The Greasy Spoon | Food & Culture

Black Bean Soup

 

 

I've had fun researching suitable food for Hallowe'en. Along the way, I discovered Colcannon, a traditional kale and potato dish which is eaten in Ireland, and Gingerbread Husbands, which were eaten by young village girls to make sure they found a husband. And then I hit upon the brilliant idea of Black Bean Soup. It's spicy, warming, velvety, er- black, and with Mexican hints suitable for the Day of the Dead festival on November 2nd, too. Here's my version:

You can either use tinned black beans (which are hard to find in the UK), or dried beans which you need to soak overnight in cold water. In a pan, cook some chopped smoked bacon in butter for a few minutes. Next, stir in a chopped onion, chopped carrot, and two crushed cloves of garlic. It might also be a good plan to throw in a finely chopped green chili. One of those fiendishly hot small ones. I'll leave that up to you.

 

 

Next, you need to add cumin. If you've got time, you can dry-roast some cumin seeds in a hot frying pan, and then when they're popping, take them out and crush them in a pestle and morter. Otherwise you could use powdered cumin. Add the cumin to the pan, and stir in. Cook for a few moments. Tip in the black beans, some chicken stock, and a liberal dash of my favourite Tabasco Sauce.

Simmer on a very low heat with the lid on for about an hour and a half. You want the soup to be thick and velvety. The black beans should thicken everything up. Serve with sour cream, and chopped chives. A spicy Mexican Salsa would be good too.

Luckily, I'm not going to be at home tonight. In recent years, the mean streets of Battersea have become full of roaming gangs of ghouls, witches, Frankensteins and mad axe murderers on Hallowe'en Night. Yup, Tick or Treating has suddenly become big over here. It was quite amusing at first, but last year I found myself under siege, and had to retreat to the back of the house, while the street urchins shouted through my letter box: " 'ere Mishter...we know you're in there", or words to that effect. Well, tonight kiddos, you ain't getting anything from me. That nice Mr Scrooge in Number 43...

 

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.

 

 

Devils on Horseback

 

 

I'm back in the Big Smoke. You may remember that I was planning to write about whitebait. I cooked some on Saturday. They were delicious (deep fried in Cayenne pepper, and coated with a dusting of seasoned flour) but the photography wasn't that hot; so as Hallowe'en is almost upon us, I'm going to concentrate on some classic Hallowe'en dishes over the next few days instead. Hallowe'en is interesting. When I was about so-and-so high, it was barely celebrated in Britain; all the emphasis was on Bonfire Night a few days later. In those far off days, Trick or Treating was just not the done thing in Jolly Old.

I suspect that Hallowe'en was originally brought to the United States by Scottish or Dutch settlers in the nineteenth century, became a big deal over there (Hallowe'en post cards were huge in America before the First World War) and then in the last few years with the Americanisation of Europe, came back over here.

Not that I'm complaining. It's a bit like Chop Suey, which, apparently, was re-invented by Chinese immigrants in San Francisco; the European Coffee House in Seattle (er- Starbucks), or the deep-pan "Italian" pizza re-gurgitated in Chicago from the classic Neopolitan street recipe. Old World classics go to America, are re-invented, and then make their way back here with a bit of North American perzazz thrown in for good measure.

 

Here's a good 'un for the Night of the Living Dead: they're called Devils on Horseback. You get hold of some rashers of streaky bacon and half-cook them under your grill. The night before, you've soaked some dried prunes in water and Lea & Perrin's Worcestershire Sauce. Now wrap each bacon rasher around a prune, and fasten with a wooden cocktail stick. You are going to re-grill them, so it's a good idea to soak the cocktail sticks in cold water first- to stop them burning.

 

 

 

 

 

Bung them back under the grill, until they are cooked through. Take them out. Season with salt and pepper, and if you're up for it, a further dash of Lea & Perrins. Serve with hot toast and a watercress garnish.

Tomorrow, it has to be about pumpkins- and as I hate the taste of pumpkin, I'm going to have to come up with some palatable ideas fast. Very fast. If anyone out there in cyberspace (especially the dear old U S of A) wants to email me with pumpkin-fest ideas, please do, and if you can persuade me, I'll get your ideas up on the site to share with the rest of the world...

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.

Beef Wellington

 

 

This morning, in the early hours, I was woken up by the sound of barked commands and clattering hooves coming directly from the street outside my hovel. It was a detachment of the King's Troop, Royal Horse Artillery, in full dress uniform. It's one of the many secrets of London. The army often exercises its horses in the empty streets- long before most people are awake, and an otherwise dull street can be transformed by the glitter and dash of uniforms more suited to the playing fields of Waterloo.

It made me think of Beef Wellington. Have you ever made it? It's beef with shallots and mushrooms wrapped up in pastry and cooked in the oven. More often or not, it tastes like an old Wellington boot. I've decided, after experimentation, that it's hard to get right. You don't want to overcook the beef, yet at the same time, you want the pastry to be cooked properly. The right timing is essential. I've taken the recipe from Simon Hopkinson and Lindsay Bareham's The Prawn Cocktail Years, which I recommended in yesterday's post.

Place a 200g block of butter in the freezer until it gets hard. Sift 250g of flour into a mixing bowl with a pinch of salt. Grate the frozen butter into the flour, and mix it in so that you end up with something looking like breadcrumbs. Next, add small amounts of water bit by bit, until you get a dough, and then roll it into a ball. Put the dough into a plastic bag and chill it in the 'fridge for thirty minutes.

Now for the mushroom and shallots. Sauté 150g of diced shallots in butter. Add 250g of chopped flat black mushrooms, and fry until they are soft. Pour in 250g of dry white wine, with salt and pepper, and bubble like mad, (i.e. reduce) until there is hardly any wine left. Transfer to your food processor with a handful of chopped parsley. Whizz it up until you have a coarse purée.

