The Greasy Spoon | Food & Culture

Austria Hungry...

 

 

I've just returned from a rather spectacular wedding in the pretty ski-resort of Kitzbuhl, about an hour or so outside beautiful Salzburg. The food was surprisingly good; in fact extremely good. Having just arrived, we were spirited away to join the Herrenvolk at an 18th century chalet, where they served all sorts of goodies including large dumplings (knoedel), stewed venison in a rich sauce (hasenpfeffer), noodles (fleckerl), luscious sauces made from cranberry, and mushrooms; piquant red cabbage, and tankards of the local Kaiser beer- all finished off with tots of schnapps.The Austrians don't just sing about mountain goat herds and the like- they eat them- that is the goat, not the goatherd.

On the second night, we were joined at a charming beerhall by young blades in leiderhosen, and pretty Heidi look-alikes in the traditional dirndl. On day three, I persuaded The Girl to let me drive her across treacherous mountain passes into Bavaria to ogle at Mad King Ludwig's Wagnerian fantasy, Schloss Neuschwanstein. I managed to take a few photographs, before we had to return across the werewolf infested mountain roads.

 

 

Before we crossed the border into the Fatherland proper, we pulled off the road at a hearty gasthof. I chose a massive Wienna Schnitzel. The Girl went for a better option and had an interesting Wiener Saftgulasch (goulash)- very similar to the Hungarian version; that is more of a soup than a stew; and served with dumpings.

Day Four involved a cable car ride up to a mountain retreat which would have done Dr Evil proud. At the click of Mein Host's extremely clean fingers, a bottle of the excellent local wine was produced for an impromptu tasting, while we were serenaded by old men in shorts playing tubas. The wine was similar to a Reisling- a lovely golden colour, floral bouquets on the nose, but with a dry finish to the aftertaste. If you've never been to Austria, I urge you to go there soon. The food is delicious, and the people are charming.

 

Auguste Escoffier, King of Chefs

 

 

If you trawl through my previous posts, you'll see that the name of Auguste Escoffier seems to crop up quite a bit. Of all the great chefs, Escoffier, perhaps, is the greatest of them all, and his influence is still with us today, albeit in a diluted form.

Auguste Escoffier was born in 1846, and with Cesar Ritz, took over the Savoy Hotel in London: using this as a base, the pair opened various Ritz hotels around the world. Escoffier was eventually forced out of the Savoy Hotel after an investigation revealed that Escoffier had been receiving back-handers from his suppliers.

Escoffier took the sophisticated cusine of Antoine Careme, and then rewrote it with a simplified twist. He championed "service a la Russe", where dishes were served in order; as on today's printed menus, rather than all at once- as had previously been the case. Genius.

If you pick up a cookery book from the 1960's, you will see that the Escoffier influence reigns supreme. Rich sauces made from stock, with added cream; meat flambeed in cognac, puddings such as Peach Melba, lots of aspic.

Then in the late 80's and 90's there was a change in taste; and the peasant food of the Mediterranean became popular. It was lighter in touch, and healthier too; using simple fresh ingredients. This new style of cooking coincided with an huge improvement in living standards and the general availability of ingredients in supermarkets, which ordinary working people could buy for the first time.

Many of the relatively sophisticated dishes published today, would have been impossible to make back in the 1950's and 60's, as the ingredients (arborio rice, pancetta, sun-dried tomatoes, butternut squash, bird's eye chilis et al) weren't available- unless, perhaps you visited a specialist delicatessen. In Michael Smith's "Fine English Cookery" published in 1973 (hugely acclaimed at the time), kedgeree is made with tinned salmon. We've come a long way since then.

Having said that, I have to say that I'm a fan of classic French cuisine, and aspiring cooks and chefs should ignore Escoffier at their peril. I was in Hatchard's bookshop the other day, and it was revealing to see that the French section  in the cookery department was far smaller than say, the Indian or Italian section. The same goes with wine shelves at the local supermarket. The French section is smaller than the New World sections. I would like to see a return to the appreciation of French food (at least in this country). It's still pretty good, and if so inpsired, Escoffier's Le Guide Culinaire, will help you with your all-important technique. Once you've mastered the basics, the battle's almost half won.

