The Greasy Spoon

Lazy Spinach and Prawn Biryani

 

 

I'm going to deviate from the path with this one. Normally on The Greasy Spoon, I try to cover classic food and get to the bottom of authentic recipes. Hand up, I admit that the recipe I'm about to give you ain't a proper biryani- it's undoubtably a bastardised version, but so juicy, quick and delicious, I couldn't resist posting it. It's based on a recipe from allrecipes.co.uk, but I've unashamedly changed it in various ways.

What is a biryani?  I'm afraid many people in Britain just assume it's "Indian"- whatever that means. The story of the biryani, however, is far more complex. It originated in Persia, the name coming from the Persian word beryā(n) (بریان) which means "fried" or "roasted" and was brought to South East Asia by spice traders. It's a popular dish in India (many different versions), Pakistan, Burma, Thailand, Sri Lanka, The Middle East (including Iran and Iraq), Singapore, Malaysia, and Indonesia.

It's a combination of rice, spices, vegetables, fish eggs and meat. For an authentic biryani, the rice and curried sauce should be cooked separately, and then combined together at the end in layers, forming a contrast between the lightly spiced rice, and the intense flavours of the sauce, meat or vegetables. It's similar in a way to our very own kedgeree- which, of course, has its roots in the British Raj.

My "after-work" version is more of an Anglicised pilaf, I suppose. You could of course tweak it to become a proper biryani- by steaming basmati rice (with the lid on) and cooking this separately, creating some sort of a spicy sauce, and then combining it all together before serving. Fried crunchy, sliced onions would be an authentic and delicious garnish.

 

His Highness The Maharaja Bhupinder Singh, GCSI, GCIE, GCVO, GBE

 

Heat up a saucepan and add a dash of cooking oil. Add a thinly sliced onion, a sliced red chilli, and a knob of fresh ginger, (peeled and chopped). Cook on a medium heat for a few minutes until soft.

Now it' time for the spices. You're going to use cumin, coriander, turmeric and nutmeg. I would suggest that you buy the cumin and coriander as seeds, and then grind them up in a pestle and mortar until they become a fine powder. A tablespoon or so should be fine. I'm afraid that the turmeric came from the jar (about a teaspoon). The nutmeg was grated directly into the saucepan: I've got a little nutmeg grater which my mother-in-law (Gawd bless 'er) gave me for Christmas. Cook on a lowish heat for a few more minutes, so that the spices are cooked properly. The aim is to cook the spices, but not to burn them.

Stir in 225g of Uncle Ben's Long Grain Rice. This cheat's rice has had the starch removed, and so won't go mushy in the cooking. It's excellent for pilafs, in my opinion. If you were planning to use Basmati rice, you would need to rinse it first, and then "steam" on a low heat for about ten minutes with the lid on.

Stir in a tin of chopped tomatoes, and top up with hot fish stock. Add a pinch of sugar, and a pinch of salt. By the way, further cheating at this stage, as I added a dollop of Umami paste, the mysterious "fifth taste sensation" (a sort of cross between anchovies and tomatoes in flavour). Simmer the biryani on a low to medium heat, until the rice has cooked. If you think it needs it, top it up with boiling water now and again.

When the rice is cooked, stir in two packets of plebby prawns (these are those pre-cooked tiny, shrimp-like pink things you can buy in the supermarket). Take the birayni off the heat, and stir in a packet of spinach. You'll find that it wilts easily in the heat. Finish the dish off with a generous helpings of chopped fresh coriander.

If you want to research biraynis further, have a look at this video in which master chef Padma Lakshmi cooks a Royal Biryani for two hundred children in Hyderabad.

 

 

Wild Garlic Risotto

 

 

On Saturday I made a deliciously simple Wild Garlic Risotto. The Girl managed to track down some wild garlic (also known as Ramsons) from the Pimlico Green Farmer's Market. If you live in the country, you might be able to find some growing in woodlands. They're currently in season.

I'm very keen on "simple food done well"- it's becoming a mantra. This fitted the bill perfectly.

I chopped up a small onion and sautéed it in hot butter. Next, I added Carnaroli rice and let the rice soak up the hot butter. I ladelled in a small quantity of hot, steaming vegetable stock and stirred like mad, until the rice had absorbed the stock. Then, I carried on ladelling in the hot stock until the Carnaroli rice was "ready".

This is the art of risotto making. You want the rice grains to remain firm (with a "bite") yet, at the same time, to be bound up in a creamy, starchy, slightly soupy liquid. If you make it properly, this might take about half an hour. Beat the rice like mad- as this releases the starch from the grains. 

I'm currently in favour of Carnaroli rice: I find that this makes a slightly creamier risotto, although of course, arborio rice would be fine too. 

We're off to Venice in a few days time, and no doubt we'll bring back some proper Italian risotto rice to add to the larder. I've got a theory that the Italians keep back the best rice for themselves, and fob off the rest of Europe with lesser brands.

 

 

 

Anyway, back to the Wild Garlic Risotto. About ten minutes from the end, add the chopped up Wild Garlic. It comes in the form of slightly limp, green leaves (not entirely unlike spinach) and you use these chopped leaves, rather than the bulb. Unlike the standard variety, Wild Garlic has a very subtle taste, so I would recommend that you add quite a bit of the stuff: the risotto can certainly take it. I was also keen on the idea of turning the risotto a green colour- this will happen if you add enough. Check the seasoning and when you reckon the risotto's ready, add a small dash of white wine. This will stop the risotto from cooking.

I served the risotto with some fried shallots- for extra crunch, but The Girl pointed out that the dish didn't need it- and she was absolutely right, as I have to admit, she often is. I would recommend that you more or less leave the risotto as it is, but top it off with a small helping of grated Parmesan- or indeed, a British cheese. Why not?

 

 

 

Tom Ripley's Venetian Lemon Chicken

 

 

I bought an amusing little book yesterday. It's called Recipe for Murder: Frightfully Good Food Inspired by Fiction by Estérelle Payany. The blurb on the back says: "Allow yourself to be lured into the kitchen by the great gourmet-villains of popular literature, from Lady Macbeth to Dr. Jekyll, to the Marquis de Sade and Hannibal Lecter". It's enormous fun, and there are lots of stylish illustrations by Jean-François Martin in the manner of Richard Hamilton.

I like the look of Count Dracula's "Paprika Hendl" and Fantomas' "Truffled Eggs without Truffles". But the recipe that immediately leapt out of the page was "Tom Ripley's Venetian Lemon Chicken". I'm a massive fan of Patricia Highsmith's "Ripliade"- the five crime novels published between 1955 and 1991, featuring the cultured and sophisticated Mr Ripley- the reluctant con-man, murderer and art fraudster.

 

I made this dish last night and the results were fabulous. A worthy candidate for "The Best of The Greasy Spoon" - when (and if) I ever publish it.

You take a chicken breast and beat it out flat to form an escallop. You fry the escallop in hot olive oil until it is cooked on each side, flipping it over in the process, which should take a minute or so on each side.

The fried chicken is then removed and put to one side. You chop up half a large red onion into dice and sweat it in the oil (with the heat turned down to low) until translucent. The juice of two large lemons, the zest of half a lemon, and a tablespoon or so of honey are added.

You return the fried chicken to the pan, and cook it gently in the tangy sauce for about five minutes. Finally, fresh thyme leaves are sprinkled over the sauce (making sure that the leaves are pulled off the woody stalks), and the dish is seasoned with salt and pepper, in the time honoured tradition.

It's a remarkably pretty dish: rose-pink in colour (from the red onions); studded with the fresh green of the thyme, and it has a deep citrusy taste; healthy too: just fresh lemon juice and honey. No stock, no cream; fast cooking. Ideal for a quick summer lunch al fresco.

Incidentally, I've got no idea if this is indeed a genuine Venetian recipe (I couldn't find anything similar in any of the books I've got on Venetian food), or actually features in any of the Ripley books; although I have a vague memory of Tom eating this in the last few pages of "The Talented Mr Ripley". An excuse to re-read the entire Ripley series over the coming summer.

 

Avocado Bering

 

I've had great fun re-discovering the Roux Brothers' old 1980's television series on youtube: Roux Brothers. For anyone wanting to learn the techniques of classic French cookery, this is the series for you: no background music, no trendy hand-held camera shots, or an emphasis on style over content; this is television aimed at viewers who have an attention span longer than three minutes, and just want to learn how to cook properly.

That's exactly right- it's just two middle aged chefs, both at the top of their game, Albert (he's the fat one from Le Gavroche) and Michel (he's the thin one from the Waterside Inn at Bray) standing in a badly lit (by today's standards) studio and talking directly to camera. And Mein Gott, in just a few minutes you can learn infinitely more from those two, than from any of the over-produced cheffy programmes I've seen on television recently.

 

 

 

I liked Albert's "Avocado Bering". You take an avocado pear (I think the hass variety with the knobbly skin tastes the best) and slice it in half. You brush the exposed flesh with lemon juice to stop it going black. You slice a small wedge off the bottom of the avocado, so that it stands up straight on the plate.

Next you mix up some fresh crab meat with a rose-marie sauce made from mayonnaise, tomato ketchup, Lea & Perrins, Tabasco, salt and pepper and a spoonful of cognac. You spoon the crabmeat and sauce into the cavity of the avocado, and then spoon further unadulterated rose-marie sauce over the crabmeat and sauce. More sauce on top of the crabmeat and sauce combination, if that makes sense.

Albert garnished it with half a black olive so that it ended up looking a bit like a nipple- but if you've read my previous post, you'll know all about my current feelings on garnishes, and I would recommend that you avoid this. Avocado Bering! Incredibly old-fashioned (even then; back in the 1980's), very simple, relatively unsophisticated- and strangely satisfying.

 

 

Mrs Kennedy's Green Risotto

 

 

I bought an entertaining second-hand book the other day. For a few pounds on abebooks.co.uk. It's called (hilariously) "Cooking for Madam". Marta Scubin was Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis's private cook, and her book tells the story of her career with Mrs Onassis, and shares the secrets of their Fifth Avenue kitchen.

Now I've currently got a thing about simplicity in food. Classic dishes cooked properly, with attention to detail and using the correct techniques. Arranged artistically on the plate. The right size of helping too; veering on the belt-tightening side of restraint, and avoiding the vulgarity of excess. Mrs Onassis appears to have been very keen on this sort of food. Simple dishes such as "Roast Lion of Veal with Morel Mousse", "Pear Sorbet", "Tarragon Chicken", "Mousseline Sauce" and "Mussel Salad". I like the sound of the last one. It's a plain green salad, with mussels removed from the shell, and served with a saffron flavoured creamy viniagrette and an empty mussel shell or two for decoration.

