglo-Indian origins, please click on the link and have a good read. Kedgeree is made out of three key ingredients: rice, fish and eggs. Traditionally, it's served either as a breakfast dish (silver chafing dishes, shooting breakfasts and all that), or for supper.  I think it might also be good as a first course.

I'm sure that the first time I ever had kedgeree was at my uncle and aunts' place down in the Sussex countryside. This was the classic, Cromwellian, no-nonsense version; beloved of Empire and wary of excess: long grain rice, hard-boiled eggs, dyed smoked haddock, salt and pepper perhaps, with just a smidgin of curry powder. No cream, no lemon juice, no parsley; possibly re-heated or served cold as left-overs. Thrifty. Practical. Children should be seen and not heard.

Now zoom forward in time to the 1980's, and you have the cheffy, slightly effete, London interpretations of Michael Smith, Anton Mosimann, and Gary Rhodes- who had the bright idea of binding smoked eel in a creamy, Escoffier style Sauce Indienne.

Personally, I favour the Jane Grigson method (my own recipe based on her version in English Food): an onion is sliced up  and sautéed in a mixture of oil and butter. Curry paste, nutmeg, crushed coriander seeds and a pinch of saffron are stirred in and cooked for a few moments. Next, long grain or basmati rice is stirred into the spicy butter and allowed to turn translucent. Fish stock (left over from cooking the haddock) is then poured in, and allowed to cook until there's no water left. Finally you stir in flaked undyed smoked haddock, sliced softly boiled eggs, a cup or so of cooked wild rice, cream and butter, and generous amounts of chopped parsley. The dish is finished off with a squeeze of lemon juice, sea salt, black pepper and a pinch of Cayenne Pepper, and served with a Mango Chutney on the side. 

Rice

Basmati might be an appropriate choice here, with it's nod to the Imperial origins of the dish. However,  I normally recommend Uncle Ben's Long Grain Rice, as the starch has been removed, and you will end up with a cleaner result. In my idleness, I once tried to make kedgeree from a rice which I hadn't rinsed properly and the result was a nasty, starchy mush. Avoid that. I'm also keen on adding a cup or so of cooked wild rice to the finished mix; but bear in mind that wild rice will need at least half an hour (and probably a great deal longer) to cook properly- you'll know when it's cooked properly, as the grain splits and you will be able to see the whitish insides.

Onions and Peas?

Yes, in my opinion.  Believe it or not, reasonably authentic to the original Indian version. I like to sauté a sliced or chopped onion with the rice.  If I'm in the mood, I sometimes stir in some cooked peas with the smoked haddock.

Spices

I like kedgeree to have a bit of a kick. Partly because I'm a closet spice merchant, but also because I think the dish needs it. Avoid the bland. Don't forget kedgeree's Anglo-Indian origins: I reckon it needs a bit o' spice to make it authentic. I would recommend using a teaspoon or so of decent curry paste, rather than a curry powder, lots of nutmeg, crushed coriander seeds, and possibly a pinch of saffron- though I don't like the dish to turn bright yellow- too much like that radio-active 'pilau' rice you get fobbed off with down at your local Taj Mahal. A creamy, very light yellow colour, speckled with the green of the chopped parlsey, is the goal.

Fish

In theory, it should be undyed smoked haddock (not the cheaper yellow stuff), but in practice you can use any fish: cod, smoked eel, halibut or salmon. 1970's recipes often recommend tinned salmon- but I'm not convinced by that one, and I suspect if you're a bona fide foodie, you won't either. Smoked fish, in my opinion works well, as it tends to hold together a bit better; and of course, that oily smoked taste is no bad thing either. Place your fish fillet in some seasoned water, bring to the boil and turn off the heat, putting a lid back on the pan. Let the fish sit in the hot water- and about ten to fifteen minutes later it will be perfectly cooked. Use the fishy water as a stock, and pour it over the sautéed rice and spices.  In effect, you're making a pilaf.

