The Greasy Spoon | Food & Culture

Gin

I've been looking forward to writing about gin. I suspect among the younger hip crowd, gin is considered slightly old-fashioned and fogeyish; and there's now a general gravitation towards vodka in cocktail bars and night-clubs: how many times have I heard some blade, or party girl for that matter, ask for a Vodka and Cranberry Juice?

Anyway, back in the good old days of wife-swapping, bridge parties, and twiglets, gin was the tipple of choice, and, of course, the basis of, perhaps, the greatest of all cocktails, The Dry Martini. But more about that in a later post.

Gin was invented in the Netherlands in the 17th century, and was distilled from barley. London Dry Gin is different. It's made from a neutral grain spirit, and then re-distilled after botanicals have been added; and the most important botanical, which it gives it that particular taste, is juniper.

What's fascinating about gin is how the different brands vary in taste. It's because of the wide range of botanicals that can be used, ranging from lemon peel, anise, angelica root, coriander, cinnamon, to cassia bark. For a standard gin and tonic, I happen to like the 40% proof Beefeater; 94.6% proof Tanqueray for a Dry Martini, and Plymouth Gin (the sailor's choice) for Sloe Gin- if and when I ever get around to making it.

It may surprise you to know that Bombay Sapphire- that's the gin in the lovely blue coloured bottles with Queen Victoria on the front, is a relatively recent newcomer to the market. It's slightly sweeter, highly flavoured with botanicals, and deservedly successful.

In the eighteenth century, the government allowed gin to be distilled without licence, and, consequently, the ale-houses and taverns were flooded with cheap gin, which was, in effect, fire-water. Underneath you will see a picture of "Gin Lane' by William Hogarth. Actually, if you know the Leicester Square area of London, I'm not sure that a great deal has changed since then, except it's now beer and bizarre cocktails mixed with Red Bull which is causing all the excitement.

 

 

Bloody Mary

 

 

 

For some reason, the Bloody Mary cocktail always makes me think of Connecticut gymkhanas, tailgate picnics, Mock Tudor woodies, and hearty Nantucket sailing types; especially if served from the old family tartan thermos flask.

There's a theory that the Bloody Mary was invented in 1921 by Fernand "Pete" Petiot, the barman at Harry's Bar in Paris (Sank Roo Doe Noo), which was a hang-out for American ex-pats such as Ernest Hemingway and F. Scott Fitzgerald.

I'm glad to report that I've sunk a great many Bloody Marys in my time, but so far, not that many have lived up to scratch. After years of experimentation, I've finally cracked the secret, and you're in luck, because, against my better judgement, I'm about to reveal all.

Crush some ice and drop it into a cocktail shaker. Pour in some good tomato juice, vodka (I prefer Stolichnaya), a few drops of Lea & Perrins, a few drops of Tabasco, a modest sprinkling of celery salt, and some cayenne pepper.

And now for a tip that sorts the men from the boys: add a generous dash of dry sherry (Tio Pepe is ideal), and a squeeze of lemon or lime juice. I picked up this idea from the excellent Grenadier Pub in Wilton Row, packed on a raw Sunday morning with high-budget American tourists, and braying Guards Officers. It's supposed to be a secret, but I looked over the pewter bar counter and saw what they were up to when the bar-girl wasn't looking.

Shake it all around. Strain it into a chilled highball glass. That's it. If you really must, you can add a stick of celery as a garnish. Some people add horseradish, but I'm not that keen, because it curdles, and your cocktail ends up looking a mess. I've also had one recently at a gastro-pub down in Dorset, which had large chunks of black pepper floating around in it, and that wasn't that great either- unless you're addicted to raw pepper.

 

Cream of Onion and Cider Soup

 

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

You either love it or your hate it...

 

 

 

 

What can be more British than Marmite? To my American readers, Marmite is a thick, dark, tangy, rich and glutinous mess that you spread on your toast, typically at breakfast or perhaps as a late night supper snack. For years I assumed, wrongly, that it was some sort of meat derivative, but Marmite makes the stuff from brewer's yeast, and so in theory, it's suitable for vegetarians.

