The Greasy Spoon

It's Christmas Pudding Time...

 

 

Believe it or not, it's time to make your Christmas Pudding. Here in London, Christmas seems to start earlier and earlier. The television advertising spree has begun, and suddenly our screens are full of earnest, eager types wrapped up in noddy hats and woolly scarves, grinning kiddywinks, and beaming Old Dears. Teflon snowflakes are having a field day. The lights have gone up in Sloane Square too, yet the leaves are still on the trees. Look, I love Christmas, please don't get me wrong: I'm no Scrooge; but often the expectation is, truthfully, more enjoyable than the actual event itself. But London is particularly pretty in those two weeks leading up to Christmas, and I can't think of a better place in the world to be at this time.

Right now is the time to start making your Christmas Pudding; and if anything it may even be a bit on the late side. Traditionally, the Christmas Pudding was made on "Stir-Up Sunday", which was the last Sunday before Advent, (about four to five weeks before Christmas Day), but in our family we used to make it as early as late October. I love Christmas Pudding. The way your spoon plunges into the moist (you hope!), rich, fruity mass; and the contrast with the smooth, rich, alchohol infused brandy butter.

Here is my tried and tested recipe for Christmas Pudding. It's based on our age-old family recipe (which I suspect was nicked from Cordon Bleu), but I've "improved" it with the addition of Guinness and Black Treacle. It went down extremely well with my brother-in-law, who gobbled down the lot, and apparently, declared it "one of the best Christmas Puddings he had ever tasted"; in fact- "never was there such a pudding". Incidentally, as an experiment last year, I added Scotch Whisky instead of the traditional brandy- and it sort of worked, although the resulting smoky taste was not really that appropriate. So back to good old Cognac it is.

 

 

Here's the recipe:

Stir up all the following ingredients in a pudding basin:

350g Mixed fruit and peel (this means crystallised peel, dried apricots, currants, saltanas, raisins, grated lemon rind, and grated orange rind)

50g Chopped glacé cherries

25g Flaked almonds  

50g Dried suet (you can't get the proper stuff anymore- the EU has made it illegal)

35g White breadcrumbs 

35g Plain flour 

70g Moist dark brown sugar 

50g Grated apple 

A dash of mixed spice and grated nutmeg. Some weirdos add carrot- but very sensibly, I leave this one out.

Once you've stirred all the ingredients together, mix in the following ingredients:

Two beaten eggs

The juice of half a lemon and half an orange

Two tablespoons of a dark stout (ie Guinness)

A tablespoon of black treacle 

A dash of decent Cognac (ie Brandy or Armagnac)

Stir it up like mad. Now's the time to add the mixture to a basin. Recently, I've had this thing about those old-fashioned ball-shaped puddings- the ones you see in the Victorian illustrations of Phiz and in Walt Disney. A few years ago, I managed to track down a ball-shaped pudding mould from Divertimenti in the Fulham Road, and used that- but a traditional ceramic pudding basin is just dandy.

Smear the inside of the basin with butter. This will stop the pudding sticking to the side. Pour in the mixture. Top off with a piece of buttered greaseproof paper, ideally cut down to fit. Finally, place a cloth over the basin, and tie it off at the top with a bit of string.

Steam it for five to six hours. This means getting hold of a large pan, filling it about a quarter full with water and bringing it to the boil. Place the pudding in the middle of the pan, and put the lid on. The steam will rise up within the pan, and cook the pudding. Once it's cooked, leave it in a cool place with a piece of tin foil on top. It will mature in the run-up to Christmas. On the great day itself, you will need to steam it for a further three hours.

Melon Sorbet with Iced Bison Vodka

 

 

 

I'm a big fan of sorbets, especially as they're so easy to make; even for those living with tiny kitchens, and without the luxury of expensive ice-cream makers. All you need is a deep freeze (however small), a terrine-shaped metal container, a blender, and lots of patience. Once you've mastered the technique, the sky's the limit, and great fun can be had by one and all inventing interesting new flavour combinations.

Here's an idea for a melon sorbet, seved with Polish bison vodka. The grassy taste of the vodka works well the summery flavours going on in the melon.

Take a cantaloupe melon and remove the skin. Cut it into chunks and take out the seeds and any pith. Put it to one side.  You could of course use any melon you liked the look of; experimentation is the key. In the meantime, dissolve three quarters of a cup of white sugar in three quarters of a cup of water, and heat gently to make a syrup. When it's properly dissolved, pour it into the metal terrine, and stick it into the 'fridge to cool down.

Whizz the melon up in your magimix or blender, until it's smooth. I happen to prefer my sorbets to be very smooth, and I don't like nasty bits floating around in it, so I would then push the blended melon through a sieve. Once that's done, pour the blended, sieved melon into the metal terrine and mix it around with the cooled syrup, adding a squeeze of lemon juice as you go. Stick it into the deep freeze.

