The Greasy Spoon

Jellied Eels Revisited

I first wrote about Jellied Eels back in 2007, when we had a look at Tubby Isaac's famous East End eel stall. I still have mixed feelings about jellied eels. I want to like 'em, and indeed, I'm almost at the point of becoming an aficinado, but if the truth be told, given half the chance, I'd sooner plump for a decent oyster on the shell, or a lovely cut of smoked eel with horseradish sauce.

Back in the good old days, eels were the staple diet of the London poor. The Thames Estuary is full of the critters, and as the Thames is now so much cleaner than it was say, forty years ago, eels are coming back in force.

I suspect the best way to enjoy jellied eels is to cook them yourself.  A few months ago, I had a bowl of jellied eels as a first course (from memory, think it was at Jack's Place in Battersea); and I don't remember them being especially good (not that I want to denigrate Jack's in any way; a splendid institution and long may it thrive!).

I've trawled through several very old-fashioned Mrs Beeton type cook-books on your behalf, and come up with a definitive recipe:

First, catch some eels. Chop them into 2 inch thick pieces, and plunge them into a large pan of boiling water with a generous dash of sea salt. Take them off the boil, and let them stand for five minutes.

Next, take a pan or dish, and throw in the eels. Pour in a pint of water (so that the eels are covered), and add three tablespoons of malt vinegar, a squeeze of lemon juice, some thinly sliced onions, carrots and celery, a bayleaf, a few peppercorns, sea salt, chopped parsley, and nutmeg.

Bring to the boil, reduce and simmer for twenty minutes, until the eels are tender. Remove the cooked eels and place them in a deep serving dish or bowl.  Strain the 'liquor' over the eels, and when cool, bung it into the 'fridge.  Eels are naturally gelatinous, so the liquid should set.  If it doesn't, be prepared to add some liquid gelatine to the mix.  According to one book, the chopped parsley gives "the jelly the traditional hint of green, like the sea".  What a nice idea.

Serve the jellied eels with chili vinegar.

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Lüchow's German Cookbook

Here's an interesting and reasonably scarce book I've just bought on ebay for a few pounds. It's Lüchow's German Cookbook, written by Jan Mitchell, and first published in 1955.  Actually, this is the first British Edition, and the first American edition was published a few years earlier.

According to wikipedia:

"Lüchow's was a restaurant in New York City formerly located at 110-112 East 14th Street, with the property running clear through the block to 13th street. It was founded in 1882 when a waiter, August Lüchow, purchased the German restaurant and beer garden he had been working at, and remained in operation for a full century, closing in 1982 after a suspicious fire gutted the building.

The decor included over sixty paintings, many by well-known artists such as Francisco Goya, Anthony Van Dyck, Van Mienis, Snydes and Sweden's August Haagborg. The Haagborg was purchased by Lüchow at the 1904 St Louis World Fair. There was also a collection of over two hundred beer steins, and a number of mounted hunting trophies made from animals shot by Lüchow. In 1957, the restaurant included seven dining rooms, among them the Hunting Room, which contained the trophies, and the Niebelungen Room, decorated with murals based on Richard Wagner's Ring Cycle operas."

I was amused to see that none other than the great Marlene Dietrich was a regular patronne (of course she was!), and that her favourite dish was Vienna Backhaänderl, with which she drank Moselle (of course she did!). 

Those were the days. How refreshing to be able to stroll into your local German restaurant, sit underneath a Goya say, or a Van Dyck and order a Schnitzel Hostein, washed down with an excellent sweetish Hock. 

Here's the Lüchow recipe for "Marlene Dietrich's Vienna Backhaänderl", aka "Viennese Baked Chicken":

3 young chickens (about 2 ½ pounds each), cleaned and drawn

1 tablespoon of salt

1 cup flour

3 eggs, beaten with ¼ cup of water

2 ½ cups fine bread crumbs

Fat for deep frying

1 lemon, sliced

Rinse chickens; drain. Cut each in half, pat dry. Sprinkle with salt. Roll each piece in flour. Dip in egg, then in crumbs. Fry in hot fat, lowering each piece carefully into fat to avoid shaking crumbs off. When golden brown, place in baking pan, and bake in hot oven (400℉) until well browned. Lower heat to 325℉ after crust is firm, and continue baking until done; about 40 minutes in all. Place on thick paper towelling in a pan; set in oven, but leave oven door open. Season lightly with salt. Garnish with lemon, and serve on warmed dish. Serves 6.