 

 

I'm also enjoying her "Green Risotto". It's a simple risotto flavoured with puréed spinach. The latter turns it a lovely, vivid green colour.

You heat some olive oil in heavy saucepan and sauté some chopped onions. Next, you add about 1½ cups of arborio rice and let the rice grains coat themselves in the hot oil. I'm sure you all know how to make proper risotto: add a splash of white wine to the rice and let it evaporate. Ladle in the steaming hot stock bit by bit, until the rice absorbs the liquid; stirring and beating away at it like mad, so that the starch is released from the rice. Carry on stirring until the rice is cooked.

The trick is to get the rice al dente (ie slightly firm) yet bound in a starchy, creamy sauce. It will take about twenty five minutes. Then it's time to add the spinach. 

In her book, Marta puts ten fresh wet spinach leaves into a blender and whizzes them up into a paste. Having tried it myself, I'm not sure about this method. What you end up with is thousands of very tiny uncooked spinach particles suspended in water, and your risotto will end up flecked with green. Instead, try steaming your spinach leaves briefly before-hand, and then when you come to whizz them up, they should make a much smoother purée. If neccessary, add a bit of water to the mix.

Stir the green spinach purée into the risotto, and serve with shavings of parmesan cheese.

 

Chicken Maryland

 

 

 

Mrs Aitch is going to hate this one.  She's not normally fussy; not fussy at all, but she really hates bananas. In the same way that I loathe mashed potato.  If you are ever lucky enough to invite us to dinner, the worst scenario would be shepherd's pie as a main course, and banoffee pie as a pudding.  

To us Brits, American food can sometimes seem a bit Gothic.  I would include Chicken Maryland in this category.  Or, if not Gothic, certainly slightly weird.  A bit white trashy, perhaps?  Duelling banjos, denim dungarees and mobile homes raised on bricks.  Scrap metal yards and ravenous doebermanns. Maybe I'm being horribly unfair? Any observations are certainly not meant to be critical. After all, we're the nation which tucks into haggis, jellied eel and stargazey pie.

 

 

In America, Chicken Maryland is served with "gravy"- what we call in Blighty a "white sauce", or in The Great Republic, "Béchamel Sauce".  I suspect that the addition of banana fritters may be a British interpretation, and if so, I apologise.  If any Southerners out there in cyberspace think that the following receipe is inaccurate, please email me, and I will gladly post up a correction.

Okay.  That's that one out of the way.  Here's The Greasy Spoon's take on Chicken Maryland.  I've based this version on the recipe in Simon Hopkinson and Lindsey Bareham's excellent book, "The Prawn Cocktail Years".  I can't recommend it enough:

Take some chicken thighs (an excellent and affordable cut, by the way), rip off the skin and dip them into seasoned flour, and then again into a bowl of beaten egg.  Shake off the egg, and dip them into the seasoned flour for a second time.  In a deep frying pan heat up 100g of unsalted butter and 75ml  of sunflower oil, until frothy.  Put in the floured chicken piece, and fry gently.  The secret here is not to crowd the pan.  If you do so, your chicken will start to stew, rather than fry, because of the fall in temperature.  So, fry the chicken a few pieces at a time.  On a lowish heat.  It should take about half and hour.  Make sure you turn the chicken pieces about half way through the cooking time.

In the meantime, mix together 100g sweetcorn (tinned is absolutely fine, to be frank, I can't detect any difference), two small egg yolks, and salt and pepper.  Beat two egg whites until frothy, and gently fold them into the mixture.  Add a tablespoon of baking powder, and about 50-75g of breadcrumbs, until it forms a thickish batter.  Place to one side.

Take out the chicken pieces and keep them warm in a rack in a hot oven.  Strain off the hot chicken oil, leaving just enough in the pan to fry the sweetcorn fritters.  Drop tablespoons of the sweetcorn batter into the reserved hot oil, and fry for a couple of minutes on each side, until puffed and golden.  Drain on kitchen paper, and keep warm in the oven with the chicken.

Take 100ml of chicken stock, and reduce it by three-quarters.  Fry four small sliced bananas in unsalted butter, until golden, sprinkling them with some brown sugar as you do,  so that they begin to caramelise.  Grill some rashers of streaky bacon, until crisp.  Pour 100ml of double cream into the reduced chicken stock, and bring it back to the boil.  Reduce until slightly thickened, and squeeze in some lemon juice.  Check the seasoning and stir in some freshly chopped flat parsley. 

Arrange the fried chicken on a large plate with the sweetcorn and banana fritters, and crispy bacon pieces.  Spoon the "gravy" over the fried chicken, and serve the rest in a sauce boat.  Garnish with chopped flat parsley.  That's it.  Quite a lot of bother, in some ways; but strangely satisfying.  A perenniel favourite.

Coca-Cola Glazed Ham

 

 

 

Last Christmas or so, I wrote a post about a slightly weird recipe: "Ham Glazed in Coca-Cola".  It's still one of my most popular posts, and as I'm currently getting increased hits (no doubt because of Thanksgiving), I'm going to give you the recipe again.

It doesn't sound that great, does it?  However, as Coke is really just a very sugary, brown and fizzy syrup, there's no reason why it shouldn't work nicely with a lovely, juicy ham.  And the recipe's an old favourite from the American Deep South, too- which is no bad thing.  So, here's how you make it:

Put in a medium sized unsmoked gammon into a large pan.  Add a peeled onion (for flavour), and then pour in a litre of coca-cola.  Bring to the boil, put the lid back on, and turn down the heat.  Let the ham braise in the liquid for 2 ½ hours.

Take the gammon out of the pan, and let it rest.  Remove the skin and preheat your oven to 210˚C.  In the meantime, mix up a glaze from 100g breadcrumbs, 100g brown muscovado sugar, two tablespoons of French Dijon Mustard, and a tablespoon of Colman's Mustard Powder.  With a sharp knife, scour the gammon to make a criss-cross pattern. Stir in a spoonful or so of coca-cola into the sugar and mustard mixture, and then slap it onto the gammon. 

Roast the gammon in the hot oven for about ten minutes, or until the glaze has cooked.

 

The Mexican Day of the Dead

 

 

I think I first became aware of the Mexican Day of the Dead after reading Malcolm Lowry's novel, "Under the Volcano". There was also a film with Albert Finney and the She-Who-Can-Do-No-Wrong Jacqueline Bisset, in which Finney plays a drunken British diplomat.

 

Mexicans celebrate the Day of the Dead on November 2nd. It's an extraordinary festival: families pray for the souls of the departed, and death is celebrated with dancing, sugar skulls, flowers, colourful altars and carnival.

I love authentic Mexican food, and it's only recently that the proper thing has begun to arrive in London. Up until now, we've had to put up with Tex-Mex restaurants (as beloved by students and the disenfranchised); the sort of places where they make you wear silly hats and pour Margaritas down your throat; not the same deal at all. Incidentally, I once had a fantastic chivichangas (fried burritos) at a drive-in gas station in San Diego, a few miles from the Mexican border. You paid a dollar or so through a grill, and then a few minutes later a tanned hairy hand appeared through a hole in a wall with your hot food. Fast Food in the best sense.

 

 

We're going to cook something Mexican tonight. I like Elizabeth Lambert Ortiz's book "The New Complete Book of Mexican Cooking". "Fish in Almond and Coriander Sauce" (Pescado en Salsa de Almendra Verde) is on the menu. 

First, you simmer some non-oily white fish (cod?) in stock. Normally, I would place the fish in the cold water or fish stock, and then bring to the boil. Once it's simmering, I immediately turn off the heat and put on the lid, and then leave the fish to "cook" in the hot water for about five to ten minutes. You'll find this is an excellent way to cook fish, and will give you perfect results every time.

 

Remove the fish, and set aside. Pour the hot fish stock into a jug. In a small frying pan, heat up a few tablespoons of olive oil, and fry a clove of garlic with a slice of white bread, until the bread is golden on both sides. Remove the garlic and chop up the fried bread, coarsely. In your food processor, whizz up the chopped fried bread, 50g (2oz) finely ground almonds, two jalapeno chillies (de-seeded and chopped) and half a cup of fresh chopped coriander leaves; and then thin it out with the reserved stock. Heat, check the seasoning and pour over the fish. Serve with rice.

I've got no idea what this is going to be like, but it sounds interesting, and the cooking techniques are relatively simple.

Anton Mosimann's Courgette and Thyme Risotto

 

 

 

We've just got back from a quick sojourn around the Italian Lakes; Lugano to be more precise, on the Italian-Swiss border. If you've never been there, I would urge you to go- the area is of course, stunningly beautiful, the food is excellent, and the place is relatively easy to get to, being only an hour or so's drive away from Milan.

 

Lake Como amused me. We had pistacchio gelati, sitting out on the terrace of the excellent Villa d'Este, watching playboys zooming around in Riva speed boats (all varnish and chrome), and flying boats taking off from the lake. It was very Talented Mr Ripley- a throwback to the 1950's. I gather George Clooney lives in the Villa Oleandra nearby. I also got to drive a Lancia again for the first time in twenty years. A trip down memory lane this was, as the car I first learnt to drive was my grandfather's highly unsuitable 1969 Lancia Flavia: all fuel injection and retro teak dashboard with an interesting array of coloured knobs and satsifying buttons to fiddle with. Anyway. Risotto.

I've got a theory that the Italians keep back the best risotto rice for themselves. Has anyone else noticed this? A year or two ago, we bought some arborio rice from a little shop in a backwater in Venice, and my god, it tasted so much more authentic than the imported stuff you buy from Sainsbury's. Having said that, I've discovered that Tesco sell an excellent arborio rice under their own name which seems to give very genuine, top notch results, and I would recommend this without reservation.

One of the best risotto recipes I've come across is in Anton Mosimann's "Cooking with Mosimann".  Remember old Anton?  He was that Swiss chap with the moustache, who elevated precision to a fine art, and had something to do with nouvelle cuisine back in the 1980's. You don't seem him on television much these days, and I assume he's gone into semi-retirement, which is a great shame, as I've been re-visiting his books and finding his recipes to be comparatively straightforward by today's standards and of course, as you would expect, technically excellent. Here's his recipe for a simple risotto cooked with courgettes and thyme. The addition of turmeric thickens it up and turns it an interesting, yellow colour, although I would be tempted, by way of experiment, to substitute the turmeric with a few saffron threads instead.