Now it's a matter of patience. Wait until the sorbet is almost frozen, and then take it out of the deep freeze and mash it up with a fork. Put it back into the freezer. Wait again until it's almost frozen, take it out and mash it up. To finish it off, wait until it's almost frozen, take it out, but this time whizz it up in a blender, return it to its container and re-freeze.

To serve the sorbet, I pour iced Zubrowka bison vodka over it. Zubrowka vodka is curious stuff, which has a very distinctive grassy taste ( a bit like that evocative summer smell of freshly cut grass and petrol lawn mowers). To quote from the hilarious marketing blurb on the label: "In a remote corner of Poland in the North Podlaise Lowland lies a mysterious place called Bialowieza, the last primeval forest in Europe, home to Europe's last remaining herd of bison and to a distinctively, aromatic plant- Bison grass...since the 14th century, Bison-grass has been used to infuse a unique vodka, Zubrowka, a singular spirit of supreme smoothness..."

I'm not sure I like Zubrowka as a neat vodka, but I think it works brilliantly when used in conjunction with other foods. (Incidentally, there's no point adding vodka directly to the sorbet mix, as the alcohol won't freeze properly).

For the bibliophiles amongst you, it might be worth your while tracking down a copy of Elizabeth David's "Harvest of the Cold Months: The Social History of Ice and Ices", edited by Jill Norman, and published by Michael Joseph in 1994. I've got a feeling that this book was published in a small print run, and several years ago, scarce used copies were scarily expensive. But that was before the internet, and there's now a reasonable selection of copies available on Abebooks.

 

Sliced Oranges with Calvados and Almonds

 

 

This is a simple dish that we came up with (in other words improvised) over Christmas.  As we didn't have any cognac left, I found a decent bottle of Obertin Calvados on my drinks tray, and used that instead. The results were spectacular- the fruity, applely taste of the Calvados complimented the oranges brilliantly, and brought out the juice.

Slice up some oranges and arrange them in a glass bowl (one of those deep, cut-glass things would be ideal). In the meantime, make a syrup by heating up a few spoonfuls of white sugar in some water. Peel the skin off an orange, and cut it up into very thin strips. Blanche the orange strips in boiling water, and then add them to the syrup.

Pour a decent slug of Calvados into the hot syrup, stir it around, and then pour the now Calvados-infused syrup over the sliced oranges.

Garnish with almonds. If you can be bothered, "dry-roast" or toast the almonds in a hot frying pan, until they are golden brown.

Funnily enough, I think this dish would be ideal for either a raw Winter's day, or a languid Summer's afternoon.

Mince Pies

 

 

Looking back at my posts past, I'm amazed that I've never covered these before. Of course, "mince" pies have got nothing to do with meat or even minced meat; the reason why they're called this goes back to the days of Merry Olde England, when mince pies did indeed include meat, or at least, a "mincemeat" consisting of chopped meat, candied fruit, suet, and sugar, all soaked in brandy. These days, we leave the meat out.

Here's our family recipe for mince pies. Ideally, you leave the mincemeat to mature for god knows how long, but as time is short, I'm sure that it won't be the end of the world if you don't.

First, you need to make the "mincemeat". Peel, core and chop 450g apples and mix them up with 335g raisins, 225g sultanas, 175g shredded suet, 335g soft dark brown sugar, 225g  chopped mixed peel (that's candied fruit), 110g chopped almonds, and a teaspoon of mixed spice.

Grate the rind off a lemon and squeeze out the juice. Pour this into the mixture, and add 110ml of brandy or rum. Ideally, you would leave the mincemeat to mature for up to three months, but as time is short, leave it to mature overnight.

To make the pastry: mix up 335g plain flour, 75g ground almonds, and 75g caster sugar. Stir in two egg yolks and 225g unsalted butter, so that the mixture takes on a breadcrumb type texture. Finally, mix in two tablespoons of cold water. Leave the mixture in the 'fridge for 45 minutes.

Roll the pastry flat, and use it to line small jam jar tart tins. Fill each space with heaped teaspoonfuls of mincemeat, and then top with a smaller circle of pastry. Wet the edges of the pastry and press down well at the sides. Cut a slit or a cross on the top of each pie, and brush with milk or egg white, and dust with caster sugar.

Bake in a moderate oven until the pies start to turn brown.  Serve hot- or cold- with brandy butter. Traditionally, the first mince pie of the season grants you a wish, but only on the condition that you don't talk while you're eating.

 

The Official Greasy Spoon Christmas Pudding

 

 

Each year, Christmas seems to start earlier and earlier. The lights have gone up in Oxford Street (do you remember that dreadful "Birds Eye" affair?), and our television set has suddenly erupted into full Christmas mode. Teflon snowflakes are having a field day. I suspect sales of Charles Dickens are on the increase.  And yet, autumn leaves remain: it's still November. The world's gone barmy.

