The Greasy Spoon

It's a wild world

 

 

It's wild garlic time. We get ours from the Pimlico Road Farmer's Market on Pimlico Green. £1.50 a bunch. I like this time of the year; when the boredom and horror of steely grey Feburary suddenly turns into the promise of a raw Spring. The Boat Race...The Grand National...Easter...Daffodils...Chocolate Eggs...Hot Cross Buns. And the whiff of raw garlic in the hedgerows. A few years ago, I was driving along a lane in South Oxfordshire and suddenly, there it was- a distinctive whiff of garlic coming from the grassy verge.

I'm very keen on a simple risotto made from English wild garlic. You'll find that the taste of wild garlic is much more subtle than the standard stuff, so dismiss any worries about any overpowering garlicky tastes. By the way, the look of wild garlic is a bit different too: it comes in the form of slightly limp, green leaves (not entirely unlike spinach) and you use these chopped leaves, rather than the bulb. You'll find that the wild garlic will keep if you stick it into a vase of water. I've just posted two helpful videos on The Greasy Spoon page on Facebook: they'll tell you all about wild garlic; how to find it and how to use it.

Here's how I make a delicious wild garlic risotto: I chop up a small onion and sauté it in hot butter, before adding Carnaroli rice (allowing the rice to soak up the hot butter). Ladle in a small quantity of hot, steaming vegetable stock and stir like mad, until the rice has absorbed the stock.

Carry on ladelling in the hot stock until the Carnaroli rice is 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. It might take about half an hour to make it properly. I find that it always takes longer to make than recipe books suggest.

And do 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. 

 

Anyway, back to the recipe. About ten minutes from the end, I add the chopped up wild garlic. 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.

Finish it off with a small helping of grated Parmesan- or indeed, a British cheese. This is Anglo-Italian food at its best.

And last, and certainly not least, I have started writing for The Dabbler. Some of you may know this site- it's an excellent (and slightly quirky) Culture Blog, well worth subscribing too. I was amazed to discover that I had won a Dabbler prize- a bottle of Ten Year Old Single Malt Glengoyne Whisky...

Vegetarian Seduction

 

Céleri rémoulade

 

 

 

You may have had céleri rémoulade in France- it's that ubiquitous (but delicious) salad dish you'll find in charcuteries up and down the land; frankly, not dissimilar to the American coleslaw. The "celeri" bit is shredded celery root. The "remoulade" is a mustard-flavoured mayonnaise or dressing.

Celery root is also called celeriac. They're those knobbly, bulbous, earthy things which look a bit like large turnips. Making céleri rémoulade is straightforward enough:

Take a large, sharp knife and slice off the brown, knobbly skin. You'll find that the celeriac turns yellow with exposure to air, so you will need to work relatively quickly. Cut the celeriac into large chunks and then shred it in your food processor. I've finally mastered the art of working mine, and like to shred things very thinly, so that you end up with delicate, tiny strands. It's very satisfying for some reason.

Dump the shredded celeriac into a bowl, and immediately mix in some fresh lemon juice and sea salt. This will stop the celeriac from turning yellow, in effect, keeping it white in colour.

Now for a bit of conjecture. How to make the rémoulade dressing? Some recipes call for a simple mayonnaise, seasoned with salt and pepper, and flavoured with a large dollop of Dijon mustard. And that's what I used the last time I made céleri rémoulade (adding a tablespoon of boiling water to the mayonnaise to lighten the colour and give it a lift). But to be completely honest, even then I found my home-made mayonnaise to be too rich, too thick, even slightly cloying in taste, swamping the subtle taste of the celeriac.

In his excellent blog, Living the life in Saint-Aignan, Ken Broadhurst suggests that to achieve that genuinely authentic charcuterie taste, half the dressing should be made from the mustard-mayonnaise and the other half from crème fraiche. This might well be the solution.

I've also noted that Julia Child used an eggless mayonnaise, by slowly dripping boiling water into a dollop of warm mustard (so that it forms an emulsion), and then adding the oil (in the usual way) bit by bit, finishing it off with a tablespoon or so of white vinegar, and a seasoning of white pepper and salt. This eggless "mayonnaise" is then mixed in with the shredded celeriac, with chopped parsley and sour cream added to taste. I like the idea of this version.

By the way, I found that the céleri rémoulade improves if left over-night to marinate in the 'fridge. The lemon, salt, and mustard helps to "cook" the celeriac and removes that raw taste.

Zucchini Fritters

 

 

 

I like the word "Zucchini". It rolls off the tongue. Here in England we call them "courgettes". Anyway. If you've got the time and inclination, zucchini fritters are the perfect thing to serve with drinks, and especially with a Dry Martini.

I'm currently keen on the idea of tiny fritters; the size of a small coin: slice up some baby courgettes very thinly, put the slices into a colander, and sprinkle them with sea salt. The salt will draw out enormous quantities of water. Your friends will be thrilled and amazed.

Next, beat an egg white until frothy, and dip the courgette slices into the egg white. Shake off the excess, and then dip them again into strong flour which you've previously seasoned with salt and white pepper.

In a deep-fat fryer, heat some peanut oil to about 375 F (190 C). If you don't have a fryer, use a wok. As nut oil burns at a higher temperature, it's an excellent choice for this sort of operation. Drop the courgettes into the oil, a few at a time, and fry them until they are crisp. Watch them like a hawk, and make sure they don't burn.

Incidentally, when frying, it's always best never to overcrowd the pan; if you do, you run the risk that your food may steam or boil, which, of course, is a different technique all together.

Drain the fritters on kitchen paper, and sprinkle them with more salt and pepper. Okay, this means that your fritters are going to pretty salty, but I think that in this case, it provides a perfect balance with the dry oiliness (is that a word?) of a classic Martini cocktail.

I also quite like the idea of cutting up the courgettes into wider slices, and serving them in that simple way, as a side dish. Baby yellow courgettes could be an interesting concept, too. Lots of ideas.

Avocado and Tomato Ice with Horseradish

 

 

Cordon Bleu Cookery Course, 1970

I've always had a thing about late summer. It's fun to try and pin-point the exact time summer changes into autumn. Often, it's around September 10th or so; marked by a whiff of bonfire smoke, a sudden chill in the air, or the blustery gales of the September equinox. Mind you, here in London, it feels like autumn started in June, and I'm writing this looking out onto a grey, damp and slightly foggy street.  

It's also the last chance saloon for summer food, or at least, food with summery pretensions. Here's my recipe for a delicious Tomato Ice. If you think that it reeks of 1970's dinner party food, you would be utterly correct, as I've based it on a recipe from No. 69 of the Cordon Blue Cookery Course, published by Purnell as a part-work in 1970; but with the addition of grated horseradish which I think would work well with it, and the hot flavour of horseradish can be an excellent combination with the intense, sweet taste of the tomato. It's a pretty dish, and I like the colour of the tomato ice. Canadian, apparently.