Eggs

Free Range. Organic. I prefer them to be softly boiled. It's a very satisfying moment when you slice them open, and the hot, runny, yellow egg yolk runs out.

Cream?

Yes, definitely.  I always stir in a dollop of single cream, and add a knob of unsalted butter, too. It helps to keep your kedgeree moist, and that's no bad thing. Finish off the kedgeree with a squeeze of lemon juice- that works wonders, too. Another crucial question: do you make the kedgeree first, and then bind it in a creamy, curried sauce à la Gary Rhodes, or do you cook the rice in curried stock à la Jane Grigson?  An unresolved  dilemma, worthy of many sleepless nights.

Garnish

Lots of chopped parsley, please.  Coriander would work well, too. I like a pinch of Cayenne Pepper, though I accept that this might rot the old taste buds. Mango Chutney, however, works brilliantly with kedgeree, and brings out the lovely smoky, salty, sweet and sour flavours of this wonderful and classic dish.

Still awake?

 

Italian Walnut Sauce

 

 

The Girl's asked me to re-create an Italian dish she had the other day at some restaurant in Chelsea. It's Gnocchi with Walnut Sauce. The gnocchi's pretty straightforward- like you, I've often made it before: riced potatoes held together with eggs and flour, seasoned with salt and pepper and then fashioned into tiny 'lumps', and simmered in boiling water until the gnocchi float. The walnut sauce however, is more unusual.

For some reason, I've got this idea that walnut sauce should be a bright green. Elizabeth David's version (salsa di noci) is exactly that. She recommends pounding up softened walnuts, parsley and salt in a pestle and mortar, until they form a paste. Next, you mix in some butter, and then stir in breadcrumbs and oil, until the paste thickens. You finish off the sauce with some milk or cream. I'm guessing that (like a mayonnaise) this sauce will split if you heat it up?  Maybe you might get away with warming it gently? Dunno.

I've trawled the net, and discovered that most of the walnut sauce recipes out there in cyberspace are variations on this method: walnuts ground up into some sort of paste, and then bound in oil. I'm going to try the Elizabeth David method, and report back.

Over and out.

Ragù Bolognese

 

 

This in-between period between Christmas and the New Year is always a bit weird. You're still got the holiday spirit, but have, more than likely, returned to the Kafkaesque slog of the Blacking Factory. Here in The Big Smoke, it's cold and frosty, and I'm in the mood for some hearty, warming food. An authentic Ragù Bolognese would be just the ticket.

I'm not talking about that awful tinned stuff; that thin, processed sauce you boiled up in your student days. No, I'm writing about the authentic, slowly cooked, rich and dark sauce, served in Bologna with lasagne verdi.  It's okay, of course, to serve it with any type of pasta, I'm not that fussy. Here's one way of making it:

Chop up some onions and fry them in a mixture of butter and oil in your favourite pan. When the onions are soft, add some crushed garlic. Add a diced carrot and some thinly sliced celery. Chop up some streaky bacon, and fry this with the onions, garlic, carrot and celery. So far so good. Transfer the onions, garlic, bacon, carrot and celery to your casserole dish.

Now start frying some minced pork in the frying pan. Use the oil and butter left over from the onions and bacon. If you need to, add a bit more butter or oil to stop the pork burning. Here's a useful tip: rather than stirring the mince around, it's a better idea to let it brown in lumps. If you stir it about, you run the risk that the meat will start to poach, rather than fry.

Transfer the pork to the casserole. Fry some minced beef, and transfer to the casserole. Next, chop up some chicken livers into small pieces, fry them very briefly, and transfer them to the casserole pot.

Tip in a tin of plum tomatoes, a good dollop of tomato purée, and half a bottle of red wine (though strangely, white wine is probably more authentic). Season with salt, pepper, nutmeg, and some finely chopped basil.

Cook the ragù on the lowest heat you can manage, for up to four hours. You will need to check it now and again, to make sure it doesn't burn.  