Having said that, right now is the time to start making your Christmas Pudding; and if anything it may even be a bit on the late side. Traditionally, the Christmas Pudding was made on "Stir-Up Sunday", which was the last Sunday before Advent, (about four to five weeks before Christmas Day), but in our family we used to make it as early as late October.

I love Christmas Pudding. The way your spoon plunges into the moist (you hope!), rich, fruity mass; and the contrast with the smooth, rich, alchohol infused brandy butter.

This is the way I make The Official Greasy Spoon Christmas Pudding:

First, you need to stir up all the following ingredients in a pudding basin: 350g mixed fruit and peel (this means crystallised peel, dried apricots, currants, saltanas, raisins, grated lemon rind, and grated orange rind); 50g chopped glace cherries, 25g flaked almonds, 50g dried suet (you can't get the proper stuff anymore- the EU has made it illegal), 35g white breadcrumbs, 35g plain flour, 70g moist dark brown sugar, 50g grated apple, and a dash of mixed spice and grated nutmeg. Some weirdos add carrot- but very sensibly, I leave this one out.

Once you've stirred all the ingredients together well, mix in two beaten eggs, the juice of half a lemon and half an orange, pour in two tablespoons of a dark stout (ie Guinness), a tablespoon of black treacle, and a dash of decent Scotch Whisky. Most recipes will tell you to add brandy, but being a contrarian, I've decided that Scotch works better. Stir it like mad.

Now's the time to add the mixture to a basin. Recently, I've had this thing about those old-fashioned ball-shaped puddings- the ones you see in the illustrations of "Phiz" and in Walt Disney. A few years ago, I managed to track down a ball-shaped pudding mould from Divertimenti in the Fulham Road, and used that- but a traditional ceramic pudding basin will be just dandy. Smear the inside of the basin with butter. This will stop the pudding sticking to the side. Pour in the mixture. Top off with a piece of buttered greaseproof paper, ideally cut down to fit. Finally, place a cloth over the basin, and tie it off at the top with a bit of string.

Steam it for five to six hours. This means getting hold of a large pan, filling it about a quarter full with water and bringing it to the boil. Place the pudding in the middle of the pan, and put the lid on. The steam will rise up within the pan, and cook the pudding. Once it's cooked, leave it in a cool place with a piece of tin foil on top. It will mature in the run-up to Christmas. On the great day itself, you will need to steam it for a further three hours.

Bitter Chocolate Mousse

 

 

It's simple. It's delicious. It's a classic of French cuisine. This recipe is almost fool-proof if you follow my exact instructions.

Buy a slab of dark chocolate. Go for a chocolate with a high cocoa content (75% cocoa solids and above). I used a Swiss Lindt chocolate with over 85% cocoa solids. Melt it very slowly in a double boiler (ie a bain-marie) with about four tablespoons of water, until it's smooth and shiny. Make sure the chocolate remains warm, rather than hot. Remove it from the heat.

Next add two tablespoons of unsalted butter and a tablespoon of crème fraiche. Mix them in very slowly. Now it's time for the eggs. Take hold of three eggs (kept at room temperature), and separate the yolks from the whites. Add the three egg yolks, one by one to the chocolate mixture. Stir them in very slowly.

In a separate bowl, whisk up the remaining three egg whites. Make sure that the bowl is clean, and there is no trace of egg yolk, otherwise the whites won't get stiff.  Whisk them until they are form stiff peaks. Add a pinch of salt, and  a tablespoon or so of fructose or white sugar. This will give the egg whites a lovely gloss. Now for the fun bit.

Add a dollop of the stiff egg whites to the chocolate mixture and stir it in very, very gently with a metal spoon. You need to hold your spoon as if it was a feather.  What you don't want to do (as I did the first time I attempted this) is to stir it briskly. The lighter your touch, the lighter your mousse. It's a fine art. Slowly stir in the remaining egg white.

Divide the mixture into ramekin dishes, and place them in your 'fridge for at least three hours. If you're in a cheffy mood, you can pipe the mousse into the ramekins in arty swirls, as shown in the photograph. Decorate with shavings of white and dark chocolate. Eat.

Stone's Chop House Pancakes

With Shrove Tuesday looming (it's on the 24th February), here's a genuine pancake recipe from Stone's Chop House. Stone's was a famous old restaurant in Panton Street, near Piccadilly Circus, London. I fear it went out of business many moons ago. Here's the recipe (taken word-for-illiterate-word) from "The Best of British Cooking" published as a "book cassette" in the very early 1970's:

For 4

6 eggs

6oz caster sugar

2 tbsp double cream

2 sliced cooking apples

2 oz raisins

2oz butter

1/2 tsp cinnamon

2 tsp rum

Separate eggs and mix yolks with cream. Whip whites with sugar then fold into mixture. Pour into small frying pan (4 in for 1 pancake) heated and buttered. Place in oven for about 5 minutes at 400F (Mark 6). Remove and tip out pancake and fill with filling made by putting apple, raisins, butter and cinnamon in a pan and heating and adding rum at the end. Fold and serve, sprinkling with icing sugar.

