The Greasy Spoon

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.

 

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.

 

 

Nope, 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.

 

Kallo Organic Chicken Stock Cubes

 

I tried these the other day and thought they were good. They're "Improved Recipe Original Organic Free Range Chicken Stock Cubes" by Kallo; gluten and lactose-free, too- whatever that means. No Monosodium Glutamate (boo hoo!), artificial colours, flavours or preservatives.

If you can't be bothered to brew up your own chicken stock (we do this on a regular basis, and freeze it), this could be your answer. They've got an intense chicken flavour and, in my opinion, are most certainly better than the good old Knorr's version- unbelievably championed by than none other than one Marco Pierre White of infamous Wheeler's fame.

I once had dinner with a pair of sophisticated Italian sisters in Milan. They had a thing about "Mr Knorr" (along with the American Campbell's soup) which they seemed to think was the height of retrospective British cuisine. What they didn't realise is that Knorr, in fact, is a German brand, now owned by the Anglo-Dutch corporation, Unilever. And, no- I haven't got shares in Kallo, or had temptation dangled in front of me by some eager PR girl. This is a genuine recommendation.

 

 

The Greasy Spoon's Swedish Style Dressing

 

 

Recently, I find that I'm looking for increased simplicity in food. I've said this before, and there's no guilt in saying it again. Classic dishes, cooked properly (using the correct techniques) and presented simply- and not too much of it, either. Less is more. The dreaded garnishes are out too: nothing worse than those two ridiculous chive snippets placed at jaunty right angles to each other on top of a dish, forming a cross- I'm sure you know what I'm getting at. The sort of thing you see in "gastro-pubs", where it's all about poncy presentation, rather than flavour and technique. In fact, I'm currently rather in favour of ditching garnishes all together. Nothing More, Nothing Less.

I'm keen on lighter dishes, too. It's interesting that Scandinavian food is currently all the rage. Mrs Aitch gave me a signed copy of the Noma cookbook for Christmas, which was a terrific present: it's all ligonberries and wild flowers served up on stone palettes. I like this a lot.

 

 

So I've come up with my own version of a light Swedish dressing. It's water based and there's no oil in it. I suppose it is fat-free, though as it's also packed with salt and sugar, I would have thought that one evil has been ruled out by another. Or vice versa. But it's definitely light and delicate in taste, and I think your guests will love it; especially the girls.

I tipped several tablespoons of white sugar into a small pan and then spashed a rather expensive balsamic white wine vinegar we happened to have in the cupboard over the sugar. You'll need to experiment here: I found that I needed to use quite a bit of sugar (and less of the vinegar) to end up with a balanced taste.

Warm the pan, so that the sugar dissolves in the vinegar and forms a syrup. You want to thicken it up, but you definitely don't want to caramelise it. Cook it very gently for a minute or so. As there's going to be no oil in the dressing, this syrup, in effect, replaces the oil and needs to have body. Remove the pan from the heat.

Add a few pinches of salt, and a generous squeeze of fresh lemon juice. Whisk in several tablespoons of water and serve cold. You could also steep the dressing in fresh dill for a few hours before serving, which I think would taste delicious.

Sunday, Bloody Sunday

 

 

 

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

Cream of Tarragon and Vanilla Sauce

 

 

 

 

 

You know, there really isn't such a thing as a brand new recipe. It's all been done before. The other day, I "invented"- or at least, thought I did- a delicious new piquant sauce based on the licorice flavours of tarragon, combined with the creamy, slightly sugary floral flavour of vanilla; and hey presto! I see that one of the top 50 restaurants in the world already has it on their menu.  Shucks. I think it would work brilliantly with chicken, and perhaps, even better with a meaty fish, monkfish, perhaps- even salmon?

Before I tell you how I made it, here's a brief look at the two main ingredients, tarragon (Artemisia dracunculus) and vanilla. I'm quite keen on growing herbs in our London garden (sometimes it's an uphill struggle), but I've never managed to grow tarragon properly. I gather this is a difficult one. Rather splendidly, Tarragon also goes under the alternative name of "Dragon's Wort". The serpentine shape of tarragon's roots made herbalists believe that it could cure snake bite, hence the Latin "dracunculus", meaning "Little Dragon". There are two varieties of tarragon, French and Russian. Russian tarragon is easier to grow but doesn't taste as good as French tarragon.

Vanilla comes from an orchid native to Mexico and after saffron, is the second most expensive spice in the world. The Spanish word "vainilla" means "little pod". Originally cultivated by Pre-Columbian Mesoamerican peoples, the Spanish conquistador Hernán (or Hernando) Cortés is credited with introducing both vanilla and chocolate to Europe in the 1520's. 

 

 

Here's how to make Cream of Tarragon and Vanilla Sauce, courtesy of The Greasy Spoon:

Melt some unsalted butter in a smallish pan; chop up about three of four shallots and sweat them gently in the butter. Turn up the heat and add a generous slug of a dry vermouth such as Noilly Prat (rhymes with cat). Bubble away to burn off the alcohol. Add a dash of balsamic white vinegar and let the sauce bubble for a minute or so. 

Next, pour in some decent chicken stock, add a scraped out vanilla pod and seeds, and a handful of chopped tarragon leaves. Reduce on a high heat, until the broth is reduced by about half- and starts to thicken. Strain through a seive into a new, clean and cold pan, discarding the tarragon leaves, vanilla and shallots. Alllow the sauce to cool down for a few minutes. 