Melt 25g of butter in a hot pan. Chop up a small onion into fine pieces and cook it in the butter with a sprig or so of fresh thyme. Cook until soft, but not brown. Stir in 200g of arborio rice with a decent pinch of turmeric, and make sure the rice is coated in the hot butter. Again, do not brown. Pour in 150ml of steaming hot vegetable or chicken stock. Stir like crazy. The rice will release starch. Starch is what makes the risotto creamy. Over a medium heat, carry on adding 250ml of hot stock in small quantities, until the rice has absorbed it. You know how to do this, I don't really need to tell you: add a bit of stock, stir until most of the stock has been absorbed, add a bit of stock, stir.

As you're stirring, mix in 250g of courgettes, cut into small diced cubes. I tend to cut up my vegetables for this sort of thing into fairly small dice, as I think, visually at least, it looks neater, and it will take less time to cook. It's important not to overcook the rice. The Italians like their risotto rice to be reasonably firm, yet bound in a creamy, fairly sloppy sauce. This is the great art: firm rice, wet sauce; and it's not especially easy to get right the first time you make it.

Just before you reckon the rice to be ready, pour in 50ml of dry white wine. This will stop the cooking. Stir in a knob of butter, check the seasoning, and serve with freshly grated parmesan cheese.

 

Soused Mackerel with Cider and Thyme

 

 

 

Recently, Lucas Hollweg wrote about a similar recipe in The Sunday Times style magazine. Soused Mackerel is a North European classic.  "Sousing" means to pickle.  I've used mackerel in this dish, but, typically, you could use any other oily fish such as herring ("maatjesharing" in Dutch or "matjes" in German and Swedish), and it might be an intriguing exercise to try the dish out with smoked haddock, instead. I think it would work. 

In my version, I've used cider; as many of you will remember, I favour the use of cider in my cooking over white wine (it also gives this particular dish an added North European slant); but you could of course, use a dry white wine instead. The following recipe will serve four hungry people:

First, you'll need eight mackerel fillets. Living in central London, I bought my mackerel from the local supermarket and filleted them myself, as the so-called "fishmonger" behind the counter told me that he "hadn't been trained to fillet, had he?".  I raise my eyes to heaven. Filleting is pretty straightforward, and would make a good subject for a future post. I managed to do a reasonable job- even without a proper filleting knife: our kitchen is currently in chaos.

Clean the mackerel fillets and arrange them in a flat dish. Sprinkle them with sea salt, and leave them for at least half an hour.

In the meantime, heat up your oven to 220C.  Into a saucepan put: two thinly sliced red onions, one thinly sliced carrot, three cloves of peeled whole garlic, several sprigs of thyme, two bay leaves, two cloves, a small handful of black peppercorns, 500ml of a decent dry cider, and 120ml of cider or white wine vinegar. This will make your brine. Add 150ml of water and bring it to the boil. Simmer for ten minutes, add three small slithers of lemon peel, and simmer away for a five further minutes.

Wipe the surplus salt away from the fish, and pour over the hot liquor. Cook in the hot oven for up to nine minutes or so- until the fish is just about cooked through. Cool in the 'fridge and leave overnight. You will find that the red onions make the liquor go a subtle tinted rose-pink colour.  

Check the seasoning, and serve cold with a generous amount of chopped parsley and hunks of warm bread to mop up the juice. If you're fussy about presentation, it might be an idea to remove the lemon peel and the cooked thyme (which will have gone a bit soggy and brown during the cooking), replacing it with a few fresh sprigs. Incidentally, I served my fish with the silvery skin of the mackerel intact; you could of course, remove this after cooking.

Ideal for a summer buffet in the garden.

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.

Omelette Arnold Bennett

 

 

 

Hands up who saw that Sophie Dahl cookery television programme the other day?  Now, I'm an avid follower of Roald (who's Harry Potter?) and his extended family; and since the age of six I've been a huge fan of anything and everything Dahl-esque: transatlantic peaches, Gypsy caravans, Patricia Neal's cheekbones, chocolate factories, Quentin Blake's illustrations, and All Things Unexpected. 

In the programme, the delicious Miss Dahl (hang on, shouldn't she be the delicious Mrs Cullum?) rustled up a few bits and bobs in a retro-looking kitchen, and let us into a few charmingly girly secrets. And that was about it. Nothing more. Safe television, bland.

She looks great (amazingly like her grandmother) and her food looks good, but crikey o' reilly, I look back on the enthusiasm of the early Keith Floyd or the ravings of a certain Mrs Cradock with genuine nostalgia, and for the days when old pros like Anton Mosimann or Albert Roux stood in some boring, brightly-lit studio somewhere, with a set of sparkling saucepans and a brand new gas stove and just showed us how it was done properly.

The girl likes cooking, I have no doubt about that, but I don't detect a genuine obsession for food there- she's the star and the food is almost incidental. And I doubt it's her fault. I can just see it. Some thrusting young television exec takes her out to lunch at Sketch, or somewhere like that, and there's lots of exciting talk: "The New Nigella"..."You'll be huge, darling" (as if she already isn't- or wasn't)..."massive book sales", and so on, and so on. And who can blame her for taking the bait?  I would. You would. My Cat would.

The trouble is that, currently, the British Broadcasting Corporation is one gigantic yawn when it comes to food. And I have a solution: may I suggest that the BBC clears all its food programmes off the schedules for a year (bit of a problem there, I admit, as this accounts for nearly all their programming, and I can see a queue at the Shepherds Bush unemployment office of hairy bikers, voluptious Belgravia housewives, fat ladies, bald masterchefs, and pock-marked prima donnas), and then after, say, a year of food abstinence, commissions one new food programme of intelligence, content, integrity and dare I say it, quirkiness?  And one programme only.

There. I've had my little rant.  And I've gone off on a tangent too, as this post was supposed to be about Omelette Arnold Bennett, which the supermodel showed us how to cook. It was an inspired choice, as Omelette Arnold Bennett is delicious, and thinking about it, I'm amazed that I haven't covered it before. It's very much a Greasy Spoon type dish. Here's how I make it (this will make two omelettes) and you'll need to make up some Béchamel and Hollandaise sauce before hand.  If I haven't written about these two sauces before, by golly, I'm just about to over the next few posts.

Poach 150g skinned haddock fillets in a mixture of milk and water. I would recommend using undyed haddock, rather than the yellow dyed stuff.

A fool proof cooking method is as follows: put the fish into cold water, bring it to the boil, put on the saucepan lid, and then turn off the heat. The fish will sit in the hot water and cook slowly, to taste. When you're happy with it, take the haddock out of the pan, drain and flake up the fish. I like my fish to be very slightly under-done. 

Whisk up six eggs, add half the flaked haddock and season to taste. Heat an omelette pan, add a knob of butter and swirl it around. Add enough egg mixture to cover the pan, and stir immediately, tipping the pan quickly, to allow the runny egg mixture to fill the gaps. Work like a navvie, without pause. Knowing how to make an omelette is an art, something you will need to practise. Mrs Aitch is extremely good at it; I am not. Once the omelette has lightly set, slide it out on to a plate.

Mix a cup of Béchamel Sauce with three tablespoons of Hollandaise Sauce. Add the remaining smoked haddock flakes and fold in a largish tablespoon of whipped double cream. Cover the omelette with this mixture, sprinkle with some freshly grated Parmesan Cheese and bake under a hot grill until glazed.

And who was Arnold Bennett?  It's amusing how celebrity and transience go together like tea and biscuits or Jekyll and Hyde. Back in the 1920's Bennett was a famous man of letters, and a director of The Savoy Hotel to boot; where the famed omelette was invented for him.  As Andy Warhol said: "in the future, everyone will be world famous for fifteen minutes".

 

Aloo Gobi

 

 

 

I've currently got this thing about caulifower; in truth, it's developing into a bizarre craving. I'm not sure what it is exactly that I like about cauliflower. Is it the slightly peppery, mustardy flavour? Or the crunchiness of the stuff when it's slightly undercooked?

Aloo Gobi is the dish of the moment- potato is the aloo bit, and caulifower the gobi. It's a dry curry from Northern India, and easy to make; or at least, I thought it was until I tried using the recipe from Manju Malhi's otherwise excellent book, "Brit Spice".  

 

 

I think I like this book: it's well laid out using decent, clear typography, has excellent photographs, and the cover shows a wholesome looking girl (presumably the author) chopping up some coriander. The blurb on the front cover (courtesy of The Guardian) says "Manju Malhi is being billed as the Next Madhur Jaffrey".

I followed Ms Malhi's instructions to the letter: tip half a teaspoon of cumin seeds into three tablespoons of olive oil or vegetable oil and fry for a few seconds. So far, so good. Next, you add a chopped onion, a peeled and diced potato and a chopped and seeded green chili and fry for five minutes, before adding 200g (7oz) of caulifower florets and stir-frying for a further thirty seconds.

Turmeric, coriander and salt are stirred in, and the dish is covered and cooked on a low heat for five minutes. Chopped tomato is folded in, and the aloo gobi is cooked, covered, for a further three minutes.

And the result?  Delicious flavours, but both the potatoes and cauliflower remained severely undercooked. I realise "Brit Spice" is meant to be about modern, fast Indian cookery with a British twist: busy lives and all that; but this is taking fast food to extremes. Also, the cauliflower florets were too large, but that was my fault. I'm fine with the idea of keeping the caulifower crunchy, but undercooked potato ain't a good idea.

Sometimes I wonder if editors actually test the recipes they publish? I have a sneaky feeling that we could be looking at a typo here and the potato, onions and chili should be cooked for fifteen minutes at the start, and not five minutes, as published. The cooking time for the cauliflower could probably be increased by a further five minutes, too.

But it's an interesting question. How many recipes out there from well-known cookery writers are actually just plain wrong?  I seem to remember reading about the famous case of Robert Carrier and his Chili Con Carne, when because of some misprint, thousands of eager cooks across the land spooned in five tablespoons of hot chili powder rather than four teaspoons, or whatever it was supposed to be. And this was in 1965 (or whenever it was), a time when most Britons thought garlic was the mark of The Beast. 