Brandy Butter

 

 

Essential with Christmas Pudding or Mince Pies. 

Place 8oz (225g) unsalted butter into a bowl with 6oz (175g) icing sugar. Mix them up well, and then slowly pour in three tablespoons of cognac. Add the grated peel of an orange, and a small splash of fresh orange juice. Pat into a jar, and keep in the 'fridge.

Christmas Pudding

 

 

Christmas Pudding is a British obsession; I don't think our American cousins are that keen on it, which is a great shame, 'cos it's a fine old thing. I love Christmas Pudding. The way your spoon plunges into the moist (you hope!), rich, fruity mass; the contrast with the smooth, rich, alcohol infused brandy butter, and the noble tradition of soaking the pudding in even further brandy, and then setting it alight. Traditionally, the Christmas Pudding was made on "Stir-Up Sunday", which was the last Sunday before Advent, (about four to five weeks before Christmas Day). This is the way I make it:

First, you need to stir up all the following ingredients in a pudding basin: 350g mixed fruit and peel (this means crystallised peel, dried apricots, currants, saltanas, raisins, grated lemon rind, and grated orange rind); 50g chopped glace cherries, 25g flaked almonds, 50g dried suet (you can't get the proper stuff anymore- the EU has made it illegal), 35g white breadcrumbs, 35g plain flour, 70g moist dark brown sugar, 50g grated apple, and a dash of mixed spice and grated nutmeg. Some weirdos add carrot- but very sensibly, I leave this one out.

Once you've stirred all the ingredients together well, add two beaten eggs, the juice of half a lemon, and half an orange, pour in two tablespoons of a dark stout (ie Guinness), a tablespoon of black treacle, and a dash of decent Scotch Whisky. Most recipes will tell you to add brandy, but being a contrarian, I've decided that whisky works better. Stir it like mad.

Now's the time to add the mixture to a basin. Recently, I've had this thing about those old-fashioned ball-shaped puddings- the ones that you see in Dickens and Walt Disney. I managed to track down a ball-shaped pudding mould from Divertimenti in the Fulham Road, and used that- but a traditional ceramic pudding basin will be just dandy. Smear the inside of the basin with butter. This will stop the pudding sticking to the side. Pour in the mixture. Top off with a piece of buttered greaseproof paper, ideally cut down to fit. Finally, place a cloth over the basin, and tie it off at the top with a bit of string.

Steam it for five to six hours. This means getting hold of a large pan, filling it about a quarter full with water and bringing it to the boil. Place the pudding in the middle of the pan, and put the lid on. The steam will rise up within the pan, and cook the pudding. Once it's cooked, leave it in a cool place with a piece of tin foil on top. It will mature in the run-up to Christmas. On the great day itself, you will need to steam it for a further three hours.

 

White Chocolate Mousse with Cardamom

 

 

This is a simple pudding that I enjoyed recently at a dinner party in Northumberland. I'm pretty sure that I've worked out how it was made. The sickly sweetness of the white chocolate is counterbalanced by the sophisticated savoury taste of the cardamom pods.

First, warm up three tablespoons of milk in a small pan. Add some crushed cardamom pods and a bayleaf. The spices will infuse the milk with a subtle flavour. Next, very carefully melt some white chocolate over a bain-marie. If you over-heat the chocolate it will congeal into a strange, almost oily lump. Pour the infused milk through a sieve into the chocolate. Stir very carefully.

Whip up some double cream until thick and carefully fold this into the chocolate mixture.  Finally, fold in some egg whites, which you have previously whipped into stiff peaks. (Incidentally, the secret to getting your egg whites to thicken up is to make sure that your mixing bowl is completely clean and dry and that all traces of oil and fat (i.e egg yolk) are removed).

Serve the mousse in ramekin dishes, and dust with cocoa powder.

Eton Mess

This is simple, and so-very English. It's just whipped double cream, broken up meringue pieces and chopped up strawberries, served in a glass bowl. Ideal for picnics beneath the Immortal Elms, if Dutch Elm Disease hasn't got there first, that is.

I like to add a dash of brandy to the cream. Instead of the meringue, you could also use sponge fingers.

Sorbets of the World Unite...

Last night's sorbet making was a total success. The Earl Grey/Orange combination worked like a treat. I jiggled the flavours a bit, deciding that it was initially too sweet, so cut back a bit on the sugar, added more Earl Grey, and a smidgen more of the orange juice.