Very carefully (so that it doesn't curdle) mix in a small tub of double cream. Turn your stove up to a high heat and reduce (with only the very occasional stir) until the sauce is reasonably thick. Check the seasoning and if necessary add some Maldon Sea Salt and White Pepper. For that extra vanilla kick, you could always substitute the Maldon Salt with a pinch or two of Vanilla Fleur de Sel, the delicious (and expensive) vanilla flavoured sea salt you can buy from French delis. Stir in some freshly chopped tarragon leaves. Warm through and serve. This sauce is really about four flavours: aniseed (from the tarragon and the vermouth), vanilla, salt and the sweet-sharp taste of balsamic vinegar. I think it works, and I like it.

Skate with Black Butter Sauce

 

 

"Skate with Black Butter" is a classic French working man's dish. The sort of thing (or so I imagine) they used to eat in the cafés and bistros of the old Les Halles market in Paris. Back in the old days. In the early hours of the morning. I don't cook it as often as I should, but it's incredibly easy to make, and quick off the mark, too. The "Black Butter Sauce" is another old-fashioned classic, which you can use with any white fish, and is excellent with fried eggs too- but more of that later.

Back to the skate. You will need to buy "skate wings" from the fishmonger. Skate are those rather primeval looking fish, which are members of the Ray family (family Rajidae in the superorder Batoidea) and because they have low reproductive rates, are vulnerable to over-fishing: so be aware that currently there is an ethical debate going on out there about whether indeed, you should be eating the critters at all.

 

The flesh of the skate is delicate and delicious. I'm still not entirely sure about the bones, and I'm no fuss pot, I tell you. You scrape the flesh off the bones with your fork, leaving behind a skeletal frame on the plate, which for some reason, reminds me of a pterodactyl carcass. It's all terrifyingly pre-historic.

This is how you cook it: clean the skate wings, and dust them lightly with seasoned flour. Heat up a frying pan and when its hot, add butter and grapeseed oil. The oil will help to stop the butter burning. Crank down the heat, and fry the skate for a few minutes on each side. Take out the cooked skate, and set it aside.

The so-called "black" butter sauce is easy. Heat up a decent knob of butter on a low heat until it begins to turn brown. You want it to be a caramel brown colour, not in fact, black, which would mean that it had burnt. The recipe title is misleading, I know. When it's brown, add a squeeze of lemon juice, some chopped flat-leaf parsley and some capers. The hot butter has a tendency to split when you add the acid, so it might be a good idea to turn the heat down even further when this happens. Arrange the sauce over the fish, and serve.

You can also pour the black butter sauce over a fried egg (ouefs au buerre noir), though if doing so, I would use a white balsamic vinegar, instead of lemon juice. According to David Ogivily in his autobiography, "Confessions of an Advertising Man", this was the chefs' favourite late night snack at the Majestic Hotel, Paris.

Lea & Perrins Tomato and Worcester Sauce

 

 

 

Many of you will know that I am a huge fan of Lea & Perrins; indeed, "The Greasy Spoon" has almost become a tribute website to the stuff.  "Tomato and Worcester Sauce" is their latest sensation. I'm not entirely sure about it: it's a bit like a pair of co-respondent shoes or a variegated shrub- it can't make up its mind whether it's Worcestershire sauce or Heinz-style tomato ketchup.

What does it taste like, I hear you ask?  Well, either like Worcestershire sauce with a dollop of tomato ketchup, or tomato ketchup with a dollop of Worcestershire sauce.  A sort of British version of American barbeque sauce, without the hickory bit.

A few days ago, Mrs Aitch treated me to a superb lunch at The Boundary- currently my favourite number one restaurant.  I would love to know how they made their Bloody Marys.  They were sweeter in taste (sherry and lemon juice?), spicy and dark red in colour.  I've got a sneaky feeling they may have added a significant dash of Lea & Perrin's new sauce.  It's the sort of thing they're selling in the Albion Food Store, which can be found on the ground floor above the restaurant.

Béchamel Sauce

 

 

 

As promised, here's a recipe for the classic Béchamel Sauce. In England it's known as a "White Sauce".

 

According to the Larousse Gastronomique, the sauce is named after the "Marquis de Béchamel, Marquis de Nointel (1630–1703), a financier who held the honorary post of Chief Steward to Louis XIV.  Béchamel is an improvement upon a similar, earlier sauce, the Tuscan "salsa colla", imported from Italy to France by Catherine de' Medici.  It first appeared in "Le Cuisinier François", published in 1651 by François Pierre La Varenne (1615–1678), chef de cuisine to Nicolas Chalon du Blé, Marquis d'Uxelles.

The Escoffier method is considered to be definitive: make a white flour butter roux from equal parts of unsalted butter and flour, i.e. melt a big knob of unsalted butter in a hot small pan, and stir in an equal measure of flour. Next, gradually whisk in hot milk. As the flour cooks, it will form a smooth sauce. Season with sea salt, add an onion studded with a clove, and cook for eighteen minutes.

Hollandaise Sauce

 

 

 

I'm sure you all know how to make Hollandaise Sauce. You'll need it to make Omelette Arnold Bennett.  If you've forgotten, here's how: Melt 225g (8oz) of butter in a pan. In the meantime, liquidize two egg yolks with the juice of one lemon and season with white pepper. When the butter is hot, turn the liquidizer on full blast, and slowly pour in the butter.

That's it. Make sure it's served hot, and that it doesn't get too thick. Nothing worse than luke-warm and gloopy Hollandaise Sauce. And it's perfect, of course, with English Asparagus- not long to wait now..

Smoked Eel with Creamed Horseradish Sauce

 

 

Racking my brains for an appropriate Christmas Lunch or Boxing Day first course, I've come up with the idea of giving 'em Smoked Eel, served with a Creamed Horseradish Sauce. For some reason, this seems to me to be a suitable choice, and I think the subtle smokiness of the eel will balance all the richness and over-stuffing to follow.