According to the great Elizabeth David in her seminal work, Italian Food: "some Bolognese cooks add at least 1 cupful of cream or milk to the sauce, which makes it smoother".  Who am I to argue with that?

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.

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...

Steak Tartare

 

 

A few months ago, I met some friends at Brown's Restaurant in Maddox Street. Brown's is an established chain of East Coast style restaurants- you know the sort of place, red checked table cloths, open brick walls, French café chairs. The waiter asked me how I liked my steak cooked and I said 'rare'. Shaking his head, he told me that 'under company policy' they were not allowed to cook rare steaks. What utter lunacy is this?  Are we not responsible for our own decisions?  I've eaten plenty of rare (and with my own werewolf tendencies, I really do mean rare) steaks in my time, and not once, I repeat once, have I ever had any sort of stomach upset. And if the meat is of the highest quality and fresh too...

(Actually, on reflection, I might just possibly be telling a fib. A few years back, I had an excellent Steak Tartare at Le Procope in Paris. Later that evening, I tucked into a plate of marinated, raw herring at a dubious place up in Monmartre. A few hours later, I was violently sick. If I had to put a bet on it, I would point a long finger at the herring).

 

What is Steak Tartare?  It's chopped up raw beef steak (or horse-meat), served with onions, capers, Worcestershire sauce and often, a raw egg.  Supposedly invented by the Tartars, I suspect that Steak Tartare is a 20th century dish of no great antiquity. Luchow's, the Manhatten restaurant founded in 1882 by Guido August Lüchow, has a recipe for Steak Tartare in their cookbook, published in 1952.  

Here's my way of making it.  I stress that not only will you need the best cut of beef, but the freshest example you can find, too. Do not make Steak Tartare out of any old steak you've had lying around in the 'fridge. If you're going to mix in an egg, make sure, again, that the egg is very fresh.

In a small bowl, mash up some anchovies, capers and Dijon mustard. Add the minced beef steak, and fold in some chopped red onion, chopped flat leaf parsley, a dash of Tabasco, a dash of Worcestershire Sauce and a few chili flakes. A spoonful of olive oil goes well, too. If it's your thing, break in a small, fresh egg. Season with lots of salt and pepper, shape the Tartare into a round and serve it with chips in the French manner.

Juniper

 

Following on from yesterday's post, I thought, this Friday afternoon, that I would write more about the juniper berry. Juniper is actually an evergreen tree- a conifer in the genus Juniperus in the cypress family Cupressaceae. The berries are small, wrinkled, dark brown things with a tiny stone in the centre. If crushed, they give off a lovely woody, peppery, pine-like flavour, with a bittersweet taste, and it's this very flavour which is used in the making of London Gin. Juniper also goes extremely well with game (such as pheasant and venison) and ham.

Here's a simple recipe for Ham with Juniper Berries, otherwise known as Ham in a Piquant Sauce:

Pour six tablespoons of wine vinegar into a small saucepan. Crush up eight juniper berries and add them to the vinegar. Chop up four shallots very finely and add to the vinegar and juniper berries. Turn up the flame and boil away until the vinegar has reduced and there is very little left in the saucepan.

In a larger pan, chuck in a knob of unsalted butter, and stir in some flour; to make a roux. Once the flour and butter are sufficiently cooked, stir in 300ml of chicken stock and 300ml of white wine to make a smooth, creamy sauce. Now add the juniper flavoured vinegar mixture, stir and bring to the boil. Crank down the heat and let the sauce simmer for about twenty minutes.

Sieve the sauce to get rid of the bits and pieces, turn down the heat, and carefully stir in 150ml of double cream. Check the seasoning.

In a flat oven proof dish, arrange some slices of ham. Cover the ham with the piquant sauce and cover with a lid. Heat it up in a lowish to moderate oven for about half an hour.

