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

Saturday Lunch Toad in the Hole (with Onion Gravy)

 

 

 

For some weird reason, I always think that the British classic, Toad in the Hole, is perfect for a Saturday Lunch. Not Sunday or Monday, or even Thursday for that matter. Saturday. I can't exactly explain why, there's probably a regressive, childhood thing going on there. Toad in the Hole is easy to make. It's filling. It's cheap. It's also delicious. This is Comfort Food at its best.

If you happen to be American, you are probably now wondering how on earth us Brits can eat one of those slimey, knobbly creatures? Sort of less appealing then a French grenouille, I hear you cry. But as much as I am curious to sample one of those tantalising little critters, the 'toad' is, in all probability, 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. My latest sausage discovery has been Sainsbury's Taste the Difference British Pork & Caramelised Red Onion Sausages. These are utterly delicious! Sweet, juicy, slightly spicy, lots of lovely caramelised flavours going on in there.

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.

 

 

 

 

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Much Toadiness

Made in China

 

 

I've currently got a thing about Chinese supermarkets. I like the serried rows of colourful, chromo-lithographed tins, cartons and bottles; the general abundance, the kitsch, the smell of sweet Duck fat, the fact that you can buy a steel wok for a few quid, or a lethal looking cleaver for slightly more.

The brusqueness is quite appealing in a funny sort of way too- it's the diametric opposite to the hushed atmosphere of old school English establishments such as Bate's the Hatter, New & Lingwood or Budd of Piccadilly arcade- Chinese supermarkets are no place to linger, especially. There's pace in spades - and don't the shop owners let you know it?

I love the packaging for Lee Kum Kee Premium Oyster Flavoured Sauce; the soft blues, pinks and yellows of the old-fashioned, rather 50's looking label: 

 

 

 

 

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Pierre Koffmann's Memories of Gascony

 

 

 

I've just had this for my birthday- it's Pierre Koffmann's Memories of Gascony. The book was originally published in 1990, and became a cult classic. Until this sumptious reprint, it was relatively hard to find, and was horribly expensive second-hand. Koffmann opened La Tante Claire in 1977.

 

I love the food in this book. It's simple, gutsy food of the French rural persuasion. Lots of armagnac, garlic, foie gras, duck... I'm tempted to have a shot at "Gratin d'Haricots Verts": green French beans in a creamy, garlic sauce, served with Bayonne Ham. Either that or the "Terrine de Foie Gras", soaked in armagnac. Or maybe "Lièvre à la Royale"?  Stuffed Hare in a White Wine. But where to start? It's all fabulous.

 

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On Quality Street

 

Katherine Hepburn in "Quality Street", 1937

 

Did you see Nigel Slater's brilliantly nostalgic television programme on old-fashioned sweeties?: Life is Sweets. We got very excited this end. It brought back so many childhood memories: Spangles, Crunchies, Lemon Sherbets, Flying Saucers, Sweet Cigarettes, Jelly Babies, and Liquorice Allsorts. And then there was all that wonderful 70's chocolate advertising: "All because the Lady Loves Milk Tray", "A Finger of Fudge...", "Take a Break, Take a Kit-Kat", "Fry's Turkish Delight...The Taste of Paradise", "Everyone's a Fruit and Nutcase..." Surely, some of the greatest and most effective advertising slogans of all time?  These are the ones you remember, far more than some dreary pitch about car insurance. Especially if they star irritating meerkats. 

Anyway, in the middle of the programme, there was suddenly a sneaky glimpse of an old Quality Street tin. You know the one- that slightly kitschy, Regency Revival thing with the chocolate nutcracker soldier and the pretty girl wearing a bonnet. And a bow-windowed shop, if I remember rightly- a bit like the Burlington Arcade in Piccadilly. My grandparents used to keep a large tin of Mackintosh's Quality Street, and we were allowed to plunge our grubby little mitts into it when we visited- and sadly, we didn't visit that often.

 

J.M. Barrie's Quality Street (1913) from David Brass Rare Books

 

Quality Street is now owned by Nestles, and is the best selling brand of chocolate in the world. It was invented in 1936 by Mackintosh's of Halifax and was the first box- or tin rather- of chocolates aimed at a mass market.

"Quality Street" was originally a play, written by J.M. Barrie in 1901. Mackintosh then had the bright idea of using the name as a play on "Quality Sweets". Of course, all that Marie Antoinette/Regency/Early Victorian stuff was dead fashionable in the 1930's. It was very much the era of the Dickensian "Coach & Horses" Christmas Card. There was also a film with Katherine Hepburn (1937), capturing the zeitgeist. In 2000, Nestles banished Major Quality and Miss Sweetie from the tin: I am sad about that- the new tin design seems bland and boring in comparison, just like any other ordinary chocolate brand. Bring them back!

 

 

Bloody Mary Soup for Bonfire Night

 

 

I like Bonfire Night, who doesn't? I would dearly love to take part in the revels being held in Lewes tonight, but this time round, I'm stuck in London. And there's a titillating whiff of paganism about the whole proceedings, isn't there?

Bonfire Night, for me, means piping hot thermos flasks; which means soup. I think a Bloody Mary style Tomato Soup- in other words, a soup laced with vodka, would work brilliantly.  

 

It would be possible to make it in various ways; you could, perhaps, roast tomatoes with garlic, celery and onions in a hot oven (keeping the skins intact), and then whizz up the cooked vegetables in a Magimix to form a soft pulp. The pulp would be cooked briefly in butter and olive oil, vegetable or chicken stock added (and perhaps some extra tomato juice and tomato purée for colour), and the soup simmered for ten minutes or so, before adding Tabasco and Lea & Perrins and adjusting the seasoning (celery salt, black pepper and a squeeze of lemon juice?). The soup would be strained through a sieve and then laced with vodka and, perhaps, a dash of dry sherry. I would keep it hot- and avoid bringing it to the boil; a bit like the way you might make a mulled wine or cider.

 

 

 

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Langan's & Odin's: The End of an Era

 

Langan's Brasserie

Back in July, I posted an emotive piece about the glamorous, beautiful and shabby interior of Odin's restaurant in Marylebone, writing "that I will be extremely grumpy if it ever closes down": that sad day has arrived; in as much as the art collections at Langan's and Odin's are being sold off. A fan of The Greasy Spoon has alerted me to a Christie's press release: "the core collection of 230 artworks from the legendary London restaurants Langan's Brasserie & Odin's...(to be sold at auction)...in December 2012."

 

Odin's

I've had a look at the Langans' website and it tells me that the three restaurants (Langan's, Odin's and Shepherd's) will be closed for redecoration, re-opening at later dates. I can tell you right now that without that fabulous interior, I will- with great regret- not be returning to Odin's. The food's not that good, the once impeccable service has declined noticeably in the last few years, and the only raison d'etre for the place was that fabulous art collection (bought with the help and advice of the art critic, Brian Sewell) and the wonderful interior. Without it- I really don't see any point of returning, even (and especially) if, the whole place is redecorated in the Los Angeles airport lounge style. Look what happened to The Savoy or Brown's Hotel. Surely without Peter Langan's art collections, the whole ethos, the intrinsic spirit, the whole flippin' point of these famous old restaurants is gone?

 

Langan's Brasserie

To be fair to the group I don't know what their financial position is- and they may have been forced into a depressing and uncalled for position where there was no other option but to sell up. Asset Stripping? Dunno. But what I do know, is that yet another two legendary London institutions- or at the very least, their art collections- are about to bite the dust. And on this grey, gloomy, and foggy November morning, I am extremely grumpy.

 

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Called to the Bar

 

 

I was thinking about wine bars the other day. Realised that these are a vanishing breed. When was the last time you ate in one? There seem to be two styles. There's the spit- and-sawdust, oak barrel, vaulted cellar, pin-stripey, Dickensian thing. Hogarthian. Very Inns of Court. Where Rumpole of the Bailey might have spilt claret down his starched shirt front back in the late 70's. And then there's the 1960's groovy wine bar- all spluttering candles in wickered wine bottles, Spanish Bullfighting Posters, chalked blackboards, plummy waiters in black and white striped T shirts, and some dude playing skiffle guitar in the corner. Back in the early 60's, this sort of place was dead trendy- but I reckon by the early 90's they had really gone out of fashion. The world's a sophisticated place, and things had moved on.

 

I'm trying to think how many of these are left in London. I mean genuine examples, not those pastiche French cafés. Grumble's (Pimlico) was established in 1964 and is still going strong. The Troubadour (Earl's Court), admittedly more of a coffee bar, was founded in 1954. There's also that bizarre bistro, L'Autre in Shepherds' Market ("Mayfair's Oldest Wine Lodge"). Originally serving Polish food to the sound of Greta Garbo 78's, it expanded its repertoire to include Mexican food- accomodating the Mexican Embassy nearby.

 

The food in these places was invariably Mediterranean. The post war boom meant that European travel became accessible to the middle classes for the first time, and the affluent Conran generation wanted the food they had sampled in Italy, France, Greece and Spain back home: garlic mushrooms, taramaslata, olives, coq au vin, deep fried camembert, goulash, paella, beef stroganoff, piperade, l'escargots, garlic bread- all washed down with a cheeky little Spanish Red.

And then there was Nick's Diner in the Ifield Road, opened in the early 60s' and the haunt of fashionable Swinging London. It features in Joseph Losey's The Servant; one of my all time favourite films- there's that wonderful sequence with James Fox: camel hair coat, upturned collar, cigarette, striding past a grainy Woolworth's, Davey Graham's haunting "Rock Me Mama" filling the cold night air...

 

 

 

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Devilled Quail's Eggs for Hallowe'en

 

 

Arthur Rackham, from The Ingoldsby Legends, 1898

 

Every year I try and come up with something "devilled" for Hallowe'en. It seems appropriate somehow. A few years ago I wrote about Devilled Quail's Eggs- they were truly, deliciously sinful and I urge you to make some as soon as you can. Devilled Eggs are popular in the Southern States, but I've given them a more refined twist with the use of quail's eggs. Easier to stuff into your mouth, too. They can, of course, be eaten at any time of the year, and I think they would work brilliantly if you were planning to have a Christmas party.

Here's my post from 2010:

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

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

 

Francisco Goya, Witches' Sabbath, 1789

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

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

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

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

 

 

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The Art of Chowder

 

 

I've just come in from a dripping and sodden garden. A necessary job which involved tipping a split bag of farmyard manure all over the newly created border. Not especially pleasant. We've got a new unwelcome visitor: a largish town fox seems to have latched onto us at night. It's already been inside the house; but was scared off by our brave, feisty little Burmese, Oskie, at about three o' clock in the morning. You should have heard the noise. Cat shrieks and Fox barks. Like Banshees. Terrifying. And I have to tell you, this critter is the size of an Alsatian. Last night, it ripped open several bags of manure in the garden- I woke up to a a scene of carnage. Hence the urgency. And it's cold. And wet. And extremely gloomy. One way of coping with the sudden autumn chill is with my sudden obsession with chowder. Hot creamy, chunky, savoury, buttery chowder.