Stangely, curry might now almost considered to be The National Dish.

Tartiflette

 

The ski-ing season's upon us, and chalet food makes me think of Tartiflette. Tartiflette's a French dish from the Savoie region, which originated in the Aravis valley, the home of Reblochon cheese. Curiously, it was invented as late as the 1980's in an attempt to boost sales, and then heavily promoted by the relevant trade unions to increase employment in the area. 

This is how you make it: First fry some chopped smoked bacon, and sliced onions for about five minutes in your favourite pan. If you've got some goose fat, use that.

Next, slice up some waxy potatoes, and arrange them in a bottom of a dish, which you've previously greased with the goose fat. It might also be a good plan to rub half a garlic clove over the dish as well- this will give the Tartiflette a subtle garlicky flavour, without killing off all the other flavours in the dish. Season the potatoes with salt and pepper, and then cover them with the cooked bacon and onions. 

Add a layer of Reblochon cheese which you have cut into small cubes. It would be worth you while to track down some authentic Reblochon- as this gives the dish its authentic edge. Try you local deli, and see if they stock it. If they don't it's always worth making a fuss- in the nicest possible way of course, and they may be able to get some in for you. 

Finally, it's a simple matter of adding another layer of sliced potatoes, some more cheese, and finishing off the thing with a carton of double cream, unsalted butter and more salt and pepper. Bake in the oven for over an hour, until the cheesy cream topping goes brown and crusty.

 

 

New Year's Day Chili

 

 

I think there's nothing better than tucking into a satisfying and hearty bowl of cowboy chili on a raw New Year's Day. It just seems so right. After all that Christmas over-indulgence, you want something simple, yet, if you're greedy like me, a limp bit of lettuce ain't going to pass muster. You're also probably feeling a trifle frazzled after the New Year's Eve revels.

Regrettably, Chili con carne is often nothing more than stewed mince, kidney beans and a bit of chili powder. Here's my idea for a more sophisticated version:

Sauté some chopped onions, garlic and chopped red chilis in oil and butter.  Stir in some good chili powder, oregano, cumin, and paprika. Now add the beef (or pork); or a combination of the two. You can either chop the meat into chunks, or put it through a mincer (if you've got one). Cook for a bit until the meat is sealed and coloured.

Next, add some stock, beer (the Mexican beer, Corona, is excellent), and a splash of Tabasco. Let the chili simmer slowly at a low heat, until the meat is cooked. You want the sauce to be reasonably thick. When the meat is nearly done, add some tomato purée, or even better, sun-dried tomato paste, and grate in some bitter chocolate- the sort of quality chocolate (high in cocoa solids) you can buy in delis and specialist shops. Season with salt and pepper to taste.

Finally, stir in some cooked beans (Kidney, Haricot, or Black Beans are fine, I'm not really that fussed). Serve with some grated cheese on top, sour cream, and saltine crackers.

To all the readers of The Greasy Spoon: A Very Happy New Year!

Braised Red Cabbage

 

 

 

I've just read an article in The London Times about a new edition of the classic board game, Cluedo (or Clue to my American readers). I trust that many of you will have spent many happy and instructive hours of your youth playing this slightly ridiculous game, invented in England by a certain Anthony E. Pratt in 1949. How can we forget the vampy Miss Scarlett, that sinister old codger, the Rev. Green; the Library, the Lead Piping, the Conservatory, the Revolver, the Billiard Room or the slightly scary Mrs Peacock? 

Well, I've got some really depressing news for you: the thrusting young execs of the American games company, Hasbro, have taken over good old Waddington's and have revamped the game to what they consider to be modern taste: Colonel Mustard is now "Jack Mustard, the ex-professional footballer", Professor Plum is now "Victor Plum, a celebrity internet millionaire", the Ballroom is now the Spa, the Hall is now a Home Cinema, the lead piping is now a baseball bat. The evocative 1940's film-noir graphics have been given a naff computer game style makeover. Is nothing sacred any more? It's just not cricket.

From a commercial point of view, I'm not convinced that Hasbro have done a sensible thing.  If it ain't broke, don't fix it; tamper with the classics at your peril. It's the same with food. Often, you'll find some young new turk who thinks that he can improve upon a classic dish by giving it a twist.  Gary Rhodes tried this with his "New British Classics". Sometimes it worked, quite often it didn't.

Here's a recipe for Braised Red Cabbage. It's a classic British dish. It is is what it is. No extra squeezes of orange juice to give it "added lift". But it's more than just cabbage- there are other ingredients in there as well, and the dish has a tangy, piquant flavour which is addictive. It's also suitable for this time of the year. 

Take a red cabbage, slice it in two and take out the core (that's the hard bit in the middle). Cut up the cabbage into thin slices. 

Next, slice up some apples in the same way, removing the cores. Put them in a casserole dish with the cabbage, and some diced streaky bacon.

In a separate pan heat up a generous dash of port, two tablespoons of red wine vinegar, and two tablespoons of caster sugar. Bring to the boil, and then simmer gently for a few minutes.

Pour the liquid over the cabbage, bacon and apples, and season well with salt and pepper. Shove the dish (with the lid on) into a medium oven and cook for an hour or so.

Moroccan Scrambed Eggs with Tomato and Oregano

 

 

One of the best things you can do when travelling is to keep an eye out for small details that might improve your cooking when you get home. Last year, when we were touring Alsace-Lorraine, I noticed that the French use far more salt and pepper in their cooking than we do; and this humble observation has made a substantial difference to my cooking.

The fabulous Riad Enija serve iced water in large jugs stuffed with fresh mint, leaving the water with a subtle menthol taste, which, I'm sure would go down well in the dusty, humid dog days of a London August. A useful hint.

Breakfast at the Riad Enija was on the French model, with a Morroccan twist: beghrir (honeycomb griddle cakes), pancakes, slices of cheese, pastries, croissant, black coffee and orange juice. With this came what they called a "Moroccan omelette". Actually, it was really what we would call scrambled eggs, flavoured with chopped tomatoes and oregano.

 

 

I think I've worked how it's made: add a dash of olive oil to a flat pan, and add chopped tomatoes. Cook them for a few minutes. Next, add three or four lightly beaten eggs, and swirl them around until they start to set. Season with a generous helping of oregano, salt and freshly ground black pepper.

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 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?

 

Kippers

 

 

For Saturday breakfast, I had a lonely boil-in-the-bag kipper. A few days ago, The Girl had been caught by the police in a sneaky scooter trap set up just outside Buckingham Palace, and was having to retake her scooter driving test.

The kippers were surprisingly good, and it occurred to me that this is another traditional food that has fallen in popularity.

Kippers are salted herring that have been split and then cold smoked. According to wikipedia (probably best read out in a fusty "Mr Kipling Makes Exceedingly Good Cakes" sort of voice): 

"The English philologist and ethnographer Walter William Skeat derives the word from the Old English kippian, to spawn. The origin of the word has various parallels, such as Icelandic kippa which means 'to pull, snatch', and the German word kippen which means 'to tilt, to incline'. Similarly, the English kipe denotes a basket to catch fish. Another theory traces the word kipper to the kip, or small beak, the male salmon deveop during the breeding season."

Etcetera, etcetera. I'm sure you all knew that back to front. My dear old Grandma used to make a sort of kipper butter or, I suppose, pâté, for spreading on toast at picnics. She simmered some boil in the bag kippers in water until they were cooked, and then mashed them up with creamed unsalted butter, a dash of Worcester Sauce and the juices from the bag. She then seasoned the kipper butter with salt, pepper and a squeeze of lemon juice, and served them in ramekin dishes with a garnish of lemon and parsley.

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."

 

 

Toad in the Hole with Onion Gravy

 

 

Mein Gott, this one takes me back: Toad in the Hole is perfect fodder for a Saturday Lunch. I feel strongly that there are certain dishes that are best suited to particular days of the week; and for some weird reason Toad means Saturday lunch. Not Sunday or Tuesday, or even Friday for that matter. Saturday. 

Incidentally, as much as I am curious to sample one of those tantalising little critters, the 'toad' is some sort of English slang for sausage. It's a bit like Welsh Rabbit (which ain't a rabbit), or Scotch Woodcock (which ain't a woodcock, either).

Back to the Toad: Heat your oven to 220C (425F). Get hold of some decent, fat, organic sausages and chuck them into a roasting tin with a few knobs of lard. You could have fun experimenting with different types of sausage.  The better your sausage, the better your Toad in the Hole will taste. Cook the sausages in the oven for about ten minutes.

Meanwhile, mix up the batter. Sieve 4oz (110g) of self raising flour into a bowl, and add a pinch of salt and some pepper. Make a hole or a "well" in the centre of the flour, and pour in 5 fluid oz (150ml) of semi-skimmed milk into the hole. Crack in an egg, too. Mix the flour, milk, and egg up very gradually with a wooden spoon.  Beat well, and then add the same amount of milk, again. Pour the finished batter over the sausages, and cook them in the oven for a further 45 minutes or so, until the Toad is risen and browned.

The Onion Gravy is a cinch. You slice up some onions, and brown them in a frying pan. If you add a few pinches of sugar and salt, this will help them to caramelise. You want them to get brown and a bit burnt. This is a good thing. Add a tablespoon of flour, and let it cook in the oniony fat. Once the onions and flour are brown enough, you can deglaze the pan with some stock, water, and perhaps, a slug or two of white wine. Instead of gravy browning (what's that?), I use a few drops of Soy Sauce, which will give the gravy an even richer colour and taste. A teaspoon of redcurrent jelly is not a bad plan, either. Onion Gravy should be thin.

All about Kedgeree...

 

Being English (and a bit Scottish too, if I go back far enough), I reckon I'm a bit of an expert on Kedgeree. I hope you won't find this arrogant, it's not supposed to be; but I'm sure that us Anglo-Saxons are the only people who make this dish, and I'm all for spreading the word. In truth, I'm an unashamed, fully signed-up, kedgeree anorak.

Last year, I wrote a post about kedgeree, and it you're interested in the history of the dish and its Anglo-Indian origins, please click on the link and have a good read. Kedgeree is made out of three key ingredients: rice, fish and eggs. Traditionally, it's served either as a breakfast dish (silver chafing dishes, shooting breakfasts and all that), or for supper.  I think it might also be good as a first course.