 

 

In another pan, brown a 700g beef fillet in oil, until it's slightly crusty on the outside. Preheat your oven to 375 F (190 C), and put in a flat baking sheet, which you have brushed with oil- to stop the Beef Wellington sticking to it. Roll out the dough to form a rectangle and brush with a beaten egg.

Next spread the mushroom purée over the dough to within a few centimetres to the edge. Place the beef fillet over the mushrooms, at the end of the pastry, and slowly roll up- to form a parcel. Push in the edges, and decorate these edges with a fork: this will help to seal the whole thing up. Trim of any excess. Scour the outside with a knife; again for decoration, and brush some more egg mixture all over the pastry. Sprinkle some Maldon Salt over it.

Cook it for about 35 minutes. The beef should be rare, and the pastry crisp. That's your goal. Be very careful not to overcook it, otherwise you could have some disappointed guests. And you don't want that.

The Prawn Cocktail Years

 

 

          

 

Not so long ago, at a time when Mrs Peel was still kicking her kinky boots on late night television, my parents used to hold urbane dinner parties. And the first course was more often than not, Prawn Cocktail. You may snigger at the thought of it, but I can assure you that back in the 1970s this was considered the height of chic. Juicy prawns bound in a smooth Marie-Rose sauce, served in a wine glass with a lemon slice perched cheekily on the edge of the glass.

There's nothing intrinsically wrong with this dish; it's just that as certain classics become popularised (like Vivaldi's The Four Seasons, or Renoir's La Loge), over-familiarity can, regrettably, breed contempt. And that's what Lindsey Bareham and Simon Hopkinson's brilliant book, The Prawn Cocktail Years, is all about.

I've become rather bored of the Jamie Oliver school of Mediterranean cooking which seems to have affected every gastro-pub and restaurant in the land. Drizzles of olive oil on this, sun-dried tomatoes on that. Basil with everything. Hang on; this is Britain isn't it? Like it or not, we don't live on the Amalfi Coast; so I'm not convinced that I want to tuck into olive oil and rocket surprise on a raw English winter's afternoon.

Anyway, The Prawn Cocktail Years takes you back to forgotten classics such as Steak Diane, Omelette Arnold Bennett, Chicken Maryland (that's chicken with banana fritters!), Swedish Meatballs, Sole Veronique, and one of my all-time favourites, Crepes Suzette; and instructs you how to cook them properly. These were the dishes that the revolving Post Office Tower Restaurant served to its well-heeled clientele back in 1972.

 

           

 

Crepes Suzette is a law unto itself. It's the combination of the smooth pancakes, tangy orange juice, cognac, and rich buttery sauce, preferably flambeed in style at the table, which gets my taste buds salivating. You can order The Prawn Cocktail Years from amazon.co.uk by clicking the link below. You won't regret it, and as I'm currently on five per cent, your hard-earned cash will go towards keeping The Greasy Spoon up and running.

 

             

Scrambled Eggs

 

 

You may be surprised that I am devoting a whole post to scrambled eggs. What's there to know about them, I hear you ask? Well, quite a bit.

For seven long and hard years, I had to endure the scrambled eggs made by the gastronauts who ran my school kitchen at Dotheboy's Hall. Watery, and rubbery, like some experimental industrial plastic; I reckon that they had added quite a bit of egg powder and water to the mix.

But scrambled eggs made properly is an entirely different matter. Here's how that great French chef, Auguste Escoffier, made them: Break eight good eggs (yup, eight eggs) into a mixing bowl. Blend them very very gently with a fork. You do not want to beat them. You do not add water or milk. That's what British cooks did in the 1950's. You don't want to add salt at this stage, either, as it makes the eggs watery, and the finished product will end up less yellow. I think it was the restauranteur, Marcel Boulestin, who suggested that Escoffier also rubbed garlic onto his fork to add a bit of flavour to the eggs. I'll have to check up on that one- I may be wrong.

 

Anyway, now heat a small copper pan. When the pan is hot, add a knob of unsalted butter. Pour in the eggs, and start to cook them on an extremely low heat. In professional kitchens, they would probably use a bain-marie. That means placing the smaller pan over a larger pan full of simmering boiling water to get the lowest heat. As I've got a job of sorts to hold down, and have limited time, I don't do this; but I can only stress that for it to work, you need to set your heat to the lowest possible settings.

 

            

 

Stir slowly with a wooden spoon from the middle, so that the egg sets in creamy curds. It's a real art. You don't want the egg to stick to the pan, yet at the same time, you want the egg to set. When the eggs are almost ready, stir in some cream.

Quickly remove the eggs from the heat. They will carry on cooking in the pan. Now you can stir in some more butter to taste, and season with salt, pepper, and some chives.

As Ian Fleming once wrote: "Scrambled Eggs, Bacon, and Strong Black Coffee- they never let you down." Though I suppose at the same time, he was implying that his women did. Enough said.

Black Pudding

 

 

I love Black Pudding. There will be unfortunate finickity and squeamish individuals out there who will take one look at this post, and want to run for the hills, so my mission this sunny October morning is to try and convert them to the cause.

It's like that Scottish favourite, Haggis, which tastes a bit like a spicy American meatloaf. Yes, the preparation sounds, and probably is gothic; but the taste and result is something to be recommended.

So, let's get the gothic part out of the way: how is Black Pudding made? What exactly is Black Pudding?

It's a sausage made from the blood of a pig. The blood is then cooked with a variety of ingredients, which could include goodies such as suet, oatmeal, milk, onions, breadcrumbs, cayenne pepper, and nutmeg.

Cooking the blood in these ingredients will make the blood congeal, and hey presto! You have a black pudding; or blood pudding in America, blutwurst in Germany, boudin noir in France, and white pudding in Ireland. You eat it for breakfast.

