The Greasy Spoon

The Savoy's Cream Cheese and Marmite Sandwiches

 

 

 

 

I'm currently reading Matthew Sweet's The West End Front, The Wartime Secrets of London's Grand Hotels. It's a terrific book: the blurb on the back reads: "A Lost World of Scandal, Intrigue and Fortitude...The Ritz, The Savoy, Dorchester and Claridge's- during the Second World War, each was a kind of Casablanca. Their bedrooms, hallways and grillrooms teemed with Spies, Con-Artists, Deposed Royals and the exiled governments of Europe..."

This is all very Patrick Hamilton:

 

 

In 1941, the Food (Restrictions on Meals in Establishments) order came into force. All restaurants were required to offer a three course dinner or lunch for no more than five shillings a head, although luxury foods (such as lobster, caviar and oysters) could still be supplied with a surcharge. Young officers, home on leave, could take their girls to The Ritz, Dorchester or Savoy for a very reasonable sum; and as a result, these hotel restaurants became extremely buzzy places indeed.

I've always been fond of The Savoy, ever since my father took me there at the age of eighteen (or was it twenty one?) to savour my first Dry Martini at the American Bar, as mixed by the legendary Peter Dorelli. Remember that back in the 60's and early 70's my father used to handle the advertising for the Booth's Gin account, so he was rather up on this sort of thing.

The Savoy Hotel, incidentally, has very recently been completely re-vamped in a multi-million pound make-over by the Canadian group, Fairmont. I've no time for this: the reproduction paintings are truly dreadful- an insult to your intelligence; it probably never occured to the re-vampers that actually, this or that painting is really rather famous, and as it's currently in the so-and-so museum or gallery, the Savoy Hotel version is obviously not going to be the real-thing. And anyone with an eye is going to realise immediately that the textures and colours are all wrong, wrong, wrong.

Let's move on, before I start shouting at my computer screen (this seems to be happening more and more as I get older, it's a horribly unattractive trait, I do realise). So I've pulled out of my bookcase Anton Edelmann's The Savoy Cookbook, a worthy thing published by Pavilion. I like the sound of their "Marmite and Cream Cheese Sandwiches":

You take four slices of thin white bread (Waitrose stock this), and then spread two slices with Marmite very sparsley. You spread the cream cheese (ie Philadelphia) on the other two slices of bread, and then combine the two pieces of bread. The crusts are cut off, and each sandwich cut into three equal fingers.

Note the curious fact that The Savoy cut their sandwiches into fingers, not triangles. I've rabbited on about this before- it's one of the Great Truths of Life.

 

Perfect Madeleines, Time and Time Again...

 

 

I've suddenly got a craze for Madeleines- those delicious French tea-time treats; similar to little cakes, but shaped into scallop shells: fans of Proust will I'm sure, agree. I made a batch yesterday afternoon, and I think I've got the recipe almost exactly right. Here's how to do it:

First, heat up your oven to 200∘C. Crack three eggs into a bowl, and add 150g of white sugar. Using an electric beater, whisk until the eggs and sugar form a white, creamy and reasonably stiff "cream".

 

In a small pan, melt half a pack of butter, and then set aside to cool down. Sift 150g of white flour into the beaten eggs and sugar, and pour in the melted, liquid butter. Using a spoon, very slowly and gently fold in the sifted flour and butter to form a batter.

Now's the time for the flavouring. Last week I used a teaspoon of vanilla extract and that worked reasonably well. You could also use lemon juice. However, yesterday I decided to give my Madeleines an orangey tang- and this seemed to work best of all. So, mix in the finely grated zest and juice of half a small orange.

Next, you'll need a Madeleine baking tray.  I managed to find mine without any problem- and any decent, reasonably upmarket kitchen shop should sell one. It's a tin baking tray with twelve scallop or shell shaped molds. Brush the molds with melted butter (I dipped my brush into the butter I had previously warmed up). Pour the batter into each mold. Surprisingly, you will find that the Madeleines don't expand that much during baking, so I would level off the batter in each mold, making sure that the "scallops" are properly filled.

 

Bake in the hot oven for about nine minutes- until the Madeleines are a light brown and golden colour. Take the molds out of the oven and let them cool down slightly, before turning out the Madeleines onto a plate. Sprinkle them with sifted icing sugar. I found that as the Madeleines cooled down, the outside bit became crunchy and slightly caramelised, while the insides remained soft and slightly moist.