 

Hot Cross Buns

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

I love Easter, I really do. Don't get me wrong, I like Christmas too, and would hate to be considered some sort of a tight-fisted Scrooge; but I think it's the combination of chocolate, breezy fresh air, Spring sunshine (if you're lucky), and, as an added bonus, its proximity to the Grand National; which does it for me. My grandparents used to celebrate the holiday in style, and as well as the ubiquitous chocolate, Easter Egg hunts, and daffodils, we used to have wrapped-up presents too, and a massive turkey. It was just like Christmas, but without the hassle.

Hot Cross Buns have an evocative taste. What is it about them? The combination of buttery, yeasty tastes with the sweetness of the currants? Maybe that's it. Hot Cross Buns are one of those traditional dishes whose origins have been lost in the mists of antiquity. The "crosses" were supposedly meant to ward off evil spirits, and the buns, apparently, were banned by the Protestant church for being too popish.

Anyway, you eat them today, on Good Friday. I've adapted the recipe from Sara Paston-William's definitive book, Christmas and Festive Day Recipes. Here's how you make them:

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

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

Turn the dough onto a floured board, and knead it with your hands until the dough is elastic. Place it in a warm, greased bowl; sprinkle with flour, and cover with a kitchen towel. If you leave it in a warmish place, the dough should rise. Once it has doubled in size (this might take over an hour), knock it down, and leave it to rise again for another half an hour.

Form the dough into smallish buns. Reserve some of the dough, and roll it out flat. Cut the dough into strips, and place on the top of each bun to form a cross. Set them aside to rest for about fifteen minutes. Bake them in a pre-set oven at 425F (220C). It might be a good plan to place a tin of water at the bottom of the oven to create a steamy atmosphere. After twenty minutes, the buns should be cooked.

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

The Miraculous Garlic

 

 

I tend to use a lot of garlic in my cooking. It's supposed to be terribly good for you, though I'm not sure if this has been scientifically proven. For those of you with a botanical bent, garlic is a species of the onion family, Alliacae, and it's latin classificaton is Allium sativum L.

I've recently discovered smoked garlic, which you should be able to find in any decent supermarket. For some reason, I find that the raw, pungent taste of the garlic bulb is neutralised by the smoking effect, and consequently, you end up with a smoother taste.

This morning, I've decided to give you a recipe for Smoked Garlic Soup. It's not something you're going to want on a regular basis, but it's ideal if you're feeling a bit under the weather- a shot of this garlic infused soup can do wonders for the soul! This recipe will make enough soup for six to eight people.

Drop a head of smoked garlic (yes, a head- that's about sixteen or so cloves) into boiling water. Take it out after thirty seconds, and peel.

Pour three pints of water into a large pan. Add a few cloves, some chopped sage, a bayleaf, a sprig of thyme, and a slug of olive oil. Season with salt and pepper, and add the smoked garlic heads. Bring to the boil, and simmer slowly for about thirty minutes.

In a soup tureen, beat three egg yolks, and then add a thin stream of olive oil, so that it forms an emulsion- like making a mayonnaise. Beat in a ladle-full of the hot soup, and whisk. Once the egg yolk, olive oil, and liquid have combined, strain in the rest of the garlic liquor.

You will finish up with a delicate, light, cream-coloured soup. Serve with crispy crutons, or hot toast, and grated Parmesan cheese. The strange thing is that when the garlic is cooked properly, it will loose it's raw, pungent flavour, and take on a more delicate twist. And yes, you do need to use a whole garlic head. Trust me on this one...

 

Mussels in Cider

 

 

Some of my earliest food memories are from childhood holidays in France. This involved long, soporific car journeys in the family Citroen (with pneumatic suspension); to Brittany and to the South of France. In these enlighted times we're now all a bit blase about good food, but back then, l'escargots, cuisses de grenouilles, and moules mariniere were a big deal for us kiddywinks brought up on fish-fingers, lemon meringue pie, and Heinz alphabet spaghetti.