The fun thing about sorbets (which are easy to make), is that you can experiment with all sorts of interesting flavours. Pimm's sorbet would be fun- though bear in mind that alcohol will stop the sorbet from freezing, so it might be an idea to initially burn off the alcohol from the Pimm's, add it to the sorbet mixture, and then serve it ice-cold, with Pimm's poured over the top.

There's nothing more satisfying than coming up with a fresh idea for a recipe, experimenting with it- to get it exactly right, and then serving it up to your admiring and ravenous friends. That's what food should be all about...

Sugared Blood Oranges

 

 

If you've been following my blog, you'll know that I don't like puddings. By that, I mean English trifles, and similar concoctions covered with sickly custard, and made from sponge, and suet. It's a personal thing, but I would rather have something simple, and clean on the palette, too.

If you ever have the inclination to invite me to dinner (lucky you), the following recipe would work wonders. It's endearingly simple, and after a hard day's work at the blacking factory, undeniably easy.

Trot down to the shops and buy some Italian red blood oranges. Peel them. If there's any white pith left behind, dip the oranges quickly into boiling water, and the pith will come off. A useful tip. Cut the oranges into thick slices, and arrange them on a plate. Sprinkle them with sugar, and some grated lemon rind. Finally, garnish the dish with a sprig of mint, but, first, crush the mint gently between your fingers to release the oils and aromas.

Crêpes Suzette

Ah, Crêpes Suzette! Back in the halcyon days of the 1960's, they were considered to be the height of sophistication: flambéed at your table by suave waiters in maroon mess-jackets.

It's a great dish, and I have no time for saddos who think that Crêpes Suzette are beneath their contempt. It's exactly the same with German wine. The "BMW and Chardonnay" crowd has learnt to despise German wine- all those years of Blue Nun, and Golden Oktober (which always sounded to me like a band of East German Revolutionaries), I suppose; but what if I told you that the most revered and expensive wines in the Edwardian period were Mosels, and Hocks; and not Clarets or Burgundies? German wine may be out of fashion, but there are some wonderful wines out there, and they can be great value, too. So buy German! There, I've had my little rant. Now on with the Crêpes Suzette.

There's a nice legend about how Crêpes Suzette were invented. Henri Charpentier, an assistant waiter at Monte Carlo's cafe in Paris, claimed that he invented the Crêpes to cover up a mistake he made when preparing pancakes for the Prince of Wales (later Edward VII), and one of his numerous dollybirds, who just happened to be called Suzette. Well, it's a great story, even if I detect that Henri may have been a trifle economique with the actualite.

First, make a pancake batter. In your Magimix, blend the following ingredients together: 100g plain flour, a pinch of salt, an egg, an egg yolk, the grated rind of half an orange, 275ml of milk, and 50g melted butter. Let the batter stand for about half an hour.

To fry the pancakes, chuck a knob of butter into a sizzling hot pan, and then pour in enough batter to cover the bottom of pan. By the way, just like sex, the first one's always a mess, so don't worry if it goes wrong, throw it out, and the remaining batch will improve each time. Gently fold each pancake up on each side, put them to one side, and keep them warm.

To make the sauce, rub eight sugar lumps over the skin of an orange, and then drop the lumps into a pan once they have become saturated with the orange oils. Melt the sugar lumps in a pan very carefully over a gentle heat. They should caramelise. Next, pour in the juice of two large oranges, the juice of a lemon, and 50g of unsalted butter. Bring to the simmer, and reduce the sauce slowly. When it has thickened up, bring it to a fast boil, and add a further 50g of unsalted butter. You should get a glossy sauce. Add two tablespoons of Cointreau. Pour the sauce over the pancakes, and let the sauce soak in.

And last, but not least: the final touch. Pour some warmed Cognac over the Crepes Suzette, and apply a match. Your friends will be delighted and amazed!

If Chocolate be the Food of Love...

 

 

I’ve often thought it slightly odd that the Feast of St Valentine (that day of Love and Romance) commemorates a Roman martyr who was tortured and put to death in the most horrible fashion. Having said that, for us simple creatures of the male persuasion, Valentine’s Day can be sheer torture if you get it wrong- and, Jiminy Cricket, can you get it seriously wrong.

If you’re out to impress tonight, I would advise you to avoid restaurants at all costs. You’ll discover dewy-eyed couples holding hands, while swarthy Lotharios flog over-priced roses, serenaded by squeaky violins. It’s like appearing as out of work extras in an old episode of “The Love Boat”.

Instead, how about cooking up a romantic dinner for two over at your place? I would suggest that you keep it simple (a decent steak picked up on your way back from the Counting House would be ideal), and finish it off with strawberries dipped in chocolate.

Get hold of several bars of dark chocolate, and melt them gently in a bain-marie. This just means placing a smaller pan into a larger pan full of barely simmering water. The dark chocolate has more solids, and will be less likely to separate. Stir until you have a smooth sauce. Dip the strawberries in the chocolate, and then chuck them into the ‘fridge. With any luck, they should be set by the time you get onto the pudding course. They would go well with a Sauternes or Tokaji, too.