Hot Cross Buns

 

 

 

"Hot cross buns, Hot cross buns, one ha' penny, two ha' penny, hot cross buns. If you have no daughters, give them to your sons, one ha' penny, two ha' penny, Hot Cross Buns"

I love Easter, I really do. Don't get me wrong, I like Christmas too, and would hate to be considered some sort of a tight-fisted Scrooge; but I think it's the combination of chocolate, breezy fresh air, Spring sunshine (if you're lucky), and, as an added bonus, its proximity to the Grand National; which does it for me.

My grandparents used to celebrate the holiday in style, and as well as the ubiquitous chocolate, Easter Egg hunts, and daffodils, we used to have wrapped-up presents too, and a massive turkey. It was just like Christmas, but without the hassle.

"Hot Cross Buns" have an evocative taste. What is it about them?  The combination of buttery, yeasty tastes with the sweetness of the currants? Maybe that's it. Hot Cross Buns are one of those traditional dishes whose origins have been lost in the mists of antiquity. The "crosses" were supposedly meant to ward off evil spirits, and the buns, apparently, were banned by the Protestant church for being too popish. Anyway, you eat them tomorrow, on Good Friday. I've adapted the recipe from Sara Paston-William's definitive book, "Christmas and Festive Day Recipes".

 

Mix up half a pint of milk and water, and warm it up to blood heat. Stir in 22g of fresh yeast, let the mixture get frothy and let it stand for ten minutes.

Sieve 450g plain flour, a teaspoon of salt, a teaspoon of mixed spice, a teaspoon of cinnamon, and some grated nutmeg into a mixing bowl. Stir in 50g of caster sugar. Rub in 50g butter with your fingers. Make a well in the flour mix, pour in the yeasty milk, two beaten eggs, and 175g of currants. Mix it all up to make a dough. Use your hands!

Turn the dough onto a floured board, and knead it with your hands until the dough is elastic. Place it in a warm, greased bowl; sprinkle with flour, and cover with a kitchen towel. If you leave it in a warmish place, the dough should rise.

Once it has doubled in size (this might take over an hour), knock it down, and leave it to rise again for another half an hour. Form the dough into smallish buns. Reserve some of the dough, and roll it out flat. Cut the dough into strips, and place on the top of each bun to form a cross. Set them aside to rest for about fifteen minutes.

Bake them in a pre-set oven at 425F (220C). It might be a good plan to place a tin of water at the bottom of the oven to create a steamy atmosphere. After twenty minutes, the buns should be cooked.

Finish the buns off with a sugar glaze. This is just sugar-water which you have boiled rapidly to form a syrup. Once the syrup is thick enough (and very slightly brown), brush it over the buns.

Mince Pies

 

 

Looking back at my posts past, I'm amazed that I've never covered these before. Of course, "mince" pies have got nothing to do with meat or even minced meat; the reason why they're called this goes back to the days of Merry Olde England, when mince pies did indeed include meat, or at least, a "mincemeat" consisting of chopped meat, candied fruit, suet, and sugar, all soaked in brandy. These days, we leave the meat out.

Here's our family recipe for mince pies. Ideally, you leave the mincemeat to mature for god knows how long, but as time is short, I'm sure that it won't be the end of the world if you don't.

First, you need to make the "mincemeat". Peel, core and chop 450g apples and mix them up with 335g raisins, 225g sultanas, 175g shredded suet, 335g soft dark brown sugar, 225g  chopped mixed peel (that's candied fruit), 110g chopped almonds, and a teaspoon of mixed spice.

Grate the rind off a lemon and squeeze out the juice. Pour this into the mixture, and add 110ml of brandy or rum. Ideally, you would leave the mincemeat to mature for up to three months, but as time is short, leave it to mature overnight.

To make the pastry: mix up 335g plain flour, 75g ground almonds, and 75g caster sugar. Stir in two egg yolks and 225g unsalted butter, so that the mixture takes on a breadcrumb type texture. Finally, mix in two tablespoons of cold water. Leave the mixture in the 'fridge for 45 minutes.

Roll the pastry flat, and use it to line small jam jar tart tins. Fill each space with heaped teaspoonfuls of mincemeat, and then top with a smaller circle of pastry. Wet the edges of the pastry and press down well at the sides. Cut a slit or a cross on the top of each pie, and brush with milk or egg white, and dust with caster sugar.