Chicken Kiev

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Pink Gin

The Pink Gin is a forgotten cocktail, 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 cocktail, 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. Top it up with iced water, to taste. The finished cocktail has a lovely, very light pink colour. Or is that stating the obvious?

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Mario and Franco and London's Trattoria Revolution

I've just heard Alasdair Scott Sutherland talking about his interesting new book on BBC Radio London. It's called The Spaghetti Tree: Mario and Franco and the Trattoria Revolution and looks at the growth of Italian restaurants in Sixties London, and in particular, the careers of Franco Lagattolla and Mario Cassandro; former waiters at The Mirabelle who opened the starry La Trattoria Terrazza in Romilly Street, Soho, in 1959; subsequently patronised by the likes of David Bailey, Michael Caine and Princess Margaret (I'm finding that "Princess Margaret ate here" is fast becoming a favourite mantra).

Franco Lagattolla published his own cookbook (with illustrations by Enzo Apicella) in 1978. It's called: The Recipes that Made a Million.  Here's his recipe for Salsa Verde.  Do you remember all the trouble and angst I had to go through when I attempted to make Elizabeth David's walnut sauce? Franco's version leaves out the walnuts, and is quite definitely served cold:

"Soak two tablespoons of fresh, white breadcrumbs in vinegar and then squeeze them out. Work one hard-boiled egg yolk to a paste, mix together with the bread and add four tablespoons of very finely chopped parsley, one finely chopped garlic clove and one teaspoon of chopped capers. Blend in one cup of olive oil. Season with salt and milled black pepper. If necessary, sharpen with a little more vinegar. Let this piquant sauce stand for at least one hour."

Devilled Kidneys

I don't think I've written about Devilled Kidneys before. Very English, very clubby; not to everyone's taste, but certainly to mine. This recipe is similar to the one in Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall's book The River Cottage Meat Book, but frankly, as this dish is an absolute classic- it could have come from anywhere.

First you heat up some oil in a pan.  Next you cut some lamb's kidneys into quarters, first trimming away the whitish core. Drop the kidneys into the pan, and sauté them very briefly. Add a dash of sherry, bubble it away, and add a further dash of cider vinegar.

Next, add a spoonful of redcurrant jelly, and allow it to melt. Now it's time for a generous dash of Worcestershire Sauce, a good pinch of Cayenne Pepper, a dollop of English Mustard (it's got to be Colman's), and ground Black Pepper.

Season with a pinch of sea salt, and mix in a spoonful or two of double cream. Bubble it away until the sauce is glossy. Serve on fried bread, and garnish with freshly chopped parsley.

It's important not to overcook the kidneys: you want them rare s'il vous plait.

Boiled Bacon and Cabbage with Parsley Sauce

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Thrift and the Art of the Home Made

Do you remember the craze for home-made wine and beer?  Back in the 1970's it seems everyone was at it. Maybe it had something to do with the Real Ale, Beard and Sandals brigade- then, vaguely in fashion; but if I had to point a long finger at any root cause, it would be at the now forgotten concept of "thrift".  

This is something that we lost in the Eighties, Nineties and Naughties; but with the onslaught of the credit crunch (dreadful expression, that), I suspect is coming back into vogue. My father brewed his own beer and lager, and my poor mother had to put up with an evil-smelling red plastic bucket, which he kept in the kitchen cupboard (it was exactly the right temperature, apparently). Consequently, our hovel smelt like an outpost of Whitbread's.

Beer making was touchingly ritualistic: there was all the interesting paraphernalia you bought from Boot's, lots of "tut-tutting' over thermometers, and then the excitement of the first tasting. I seem to remember the lager tasted all right (if a bit soapy), but the bitter (how can I put this delicately, needed urgent revision.

Do it yourself wine making might be a noble and arcane rural pursuit worthy of re-discovery. A few years ago, I paid a visit to some Old Boy down in Stoke Poges- ostensibly to value his antique nick-knacks; but of a far greater interest were the dusty bottles lurking in his potting shed. Pigeon Fancying and Wine making were his hobbies- indeed his passions- and spurred on by my sudden enthusasiam, he urged me to sample his wares. Every bottle had been neatly labelled in a spidery handwriting, ready for tasting. Was Dandelion '73 better than Carrot '84? Was '92 a bad year for Cowslip?  Had he put too much sugar into the Elderflower "Champagne"? And so on, and so forth.