I'm sure that the first time I ever had kedgeree was at my uncle and aunts' place down in the Sussex countryside. This was the classic, Cromwellian, no-nonsense version; beloved of Empire and wary of excess: long grain rice, hard-boiled eggs, dyed smoked haddock, salt and pepper perhaps, with just a smidgin of curry powder. No cream, no lemon juice, no parsley; possibly re-heated or served cold as left-overs. Thrifty. Practical. Children should be seen and not heard.

Now zoom forward in time to the 1980's, and you have the cheffy, slightly effete, London interpretations of Michael Smith, Anton Mosimann, and Gary Rhodes- who had the bright idea of binding smoked eel in a creamy, Escoffier style Sauce Indienne.

Personally, I favour the Jane Grigson method (my own recipe based on her version in English Food): an onion is sliced up  and sautéed in a mixture of oil and butter. Curry paste, nutmeg, crushed coriander seeds and a pinch of saffron are stirred in and cooked for a few moments. Next, long grain or basmati rice is stirred into the spicy butter and allowed to turn translucent. Fish stock (left over from cooking the haddock) is then poured in, and allowed to cook until there's no water left. Finally you stir in flaked undyed smoked haddock, sliced softly boiled eggs, a cup or so of cooked wild rice, cream and butter, and generous amounts of chopped parsley. The dish is finished off with a squeeze of lemon juice, sea salt, black pepper and a pinch of Cayenne Pepper, and served with a Mango Chutney on the side. 

Rice

Basmati might be an appropriate choice here, with it's nod to the Imperial origins of the dish. However,  I normally recommend Uncle Ben's Long Grain Rice, as the starch has been removed, and you will end up with a cleaner result. In my idleness, I once tried to make kedgeree from a rice which I hadn't rinsed properly and the result was a nasty, starchy mush. Avoid that. I'm also keen on adding a cup or so of cooked wild rice to the finished mix; but bear in mind that wild rice will need at least half an hour (and probably a great deal longer) to cook properly- you'll know when it's cooked properly, as the grain splits and you will be able to see the whitish insides.

Onions and Peas?

Yes, in my opinion.  Believe it or not, reasonably authentic to the original Indian version. I like to sauté a sliced or chopped onion with the rice.  If I'm in the mood, I sometimes stir in some cooked peas with the smoked haddock.

Spices

I like kedgeree to have a bit of a kick. Partly because I'm a closet spice merchant, but also because I think the dish needs it. Avoid the bland. Don't forget kedgeree's Anglo-Indian origins: I reckon it needs a bit o' spice to make it authentic. I would recommend using a teaspoon or so of decent curry paste, rather than a curry powder, lots of nutmeg, crushed coriander seeds, and possibly a pinch of saffron- though I don't like the dish to turn bright yellow- too much like that radio-active 'pilau' rice you get fobbed off with down at your local Taj Mahal. A creamy, very light yellow colour, speckled with the green of the chopped parlsey, is the goal.

Fish

In theory, it should be undyed smoked haddock (not the cheaper yellow stuff), but in practice you can use any fish: cod, smoked eel, halibut or salmon. 1970's recipes often recommend tinned salmon- but I'm not convinced by that one, and I suspect if you're a bona fide foodie, you won't either. Smoked fish, in my opinion works well, as it tends to hold together a bit better; and of course, that oily smoked taste is no bad thing either. Place your fish fillet in some seasoned water, bring to the boil and turn off the heat, putting a lid back on the pan. Let the fish sit in the hot water- and about ten to fifteen minutes later it will be perfectly cooked. Use the fishy water as a stock, and pour it over the sautéed rice and spices.  In effect, you're making a pilaf.

Eggs

Free Range. Organic. I prefer them to be softly boiled. It's a very satisfying moment when you slice them open, and the hot, runny, yellow egg yolk runs out.

Cream?

Yes, definitely.  I always stir in a dollop of single cream, and add a knob of unsalted butter, too. It helps to keep your kedgeree moist, and that's no bad thing. Finish off the kedgeree with a squeeze of lemon juice- that works wonders, too. Another crucial question: do you make the kedgeree first, and then bind it in a creamy, curried sauce à la Gary Rhodes, or do you cook the rice in curried stock à la Jane Grigson?  An unresolved  dilemma, worthy of many sleepless nights.

Garnish

Lots of chopped parsley, please.  Coriander would work well, too. I like a pinch of Cayenne Pepper, though I accept that this might rot the old taste buds. Mango Chutney, however, works brilliantly with kedgeree, and brings out the lovely smoky, salty, sweet and sour flavours of this wonderful and classic dish.

Still awake?

 

Savoy Cabbage and Bacon Gratin

 

Here in London, it's been freezing cold for the last few days. This afternoon we had a flurry of gobby, wet snowflakes, and grey skies. With weather like this, I'm keen on gutsy winter food; nothing too elaborate or refined.  Savoy Cabbage and Bacon Gratin is ideal: it's a classic supper dish which is easy to make, and inexpensive too, which is no bad idea in this current financial climate.

Blanche a Savoy Cabbage.  'Blanching' is simple. It just means placing the cabbage into a pan of water, and bringing the pan to boiling point (having previously removed the tough, outer leaves). Once this has happened, remove the cabbage and shred it up. Fry some chopped bacon in a pan, and add a sliced onion, some crushed garlic and a teaspoon of caraway seeds. When the onion and the bacon have cooked, toss in the cabbage.

Transfer everything to a gratin dish, pour over some double cream, and top with breadcrumbs and some grated cheese. Bake in the oven, until the 'crust' has turned a nice golden brown.

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?

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.

Juniper

 

Following on from yesterday's post, I thought, this Friday afternoon, that I would write more about the juniper berry. Juniper is actually an evergreen tree- a conifer in the genus Juniperus in the cypress family Cupressaceae. The berries are small, wrinkled, dark brown things with a tiny stone in the centre. If crushed, they give off a lovely woody, peppery, pine-like flavour, with a bittersweet taste, and it's this very flavour which is used in the making of London Gin. Juniper also goes extremely well with game (such as pheasant and venison) and ham.

Here's a simple recipe for Ham with Juniper Berries, otherwise known as Ham in a Piquant Sauce:

Pour six tablespoons of wine vinegar into a small saucepan. Crush up eight juniper berries and add them to the vinegar. Chop up four shallots very finely and add to the vinegar and juniper berries. Turn up the flame and boil away until the vinegar has reduced and there is very little left in the saucepan.

In a larger pan, chuck in a knob of unsalted butter, and stir in some flour; to make a roux. Once the flour and butter are sufficiently cooked, stir in 300ml of chicken stock and 300ml of white wine to make a smooth, creamy sauce. Now add the juniper flavoured vinegar mixture, stir and bring to the boil. Crank down the heat and let the sauce simmer for about twenty minutes.

Sieve the sauce to get rid of the bits and pieces, turn down the heat, and carefully stir in 150ml of double cream. Check the seasoning.

In a flat oven proof dish, arrange some slices of ham. Cover the ham with the piquant sauce and cover with a lid. Heat it up in a lowish to moderate oven for about half an hour.

Spanish Omelette

 

 

Before the days of package holidays and cheap international travel, many people in Britain had never been to places like Italy or Spain. In Britain, "Risotto" was cooked in a casserole dish in the oven; and to be fair, I suspect this was as much because the proper arborio or carnaroli rice needed to make a proper Italian risotto wasn't available back then. "Spanish Omelette" was cooked with peas, ham and red and green peppers. 

This British version is, no doubt, delicious, but it's not a proper Spanish omelette. By this I mean an omelette- as cooked by the Spanish, in Spain. Tortilla de Patatas. The genuine article is made from eggs, potatoes and onions. 

Cook 300g of waxy potatoes in salted water. In a decent non-stick frying pan cook some chopped onion in olive oil. Drain the potatoes, remove the skins, and then slice them up. Add the potatoes to the hot pan.  

Whisk up four eggs, and season them with salt and pepper. Pour the egg into the pan, shaking the pan around so that the onion and potatoes begin to set with the egg. When the egg is almost set (this should only take just under a minute) place the pan under a hot grill. You want the top of the omelette to take on some colour (i.e. to turn golden brown), but at the same time, you don't want it to burn.

Turn the Spanish Omelette out onto a plate. The Spanish often serve it cut in to wedges.

Chorizo and Butternut Squash with Roasted Tomatoes

 

 

As it's Hallowe'en, I've decided to come up with an idea suitable for this most American of festivals. Here in London, it's also suddenly cold and frosty.  I think this recipe would work well. I've gone for butternut squash rather than pumpkin.  It's also simple- and that's no bad thing.

Slice up a red onion and fry it gently in oil and butter. When the onion's soft, turn down the heat to a low setting and add some chorizo sausage, chopped up into cubes. The chorizo should take about ten to fifteen minutes to cook.

In the meantime, remove the skin from a butternut squash, and cut it in half. Chop the squash into small chunks and cook it gently in a separate pan with butter, first seasoning it with a few pinches of nutmeg and some decent black pepper.

Go back to the chorizo and add some crushed garlic. This will take a few minutes to cook. Make sure it doesn't burn.

Finally, remove the cooked chorizo, red onions and garlic and place them into a clean pan. Add the cooked butternut squash, and some baby tomatoes, which you've previously roasted whole in the oven. Warm the pan through, check the seasoning and finish the dish off with some chopped coriander and a squeeze of lemon.

The secret with this recipe is that the three main ingredients are cooked separately in their own juices, and then just gently folded together at the end.  Butternut squash has a delicious, slightly musty, autumnal taste and you don't want that to be overpowered by the spicy paprika flavours going on in the chorizo.

Welsh Potato and Leek Cakes with Mint

 

 

Last Saturday, the 1st March, was St David's Day; St David being, of course, the patron saint of Wales. We have a rather quirky tradition over here, in which anyone with Welsh connexions stuffs a leek into their buttonhole: The Prince of Wales was being interviewed on television last night, and I noticed that instead of a leek, he was wearing a nifty Welsh Onion (or scallion) in the buttonhole of his Anderson & Shepherd suit. 

Anyway, on with the food: Here's a Welsh themed recipe for you. How about some potato and leek cakes? They're simple to make, and would go brilliantly with Welsh lamb (you want it pink), and a glass of something red and juicy, like a Rhone, or a Beaujolais.