The Marmite Food Extract Company was founded in 1902. Some clever spark realised that you could manufacture an edible savoury paste out of the waste yeast used in beer making. The Edwardians were heavily into these yeast extracts ( Bovril being another example, but with the addition, shock horror, of beef ); one reason being that you could make up a cheap but nourishing bouillon with the simple addition of boiling water.  As you gourmands all know, the word Marmite means a pot or casserole in French, and that's why the cultish jar is shaped, er- like a marmite.

And now ( trumpet fanfare, gasps of amazement ) there's new limited edition Guinness Marmite. It's got Guinness in it! I am dying to try it, but it seems to have sold out across the nation, and the supermarket shelves are bare. There seems to be a dubious trade in the stuff on eBay, but I have yet to bring myself to fork out the obligatory ten quid or so required to get hold of a jar.

The Genius of Edouard de Pomiane

 

 

One of my all-time favourite cookery writers is Edouard de Pomiane. Born in 1875, He was a dietician, amateur gourmand, and academic at the Institut Pasteur in Paris, and approached food with a simple enthusiasm that I find, even now, refreshing and inspirational.

His food was of the French Country school- those time honoured dishes that you will encounter on driving holidays across France, and I wholeheartedly recommend his two better-known books: Cooking in 10 minutes and Cooking with Pomiane. They may well be out of print, but you will be able to buy them from sites such as Amazon, and abebooks.co.uk. Here's his recipe for "Snails": 

Buy a dozen snails from a conscientious tradesman, that is to say, a man who will use good butter for stuffing his snails. Arrange the twelve snails on a large fireproof dish. It is not as easy as it sounds. The opening of the shell must face upwards. Otherwise as soon as the butter melts it runs out of the shell and the snail becomes dry and tough. When you have arranged the shells properly, pour a little water into the dish. Put the dish on the fire for three or four minutes, just long enough to warm it. Then put it under the grill. In five to six minutes the butter has melted and the snails are hot. Eat them as long as they burn your fingers.

Isn't that marvellous?

Cod

 

 

I was out on the town last night, so there was no post. As I've just about recovered from yesterday's revels, I'm going to write today about that King of the Fishes, the noble cod.

Cod was once the staple diet of the everyday household. Not anymore. Over-fishing has become a problem, and the menus of the swankiest restaurants now boast this one ubiquitous fish.

If you live in Britain or the East Coast of the United States, the chances are that your cod was caught in the North Atlantic. If you're in the mood for a bit of bed-time reading, you can find out more in Mark Kurlansky's excellent book, Cod: A Biography of the Fish that Changed the World, available from all good bookshops.

Now for the recipe bit. Here's my take on "Cod with Parsley Sauce". It's a simple dish; Nursery Food at its best. Take two or so fillets of cod and steam them. I'm a big fan of steaming. It's easy, quick and healthy, and because of all the moisture floating around, your food won't dry out. You can buy steamers cheaply from your local kitchen shop, or if you are lucky enough to have a Chinatown nearby, bamboo steamers are excellent.

While your fish is cooking, make the sauce. In your favourite pan, melt two or three knobs of unsalted butter. Now add two or three tablespoons of white flour. You're about to make a roux. Stir like mad. It's crucial at this stage to get rid of any lumps, so keep stirring until you get a smooth, golden paste. Cook this for a few minutes. Again, it's important to make sure that you have cooked the flour correctly.

Now's the time to start adding milk in small batches. The plan is to make a velouté. As the flour cooks in the milk, your sauce will get thicker and thicker. Throw in a bay leaf, and grate in some nutmeg. As you stir, keep adding the milk, until you get a smooth, silky and thickish sauce. When you're happy with the result, let the sauce bubble for a bit, to make sure everything's cooked properly.

Add some torn parsley leaves (I prefer the flat-leaved variety), season the cod with salt and pepper to taste, remove the bay leaf, and you're done. An unpretentious but delicious dish. Excellent with some new potatoes, a wedge of lemon, and a decent bottle of Chablis.

 

Mayonnaise

 

 

Mayonnaise is easy to make. I'll repeat that. Mayonnaise is easy to make. I don't know why some cookery writers make such a big deal about it, but if you follow The Greasy Spoon method, you'll soon be whizzing up a decent mayonnaise in no time at all.