The War had a lot to do with it. Rationing lasted until the 1950's, and the sense of culinary adventure (if it ever existed) was lost for good. I think this still applies. Okay, everyone over here is obsessed with celebrity chefs, and buy their glossy coffee-table books by the yard, but I doubt any of them are read- or- heaven forbid- actually used.

This made me think about that French classic, moules mariniere, or, mussels cooked in wine (or cream), with garlic and parsley. It's a great dish, no doubt about it; but I'm going to put my gastronomic reputation on the table by telling you that I think the traditional British version is better. This uses cider, instead of white wine. Cider is less acidic, and, in my opinion, creates a better balance for the sauce.

Here's how you make it. Saute some chopped shallots in a large pan, with a bayleaf, and a sprig of thyme. Add a crushed garlic clove. Next, pour in a bottle of dry cider. Try and use a decent cloudy organic cider, such as Sedlescombe Farmhouse Cider from Sussex, rather than the sweet fizzy stuff. Bring to the boil, and evaporate the alcohol.

Now it's time for the mussels. If you're buying fresh mussels, it's important that they are prepared carefully. First, throw out any mussels which are open, or even slightly open. Scrub the mussels with a brush to remove the "beards' and the "tufts" that you will see growing out of the closed shells. Next, soak the mussels in a basin of fresh water for a few hours, to remove any sand or grit. Take them out, put them into a colander, and place them under a running tap.

Once the mussels have been properly washed and cleaned, add them to the pan, cover tightly, and boil them over a high heat, shaking the pan all the time as they cook. After about five minutes, the mussels should be ready. Throw out any mussels which have not opened. Strain the liquor into another pan, and add a dollop of double cream.

Double cream is less likely to curdle than single cream. Stir it around, and cook it down for a minute or so. Season with a decent sea salt, and chunky black pepper, and then pour it back over the mussels. Garnish with lots of chopped fresh parsley.

Sauté of Calves Liver with Irish Whiskey and Tarragon

 

 

I thought today was St Patrick's Day. I was wrong. Apparently, The Church moved the date to the 15th March, so that it didn't clash with Holy Week. Anyhow, I was planning to give you something with the taste of the Emerald Isle, and St Patrick's Day or not, this recipe's still a good 'un. It's from that temple of gastronomic excellence, Ballymaloe House; near Cork in Southern Ireland. Ballymaloe is a rather beautiful Country House, which the talented Allen family have turned into a restaurant and cookery school. They specialise in the sort of food I approve of: British and Irish dishes cooked with the correct French techniques; so you will encounter simple delights such as Irish Stew, Steak and Pigeon Pie, Bacon and Cabbage, Lobster in a Cream Sauce; and Irish Soda Bread.

First, heat some unsalted butter in a heavy frying pan until it foams. Take some sliced calves livers and dip them in flour which you have previously seasoned with salt and pepper. Fry the liver on both sides. I must stress at this point that I like my liver pink- that means that it requires very little cooking. Of course, it's all about personal taste, but who likes an over-cooked liver that tastes (and looks) like a leathery old boot?

Push the cooked livers to one side of the pan, and pour in a generous dash of Irish Whiskey. Note that I have spelt it with an 'e'- Scotch Whisky is something slightly different. Tilt the pan towards the gas, and the whiskey will ignite.

When the flames have died down, add some concentrated meat stock, a crushed garlic clove, and some chopped fresh tarragon. Bring to the boil and reduce the sauce. Incidentally, if you didn't already know, reduction means that you boil a sauce at a high heat, without stirring. This action burns off the water in the sauce, and concentrates the flavours. You might have to loose about half the sauce to evaporation, before the sauce noticeably starts to thicken up.

Once the sauce is syrupy, take it off the heat, and stir in a few tablespoons of cream. Simple isn't it? And if you stick to my advice, and don't overcook the liver, you can't go wrong.