I cook mine very gently in a knob of butter for a few minutes on each side. In Britain, Black Pudding tends to be a local speciality of the northern counties such as Lancashire, but in fact, similar puddings are found all over the world.

I'm going to take this opportunity to have a little rant about the reputation and state of British Food. Okay, we now have some top-notch (and fiendishly expensive) restaurants in London; and generally, the standard of food in Britain is better than it was in the post-war period of rationing, spam fritters, and dried eggs.

But the tradition of cooking food at home, especially the local culture, has been lost. Many of the old-fashioned British classics, are similar- if not identical- to dishes you can find in the French Countryside. They make Moules Mariniere, we have Devon Mussels in Cider. They make Boudin Noir, we have Lancashire Black Pudding, they make Boeuf Bourginon, we have Beef in Guinness with Dumplings.

 

 

The difference is that your typical French grandmother will have a whole list of local specialities up her sleeve- and she will know how to prepare them with love and attention. In Britain, granny is far more likely to be found slumped in front of East Enders eating Sainsbury's Chicken Tikka Masala Surprise straight from the packet. Look at our food shops. In France, you will find endless small corner shops selling wonderful selections of beautifully presented ingredients. Like this boulangerie in Paris, pictured above.

In Britain, we have er- the supermarket (with, in my opinion, pretty dire stocking policies), and miserable corner shops selling dusty tins of this and that at inflated prices. And look at the generous selection of foods you can find in New York delis! Fantastic! Rant over.

Irish Soda Bread

 

 

The great thing about Irish Soda Bread is that it is so incredibly easy, always works out and only takes about half an hour to make. I also happen to like it. So if you are tempted to make your own bread, but can't be bothered to faff around with scary yeast mixtures- this is the one for you.

I've taken the recipe from Terence and Vikki Conran's Classic Conran cookbook. It's one of the best cookery books I've got on my over-laden bookshelves. If you haven't got a copy, I urge you to head for your local bookshop and order a copy.

 

Back to the Soda Bread. Pre-heat your oven to 230 C (450 F). Put in a baking sheet and warm it up. Meanwhile sift 350g wholemeal stone-ground flour, 220g plain white flour, a teaspoon of salt, and a teaspoon of bicarbonate of soda into your favourite mixing bowl and mix them well. Rub in 20g butter. That means mixing the butter into the flour with your hands. Strangely satisfying.

Now mix in 300ml of buttermilk. The buttermilk contains lactic acid, which will react with the bicarbonate of soda to form tiny bubbles of carbon dioxide. By now you should have a soft, but not sticky dough. Next flour a board or work surface and turn your dough out onto it. Knead it lightly. Shape it into a flattish round, and cut a cross onto the surface. Place the loaf onto the hot baking sheet, and bake in the oven for ten minutes.

Once that's done, turn the oven down to 200 C (400F) and cook for a further fifteen minutes. And that's it. You can find out if it's ready by tapping the base. If it sounds hollow- it's ready. Finis.

Sloe Gin

 

 

It's that time of the year to make Sloe Gin again. Well, almost.

Sloe Gin is a liqueur made from the sloe berries of the Blackthorn bush, which grows in the hedgerows of the English countryside. By ancient lore, they are picked at the end of October, supposedly just after the first frost; but with global warming, I can't quite work out if you should pick them earlier, or pick them later.

Anyway, they're quite easy to spot- medium sized purplish coloured berries with a slight dusty bloom. I get mine from a spot I know in Oxfordshire- if the good burghers of Wallingford haven't got there first.

Sloe gin is easy to make at home. You need to pick a decent amount of ripe sloe berries. If you live in the city, you can buy sloe berries on eBay. I think it's probably a good idea to freeze the berries first to simulate the effects of a first frost. The freezing process will help to break down the berries, and extract the juices.

Next, you need to prick each berry, so that the juices can be released. Traditionally this was done with a silver fork; it adds to the mystique. Next, you need to get hold of some gin. I use Plymouth Gin, the tipple of the Royal Navy.

One year as an experiment, and in a misguided attempt to be trendy, I made a batch from vodka; it was okay, but I missed out on the junipery flavours that gin gives you. It's easiest to make your sloe gin in the gin bottle itself, but if you're keen, you can use one of those large demi-john glass jars used for home brewing.

 

 

Using a funnel, pour your pricked berries into the gin bottle, so that they come up to between a third and half way. Drink the surplus gin. Next add some sugar. About a third of the gin bottle is probably right. So you will now have a bottle of gin, with the berries coming up to about half-way, and sugar up to about a third of the way. I hope that's clear.

To give my Sloe Gin extra flavour, I add a teaspoon of almond essence, two cloves, and a stick of cinnamon, for added spice. Screw the cap back on tightly, and shake the bottle like crazy. The gin will start to turn a pink colour. Store away in a dark cupboard, shaking daily for two weeks, and then once a week after that.

 

 

Over the next few weeks, your sloe gin will start to take on a darker, rich-ruby red colour, and will begin to thicken up. In theory, it will be ready to drink after about three months, but I find the longer you keep it, the better it gets. I had some in my cupboard for years- and kept on improving with age.

When it's ready, you will need to get rid of the berries, and strain it several times over. Sloe Gin has a rich, spicy, woody, plum-like flavour, which is perfect as a winter tot, or as a traditional hunting stirrup cup.

Tomato Ketchup

 

 

I know there are other brands on the market, but for me, tomato ketchup has to be Heinz tomato ketchup. In 1801, a recipe for tomato ketchup appeared in an American cookbook, the Sugar House Book; and by 1837, an enterprising character, Jonas Yerks (great name!) was selling it across America. F & J Heinz first marketed their version in 1876.

What's in it? Well, tomatoes (obviously), vinegar, salt, allspice, cloves, and cinnamon. I've tried to make it at home (by reducing tomatoes, adding a bit of sugar and some decent vinegar), but although the results have been reasonably good, I still prefer the famous stuff in the bottles.