What exactly is chowder?  You'll know that it's an American soup (or possible stew) popular on the Eastern Seaboard. Personally, I think it should be creamy. And thick. Possibly milky. It might well have some form of pork or salty bacon. It's probably got diced carrots; it may well have diced potatoes. It often includes smoked fish. I usually think of chowders as being creamy white in colour, and this is often the case. But then there's also the Manhattan Clam Chowder which uses tomatoes instead of milk or cream, and is red.

I had a sweetcorn chowder at Brunswick House Café the other day- and I'm now interested in the idea of using puréed sweetcorn as a thickening agent. I think this would work well. The Brunswick House chowder was also laced with Lea & Perrins- far too much of the stuff in my opinion. It was almost insane. Several large tablespoons, I reckon. Luckily, I love L & P, and so cope, up to a point- but I suspect others would have had a nasty surprise. It was all slighty strange.

 

Brunswick House Café, Vauxhall

This is how I would make a chowder. I think with this particular dish, there's going to be room for experimentation and ideas. The first step would be to chop up some smoked bacon or pork and fry in butter. Next, I'd add some chopped onions and chopped celery and fry in the buttery bacon fat until soft. Then I'd pour in some fish stock and drop in a bayleaf.

You could experiment using various ingredients as a thickening agent. Crushed saltine crackers would be authentic. Creamed sweetcorn might be another idea. Or grated potato perhaps? You would stir the thickening agent (whatever it is) into the stock. (An alternative method would be to cook the thickening agent in the butter before adding the stock). I'd include some diced potato and diced carrots, and a good dollop of single cream and/or milk.

The chowder would be simmered gently until you ended up with a nice whitish, creamy chowder of thick consistancy. Poached smoked haddock (broken up into largish flakes) might be added, or another type of fish which you happen to like. Smoked Oysters could be just the ticket. I like the combination of smoked fish with salty bacon, savoury onions, celery and bayleaf. It's a classic amalgamation of flavours.

Finally, the chowder would be finished off with finely chopped flat leaf parsley or chervil, (which with its subtle tarragon flavour might work even better); seasoned with white pepper and a knob of butter whisked in at the final moment. What do you think?

 

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Poached Mutton with Caper Sauce

 

 

 

 

I've been meaning to have my say about mutton for some time now. Whatever happened to it? My grandparents used to eat roast mutton on a regular basis, ordered from their local butcher in Buckinghamshire. And this was not so long ago. Today, it's almost impossible to get hold of unless you go to a specialist supplier. Inspired by Rick Stein's excellent television programme Food Heroes, I rang up Lidgate's to buy a joint of mutton. Didn't have any. Slightly surprised tone to the voice. I rang Allen's. Same answer. I rang that upmarket butcher in the Wandsworth Bridge Road. Didn't have any, but they could get some in from that bloke down in Tooting. I gave up, and bought a shoulder of lamb instead.

It's not really the same thing. The tastes, flavours and textures are different. I'm very excited by the whole shoulder of Herdwick mutton (on the bone) sold by Yew Tree Farm in the Lake District for £23.00. Yew Tree Farm also happened to have been owned by Beatrix Potter, which adds that extra frission. As they say on their website: "It's ideal for long, slow cooking...Herdwick Mutton is becoming well known amongst the finest chefs in the country as a delicious full flavoured 'melt in the mouth' meat, reminiscent of meat as it used to be." 

 

Beatrix Potter at Hill Top, Cumbria

 

Under new guidelines from Mutton Renaissance (the campaign launched by HRH The Prince of Wales), mutton must come from a sheep over two years old, and the animals must have a forage based diet- (ie grass, heather and root crops). The Cumbrian sheep roam the fells and live off the heather, which produces a meat of fabulous quality.

And what can be more traditional than poached mutton, served with caper sauce? It's an absolute British classic. Here's how to make it. It's not difficult, and I really do hope that you take the trouble to order a joint from one of those fabulous farms up in the Lake District. You may have to wait up to two to three weeks for delivery to allow for hanging. It's going to be worth it:

Into a large cast iron cooking pot goes the mutton. Have a look at the shoulder of Herdwick mutton on the bone from Yew Tree Farm. Cover the mutton joint with water, and sprinkle it with chopped onions, quartered carrots, a peeled parsnip, some chopped up celery, a bayleaf, a few black peppercorns and a sprig of rosemary. (Incidentally, I see in some recipes that the mutton is soaked overnight to "degorge" before cooking. I haven't done this before- and it would be interesting to see if it makes a difference. I need to experiment).

Bring the pot to a very slow boil, skimming off the scum as it rises. Turn the heat down, and poach very slowly for about two hours or so- or until you think the mutton is done. I like my mutton to be soft, juicy; a meat that melts in the mouth- mutton has more fat than lamb; you will need to watch the cooking time carefully. You do not want to overcook it. When I tried this recipe with lamb, although it tasted all right, I overcooked it and it ended up a bit on the dry side. No, mutton's the thing for this one.

Remove the mutton from the pan, and allow it to rest. Now's the time to make the caper sauce. It's pretty easy. In a separate smaller pan, make a roux. That's means stirring in white flour into some melted butter, and cooking it gently, stirring as you go, until you end up with a smooth golden coloured flour and butter paste. It's very important that you let the paste cook for a bit, otherwise you will end up wtih undercooked, raw floury tastes. Gradually stir in a bit of stock from the mutton. Keep stirring away. Add a splash of milk. Then a bit more of the stock, then a bit more of the milk- until you have a creamy, béchamel type sauce.

The sauce is finished off with a handful of capers. Check the seasoning, and add sea salt and white pepper to taste. I see that some recipes use cream, rather than milk, for the caper sauce; and of course, you could easily try this out if you prefer. Personally, I think this might be too rich, but as always, it's up to you.

 

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Roast Pheasant with Juniper Pear Butter

Roast Pheasant with Juniper Pear Butter

 

 

Our new cooker (A Smeg A4-8, if you're interested) is arriving today. Any time between ten and two (I had to pay extra to ensure delivery).  And so that Grand Day when I can actually start cooking again is drawing closer. I'm having fun reading food porn, just before hitting the pillow, fantasising about all the new goodies we're going to be sampling in a few weeks time.

And now that autumn is here, I'm also thinking about pheasants. People don't eat enough of them, in my opinion. It's very much a country food, I think, and townies, for some bizarre reason, can't cope. But for me, pheasant is very much the taste of Autumn, with its dark meat and gamey flavours. Coming across the shot is very much part of the charm, too. But pheasant does need to be cooked properly. Part of the problem, I think, is the tendency for the meat to dry out and become stringy. But more about this in a minute. 

Although the season starts on October 1st, in practice, very few pheasants are shot before the end of October- and the size and quality of the birds can be poor in this month. Early November is probably a good time to buy your pheasant. The season ends on February 1st. A hen is going to be better for roasting than a cock. What you're after, ideally, is a young-ish hen bird. Bought in early November. Already plucked. You can of course, pluck the bird yourself, or at least try to, but I find, to be honest, that it's not really worth the bother (unless you happen to shoot) when you can buy one professionally plucked from a decent butcher.

One of the most intriguing recipes for pheasant comes from Nathalie Hambro, the author of the Glenfiddich award winning Particular Delights, republished recently by Grub Street. I really like Nathalie Hambro's innovative take on food. She's not frightened of experimenting with different flavours and combinations; usally it works, sometimes, I think her recipes are a trifle weird- but that's all part of the fun and it's refreshingly original, especially if what you're seeking is a taste sensation.

 

 

Her recipe for Pheasant with Juniper Pear Butter is going to be one of the first things I'm planning to make when we finally get the new kitchen up and running. She's had the brilliant idea to use a chicken brick to cook the pheasant in. This is a stroke of genius. You' will remember the Chicken Brick. I think they were either re-invented or re-introduced by Terence Conran. Desparately trendy back in the early 70's, they've now almost become a bit of a joke- the sort of thing Islingtonites with scrubbed pine tables, William Morris wallpaper and hippy children dressed in Clothkits would want for Christmas.

But chicken bricks are a good thing: the moisture (or steam) coming off the meat is trapped within the brick, and circulates in the hot air, which, in effect, steams the meat as it roasts, thus keeping in the moisture. Perfect for lean game.

I've had a quick look online, and it's amazing how affordable pheasant is. Lidgate (the rather grand butchers in Holland Park I'm fond of) are selling their birds for £6.75. Allen's of Mayfair are selling theirs for £7.00. The Wild Meat Company are asking a very reasonable £4.95. And I expect that you could probably find even cheaper birds at local butchers out in the sticks.

Soak the chicken brick in cold water for about ten minutes. The clay in the brick will absorb the water.

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

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

Now for the juniper butter: Finely chop up some shallots, and garlic. Melt some butter in a pan, and add the garlic, shallots, and the crushed juniper berries you've got left over from the pheasant. Simmer gently for about twenty minutes.

Take off the heat, and add the juice of two lemons. Season with sea salt and white pepper, and sprinkle with freshly chopped chives. Serve slices of the cooked pheasant with a small helping of the pear (in effect a stuffing), and the juniper butter sauce.

I think this might work well if you were to serve it with pearl barley. Maybe pearl barley cooked with a bit of stock, lemon juice and thyme?  The piney, gin-ish, juniper flavours go beautifully with the sweet fruitiness of the pear, and the autumnal, woody gamey flavours of the pheasant. Oh god, I'm salivating as I write.

 

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Richard Olney's "Fennel à la Grecque"

 

 

 

Following my recent post on the American food writer, Richard Olney, I'm having fun getting back into his books. I've got The French Menu Cookbook and Simple French Food- but have yet to read his autobiography, Reflexions; Ten Vineyard Lunches or Provence, The Beautiful Cookbook. He's a sophisticated cook, and there would be much to learn if you took the plunge and decided to go through The French Menu Cookbook bit by bit.

Here's Richard Olney's recipe for "Fennel à la Grecque", taken from The French Menu Cookbook. It will serve from four to six people. He's got it down as a "Simple Autumn recipe", although in England it might be just as suitable for the Summer. In these harsher Northern climes, Autumn usually makes me think of squashes, mushrooms, pheasant, game, chutneys. Bonfire smoke, fog, red poppies.

 

 

 

In a saucepan you assemble: 750g fennel (outer stalks removed, halved or quartered from top to bottom), 5 tablespoons of olive oil, the juice of two lemons, one onion (finely sliced into rings), 2 cloves of garlic (lightly crushed), 8 to 10 coriander seeds, a pinch of fennel seeds, a bouquet garni, and salt.

Pour over boiling water to cover, and simmer, covered until the fennel is tender. Arrange the fennel in a deep serving dish, pour over the contents of the saucepan, and leave to cool. Serve cold, and sprinkle with finely chopped flat leafed parsley.

The brilliant thing about this very easy recipe is that you can you use the formula to cook other vegetables in a similar manner. Olney suggests using as an alternative: artichoke hearts, baby onions, celery hearts split in two, or cauliflower florets.

 

 

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We are still without a kitchen. I'm not blaming the builders, who have been superb and worked like navvies, but our renovations have turned out to be a more ambitious enterprise than we had originally envisaged. The entire floor base has had to be broken up with a pneumatic drill, revealing a sort of packed down clay surface; pipes relayed, walls rebuilt, chimneybreasts knocked back, French windows inserted, everything re-wired. Gutted. They're nailing down re-claimed 1920's floorboards as I write.