First, break two egg yolks into a mixing bowl. Add a teaspoon or so of mustard (in this case, I prefer to use a milder type such as Dijon), some salt, and a splash of lemon juice or vinegar (French wine vinegar or cider vinegar is good). With a wooden spoon stir these together until they bind. Now's the time to start adding your oil.

I'm now going to let you into a secret.  Grape seed oil is a miraculous ingredient. First, it's good for you. Secondly, it's light.  Thirdly, it's a brilliant binding agent for making emulsions- you need far less of the stuff to make your mayonnaise go thick, and that's a good thing.  I've noticed that The Fat Duck at Bray uses grapeseed oil to make mayonnaise- and they use it for a reason. You could, of course, use only olive oil, but when I've made it that way in the past, the mayonnaise becomes, in my opinion, a bit heavy and also bitter. If you can't get away from the olive oil trap, add a tablespoon or so towards the end of the mixing.

Now, this is the stage where if it's going to go wrong, it's going to go wrong. It's essential to pour in the oil in small batches, otherwise, your mayonnaise might curdle. The goal is to form a smooth emulsion.

Carry on pouring in the oil bit by bit, stirring at the same time. Once you've got your emulsion up and running, you can start adding the oil in a steady stream. Keep stirring. The more oil you add, the thicker it'll get. Towards the end of the process, I like to switch over to olive oil for the extra flavour. Anyway, you'll eventually end up with a thick, jelly-like mayonnaise, that you can plunge a spoon into upright, and it won't fall over. That's a sign that your labours are finished.

I'm now going to let you into a secret. Stir in a tablespoon of boiling water to your finished mayonnaise. The effects are nothing short of miraculous. You will end up with a light, fluffy, creamy mayonnaise, which is slightly lighter in colour too.

So there you are. You can also break all the rules, and mix up a decent mayonnaise in your food processor, using the above method, though, in practice, I find it best to use three egg yolks, as the food processor method tends to make a much thicker sauce. Oh, and if you leave your mayonnaise in the ' fridge, it'll get even thicker. Spread the word.

Tabasco

The famous McIlhenny company of Avery Island, Louisiana, has been producing their inimitable Tabasco pepper sauce for five generations. According to legend, the bottle shape was derived from the original cologne bottles used by Edward McIlhenny in 1869.

Until recently, they made the sauce from peppers grown entirely on Avery Island, although these days, the company sources peppers from Central and Southern America. I've recently started using the subtle green jalapeno version, and have to admit that it's currently my number one choice, which, no doubt will brand me as a Tabasco heretic amongst die-hard Tabasco aficionados.

For some reason, the green sauce is incredibly hard to find in Britain, and most supermarkets don't seem to stock it; but my local corner shop in Battersea, bizarrely, seems to have an inexhaustible supply.

In a later post, I'm going to look into Louisiana Gumbo, that wonderful stew of meat, shell-fish, onions, celery and bell-peppers. Several gumbo recipes call for a liberal dash of Tabasco; and in a grey, and often uninspiring world, that's a marvellous thing.

 

 

Waldorf Salad

 

Hands up who doesn't love a Waldorf Salad? Named after the Waldorf Hotel in New York, it's supposed to have been invented in 1893 by the maitre d'hotel, Oscar Tschirky- who also laid claim to that tantalising breakfast dish, Eggs Benedict.

Anyway, it's a simple old thing and easily made from a combination of sliced celery, diced apples (I leave the skin on), walnuts, and raisins.

You bind the salad with mayonnaise (I will be initiating you into the secrets of how to make this in a later post), and serve it on a bed of lettuce, as the whim takes you.

Chicken Curry (English Style)

 

 

I'm a huge fan of genuine Indian food, believe me. Street food served by restaurants such as the excellent Masala Zone. But I'm also fond of our own bastardised British versions too- as peddled by the Cordon Bleu Cookery Academy, circa 1959. Here's my recipe for a delicious and simple chicken curry. Most Indians worth their salt will turn their noses up at it, but I find it strangely satisfying; and it's straightforward to make too.