Oh- and I miss the glass bottles. I know that the new plastic squeezy ones are much more practical, but there was something wholesome about the old classic glass bottles- even though you had to turn them upside down to get anything out, and then suddenly all the ketchup would be over the floor.

 

 

Why the 57 Heinz varieties? It was an original slogan of the H. J. Heinz Company of Pittsburgh; used as a marketing tool. Although the company had more than 60 products in 1892, the number 57 was chosen because the numbers "5" and "7" held a special significance to Mr Heinz.

In a later post, I'm going to have a look at two British classics: HP Sauce, and Daddie's Favourite Sauce- two variations on brown sauce made from molasses. I have a feeling that Daddie's is now defunct. Put it this way, I haven't seen a bottle on the shelves for a long, long time. The world is becoming too sophisticated, by half.

Eggs Benedict

 

 

I think my favourite American dish has to be Eggs Benedict. There's just something about its simplicity: the runny poached eggs, the buttery Hollandaise sauce, and the crisp bacon or ham contrasting with the soft English muffins.

There are various theories as to how it was invented; one being that the legendary Oscar Tschirky (of Waldorf Salad fame) put it on his hotel breakfast menu after Lemuel Benedict, a retired Wall Street stockbroker, came up with the idea as a cure for his hangover in 1894. This may or may not be the case.

 

Anyway, I've had various versions of it over the years, including Eggs Benedict with scallops; but if you want to make the original and genuine dish- this is how you do it. First, you need to make a classic Hollandaise Sauce:

Melt 8oz (225g) of butter in a pan. Meanwhile liquidise two egg yolks, the juice of one lemon, and freshly ground black pepper. When the butter is hot, turn the liquidiser onto full, and slowly pour in the butter. Next, poach some large eggs in salted water. Toast the English Muffins, and spread them with butter. Put some slices of ham, or Canadian Bacon on top of the muffins, and top with the poached egg. Pour over the Hollandaise sauce and serve immediately.

Clamato

 

 

For years, I've always assumed that Mott's Clamato was Canadian. Well, I was wrong. It's not. It's American. The drink was invented in 1966 by the Duffy-Mott company of New York.

If you don't know it (and there may be many in Britain who don't), it's a blend of tomato juice and clam juice, with a few extra spices thrown in.

The Canadian connexion comes from the Bloody Caesar, Canada's favourite cocktail. In 1969, Walter Chell was challenged to create a new cocktail to celebrate the opening of a new restaurant, Marco's, in Calgary. He came up with a variation on the Bloody Mary but decided to add clam juice to the tomato juice instead.

 

 

 

Today, Mott's Clamato is owned by Cadbury-Schweppes and is popular throughout North and South America. It's estimated that approximately 70% of Clamato sold in the United States is bought by Hispanics. The Mexicans mix it with Budweiser beer to make the Chavela cocktail. I think I'll stick with the Ceasar for the time being.

Moussaka

I am delighted to introduce a guest contributor to The Greasy Spoon, Nicholas Good. Nick has just returned from a late summer jaunt to the Aegean island of Skopolos, and has perfected the art of preparing that Greek classic: moussaka.

 

 

"Like Liz Taylor’s Cleopatra, my moussaka is an almost all Greek thing. It’s almost all Greek because unless you make it in Greece with Greek ingredients, it’s just not going to taste quite right. However, I'm content that this version passes muster as it compared very favourably with that served in the local taverna in Skopolos (from where I’ve just returned).

 

 

Moussaka neatly breaks down into three different elements: aubergines (known as eggplant in America), mutton ragu, and béchamel sauce. These must be made up separately and then combined to cook together.

To serve six people (or four very hungry ones) take three aubergines of a reasonable size (about seven inches long with a wide girth). These should be sliced into approx quarter inch thick rounds and placed in a colander with lots of coarse salt (Malvern is best), muddled around and then set aside for three quarters of an hour.

 

 

Then move on to the ragu. In a solid wide pan heat two to three tablespoons of olive oil, and fry two finely chopped medium onions. When these have just softened to a golden colour, add half a teaspoon of ground cinnamon and a heaped tablespoon of tomato puree. Stir this around until the colour mellows. Then add 1 lb (500g) of mutton mince (lamb if you must, but it’ll have less taste). Break it all up with a wooden spoon and cook on gently for quarter of an hour. Add to this a large glass of red wine (please use something drinkable as it should add flavour rather than a horrid oak vinegary twang- allowing for the rarity of half decent Greek wines outside Greece, a tolerable Burgundy should suffice). This will all need to cook on a low setting, partly covered, for a further three quarters of an hour. If it goes dry add an extra slosh or two of wine.

Back to the aubergines. Drain them under a running tap and dry on a clean linen cloth. Place half an inch of sieved flour in a large bowl along with ground black pepper and some ground fine salt. Then tip the aubergines in and make sure they’re floured all over. Heat some oil (a mixture of olive and sunflower works well) in a frying pan and, in batches, fry the floured aubergine rounds until they’re crispy and just going brown-golden. Pile the cooked ones up on a plate and don’t worry about them getting cold.

 

 

Now butter a large fairly deep oven dish – a lasagne dish is ideal, and lay in half the aubergines. Onto that spread the mutton ragu mixture. Then lay on the rest of the aubergines. Set the part-filled dish aside and preheat your oven to 220 C, 425 F, Gas mark 7. You are now ready for the pièce de résistance: the béchamel soufflé sauce. This is clearly something rather secret as all the recipes I’ve come across suggest that you just use standard béchamel, or Gawd help us a cheese sauce. But some do suggest a feta cheese sauce or something cheesy with eggs whipped in. But this sauce will give you both an authentic taste and a good depth of layer.