I’ve always admired that bit in Roman Polanski’s “Tess”, when the rakish Alec d’Urberville dangles strawberries over Nastassja Kinski’s ravishing lips. Here’s your chance! Strawberries are out of season, but who cares?

Poached Pears with Stilton Walnut Quennelles

 

 

Here's a gem I've taken from The Tate Cookbook. The Tate Gallery Restaurant (now Tate Britain), has always been one of the better London gallery restaurants, and it's also decorated with fascinating murals by the pre-war artist, Rex Whistler.

Despite being English, I have to admit to not being a "pudding" sort of person; but I like this recipe for the balance between the sweetness of the pears, and the savoury Stilton Quennelles. A Quennelle, by the way, is usually just a tablespoon of mousse, which has been poached in stock, or some other similar liquid. You may have been lucky enough to have sampled "Quennelles of Pike" if you have ever been to France- that beacon of hope and civilisation in a world gone mad.

Anyway, let's get started: Peel some pears, but keep the stalks intact, and remove the cores from the bottom end of the pears with a sharp knife, or better still, a corer. Rub the pears with lemon juice.

Chuck them into a saucepan, and add some sugar, mixed spice, about half a cup of red wine, the same again of port, and a cinnamon stick. Top up with water until the pears are covered. Bring to the boil, and then reduce the heat, and simmer until the pears are tender. They will take on an interesting dark red colour. Leave them to cool, and then take them out and set them aside. You will be left with a syrup in the bottom of the pan. Boil that away, until the syrup is reduced by a half. This will also thicken the sauce.

The Quennelles are easy. In a Magimix, whizz up some Stilton cheese (which you've previously chopped up into small pieces), with some dill, and chopped walnuts. You will end up with a paste. Season with black pepper (there's no need for salt, as the Stilton is already salty), and add some single cream.

Cut the pears in half lengthways, and then slice the pear halves downwards, so that you get nicely shaped pear slices. Fan out the pear slices on a plate, shape the Stilton mixture with a tablespoon to form a Quennelle, and place this next to the pear. Pour a little of the sauce around the pear on the plate. Voila!

 

Vodka Sorbet

 

 

I first had Vodka Sorbet at a small local restaurant in Paris, just off the rue Monsieur Le Prince in the 6eme. I'm not exactly sure how they made it, but I've come up with a method that produces very similar results. Try and use a good quality Russian vodka such as Stolichnaya.

In your favourite pan, combine a cup of sugar with two cups of water over a medium heat. When the sugar has completely dissolved, stir like mad, and bring it to the boil. Reduce the heat to low, and let it simmer for about five minutes, then take it off the heat, cover the pan, and let it stand for about ten minutes to cool off.

Next add two and half tablespoons of fresh lemon juice, and a decent slug of vodka. Pour it into a container (tupperware is ideal), and shove it into your deep freeze. When it is half-frozen, take it out and mash it together with a fork. Put it back into the freezer again.

When it's re-frozen, take it out, and blend it together in the trusty Magimix. Re-freeze. Serve it with a sprig of fresh mint, and drizzle some more cold vodka over it. You will find that cold vodka goes thick, and stops the sorbet from freezing up completely- and that's how you want it. Like other recipes from The Greasy Spoon, engagingly simple.

Savouries

 

 

I'd like to shout the cause for Savouries from the rooftops of Olde London! Not really being a pudding sort of person, I'm a huge fan. Savouries are a peculiarly English sort of thing, rarely served here anymore (apart from at crusty old-fashioned London clubs), and, I doubt very much, anywhere else in the world.

What are they? They were (or are) a popular- and rather masculine- substitute for the pudding course, and usually involved some form of toast, mushroom, egg or smoked fish, and then flavoured with spicy stuff like Lea & Perrins, and Cayenne Pepper.

I've taken two recipes from Arabella Boxer's "Book of English Food". This gem of a book is all about English food from the 1920's and 1930's. For some reason, it's almost impossible to find (was the print run miniscule?), and I had to pay a crazy amount on the internet for a copy- and it took me about six months to track one down.

Anyway, if you're tempted to make a savoury; here's how you do it: First Mushrooms on Toast (or "Champignons en Croute", as they rather cheekily used to call it at The Gasworks Restaurant, Chelsea, circa 1985):

Take some slices of white bread, remove the crusts, and then cut them into small to medium sized squares. Spread both sides very thinly with butter, and then bake them for 10-15 minutes on your oven rack at 400 F (200 C), until they are golden and crisp. Frankly, it might be easier to just fry them in olive oil in a pan. Chop up some decent brown mushrooms and fry them in butter for several minutes until they are soft. Lots of water should come out- you want to drain that off.