Bake in a moderate oven until the pies start to turn brown.  Serve hot- or cold- with brandy butter. Traditionally, the first mince pie of the season grants you a wish, but only on the condition that you don't talk while you're eating.

 

Last Chance Cucumber Sandwiches

 

 

I always find this time of year- very late August, very early September- slightly wistful, if not poignant. Summer is probably over, but with any luck might just about survive for an extra week or so of golden heat- but with an added autumnal nip in the atmosphere.

F. Scott Fitzgerald captured this brilliantly in perhaps, my all-time favourite novel, The Great Gatsby: Gatsby decides to take a dip in his swimming pool for the first time (it's late Summer) and gets gunned down by George Wilson, the garage owner who thinks Gatsby has murdered his wife in a hit and run accident. Here is Fitzgerald describing the blood- red autumnal leaves floating on the swimming pool surface:

"with little ripples that were hardly the shadows of waves, the laden mattress moved irregularly down the pool. A small gust of wind that scarcely corrugated the surface was enough to disturb its accidental course with its accidental burden. The touch of a cluster of leaves revolved it slowly, tracing like the leg of transit, a thin red circle in the water."

 

 

 

Now, I adore cucumber sandwiches- honestly, I think there is nothing better on a hot June afternoon than a near-scalding cup of Earl Grey tea, and a plate of properly made, slighty salty English cucumber sandwiches; and I suspect that early September is probaby the latest you can get away serving them.

Here's how I make them. I like traditional finger sandwiches (ie sandwiches cut lengthways) and look upon those triangular abominations with distaste. I hope you will follow suit.

First you need the proper bread. For traditional English sandwiches forget anything brown, healthy, hippy or wholemeal. No, you need a traditional pre-sliced white, refined sandwich loaf of bread. Easier said than done, as every time I go to the supermarket, I search in vain for the stuff. So, for the time being, medium cut pre-sliced white bread will have to do.

Spread the bread with softened unsalted butter. Next, get hold of some cucumbers, remove the skin and slice them up so that they are very thin. Pat them dry (a good tip that, as there is nothing worse than soggy sandwiches). Spread the thin cucumber slices over one side of the bread. 

Sprinkle with sea salt and some pepper. Place another slice of bread on top, and remove the crusts. Slice the sandwiches lengthways to form fingers. You can then stack the sandwiches on a plate to form a neat square, and if you're that way inclined, decorate with a few sprigs of watercress.

That's how to make a proper English cucumber sandwich. Trust me.

Traditional English Sandwiches

 

 

   

 

Today's post is about sandwiches. I'm not talking here about baguettes, club sandwiches, baps, or anything Franco-American; instead, I mean the good old fashioned, traditional, quintessentially English, finger sandwich- delicate tea-time treats, made from soft white bread.

This is a disappearing art, which frankly, you're far more likely to encounter these days in a smart hotel somewhere, than in a private drawing room. Legend has it that they were invented by John Montagu, the 4th Earl Sandwich (a member of the Hell Fire Club), who was supposed to have called out to his servant: "My Man, bring me some ham, between two slices of bread!", so that he could carry on gambling at the tables, uninterrupted. Actually, sandwiches were probably in existence before then, but it's true, at least, that he gave his name to the thing.

 

 John Montagu, 4th Earl of Sandwich

Members of The Hellfire Club admire Mrs Peel's assets

Here are some of my ideas for a classic set of sandwiches. It's essential that you use a pre-sliced white sandwich loaf, and that you cut them across lengthways- so that they form "fingers". The sandwiches can then be assembled on the serving plate to form a "block" (if that makes sense) and then decorated with watercress on top. I'm not that keen on sandwiches cut into triangles.

First, tomato and watercress. Take two slices of white bread, and cut off the crusts. Spread them with soft unsalted butter and then create the filling from sliced tomatoes (patted dry to remove any moisture) and chopped watercress. Season with salt and pepper and then cut the sandwich carefully into fingers.

Secondly, cucumber. Unsurprisingly, it's the same procedure as the above, except the filling's made from thinly sliced cucumbers (which have been patted dry, and had the skin removed). Season with sea salt and pepper. I love the combination of the delicate cucumber, with the salt, and the butter. Surprisingly refreshing- especially with a cup of near-scalding Earl Grey on a hot summer's afternoon.