If you've never had smoked eel, forget all the "cor blimey, Guv, jellied eel" nonsense. Smoked eel tastes entirely different, and with a properly made horseradish sauce, might even prove to be a sophisticated option.

It's not especially cheap, I have to admit. We've just ordered our smoked eel from the excellent Brown and Forrest, and an 8oz pack of smoked eel fillets (hot smoked over beech and apple) costs £14.00. You will need about 2oz per person.

We're going to serve it with slices of lemon and creamed horseradish sauce. I'm basing this on Simon Hopkinson's version:

First you need to make a horseradish concentrate. Peel a horseradish root and grate it finely across the base of the root. You will need 200g of the stuff.

Next, put the grated horseradish into a food processor. Add five tablespoons of water, two teaspoons of Maldon Salt, one and a half tablespoons of caster sugar, two and a half tablespoons of lemon juice, and two and a half tablespoons of white wine vinegar. Purée the ingredients until smooth. You will be able to keep the horseradish concentrate in a Kilner jar for up to two weeks.

When you want to make the creamed horseradish sauce, it's simplicity itself. Take four tablespoons of the horseradish concentrate you've made earlier, and whisk it into 200ml of double cream, adding a little bit more sugar and salt, to taste.

Cumberland Sauce

 

 

 

 

I had a minor tiff with Mrs Aitch the other day. As we were watching "Delia's Christmas" on television (there's been a fresh outbreak), I suggested, in my superior way, that Delia's version of Cumberland Sauce was too thin. Mrs Aitch pointed out that Cumberland Sauce should never be too thick, and should always be served cold. Well, of course, after a bit of research, I discovered that Mrs Aitch and Saint Delia were right, and The Greasy Spoon was wrong.

I love Cumberland Sauce, and think it's utterly, completely delcious. In my opinion, it's infinitely a cut above the ubiquitous Cranberry Sauce, though I think, from memory, that we're planning to offer both on Christmas Day. Cumberland Sauce works brilliantly with ham, bacon and turkey.

There's quite a bit of useful historical info in Elizabeth David's superb little book, Elizabeth David's Christmas, edited by Jill Norman. I've recommended this one before, and I'm very happy to recommend it again.

According to Mrs David, the first mention of Cumberland Sauce in any published cookery book, comes as late as 1904, in Alfred Suzanne's "La Cuisine Anglaise". The great Alexis Soyer, however, published a similar German recipe for "a sauce to go with Boar's Head" as early as 1853.

Elizabeth David reckoned it to be the best Cumberland Sauce recipe, and it's almost identical to the family recipe I'm about to give you. The only substantial difference is that Soyer added a heaped teaspoon of English Mustard (Elizabeth David uses Dijon) to the redcurrant jelly, and Mrs David specifies Medium Tawny Port.

Peel of the skin of an orange, and then cut the skin into "julienne" (very thin strips). Put the orange strips into a pan with some water and bring to the boil. This will remove any bitterness from the orange peel.

In another small pan, melt four heaped tablespoons of redcurrant jelly, with a teaspoon of ground ginger. Stir well, until the redcurrant jelly and the ginger have combined. (If you're going to add mustard, add it now).

Redcurrant jelly is best described as a smooth English sweet, fruity jam (or jelly to my American readers) which we normally eat with lamb. It's available in ready-made in jars- though I have to admit, I have no idea if it's easily obtainable in America or not; so, if you live on that side of the pond, you may well have to track the stuff down on the internet, or see if you local deli stocks it.

Redcurrant jelly will act as a thickening agent, but true Cumberland sauce should really have a thinnish consistency, so try to keep it reasonably runny- if it coats the back of a spoon, you know it's about right.

Now's the time to pour in a decent slug of port, the juice of one orange, and the juice of half a lemon. Stir well, then add the blanched orange strips (which you've previously taken out of the hot water, and drained).

You will be left with a tangy, fruity, gingery, port-infused dark red sauce- which will act as a balance to the salt in the ham. I can best describe it as the taste of Christmas. Nostalgic. Oh- and one last word of advice from Mrs Aitch: Cumberland Sauce should always be served cold, so don't try and warm it up; otherwise you're going to find yourself in trouble...

Thousand Island Dressing

 

 

I suppose there's something a bit tacky about the ubiquitous Thousand Island Dressing. It's that thick, slightly synthetic pink stuff which comes in jars, served alongside burgers and dubious salads. But like other classic foods, it's got an interesting history. There are various theories. Here's one of them:

A certain George LaLonde Jr., fisherman of Clayton, Upstate New York, hosted guided fishing parties, which included a group "shore" lunch as part of the day's attraction. It was at one of these fishing lunches, that the actress and cookery writer, Miss May Irwin, first tasted the "unusual" (then un-named) dressing, made to Mrs LaLonde's own special recipe.

May Irwin liked it so much that she asked for the recipe, named it "Thousand Island Dressing", and passed it on to the owner of the Waldorf Astoria Hotel, George C. Boldt, who in turn, instructed his famous maitre d', Oscar Tschirky to serve it in his restaurant.

Have you noticed how Oscar Tschirky seems to crop up every time I write about American food history?  Tschirky sounds like a bit of a live-wire, and seems to have been credited with not only the creation of the Veal Oscar, but also the Waldorf Salad and Eggs Benedict. Either that, or he was a brilliant self-publicist. Anyway.

I've trawled the net for the original recipe- and of course, as with so many "classic" dishes, there are many different versions. Here's my reasonably authentic take on it. If any readers (especially from the Thousand Islands area of Upstate New York) want to give us their own "proper" recipe, please hit that comment button now.