First, you need to sweat some chopped onions, celery and garlic in oil. Next, add some apple chopped into chunks. Stir in a tablespoon of curry paste, and some turmeric. Cook this for a few minutes.

In the meantime, season some de-boned chicken thighs with salt and pepper, and dust them with some flour. Add these to the pan. Cook for several minutes, until the chicken begins to colour. Now add some chicken stock (preferably homemade. Otherwise Marigold reduced-salt bouillon is just the ticket), and simmer for about ten to fifteen minutes. Next, pour in some coconut milk. Simmer for about half an hour until the chicken is cooked. You should end up with a thickish sauce. Add a teaspoon of redcurrant jelly (yes, redcurrant jelly).

Serve with chopped coriander. Instead of plain rice, try my Lemon Rice instead. It's just ordinary rinsed Basmati Rice cooked in a bit of stock, lemon juice, lemon zest, and a few cardamom pods.

The New Piccadilly Cafe is no more...

 

I've just heard some earth-shattering news. The New Piccadilly Cafe is about to close its doors for the last time. This little gem, founded in 1951, is tucked away in Denman Street, just behind Piccadilly Circus. Inside, the Formica topped tables, swivel chairs, menu written on a giant horseshoe, burbling espresso machine, and white-jacketed staff take you back to a vanished Soho of the 1950's; a shadowy world populated by spivs, bogus Spitfire pilots, teddy boys and gangsters; when the Skylon was a futuristic installation on the South Bank, rather than a trend-setting restaurant.

There are hardly any of these cafes left now. As London becomes more affluent, higher rents are forcing independent shops and cafes to close. The King's Road in Chelsea is a typical example, and the transformation occurred at lightning speed. The same thing almost happened to another perennial favourite, the Polish cafe, Daquise, in South Kensington, which I am delighted to say is still there (although re-furbished), but still serving its rib-sticking helpings of Goulash, Hunter's Stew, Seurkraut, and Golonka- which, as I am sure you all know, is a stewed and huge knuckle of pork.

It has to be Colmans'...

I remember as a child being taken by my grandfather to the now sadly defunct London Steak House, and being especially impressed by a fawning waiter, no doubt in an egg stained maroon mess jacket, offering me a suave choice of English, German or French mustard. And, when you're ten years old, that's a big deal.

Colman's of Norwich make one of the most famous brands of mustard. Founded by Jeremiah Colman in 1814, it's a classic English mustard with a deep yellow colour, tangy taste and powerful kick. Connoisseurs of the brand reckon that the best version is Colman's mustard powder, which you mix up with water, and then leave for about twenty minutes to bring out the oils and for the full, robust flavour to develop.

I'm also fond of the classic all- American French's Mustard, which has as about as much to do with France as the Empire State Building. Created in 1904 by Robert Timothy French, this is a creamy, bland mustard, which is similar in some ways, to milder German varieties.

 

Kedgeree

 

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Mark Birley's Corned Beef Hash

 

 

 

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

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

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

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

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

 

Worcestershire Sauce

Let's start with a look at the iconic Lea & Perrin's Worcestershire Sauce. In effect, it's a fermented fish sauce. I read somewhere about a nauseating Eskimo delicacy. They would make a large hole in the ground, chuck gobbets of raw fish down there, relieve themselves all over it to get the fermentation going, and then dig it back up again after a month or so. Sounds good, eh?

The British version was first sold by Mr Jon Wheeley Lea and Mr William Henry Perrins in 1838, from a family recipe given to them by a Lady Sandys, recently returned from India. They were a pair of enterprising, and no doubt, bewhiskered chemists from Worcester and their world famous sauce is still made at the old Worcester factory, close to the Malvern Hills; although the company is now part of the French food conglomerate, Danone.

The "original and genuine" stuff is made from malt vinegar, molasses, sugar, salt, anchovies, tamarind extract, onions, garlic, flavourings and salt; although the American version uses distilled white vinegar and has a slightly less rich flavour. And it's an essential ingredient in two all-time American classics; the Bloody Mary Cocktail, and the Caesar Salad.