You tip two tins of plum tomatoes into a pan, and then add two teaspoons of salt, a generous pinch of white pepper, four tablespoons of golden caster sugar, the zest and juice of two lemons, and a generous helping of freshly grated horseradish, and stir until the mixture comes to the boiling point, pushing the tomato pulp against the side of the pan with a wooden spoon to help it break down. Add three sprigs of fresh mint, cover the pan and allow to simmer for five to ten minutes. Rub the contents of the pan through a sieve, making sure that you extract all the juices. Add a few drops of Tabasco to taste. You should now be looking at a bowl full of a lovely red-coloured, very thin juice.

Chill this mixture in a deep freeze, and mash it up with a fork just before it starts to set. Return to the deep freeze, and repeat the process, and again, until you have formed a smooth ice in the sorbet manner. You could, of course, acheive the same effect in an ice-cream machine.

To serve, cut an avocado in half (I like the hass variety with the knobbly green skin; slightly nutty in taste), rub the exposed flesh with lemon juice (to stop it turning brown) and fill the cavity with a generous scoop of the Tomato Ice. To make the avocado stand upright on the plate, turn over the half, and slice off a thin wedge, so that it makes a base.

The important thing to remember is to flavour the tomato ice reasonably well, as the freezing process can often kill off the stronger tastes. Some out there might garnish it with mint, but I'm currently bored of garnishes, and think simplicity is often the best way forward. I like the idea of updating these classic, unfashionable recipes to more modern tastes; simplifying them if necessary, and presenting them cleanly, discarding those outrageous garnishes of yesteryear. That, at least, is the goal.

By the way, a tip: when you're grating a fresh horseradish root, make sure you grate it across the grain (rather than downwards). We keep a horseradish root in the deep freeze, and find that it keeps for ages; providing us with "fresh" horseradish whenever the mood takes us.

 

The English Marrow

 

 

When was the last time you enjoyed a helping of marrow?  That's exactly what I'm talking about- the ever so 'umble, green-skinned English marrow, and it's currently in season. Right now. As a vegetable it's more or less disappeared from our plates; usurped by the courgette- the once trendy, now ubiquitous "zucchini" (the darling of the gastropub and aspirational bistro) and the various squashes and pumpkins of the American East Coast: the autumnal butternut squash (now beloved of the British supermarkets) immediately springs to mind.

But there's something attractively nostalgic, and unpretentious about the common marrow isn't there? The whiff of Dad's allotment, the village fete, garden potting, vintage Dandelion Wine '53, musty pigeon-racing sheds, home-made piccalilli, and crushing up the laburnum pods to get rid of the nagging missus. I'm sure my grandmother used to serve it up in an early Victorian Mason's Ironstone tureen. The marrow- you understand- not crushed laburnum. It's all so incredibly English.

I love marrow, its subtle watery taste and all the summery assocations that go with it. I heard Allegra McEvedy (of Leon fame) singing its praises on the radio a few days ago; and she's absolutely right. Not only is it nutritious, it's also extremely cheap, and, amazingly, still available at the dreaded Sainsbury's- although you'll find that Waitrose doesn't stock it. Far too upmarket.

 

In my last post I wrote about an excellent marrow dish I enjoyed at the Canton Arms. I went back there a day or so ago and had it yet again. This time round I've now worked out more or less exactly how it was made. I'm calling it "Gratin of English Marrow with Cannellini Beans and Rocket Pesto". An Italian take on an English classic.

First, you need to make a simple Tuscan style white bean stew. Chop up some shallots and sweat them in olive oil and butter until soft. Crush a clove of garlic and cook for a few mintues. Add the cannellini beans (I admit to using tinned) and vegetable stock, and simmer gently for an hour or so (or until the stew is reasonably thick and starchy) with a bayleaf and a few chopped up small tomatoes. If you're using uncooked beans, you'll need to soak them overnight in cold water, and then cook them for a longer time; quite possibly for up to two hours.

When the time's up remove a few spoonfuls of the beans, and purée them into a paste along with a tablespoon or so of the cooking liquid. Add this purée back into the pot: this will help to thicken up the stew. Check the seasoning and remove the bayleaf.

In the meantime, cut the marrow into large chunks, keeping the green skin on, but spooning out all the seeds and stuff you'll find in the middle bit of the vegetable. Steam the marrow until tender. 

To assemble the dish: take an oven-proof gratin dish and ladle in the cooked bean stew. Add the cooked marrow to the dish, making sure that it's well covered by the stew. Sprinkle the top with white breadcrumbs, and dot with rocket pesto. This might be a combination of rocket leaves (sans the stalks), garlic, parmesan, walnuts, olive oil, sea salt and black pepper, which you've previously whizzed up in your Magimix or food processor.

Check the seasoning and flash the gratin under a very hot grill. Serve it piping hot straight from the dish. I'm not a vegetarian by any means, but sometimes it makes an enjoyable change to ditch the meat and eat something like this. It's an excellent dish.

The Old Original Bookbinder's Restaurant Cookbook

 

 

I've just bought this book for the princely sum of £4.50. From a little bookshop in the quaint Cotswold town of Chipping Camden, of all places. It's the 1961 edition of the official "Old Original Bookbinder's Restaurant Cookbook", by Charlotte Adams.

Bookbinder's was a distinguished American restaurant, first founded as a Philadelphia oyster saloon back in 1893. It's wikipedia entry describes its 1950s' heydey as ''a hot spot where red-jacketed waiters scurried through dark-panelled rooms festooned with photographs of VIPS; redolent of cigar smoke tinged with shellfish." This sounds very much my sort of place. I gather that the restaurant fell on hard times, lost its exclusive allure, became a tourist trap, and is now quite probably defunct. A pity, because I miss this sort of joint: the type of restaurant where a fawning mess-jacketed waiter might flamb-ay something jaw-droppingly expensive at M'sieur's very own table.

 

I've picked out two recipes at random, which I haven't tried yet, but, I think, with a bit of tweaking, could be good. The first one's for the obscene sounding "Crab Balls". I would suggest that you make these very small in size, and serve them as canapés- perhaps with some sort of a dipping sauce to go with them:

In a bowl mix together: one tablespoon of chopped green pepper, one tablespoon of finely chopped onion, one tablespoon of finely chopped celery, one tablespoon of minced pimento (ie sweet red pepper), and a teaspoon of fresh thyme leaves. Season with salt, black pepper and a dash of Worcestershire Sauce. Sweat in butter over a lowish heat for about ten minutes.

Sprinkle in four tablespoons of flour (this sounds like quite a bit, even too much; so I would suggest that you go easy on this) and stir in to the vegetable mix. Cook for a further five minutes. Next pour in a cup of milk, and stir until thickened (in effect you've made an old-fashioned white sauce). Then add a pound of crabmeat. Take off the heat, mix in well and chill the mixture in the 'fridge.