Now, I'm currently in a money pinching, tight-fisted mood, worthy of that shining example to us all: Ebeneezer Scrooge; and I salute the enterprise of Mr What Not of Stoke Poges. 

And on the same tack, what's happened to SodaStream? Those of us of a certain vintage will remember this well. Home-made tonic water, bitter lemon, and ersatz " cola" costing tuppence a shot. They seem to have a website going, though I don't know anyone whose got one.  And don't you have to get carbon di-oxide canister refills from somewhere? I'll have to investigate.

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Gaswork Memories

Hands up who remembers The Gasworks?  Twenty odd years ago, I started my glamorous career in the so-called Art World- as a porter at a well-known auctioneers to be found in the grotty fag-end of The King's Road, London; humping antique brown furniture from lorry to saleroom, and stacking shabby Victorian paintings against the brick walls of the warehouse. A favourite after-work refuge was The Gasworks restaurant (a last gasp of the myth that was Swinging London), in that no man's land between Chelsea and Fulham- a former haunt of Princess Margaret, the Rolling Stones and, if the internet is to be believed, Noel Gallagher.

Where on earth do I begin?  This was a London institution, where eccentricity became a creed. Outside, it looked a bit like a private house, with its green painted stucco, latticed windows of stained glass, garish window boxes, and niches filled with ponderous busts and Neo-Classical statues. The proprietors were- how can I put this politely?- different. Shells (Cheryl?) of Wagnerian proportion, fag in mouth and forthright opinion, ruled over her kitchen, offering a choice of rack of lamb (some lover-ly lamb, dearie?) or duck 'all orange'.  Jacks, her husband, was a thin, dapper man with a trimmed grey beard and silk stockings. Rumour had it that he had previously held some sort of vague career in the antiques business. He liked to join you for an after dinner cigar- this had more than a whiff of Reggie and Ronnie about it.

The dining room was reminiscent of an Edward Gorey illustration or a Pinewood set from that early 70's meisterwerk, The Legend of Hell House. Here was the perfect place to lie on a chaise longue, sip a gin and tonic and admire the Victorian bric-a brac: pornographic chess sets, oil paintings of dubious antiquity and provenance, heavy gilt frames, doubtful portraits in the manner of Greuze, and wall-mounted taxidermy; all set off by a long, polished mahogany dining table, high-back 'Jacobethan' chairs and a massive chandelier.

Choice was not a word in The Gasworks' vocabulary: champignons en croute (a nice bit of tinned mushroom poised daintily on a slice of toasted Sunblest) or avocado pear; rack ('racked' being the operative word) of lamb or assassinated duck; some sort of gateaux horror topped with UHT cream from a spray-on aerosol. Indeed, The Gasworks seemed to be almost obsessed with the trend setting avocado: their seemingly endless supply was stacked up high in the corridor which led to the bogs, which, in turn were lined to the ceiling with amusing nineteenth century erotica.

I held my 30th birthday party there  (I was less interested in food, then), and as that night finished in the wee wee hours (Jack locked the front door at midnight) and the alcohol flowed, my memory is decidedly hazy. Pearl, the long-suffering waiter, rather sweetly made me a little chocolate cake with the word 'Love' piped on the top in very shaky handwriting. 

If they approved of you for some reason (as a wannabe auctioneer, I was in 'the biz', Guv), everything was just dandy. If they didn't (and this could change on a daily basis, as when my brother in law had a bit of mutton bone pointed directly at him, and told that he was 'evil'), you couldn't even get past the oak studded door. An earnest European couple in immaculate Loden coats, no doubt enticed by the cosy Englishness of the bow windowed exterior and the enchanting prospect of avocado vinaigrette, had the door slammed in their faces and were told to 'get lorst, and don't even think of comin' back!'.

But a few months ago I did go back. From the outside, everything looked the same: Jack's black Rolls-Royce corniche (fitted with darkened glass and vanity numberplates) was still parked opposite, and the house looked immaculate. But most ominously, the menu had been taken down. We threw gravel at the upstairs windows, but the net curtains remained firmly closed, and we didn't even get a twitch. Sadly, it looks like Jacks and Shells are no longer plying their trade. I do hope they haven't gone to the great gasworks in the sky, and are enjoying their retirement. That fast changing corner of SW6 won't be the same without them. Even without the duck.

The Gasworks, 87 Waterford Road, Fulham, London, SW6 2ET (020 7736 3830)

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.