It's been chaos, acidic builder's dust choking everywhere and everything (my dried-up hands breaking out into an unpleasant rash), books piled up high at crazy angles, cardboard boxes stacked here and there- an open invitation to trip, both of us trying hard not get grumpy. But it's been difficult.

And that constant drilling noise, from early morning to dusk. But the worst thing of all: No cooker. Yup, nothing to eat except micro-waved food, and sardines straight from the tin. Neanderthal. God, I'm utterly sick of micro-waved food. Initially, it wasn't too bad, and we could sort of cope with "Taste the Difference" packet chicken in black bean sauce. But after several months of this (has it been longer?) and all those supermarkety, ready-to-go, microwavey instant things have blurred into one awful, bland, salt-rich, monosodium glutamate lovin' nightmare.

Talking of which, I'm beginning to dream about food. Properly cooked food. Fresh food. I had a lovely fantasy sequence the other night which involved, amongst other things, the making of a New England Chowder. Fresh crab, little diced carrots, potatoes, onions, chopped flat-leaf parsley. Creamy. Rich. Thick. Intense, deep fishy, sea-side flavours. And I've started to have an obssession with chicken broth. Can't stop thinking about it.

A very kind friend learnt of this, and lent me us a nifty little camping stove, powered by a Calor Gas canister. I managed to make an excellent chicken soup or broth from it, which I served up to Mrs Aitch who was running a temperature. Cooked on the floor, in the ruins of our former kitchen. Next to a Cement Mixer. It was one of most delicious things I've ever tasted for a long, long time: take away decent, properly cooked food for a few months, and Mein Gott, you will start to really appreciate the crucial role food plays in the quality of life. It's terribly important.

Anyway, this is how I made my very simple, but completely beguiling chicken broth. I managed to find a large pan (about the only thing not in storage), rinsed off the dust with the garden tap outside, and into this I placed a very ordinary, ersatz, non-organic supermarket chicken. A whole one. Price: Five Pounds. By the way, for those of you who are sniffy about supermarket chicken, please take into account that in this particular case the poor beast did not die in vain, in the way that it might have done if it had been served up, say, by the Good Colonel Sanders.

 

I topped up the pan with water, so that it covered the chicken. Into the pan went: a few leeks (roughly chopped), a parsnip or two for extra sweetness (again, roughly chopped), a few peppercorns, a few onions (roughly chopped), a stick of celery (snapped in two) a few parsley stalks, a sprig of thyme, and a few baby carrots (chopped up into chunks). 

The pan was brought to a slow simmer on a lowish to medium heat, and I scraped off the scum from the top as it did so. I kept on scraping off the scum as it bubbled up to the surface. The stew was then simmered slowly at a low heat, until the chicken started to break up, and a rich stock was formed. From memory, this took about an hour and a half. About twenty minutes beforehand, I had sliced up some further baby carrots into rounds and added them to the broth- for decoration. Taste, and add sea salt if you feel it needs it.

To serve, I ladled out the clearish chicken broth into a soup bowl, leaving all the bits and pieces behind in the pan. With a fork, I rescued some of the white chicken meat I found floating around in the pan, and tore it up into bite-sized pieces or strips. These were placed in the middle of the bowl, and the cooked baby carrot slices scattered around them. The broth was finished off with finely chopped flat leafed parsley.

It's a pretty and delicate looking dish, which also happens to be cheap to make; and if you're clever and bother to skim off the scum as it cooks, you should get a reasonably clear broth or consommé. This will amaze and impress your friends and neighbours.

 

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The Greasy Spoon visits...Brasserie Zédel

 

 

 

We've just had dinner at the Brasserie Zédel, currently one of the hottest restaurant destinations in London. It's managed by Chris Corbin and Jeremy King, former owners of Le Caprice, and current proprietors of The Wolseley and The Delaunay. I've got a quite a bit of time for Messrs Corbin and King: they've got the formula for the near-perfect restaurant down to a fine art. Let's remind ourselves about The Wolseley: I like the democratic service; a smart establishment where clients are served on an equal basis. My mother, for instance, is a regular; she's treated as royalty by the staff, and it's her favourite haunt when she's up in London from the Country. This is a Good Thing. I like the way they offer you a copy of The Daily Telegraph to read while you're waiting for your guest to arrive; even though you're probably only going to have a cup of coffee and a small plate of something or other.

And the service at Brasserie Zédel is very much along these lines- it deserves an eleven out of ten rating. Professional, discreet, not at at all in your face, utterly appropriate for the relaxed flavour of the joint; and in a restaurant with such a huge amount of covers there always seems to be a flunkey in a long starched apron hovering nearby waiting to attend to your every whim. This, frankly, in our day and age, is a remarkable achievement- and especially when the Brasserie Zédel offers food at such a reasonable cost. And democratic the Zédel most certainly is, with a strikingly mixed clientele. It's packed out: East End trendies, old biddies up from the Shires, Hammersmith PR Girls, fidgety couples on a first date (their eyes met over the office photocopier), hard-cropped Swiss Cottage intellectuals (sweet brown sherry at the Wigmore Hall), Fulham Sloanes, lavicious plutocrats (too many buttons undone, hairy chests matted with sun oil)- out to impress with a round of oysters and a bottle of iced Sancerre.

The Zédel is to be found in a windowless, slightly airless yet marbled basement, formerly the site of the uber-trendy 90's haunt, The Atlantic Bar and Grill- and what on earth happened to that? You walk down a flight of stairs, reminiscent of a Thirties' Picture Palace, all woven wool Deco carpet and shiny brass ticket kiosk. There's also an "American Bar" along Savoy lines. Oh, it's the talk of the town, all right.

The food is in that classic Parisian brasserie style. It's astonishingly affordable. There's a three course Prix Fixe at £11.25 a head. So far so good, But I'm not going to shout out from the rooftops. It's good, but it ain't that good, and for the prices they're charging, you're going to have to appreciate that their helpings are going to be a trifle ecomomique with the actualitié. I had the terrine de jambon persillé (£5.25), followed by a steak haché with frites served in a paper bag and a pepper sauce (£7.50). Both were goodish, the steak probably better than the slightly anti-sceptic and formulaic terrine. But the delicious and perfectly cooked ratatouille (£2.50) I would order again, without hesitation. 

 

But I have a problem. I like the Brasserie Zédel, I really do; but there's just something lacking. It's without doubt a pastiche of the original La Coupole in Montparnasse, beloved of Henri Cartier-Bressson, Josephine Baker and Henry Miller. It reminds me of a brand new "French" restaurant as seen in Sunny Los Angeles. Everything is shiny, refurbished and spanking clean. You need a pair of sunglasses to glance at the refurbished gilded Edwardian Corinthian Columns. Is this the new London? For some, this isn't going to be too much of an issue, but for me it lacks that genuine patina of age, of a hundred years of nicotined plaster, of a Remembrance of Things Past, it lacks that certain je ne sais...

London has never been a brasserie sort of place, which is a genuine shame, as I am undoubtably a fan of the genre. And now suddenly there's a vibrant Parisian style brasserie in our midst, as if it had been there since the glory days of The Titanic: as if it had witnessed two world wars: full of people gesticulating, having affairs, making new contacts, sucking oysters from the shell, flirting, arguing, having a great time; with slick waiters acting as if they have been in business for over a hundred years... and yet...and yet, it's only been there for two months.

I'm torn between two schools of thought. It's a fake- but a very good fake. But for my money, I'd rather spend a bit more dosh- what's left of it- at The Wolseley, which somehow manages to re-create a fin de siècle vibe without screaming 'pastiche'. And that's no mean achievement. And, my god, I do miss those cigarette girls. Those thin uniformed girls in black stockings- with the trays.

 

The Brasserie Zédel, 20 Sherwood Street, London, W1F 7 ED (020 7734 48888)

 

 

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Langan's & Odin's: The End of an Era

Richard Olney

 

 

Do you remember remainder bookshops? Back in the bad old days of the Net Book Agreement, I used to hang around the plethora of pop-up shops that had spawned, like some form of bibliomanical penicillin in the Charing Cross Road. They were slighty seedy; often with open fronts, exposed to heavy traffic and all the debris of the London street scene: soggy newspapers, discarded McDonald's cartons, broken glass from the neighbouring ale house; and with an 'adult' department down rickety staircases. This was in the days when booksellers could return unsold copies to the publisher on a "sale, or return" basis. This made life easier for the harrassed rep. He could persuade the bookseller to take, say, twenty copies of Bernard Manning's kiss and tell autobiography, when the hard truth was that the bookshop might just about sell one copy if they were lucky, and on a sunny day at that. The remaining copies would be returned to the publisher to be pulped- or remaindered. It was all a terrific waste of trees.

But amongst the dross- the Z list celebrity memoirs, the regurgitated encylopedias of Ancient Egypt, gardening handbooks by people you had never heard of, picture books of The River Thames in CameraColour, Jane's "Handbook of American Warships" and "The Reader's Digest Book of English Villages", you could discover some gems. One such find was Richard Olney's "French Menu Cookbook".

 

Richard Olney was an interesting character. An American, he had lived almost his entire adult life in Solliès-Toucas, Provence, mingling with the Anglo-American bohemian set, including the likes of the avant-garde occultist and filmmaker, Kenneth Anger. Olney died of a heart attack in 1992. His books are beautifully written and have become highly sought after, although I see that you can currently buy my rather lovely edition of "The French Menu Cookbook" for a few pounds on amazon.

 

 

"Simple French Food' (republished by Grub Street in 2003, first published in 1974) is another Olney book well worth adding to your library. Simple it ain't. I'm looking at his recipe for Raviolis aux Grenouilles (Frog Ravioli) as I write, and it involves a fumet, a parsley, chive, tarragon and frog stuffing, and a noodle dough. He liked stuffing things, did Richard Olney. The ingredient list for his Terrine de Poissons, Crème Mousseline Tomatée (Fish Terrine, Whipped Tomato Cream) spreads out over two pages. No, this is relatively sophisticated cooking for a more lesiurely age- for a long, hot, dusty French August, with the dahlias coming into bloom- and all the better for that.

I gather that he enjoyed a mild feud with Julia Child. I love "Mastering the Art of French Cooking", but of the two of them, I think I would naturally gravitate towards Olney at the cocktail party (there was just something a bit strange about Mrs Child). Richard Olney's languid prose can be almost Proustian at times:

"Happily a stew is rarely subject to quite such a complicated and uncertain conceptual process...fired by the touching and too human desire to flatter a Sybaritic guest, to compose a menu, each of the parts of which may be of an exquisite purity, but which, in its plethoric whole, adds up to something in the way of barbaric orgy..."

From "Simple French Food"

 

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The Grand Central Oyster Bar, New York

 

 

Photograph from The Kitchen Files

Still on the subject of classic American restaurants, here's a photograph of The Grand Central Oyster Bar, New York. Back in the late 90's I used to spend quite a bit of my time in America (various auctions in New York and Philadelphia) and the Grand Central Oyster Bar, alongside P. J. Clarke's on Third Avenue was one of my favourite destinations.