Make a good mayonnaise, preferably using grapeseed oil and a touch of olive oil. Mix in a generous spoonful of tomato ketchup, a dash of Worcestershire Sauce, a teaspoon of white sugar, a dash of white vinegar, a pinch of ground cloves, a dollop of sweet pickle or relish, chopped black olives, a small diced red bell pepper, some chopped chives, and a sprinkling of chopped hard-boiled egg white. Season to taste with sea salt and white pepper.

Horseradish and Tomato Ketchup

 

 

One of my favourite restaurants in New York is the Grand Central Oyster Bar. I've always found this place a bit incongrous, and those of you who have been there will know what I am talking about: it's a labyrinth of sparkling marble and mosaic tiled rooms, decorated in the Byzantine style, and built directly underneath the station, offering an extensive choice of oysters from every shore in the United States.

And with the oysters comes a spicy horseradish and tomato sauce (or ketchup), served up in those little paper cups. You'll also find this sauce in American diners. I've noticed that some Americans just call it "horseradish sauce", which is slightly confusing as it's red in colour, and quite clearly contains tomato; while here in Perfidious Albion, "horseradish sauce" is the creamy stuff we serve with the roast beef of Merry Old England. You say tomato, we say tomarto, let's call the whole thing off.

 

Here's a good (if slightly lengthy) way to make your own version. I've based it on Simon Hopkinson's wonderful book Week in Week Out, which is currently The Greasy Spoon's "Book of the Month". The secret lies in making both the horseradish concentrate and the tomato juice ahead of time, and then keeping both of them in the 'fridge. The horseradish concentrate can also be used for English style creamed horseradish sauce and delicious horseradish mousse. The homemade tomato juice can be used for mixing Bloody Mary's.

First you need to make a homemade horseradish concentrate: Grate 200g of peeled horseradish root into a food processor and add five tablespoons of water, two teaspoons of Maldon Salt, 1 ½ tablespoons of caster sugar, 2½ tablespoons of lemon juice and 2½ tablespoons of white wine vinegar. Make sure you peel the horseradish and then grate it across the base of the root. Whizz it up in the food processor until smooth, and then tip it into a Kilner jar (it should keep in the 'fridge for up to two weeks).

Next, you need to make a homemade tomato juice: take 1kg of very ripe tomatoes and core and cut them up into quarters. Put them in a large pan. Add a heaped teaspoon of Maldon Salt, a tablespoon of caster sugar, and 125ml of water. Cover the pan and warm on a lowish heat for about twenty minutes. You want the tomatoes to wilt. There should also be quite a bit of tomato juice floating around in the pan.

Pour the contents into a vegetable mill (mouli-légumes) and grind it up. (It's really worth investing in an authentic mouli-légumes, and I've included a link to buy one from amazon uk.  It's a decent bit of kit and indispensable if you are going to make your own purées, sauces and soups.

Leave the tomato juice to cool, and stir in a tablespoon of horseradish concentrate. Let it infuse for about ten minutes and then pass the sauce through a sieve. That make's a basic tomato juice.

To make the ketchup: take 300ml of the tomato sauce and reduce it in a small pan, until it thickens up. Remove it from the heat, let it cool down and stir in two tablespoons of the horseradish concentrate. Chill in the 'fridge. Perfect with oysters.

Retro Sweetcorn Relish

 

 

We've got two corn-on-the-cobs left over in our weekly Abel & Cole vegetable box, and I was racking my brains thinking what to do with them. Last year I invented a rather good sweetcorn relish- which was very similar to the stuff you used to be able to buy in jars. It's white trash diner food, and I like it.

Chop or slice up some shallots and fry them in grapeseed oil. Next, tip a tin of sweetcorn (or better still, some fresh cooked sweetcorn) into a bowl, and mix in some diced green and red peppers, a dash of white vinegar, a spoonful of sugar, and a teaspoon of garlic powder. Season with sea salt and white pepper, and finish off the job with a spoonful of starchy cornflour.

Add the cooked shallots to the mixture and heat up the thing slowly in a small pan, so that the cornflour cooks properly. The finished result was cotton pickin' authentic. Perfect with burgers, even better with fried chicken.  I rest my case.

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."

Italian Walnut Sauce

 

 

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

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

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

Over and out.

Ragù Bolognese

 

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Gravlax

 

Gravlax is the Scandinavian way of pickling Salmon.  In Norway, it's called Gravet Laks. In Iceland, Graflax, and in Denmark, Gravad Laks. This means, literally, "Grave Salmon", and refers to the Medieval practice of curing the raw fish by burying it in the sand above the level of the high tide. It's probably the perfect first course for the Christmas season. I like it's simplicity- and it's fun to make too. I've based this method of making it on a Jane Grigson recipe mentioned in Paul Levy's The Feast of Christmas.

You start off with a tail piece of salmon, weighing approximately 1 kg. Get your fishmonger to slice it in half, lengthways, and to remove the backbone, so that you end up with two slices of fish. Remove the remaining 'pin bones' with a pair of tweezers. Gravlax is usually made with the skin of the fish left on, but if you prefer, you can remove it.

Next, you need to mix up 'The Cure". Combine the following ingredients in a bowl: one heaped tablespoon of sea salt, one tablespoon of brown sugar, one teaspoon of crushed black peppercorns, and one tablespoon of cognac, schnapps or vodka.

Take some tin foil, and lie it down, flat. Spread some of the cure onto the foil. Lie one of the salmon pieces down onto the foil. Spread more of the cure onto the upper side of the salmon. Next, sprinkle lots of fresh, chopped dill on top of the salmon. Take the second piece of salmon, spread it with the cure, and place it directly on top of the first piece of salmon, so that you end up with a sort of salmon sandwich, with the dill and cure mixture filling up the middle. Does that make sense?