First, peel some potatoes, and let them stand in salted water, so that some of the starch drains out. Take out the potatoes, and pat them dry with kitchen paper. Next, shred them in a Magimix, or similar machine. Pat them dry again. As we are going to fry them, you want to remove as much water as possible. If they're watery, they'll boil, rather than fry- and you don't want that.

Chop up some leeks or some Welsh Onions into thin slices. In a mixing bowl, combine the potato shreds with the leeks, and season with lots of sea salt and black pepper. Add some chopped fresh mint leaves, discarding the stalks. Using your hands, form the mixture into patties or small cakes. Chuck a knob of unsalted butter into a hot non-stick frying pan, and add a splash of olive oil. Fry the cakes quickly on both sides, until they are golden brown. Eat.

Grilled Mackerel with Green Goosberry Sauce

 

 

By now, you should know how much I love fish. Catching the blighters is fun too. We used to go fishing in Scotland, and I remember the excitement of dangling your brightly coloured lure over the side of the boat, and then the sudden adrenalin rush as you realise that that there are wriggly, silvery mackerel (flashing blue in the sunlight), tugging hard at the end of your line.

Here's a very British recipe for Grilled Mackerel with an interesting Gooseberry Sauce. When was the last time you had Gooseberry Sauce? I'm all for it- and the sharp flavours of the gooseberries contrasts well with the oily fish.

Take ½ a pound of green gooseberries, top and tail them, then put them into a pan of boiling water, and simmer them until they turn yellow. Next, strain off the water, and pass them through a sieve, so that you end up with a purée. Add a tablespoon of sugar to the mixture. Melt a knob of butter in a hot pan, and then stir in some flour to form a roux in the normal way. As always, make sure the flour is slightly cooked, stirring the roux until you get a smooth buttery paste.

Then, pour in about half a pint of boiling water and stir. Take off the heat, and start adding small pieces of butter, piece by piece, until you have a smoothish sauce. Stir in the gooseberry purée, and season with chopped fennel, salt and pepper, and some grated nutmeg.

The Mackerel are easy. Take your gutted fish, and make four diagonal cuts into the fish on either side. Season with salt and pepper, and rub the inside and outside with lemon juice. Brush with oil, and grill them for about fifteen minutes. Serve with a lemon wedge, and the Green Gooseberry Sauce.

Fondue

 

 

Back in the late 1960's, our Swiss au pair brought back a funky fondue set. I remember it well: a beaten copper affair, raised on a nifty wrought iron stand.

In my opinion, the best fondues use the authentic cheese recipes; but a bad, mad, and dangerous tendency has crept in for sickly, over rich chocolate fondues with cake, strawberries, and the like. Avoid them at all costs.

Here's how to make a genuine Swiss cheese fondue: Grate ½ pound of a Swiss cheese such as an Emmenthaler, and ½ pound of Gruyere into a pan. Start melting the cheese on a medium heat. It's important not to boil the cheese, over-stir it, or let it get cold. All these things will encourage separation and stringing.

Carefully stir in two tablespoons of flour or cornstarch. Again, the flour will help to prevent separation. Add a tablespoon of dry mustard.

When the cheese, flour and mustard have melted down, add a cup of dry white wine, a dash of Kirsch, a squeeze of lemon juice, and some grated nutmeg.

That's it. You then dip in hunks of fresh white bread into the cheese sauce. Traditionally, if you loose your bread in the cheese, you are supposed to pay a forfeit. Having seen Bryan Forbes' original version of The Stepford Wives, I can imagine the sort of things our parents got up to forty years ago, although I stress that in our family, the forfeit was always a bottle of Kirsch.

Poached Eggs with Sauce Soubise

 

 

Coming back to my house hungry and late on a Sunday Night, I soon discovered that my larder shelves were depressingly bare. What to eat? I had a few eggs, an onion, and a stale loaf of Mother's Pride. The answer: Poached Eggs with Sauce Soubise and Crutons.

First make the Sauce Soubise. This is just an Onion Sauce. I chopped up the onion, and cooked it in butter, until soft. Next, I pureed it in the Magimix, and then stirred it into a bechamel sauce. You should remember this from other posts. It's just white flour cooked in butter (which forms a "roux"), to which is added milk, to form a smooth white sauce. I seasoned the sauce with salt, pepper and nutmeg.

Then I poached three eggs. The easiest way to do this is to crack the egg into a saucer, and then slide it in to a deep pan of water, which you have brought to just under the boil. Before you slide the egg in, swirl the water around with a spoon. If your eggs are fresh enough, the egg white should then curl up around the yolk. Try to keep the egg yolks soft and runny. Incidentally, I don't add either salt or vinegar to the water.

I arranged the eggs in a chafing dish, and poured the sauce around the eggs. I finished off the dish by frying a slice of white bread in olive oil, and then cut off the crusts, and divided the slice into four triangles- to make crutons, which I arranged around the eggs. If you've got time, it might be a good idea to flash the dish under the grill for a minute or so. It worked beautifully. Perfect Sunday Night food.

Cod, Bacon, and Avocado Salad with Rice

 

 

This is an interesting green and white coloured rice salad that I invented a week or so ago, and it worked out surprisingly well.

I steamed some cod fillets. Once they were cooked, I removed the skins, and seasoned them with my latest foodie discovery, Smoked Maldon Salt. Next, I cooked some Uncle Ben's Long Grain Rice with some star anise and two cloves. I once had an argument with the owner of the Kennington Tandoori, who claimed that Uncle Ben's was a poor quality rice. Well! I like it for this sort of recipe, because it has less starch, and each grain remains clean and intact. I bet my bottom dollar that in a blind tasting, he wouldn't be able to tell the difference.

I flaked up the salty cod, and mixed it in with the cooked rice. Then, I added some crispy streaky bacon, fried until crisp, some chopped avocado (sprinkle some lime or lemon juice on it immediately to stop it going black), and a green chili sliced into small strips. Then it's an easy matter to add chopped spring onions, and some chopped parsley or coriander.

Mix it all together gently. Finally, add a dressing: I used a light oil, mixed with a white wine vinegar, and lime juice. Season with sea salt and pepper. You could also add some prawns, but, as always, the best thing, in my opinion, is simplicity...

Basque Chicken

 

 

Here's a perennial favourite of mine, which I've based on a recipe from Patricia Wells' excellent book "Bistro Cooking". As she points out, "Poulet Basquaise", is one of those standard French bisto dishes, which if not cooked properly, can be pretty grim. However, I make it often: it's easy, quick, and if cooked with care, delicious.

Take some chicken thighs (removing the skins first), and then season them with lots of salt and pepper. Fry the chicken pieces in a pan with some olive oil, until the outside goes golden brown. I find that the salt helps to keep the outside crispy, and the inner meat juicy.

Next, add twelve fat garlic cloves (yes, I mean twelve!), thickly sliced red bell peppers (again, it might be a good idea to remove the skins first), four green chilis cut into strips, and some thick slices of unsmoked ham. Cover the pan, and cook slowly for about an hour, shaking the pan as it cooks, to stop the ingredients burning. The peppers will make lots of cracking noises, and will give off a nicely flavoured liquid.

Finally, it's a simple matter of making a tomato sauce. Cook some chopped onions in some olive oil. Once they're soft, add some chopped tomatoes (or a can of tomatoes in their juice), and cook for about half an hour, until you have a slightly reduced sauce. Season with salt and pepper. Serve the Basque Chicken with rice, and pour the tomato sauce over the cooked chicken, peppers, garlic and chili.

Welsh Rabbit

 

 

You know, here in Britain we eat strange things: Haggis, Spotted Dick, Deep Fried Mars Bars in Batter, Stargazey Pie, Bread and Butter Pudding, and Welsh Rabbit. Before all you animal lovers out there in cyberspace bombard me with protest emails, I have to stress that Welsh Rabbit is actually a toast and cheese dish. No-one is exactly sure why it's called this. Some people call it Welsh Rarebit. If you want to make it, it's easy; and perfect as a late night supper snack or TV Dinner.

Here's how I do it: Melt some butter in a small pan. Grate in some cheese. A strong, mature Cheddar is perfect. (Incidentally, in case you didn't know, Cheddar is a town in Somerset, England; and Cheddar is probably our most famous cheese; and cheese is the one thing we probably do as well as, if not better than the French). Next add a dollop of mustard (has to be tangy Colman's, doesn't it?); a dash of Lea & Perrins, and a slug of Guinness.

Meanwhile toast some brown bread, and pour the melted cheese mixture over it. Season with salt and pepper, and then cut the bread into fingers. Finish the dish off by flashing it under the grill for a minute or so. Perfect if you're about to slob out in front of Saturday Night television.

Lancashire Hot Pot

 

 

What is the difference between Irish Stew, and Lancashire Hot Pot?  Well, to be honest, not much. One comes from Ireland, and the other from the county of Lancashire in the North of England. Both should include lamb, potatoes, and onions. I've done my research this morning to discover the definitive version, and I would suggest that perhaps, the English version has greater flexibility. Whether this is a good thing or not is a moot point.

Lancashire Hot Pot was a working man's dish, and probably originated in the nineteenth century, during the period of flat caps, whippets, and satanic mills. Some people insist on beef, but I'm sure that the original dish used lamb. But there is one important historic difference. Lancashire Hot Pot should include oysters. A hundred years ago, oysters were much cheaper than they are today, and were considered a staple of the poor man's diet.

Take a neck of lamb, and cut into chunks. Incidentally, neck of lamb is a fantastic cut to bear in mind for another time, and not too expensive. Season them with salt and pepper, and sprinkle them with flour. Arrange the lamb on the bottom of a casserole dish. Get hold of some onions, and slice them up thinly. Sweat them in a frying pan in some butter on a lowish heat, for about five minutes. When they're done arrange them over the lamb.

Next, slice up some carrots into batons, and arrange them over the onions. Throw in some oysters, and add another layer of onions. Finally, slice up some King Edward potatoes, and arrange them so that they cover the whole stew. Season again, with salt and pepper, and brush the potato slices with butter. This will stop them burning. Last but not least, add some chicken stock, so that the stock comes up to just below the potatoes.

 

 

Cook in a pre-heated hot oven for about thirty minutes, and then turn down the heat to about 130C and let it simmer for two and half hours. To finish the dish off, take of the lid, crank up the heat to about 200 C and roast it for a further half and hour or so. This will brown up the potato layer on top.