The Grand Central Oyster Bar really is the most extraordinary place. It's massive: a cavernous warren of vaults, decorated with a mosiac of glittering Byzantine tiles in the Beaux-Arts manner. Imagine such a thing underneath Paddington Station! 

It was founded in 1913, and originally served "Continental" (i.e. French) food, although it became famous for its oyster stew. From memory, there are various murky fish tanks dotted around the restaurant. I like the way you can point a long finger at your lobster of choice, and then a few minutes later the critter is paraded though the restaurant, held high by a waiter on a silver plated serving dish.

 

 

 

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Old Original Bookbinder's Restaurant, Philadelphia

 

 

 

Here's a terrific technicolor photograph of the Old Bookbinder's Restaurant, Philadelphia, taken from Vincent and Mary Price's "A Treasury of Great Recipes", published in 1965. The "Treasury" was really just an excuse for Vincent to eat at various horribly swanky restaurants around the world, no doubt at the publisher's expense. It's a fun book, and includes recipes for the restaurants' signature dishes and original menus in facsimile.

This is very much my sort of thing: fawning waiters in dinner jackets, bouillon ladelled from a silver tureen, the copper canopy over the roaring fire, oysters, chafing dishes over little spirit lamps, an avuncular maitre d'. Bet you anything he was always called by his first name. He's got to be a "Charles". Note the model yacht in the top left hand corner, sitting next to the exposed brickwork. Can't you just see the clientele offsetting their lunch bills against their tax returns? It's like something from The Seven Year Itch.

 

 

 

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The Last Days of The Raj: Food in British India

 

 

The Veerasawmy, from an old postcard

 

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

 

 

 

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

 

 

 

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

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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Piccalilli

 

 

 

There's a recipe for Piccalilli in the Waitrose Autumn booklet which caught my eye. They've called it "Piccalilli With A Punch". I like the idea, but they haven't got it quite right. Waitrose suggest you use butternut squash (not that authentic in my opinion), and their photograph shows very large (too large) chunks of vegetables sitting on a watery sauce (which, I think, should be much thicker). Still.

Piccalilli is one of those slightly weird British "delicacies"- if that's the right description; I'm not sure that it is. Bright yellow in colour, and potently acidic; utterly out of fashion too, evoking the world of Austerity Britain: all the glamour of Dad's allotment, prize marrow competitions, Brown Windsor soup, late dusty Summers and musty pigeon lofts.

I spent a few minutes researching its history on the internet. Apparently, the first known Piccalilli recipe was created by a Mrs Raffald in 1772, when it was also known as "English Chow Chow". That sounded about right. It had to be connected in some way with Eighteenth Century India didn't it? I'm assuming that the rather odd sounding name is just a play on the word, pickle.

Anyway, here's The Greasy Spoon's recipe for making your very own piccalilli. You can, of course, use any late summer vegetables you happen to have lying around, but I do think that piccalilli should include cauliflower in some shape or form; butternut squash just strikes me as too American for what is a very British pickle. Carrot and courgettes would be good, too.

First prepare the vegetables: I like them to be chopped up into reasonably small, bite-size chunks. Break up a small cauliflower into small florets, peel a cucumber, de-seed it, and chop it into small cubes. Finely chop up two onions. Chop up a few peeled carrots into small to medium size dice. Dice up a courgette into similar size chunks. 

Place the vegetables in a bowl, sprinkle them with salt, and leave to stand overnight. The salt will draw out lots of water and help to keep the vegetables crisp. Pour off the water, rinse the vegetables with cold water, and pat them dry.

When you're ready to make the piccalilli, get hold of a large preserving pan and pour in about 500ml of cider vinegar. Add 250g of sugar and the following spices: a dollop of Colman's English mustard, turmeric, ground ginger, ground cumin, black mustard seeds, chili flakes, nutmeg, and a pinch of cayenne pepper. 

Warm it through until the sugar dissolves, add the vegetables and then bring the mixture to the boil. Season with chunky black pepper, reduce the heat and simmer away for about ten minutes. It's unlikely that you'll need to add any more salt, as you've already used it at the beginning of the recipe. The turmeric and mustard will turn the mixture a bright yellow colour.

Finally, thicken up the piccalilli with some cornflour: in a separate bowl add some of the cooking liquid to a tablespoon or so of cornflower and whisk it up until it forms a paste. Reduce the heat and slowly mix this paste into the piccalilli. Simmer for a further five minutes (until the cornflour is cooked properly) and then decant into sterilised jars.

It will need to mature in a dark cupboard for about a month before use. Excellent with cold beef and oily fish such as mackerel and herring, and perfect for Christmas if you start thinking about making it now.

 

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Tomato, Egg and Salad Cream Sandwiches

 

 

 

 

I stopped off yesterday at a garage on the Western Avenue and bought an M & S Tomato, Egg & Salad Cream Sandwich. It was delicious: a guilty, if slightly tacky, pleasure; the substitution of Salad Cream for Mayonnaise a masterstroke. The vinegary taste of the Salad Cream worked beautifully with the egg, salted tomato and brown bread.

Making your own version would be easy enough: I would suggest that you spread the Salad Cream onto slices of brown bread; adding a layer of sliced tomatoes (removing the skin by immersing the tomatoes in boiling water for a minute or so, and discarding the pips), and a further layer of chopped hard-boiled eggs. Season with salt and white pepper, remove the crusts and cut into rectangles or fingers.

Salad Cream was invented in 1925 by our old friend, H. J. Heinz & Co; apparently the first brand developed exclusively for the British market. Oh yes, it's a very British thing, is Salad Cream. There's also a Crosse & Blackwell version. I can't honestly tell you which one is better.

There was also a rather scary radioactive substance called "Sandwich Spread"- which I haven't tasted for about twenty five years. I think I will probably leave it at that. 

Talking of which, The Greasy Spoon Kitchen is still out of action, and as I write, the vibrations of a pneumatic drill are reverberating around the house. It's like hearing Gog or Magog undergoing treatment in the dentist's chair. Today, a load-bearing wall is being demolished. We're sick of micro-waved food. Initially, it wasn't quite as bad as I thought it was going to be. This morning I'm not so sure. It's so bland. I appreciate that it is very affordable, but how on earth can people live on this stuff day in day out?

 

 

Chervil

 

 

When was the last time you used chervil in the kitchen?  It's one of those herbs which the British don't seem to use very much; which is a shame: "Gourmet's Parsley" (Anthriscus cerefolium) has a delicate, slightly aniseedy, or liquorice, flavour. It looks very much like Italian flat leaf parsley. The Romans were keen on the stuff, and it is supposed to be good for high blood pressure. Excellent in salads and with fish, and as a more sophisticated substitute for parsley.

Popular in France, it's relatively hard to find over here, although the larger branches of Sainsbury's are supposed to stock it. It would be a brilliant thing to try and grow in the garden. I'm going to try sowing it in terracotta pots which I'll place on our new brick steps leading out from the kitchen doors. It prefers cool moist conditions, and needs to be regularly harvested to stop it bolting, or going to seed.

 

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Angostura Bitters

 

 

 

 

How often do you use an ingredient without really knowing anything about it?  Step forward Angostura Bitters. I'm guilty of this myself. I specified its use in my recent Pink Gin post; I use it now and again in cooking. I've grown to appreciate its aromatic, almost piquant taste. I'm in favour of its deep reddish brown amber colour. But I'll admit to you that- until now- I couldn't tell you anything whatsoever about Angostura Bitters. I wasn't even sure what the stuff is made from.

 

What is it?

45% Alcohol, Gentian Root, "Vegetable Flavouring Extracts"- whatever that means: the exact recipe is a closely guarded secret, with only five people knowing the precise recipe.

 

What is Gentian Root?

The root of a plant found in Alpine regions. Gentiana verna. It has a blue flower. It also flavours Polish Zoladkowa Gorzka vodka.

 

Who makes it?

The House of Angostura, Tinidad and Tobago. Founded in 1830 by a German doctor, Johann Gottlieb Benjamin Siegert, Surgeon-General in Simon Bolivar's army in Venezuela. He experimented with bitters as a way of helping the digestion and well-being of his troops. "In 1830, Siegert exported his unique aromatic bitters to England and Trinidad. By 1850, he had resigned his commission in the Venezuelan army to concentrate on the manufacture of his bitters, which was enjoying a huge demand. In 1862 the product was exhibited in London, to great approval."

 

How alcoholic is it?

Very. 44.7% proof.  

 

I've heard a rumour that it contains Angostura Bark?

Angoustura Bitters does not contain Angostura Bark. Instead, it's named after Angostura in Venezula.

 

Why is the label too big for the bottle?

Nobody really knows. One story points to the laid-back Caribbean attitude. An oversized label was ordered by mistake, and no-one bothered to correct it. The portrait of Emperor Franz Joseph I of Austria appeared on the label after Angostura won a medal at the 1873 World Fair in Vienna.

 

Who drinks it?

You're in good company: The King of Prussia, King Alfonso XIII of Spain, King George V, King Gustav VI Adolph of Sweden and HM The Queen.

 

Is it good for you?

Perhaps. A remedy for hiccups and an upset stomach, and- just possibly- a cure for hangover.

 

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The Dilemma of Tomato Ketchup

 

 

Henry Heinz, the genius behind the "57 varieties"

 

And now for something completely different. I'm never entirely sure about tomato ketchup. Not the classic stuff in bottles, that sauce made by Heinz- but the various recipes you come across telling you a) how to make it and b) how much better it is than the shop version.

It's the same thing with several famous and established classic brands. Is fresh corn-off-the-cob really that much better than Jolly Green Giant niblet sweetcorn in the tin? I remember the Roux brothers admitting on camera that they most certainly used tinned sweetcorn ("it is a good quality product"). Are home-made baked beans really that much better than the Heinz version?  Isn't it a case of the Emperors' New Clothes?

The more I think about it, there's a group of food brands and products which are, frankly, sacrosanct. Many of them were dreamt up in the Victorian, Edwardian or early 20th century periods. It's partly do to with childhood nostalgia, it's partly to do with the packaging. It may have something to do with the taste. Like old friends, they've just got that je ne sais quoi, they never let you down. The following, in my opinion, are members of this august club: Heinz Baked Beans, Kit-Kat, Mars Bars, Heinz Tomato Soup, Jolly Green Giant Sweetcorn, Lea & Perrin's Worcestershire Sauce, Schweppes Tonic Water, Hellman's Mayonnaise, Colman's Mustard, Marmite, Coca-Cola, Jaffa Cakes, H.P. Sauce, Tabasco, Angostura Bitters, Cadbury's plain chocolate digestives, Pimm's, J & B Rare blended whisky, Bournville dark chocolate, Camp coffee. 

Do you notice how most of these brands have more-or-less never changed the general style of the package design, although there may well have been very subtle changes to the overall packaging over the decades? Tamper with the classics at your peril! I'm not at all happy with what Heinz have done to our very own Lea & Perrins. They've simplified the label, and introduced nasty thick funeral black borders. Mr Lea and Mr Perrin, I think, have disappeared too. Having said that, the last time I was at the supermarket, I saw a shelf newly stacked with bottles of the old design, so it looks possible that the re-branding has failed, and Heinz have been forced to revert to the original packaging.