 

 

Fold over the tin foil, and crunch it tightly around the salmon pieces, so that it forms a package. Lie this in a shallow dish, and press some weights down on top of it.  I use some heavy iron weights from my grandmother's old-fashioned scales I've got lying around in my kitchen. Keep the salmon in a cool place for up to five days, turning the fish over once or twice. You'll find that juices from the fish will run out and mix with the cure and the dill. In effect, you're curing the salmon.

To serve the Gravlax, take it out of the tin foil, drain away the juices, and slice it thinly. I like it with dark rye bread and Dill Sauce.

You make Dill Sauce in a similar way to mayonnaise. Crack an egg yolk into a bowl, and mix in a dollop of French Dijon mustard and a tablespoon of white sugar. Whisk, and start to add Grapeseed Oil, drop by drop- as you would with a mayonnaise. The emulsion will thicken. Keep going until you're happy with the consistency. I like it thick. Flavour the sauce with two tablespoons of white wine vinegar, and season with salt and pepper. Finish it off by mixing in a decent amount of fresh, chopped dill. It's best if you remove the dill stalks, and then chop the feathery bits of the dill plant finely.

Sage

 

One of the fun things about writing The Greasy Spoon is thinking up new ways of describing the various tastes.  On wikipedia ("it's in wikipedia so it must be true) Sage (Salvia officinalsis) is described as having a peppery taste.  I'm not sure that's right?  I've been a bit off-colour for the last week (with what women call "Man Flu") and The Girl (God Bless 'Er) cooked me up a divine chicken stew laced with copious amounts of sage.  The sage and chicken combination worked well. with the velvety, aromatic, oniony and slightly sweet flavours of the sage helping to create a rich, smooth sauce.

Traditionally, sage was used in the cooking of Merrie Olde England. It works well with pork, beautifully in stuffings, is the perfect match for onion and an essential ingredient in bread sauce. I love it.

Here's my recipe for bread sauce. In England, we serve bread sauce with game, such as partridge or pheasant. It really is the genuine taste of this country, with the rather Medieval flavours of sage, nutmeg, mace and cloves. It's also a good 'un with poultry. Some strange people out there like their sauce thick. Personally, I prefer my bread sauce to be a bit sloppy.

Add the following ingredients to a saucepan: 300ml milk, 50g butter, a chopped small onion, a crushed garlic clove, a bayleaf, two cloves, a blade of mace and some chopped fresh sage. Heat. Once the mixture is warm, stir in 75g of fresh white breadcrumbs and cook until thick and smooth, stirring the whole time.

When you're happy with the consistency, remove the bay leaf, mace and cloves, and pour in 150ml of single cream. Adjust the seasoning with salt and pepper and grind in a decent amount of nutmeg.

Reheat the sauce, but to stop it going thick- mix in a knob of unsalted butter and some more milk, to taste.

Still on the subject of sage, a simple Italian sauce I'm rather fond of is Sage and Butter Sauce. This is just butter, heated until it turns a golden noisette colour (ie not burnt), lots of fresh chopped sage, salt and pepper and a decent squeeze of lemon juice. Very simple. I like it.

Colonel Skinner's Mango Chutney

 

 

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

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

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

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

 

Piccalilli

 

 

 

 

Piccalilli is one of those slightly weird British "delicacies"- if that's the right description. Frankly, the stuff's almost radioactive; it's 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 and Brown Windsor soup.

I spent a few minutes researching its history on the internet. Apparently, the first known Piccalilli recipe was 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, and 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:

First prepare the vegetables. 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. 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, 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.

Sweetcorn Relish

 

 

After all this talk about finger sandwiches, Eton Mess, and avocados, it's time for something a bit more robust.

I've got a secret yearning for sweetcorn relish. It's American white trash, diner food at its best. Bick's, the Canadian brand, does a great range of "relishes" and I love the retro packaging, too.

A few days ago, I decided to create my own sweetcorn relish, in true diner style. It worked well, and was similar to the stuff you buy in jars.

Here's how I made it: First, I chopped up some shallots, and cooked them in oil. Next, I tipped a tin of sweetcorn into a bowl, and mixed in some green and red peppers (chopped into tiny cubes), a splash of white vinegar, a spoonful of sugar, a teaspoon of garlic powder; seasoned it with sea salt and pepper, and finished off the job with a spoonful of starchy cornflour. I added the cooked shallots to the mixture and heated the thing slowly in a small pan, so that the cornflour cooked properly.

The finished result was pretty darn authentic. For extra heat, you could also add some red chilis, sliced very thinly into strips- I hesitate to use the French term julienne, as in this case, it just doesn't seem appropriate. Perfect with burgers, even better with fried chicken.

Avocado

I don't think I've yet written about the ubiquitous avocado. It's hard to remember, but not that long ago, avocados were seen as exotic and sophisticated and usually known as avocado pears.

Nowadays, of course, they're all over the shop, and probably seen as a little bit passe; the staple fodder of dubious bistros and pretentious, second-rate restaurants. So, I've decided to have a closer look and see if there's more to them than initially meets the eye.

The avocado (Persea americana) (from Nahuatl Aguacatl: agua-kah-tl), is native to Mexico, Central and northern South America, and classified in the flowering plant family Lauraceae. Avocado trees were cultivated in pre-Incan settlements with archeological evidence dating to 750 B.C.

