The Greasy Spoon

Chicken Kiev

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Image via Wikipedia

Kippers

For Saturday breakfast, I had a lonely boil-in-the-bag kipper. A few days before, The Girl had been pulled over by the Police; apparently in a sneaky scooter trap 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 the ragù 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.