Another disaster (from my point of view, I have no idea if they have increased sales or not) is what the Kraft corporation have done to the classic Terry's All Gold, first produced in 1932. It's now a completely different product, split into two separate boxes, one for plain and one for milk chocolate. The fondants taste different. And where's the barrel of rum?

Anyway. Back to the Tomato Ketchup. If you feel like running against the grain, here's Lindsey Bareham's recipe for fresh tomato sauce, from her excellent Big Red Book of Tomatoes, published by Grub Street: 

Cut 350g tomatoes in half lengthways, then grate the tomatoes with the cut side facing the grater. Discard the skins and season with salt, pepper, a tablespoon of vinegar and a crushed clove of garlic. Beat in four tablespoons of olive oil, and shred basil over the top. 

 

 

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Robert Carrier and Drinking in Vogue

 

 

 

It's hard trying to be a food writer when you haven't got a kitchen. It's the reason why you've had a series of posts from me on cocktails over the last few days. You're also going to get quite a bit about books over the next few weeks or so; that is until the dust settles, the builders are banished and the ribbon, unveiling the new kitchen, is cut. I might even post up a photograph of the whole shooting match when it's finished.

For this one, I'm combining the two by recommending Drinking in Vogue, written by Henry McNulty, first published in 1978. Condé Nast published a series of excellent design and style books in the 60's, 70's and 80's; all of which are now becoming highly collectable. Henry Piper McNulty sounds like one of those splendid old school Henry Jamesy Americans. His Princeton obituary describes him as "a man of the world". I like the dry, spare irony of his biographical entry on the back flap of Drinking in Vogue: "Henry McNulty was born in Soochow, China, the son of missionary parents..."

And what a useful little book is Drinking in Vogue; peppered with amusing stories and witty asides:

"Learning to appreciate wine is a bit like falling in love. It happens to you without you actually encouraging it. But unlike love there is little chance that divorce will set in, unless your doctor intervenes".

He's also disarmingly candid: " I make no claim to wine expertise. I just like wine. My personal preference is for red over white, and French over others, and Bordeaux over Burgundy..." 

 

 

 

Hintlesham Hall, Suffolk

 

I was amused to see Henry McNulty mentioning a recipe for the "Hintlesham White Lady" (gin and lemon juice in equal measures, a dash of cointreau, a touch of sugar to taste, shaken with the white of an egg and ice). Oh, crikey, that's a trip down memory lane. Back in the late 70's, Hintlesham Hall was the fashionable country house restaurant owned by the starry American food writer and television "chef", Robert Carrier. Hintlesham was the sort of place where the waiters would count to three, and lift their silver tureen lids in unison. I buy old Robert Carrier books whenever I see them. They go for a song.

 

 

Mr Carrier in action for the BBC

 

It's funny how nobody seems to remember Robert Carrier anymore. In his day, he was huge: a contributor to Vogue, the proprietor of a trendy cookery school, author of many urbane cookery books, the inventor of the wipeable Robert Carrier Cookery Card System- a novel concept at the time. Food, Wine & Friends (the book of his now long forgotten 1979 television series) remains a particular favourite. If I can find my copy, I'll post up some photographs from the book at a later date. You will find them highly entertaining. His "friends", of course, included glamour girls like Joanna Lumley, Liv Ullmann, Susannah York, and Valentina Cortese. 

 

 

Robert Carrier's dining room at Hintlesham, "Robert Carrier's Entertaining", Sidgwick & Jackson, 1977 

 

 

And he was a terribly nice man to deal with: a very long time ago, as a junior auction specialist at a well know auctioneers in New Bond Street, I was told to telephone Mr Carrier to tell him that his rather camp 17th century wood carvings (gilt-wood angels, heavenly cherubs, South German putti- that sort of thing) had failed to sell. He was utterly charming, shouted "good, good!" down the telephone and told me he was delighted to be "getting his old friends back".

There's hardly anything featuring Robert Carrier on youtube, but I did find him trying to flog Magimixes in an old ad from the 1980's:

 

          

 

 

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Rex Whistler (1905-1944), "Self-Portrait", 1940, National Army Museum

One of my favourite biographies of the 1980's is Laurence Whistler's The Laughter and The Urn, an affectionate portrait of his brother, the artist and illustrator, Rex Whistler. Rex was killed in July 1944 as the Guards Armoured Division attempted to break out of the salient at Caen. His languid self-portrait, painted in 1940, is now in the possession of the National Army Museum. He's sitting on the edge of the balcony of one of those Nash stucco terraces in Regent's Park, self-aware in his new uniform of the Welsh Guards; Sam Browne belt unbuckled, cocktail tray and paint brushes at the ready.

Rex Whistler died at far too young an age. He is remembered now for his charming, delightful, whimsical if frivolous, illustrations (Beverley Nichol's Down the Garden Path, immediately comes to mind); he was after all, a friend of Stephen Tennant and a Bright Young Thing, but his later work shows the promise of greater things. Here's his portrait of Sargeant Isaacs, Welsh Guards:

 

 

Rex Whistler (1905-1944) "The Master Cook", Sergeant Isaacs of the Welsh Guards, 1940 or 1941.

 

 

Rex Whistler (1905-1944), "Caroline Paget", circa 1938

 

In 1926, The Tate Gallery commissioned Whistler to redecorate the murals of their then refreshment room, now the Rex Whistler Restaurant at Tate Britain (the restaurant is currently closed for re-fururbishment until 2013).

With quirky wit, Rex called his murals The Expedition in Pursuit of Rare Meats: "a hunting party is formed, including a princess and her maid, a prince, a colonel, a captain, a pantry boy and the son of an impoverished nobleman. At the start of the mural they are seen leaving a palace and riding across the countryside, spearing sturgeon, hunting for truffles and other delicacies. The hunters encounter wild and mythical beasts on their journey through the mountains and forests including a leopard and a unicorn".

 

 

Rex Whistler (1905-1944), "The Expedition in Pursuit of Rare Meats", Tate Gallery, London, 1927

 

Yesterday I mentioned my "cook books to save in the event of a fire shelf". I've got another one to add (this is growing by the day). It's The Tate Cookbook, by Paul King and Michael Driver, published by The Tate Gallery in 1996. It might just be still available new, otherwise you should easily be able to track one down through amazon or abebooks. I really love it. Published in an elegant format, with a terrific dust-jacket by William Strang ("Bank Holiday", painted in 1912) it's generously illustrated with food-related paintings and drawings by the likes of William Nicholson, Vanessa Bell, Elisabeth Blackadder, William Scott, Duncan Grant, Stanley Spencer and Walter Sickert.

Inside, there's a selection of relatively simple, elegant (like "iconic", a much over-used word, but I'm going to use it again without hesitation in this case), recipes with a British, even Nursery twist: buttered crab, venison pâté en croûte with Cumberland Sauce, poached pears with stilton walnut quennelles, omelette arnold bennett, breast of pheasant with pâté croutons and Madeira sauce, whisky and coffee ice cream, brioche and butter pudding, lemon soufflé. All this is similar, in some ways, to the 1920s' and 30's recipes in Arabella Boxer's Book of English Food.

 

 

William Strang (1859-1921), "Bank Holiday", 1912, dust-jacket design for The Tate Cookbook

 

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Jackie Kennedy's Shepherd's Pie

 

 

That famous photograph, Ron Galella in pursuit

 

I've always admired Jacqueline Kennedy's taste, especially in antiques, pictures and books. The Sotheby's catalogue (The Estate of Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis, April 23-26, 1996) was a revelation; proving that she had an excellent, understated eye (from memory as the catalogue's currently in storage) for: old master drawings, charming hand-coloured Regency and Biedermeier prints, John Singer Sargent sketches, creamware Corinthian candlesticks, Louis XVI furniture, natural history engravings by Audubon. Everything was slightly tatty, too. I liked that: her books had been well thumbed, and well-read; the antithesis of the immaculate coffee table books you see piled up in interior design magazines.

 

 

 

Then trawling the internet one day, I came across "Cooking for Madam, Recipes & Reminiscences from the Home of Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis", by Martha Sgubin (with Nancy Nicholas). Martha Sgubin was Mrs Onassis's cook, or private chef. 

To be honest, initially I thought the book was going to be a bit of a joke. Cringy title. A slightly embarrasing buy, not quite at the brown paper bag stage, but you will get the drift. How wrong I was!  It was a terrific buy, and it's now got pride of place on that shelf of cookery books I'd rescue if the house caught fire (which is more than likely with the full-scale renovations currently in progress); alongside The Harry's Bar Cookbook, The Prawn Cocktail Years, Lindsey Bareham's Just One Pot and Arabella Boxer's English Food.

Martha Sgubin cooks the sort of food I know I'd love if- and when- we ever get round to employing a private chef. Simple but relatively sophisticated; unpretentious, Anglo-American with a French and Italian influence. Honest food cooked extremely well- and with style. Flicking through at random, we have: Mussel Salad, Shepherd's Pie, Frozen Lemon Soufflé, Pear Sorbet, Green Risotto, Tarragon Chicken, Warm Lobster Salad with Basil Viniagrette, Truffle Soup and Strawberry Shortcake.

I now have something shocking to admit to you. I have declared this house "A Mashed Potato Free Zone". For some reason, I loathe mashed potato. It's weird, I know. I can quite happily tuck into waxy new potatoes; sautéed potatoes are good, chips are divine. But mashed potato is the Mark of the Beast. It may be something to do with the floury texture. It may be something to do with school (antique Irish cooks at Dotheboy's Hall, fags dangling from their pursed lips, blue nylon housecoats) or those robotic alien creatures which peddled instant mashed potatoes for Cadbury's back in the 70's. Mash Get Smash. But for today only, I'm going to lift my ban, and actually recommend a dish which includes the evil substance. I'm quite happy to serve this up to our guests. Just bear in mind that I won't touch it. But if it's good enough for Mrs Onassis...

Here's the recipe for Jackie Kennedy's Shepherd's Pie, as cooked by Martha Sgubin, and adapted by The Greasy Spoon:

 

 

 

4 cups chopped cooked lamb or roast beef (the meat must be rare)

2 large cloves of garlic

1 large onion, chopped

1 teaspoon of fresh rosemary leaves

8 Tablespoons (1 stick) butter, divided

3 Tablespoons flour

1 cup beef stock

Salt and Pepper

4 cups mashed potatoes

 

Preheat your oven to 350°. Combine the lamb, garlic, onion and rosemary and put them through a meat grinder twice. It does need to be a meat grinder.

Melt six tablespoons of the butter in a large pan, and stir in the flour. Stir constantly on a low heat to form a roux. You'll need to do this for a few minutes so that the flour cooks.

Add the ground lamb mixture and stir it in. Add sea salt flakes and pepper to taste. Pour the combined mixture into an oven-proof oval casserole dish. Spread the mashed potatoes over the top. Make sure the lamb mixture is completey covered and that the potato is spread evenly, touching the rim of the dish. Take a fork and rake a design across the potato. Long grooves across the width could be a good plan. Dot with butter. Bake in the oven for 40 minutes until the filling is hot and the potato has browned.

 

 

Cooking For Madam, Recipes and Reminiscences from the Home of Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis by Marta Sgubin (and Nancy Nicholas), published by Scribner, New York, 1998.