The avocado of choice is the Hass variety, which grows in California. That's the one with the dark green knobbly skin (pictured above). It has a lovely, creamy, nutty taste and is, in my opinion, superior to the smooth skinned varieties.

Avocados are full of fat, but the good news is that this fat is a monounsaturated fat, which is supposed to be good for you.

One of the best things you can do with avocados is to make guacamole. Originally an Aztec dish, it's easy to make, and goes brilliantly with things Mexican. Here's my own recipe for it. I prefer the texture to be a bit chunky, rather than completely smooth.

In a bowl, half-mash up some hass avocados and then gently fold in red tomatoes (chopped into small pieces), a minced red onion, lime juice, finely chopped red chili, sea salt, a dash of Tabasco sauce, paprika, black pepper and some chopped fresh coriander.

And finally, a useful tip: when preparing avocados, immediately sprinkle the exposed flesh with lemon juice. This will stop the avocado turning brown.

Red Onion Marmalade

Red Onion Marmalade is one of those retro things, beloved of late 70's and early 80's Bistro's. You know the sort of place: black and white photographs of Greta Garbo, candles dripping wax stuffed into old wine bottles, rickety tables with red and white check tablecloths, 30's dance music on the hi-fidelity system hidden beneath the bar.

Come to think of it, there aren't many of these places left now in London. I can think of Grumbles in Pimlico (a relic of the 60's, I think), and that Polish/Mexican place in Shepherd's Market, but that's about it.

Onion Marmalade goes perfectly with terrines, and pates; which is why, of course, it was a staple of the 70's bistro. It's very easy to make, and keeps well. Here's my own version:

Slice up some red onions thinly, and cook them in a pan with some butter, and some sugar. You want them to caramelise, so let them cook right down. The sugar will help them to go a dark brown colour.

Next add a teaspoon of red wine vinegar, some mustard seeds, a teaspoon of redcurrant jelly, and a generous dash of port. Let the "marmalade" bubble away, until the liquid has more or less evaporated. Season with generous amounts of salt and black pepper.

That's it...

Egon Ronay's Roast Red Mullet with Cumin Sauce

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Horseradish Sauce

 

 

Do you like genuine horseradish sauce? By that I don't mean the stuff you get in jars from the supermarket, but instead the real, home-made version. Horseradish (Armoracia rusticana, syn. Cochlearia armoracia) is a perennial plant of the Brassicaceae family, which includes mustard, wasabi, and cabbages.

Horseradish was cultivated in antiquity, and, according to Greek mythology, the Delphic Oracle told Apollo that the horseradish was worth its weight in gold.

The photograph shows horseradish roots. You eat the roots, not the green leaves of the plant. You should be able to buy a root from your local grocer, or if you are lucky enough to have one, a farmer's market.

Here's my recipe to make a classic English horseradish sauce. It goes well with beef, and smoked fish, like eel and mackerel.

Clean and peel a horseradish root. Grate about two heaped tablespoons of the prepared root into a mixing bowl. Add a dollop of English Mustard, a dash of white wine or cider vinegar, salt, pepper, and sugar. Whip up a quarter of a pint of cream, and mix it carefully with the other ingredients.

Cucumber and Mint Raita

 

 

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

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

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

Yellow Pepper Relish

 

 

This is a quick and easy thing I invented yesterday, and it worked out perfectly. First, I steamed two yellow peppers until they were cooked (first removing the inner pith and seeds with a sharp knife) and then peeled off the skins, so that only the soft yellow flesh was left.

Next, I whizzed up half a red onion in the trusty Magimix, together with a red chili (though, of course you could also use a green one), and two cloves of garlic. Once they had all been thoroughly chopped up, I added the yellow pepper flesh, and using the "pulse" button combined the ingredients carefully. You don't want the peppers to break down too much. Then it was a simple matter of adding fresh lime juice, lots of Maldon Salt, and a good quality Extra Virgin Olive Oil.

It would work brilliantly with cold beef, and the yellow colour is interesting. The sweetness of the peppers balances out well with the sharpness of the lime. Try it, and I don't think you will be disappointed.

Gravy

 

 

I hope- pray even- that this Christmas you are going to make some genuine, home-made gravy. I know that some poor souls out there skip this, and make that stuff straight from the packet. And I loathe that. Starchy, synthetic, a nasty brown colour, gloopy- quite horrible. Ruins everything else on the plate.

What is gravy? I had a few protest emails when I had the temerity to suggest that "gravy' in the United States, is what we call a white sauce. Ok, ok, I realise now that this is a term from the Deep South, and that some of you up on the East Coast have a similar thing to us in Britain. Serves me right for hanging out with a bunch of wannabe Confederates.

Proper gravy (or jus, if you live in Hampstead) should be thin (I can't stress that enough), and made from the juices left over from your turkey, beef, or joint.

Once the meat has cooked, lift out your joint, and let it rest. You will have the oven pan left over with the meat juices left behind, and probably some caramelised burnt bits as well. Pour off the surplus fat floating on the top.

Over a moderate heat, stir in a small bit of flour, so that it soaks up the juices, and let it cook for a bit. It's now time to deglaze the pan. This means adding liquid to soak up the burnt bits left on the bottom of the pan. You can use wine, or stock- or a combination of both. For stock, I normally use the water left over from any vegetables that you are cooking at the same time. If you're making a light coloured gravy, say for chicken or turkey, I would use white wine. If you're making a darker gravy for beef, I would use a red, say a Beaujolais.

Let it bubble away, and then finish it off with a tiny splash of soy sauce. This adds a bit of colour, and intensifies the flavours. Strain off the gravy, and serve it in a sauce boat. I prefer my gravy to be very thin, light as well, and it's important when you serve it, not to let it swamp everything else on the plate. Apart from that, it's all pretty straightforward. Good Luck!