Pheasant Casserole

 

 

Pheasant Casserole! I can't think of anything more suitable for a cold November. I once had it at a Sunday lunch party, served with a jug of foamy Black Velvet- and this worked surprisingly well. If you don't know anyone who shoots, pheasant are amazingly cheap to buy, either from your local butcher or decent supermarket such as Waitrose. I've plucked a few pheasants in my time, and I have to say that I'm not sure that it's worth the hassle, when you can a) get the butcher to pluck them for you (and do a much better job) or b) buy them from the shops, ready plucked, for a few quid.

Here's my family recipe for pheasant casserole (from The ABC of Tried and Tested Recipes), which I've adapted slightly from the original version. Take a large cock pheasant and fry it in butter and oil, until lightly browned. Add a dash of cognac, and flambé it quickly until the flames die down. Remove the pheasant and put it into a casserole.

In the same pan, fry some chopped bacon, diced celery and carrots cut into batons. Add two tablespoons of flour, and cook. After a few minutes pour in half a bottle of red wine (I suggest using a Burgundy or a Rhone) and top up with some chicken stock.

Bring to the boil, and simmer gently so that the alcohol burns off. Pour it over the pheasant in the casserole and add 50g button mushrooms and 175g button or baby onions.

Cook in a moderate oven for just over an hour. Pheasant has a tendency to get dry and stringy very quickly, so I've cut down the cooking time. I'm sure you'll get the drift: you want lots of sauce, and you need to make sure that you don't over cook the pheasant.

When you reckon the pheasant is ready, take the casserole out of the oven and let it cool down. Lift out the pheasant and carve it up: cut the legs and wings off and carve the breasts. Place the carved meat in a flat casserole dish with the sliced breasts in the centre, surrounded by the legs and the wings. Place the vegetables, mushrooms and onions over the pheasant.

Strain off the sauce through a sieve into a small sauce pan-  this will get rid of all the nasty bits and pieces. Add two teaspoons of redcurrant jelly to the sauce and chuck in some crushed juniper berries. I'm currently crazy about juniper (which, of course, is used to flavour gin).  It has a rich, pine-nut, woodlandly sort of  taste and works beautifully with game. Check the seasoning. When the sauce is at the right consistency, pour it back over the pheasant.

Serve the casserole with parsnip chips.

Poulet Forestière

 

 

 

Here's a recipe for an autumnal chicken and mushroom dish that Bon Viveur rather grandly called Poulet Forestière, published by The Daily Telegraph in 1964.  I make it often.  If the cooking techniques seem slightly weird - that's the scary Fanny Cradock and 1960s cookery for you. I would probably flambé the chicken and mushrooms in the cognac to burn off the alcohol (rather then add it neat towards the end as in the original recipe) and also sauté the mushrooms separately (rather then cooking them with the chicken, and risking their disintegration).  

 

Of course, the trouble with this sort of recipe is that it could turn out a trifle bland if you use bog-standard ingredients. To counter-act this, I would suggest that you use meaty, brown field mushrooms (rather than those flavourless button mushroom things), an organic, free-range chicken; be generous on the cognac and make sure that the dish is properly seasoned with a quality sea-salt and lots of chunky black pepper.

Cut up a decent free range chicken, and dredge the pieces in flour, seasoned with sea salt and pepper. Sauté the pieces in unsalted butter (making sure you don't crowd the pan- otherwise the chicken will boil, rather than fry), sauté some nice field mushrooms, and then simmer both the chicken pieces and the mushrooms in a casserole dish with chicken stock and white wine in a medium oven for about three quarters of an hour.

Arrange the chicken and mushroom in a serving dish, and strain off the cooking liquor into a small pan. Thicken it up with a beurre manié (that just means a flour and butter roux), a tablespoon of cognac, and a teacup of cream. Reduce slightly until thick, check the seasoning and then pour the sauce back over the chicken and mushrooms.

 

 

Johnnie and Fanny plug their latest book (starts at 1.01), British television ad, 1970

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.