First place one and a half pints of full fat milk in a saucepan, along with a small onion, peeled and halved but not chopped up, a bay leaf, two cloves and a pinch of salt. Bring this to the boil, turn off the heat and cover so that it infuses for at least ten minutes.

In a very clean bowl whip up four egg whites with rotary whisk so they form firm peaks. Set those aside. Dissolve 1½ oz (50g) of butter and stir in 1½ oz (50g) of sieved flour in a saucepan. Stir this to a soft, pale coloured ball of roux that comes clean of the pan. Strain the infused milk and add a third of it to the roux mixture over medium heat. Wait a moment for the milk to boil, stir thoroughly with a wooden spoon, take it from heat and it beat well. Repeat with the second third. After a second beating, add the remaining milk, also add 3 oz (85g) of real Greek feta and a good few grates of nutmeg. Then, when the sauce boils again, beat very thoroughly. Take it off the heat and beat out some of the steam - for approx one minute. Then with a large metal spoon loosely stir in the whisked egg whites. Spoon this mixture carefully over to cover the aubergine layer.

 

 

Finally, place very thin slices of tomato over the béchamel to form a kind of Cross of St George. Place the whole in the hot preheated oven and bake for 20 minutes until the top is risen and a pale golden brown. Turn the oven down to 170 C, 325 F, Gas mark 3) and continue cooking for a further half an hour. By this time it will be bubbling at the edges and a dark, cracked gold with the tomatoes slightly sunk in and just crisping at the edges.

You should let it sit for ten minutes before serving, or let it cool completely, cut it into portions and reheat individual slices for twenty minutes or so in a medium oven."

Mushrooms

 

 

It's Autumn, and I'm thinking mushrooms. Moist, meaty, woody mushrooms. There's a place I know on a wooded hill in South Oxfordshire, where at this time of the year top London chefs drive out to and pick fungi for free; then charge a fortune for them in their fancy restaurants back in The Big Smoke. Believe me, I've seen it with my own eyes: Volvo estates loaded up entirely with mushrooms; every variety of mushroom you could ever think of.

The English have never really been into mushroom hunting. It's far more common in mainland Europe, and in France you can take your crop into a local chemist, and get them to point out which are the deadly ones; in other words, whicha the ones that are gonna kill you. If you're going to go mushroom hunting, you need to know what you are doing, otherwise you could end up in trouble- serious trouble. So kiddywinks- a word of advice from The Greasy Spoon: please, please don't do this at home...

 

 

As I was in an autumnal mood, I decided to make Mushroom Risotto. And who better as a guide than Arrigo Cipriani of The Harry's Bar Cookbook. The Harry's Bar Cookbook is one of my all-time favourite foodie reads. The recipes are unpretentious, delicious, and always seem to work out.

The next time you're in Venice, save up, and enter the hallowed doors of Harry's (It's next to the Gritti Palace, near the Grand Canal, opposite a rather dubious dive called Haig's Bar)- you won't be disappointed,; although I have to admit that it has a reputation for being fiendishly expensive. Fiendishly.

Anyway, this is how you make "Harry's Bar Mushroom Risotto":  First, you need to make a "mushroom mixture". Sweat some porcini mushrooms in olive oil, for about seven minutes or so, until they are cooked and golden. Next, add some crushed garlic, and some chopped flat leaf parsley. Cook for a bit. Add a cup or so of white wine. I used a dry Italian Soave. Put to one side.

Now for the risotto. They say that the mark of a good chef is how well he or she makes risotto. It could be true. I'm usually quite good at it, but now and again I go wrong; especially if my attention span starts wandering, which as my ex-girlfriend contests, happens on a regular basis. Heat some olive oil in a pan. My much loved and battered bright orange Le Creuset thing was perfect.

Now saute a minced onion. I chopped up my onion in the Magimix. Cook for a bit. Now add your rice. It's crucial that you use risotto rice. Under no circumstances use any old rice you've got hanging around in the cupboard. The best rice to use is either Carnaroli rice or Arborio. Let the rice absorb the oil for a minute or so. Add your mushroom mixture and stir.

 

 

 

Now for the important stock bit. You need to use a chicken stock, which you have kept on or near the boil. You are going to ladle in your hot stock bit by bit, so that the rice absorbs the liquid. What you must not do is tip in the stock all at once. Stir like crazy. Ladle. Stir. Ladle. Carry on adding the stock bit by bit. Risotto always takes much longer than the cookery books say. I would guess at least half an hour, to forty five minutes.

When the stock runs out, use boiling water. You should finish up with a well-cooked risotto. I like mine to be somewhat sloppy, though the Italians prefer the rice to be slightly crunchy. Grate in some fresh parmesan cheese and stir in some butter. That's it. Perfect for October. And I expect you want to know where that mushroom hot spot is in South Oxfordshire, don't you? I'm not gonna tell you.

Black Velvet

 

 

The Black Velvet cocktail is a manly old fashioned drink; there's no doubt about that; the antithesis of sweet pina colada, or fruit-based cocktails with swizzle sticks and miniature umbrellas. It was invented at Brooks's Club, St James's Street, London, in 1861- to mourn the sudden death of Prince Albert, the consort of Queen Victoria. In Germany, it's also known as the Bismarck, as the Iron Chancellor apparently quaffed it by the gallon; as he plotted the invasion of Austria, no doubt.

 

 

What is Black Velvet?  It's a striking combination of champagne, and stout. But it's not just a simple matter of plonking the stout into the champagne and stirring it together. Oh no. You need to make sure that the two drinks remain separate, so that the different densities form one layer on top of the other.

I like to make mine in a glass jug. First, pour in your champagne (I had a bottle of Justerini & Brooks's 1999 anniversary champagne lying around), or a good sparkling white wine. Fill the jug up to the middle. Next, pour in your stout (I use Guinness Draught) very slowly over the back of a spoon. It helps the stout to settle gently on top of the champagne, and should, in theory, keep the two layers separate.