Cumberland Sauce

 

 

One of the best English Christmas traditions is the Christmas ham. As well as turkey or goose, many families order in a York ham- dry cured and matured over a period of at least ten weeks. Let's be honest: it's probably more delicious than the turkey, especially when cut into impossibly thin slices and served on your plate with Cumberland Sauce.

I'm sorry America, but Cranberry Sauce looses hands down in the Christmas sauce stakes! English Cumberland Sauce is infinitely preferable. And I would love to persuade you to give it a shot this year, instead. Try it out- and report back.

This is how you make it: Peel of the skin of an orange, and then cut the skin into julienne (ie very thin strips). Put the orange strips into a pan with some water and bring to the boil. This will remove any bitterness from the orange peel. In another small pan, melt four heaped tablespoons of redcurrant jelly, with a teaspoon of ground ginger. Stir well, until the redcurrant jelly and the ginger have combined.

Redcurrant jelly is best described as a smooth English jam (made obviously from redcurrant berries) which we normally eat with lamb. It's available ready-made in jars- though I have to admit, I'm not sure if it's easily obtainable in America; so you may have to track it down on the internet, or see if you local deli stocks it. The redcurrant jelly will act as a thickening agent, but true Cumberland sauce should really have a thinnish consistency, so try to keep it reasonably thin- if it coats the back of a spoon, you know it's about right.

Next, pour in a decent slug of port, and the juice of one orange, and half a lemon. Stir well, then add the blanched orange strips, which you've taken out of the hot water, and drained.

You will be left with a thickish, tangy, fruity, gingery, port-infused dark red sauce- which will act as a balance to the salt in the ham. I can best describe it as the taste of Christmas. Utterly nostalgic. Oh- and one last word of advice: Cumberland Sauce should always be served cold, so don't try and warm it up; that would be a huge mistake...

Brown Sauce

 

 

 

 

Nothing can be more reminiscent of a British Greasy Spoon than a bottle of H P Sauce. H P Sauce was invented by Frederick Gibson Garton, a grocer from Nottingham, in 1896. He named his tangy new concoction after the Houses of Parliament in London.

For years H P Sauce was made in a factory in Birmingham, but now- shock horror- the stuff is made in The Netherlands. What's it made of? Well, amongst other things, Malt Vinegar, Dates, Molasses, Onion, Tamarind, Garlic and Mustard Flour.

The rival brown sauce, Daddie's Favourite, was launched in 1904, and, apparently, is still in production, though I haven't seen a bottle on the shelves for years. Both brands are now owned by none other than our old friend, Heinz. Brown Sauce is an acquired taste, and I suspect that anyone not born on the Perfidious Isle is probably going to hate it.

 

Personally, I have a nostalgic thing about the fruity combination of brown sauce mixed with a runny fried egg. But then, our American cousins eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, which sounds to me like something from Planet Nine. Enough said.

Fish and Chips

 

 

Hallelujah! I've been converted to the Mushy Pea cause. Like my bizarre loathing for mashed potato, until a few days ago, I didn't like them- or thought I didn't like them. But now all that has changed. Okay, I tucked into an upmarket version, probably petis-pois, half-mashed, and cooked in butter, stock and a bit of mint. But they were good- immensely good.

The best fish and chips I've ever had was at some sort of ramshackled greasy spoon on the windswept coast of Whitby, in the North East of England. Whitby is an interesting place. First, there's this remarkable Gothic ruin of an Abbey, and then it's the place where Count Dracula first arrives from Transylvania in Bram Stoker's creepy novella.

 

The secret of Fish and Chips is the batter. A traditional English batter is suprisingly simple. It's just sieved self-raising flour mixed with beer, and a pinch of salt. That's it. Nothing more, nothing less.

The batter has to be extremely thick, mixed almost to a gluey consistancy. The fish (say, Haddock, or Cod), is then coated in the thick batter, and deep-fried in beef dripping or lard. The batter souffles, and the fish steams within the batter.

Traditionally, English chips are cut into thick chunks, and that's the way many people in this country like them; though I have to admit that I prefer the French way of doing things, where the potatoes are sliced into thin strips and then double fried, but for genuine authenticity, thick-cut is the way you do it.

Serve the whole shooting match with mushy peas, tartare sauce, malt vinegar and salt. Tartare Sauce is made from a combination of mayonnaise, chopped capers, gherkins, garlic, parsley, and shallots. In a later post, I'm going to get my thinking cap on and come up with the definitive version of this versatile sauce.

Eggs Benedict

 

 

I think my favourite American dish has to be Eggs Benedict. There's just something about its simplicity: the runny poached eggs, the buttery Hollandaise sauce, and the crisp bacon or ham, contrasting with the soft English muffins.

There are various theories as to how it was invented; one being that the legendary Oscar Tschirky (of Waldorf Salad fame) put it on his hotel breakfast menu after Lemuel Benedict, a retired Wall Street stockbroker, came up with the idea as a cure for his hangover in 1894. This may or may not be the case.

 

Anyway, I've had various versions of it over the years, including Eggs Benedict with scallops; but if you want to make the original and genuine dish- this is how you do it. First, you need to make a classic Hollandaise Sauce:

Melt 8oz (225g) of butter in a pan. Meanwhile liquidize two egg yolks, the juice of one lemon, and freshly ground black pepper. When the butter is hot, turn the liquidizer onto full, and slowly pour in the butter. Next, poach some large eggs in salted water. Toast the English Muffins, and spread them with butter. Put some slices of ham, or Canadian Bacon on top of the muffins, and top with the poached egg. Pour over the Hollandaise sauce and serve immediately.

