The Greasy Spoon

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.

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 wanna be 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!

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 is 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.

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 oils. I tend to use a light oil such as sunflower, and then finish off with stronger olive oil, but if you prefer a punchier Gallic taste, it's totally fine to use olive oil for the whole shooting match. 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!

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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.

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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.