The Greasy Spoon's Lobster Thermidor

 

 

Last night The Girl suggested that we make Lobster Thermidor. An interesting choice, as I have to hold my hand up and admit to you that I have never made it before. So, I pulled a few trusted cookery books down off the shelf, and did some research.

There are all sorts of variations on the theme. Essentially, it's chopped lobster flesh bound in a creamy Hollandaise type sauce, put back into the shell, and then grilled with parmesan cheese. Some recipes use egg yolks, others don't; some recipes use chopped parsley, some use cayenne pepper, all seem to use mustard; you get the drift.

Here's what we came up with. It worked extremely well, and was easy to prepare. First we bought Australian lobster tails from Waitrose. We removed the side fins, and cut off the bones, which run across the top. The lobster flesh then came away easily, and was put to one side, while I made the cream sauce. This was straightforward. I chopped up two shallots, and cooked them in butter, until soft.

Next, I poured in a decent amount of dry white wine, with a dash of cognac, and bubbled it away to burn off the alcohol. I then added about a cup of fish stock, and a similar amount of double cream; turned the heat up, and reduced the sauce by about a half, to thicken it up. Next, I added a teaspoon of English mustard, salt and pepper, chopped chives, and a squeeze of lemon juice.

It was then a simple matter to warm the chopped lobster in the sauce (so that the lobster was slightly cooked), pour the mixture back into the cleaned lobster tails, sprinkle it with freshly grated parmesan, and grill it in the oven.

After about five minutes under the hot grill, the slightly browned lobster mixture bubbled up nicely with the melted cheese, and the lobster shell turned an attractive deep pink colour. Overall, a resounding success...

Chicken Teriyaki

 

 

More from Peter and Joan Martin's "Japanese Cooking". Chicken Teriyaki is a staple of the Japanese bars and restaurants clustered around Hanover Square in London.

Here's how you make it: In a small saucepan mix together some soy sauce, a dash of cayenne pepper, a slug of sake, a teaspoon of sugar, a chopped garlic clove and a peeled piece of ginger root. You're also supposed to add a dash of marin- the Japanese sweet cooking wine. If you can't get hold of some, use a slug of dry sherry and add a bit more sugar.

 

  

 

Bring to the boil, and immediately pour over a chicken, which you've previously cut into pieces. Let the chicken pieces marinade in the sauce for thirty minutes, turning them now and again. Drain and dry the chicken pieces. Add some oil to a frying pan, and brown the chicken. Reduce the heat and add a little of the marinade, and some water. Cover and simmer gently for about twenty minutes. Serve with fluffy Japanese rice.

Egon Ronay's Roast Red Mullet with Cumin Sauce

 

Remember Egon Ronay? He was that rather dapper Hungarian who published a series of restaurant guides, in vogue a few years back. One of the favourite books in my modest cookery library is none other than Egon's "The Unforgettable Dishes of My Life', published back in 1989. You should be able to get hold of a copy relatively easily from either amazon.co.uk, or that marvellous antiquarian book website, abebooks.com.

His book's a personal thing, with lots of unpretentious recipes that have held some meaning to him over the years. That's something I like about food: the way a certain dish can bring back memories, or have some literary or historical connotation. Without getting too pretentious; wasn't that, in many ways, what Proust was all about? You know, the madeline dipped into the lemon tea and all that?

Anyway, here's his recipe for Roast Red Mullet with Cumin Sauce. I've posted a picture of the critter above, so that you can recognise one when you go to your local fishmonger- if you have any left in your neighbourhood that is; in London, they're all more or less gone, and have been replaced by Starbucks, Gap, and various other chains of a dubious sort.

Clean and gut a red mullet, keeping back the bones and the livers. Cut off the heads and the tail. Put the heads, tail, and bones into a saucepan, and add leeks, shallots, white wine, and salt. Pour in two pints of water, and bring to the boil. Skim off the scum as it floats to the top. Cover the saucepan, and simmer for about twenty minutes.