 

 

Serve in a chilled pint glass or a champagne flute. I've also had it with ice- and that worked quite well.

What does it taste like? Some of you out there will probably loathe it. I happen to like it. It's a stimulating combination of the smooth and the bitter, with a lovely frothy head. So the next time you need refreshment at the gaming tables, call for a Black Velvet and raise a glass or two to the memory of the Prince Consort.

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Paprika

 

 

As I wrote about Hungarian Goulash the other day, I thought it would be an excellent time to investigate paprika. Paprika was unknown in Europe until the discovery of America. It's made by grinding up dried red chili peppers to form a colourful powder and is used in the cooking of Eastern Europe, Spain, Portugal and The American Deep South; where they cook interesting dishes like Paprika Chicken and Sour Cream.

Hungarian paprika comes in all sorts of shapes and sizes: Eros (Hot), Rozsa (Rose), Csemegepaprika (Exquisite Delicate); and there are also smoked varieties for increased flavour.

Here in jolly old England, it can be hard to find the better brands. For years, we've been used to buying our paprika in little glass jars from the supermarket spice rack. Out of sheer laziness on my part, I used an old jar of this the other day, and my goulash turned brown, and didn't taste that great- so be warned. But if you have a look in the deli sections, you may well be able to find decent Spanish smoked paprika. It comes in small tins.

I'm currently using the "smoked and sweet" version for my goulash, but in theory, I should be able to find "bitter sweet" and 'hot". One of the advantages of the recent influx of East Europeans into London is that Polish food is beginning to creep onto supermarket shelves as a matter of course.

I was down at my local corner shop yesterday, and there were curious jars of pickled sausages and sauerkraut, and God knows what else, in a newly created section. I realise that there are less Hungarians here, but it would be lovely to see proper Hungarian paprika making an appearance too. Otherwise, it's going to have to be a trip to the new Wholefoods Emporium in Kensington High Street.

Guineafowl

 

 

I was initially planning to write about pheasant (the season started on October 1st), but having a limited amount of time, I ended up buying some guineafowl breasts from my local supermarket. Guineafowl originally came from Africa, and they're strange looking critters. I've included a photograph of one below, and this is what they look like when they're on your plate, as above.

Like pheasant, guineafowl can be a trifle dry, and you need to take care not to overcook it, otherwise the flesh can get a bit stringy.

So what did I do with the guineafowl I bought? Thinking about it, I created an upmarket version of chicken n' chips. Yup, guineafowl can taste a bit like chicken- but it's got more flavour, and certainly, it's gamier in taste.

 

 

Here's my recipe for "Guineafowl in a Cognac and Chive Sauce with Parsnip Chips":

I seasoned the guineafowl breasts with sea salt and black pepper, and then fried them in oil and butter. The secret is to make sure they are well-browned, but not overcooked. You will need to cook them on a medium heat; to sear the outside, but at the same time, ensuring that the inside is not overcooked. Next, I flambéed them in cognac.

Flambe-ing (is that a word?) is always fun. You need to put a generous slug of brandy into the pan, and then tip the pan towards the flame- that is,  if you've got gas. Woosh. Up to your eyebrows. In effect, you are burning off the alcohol and the fats (as well as your eyebrows) and leaving a subtle taste behind in the pan.  

The breasts were removed from the pan and kept them warm. Into the pan went some stock, and when that was reduced, some single cream. Leave on the heat, let it bubble and reduce some more. You will end up with a thick creamy cognac sauce. Garnish with chopped chives.

The Parsnip Chips were easy. Take some parsnips and peel them. Next, slice them into thin strips or batons (but first taking out the woody core bit in the middle). Par-boil them in water. This just means placing them in a pan of cold water, and bringing it to the boil, so that they are only partially cooked. Take them out of the water and pat them dry. Sprinkle them with sea salt. Fry them in oil. For this, I used a wok, which worked perfectly well.

When they are only slightly golden, remove them; pat them dry again, and let them cool down. Finally, finish off by re-frying in the hot oil. That way you will end up with perfectly crispy chips. Watch them like a hawk, though, to make sure they don't burn. And I think parsnip chips are infinitely preferable to the ordinary potato version. But then, strangely, I loathe mashed potato- but that's a long story...

Chicken Stock

 

 

      

 

Good home-made stock is one of the most useful ingredients in the kitchen. Okay, there are endless types of processed stock cubes out there, but for the most part, I find them far too salty; unless you want to go for the Pot Noodle effect, avoid them.

However, when you're in a hurry (and most people are these days), Reduced Salt Marigold Bouillon Powder (from Switzerland of all places) is a worthy substitute.

But how to make the real thing? Chop up a chicken carcass and put into a large stock pot or saucepan. Ideally, this will be a mixture of bones, scraps and meat. A fresh chicken would give you a superb stock; otherwise, chicken left-overs will do the trick. Next, pour in some cold water, to cover the bones. Place the pan over a moderate heat.

It's crucial that you don't boil the stock. What you want is a gentle simmering process, so that scum, fats and other stuff start floating gently to the surface. Remove the scum floating on the surface with a spoon. Keep on skimming away. Don't stop. Next add a peeled onion, a few peeled carrots, a bayleaf, a clove or two, and a celery stalk. Keep the stock at a bare simmer, with the lid half-on. You want to see a few bubbles rising- but no more. Keep this up for about three to four hours, topping up with water if the levels start getting too low. Skim now and again. When the stock is ready, strain it into a bowl and let it settle. When it's cold, you will see that a layer of fat forms at the top of the stock. You can now remove this. If you've been skimming correctly, you should be left with a clear broth. But remember, if you boiled your stock by accident (easily done, I have to admit), your stock will go cloudy.

A nifty idea is to freeze your stock in ice-cube trays- and then keep them in bags in the deep-freeze for future use. And, if you've followed my instructions, you will never, ever have to buy those scary processed stock cube things again, will you? I'll believe that when I see it...