You either love it or your hate it...

 

 

 

 

What can be more British than Marmite? To my American readers, Marmite is a thick, dark, tangy, rich and glutinous mess that you spread on your toast, typically at breakfast or perhaps as a late night supper snack. For years I assumed, wrongly, that it was some sort of meat derivative, but it's actually made from brewer's yeast, and so in theory at least, is suitable for vegetarians.

The Marmite Food Extract Company was founded in 1902. Some clever spark realised that you could manufacture an edible savoury paste out of the waste yeast used in beer making. In fact, the Edwardians were heavily into these yeast extracts ( Bovril being another example, but with the addition, shock horror, of beef ); one reason being that you could make up a cheap but nourising bouillon with the simple addition of boiling water.  As you gourmands all know, the word Marmite means a pot or casserole in French, and that's why the cultish jar is shaped, er- like a marmite.

And now ( trumpet fanfare, gasps of amazement ) there's new limited edition Guinness Marmite. It's got Guinness in it! I am dying to try it, but it seems to have sold out across the nation, and the supermarket shelves are bare. There's seems to be some sort of dubious looking trade in the stuff on ebay, but I have yet to bring myself to fork out the obligatory ten quid or so required to get hold of a jar.

Mayonnaise

 

 

Mayonnaise is easy to make. I'll repeat that. Mayonnaise is easy to make. I don't know why some cookery writers make such a big deal about it, but if you follow The Greasy Spoon method, you'll soon be whizzing up your own decent mayonnaise in no time at all.

First break two egg yolks into a mixing bowl. Add a teaspoon or so of mustard (in this case, I prefer to use a milder type such as Dijon), some salt, and a splash of lemon juice or vinegar (French wine vinegar or cider vinegar is good). With a wooden spoon stir these together until they bind. Now's the time to start adding your oil.

I'm now going to let you into a secret.  Grape seed oil is a miraculous ingredient. First, it's good for you. Secondly, it's light.  Thirdly, it's a brilliant binding agent for making emulsions- you need far less of the stuff to make your mayonnaise go thick; and that's a good thing.  I've noticed that The Fat Duck at Bray uses grapeseed oil to make mayonnaise- and they use it for a reason. You could, of course, use only olive oil, but when I've made it that way in the past, the mayonnaise becomes, in my opinion, a bit heavy and also bitter. If you can't get away from the olive oil trap, add a tablespoon or so towards the end of the mixing.

Now this is the stage where if it's going to go wrong, it's going to go wrong. It's very important to pour in the oil in small batches, otherwise your mayonnaise might curdle. The goal is to form a smooth emulsion.

Carry on pouring in the oil bit by bit, stirring at the same time. Once you've got your emulsion up and running, you can start pouring in the oil in a steady stream. Keep stirring. The more oil you add, the thicker it'll get. Towards the end of the process, I like to switch over to olive oil for the extra flavour. Anyway, you'll eventually end up with a thick, jelly-like mayonnaise, that you can plunge a spoon into upright, and it won't fall over. That's a sign that your labours are at an end.

I'm now going to let you into a secret. Stir in a tablespoon of boiling water to your finished mayonnaise. The effects are nothing short of miraculous. You will end up with a light, fluffy, creamy mayonnaise, which is slightly lighter in colour too.

So there you are. You can also break all the rules, and mix up a decent mayonnaise in your food processor, using the above method, though in practice, I find it best to use three egg yolks, as the food processor method tends to make a much thicker sauce. Oh, and if you leave your mayonnise in the ' fridge, it'll get even thicker. Spread the word!

Tabasco

The famous McIlhenny company of Avery Island, Louisiana, has been producing their inimitable Tabasco pepper sauce for five generations. According to legend, the bottle shape was derived from the original cologne bottles used by Edward McIlhenny in 1869.

Until recently, the sauce was made from peppers grown entirely on Avery Island, though peppers are now sourced from Central and Southern America. I've recently started using the subtle green jalapeno version, and have to admit that it's currently my number one choice, which, no doubt will brand me as a Tabasco heretic amongst die-hard Tabasco afficinados.

For some reason the green sauce is incredibly hard to find in Britain, and most supermarkets don't seem to stock it; but my local corner shop in Battersea, bizarrely, seems to have an inexhaustable supply.

In a later post, I'm going to look into Louisiana Gumbo, that wonderful stew of meat, shell-fish, onions, celery and bell-peppers. Several gumbo recipes call for a liberal dash of Tabasco; and in a grey, and often uninspiring world, that's a marvellous thing.

 

 

Worcestershire Sauce

Let's start with a look at the iconic Lea & Perrin's Worcestershire Sauce. In effect, it's a fermented fish sauce. I read somewhere about a nauseating Eskimo delicacy. They would make a large hole in the ground, chuck gobbets of raw fish down there, relieve themselves all over it to get the fermentation going, and then dig it back up again after a month or so. Sounds good, eh?

The British version was first sold by Mr Jon Wheeley Lea and Mr William Henry Perrins in 1838, from a family recipe given to them by a Lady Sandys recently returned from India. They were a pair of enterprising, and no doubt, bewhiskered chemists from Worcester and their world famous sauce is still made at the old Worcester factory, close to the Malvern Hills; although the company is now part of the French food conglomorate, Danone.

The "original and genuine" stuff is made from: malt vinegar, molasses, sugar, salt, anchovies, tamarind extract, onions, garlic, flavourings and salt; although the American version uses distilled white vinegar and has a slightly less rich flavour. And it's an essential ingredient in two all-time American classics; the Bloody Mary Cocktail, and the Caesar Salad.