 

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Orange Blossom Cocktails and the Strange Mystery of William Desmond Taylor

 

 

 

 

 

I first read about the strange- and fascinating- case of William Desmond Taylor a few years ago and it's haunted me ever since. I expect you've never heard of it (most people haven't, there's no particular reason why you should have done either), but back in 1922, the mysterious events leading up to his murder became a sensational cause célèbre of the day.

 

William Desmond Taylor

Desmond Taylor was a famous (and hugely successful) British silent film director: suave, handsome, urbane, cultured, a former British army officer, charming, erudite, built like an athelete with a reputation for integrity; a bibliopile and collector of rare books. I'm sure you get the picture: he enjoyed numerous "friendships" with all sorts of charming young actresses- and quite possibly their mothers too.

Anyway, at 7:30 am on the morning of 2 February 1922, the body of William Desmond Taylor was found inside his bungalow at the Alvarado Court Apartments, 404-B South Alvarado Street, Los Angeles. He had been shot in the back. The evening before, his neighbour claimed to have the sound of a gunshot ("like a car back-firing") and seen a "funny looking" stranger leaving Taylor's bungalow wearing a muffler and a plaid cap pulled down over his- or her- eyes.

 

 

The Taylor Residence, Alvardo Court Apartments, Los Angeles

The case remains unsolved to this day. There's a whole cast of sinister suspects: Edward Sands, Taylor's dodgy valet; Henry Peavey, Taylor's camp butler; Mable Normand (the silent era comedienne); Mary Tyler Minter (the Hollywood film star), Charlotte Selby (Minter's mother) and starlet Margaret Gibson, who apparently, confessed to the murder on her deathbed.

 

 

And the case gets stranger. It turned out that Desmond Taylor wasn't really Willliam Desmond Taylor at all. His real name was William Cunningham Deane-Tanner, son of an Anglo-Irish British army major. Deane-Tanner had emigrated to New York where he had set up business as a Society antique dealer. On the 23 October, 1908, he had suddenly vanished, leaving behind a wife and young daughter, only to resurface four years later with a changed name, and a discovered talent for acting. The intervening years remain a bit of a mystery- he may have worked as a rancher; he may have laboured in the gold mines of Yukon. What I find striking is the contrast between Deane-Tanner the unhappy, hard-drinking antique dealer (there are rumours of forgery, his disapperance coincided with a dubious affair with a married women) and Desmond Taylor the distinguished film director- of whom, not one person would say a single bad word about after his murder. If ever there was an example of someone completely re-inventing himself, this is going to be it.

What's all this to do with food?, I hear you say. Not much, I admit, but William Desmond Taylor did enjoy an Orange Blossom cocktail with Mabel Normand a few hours before the shooting. They played the piano, discussed Nietzsche and Freud (as one does) until a quarter to eight; Taylor walked Normand to her car, they blew kisses at each other as her chauffeur drove off. With the exception of the murderer, she was the last person to see Desmond Taylor alive.

Here's a suitably grainy, film noiry photograph of that very cocktail tray; can't you just imagine the bungalow swarming with over-excited photographers, the smell of flash powder, the utter sensation of it all?

 

The Orange Blossom cocktail was an extremely popular cocktail during Prohibition. It's essentially just a mixture of orange juice and gin; although there are many different versions using a wide variety of ingredients. The Old Waldorf Astoria Bar Book has a recipe for "Orange Blossom No. 1": 

3/4 oz gin, 3/4 oz sweet vermouth (ie Cinzano Bianco), 3/4 oz orange juice. Pour the ingredients into a mixing pitcher or glass filled with ice cubes, stir well and strain. 

This is going to be pretty sweet in taste, maybe too sweet for modern sensibilities? An interesting historical fact is that people seemed to have much sweeter tooths (or is it teeth?) at the beginning of the Twentieth Century. The Edwardians loved German wine and Hungarian Tokay for instance. I gather that these wines fetched far higher prices than clarets or Burgundies.

 

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Cocktails at Ciro's

 

 

 

 

I thought this looked quite interesting: it's a reprint of "Cocktails by Jimmy, late of Ciro's London", originally published in 1930. There's someone selling paperback reprints of vintage cocktail books on amazon. They're not very expensive, but I gather from a friend who ordered one recenty that they're really nothing more than scans or photocopies of the original book. Still, if you're interested in the history and origin of cocktails, the information contained within may well be of some use, and I see that there's a dealer on abebooks.co.uk currently offering the 1930 edition for well over a thousand pounds.

Ciro's was a fashionable London nightclub, founded in 1915 (despite the War) and located in Orange Street, just off Haymarket. According to Pathé news: Ciro's was "the famous London rendezvous of Smart Society." It even boasted it's own all-black dance band, possibly the first one in this country. Ciro's bartender, Harry McElhone, left to start up Harry's Bar in Paris ("roo sank der noo"), handing over his cocktail shaker to Jimmy, who I'm sure did an admirable job. Incidentally, there was another Ciro's- in Los Angeles- but the only thing it shared in common was the name.

 

The Pegu Club, 1910

 

According to the reprint's editor, Ross Bolton, this is one of the few cocktail books of the period to share the secret of the Pegu Club Cocktail, the signature drink of the Pegu Club, Rangoon, set up in the 1880's as a watering hole for British army officers.

There are all sorts of different opinions on how to mix a Pegu Club Cocktail, but I found this recipe on The Gin is In blog, and thought it looked good: 3oz gin (our old friend Plymouth would be ideal), 1oz Cointreau, .75oz fresh lime juice, two dashes of aromatic bitters, two dashes of orange bitters. Serve cold.

While you're mixing the drink, and to get you in the mood, here's a recording of the "Ciro's Club Coon Orchestra" in action:

 

 

 

 

If you like all this historic jazz age cocktail stuff, for my next post I might well cover the mysterious slaying of one time antiques dealer and Hollywood silent film director, William Desmond Taylor. He shared an Orange Blossom cocktail with the silent comedienne Mabel Normand a few hours before his death. The case remains unsolved. But that's for my next post. After all, tomorrow is another day.

 

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Old Covent Garden Market

 

 

 

We spent yesterday evening watching Julien Temple's brilliant film, London: The Modern Babylon: a slightly surreal scrapbook of London images, beautifully edited, thought-provoking and at times, moving. It's a more than a worthy addition to the growing backlist of London documentaries, which include Norman Cohen's The London Nobody Knows (1969) and Patrick Keiller's London (1994). Julien Temple has caught the zeitgeist: with the success of the Olympics, London's suddenly very much the place to be at the moment; there's a positive vibe in the air. With all its chaos.

 

 

All this coincides with the re-publication in paperback of photographer Clive Boursnell's Old Covent Garden; an evocative collection of images taken during the 1960s' and 70's, before the fruit, vegetable and flower market was relocated to the brutalist wasteland of Nine Elms. I can just about remember the old market as a child- we must have driven past it on the way to the theatre. Newspapers lying on the cobbles, cartons of rancid fruit, Victorian green painted barrows, the smell of sulphuric, rotting cabbage. To think that the bowler hatted bureaucrats had plans to drive a motorway right through the middle of it! Can you imagine?

 

Alfred Hitchcock set one of his last films, Frenzy, there, two years before the market closed. I'm also a huge fan of Cecil Beaton's romanticised designs for My Fair Lady.

Old Covent Garden: The Fruit, Vegetable and Flower Markets by Clive Boursnell is published by Frances Lincoln in paperback and is priced at £12.99.

 

 

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Plymouth Gin

 

 

 

 

The excellent Peak of Chic blog left an interesting comment on my recent post on Pink Gin. She wondered if she could buy Plymouth Gin in America?  I expect she can, but I have a feeling that it's going to be more readily available from specialist shops.

Plymouth Gin was the traditional gin of choice as used by the Royal Navy, and traditionally, Pink Gin was made with Plymouth, rather than London Dry gin. I read somewhere that originally, back in the 19th century, Plymouth Gin did taste considerably different from today's London Dry (it was sweeter and more aromatic); and it was also the gin of choice for Harry Craddock's Savoy Cocktail Book, first published in 1930.

Since starting The Greasy Spoon (was it really over five years ago?), I've developed an interest in package design- especially for spirit brands. I've noticed that Plymouth Gin have updated their bottle and label. I really like their new design. They've used their historical archives as inspiration, gone back to the "curves"  and reinstated the friar on their label- for this I applaud them; ditching their more rectangular, modernist bottle in the process. Many brands seem to have gone for this style in very recent years; no doubt to try and appeal to a younger, cocktail bar clientele. I'm not entirely convinced.

I really dislike the recent re-packaging of Mount Gay "Eclipse" rum. They've got "rid" of their charming old-fashioned bottle (reminiscent of the 50's Captain's Cabin, pirates, treasure maps, Robert Louis Stevenson and the romance of the Caribbean) and replaced it with a bland, perceivedly trendy, cocktail bar thing. Honestly, it could now be a bottle of Amaretto.

 

 

Mount Gay "Eclipse" rum- the old design, on sale until very recently

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Coca-Cola

 

 

 

Doesn't it just taste so much better in a bottle?

 

The Perfect Prawn Cocktail

 

 

 

 

 

"A gin and tonic says a lot about you as a person. It is more than just a drink, it is an attitude of mind. It goes with a prawn cocktail, a grilled Dover sole, Melba toast and Black Forest gâteau." Nico Ladenis, My Gastronomy, 1987

It's weird not having a kitchen; or at least, one we can use. As I mentioned in an earlier post, we're having our kitchen completely re-built. It's now at the "shell" stage; interesting scraps of Victorian wallpaper have emerged. There's builder's dust everywhere, and we're living a hand-to-mouth existence upstairs. 

But this made me think. How difficult is it to come up with original and interesting recipes that don't actually need any cooking? Obviously, you could go down the salad route- which would would be fine, up to a point Lord Copper. But it could get pretty darn boring after a few days. Ceviche could be more interesting. The famous Mexican dish in which raw fish gets "cooked" in citrus juices and chili. No stove involved. This could be an interesting idea for a book? "Gourmet Food without a Cooker". Has anyone written one yet?

Another suggestion on this theme is the ubiquitous Prawn Cocktail. I have no shame in holding up my hand and championing this dish. It's a classic. Everybody secretly loves it. According to Australian Gourmet Traveller: "in 1959, a dish consisting of shrimp with a dollop of cocktail sauce, served in a sundae glass, was popularised by Las Vegas’s Hotel Nevada (now the Golden Gate Hotel and Casino), which coined the term “original shrimp cocktail”. It was served for fifty cents, and this price has increased only twice in the intervening years".

Here's how I  make it: The first step is to create a Marie-Rose Sauce. A spoonful of tomato ketchup, a few drops of Tabasco, a drop or two of Lea & Perrins, and a squeeze of lemon juice are added to a mayonnaise base. You can alter the flavourings to suit your taste. Salt and white pepper might be a good idea too. I like it to have a slight kick. Cooked prawns are then placed in a small glass or tumbler (quite possibily on a bed of designer lettuce) and the Marie Rose sauce poured on top. I'm rather anti garnishes at the moment. Simplicity is a good thing, so I would probably serve it as it is. If the ingredients are good, the dish will shine.