Goulash

 

      

 

Did you know that in Hungary, Goulash, or more properly gulyas (meaning a herdsman), is actually a soup? This peasant dish became fashionable in the nineteenth century when Magyar nationalism reasserted itself in the Hungarian lands of the Austrian Empire.

Like so many other bastardised recipes, genuine goulash is slightly different from Anglo-American interpretations, which have turned it into a thickish stew. Here's the Greasy Spoon version. I've kept the correct ingredients to make it more authentic but usually go for a thicker, rather than a soupy sauce.

Heat some butter and oil in an oven-proof casserole dish. Slice up some medium-sized onions, and cook them gently, until they soften. Next add a sprinkling of caraway seeds, and some crushed garlic. Cook for a minute or so. Now add your beef (which you have previously cut up into cubes; stewing beef is ideal). If you want a thick sauce, you can dust your beef cubes in plain flour, salt and pepper, beforehand.

However, a warning. If you want to make friends and influence people in Budapest, this is not the way to do it. Sprinkle in a generous amount of sweet ground paprika, and a handful of salt- so that the meat in the bottom of the pan is well covered. Stir, so that the meat is browned.

Now it's time to add your vegetables. For this dish, I like them diced, except the peppers, which I like sliced. Into the pot go: diced carrot, a tomato, celery, and sliced green bell-peppers. Pour over some water, or stock, and simmer gently until the meat is nice and soft. If you are using stewing steak, this could take quite a long time. If you're using a more expensive cut, your cooking time will be shorter. I'll leave it up to you.

Towards the end of the cooking, add your diced potatoes, and simmer until they are cooked. Finally, add a few pasta pieces and cook for a further five minutes. Serve the whole shooting match with noodles or hunks of hot, fresh white bread.

Oh- and a tip; try and find some genuine smoked hot or sweet paprika (in small tins), which will give your goulash a deep red colour. Avoid at all costs the cheaper stuff (which goes brown) and has a far blander taste.

 

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Irish Stew

 

 

Traditionally, Irish Stew consists of just lamb or mutton; onions, potatoes and water. Purists will tell you not to add carrots, but I was having a chat with an Irish friend about this recently, and she insisted that she includes carrots in her version. The secret with Irish Stew (as indeed with any stew), is to cook it for a long time at a low temperature. You want the meat to break down so that it's hanging off the bone, and for the potato to slightly disintegrate so that it thickens the sauce.

Take some Lamb Chops, and brown them in a pan with a knob of unsalted butter. Transfer them to a casserole dish. Next, saute some sliced onions in the butter, cook them through, then add them to the casserole. Peel some carrots, and slice them into quarters, lengthways. Add them to the casserole- on top of the onions. The aim is to build up your vegetables in layers. Add another layer of onions. Finally, add some peeled potatoes, which you have chopped into quarters, lengthways. Season with sea salt and ground black pepper.

Now pour in some stock (ideally lamb stock if you have it), and add a sprig of thyme. Cook the casserole in a low to medium oven, until the lamb is cooked through (i.e. just about to fall off the bone), and the sauce is reasonably thick. On a low heat this may take at least two hours.

Take the casserole out of the oven, and have a look at it. If you want to thicken the sauce, you could always add a roux- which is butter and flour mixed to form a small ball. Check the seasoning, and add more salt and pepper if it's needed. Finally, serve with a generous amount of chopped parsley.

 

Russian Lemon Soup

 

 

Jiminy Cricket, I love this soup! I've taken it from Dara Goldstein's "A Taste of Russia", which is a must for your cookery library if you like hearty East European cuisine. It's straightforward to make, cleansing, unusual, and most importantly delicious. Here's how you make it:

In your favourite pan cook a handful of rice (I use Uncle Ben's Long Grain American Rice) in unsalted butter until the rice absorbs the butter and becomes translucent. It should only take a few seconds. Next, add some good chicken stock (home-made si'il vous plait- I'll be coming to this in another post). Simmer for about twenty minutes.

You will probably need to add more stock bit by bit- you want to get the balance right between the rice and the liquid. Wait until the rice is cooked, and then stir in some double cream, and the finely grated rind and juice of a lemon. Keep on stirring to make sure the soup is well blended.

Finally, serve in bowls with a slice of lemon floating on the top and chopped parsley or dill. Make sure that each bowl has a spoonful of rice on the bottom.

Dry Martini

 

 

 

I'm sorry, but dear old Mister Bond got it wrong. Very wrong. A Dry Martini should be stirred and not shaken. There's been a tendency recently for all sorts of sinister deviations to creep in, warping the original concept. I remember trying an Apple Martini at the Biltmore hotel in Los Angeles. Okay, it was good, sort of, but not a patch on the genuine thing.

The best Dry Martini I've ever had was at Harry's Bar in Venice. Little frosted tumblers straight from the 'fridge, gin on ice, a slither of lemon peel. Simple, very simple- and unpretentious (unlike this article, which is rapidly becoming a catalogue of expensive places I've been to over the years).

Anyway, here's how you make a genuine, classic, original Dry Martini cocktail. In a Martini Pitcher (you can buy these on eBay), drop in a decent amount of ice. Pour in a few drops of a dry white Vermouth. Noilly Prat (to rhyme with hat) is ideal. Stir the ice around, so that the vermouth clings to the ice.

Next, add your iced gin (or if you really must, vodka). 94.6% proof Tanqueray is my current number one choice. Stir. Do not shake. Stir. Strain the liquor into a chilled cocktail glass, or even better, into a small tumbler. Finish off with a slither of twisted lemon peel- or perhaps a green olive- but that, officially, changes the thing and makes it into a "Gibson".