 

Finally, Queen Alexandra's Sandwiches; classic Edwardian sandwiches with a savoury taste. First, make a mustard butter. This is just unsalted butter (left at room temperature), mixed with a mild French Mustard (say, Dijon), and lemon juice. Spread the sandwich loaf slices with the mustard butter. Next, lay thin slices of tongue onto the buttered bread. The filling's made from chicken and mayonnaise. Poach some chicken breasts until cooked, and then mince them up. Bind them in home-made mayonnaise, and flavour it with a few drops of Tabasco sauce. Sprinkle with a new layer of mustard and cress and season with sea salt and black pepper. As before, top off with another layer of white bread, remove the crusts carefully, and cut into fingers.

Postcard Teas

 

 

Readers of this blog will remember that I am a champion of small, often quirky, specialised shops struggling against a tide of bland, character redundant chains. I was devasted to learn that "Under Two Flags", a tiny never-never land sort of a shop in St Christopher's Place which sold traditional toy soldiers, had finally shut its doors after god knows how many years.

But something lost can often something gained, and on Saturday morning I found a new gem to get excited about. It's called Postcard Teas, the brainchild of Timothy d'Offay, son of the contemporary art dealer, Anthony d'Offay. Timothy d'Offay is a dealer in rare and fine teas, which he has sourced from all over the world, and I'm pretty sure that his shop in Dering Street (just off the top end of Bond Street, behind Fenwicks), retains it's original early 19th century shop front.

Inside, it's a tiny minimalist sort of space, with a shelf of beautifully packaged teas, and a long Japanese type bench, where you can sit and sample his teas for £1.50 a cup. If you buy a canister, you get this knocked off your bill. God knows how he makes any money at all out of this; it's very much a labour of love. We sampled a Ginger and Clove tea, which Mr d'Offay told us came from the Handunugoda Tea Estate in Sri Lanka. The Sri Lankans drink it with milk. It was refreshing, with the subtle yet slightly medicinal taste of the cloves coming through strongly in the aftertaste. I reckon this is currently going to be my number one tea for a baking hot summer's afternoon.

And there's another fascinating twist to this noble enterprise. The d'Offays' are fanatical postcard collectors. This is something I've got a burgeoning interest in myself. Postcards took off in the early Edwardian period, and an early postcard collection, apart from being visually beautiful, depicts a lost world before the First World War; so near and yet so far. They're also an important social historical record. Many of the negatives and plates of these photographs will have been lost, and all we have left are the postcards themselves, and with the shipwreck of time, a dwindling supply.

I'm currently interested in early Japanese postcards, so I've stuck a recent purchase on the site for you to have a look at. Postcard Teas has a gallery space downstairs, where they have occasional postcard exhibitions. Their first exhibition was called The American Dream, which showed fascinating real-photo postcards from the American Depression.

 

 

Sorbets of the World Unite...

Last night's sorbet making was a total success. The Earl Grey/Orange combination worked like a treat. I jiggled the flavours a bit, deciding that it was initially too sweet, so cut back a bit on the sugar, added more Earl Grey, and a smidgen more of the orange juice.

The fun thing about sorbets (which are easy to make), is that you can experiment with all sorts of interesting flavours. Pimm's sorbet would be fun- though bear in mind that alcohol will stop the sorbet from freezing, so it might be an idea to initially burn off the alcohol from the Pimm's, add it to the sorbet mixture, and then serve it ice-cold, with Pimm's poured over the top.

There's nothing more satisfying than coming up with a fresh idea for a recipe, experimenting with it- to get it exactly right, and then serving it up to your admiring and ravenous friends. That's what food should be all about...

Earl Grey Tea

One of the best English tea blends is Earl Grey. Named after the 2nd Earl Grey, who was the Prime Minister in the 1830's, it's a particularly delicious tea, flavoured with orangey oil of bergamot, and giving off a flowery, scented nose.

There are various legends involving Chinese mandarins, urbane British diplomats, and the like, about how this tea was created. One story (I doubt if it is true), is that the exported tea leaves were packed inside wooden barrels soaked in tarry oil of bergamot, and an English tea-taster realised that the oils had soaked into the tea to beneficial effect.

Well, whatever its origins, Earl Grey is deservedly one of the most famous and popular blends, and Jackson's of Piccadilly lay claim to having the original recipe.