Remember kiddos, the secret of cooking British style stews, is long, slow cooking at lowish temperatures. This will break down the meat. If you cook it too fast on a high heat, your meat will have the texture of rubber. Traditionally, Lancashire Hot Pot is served with braised red cabbage. This is an old English favourite. Red cabbage sliced up, pickled in vinegar, and braised in stock. Another day, I'll initiate you into the secrets of that one.

Marinated Haddock with Prawns and Dill

 

 

 

This recipe comes from Nathalie Hambro's Simple Fare (1986), one of the more interesting cook books in my collection. As well as being a fashion designer, and all-round style guru, Nathalie Hambro is one of the most innovative and inspiring cookery writers out there, and if you are looking for fresh ideas, I whole-heartedly recommend her books. Most of them, I think, are out of print, but can be bought easily from amazon.co.uk, or abebooks.co.uk.

I like this recipe for its Baltic, or Nordic, overtones, and it's very easily made with the simplest of ingredients. Here's how you do it: Line a dish with tin foil. Spread some dill over the foil, and season with sugar, Maldon salt, and black pepper.

Next, place a fresh smoked haddock fillet over the dill. Normally I would use undyed haddock, but for this recipe I've found that the dyed yellow haddock works better. The Haddock needs to be as fresh as you can get it. Cover the fish with more dill, sugar, salt and pepper. It's best to use more sugar than salt, and to go easy with the pepper. Sprinkle some large peeled prawns on top. Wrap the whole thing up tightly with the tin foil, and stick it into the 'fridge, with a weight on top, for at least 24 hours- preferably longer.

When it's ready, slice the haddock into long, thin pieces. It's slightly like Japanese sushumi. Arrange it in a serving dish, with the prawns. Take some spring onions, and cut them in four lengthways. Soak them in a bowl of ice-cold water- after a few minutes the green tops with start to curl-up- which looks impressive, for virtually zero effort. Take them out, drain them; and stick them in with the marinated haddock and the rest of the prawns.

Black Bean Soup

 

 

I've had fun researching suitable food for Hallowe'en. Along the way, I discovered Colcannon, a traditional kale and potato dish which is eaten in Ireland, and Gingerbread Husbands, which were eaten by young village girls to make sure they found a husband. And then I hit upon the brilliant idea of Black Bean Soup. It's spicy, warming, velvety, er- black, and with Mexican hints suitable for the Day of the Dead festival on November 2nd, too. Here's my version:

You can either use tinned black beans (which are hard to find in the UK), or dried beans which you need to soak overnight in cold water. In a pan, cook some chopped smoked bacon in butter for a few minutes. Next, stir in a chopped onion, chopped carrot, and two crushed cloves of garlic. It might also be a good plan to throw in a finely chopped green chili. One of those fiendishly hot small ones. I'll leave that up to you.

 

 

Next, you need to add cumin. If you've got time, you can dry-roast some cumin seeds in a hot frying pan, and then when they're popping, take them out and crush them in a pestle and morter. Otherwise you could use powdered cumin. Add the cumin to the pan, and stir in. Cook for a few moments. Tip in the black beans, some chicken stock, and a liberal dash of my favourite Tabasco Sauce.

Simmer on a very low heat with the lid on for about an hour and a half. You want the soup to be thick and velvety. The black beans should thicken everything up. Serve with sour cream, and chopped chives. A spicy Mexican Salsa would be good too.

Luckily, I'm not going to be at home tonight. In recent years, the mean streets of Battersea have become full of roaming gangs of ghouls, witches, Frankensteins and mad axe murderers on Hallowe'en Night. Yup, Tick or Treating has suddenly become big over here. It was quite amusing at first, but last year I found myself under siege, and had to retreat to the back of the house, while the street urchins shouted through my letter box: " 'ere Mishter...we know you're in there", or words to that effect. Well, tonight kiddos, you ain't getting anything from me. That nice Mr Scrooge in Number 43...

 

Devils on Horseback

 

 

I'm back in the Big Smoke. You may remember that I was planning to write about whitebait. I cooked some on Saturday. They were delicious (deep fried in Cayenne pepper, and coated with a dusting of seasoned flour) but the photography wasn't that hot; so as Hallowe'en is almost upon us, I'm going to concentrate on some classic Hallowe'en dishes over the next few days instead. Hallowe'en is interesting. When I was about so-and-so high, it was barely celebrated in Britain; all the emphasis was on Bonfire Night a few days later. In those far off days, Trick or Treating was just not the done thing in Jolly Old.

I suspect that Hallowe'en was originally brought to the United States by Scottish or Dutch settlers in the nineteenth century, became a big deal over there (Hallowe'en post cards were huge in America before the First World War) and then in the last few years with the Americanisation of Europe, came back over here.

Not that I'm complaining. It's a bit like Chop Suey, which, apparently, was re-invented by Chinese immigrants in San Francisco; the European Coffee House in Seattle (er- Starbucks), or the deep-pan "Italian" pizza re-gurgitated in Chicago from the classic Neopolitan street recipe. Old World classics go to America, are re-invented, and then make their way back here with a bit of North American perzazz thrown in for good measure.

 

Here's a good 'un for the Night of the Living Dead: they're called Devils on Horseback. You get hold of some rashers of streaky bacon and half-cook them under your grill. The night before, you've soaked some dried prunes in water and Lea & Perrin's Worcestershire Sauce. Now wrap each bacon rasher around a prune, and fasten with a wooden cocktail stick. You are going to re-grill them, so it's a good idea to soak the cocktail sticks in cold water first- to stop them burning.

 

 

 

 

 

Bung them back under the grill, until they are cooked through. Take them out. Season with salt and pepper, and if you're up for it, a further dash of Lea & Perrins. Serve with hot toast and a watercress garnish.

Tomorrow, it has to be about pumpkins- and as I hate the taste of pumpkin, I'm going to have to come up with some palatable ideas fast. Very fast. If anyone out there in cyberspace (especially the dear old U S of A) wants to email me with pumpkin-fest ideas, please do, and if you can persuade me, I'll get your ideas up on the site to share with the rest of the world...

Scrambled Eggs

 

You may be surprised that I am devoting a whole post to scrambled eggs. What's there to know about them, I hear you ask? Well, quite a bit.

For seven long and hard years, I had to endure the scrambled eggs made by the gastronauts who ran my school kitchen at Dotheboy's Hall. Watery, and rubbery, like some sort of experimental industrial plastic; I reckon that they had added quite a bit of egg powder and water to the mix.

But scrambled eggs made properly is an entirely different matter. Here's how that great French chef, Auguste Escoffier, made them: Break eight good eggs (yup, eight eggs) into a mixing bowl. Blend them very very gently with a fork. You do not want to beat them. You do not add water or milk. That's what British cooks did in the 1950's. You don't want to add salt at this stage, either, as it makes the eggs watery, and the finished product will end up less yellow in colour. I think it was the restauranteur, Marcel Boulestin, who suggested that Escoffier also rubbed garlic onto his fork to add a bit of flavour to the eggs. I'll have to check up on that one- I may be wrong.

 

Anyway, now heat a small copper pan. When the pan is hot, add a knob of unsalted butter. Pour in the eggs, and start to cook them on an extremely low heat. In professional kitchens they would probably use a bain-marie. That means placing the smaller pan over a larger pan full of simmering boiling water to get the lowest heat. As I've got a job of sorts to hold down, and have limited time, I don't do this; but I can only stress that for it to work, you need to set your heat to the lowest possible settings.

 

 

Stir slowly with a wooden spoon from the middle, so that the egg sets in creamy curds. This is a real art. You don't want the egg to stick to the pan, yet at the same time, you want the egg to set. When the eggs are almost ready, stir in some cream.

Quickly remove the eggs from the heat. They will carry on cooking in the pan. Now you can stir in some more butter to taste, and season with salt, pepper, and some chives.

As Ian Fleming once wrote: "Scrambled Eggs, Bacon, and Strong Black Coffee- they never let you down." Though I suppose at the same time, he was implying that his women did. Enough said.

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.

Moussaka

I am delighted to introduce a guest contributor to The Greasy Spoon, Nicholas Good. Nick has just returned from a late summer jaunt to the Aegean island of Skopolos, and has perfected the art of preparing that Greek classic: moussaka.

 

 

"Like Liz Taylor’s Cleopatra, my moussaka is an almost all Greek thing. It’s almost all Greek because unless you make it in Greece with Greek ingredients, it’s just not going to taste quite right. However, I'm content that this version passes muster as it compared very favourably with that served in the local taverna in Skopolos (from where I’ve just returned).

 

 

Moussaka neatly breaks down into three different elements: aubergines (known as eggplant in America), mutton ragu, and béchamel sauce. These must be made up separately and then combined to cook together.

To serve six people (or four very hungry ones) take three aubergines of a reasonable size (about seven inches long with a wide girth). These should be sliced into approx quarter inch thick rounds and placed in a colander with lots of coarse salt (Malvern is best), muddled around and then set aside for three quarters of an hour.

 

 

Then move on to the ragu. In a solid wide pan heat two to three tablespoons of olive oil, and fry two finely chopped medium onions. When these have just softened to a golden colour, add half a teaspoon of ground cinnamon and a heaped tablespoon of tomato puree. Stir this around until the colour mellows. Then add 1 lb (500g) of mutton mince (lamb if you must, but it’ll have less taste). Break it all up with a wooden spoon and cook on gently for quarter of an hour. Add to this a large glass of red wine (please use something drinkable as it should add flavour rather than a horrid oak vinegary twang- allowing for the rarity of half decent Greek wines outside Greece, a tolerable Burgundy should suffice). This will all need to cook on a low setting, partly covered, for a further three quarters of an hour. If it goes dry add an extra slosh or two of wine.

Back to the aubergines. Drain them under a running tap and dry on a clean linen cloth. Place half an inch of sieved flour in a large bowl along with ground black pepper and some ground fine salt. Then tip the aubergines in and make sure they’re floured all over. Heat some oil (a mixture of olive and sunflower works well) in a frying pan and, in batches, fry the floured aubergine rounds until they’re crispy and just going brown-golden. Pile the cooked ones up on a plate and don’t worry about them getting cold.

 

 

Now butter a large fairly deep oven dish – a lasagne dish is ideal, and lay in half the aubergines. Onto that spread the mutton ragu mixture. Then lay on the rest of the aubergines. Set the part-filled dish aside and preheat your oven to 220 C, 425 F, Gas mark 7. You are now ready for the pièce de résistance: the béchamel soufflé sauce. This is clearly something rather secret as all the recipes I’ve come across suggest that you just use standard béchamel, or Gawd help us a cheese sauce. But some do suggest a feta cheese sauce or something cheesy with eggs whipped in. But this sauce will give you both an authentic taste and a good depth of layer.