When it's cold enough, you take out the crab mixture and roll it into small balls. The balls are then dipped into beaten egg, coated with breadcrumbs- or even more authentically Yankee- crushed up cream crackers, and fried in deep fat until golden brown.

The second recipe is for "Bookbinder's Shrimp Chowder":

Sweat chopped onions in butter until golden, and put to one side. Make a smooth white sauce in the usual way from butter, two tablespoons of flour and four cups of hot milk. The sauce is then placed over a bain-marie, seasoned with salt, pepper and a blade of mace. Pre-Cooked shrimps (large prawns in England) are added and the whole thing cooked gently for twenty minutes. The mace is removed, and the chowder finished off with an extra cup of hot cream and the onion flavoured butter which you've previously strained off. On second thoughts, I'm not exactly sure about this recipe. It could be a bit bland: it's certainly a heart attack in a bowl- not that I'm one of those Cromwellian types pulsating with disapproval at any symptom of a sybaritic lifestyle. I'm not even sure if it's a genuine chowder; I suspect that it isn't.

In complete contrast, I had the most divine thing at the Canton yesterday evening. It was a vegetarian marrow gratin, served piping hot in one of those dinky orange Le Creuset dishes. Half a marrow- cut in half, and scooped out. Covered in Italian Borlotti white beans, and flavoured with a stock, perhaps, and most certainly salt and black pepper. Persillade (ie garlic and parsley finely chopped and crushed together) dotted the top, and the dish was finished off with grated parmesan and butter, before being flashed under a hot grill. At least, I think that how it was made. There may have been tomatoes in there as well. C'etait formidable.

 

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?

 

 

 

Cauliflower

 

Recently the poor cauliflower seems to have come under quite a bit of bad press. First there was Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall announcing to the world that he doesn't like the stuff; and then there's the worrying fact that recent sales of the vegetable have slumped by 35%.

Well, I do like it. And I'm also a fan of the fascinating Romaine or Romanesco variety, as pictured above. Even if the rest of the world isn't- because it looks like a UFO, or a sinister organism from John Wyndham's "Day of The Triffids".

 

 

My dear old grandmother used to cook cauliflower in the traditional English way- and this is how I prefer to serve it:

The cauliflower is not broken up into florets, but steamed whole (for about 20 minutes, or so, until done), drained well and then served in a porcelain tureen (with a lid), and coated with a traditional white (or cheese) sauce, with a subtle seasoning of nutmeg and black pepper. I haven't seen cauliflower served like this for a long, long time.

The other, more popular way, is for the cooked cauliflower to be broken up into florets, and served in a dish, with a cheese sauce and breadcrumbs, and flashed under the grill for a minute or so, until brown.

Raw cauliflower's got a peppery, crunchy taste. It's not so great when it's over-cooked, so make sure, if anything, that you under- rather than over- cook it.

Wild Garlic

 

 

 

We've just come back from an invigorating five day trip to South Cornwall. It was warm enough to enjoy a simple lunch al fresco at the ever-wonderful Tresanton Hotel in St Mawes. The slightly Agatha Christie-ish ambience of the upper terrace (with its ocean-liner metal railings, sea views and steamship loungers) remains unchanged: fans of "Peril at End House" (first published in 1932) will know what I'm talking about.

 

 

On Monday we dropped in at Rick Stein's Seafood Restaurant in Padstow and enjoyed an intensely flavoured bouillabaisse (Cornish style) with crutons, red pepper aioli and grated cheese; roasted Hake (served in a piping hot earthenware dish with puy lentils) and a pretty concoction of lobster and crab wrapped up in puff pastry and served with a pinkish lobster sauce.

The Seafood Restaurant at Padstow has to be one of my all-time favourite restaurants and, in my 'umble opinion Master Copperfield, remains consistently excellent. The discreet service is of the highest professional standard: raise your eyebrow and in an instant there will be a helpful waiter at your side; tables are spacious and the atmosphere is relaxed. The food is unpretentious and utterly delicious.  I can't recommend the place enough.

I've always had a thing about Cornwall- as a child, we used to spend our summer holidays at the charming sea-side town of St Mawes. It really is the most romantic destination: 

 

The mysterious St Michael's Mount.

 

Caerhays Castle: "Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again..."

 

The Cornish lanes and hedgerows are full of wild flowers, (including violet coloured wild orchids) and at this time of the year, daffodils. A thought occured to me on our drive home over Salisbury Plain and past Stonehenge: the verges of Wiltshire's main roads are barren; and in the case of South Buckinghamshire, I regret to report, littered. Does an enlightened Cornish county council have an active policy to encourage wild flowers?  Or is it that in counties such as Wiltshire and Oxfordshire, with large-scale and mechanised farming, wild flowers are killed by the spillover from intensive crop spraying?

It's the time of year to pick and use wild garlic (Allium ursinum). It can be found in damp woodlands and hedgerows, and gives off an evocative, garlicky smell which can't be missed. I love its subtle taste. Funnily enough, unlike the standard variety in which you use the bulb, with wild garlic you eat the green leaves. In London we have to buy it from specialist shops, the superior supermarkets (such as Wholefoods) or your local farmer's market.

I'm going to make a creamy and simple risotto, flavoured with my favourite wild garlic. If I chop up the leaves small enough, I'm hoping that this will make the risotto turn a pale light green colour.

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.

 

Jerusalem Artichoke Soup

 

 

We served this soup to our lucky guests on New Year's Eve. Jersualem Artichokes are currently in season. They're nothing to with artichokes by the way: bizarrely, they're actually the tuber of a species of sunflower, Helianthus tuberosus; Winter root vegetables. They look a bit like small, knobbly potatoes, with a pinkish coloured skin, and were grown by the Native American Indians long before the arrival of the European settlers. I love their subtle, slightly earthy taste.

And there's something else about Jerusalem Artichokes you need to know: apparently they make you "windy", whatever that means. Every time some television chef mentions Jerusalem artichokes on screen, they suddenly "come over" all coy (the otherwise excellent Nigel Slater was a recent culprit), it's slightly bugging; my theory is that if you cook them well enough, you shouldn't have any problems.

Here's how I made the soup. It was velvety smooth; and utterly delicious:  Chop up some an onion or two and fry gently in butter and oil with some chopped celery. In the meantime, take your Jerusalem Artichokes and using a peeler, remove the skin. You might find it easier to cut off the knobbly bits first. Plunge the peeled artichokes into a bowl of cold water into which you've given a good squeeze of lemon. This will stop your artichokes turning grey. You'll find that they start changing colour very quickly if you don't.

Chop the artichokes into small pieces, and add them to the hot pan. Stew them gently with the onions and the celery for about fifteen minutes. When they're soft, pour in some stock (I used an excellent, slightly salty ham stock), and simmer for a further twenty or so minutes.

