The Greasy Spoon

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 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. Next 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. It's called Devils on Horseback. You get hold of some rashers of streaky bacon. 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 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 is just something about its simplicity: the runny poached eggs, the buttery Hollandaise sauce, and the crisp bacon or ham, contrasting with the soft English muffins. There are various theories as to how it was invented; one being that the legendary Oscar Tschirky (of Waldorf Salad fame) put it on his hotel breakfast menu after Lemuel Benedict, a retired Wall Street stockbroker, came up with the idea as a cure for his hangover in 1894. This may or may not be the case. Anyway, I've had various versions of it over the years, including Eggs Benedict with scallops; but if you want to make the original and genuine dish- this is how you do it.

First, you need to make a classic Hollandaise Sauce. Melt 8oz (225g) of butter in a pan. Meanwhile liquidize two egg yolks, the juice of one lemon, and freshly ground black pepper. When the butter is hot, turn the liquidizer onto full, and slowly pour in the butter.

Next, poach some large eggs in salted water. Toast the English Muffins, and spread them with butter. Put some slices of ham, or Canadian bacon on top of the muffins, and top with the poached egg. Pour over the Hollandaise sauce and serve immediately.

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. Then 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, above.

Like pheasant, guineafowl can be a rather dry meat, and you need to take care not to overcook them, 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. Yes, guineafowl can taste a bit like chicken- but with 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.

First, I seasoned the guineafowl breasts with salt and pepper. Then I pan-fried them in some oil and butter. The secret is to make sure they are well-browned, but not overcooked. You need to cook them on a medum heat- to sear the outside, but at the same time, ensure that the inside is not overcooked. Then I flambeed 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 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.

Then I took out the breasts 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. You need to 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 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 salt. Next deep 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.