Hey presto! You will have a fish stock. Reduce 3/4 pint of this fish stock, first adding two teaspoons of cumin seeds, until the stock takes on a syrupy consistency. Add half a pint of double cream and the Red Mullet livers, and boil for fifteen seconds. Liquidise in your magimix or blender, and then pass it through a sieve. That's the sauce finished.

Brush the cleaned mullet with oil, and wrap it in foil, first seasoning it with a generous amount of sea salt and chunky black pepper. Place the fish on a baking tray, and cook in the oven at 220C (425F) until the fish is cooked. The flesh will flake slightly when it is done. Arrange the cooked fish on a plate, and pour the sauce around it. Eat.

Tête de Veau

 

 

As you probably know by now, apart from the dreaded mashed potato, I'll eat just about anything: snails, frog's legs, octopus, seaweed, haggis, and chicken's feet; but I'm still not entirely sure about the French classic, Tête de Veau. It's one of the great cult dishes of French bistro cooking.

If you've never tried it; it's the face of a baby calf, ripped off the bone, wrapped around a tongue, prepared in a bouillon; and then served with the brains on one side of the plate, and a vinaigrette sauce and capers on the other. Appetising, eh?

I first tried it at a Parisian brasserie specialising in the food of Alsace-Lorraine, Chez Jenny. A fatty, nausea inducing, glutinous, and chunky mess, swamped in vinegar. Not good, I have to admit to you now, though I was darned if I was going to admit it then.

But the version I ordered at Bibendum, was a different ball game altogether. Obviously prepared with great skill, the sweetbreads melted on the tongue, and the piquant vinaigrette gave off just the right balance.

On Friday night, The Girl very kindly treated me to dinner at Tom Ilic's excellent restaurant in Queenstown Road, close to Giles Gilbert Scott's masterpiece, Battersea Power Station. The first thing to point out is that Mr Ilic's restaurant is good value for money. I've worked out that he probably manages to keep his prices down by buying the less fashionable cuts of meat, and then cooking them with care. Like Bibendum, the menu concentrates on classic French country cooking with a sophisticated twist. For the first course, I had croustillants of calf's head with sweetbreads; and for the main course, scallops with honeyed pork belly. Both were delicious, and presentation was top notch.

Towards the end of the evening, we were joined by Tom Ilic himself, who told us that his restaurant has been up and running for five months. He seems to be pretty booked up at the moment, so it looks like the word has spread. I wish him every success.

 

Neck of Lamb Sauté

After all that excitement in Austria, it was a bit of a drag to have to return to The Big Smoke. The weathers currently abysmal, and for months, it's been nothing but grey, grey skies, and endless freezing rain.

April should be about Spring, and despite the weather, it's probably about time to start having a look at Spring food, and even recipes suitable for Early Summer. Neck of Lamb Sauté is one such dish; it would be perfect for a Spring or Summer lunch party. Héere's my take on it:

Buy some meaty neck of lamb cutlets. (By the way, it's a great cut, that; and rather economical, too). Saute the lamb gently in unsalted butter, and then put to one side. In the same butter, fry some peeled baby onions, and some baby carrots, until they are slightly cooked.

Get hold of a large pan, and put in the vegetables. Add some smallish new potatoes. Pour in some milk, so that the vegetables and potatoes are covered. Season generously with sea salt, and lots of chunky black pepper.

Let the pot simmer away extremely slowly, and at a lowish heat, for about half an hour. When the time's up, add some peeled broad beans (I hate to say this, but frozen broad beans are surprising good, as long as you peel them), artichoke hearts, petis pois, one or two tomatoes cut in half, and a sprig of fresh mint.

Cook until tender. You will find that the milky sauce will probably curdle a bit, so to tidy things up it would probably be a good idea to strain off the sauce (using a fine sieve), and then reduce it in a small pan with a knob of butter. It might also be a good idea to use semi-skimmed milk, as this will reduce the curdling effect. Whisk it like crazy, and make sure that it doesn't boil over.