When the artichoke pieces are cooked (ie soft), transfer the contents of the pan (the artichokes and the hot liquid) to your magimix or blender, and puree the mixture until smooth. The soup will be a creamy-white colour. Push through a sieve into a clean pan (this will help to make the soup velvety-smooth), check the seasoning (I used an oak-smoked salt from Waitrose to give the soup a slightly smokey flavour, lots of freshly grated nutmeg and some white pepper) adding a decent squeeze of lemon juice, and stir in several tablespoons of double cream to taste. Stir carefully and simmer gently for a few more minutes until hot enough.

Serve with crisp croutons and garnish with fresh dill.

Potatoes Dauphinoise

 

 

 

There's a knack to getting this old classic right, as the acid in the potatoes tends to make the cream curdle. To avoid this, you need to blanche the potatoes in milk, and make sure that the oven doesn't get too hot. You can also add a tiny bit of flour to the mix, and if you use waxy potatoes, the starch content will help to stop further curdling.

Incidentally, the Dauphiné area in the French Alps is known for its rich dairy pastures- and that's why the dish is called Dauphinoise. Nothing to do with the French Monarchy or the Revolution.

Pre-heat the oven to 160C. Line a baking tin with greaseproof paper, and butter the paper.  Slice a raw garlic clove in two, and rub it over the paper.

Peel and slice your potatoes. For this dish, I infinitely prefer the waxy varieties, and if possible, I would avoid floury varieties at all cost. Slice them very thinly. I use a Magimix for this.

Boil some milk in a saucepan, whisking to stop it burning. "Blanche" the sliced potatoes in the milk for five minutes; this will help to remove the acid from the potatoes. In another pan, pour 150ml of full-fat milk and a 142ml carton of double cream and add a sprig of thyme. Blend two teaspoons of flour with a splash of  milk, and mix thoroughly, so that there are no lumps. Mix this into the creamy milk. Bring to a near boil, and put to one side.

Layer the baking tin with the potato slices- so that they look a bit like fish scales. Season with sea-salt, black pepper and nutmeg. Arrange another layer on top, but with the shapes facing in the other direction. Season. Five or six layers should be about right. Pour over the milky cream mixture (first removing the thyme sprig) and then grate fresh parmesan all over the top.

Bake for about an hour, or until the potatoes are properly cooked, and the top is golden. Take out of the oven, leave to stand for a few minutes, and then cut into squares.

Butternut Squash and Chorizo with Roasted Tomatoes

 

 

 

Butternut squash turned up in our Abel and Cole vegetable box last week, and I was wondering what to do with it: this recipe worked well. It's simple- and that's often a good thing.

First you need to 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.  You will find that butternut squash is quite hard in texture, and sometimes needs a bit of effort to cut up. Chop it 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 (ratatouille style) in their own juices, and then just gently folded together at the end of the cooking. Butternut squash has a delicious, slightly musty, autumnal taste and you don't want that to be overpowered by all those spicy paprika flavours going on in the chorizo.

Samphire

 

 

 

May I remind you all about wonderful samphire?  At the moment, I just can't eat enough of the stuff. I love its crisp, slightly salty flavour; the way it piles up high on the plate, and the deep green colour it goes when it's been steamed for a few minutes. "Marsh" samphire is the variety you can buy in the shops, and currently, we're getting ours from the fish counter at Waitrose.

What does it taste like?  That's a difficult one. A cross between asparagus and thin green beans, perhaps?  It works beautifully with fish, and should be served with melted butter. I have to admit that I'm currently over-fond of eating it raw, and I'm becoming addicted to it's fabulous salty, juicy and buttery taste. Under-cooking it is the way to go. Why isn't it more widely available?

Hollandaise Sauce

 

 

 

I'm sure you all know how to make Hollandaise Sauce. You'll need it to make Omelette Arnold Bennett.  If you've forgotten, here's how: Melt 225g (8oz) of butter in a pan. In the meantime, liquidize two egg yolks with the juice of one lemon and season with white pepper. When the butter is hot, turn the liquidizer on full blast, and slowly pour in the butter.

That's it. Make sure it's served hot, and that it doesn't get too thick. Nothing worse than luke-warm and gloopy Hollandaise Sauce. And it's perfect, of course, with English Asparagus- not long to wait now..

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.

Vichy Onions

 

 

 

If you're looking for a side dish that's slightly different, this is the perfect recipe. It's similar in style to "Vichy Carrots", which are glazed baby carrots cooked in a bit of sugar and mineral water from the Vichy area of France.

Buy or dig up some baby onions. You could also use shallots, but I think the baby onions will hold their shape better. In a small pan, saute them very slowly in butter for a minute or so.

Next, add some meat stock, salt and pepper, and two teaspoons of sugar. The idea is to braise the onions, so you want your stock to come only half-way up the onions. If you're going to add the fizzy water, now's the time to do it, but I'm not entirely convinced that anyone (unless they have super developed taste buds) is going to be able to tell the difference here between using tap water or Vichy water.  After all, there's quite of bit of other stuff going on in there, the sugar, the salty stock, not to mention the onions themselves. Dunno.

Cook gently, so that the stock combines with the sugar and butter, and forms a syrup. Make sure that the onions are well coated; and carry on cooking until the stock/syrup has been reduced. You're looking for nicely caramelised onions. If the heat is too high, they may burn, so watch out for this.

Roast Potatoes

 

 

Many of you will know that I have a love-hate affair with the potato. Mashed potato, as far as I am concerned, is the Mark of The Beast; this, I've finally worked out, is a relic of my early days at Dotheboy's Hall. Here, their idea of fun was: soggy fishfingers (courtesy of The Good Cap'n Birds Eye); powdered mashed potato ("Mash Get Smash", that's the stuff the Martians eat), and watery tinned peas. The horror of it!

The kitchen was staffed by two Irish septuagenarian hags in dark blue polyester housecoats; fags dangling from their pursed lips. I'm sure Lord Woolton Pie was on the menu, an economical wartime relic, which survived until the early 70's. The boys did the washing up. This was a voluntary affair, a "volunteers please step forward, sort of thing", and if you were lucky you were promoted to foreman. These plongeurs were paid ½ p a day. The foreman got a penny. That's why I don't like mashed potato.

But roast potatoes, cooked properly, could be a good plan. The other day I found a discarded copy of the London Evening Standard (a rare event, as since it's gone "free" you can't get hold of a copy anywhere), and there was an excellent article about that bald wunderkind Heston Blumenthal, including a recipe for his "perfect roast poatoes".

Now, I'm a huge fan of Heston's, admiring his enquiring historical mind, his sense of the miraculous, and his lack of histrionics; all a refreshing antidote to the current crop of pock-marked prima donnas, otherwise known as "celebrity chefs". So, here's how to make perfect roast potatoes, courtesy of Heston Blumenthal:

The variety of potato is important. Maris Piper or the Scottish varieties, Golden Wonder and Arran Victory are all suitable.