If you want to read up on the history of the Dry Martini, the bible of choice is John Doxat's "Stirred Not Shaken- the History of the Dry Martini". Remember, the secret is to get everything as cold as you possibly can. Warm gin- it ain't good.

Venison Chili

 

 

When I'm in Manhatten, nothing's better than hailing a cab and heading straight for P. J. Clarke's at 55th and 3rd, where you can order a bowl of chili with saltine crackers. I've been hesitant to write about chili, because I know how seriously Americans take it, and that battle reigns between the Texas Red version (meat-rich and without beans), and other recipes from other States. Some have tomatoes; others don't. Some have black beans, some kidney beans, and the Texan cowboy version quite definitely doesn't.

In Britain, chili con carne is often nothing more than stewed mince with kidney beans plus a pinch of chili powder. Here's my idea for a richer more authentic venison chili.

Saute some chopped onions, garlic and chopped red chilis in some oil and butter. Stir in chili powder, oregano, cumin, and paprika. Now add the venison. You can either chop the meat into chunks, or put it through a mincer (if you've got one). Cook for a bit until the meat is sealed and coloured. Now add some stock, beer (the Mexican beer, Corona, is excellent), and a splash of Tabasco. Let the chili simmer at a low heat, until the meat is cooked. You want the sauce to be reasonably thick. When the meat is nearly done, add some tomato puree, or even better, sun-dried tomato paste, and grate in some bitter dark chocolate- the sort of quality chocolate (high in cocoa solids) you can buy in delis and specialist shops. Season with salt and black pepper to taste.

Finally, stir in some cooked beans (Kidney, Haricot, or Black Beans are fine, it doesn't really matter). Serve with grated cheese on top, sour cream, and saltine crackers.

Salt

 

 

If you've ever read one of Len Deighton's cookery books such as his "Basic French Cookery Course", you will know that he has a bizarre pathological hatred of salt, describing it as "the enemy of the palate". Well, as much as I admire Mr Deighton and his absorbing and brilliantly illustrated books, I take this one, yes you guessed it- with a pinch of ...

 

There are various types of salt. Most table salts are refined and probably obtained from rock, and the refining process involves chemicals and other nasties. Sea salt is derived from the evaporation of seawater by sunlight.

Fleur de Sel is an expensive hand-harvested sea salt found in Brittany and the Camargue. One of the most delicious salts on the market is made by Maldon in Essex. The company's been around for a long time, and they produce their natural sea salt from the flat salt beds of the East Coast of England. Maldon salt looks slightly unusual and has a different taste too. Instead of crystals, there are flakes; and the salt has a natural, sea-sidey taste that melts on the tongue.

If you haven't switched to Maldon yet (or a similar traditionally made salt), please do- because it will make a genuine difference to your food. I promise. 

Jellied Eels

 

 

Gor Blimey, for years now, I've tried to like jellied eels- I really have, and this is from someone who will quite happily tuck into a juicy plate of Tete de Veau when he's living it up in Paris.  Trust me, I want to like jellied eels, but somehow the miraculous conversion on the Road to Damascus hasn't quite happened yet.  But I'm getting there- slowly.

The photograph shows Tubby Isaac's famous seafood stall in Aldgate, London, which has been feeding "the poor man's delicacy" to hungry East Enders since 1919.

What exactly are jellied eels?  Well, the eel is caught- or used to be caught- in the muddy and murky waters of the dear old Thames Estuary.  Long, slippery, slimy things.  Then they're sliced up and boiled in water with herbs, spices and a bit of gelatine to make a sort of fish stock or jelly.  Aficionados like to sprinkle chilli vinegar on them, and stress that you need to suck at the bones to get out the full flavour.

I'm fascinated by the traditional Eel, Pie and Mash shops of Old London Town.  There's that many left now.  I need to get my camera out and go and photograph them for a later post.  If anyone out there can point me in the right direction with a particular favourite, please do.  I know Manze's in Peckham and F. Cooke in Dalston- although I have a sneaky suspicion that the last one might have closed down.

 

The Olde Roast Beef of Merrie England

 

 

Have you ever been to one of those dreadful Medieval Banquets?  A few years ago, a friend invited me to one held in her castle in Shropshire. My little sister came too.  You had to go in fancy dress- my sister went as a fayre damsel in distress, I went as the Pope. On the way to the revels, we passed several cars full of Wee Willie Winkies, Robin Hoods, living suits of armour, and bizarrely, some young shaver dressed in a gorilla suit. As you might have expected, the genteel banquet degenerated into a food fight, and one by one, the 'guests' were dragged up to the High Table by a jester in a pair of skin hugging tights, to suffer tiresome ordeals 'by bow or by blade'.

But what almost saved the day, was a particularly good joint of rare Roast Beef. I miss the days when every Sunday, any British family worth its salt would happily tuck into the Merrie Beef of Olde England, Yorkshire Pudding, gravy and horseradish sauce.

I'm not going to tell you how to roast beef (the secret is to undercook it), but I am going to tell you how to make Yorkshire Pudding. Like the best British Food, Yorkshire Pudding originally came from overseas, apparently brought back from the Middle East during the Crusades. I suppose, in a way, it's also similar to Italian polenta.

First, you need to make a batter. Mix up two eggs, salt and pepper in a mixing bowl. Next, whisk in some sifted plain flour, and slowly pour in some milk. Try and get your batter to be creamy and smooth. In the meantime, get hold of one of those Yorkshire Pudding trays with circular shaped moulds (if you're not English, you're going to have to stock up next time you're over here). Brush the tray with sunflower oil to stop the puddings sticking to the tray. Heat it in an oven set to about 220 C.

The secret is to get the oven very, very hot, and make sure the oven has been adequately pre-heated before you slide your pudding tray inside. Pour the batter into each mould, but make sure you only fill it to about three-quarters full. Put the tray back in the oven. With luck, after about ten minutes your puddings should have risen, and will be crispy and light. With luck...with luck.