First place one and a half pints of full fat milk in a saucepan, along with a small onion, peeled and halved but not chopped up, a bay leaf, two cloves and a pinch of salt. Bring this to the boil, turn off the heat and cover so that it infuses for at least ten minutes.

In a very clean bowl whip up four egg whites with rotary whisk so they form firm peaks. Set those aside. Dissolve 1½ oz (50g) of butter and stir in 1½ oz (50g) of sieved flour in a saucepan. Stir this to a soft, pale coloured ball of roux that comes clean of the pan. Strain the infused milk and add a third of it to the roux mixture over medium heat. Wait a moment for the milk to boil, stir thoroughly with a wooden spoon, take it from heat and it beat well. Repeat with the second third. After a second beating, add the remaining milk, also add 3 oz (85g) of real Greek feta and a good few grates of nutmeg. Then, when the sauce boils again, beat very thoroughly. Take it off the heat and beat out some of the steam - for approx one minute. Then with a large metal spoon loosely stir in the whisked egg whites. Spoon this mixture carefully over to cover the aubergine layer.

 

 

Finally, place very thin slices of tomato over the béchamel to form a kind of Cross of St George. Place the whole in the hot preheated oven and bake for 20 minutes until the top is risen and a pale golden brown. Turn the oven down to 170 C, 325 F, Gas mark 3) and continue cooking for a further half an hour. By this time it will be bubbling at the edges and a dark, cracked gold with the tomatoes slightly sunk in and just crisping at the edges.

You should let it sit for ten minutes before serving, or let it cool completely, cut it into portions and reheat individual slices for twenty minutes or so in a medium oven."

Guineafowl

 

 

I was originally planning to write about pheasant (the season started on October 1st), but having a limited amount of time I ended up buying some guineafowl breasts from my local supermarket. Guineafowl originally came from Africa, and they're strange looking critters. I've included a photograph of one below, and this is what they look like when they're on you're plate, as above.

Like pheasant, guineafowl can be a rather dry meat, and you need to take care not to overcook it, otherwise the flesh can get a bit stringy.

So what did I do with the guineafowl I bought? Essentially, I created an upmarket version of chicken n' chips. Yup, guineafowl can taste a bit like chicken- but it's got more flavour, and certainly it's more gamey in taste.

 

 

Here's my recipe for "Guineafowl in a Cognac and Chive Sauce with Parsnip Chips":

I seasoned the guineafowl breasts with sea salt and black pepper, and then fried them in oil and butter. The secret is to make sure they are well-browned, but not overcooked. You will need to cook them on a medum heat; to sear the outside, but at the same time, ensuring that the inside is not overcooked. Next, I flambéed them in cognac.

Flambe-ing (is that a word?) is always fun. You need to put a generous slug of brandy into the pan, and then tip the pan towards the flame- that is,  if you've got gas. Woosh. Up to your eyebrows. In effect, you are burning off the alcohol and the fats (as well as your eyebrows) and leaving a subtle taste behind in the pan.  

The breasts were removed from the pan and kept them warm. Into the pan went some stock, and when that was reduced, some single cream. Leave on the heat, let it bubble and reduce some more. You will end up with a thick creamy cognac sauce. Garnish with chopped chives.

The Parsnip Chips were easy. Take some parsnips and peel them. Next, slice them into very thin strips or batons (but first taking out the woody core bit in the middle). Par-boil them in water. This just means placing them in a pan of cold water, and bringing it to the boil, so that they are only partially cooked. Take them out of the water and pat them dry. Sprinkle them with sea salt. Fry them in oil. For this I used a wok, which worked perfectly well.

When they are only slightly golden in colour, remove them; pat them dry again, and let them cool down. Finally, finish them off by re-frying them in the hot oil. That way you will end up with perfectly crispy chips. Watch them like a hawk, though, to make sure they don't burn. And I think parsnip chips are infinitely preferable to the ordinary potato version. But then, strangely, I loathe mashed potato- but that's a long story...

Goulash

 

 

Did you know that in Hungary, Goulash, or more properly gulyas (meaning a herdsman), is actually a soup? This peasant dish become fashionable in the nineteeth century, when Magyar nationalism reasserted itself in the Hungarian lands of the Austrian Empire.

Like so many other bastardised recipes, genuine goulash is slightly different from Anglo-American interpretations, which have turned it into a thickish stew. Here's the Greasy Spoon version. I've kept the correct ingredients to make it more authentic, but usually go for a thicker, rather than a soupy sauce.

Heat some butter and oil in an oven-proof casserole dish. Slice up some medium sized onions, and cook them gently, until they soften. Next add a sprinkling of caraway seeds, and some crushed garlic. Cook for a minute or so. Now add your beef (which you have previously cut up into cubes; stewing beef is ideal). If you want a thick sauce, you can dust your beef cubes in plain flour, salt and pepper, beforehand.

However, a warning. If you want to make friends and influence people in Budapest, this is not the way to do it. Sprinkle in a generous amount of ground sweet paprika, and a handful of salt- so that the meat in the bottom of the pan is well covered. Stir, so that the meat is browned.

Now it's time to add your vegetables. For this dish, I like them diced, with the exception of the peppers, which I like sliced. Into the pot go: diced carrot, a tomato, celery, and sliced green bell-peppers. Pour over some water, or stock, and simmer gently until the meat is nice and soft. If you are using stewing steak, this could take quite a long time. If you're using a more expensive cut, your cooking time will be shorter. I'll leave it up to you.

Towards the end of the cooking, add your diced potatoes, and simmer until they are cooked. Finally, add a few pasta pieces and cook for a further five minutes. Serve the whole shooting match with noodles or hunks of hot, fresh white bread.

Oh- and a tip; try and find some genuine smoked hot or sweet paprika (in small tins), which will give your goulash a deep red colour. Avoid at all costs the cheaper stuff (which goes brown) and has a far blander taste.

 

Cream of Onion and Cider Soup

 

 

It's that time of year again. Here in the gloomy streets of London the nights are drawing in, and a sniff of woodsmoke is in the air. Before we know it, Bonfire Night, and Hallowe'en will be upon us. And what better than a warming onion soup laced with cider?

Here's how you make it. First, you need to understand that onions need a great deal of cooking before they become palatable. I don't care what your cookery books say, you will have to trust me on this. You need to slice some onions. Throw a few knobs of unsalted butter into a pan. Now cook the onions. It's probably better if you've sliced them thinly.

Add some thyme. I'm lucky enough to have a vigorous plant thriving on my kitchen windowsill. Let the onions cook well, until they are soft, but not burnt or brown. So you will want to use a low heat. Now stir in some flour and let that cook.

Pour in a good slug (I love that word) of cider. I used a dryish West Country Organic Cider that I found in a local shop. At this stage it's important to let the cider bubble- to boil off the alcohol. Okay, we all love a good dram of whisky at the right moment, but I find that alcohol needs to be boiled off in cooking- otherwise you are left with a nasty bitter taste.

Now add some stock (chicken or vegetable is fine, home-made or reduced-salt Marigold Bouillon powder would be ideal). Cook the soup on a low heat look mad. Mine took over an hour before the onions were cooked properly.

When that's done, lower the heat and add a dollop of single cream, though double cream is likely to curdle. If you are using single cream and you don't lower the heat, you run the risk of the soup curdling. Season with a decent salt and ground chunky black pepper to taste. That's it. And if it's cooked properly it's surprisingly subtle and smooth.

Kedgeree

 

 

I've had arguments with a friend of mine about what makes up a proper kedgeree. A breakfast relic of the British Raj, in its purest form it's essentially rice, smoked fish and eggs (the original dish, khichdi, included lentils); and Great Aunt Agatha, in a naughtier moment, might have stirred in a smidgin or two of curry powder. This is my improved creamier version. And there's wild rice for extra crunch, too.

First, cook a cup or two of wild rice for about 25 minutes. Next, fry some chopped onions in oil and butter.  Next stir in some rice. (I prefer Uncle Ben's Long Grain- which has had the starch removed, and will stop the kedgeree becoming one big mess).

Add a few teaspoons of curry paste and some grated nutmeg, and then add the partially cooked wild rice.  Cook for a few minutes, so that the rice becomes translucent and soaks up the spices.

Meanwhile, cook some smoked haddock fillets (preferably undyed) in a mixture of milk and water, with a few peppercorns and a bayleaf.  Bring to a simmer, and then turn off the heat, and let the fish sit in the hot milk and water (with a lid on), until cooked. This is the best way to poach smoked haddock.

Set the cooked fish aside, and tip the resulting milky fish stock over the rice. Simmer this on a low heat until the rice is cooked. In effect, you are making a pilaf. You may need to add some more water and stock.

When the liquid has been absorbed, flake up the haddock into large pieces and fold into the mixture with a dollop of single cream, a few knobs of butter and a good squeeze of lemon juice.  Slice up some softly boiled eggs, and serve with chopped flat leaf parsley, and a pinch or so of Cayenne Pepper.  For some reason this dish works extremely well with Mango Chutney.

Mark Birley's Corned Beef Hash

 

 

 

In America, corned beef is pickled in brine, highly seasoned, and can be found in delis and specialist shops. The British variety, as eaten by the troops during the Boer War, comes in a tin with an endearing key which somehow you have to turn to get the stuff out.

Both versions make a "Corned Beef Hash", which is a surprisingly delicious breakfast or supper dish, and with the addition of mustard and Worcester Sauce, smooth and rich too. I've adapted this version from the recipe used by Mark Birley (the urbane owner of Annabel's) which has been recently posted on the net.

First, gently sauté some finely chopped onions in olive oil. Steam a potato or two for about twenty minutes. Take of their skins and chop into small cubes. Fry these in the olive oil with a tiny sprinkling of sea salt, so that the potatoes start to get crispy and slightly brown.

In a mixing bowl, chop up the refrigerated corned beef into small cubes. Refrigerating the corned beef will make it less likely to crumble. Add English mustard, Lea & Perrins, pepper and chopped parsley.

Now tip this into the pan. Cook for a few minutes, stirring now and again, but try if possible to keep the ingredients separate. Serve with a soft poached egg on top.