Cut them up so that there are plenty of corners and edges, then cook them in well salted, simmering water until they are just about to fall apart. The trick is to cook them until they're fluffy, but at the same time you do want to keep them in one piece; so you'll need to watch them like a hawk.

Strain the potatoes off, and let them steam-dry. Put them into a pan with either olive oil or beef dripping. You will need a centimetre or so of oil at the bottom of the pan. Cook them in the oven at about 180°C or 190°C. Start turning after half an hour. They'll take between 60 and 90 minutes. Just before they're done, sprinkle with chopped rosemary and sea salt.

 

 

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.

The Humble Cabbage

 

 

With the nights drawing in, and winter just around the corner, there's nothing more welcoming than a humble, everyday cabbage. Cabbage is one of those vegetables which everyone thinks they know how to cook, but in fact, is actually quite hard to get right.

There seems to be a general assumption amongst the cognescenti that cabbage should be cooked to a crunchy texture; well, Up to a Point, Lord Copper: quite often this just means that the cabbage is undercooked- and you'll encounter this in Gastro Pubs up and down the kingdom. 

On the other hand, I have nausea-inducing memories of the cabbage as served up to us at Dotheboy's Hall: this involved boiling water, a kitchen timer set to four and a half hours, the colour yellow, and a terrifying smell reminiscent of the Slough Gasworks. In the world of cabbage, you just can't win.

There are two methods of cooking cabbage. With the "fast-cook" method you slice up your cabbage and plunge it into rapidly boiling salted water. When it's cooked (difficult one to get right, that- you want it crunchy, yet not too crunchy), take it out of the pan and drain it in ice-cold water. This will help to set the colour green. Throw it into a small pan, warm it in butter and season to taste. Make sure that all the water has drained off properly. As I'm impatient (and also greedy), I have a tendency to do this in a rush (a "bull in a china shop", as my piano tutor used to say) and end up with nasty pools of water floating around on the plate.

The second method is the "slow-cook" or braising method, as favoured by the French (and The Greasy Spoon's grandmother). Yes, the cabbage will go yellow, and it will smell of sulphur, but if it's cooked very, very slowly, this might (just about) be a good thing. Simon Hopkinson, in his excellent book Roast Chicken and Other Stories, mentions John Tovey's recipe in which the cabbage is braised very slowly in butter, white wine and juniper berries. This sounds like the sort of dish they serve in Alsace, and my instincts tell me that a Reisling or Gewürztraminer would be just the ticket.

 

I've also found an old-fashioned French recipe for "Cabbage Soup with Diced Bacon". Chop up a green cabbage into small pieces and rinse it in vinegar and water. You then fry some chopped garlic in butter, and add diced bacon. After a few minutes add the cabbage and pour in some chicken stock. Simmer the soup very slowly for up to an hour. Serve in earthenware tureens with croutons sprinkled on the top.

If you're going to use the "slow-cook" method, a heat diffuser might be a good plan. This is a simple device which you place directly on top of the gas hob, and spreads the heat.  It will allow you to cook food at a snail's pace.

Retro Sweetcorn Relish

 

 

We've got two corn-on-the-cobs left over in our weekly Abel & Cole vegetable box, and I was racking my brains thinking what to do with them. Last year I invented a rather good sweetcorn relish- which was very similar to the stuff you used to be able to buy in jars. It's white trash diner food, and I like it.

Chop or slice up some shallots and fry them in grapeseed oil. Next, tip a tin of sweetcorn (or better still, some fresh cooked sweetcorn) into a bowl, and mix in some diced green and red peppers, a dash of white vinegar, a spoonful of sugar, and a teaspoon of garlic powder. Season with sea salt and white pepper, and finish off the job with a spoonful of starchy cornflour.

Add the cooked shallots to the mixture and heat up the thing slowly in a small pan, so that the cornflour cooks properly. The finished result was cotton pickin' authentic. Perfect with burgers, even better with fried chicken.  I rest my case.

The Perfect Chip

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

There was an excellent article by Christopher Hirst in The Independent yesterday, about how to make the perfect chips, sorry, America- "freedom fries". After much experimentation and angst he came up with a method loosely based on Heston Blumenthal's:

 

500g Arran Victory (Waitrose Heritage Potato) or Maris Piper potatoes.

1) Peel and chip 400/500g potatoes, and then wash them thoroughly.

2) Boil a pan of large salted water. Add  the chips and return to the boil, and then reduce to a gentle simmering for ten minutes.

3) Remove the chips from the water, and leave to cool on a cake rack. When cool, chill in the 'fridge.

4) In a heavy bottomed saucepan, heat 1.5 litres of groundnut oil to 130C. Using a wire mesh basket, fry the chips for nine minutes.

5) Remove the basket, and shake off the oil. Cool the chips on a cake rack, and then chill in the 'fridge for the second time.

6) Heat the oil to 190c. Fry the chips in a mesh basket for 2-3 minutes, until they are golden. Drain the chips, then spread them on a double layer of kitchen paper. Serve immediately.

Coleslaw

 

Having some time on my hands, I recently spent an hour or so wandering around the basement of the newly refurbished Fortnum's. The refit, in my opinion, has been spectacular, and there are all sorts of interesting stands selling fish, game, terrines, pies and the like.  I bypassed a goose (yours for a hundred quid, Guv), and headed for the salad counter, where they were selling kedgeree (with saffron infused basmati rice) and their very own coleslaw made to a secret Fortnum & Mason recipe.

I'm a complete sucker for this sort of thing- all you have to tell me is that such-and-such was invented by a doctor so-and so, purveyor to connoisseurs and the nobility of Europe, and made to a secret family recipe handed down over ten generations, none genuine without this signature, Squire- and I'll buy it.  I'm a marketing man's dream, I'm afraid.

So, I sniffed around the coleslaw trying to work out what was in it.  I've done a bit of research into coleslaw (a "cole" by the way, was an old-fashioned word for cabbage), and have come to the conclusion, that apart from cabbage, and perhaps mayonnaise, anything goes.

I'm going to make my very own secret version coleslaw, this weekend. And what's going to go in it?   Cabbage and Mayonnaise?  Yes. Carrots?  Yup. Definitely. Cheese?  Probably. Apple?  Perhaps.  A dash of a decent cider or tarragon vinegar might be a good plan as well. I'm wondering if a red chili might be a good idea, or is that a complete no-no? I'm sure that all the ingredients need to be shredded up very, very thinly- I've had coleslaw in the past which had thickish chunks of cabbage, and it didn't seem right. This is going to be fun: I'm feeling hungry all ready.

Organic Vegetables Delivered

 

 

We're thinking of signing up for one of those organic food and vegetable delivery boxes. The Girl is far 'greener' than I am, and is currently on a mission to get me to recycle more. I'm happy with that; and I know that she is right- I just need a bit of a kick up the old derrière to get me going.