Next, make a classic white sauce. You should remember this from other posts: a knob of butter in the pan, flour- to make a roux, then milk and a bit of stock, salt and pepper. You want the white sauce to have a creamy consistency. Mix it in with the mushrooms, and add chopped parsley, and a splash of Lea & Perrins. Pour the mushroom mixture onto the fried bread squares, and then top off the dish with a grilled mushroom. You can serve them on a plate with a watercress garnish.

The other recipe is for Scotch Woodcock. This has nothing to do with Woodcock, game, or birds of the feathered variety. You take some anchovy fillets, and soak them in milk for about ten minutes. Make some fried bread squares (as before). Next, mix up some scrambled eggs the classic way- remember, just butter and eggs on a very low heat, and definitely no milk. But stir in some cream, salt and pepper when they are almost done. Pile the creamy scrambled eggs onto the fried bread, top them with two anchovy fillets in a cross pattern, and garnish with capers and a bit of watercress.

The Twelve Days of Christmas

 

 

King Arthur lay at Camelot upon a Christmas-tide, with many a gallant lord and lovely lady, and all the noble brotherhood of the Round Table. There they held rich revels with gay talk and jest; one while they would ride forth to joust and tourney, and again back to the court to make carols; for there was the feast holden fifteen days with all the mirth that men could devise, song and glee, glorious to hear, in the daytime, and dancing at night.

Traditionally, The Twelve Days of Christmas starts on Christmas Day, and ends on Twelfth Night. It was a time of great Medieval feasting and revelry. I'm very fond of St George's Hall, Windsor, which is an early Victorian fantasy of what a Medieval Hall should look like; and the recent restorations after the disastrous fire have been superb. There's a suit of armour there, stuck up in front of a great roundel on the wall- with all the overtones of Arthurian legend and the great Medieval poem, Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. And how suitable for a Christmas feast! In a similar vein, the engraving below shows the famous Boar's Head being brought into The Queen's College, Oxford. The boar is paraded into the Hall, to the strains of the fifteenth century Boar's Head Carol.

 

 

 

Still on the subject of Christmas food, I've got a great family recipe for Candied Fruit.

First, you need to get hold of five large oranges. Cut them in half, and squeeze out the juice. Discard the flesh, but not the pith. Next, cut the peel into strips about half an inch wide, and place them into a saucepan. Cover with boiling water and simmer for about five minutes. Drain and repeat this four times, using fresh water each time.

In a large pan, pour 250 ml (8 fl oz) of water over 1 1/2 lb of granulated sugar, and dissolve the sugar over a gentle heat. Add the orange peel, and cook them slowly, with the lid partially on, until they are soft. This should take about half an hour- or a bit longer. Leave them to cool down, and then sprinkle them with caster sugar.

Leave out to dry for a day or so- and then store them away in an air-tight tin. They are utterly delicious, and would make an original- if simple- present for someone. You can also try the same technique on lemons, but we all reckoned this Christmas, that the orange version was probably better. But as always, it's a matter of personal taste, isn't it?

Gingerbread

 

 

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

For me, the run-up to Christmas really starts about now. I was in a Black Cab with a friend a few nights ago, and as we sped through Sloane Square on the way back to the mean streets of Battersea, the Christmas lights looked fantastic. Bond Street is also currently looking pretty amazing.

Anyway, as I'm now in that sort of mood, I thought it might be a good plan to have a look at Gingerbread. As a ginger fanatic, I can't get enough of the stuff. Here is a recipe to make Gingerbread Men (I'm rebelling against the latest politically correct trend to call them Gingerbread People. The world is mad enough as it is).

I've adapted this recipe from the internet. First you need to pre-heat your oven to 170 C. Line a baking tray with baking parchment to stop the Gingerbread sticking. Melt 125g of unsalted butter, 100g dark muscavado sugar, and 4 tablespoons of golden syrup (that's the stuff in those picturesque old-fashioned tins). Sieve 325g flour, a teaspoon of bicarbonate of soda, and two teaspoons of ground ginger into a bowl, and then stir in the melted ingredientsto form a dough. Use your hands!

 

 

Turn the dough out on to a lightly floured board, and using a rolling pin, roll it out to a reasonable thickeness. I like them quite thick.

Now for the fun bit. You can use a Gingerbread Man cutter thing (available from cookshops) to make Gingerbread Men, or if you prefer other shapes, you can make stars, and biscuits, and goodies like that. Place them on the tray, shove in the oven, and cook them for about nine to ten minutes. When they're cooked properly, you can decorate them with icing. Frankly, I can't be bothered, and they're long gone before then. Patience is a virtue- and it ain't found in me.

Christmas Pudding

 

 

Look, this may seem completely loopy-loo, but now is the time to start making your Christmas Pudding; and if anything it may even be a bit on the late side. Traditionally, the Christmas Pudding was made on "Stir-Up Sunday", which was the last Sunday before Advent, (about four to five weeks before Christmas Day), but in our family we used to make it as early as late October.