If you're keen on a clean looking presentation, rinse the vegetables with boiling water. This will remove the curdled bits from the milk. Pour the sauce back over the lamb and vegetables, and serve.

Sauté of Calves Liver with Irish Whiskey and Tarragon

 

 

I thought today was St Patrick's Day. I was wrong. Apparently, The Church moved the date to the 15th March, so that it didn't clash with Holy Week. Anyhow, I was planning to give you something with the taste of the Emerald Isle, and St Patrick's Day or not, this recipe's still a good 'un. It's from that temple of gastronomic excellence, Ballymaloe House; near Cork in Southern Ireland. Ballymaloe is a rather beautiful Country House, which the talented Allen family have turned into a restaurant and cookery school. They specialise in the sort of food I approve of: British and Irish dishes cooked with the correct French techniques; so you will encounter simple delights such as Irish Stew, Steak and Pigeon Pie, Bacon and Cabbage, Lobster in a Cream Sauce; and Irish Soda Bread.

First, heat some unsalted butter in a heavy frying pan until it foams. Take some sliced calves livers and dip them in flour which you have previously seasoned with salt and pepper. Fry the liver on both sides. I must stress at this point that I like my liver pink- that means that it requires very little cooking. Of course, it's all about personal taste, but who likes an over-cooked liver that tastes (and looks) like a leathery old boot?

Push the cooked livers to one side of the pan, and pour in a generous dash of Irish Whiskey. Note that I have spelt it with an 'e'- Scotch Whisky is something slightly different. Tilt the pan towards the gas, and the whiskey will ignite.

When the flames have died down, add some concentrated meat stock, a crushed garlic clove, and some chopped fresh tarragon. Bring to the boil and reduce the sauce. Incidentally, if you didn't already know, reduction means that you boil a sauce at a high heat, without stirring. This action burns off the water in the sauce, and concentrates the flavours. You might have to loose about half the sauce to evaporation, before the sauce noticeably starts to thicken up.

Once the sauce is syrupy, take it off the heat, and stir in a few tablespoons of cream. Simple isn't it? And if you stick to my advice, and don't overcook the liver, you can't go wrong.

Duck à l'Orange

 

 

So far on The Greasy Spoon, we've given you Prawn Cocktail, Crepes Suzette, Eggs Benedict, and Zucchini Fritters; and now (gasps of amazement, trumpet fanfares) I'm giving you none other than Duck à l'Orange.

Is Duck à l'Orange really so naff? Okay, it's a bit retro, but as with so many other classic recipes, if the ingredients are good, and the dish is cooked with care, you'll end up with a fine old thing indeed.

I'm not sure about the history of Duck à l'Orange, but I detect a whiff of Escoffier about it. The secret is in getting the balance right between the sweetness of the honey (or sugar), and the bitterness of the oranges- so use Seville oranges if you can get them; you know, the oranges used in English Marmalade.

Here's my version: it should be easy to rustle up when you get in from work. Take some duck breasts, and score them with a knife. Season them with salt and pepper. Fry them in a pan, until they are browned on both sides. You don't want the duck to dry out, and you will find that the duck will give off masses of fat.

When the duck breasts are cooked properly, take them out and keep them warm, and throw out the fat. Deglaze the pan with some fresh orange juice. Next add some chicken stock, a tablespoon or so of honey to taste, grated orange rind, and a teaspoon of balsamic vinegar.

Cook on a reasonably high heat, stirring like mad, until the sauce begins to thicken. Add a decent slug of Grand Marnier, and bubble away until the alcohol is burnt off. Now, turn the heat up to high, and let the sauce reduce- only stirring now and again to stop it sticking to the bottom of the pan. Finish it off with a knob of butter. This will give the sauce a velvety texture.

If you're happy with the seasoning, arrange the duck breasts on a plate, and pour on the sauce. To counteract the richness of the sauce, I suggest keeping your vegetables simple, and crunchy French beans or New Potatoes would be just the ticket.