I reckon that we will probably go for a small 'de-luxe' affair- I don't want the vegetables to pile up in the kitchen, unused; and I have a feeling that the more ordinary boxes are going to be carrots, carrots and yet more carrots. A good bet for a donkey, but not for The Greasy Spoon.  Abel & Co look promising.

Can anyone give us a recommendation? Which is the best one to go for? Is it worth the expense? I assume the box is left on your doorstop- just in time for the ravenous street urchins of Battersea to take their pick; no doubt in the name of sweet charity.

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.

The Christmas Larder

 

 

As a child, I always knew that Christmas had arrived by the encouraging state of our 'fridge.  My mother was (is) an excellent cook; and at Christmas, this meant: Glazed York Ham, Potted Mushroom Salad, Cumberland and Cranberry Sauce, Home-Made Chutneys, Sage Stuffing, Gravlax with Dill Sauce, Smoked Eel, Spiced Beef, Mince Pies and Christmas Pudding.

I have to put my hand up and admit that I am a hypocrite.  In yesterday's post I accused Nigella Lawson of late-night 'fridge raiding, and when it comes to the jar of Potted Mushroom Salad lurking tantilisingly  in my mother's 'fridge, I am utterly guilty of this crime myself.

Here's how you make Potted Mushroom Salad: You'll need 900g of mushrooms. I would suggest that for extra flavour, you go for the brown chestnut variety; button mushrooms are, frankly, a bit of a yawn. Chop up the mushrooms into quarters, and then sauté them in a mixture of butter and oil at a high heat.  The addition of oil will help to stop the butter burning.  Add two crushed cloves of garlic, and cook briefly, making sure the garlic doesn't burn.

Turn down the heat, and pour over 150ml of white wine, or a decent cider, and then add plenty of salt and pepper. Crank up the heat, and bring the mushrooms and wine to the boil. Keep at it, until there is hardly any liquid left in the pan.  This will take, say, ten minutes.

Reduce the heat, and leave the mushrooms to cool. Mix in some finely chopped parsley. (Chop the parsley up as finely as you can, otherwise it will go soggy). Spoon the mushrooms into sterilised jars with an airtight lid, and top the mushrooms up with French Dressing. The dressing's up to you- I make a classic dressing from mustard, olive oil, white wine vinegar, salt and sugar.

That's it.

Roman Artichoke Stew

 

 

 

A few weeks ago, we had dinner at the Taverna Flavia in Rome. Back in the 50's and 60's, this was the favourite haunt of the stars and starlets of the Cinecitta Film Studios.  Framed black and white photographs of the likes of Richard Burton, Gregory Peck, Anouk Aimée, Sophia Loren and Frederico Fellini look down on you as you tuck into your Salata Elizabetha (named after - trumpet fanfare- Elizabeth Taylor). Sadly, it's all a bit shabby now: the waiters were a trifle weird (certainly over-familiar) and we left the place with the distinct impression that it was a restaurant trading heavily on its past glamour. But the food was good: simple, unpretentious and well cooked. We ordered their Carciofi alla Romana; otherwise known as Roman Stewed Artichokes. They were completely delicious.

 

 

This is how you make them: First, beg, buy or steal some Globe Artichokes. You will need to get hold of the larger, green Italian variety which are tender enough to be eaten whole. Having said that, they're still tough old things and hard to cut. You will need to prepare them carefully before cooking. Remove the tough outer leaves with an extremely sharp knife. Once that's done, trim the stalk down to about an inch. Go back to the remaining leaves and cut the tips off.  Drop the artichokes into cold water to which a good quantity of lemon juice has been added. Finally, cut the artichoke lengthways and scoop out the core with a spoon.

Place the artichokes into a large, heavy pan and cover them with olive oil. Add a few peeled garlic cloves and some bay leaves. Grate in a generous amount of lemon zest and juice. Heat the pan slowly; cover and start to stew the artichokes very slowly. 

Your mission today (should you decide to accept) is to stew them, rather than fry them. The lemon juice will help here, but keep the heat turned down.  The artichokes should take about 30 -40 minutes to cook properly. Serve them with a further squeeze of lemon juice, chopped marjoram, sea salt and chunky black pepper.

 

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.

Avocado

I don't think I've yet written about the ubiquitous avocado. It's hard to remember, but not that long ago, avocados were seen as exotic and sophisticated and usually known as avocado pears.

Nowadays, of course, they're all over the shop, and probably seen as a little bit passe; the staple fodder of dubious bistros and pretentious, second-rate restaurants. So, I've decided to have a closer look and see if there's more to them than initially meets the eye.

The avocado (Persea americana) (from Nahuatl Aguacatl: agua-kah-tl), is native to Mexico, Central and northern South America, and classified in the flowering plant family Lauraceae. Avocado trees were cultivated in pre-Incan settlements with archeological evidence dating to 750 B.C.

The avocado of choice is the Hass variety, which grows in California. That's the one with the dark green knobbly skin (pictured above). It has a lovely, creamy, nutty taste and is, in my opinion, superior to the smooth skinned varieties.

Avocados are full of fat, but the good news is that this fat is a monounsaturated fat, which is supposed to be good for you.

One of the best things you can do with avocados is to make guacamole. Originally an Aztec dish, it's easy to make, and goes brilliantly with things Mexican. Here's my own recipe for it. I prefer the texture to be a bit chunky, rather than completely smooth.

In a bowl, half-mash up some hass avocados and then gently fold in red tomatoes (chopped into small pieces), a minced red onion, lime juice, finely chopped red chili, sea salt, a dash of Tabasco sauce, paprika, black pepper and some chopped fresh coriander.

And finally, a useful tip: when preparing avocados, immediately sprinkle the exposed flesh with lemon juice. This will stop the avocado turning brown.

English Asparagus

 

 

In England, asparagus is in season at this time of year. I'm a firm believer in eating fruit and vegetables in season. Okay, I know that asparagus is shipped in from Spain all the year round; but who wants to eat asparagus in November, or for that matter, strawberries at Christmas?

I used to pick asparagus in a pick-your-own operation in Oxfordshire. It's a strange looking plant, but picking is easy; you just snap the stalk off at the base.

Cooking them is simplicity itself, I think the best way is to steam them until tender- there is no need to boil them; as you run the risk of the asparagus going mushy. Serve them with melted butter, sea salt and a squeeze of lemon juice. Hollandaise Sauce works well, too.

And forget knives and forks; asparagus should be eaten with your fingers. Pick up the stalks, dip them in the butter, or the sauce, and eat them. The woody base can be discarded on a side plate. It's perfect food for an early English summer.

Watercress and Roasted Shallot Purée

 

 

In the same way that I like to experiment with different flavour combinations when I'm making sorbets, vegetable purées offer the perfect opportunity to try out new ideas. Purées are dead easy to make, and, in my opinion, are a sophisticated alternative to ubiquitous vegetable side dishes.