I love Christmas Pudding. The way your spoon plunges into the moist (you hope!), rich, fruity mass; and the contrast with the smooth, rich, alchohol infused brandy butter. Nearer Christmas, I'll have fun writing about that festive sauce.

This is the way I make The Official Greasy Spoon Christmas Pudding: First, you need to stir up all the following ingredients in a pudding basin: 350g mixed fruit and peel (this means crystallised peel, dried apricots, currants, saltanas, raisins, grated lemon rind, and grated orange rind); 50g chopped glace cherries, 25g flaked almonds, 50g dried suet (you can't get the proper stuff anymore- the EU has made it illegal), 35g white breadcrumbs, 35g plain flour, 70g moist dark brown sugar, 50g grated apple, and a dash of mixed spice and grated nutmeg. Some weirdos add carrot- but very sensibly, I leave this one out.

Once you've stirred all the ingredients together well, add two beaten eggs, the juice of half a lemon, and half an orange, pour in two tablespoons of a dark stout (ie Guinness), a tablespoon of black treacle, and a dash of decent Scotch Whisky. Most recipes will tell you to add brandy, but being a contrarian, I've decided that Scotch works better. Stir it like mad.

Now's the time to add the mixture to a basin. Recently, I've had this thing about those old-fashioned ball-shaped puddings- the ones you see in Dickens and in Walt Disney. I managed to track down a ball-shaped pudding mould from Divertimenti in the Fulham Road, and used that- but a traditional ceramic pudding basin will be just dandy. Smear the inside of the basin with butter. This will stop the pudding sticking to the side. Pour in the mixture. Top off with a piece of buttered greaseproof paper, ideally cut down to fit. Finally, place a cloth over the basin, and tie it off at the top with a bit of string.

Steam it for five to six hours. This means getting hold of a large pan, filling it about a quarter full with water and bringing it to the boil. Place the pudding in the middle of the pan, and put the lid on. The steam will rise up within the pan, and cook the pudding. Once it's cooked, leave it in a cool place with a piece of tin foil on top. It will mature in the run-up to Christmas. On the great day itself, you will need to steam it for a further three hours.

Bananas Foster

 

 

I went to an interesting wine tasting last night, and sampled a yeasty Veuve Clicquot vintage champagne, some excellent single malts, and a range of fabulous salty sherries. As I've just about recovered, this evening I've decided to write about Bananas Foster.

Bananas Foster was invented in 1951 by Paul Blange of Brennan's Restaurant in New Orleans. It's an American classic.

Here's my version: First, catch some bananas. Peel them, and slice them diagonally. In a shallow frying pan, saute the bananas in some unsalted butter. Next, sprinkle on some brown sugar, and some ground cinammon. You want the butter to caramelise in the sugar, so baste the bananas with the sugary, cinnamony butter. After a few minutes, your sauce will go slightly brown. That's how you want it.

 

 

Now for the fun part. Pour in a generous slug of rum. I used Mount Gay rum from Barbados. Mount Gay was first produced in 1703, so it claims to be the oldest rum in the world. And I'm sure it is. I don't doubt that for one minute. Tip the pan towards the gas, and the rum and butter sauce will ignite. If you're one of those unfortunates with an electric stove, use a match.

The whole point of the flambé is to burn off the alchohol and the fats, so that a delicately flavoured sauce is left behind. After a minute or so, the flames will die down. If they don't, you've got a fire on your hands.

Serve the flambéed bananas over some vanilla ice-cream in individual ice cream glasses. Pour over the remaining sauce from the pan, but let the sauce cool down slightly to avoid shattering the glass. Serve it fast- before the ice cream melts. It's simple, it's excellent, it's delicious.

Oranges with Cognac and Caramel

 

 

Now for a bit of old fashioned nepotism. This recipe is from the ABC of Tried and Tested Recipes by Marigold Honey, which you can buy from amazon.co.uk.

Take 6-8 oranges, peel them, and cut some of the peel into thin strips. Into a small saucepan add 3 oz of granulated sugar, 5 fl oz of water, a cinnamon stick, and the orange peel. Melt this slowly over a lowish heat, stir and bring to the boil. Simmer for a minute or so, until the liquid starts to thicken up, then add a dash of cognac, and a slug of Cointreau.

 

 

 

 

Meanwhile, slice the oranges as thinly as possible, and tip them into a glass bowl. Pour over the cooled syrup. Next, make a caramel by melting 3oz of sugar in water, and then boiling it hard until it starts to turn brown. This is your caramel. Pour the brown liquid into an oiled tin, and leave to set.

When it's hard, you will be able to break it up with a hammer. Sprinkle the caramel pieces onto the syrupy oranges, and top off with some flaked almonds-  which you've previously dry roasted in a non-stick frying pan. Remove the cinammon stick and serve.