Now for a bizarre twist on the classic Marie Rose Sauce. While trawling the internet, I found a recipe for something called "Sauce Liberal" from none other than our old mucker, The Duchess of Windsor (aka Mrs Wallis Simpson). You make the Marie Rose sauce in the usual way- but finish it off by mixing in "liberal" slugs of neat gin. I gather that this went down rather well at the Windsors' sybaritic villa off the Bois de Bologne.

 

The Windsor villa in the Bois de Bologne: the spiritual home of "Sauce Liberal"

This worried me. Okay, I didn't exactly have a sleepless night over it, but I reckoned that the bitter taste of the warm gin would ruin an otherwise excellent sauce. So, as an experiment, I boiled up some gin in a pan, until all the alcoholic vapours had burnt off, then added the reduced spirit to the sauce. It worked! The juniper flavours came through, and it gave the sauce a subtle twist.

 

The Greasy Spoon Kitchen, as taken this afternoon. The plastic bin horror in the front corner will have to go.

Harry's Bar, Venice

 

 

 

 

I'm not sure how many "Harry's Bars" there are in the world. Quite a few, I expect. There's that famous pub in Paris, there's the late Mark Birley's smart dining club in London; I would imagine there are some pretty divey bars in god-forsaken fleshpots using the name. But for me, the one and only, the place that can truly describe itself as "Harry's Bar" is the famous institution in Venice, opened by Giuseppe Cipriani in 1931.

I've unashamedly described my love for this place over the years- and I make no apologies for it. I like its wooden simplicity (a bit like a saloon in a varnished schooner), I like the fact that the food is prepared by "cooks" rather than "chefs"- suggesting a remarkable honesty, at least when it comes to the food. I like the immaculate service- the way you can return a decade later, and there will be the same barman behind the counter, I like the continuity; the idea that the ghosts of Ernest Hemingway, Orson Welles, Truman Capote and Peggy Guggenheim might just, if you played your cards right, come over and say hello.

 

Very many years ago, as a callow youth (all of nineteen years old) I developed an interest in the Dry Martini. I was in Venice with my girlfriend of the time. We were shy and naive. We had never been to Harry's before. We plucked up courage and pushed through the hallowed swing doors. It was pouring with rain. We found a seat at the bar and ordered two dry martinis. Harry's serve them in tiny, rather stylish little tumblers with their famous Deco motif, frosted, very cold and straight from the 'fridge. The barman- Mr Claudio Ponzio please step forward- was charming and treated us as if we were royalty, even though starry people like Roger Moore and Michael Caine happened to be sitting over in the corner. The next day we came back, and Claudio had "your usual, sir?" waiting for us before we had even arrived, served up with a wry smile. Now, that's why I like Harrys' Bar.

 

        Mr Claudio Ponzio in action

There will be certain people- visitors to Venice- who will grumble about the place "not being as good as it used to be". They will complain about the quality of the Bellinis; about the number of badly dressed tourists packing out the downstairs bar, they will dismiss the exorbitant prices in the separate restaurant. Despite its fame, Harry's remains remarkably unpretentious- and this, I think, might be the cause of the trouble.

But I do think- and I've been meaning to say this for some time- that's it's often a question of respect, which Venice, as one of the greatest tourist destinations in the world often doesn't get. The last time we were there (a few months ago) we were greeted with a reserved charm, and offered a little dish of canapés. Just for us. We had just been to La Fenice- or possibly High Mass at St Mark's (I forget which, my wife is a Catholic) and were dressed appropriately, a suit for me, my wife as immaculate as ever. You get back what you give.

 

 

 

May I also recommend The Harrys' Bar Cookbook by Arrigo Cipriani? If our house ever caught fire, this would be first cookery book that I would try and save. We use it the whole time. The recipe for Minestrone is certainly the best version I've made- so far. Pollo alla Veneta and Insalata di Cape Sante are particular favourites.

 

 

The Joy of Ping Cuisine

 

 

We're completely re-building our kitchen. The builders have started work this morning, ripping out the 80's composite marble counter-tops and smashing up the cheap, magnolia painted fitted units. Instead, we're going for a semi-fitted, or even unfitted look. Free-standing stove, light oak counter-tops, American 'fridge, Belfast Sink, white Metro tiles, unlacquered brass taps from Barber Wilsons, with re-claimed 1930's pine floor-boards from LASSCO and a hanging rack for the pots and pans above a huge kitchen island. A bit like one of those old-fashioned Country House scullerys from the 1920's or 30's (Agatha Christie or Laurence Olivier's kitchen in the original Sleuth): that at least, is the idea. The kitchen at Lutyen's Castle Drogo has this in spades.

But in the meantime, it's going to mean: No Proper Cooking. Some generous person gave us a brand new microwave as a wedding present, and I've lugged this upstairs to the drawing room. It's going to be our new friend for the next month or so.

Despite writing a food blog, I think microwaves are quite useful in the kitchen. They're brilliant for warming plates up, for instance; but I have to admit that I've never actually used one before. Don't even know yet how it works, or what button to press. And it looks like we're going to be paying multiple visits to the Sainsbury's or Tesco's "ready-made meals" sections very soon. Do Waitrose also sell this sort of thing?  Can anybody recommend a particular dish?

When I was about ten years old, the high-point of my existence was a Chicken and Mushroom Pot Noodle, eaten in front of the late-night Frankenstein movie on a Saturday Night. It came with a little sachet of Soy Sauce. It may yet come to that.

 

The kitchen at Castle Drogo, Devon. Designed by Sir Edwin Lutyens.

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Before the Theatre

 

 

Before the theatre: Prunier's Snack Bar by "Eric" (Carl Erickson, 1891-1958), Vogue Magazine, late 1930's, (from Food in Vogue, Six Decades of Cooking and Entertaining, edited by Barbara Tims, Harrap London, 1976)

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Winston's Breakfast

 

 

Sir William Nicholson (1872-1949), Study for Breakfast at Chartwell II, Sir Winston Churchill and Clementine Ogilvy Hozier, Lady Churchill, in the Dining Room at Chartwell, with their cat, Tango, The National Trust

 

I had an unashamedly teary afternoon yesterday watching Richard Attenborough's poignant film, Young Winston, (1972). It's shown in an edited version on minor television channels from time to time, which is a pity- as it is a marvellous film. Terrific (no, outstanding performances) from Anne Bancroft as Jennie Churchill and Robert Shaw as Lord Randolph. Simon Ward's also superb as the young thruster, and there's lots of Elgar.

Which reminded me of Sir William Nicholson's charming Study for Breakfast at Chartwell, painted just before the outbreak of the Second World War, at the time of Churchill's Wilderness Years. Those of you who have visited Chartwell will probably recognise the rather stylish 1930's dining room. Their little marmalade cat, Tango, is sitting on the table next to Clemmie. I was pleased to see this, as this is just the sort of behaviour we get from our beloved, but utterly pesky, Burmese brown, Oskie.

I'm firmly of the opinion that a proper English Breakfast is one of our greatest contributions to civilisation. Taken sitting at a shiny mahogany table; with the bright morning light streaming in through the windows, bouncing off the polished silver. Starched white linen napkins, silver toast racks, little pots for the hot, tangy English mustard. Chafing dishes on the sideboard. Kedgeree, kippers, grilled sausages, devilled kidneys, toast, Seville orange marmalade, grilled bacon, grilled tomatoes, eggs both poached and scrambled, smoked haddock, porridge, Earl Grey tea, black coffee.

 

 

Jennie Jerome, Lady Randolph Churchill

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Churchill's Chartwell

Pink Gin

 

 

 

The Pink Gin, alas, is now a forgotten cocktail- but worthy of resurrection. It was a fashionable drink in the 1930's, and the unofficial cocktail of the Royal Navy, reminiscent of smart cocktail parties, cigarette holders and the stiff upper lip.

It's a simple drink, and is easy to make. Swirl a few drops of Angostura Bitters around a glass. Add some crushed ice, and a slug of Plymouth Gin. It really does need to be Plymouth Gin. Top it up with iced water, to taste. The finished cocktail has a lovely, very light pink colour. Not that I especially want to state the obvious.

Noel Coward, In Which We Serve, 1942

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Who said dinner parties were boring?

 

 

Sidekick, Paris

Harper’s Bazaar, March 1965 

Photographer: Melvin Sokolsky

Model: Dorothea McGowan

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Rogan Josh

 

 

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

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

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

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

 

 

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Claudia Roden's Picnics

 

 

Another terrific reprint. This time it's Picnics by Claudia Roden, first published by Jill Norman in 1981. For some reason, food writers seem to have avoided the subject, which in some ways, seems surprising. This one fills a gap in the market.

The book's very much an international affair; an erudite and idiosyncratic discource on picnics, and the art of picnicking. As Claudia Roden says in her introduction: "Everything tastes better outdoors." Picnics is published by Grub Street, priced at £14.99.

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Gooseberry Gin

 

 

Gooseberries are the most English of fruit, although for some reason it's becoming incredibly hard to find any for sale here in London. The season is just about coming to an end. I had been meaning to make Gooseberry Gin for ages, but, typically, had never got around to it until last weekend, when I managed to track down a packet of frozen gooseberries from the wonderfully helpful Wholefoods in Kensington High Street.

Gooseberry Gin is a flavoured, gin-based liqueur, made in a similar way to the much-loved, traditional Winter tipple, Sloe Gin. I find that freezing the fruit helps to break them down- which, as you want the sugars and juices to be released- is a good thing.

Making the gin was straightforward. I bought a standard large bottle of Sainsbury's home-brand gin (actually distilled by Greenall's, so it's more than all right). I smashed up the thawed green gooseberries with a wooden mallet and filled an empty glass bottle (an ex-olive oil bottle with one of those plastic swing corks) with the gooseberries- about half way up. I poured granulated white sugar into the bottle- about a third way up. I topped up the bottle with the Sainsbury's gin, and finished it off with a few teaspoons of concentrated organic Belvoir Elderflower Cordial. I shook it up. The gin turned a lovely light greeney-grey Eau de Nil colour. I need to carry on shaking the bottle every day for about two weeks, and then it's going into the dark, cool(ish) cellar for six months or so.

I've had a sneaky taste already, and it's looking good. Very floral, very grassy, masses of tart grapefruit, similar in a way to those lovely grassy, summery tastes you get in a decent Sauvignon Blanc. I think it's going to be excellent as a summer liqueur in its own right, or perhaps, as an alternative to the standard gin and tonic. I like the idea of offering guests a Gooseberry Gin & Tonic. 

The photograph comes from an inspirational Scottish deli called Demijohn in Edinburgh. This sort of thing really turns me on. It looks a bit like an apothecary in a monastary. Love the white painted brick walls. The only thing lacking is chanted plain song in the background. They sell all manner of home-made liqueurs, steeped vinegars, balsamics, whiskies, scented oils- the lot. 

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Americano

 

 

"Tu vuò fa l' americano!

mmericano! mmericano

siente a me, chi t' ho fa fa?

tu vuoi vivere alla modama se bevi whisky and soda

po' te sente 'e disturbà"

 

Ah yes, the Americano. The cocktail was first served at the Caffè Campari in the 1860s. Its original name was the "Milano-Torino". Campari is made in Milan, and Cinzano, the vermouth, is made in Turin. Anyway, the story goes that the drink became popular with rich American tourists who flocked to Italy during the Prohibition Era. Hence the name "Americano".