Here's a good 'un: it's my recipe for watercress and roasted shallot purée. I generally prefer shallots to onions, as they have a sweeter and more subtle taste. Take a handful of shallots, remove the skins, and roast them in a hot oven for about an hour. Chuck them into your Magimix and puree them with unsalted butter, salt and pepper, and a teaspoon of sherry vinegar, or lemon juice.

In a steamer, cook a large handful of watercress for a few minutes, until they are slightly wilted, and a deep green colour. Add them to the mixer, and puree until smooth.

Another puree I've come up with is made from an interesting artichoke and leek combination. It's a similar process. I steam chopped leeks until soft, and then purée them with artichoke hearts, lemon juice, and salt and pepper.

I finish off the purée of by cooking it gently in a small pan, and then mixing in a dollop of creme fraiche. Remember, it's a good idea to keep the leeks as green as possible. If you overcook them, they turn yellow, and you loose the crunchy, fresh flavours- so watch them like a hawk when you steam them. It might be a good plan to plunge them under ice-cold water once they've cooked. This will set the colour.

Jugged Peas

 

 

I've just crawled in from another long day at work, and racked my befuddled brain for something stimulating to write about. How about jugged peas?

Jugging is an old English cooking technique. You put whatever you've got into a jug or jar, and then place this into a pan of boiling water. It's a bit like a bain-marie. Put some fresh peas into an oven proof screw-top jar, with some stock, some fresh mint, salt, pepper and sugar. Simmer the jar in a pan of near boiling water for about 30 minutes. You won't be disappointed...

Mushy Peas

 

 

I used not to like Mushy Peas- or at least, thought that I didn't. That was until I had some a few months ago, along with an excellent hunk of battered cod.

I've decided it's all about how they're cooked. Properly made Mushy Peas are a completely different ball-game from the over-cooked, watery mess that they used to feed us with at Dotheby's Hall. So how to make it? First, I suggest using petits pois, rather than garden peas. Petits Pois are small-sized French peas, which you should be able to find at your local supermarket. They're also slightly sweeter too. I have no problem with frozen petits pois. No problem at all. Sometimes, just sometimes, frozen (or canned) ingredients can be as good as the fresh version. It's the same thing with tinned sweetcorn.

Anyway, on with the recipe. Cook the petits pois rapidly in salted boiling water, until they are slightly soft. You've previously added a sprig of mint to the water. Then plunge them into cold water. This should set the colour. You want them to be a bright, fresh green. If you overcook them, and leave them to hang around- they will turn brown.

In a pan, sauté a chopped shallot in butter, until soft. Add the petits pois, a further sprig of mint, and a dash of stock. Cook for a minute or so, until the stock is reduced, then pulse the cooked petits pois in your Magimix. Hit the "pulse" button a few times: in this case, I don't like a smooth purée, but rather, prefer the peas to be "crushed", so that they keep their shape. Season with Maldon Salt and chunky black pepper. Wonderful with Fish and Chips.

Savoy Cabbage

 

 

I love cabbage, and especially Savoy Cabbage. If you cook cabbage for too long, it turns a nasty yellow colour, and gives off lots of dodgy sulphuric smells. For the best result you need to cook your cabbage briefly (and on a high heat). This will also help to keep the cabbage a rich, and dark green colour.

A tried and tested way to cook cabbage is as follows: First, take off the outer leaves. Slice the Savoy Cabbage in two, and remove the hard woody core in the centre. Then slice up the cabbage into chunks.

Get hold of a wok, and when the pan is hot enough, pour in some nut oil. Nut oil burns at a higher temperature, and so is perfect for this sort of thing. Fry the cabbage in the hot oil, shaking the wok as you go. Add a crushed garlic clove, some salt, pepper and a pinch of sugar. After a few minutes the cabbage should be ready. Simplicity itself.

Tartiflette

 

 

Happy New Year! I love New Year's Day; a time to clear your debts, make impossible resolutions, and generally take stock; and it's especially reassuring if you've got the strains of the Vienna New Year's Day concert on in the background.

For New Year's Day you want something hearty, and full of carbohydrates- particularly after all that partying and excess the night before. I read somewhere that Kate Spade, the New York based fashion designer, always has a bowl of chili on New Year's Day, and I'm with her on that one. But for this afternoon's post, I'm going to take a look at a classic chalet dish, The Tartiflette.

 

  

 

If you've ever been lucky enough to have gone ski-ing, you may already know it. Tartiflette's a French dish from the Savoie region, which originated in the valley of Aravis, home of Reblochon cheese. Curiously, it was invented as late as the 1980's in an attempt to push the sales of the local Reblochon cheese- and then heavily promoted by the relevant trade unions to boost employment in the area.

And how to make it?  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. Next, 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.

 

Yellow Pepper Relish

 

 

This is a quick and easy thing I invented yesterday, and it worked out perfectly. First, I steamed two yellow peppers until they were cooked (first removing the inner pith and seeds with a sharp knife) and then peeled off the skins, so that only the soft yellow flesh was left.

Next, I whizzed up half a red onion in the trusty Magimix, together with a red chili (though, of course you could also use a green one), and two cloves of garlic. Once they had all been thoroughly chopped up, I added the yellow pepper flesh, and using the "pulse" button combined the ingredients carefully. You don't want the peppers to break down too much. Then it was a simple matter of adding fresh lime juice, lots of Maldon Salt, and a good quality Extra Virgin Olive Oil.

It would work brilliantly with cold beef, and the yellow colour is interesting. The sweetness of the peppers balances out well with the sharpness of the lime. Try it, and I don't think you will be disappointed.

Cauliflower

 

 

I thought this morning I would write about another British winter classic, Cauliflower Cheese. There are various ways of making this. My dear old grandmother (sadly no longer with us) used to serve it whole in a tureen, with the cheesy, creamy white sauce poured on top. I think this is a particularly attractive way of serving it, visually at least, and possibly the old-fashioned method.

You need to catch hold of a smallish caulifower, trim off the green leaves around the stem, and then steam it. Steaming is always a great way to cook vegetables, as it stops them getting soggy, and, in this case, the cauliflower will remain whole. If you boil it, it will start to break up.

Place it in a tureen, and make a white sauce. You will probably remember how to do this from previous posts. Melt some unsalted butter in a pan, stir in some flour so that the flour is cooked properly, and then slowly add milk and a bit of stock (the cooking water from the cauliflower would be ideal) until you have a smooth sauce.

Next, grate in some cheese (such as cheddar, though it would be fun to experiment with other varieties), and add salt, pepper, and grated nutmeg. I have to admit that I prefer a simple white sauce without the cheese, and lots of nutmeg, but it's all about personal taste, isn't it?

The other method is as follows: cut the cauliflower up into florets, removing the woody core first. Next, steam them or boil them until cooked. Make sure you don't overcook. Make your cheese sauce as before, but add breadcrumbs, and pour over the florets, which you have arranged in an ovenproof dish. Finish them off under the grill, so that the cheese and breadcrumbs start to turn brown. Finis.