I have a rather sanguine attitude to tea, preferring coffee (strong and black), in the mornings, but, at the same time, appreciating a scalding, refreshing cuppa on a hot summer's afternoon.

I've just made a sorbet flavoured with Earl Grey tea, too. I've never made it before, suddenly having a flash of inspiration last night that the combination of flavours might work well; so it will be interesting to see how it turns out when we eat it tomorrow.

I mixed a cup of sugar with two cups of water, and brought it to the boil; then simmered it for about five minutes, and left it to cool down. Next, I mixed several spoons of prepared Earl Grey tea, with a squeeze of fresh orange juice, and infused the mix with some fresh mint leaves (which I previously rolled around between my fingers to release the oils). I tipped this liquid into the sugar and water (first removing the mint leaves), mixed it around, and left it to cool.

I poured the tea flavoured sugar water into a plastic container, and shoved it into the deep freeze. All that's left to do now, is to take it out when it's half-frozen; mash it up with a fork, and shove it back in again. When it's frozen, I need to take it back out, mix it up in the Magimix, and then re-freeze it.

I'll report back tomorrow on what it tastes like...

Millionaire's Shortbread

This is completely delicious. I can't think of anything better: shortbread covered in a layer of caramel, and then finished off with a dark chocolate topping. There are various recipes out there, but I've based this on one I found recently in a Sunday colour supplement.

First, make the shortbread. Butter a baking tin, and line it with greasproof paper. Preheat your oven to 180 C. Mix up the following ingredients in your Magimix: 175 g butter, 250g plain flour, 75g golden caster sugar, and half a teaspoon of vanilla extract. You should end up with fine crumbs. Using your hands, kneed the crumbs to form a dough. Smooth the dough out in the baking tin, and bake in the oven for about 20 minutes.

The caramel is relatively easy. Melt 50g butter with 100g light muscovado sugar over a low heat. Stir until the sugar has dissolved. Carefully stir in two tins of condensed milk, and cook gently until the milk begins to thicken. When it's thick enough, pour it over the shortbread, and bake in the oven or a futher ten minutes. Take it out, and allow it to set.

Finally, the chocolate topping. Break up 250g of dark chocolate, and melt it in a bain-marie. You will need a very gentle heat here, so make sure the water is only just simmering. If the temperature is too high, the chocolate will start to act in a very strange way. When the chocolate has melted, smooth it out over the caramel, and leave the shortbread to cool down. Finish it off by slicing the shortbread into fingers.

Madeleines

 

 

If you've ever read (or attempted to read) Marcel Proust's "The Remembrance of Thing Past", you will know what a Madeleine is. In the novel, the narrator dips his Madeleine into his Limeflower scented tea; and the crumbly textures, taste and smell trigger off memories of his past life; and once those memories start coming, Mon Dieu, do they never stop coming...

Madeleines are a small biscuit or pastry- often with a buttery, lemony, orange or vanilla taste; and traditionally made in the Commercy area in North West France. They're always a rather pretty shell or scallop shape, and are supposed to have been named after Madame Madeleine Paulmier, who was a cook in the nineteenth century.

First, you need to pre-heat your oven to 400 F (200 C). That's moderately hot. Next, grease some madeleine moulds with butter. The easiest way of doing this is with the back of the butter wrapper. Madeleine moulds are easier to find than you may think. I was down at my local kitchen shop in Battersea recently, and they had some for sale. They come in the form of metal baking sheets with the scallop shapes stamped into them in rows.

Next, mash up 125g butter in a mixing bowl (probably best to use an electric beater here if you've got one), add 110g castor sugar, and then beat the mixture with a wooden spoon until light and fluffy. Beat two eggs lightly with a fork, and then slowly add them to the butter mixture, stirring away like crazy to make sure it mixes properly. Sift 110g of plain flour with a teaspoon of baking powder, and then fold lightly into the butter mixture.

When the batter is smooth, add a teaspoon of finely grated orange rind, and a tablespoon of fresh orange juice. Instead of orange, you could always use lemon instead. Or, if like me, you love vanilla, a few drops of vanilla extract (or "imitation" vanilla essence as a make-do). But a word of warning, you only need very few drops, otherwise the flavour will be over-powering and sickly.

Fill the moulds with the batter- up to about three quarters full is best. Bake them in the oven for about eight to ten minutes. They should be springy to the touch. Dust them with icing sugar before serving.