Making one is easy enough: Into a high glass filled with ice, pour one part Campari to one part red vermouth (Cinzano Rosso), and top off with one part club soda. Garnish with a slice of orange, or a twist of orange peel. 

It turns out that none other than our old friend, Mister Bond, was a reluctant connoisseur of the Americano: "No, in cafés you have to drink the least offensive of the musical comedy drinks that go with them, and Bond always had the same thing, an Americano.”  (From a View to a Kill, 1960). Very Ian Fleming.

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Odin's

 

 

One of the most beautiful- and glamorous- restaurant interiors in London. Slightly shabby, a touch frayed at the edges (a faded velveteen quality) understated, grand, utterly grown up; like a time-warp from the 1950's: what a proper restaurant should look like. Odin's boasts a serious art collection- many pictures, apparently, bought on the advice of Brian Sewell when the Modern British art market was going for a song. This is very much my sort of thing: William Nicholson, R.B. Kitaj, Patrick Procktor, David Hockney; all mixed up with obscure Edwardian and 20th century British artists such as Alfred Hayward. There's a massive and fabulous Laura Knight by the front door. Peter Langan took over the restaurant in 1967. Desparately fashionable back then, serving nursery food to le gratin, it's now very much off the beaten track.

Not so long ago, there was a suave maitre d' in a dark grey double-breasted suit to lead you to your table and spread your napkin on your lap; although recently this appealing trait seems to have vanished; the food- to be frank- is not up to much either (thinking about it, if Odin's suddenly upped its game and served fabulous food, it really would be heaven on earth) but I really don't want to spoil my post. Odin's still remains- and will remain- one of my favourite London restaurants. I will be extremely grumpy if it closes.

 

 

 

 

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Polpo & English Food

 

 

 

Two new cookery books hot off the presses: Polpo, a Venetian Cookbook (Of Sorts) by Russell Norman, and a reprint of Arabella Boxer's English Food in hardback.

One of the things I find exciting about this country is our excellence in book design. And what a beautiful thing is Russell Norman's Polpo. The design and typography are exquisite; Bloomsbury have done something clever with the spine (it's just the edges of the paper, sewn- if that makes sense), so that the book lies completely flat when open. The paper is creamy and smooth. The typeface is elegant. The photography is evocative. The book even smells right.

For those of you more interested in the food, Polpo is based on the recipes used in Russell Norman's successful London restaurants. I've got a thing about Venetian food. Not that awful trat stuff you get near St Marks' Square, but the genuine, regional cooking you'll find in out of the way restaurants like the wonderful Corte Sconta or in standup working men's bars tucked away down sinister alleyways. We're talking about Warm Squid Salad with Cavolo Nero and Chickpeas, Broad Bean, Mint & Ricotta Bruschette, Grilled Fennel & White Anchovy Skewers, Chopped Chicken Liver Crostini. Polpo, a Venetian Cookbook of Sorts is published by Bloomsbury and is priced at twenty five pounds.

 

Another recent publication which caught my eye is a reprint of Arabella Boxer's classic Book of English Food (published by Fig Tree/Penguin in hardback, and priced at £20). It's another sumptuous effort of high quality, with a fabulous Art Nouveau dustjacket, sumptious creamy paper and a decent typeface. The book was first published back in 1991. I've got a Penguin paperback edition, which I seem to remember cost me an arm and a leg second hand. Lady Arabella's book is a terrific read, and covers Country House and restaurant food of the 1920's and 30's. It's a gem.

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Baby Artichokes Barigoule

 

 

This is an elegant, French, summery stew we're currently enjoying; quite similar in some ways to the artichoke stews you find in Rome. I was inspired by Rowley Leigh's recent feature in the Financial Times magazine. It was about the food of Marseille and included several excellent recipes, including a genuine bouillabaisse. Researching artichauts à a barigoule, I discovered many different versions. Some included mushrooms, others carrots; most had garlic. My recipe is similar to Rowley Leighs', but I've added garlic and chopped parsley.

Take some fresh baby artichokes, and cut the tops off- just above the heart. Snap off the stems, trimming away the outer green bits so that you end up with a nice, rounded vegetable. Immediately dip the baby artichokes into a mixture of white wine vinegar and water to preserve the colour.

Cut a sweet white onion in half, and slice thinly. Add a dash of olive oil to a hot pan, and start cooking the sliced onion until it wilts. Add a generous handful of bacon lardons, and let them fry. Peel and slice some baby carrots, and add them to the pan. For variety, I sliced the carrot in two different ways: directly across to create roundels, and in half, lengthways, once the root had been removed. Add a teaspoon or so of crushed garlic.

Drain the artichokes and place them in the pan. Top up with white wine and water, until the artichokes are covered. Add a few sprigs of thyme, a teaspoon of white sugar and bring to the boil. Crank down the heat and stew very slowly with the lid on.

I reckon forty five minutes at a very low heat should be about right. Check the seasoning, adding sea salt and white pepper if you feel it needs it, and remove the thyme stalks. It's almost like a soup. Serve in a deep bowl, and sprinkle with freshly chopped parsley. If you're feeling in a peasanty mood, you can mop up the stew with hunks of French bread. 

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Constance Spry's Original Coronation Chicken

 

 Cecil Beaton, 1952

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 unfashionable, 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 actually tastes of something, too. 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.

 

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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. 

 

 

 

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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.

 

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The London Grill

 

The New Piccadilly Cafe, London- alas, very recently closed down 

 

Oh Crikey, who remembers Heinz's London Grill?  Baked Beans, Pork Sausage, Bacon and Nuggets of Kidney all bound up in the famous Tomato Sauce. In a green tin with the legendary Heinz label. And, apparently, there was "West End Grill" too; with mushrooms in it, rather than the kidneys. I'm assuming that Heinz suddenly woke up to the reality that many buyers out there weren't that keen on the noble kidney. Or maybe it was the other way round, and West End Grill came before the London Grill?

It might be a chicken and egg situation here. There's something slightly rakish about the word(s) "The West End", conjuring up images of The Stork Club, Dancing Girls, the neon lights of Piccadilly Circus, languid lunches in Charlotte Street, pea-souper fogs, Stephen Ward's cream Jaguar XK120, green-painted coffee stalls in the early hours of the morning: After The Ball is Over. I suppose Heinz were hoping that some of this sophisticated imagery would rub off on to their creations.

But as Sir John Betjeman once wrote (with apologies to Slough):

"Come, bombs and blow to smithereens
Those air-conditioned, bright canteens, 
Tinned fruit, tinned meat, tinned milk, tinned beans, 
Tinned minds, tinned breath...

But spare the bald young clerks who add
The profits of the stinking cad;
It's not their fault that they are mad, 
They've tasted Hell.

It's not their fault they do not know 
The birdsong from the radio, 
It's not their fault they often go 
To Maidenhead

And talk of sport and makes of cars
In various bogus-Tudor bars 
And daren't look up and see the stars
But belch instead..."

 

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Last Dinner on The Titanic

 

 

Like so many others with slightly macabre sensibilities, I have a near obsession with The Titanic. And I've had this for as long as I can remember, long before all the recent media hype and the James Cameron blockbuster of 1997.

I've got a very real problem with the latter: am I alone in thinking that this film is an example of the worst possible taste?  A very tragic real-life disaster, in which over a thousand people died, is reduced to a simplistic, anachronistic teen romance, fermented by a trite, retarded script; the Titanic's passenger list reduced to "them" and "us": "them" being the 'orrible upper classes- all cruel snobs with phoney Oxford accents and twirling waxed moustaches, and "us" being the brave, true, noble, kind, hard-working, down-trodden working class, on their way to create a Brave New America- except that they don't, 'cos they all drown at the expense of the cowardly toffs who dress up in drag to get to the life-boats before the women and children.

An interesting historical fact by the way- before we all get too revolutionary here- is that around double the amount of men in Third Class survived when compared to the poor old burghers in Second Class who suffered, I think, the worst survival rate of all, a terrifying 8.33 per cent.

And then there's all that bizarre cruciform spread-eagled arm waving stuff going on in the film, Leonardo and Kate at the bows of the great ship, offset by corny Irish folksy flutey music (why does modern day Hollywood have a thing about this? Although I'll grudgingly admit that the Titanic was made in Belfast) and the wailings- nay, shrieking- courtesy of the Franco-Canadian diva, Ms. Celine Dion.

 

 

A Night to Remember, 1958

No, I don't like "Titanic". Instead, have a look at William McQuitty's excellent A Night to Remember, directed by the late Roy Ward Baker and starring Kenneth More and a very young Honor Blackman (aka Mrs Gale). Yup, it's in black and white, yup, it was made in 1958. Yup, it requires a bit of effort to watch. Yup, it's got Kenneth More with a plummy accent, and it's all very Stiff Upper Lip. These are good things.

The Times today ran an article entitled "The other last supper". The byline said: "...inspired by the final Titanic meal, chefs around the world are serving variations of its first-class menu". Again, although fascinating, isn't this just a little dubious?  Not the Times article, which was interesting, but the idea that restaurants all around the world are staging "Last Dinner on The Titanic" banquets?

In the spirit of all this fun, one of my more recent second-hand buys has been, yes, you guessed it Last Dinner on The Titanic...Menus and Recipes from the Great Liner, by Rick Archbold and Diana McCauley, with a forward by Walter Lord. Walter Lord, by the way, wrote the book on the Titanic disaster, which I would recommend without hesitation.

 

So why not amuse and entertain your boss and his lady wife by inviting them to a Titanic dinner party?  If they're first class guests you could serve them eleven courses, consisting at a glance of: Oysters à la Russe, Poached Salmon with Mousseline sauce, Vegetable Marrow Farci, Chậteau potatoes, Asparagus Salad with Champagne-Saffron vinagrette (I like the sound of this one), and Waldorf pudding. If your guests warrant the second class menu, there's a choice of Baked Haddock with Sharp Sauce, Curried Chicken and Rice, Turnip Purée, Wine Jelly and American Ice Cream. Steerage gets, amongst other things, Roasted Pork with Sage, Vegetable Soup, Green Peas and Plum Pudding with Sweet Sauce.

Here's the recipe for the Asparagus Salad with Champagne-Saffron vinagrette (courtesy of "Last Dinner on The Titanic"):

Snap off the woody ends of the fresh asparagus stalks, and chuck them away. Plunge the asparagus into salted boiling water and cook them for 3 to 5 minutes until tender. Drain them under cold water- which will help to set the colour and will stop them cooking.

Meanwhile, soak some saffron strands in a few teaspoons of boiling water, and let it stand for a few minutes, until the saffron softens (you'll find that the water turns yellow). Stir in about a tablespoon or so of champagne vinegar, half a teaspoon of smooth Dijon mustard and a good pinch of white sugar. Whisk until smooth, and drizzle in three tablespoons of olive oil, until it forms an emulsion. Season with salt and white pepper. Toss with the asparagus and red and/or yellow peppers, finely diced. Arrange on a plate with a selection of designer lettuce leaves- those things in plastic bags you can buy from the supermarkets.

 

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