Brussels Sprouts

 

 

Brussels Sprouts are part of the traditional British Christmas. The problem is that no-one likes them. They need careful cooking, otherwise they become soggy, grey in colour, sulphuric, and generally pretty nasty.

One of the best books on Christmas food, if not the best book, is Paul Levy's The Feast of Christmas. Its also got lots of fascinating stuff about the history and mythology of Christmas too. I found a recipe in it which solves the Brussels Sprout problem:

First, you need to shred them with a sharp knife. Next stir them in peanut oil at a high heat, with shredded garlic, ginger, and fresh chilli. A wok would be ideal for this. Because you've cooked them quickly over a high heat, the shredded sprouts will remain green, and the combination of the peanut oil, ginger,and chilli will give them an oriental style twist.

Braised Red Cabbage

 

 

I promised in my recent Lancashire Hot Pot post to write about Red Cabbage, and this Sunday morning I am being true to my word. Braised Red Cabbage is a classic British dish. It's more than just cabbage- there are other ingredients in there as well, and the dish has tangy, piquant flavours going on. It's also suitable for this time of the year.

You need to get hold of a red cabbage, slice it in two and take out the core (that's the hard bit in the middle). Slice up the cabbage thinly.

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

In a separate pan heat up a good 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.

Braised Fennel with Orange and Pernod

 

 

Another classic from The Greasy Spoon, to which I've given a subtle twist. Fennel has that lovely licourishy, aniseedy taste; and this recipe brings out these flavours to the full. The photograph shows a selection of fennel bulbs at a local farmers' market.

Trim the fennel and cut them into wedges. In a pan, saute them in unsalted butter, so that they get brown all over, and slightly caramelised.

Next, you're going to braise them. Braising is an old-fashioned technique, which uses a small amount of liquid. In effect you are using the rising steam as a cooking method, and you will be left with a thickish sauce which is created by reduction.

When the fennel wedges are sufficiently brown, add a teaspoon of sugar, salt and pepper, a splash of fresh orange juice, a small dash of Pernod, some meat stock, and a dash of balsamic vinegar. The liquid should come about a quarter to half-way up the pan. Bring to the boil (you want to burn off the alchohol from the Pernod), then turn down the heat and simmer, basting the fennel now and again with the sauce. Put the lid back on the pan.

After about fifteen minutes or so, your fennel should be nicely braised, and glazed by the orange and balsamic sauce. It might be a good idea to shake the pan now and again, while the braising is going on to stop the fennel burning. Arrange the cooked fennel in a dish, and pour over the reduced sauce.

Ratatouille

 

Ratatouille was originally a poor man's dish from Nice in the South of France. To make it properly, it needs a bit of preparation before hand. Whatever happens, don't just just chuck all the ingredients into a pan and cook them. If you do that you will end up with a mess. Instead you need to cook all the vegetables separately. Here's my method, and it works every time:

Cut up some aubergines (egg plant) into small bite-sized cubes, put them into a bowl, and sprinkle them with salt. Do the same thing with some courgettes (zucchini). The salt will draw out water from the vegetables.

Meanwhile, slice up some red onions, and cook them in olive oil. Towards the end of the cooking, stir in some crushed garlic. You need to cook the garlic later on, because it has a tendency to burn very quickly. When the onions and garlic are soft, put them to one side.

Next fry the drained aubergines in the same oil until they are browned and cooked properly. Put to one side. Fry the courgettes in the same way. Chop up some red and green peppers into cubes. Fry them in the olive oil. Now, combine all the cooked vegetables and cook them briefly on a gentle heat with a few springs of thyme.

Next you need to add tomatoes. In London, I find it incredibly difficult to get hold of decent red coloured , ripe tomatoes (most supermarkets seem to stock those rather pathetic under-ripe efforts), so for this dish, I tend to use a tin of quality plum tomatoes in juice. Stir those in.

Season with salt and pepper- although you may already have enough salt from the courgettes and the aubergines. I'll leave it to you to decide. The finished ratatouille will keep well in the 'fridge- some say, that this will even improve it. It goes amazingly well with lamb.

I finish off the dish with a squeeze of lemon juice, an extra dash of virgin olive oil, and some chopped parsley. One of my favourite recipes. Truly scrumptious.

Pumpkins

 

 

Yesterday I admitted that I didn't like the taste of pumpkin. Several years ago, in a moment of madness, I tried to make pumpkin soup from the remains of a jack o' lantern. It was disgusting. I've learnt since then that many of the jack o' lantern pumpkin varieties are inedible, so I expect I'm being unfair, and probably escaped a trip down to casualty with food poisoning.

Anyway, I've had a comment from the mysterious "nlm", who has come up with a brilliant recipe for Pumpkin Chutney. This is similar to a local chutney made in India. Here's how you make it.

Chop up 2.7kg of pumpkin flesh into cubes. Put it into a bowl and sprinkle with Maldon Salt. Leave it overnight. The salt will draw out all the juices. The next morning drain off all the surplus water, rinse the pumpkin, and drain again.

Next peel three oranges, and two lemons, removing all the skin, pips, and pith. Tip them into a large pan along with the pumpkin. Add 500g of light muscovado sugar, and 600ml of cider vinegar. Bring to the boil, and then simmer for forty minutes. When it's ready, pour into sterilised jars. You can sterilise your chutney jars by "cooking" them in the oven first, but at a lowish heat so that the glass doesn't shatter.

I haven't tried this chutney yet, but I like its simplicity- and that's often the best way. The balance between the salt, sugar, and acidity sounds spot on too. I have no idea how long it would last for- but I suspect several weeks, if not a month or so. The salt should act as a preservative. And it makes a change from the dreaded Pumpkin Pie.

Glazed Onions

 

 

If you're looking for a side dish that's slightly different, this is the perfect recipe. It's similar in style to Vichy Carrots, which are glazed baby carrots cooked in a bit of sugar and mineral water from the Vichy area of France.

Buy or dig up some baby onions. You could also use shallots, but I think the baby onions will hold their shape better. In a small pan, saute them very slowly in butter for a minute or so. Next, add some meat stock, salt and pepper, and two teaspoons of sugar.

The idea is to braise the onions, so ideally, you want your stock to come only half-way up the onions. Cook gently, so that the stock combines with the sugar and butter, and forms a syrup. Make sure that the onions are well coated; and carry on cooking, until the stock/syrup has been reduced.

You're looking for nicely caramelised onions. If the heat is too high, they may burn, so watch out for this.

That's it. I'm off for the weekend for a well-deserved escape from the Counting House, but will be back on Monday.

I should be cooking whitebait tonight, so if the photographs are good enough, and all those hundreds of fish-eyes staring up at me from the plate don't freak me out, I hope to be tackling this in my next post. And there's Hallowe'en, Guy Fawkes Night, and the Mexican Day of the Dead coming up soon, so over the next week I'm going to be having a field day with all sorts of fascinating seasonal food. Ciao.