The Galloping Gourmet

 

       

 

Hands up who remembers The Galloping Gourmet?  Graham Kerr was a suave international man of mystery, who just so happened to be a dab hand in the kitchen as well. Leaping around his trendy 70's pine-lined kitchen, possessed with a manic zeal, he rustled up dishes with copious amounts of cognac, cream, and butter.

The inspirational highlight of the show always took place at the end- that bit when the Galloping Gourmet ran into the audience and pulled out a mane-tossing blonde dollybird by the hand (conveniently placed by a production assistant in the front row), joining him at the table for a candlelit dîner à deux as the credits started to roll. It seemed terribly sophisticated.

I have a feeling that all that cream and cholesterol caught up with him, and poor old Graham eventually had a massive heart attack, turned to God, and abandoned television cookery for good. Having said that, a few years ago, I was holed up in a divey motel in Santa Monica for a few days, and with nothing else to do, switched on the rickety television set.

And what did I see? None other than the great man himself- back on our screens in a fresh outbreak. Some sort of thing about healthy food. He seemed to be obsessed with spray-on olive oil in an aerosol can, the idea being that- shock horror- olive oil was bad for you. What on earth was all that about?  I am delighted to say that this neurosis has yet to arrive on the shores of Perfidious Albion, and as far as I am aware, over here olive oil is still considered a good thing.

I buy rustic, green-coloured, extra- virgin olive oil in large bottles, and use it liberally. Farchioni Cold Pressed and Unfiltered Il Casolare is the brand of choice. It's not that expensive, and comes from Umbria in Sunny Italy. And it's also good for you. Believe me...

 

 

Saffron

 

 

Yesterday, I gave you Patricia Wells' Chicken Stewed with Fennel and Saffron. I'm fascinated by saffron. It's expensive- scarily expensive; but luckily you don't need that much of the stuff to bring out the deep yellow colouring and the distinctive, metallic, oily, and petrolly flavours.

The history of Saffron goes back over three thousand years, when it was an important spice in the Ancient World. The name comes from the 12th century Old French word, safran. It's made from the flower of the saffron crocus (Crocus sativus), a species of crocus in the family Iridaceae. Historically, it's also been used both as a medicine and as a dye.

What about the saffron you can buy in the shops today? Where does it come from? Spanish saffron tends to be mellow in flavour and aroma. Italian varieties are stronger. Even stronger still is the saffron grown in Greece, Iran, and India (although the Indian government has banned the export of its high-grade saffron). The pungent "Aquila" saffron (zafferano dell'Aquila) is grown exclusively on eight hectares in the Navelli Valley of Italy's Abruzzo region, near L'Aquila; introduced to Italy by some Dominican monk.

But in Italy the biggest saffron cultivation, for quality and quantity, is in San Gavino Monreale, Sardinia. Another superb saffron is the Kashmiri purple-coloured Mongra or Lacha saffron (Crocus sativus 'Cashmirianus'), which is almost impossible to get hold of, and when and if you do, you'll need to take out a second overdraft. I'm going to finish off by giving you an interesting link to a website I've just discovered: Vanilla Saffron Imports. I know nothing about this company (they're American importers of high-grade saffron), so if you decide to use their services- on your head be it...

Books for Cooks

If you live in London, you may already know Books for Cooks, in Notting Hill, just off the Portobello Road. It's a gem of a place, with hundreds, if not thousands, of cookery titles neatly arranged on floor to ceiling shelves and a test kitchen at the back of the shop where they give cookery demonstrations. As a result, you're greeted with wonderfully rich food and wine smells when you step over the threshold.

They've also published their own run of excellent cookery books. most of which are still available either from "Books for Cooks" themselves, or amazon.co.uk. By popular request, here's one of their best recipes (taken from Patricia Wells' At Home in Provence: Chicken Stewed with Saffron & Fennel, with Red Pepper Aioli.

First, take some chicken thighs; remove the skins and bone, and chop them in half. Season them with salt and pepper and then fry them in olive oil, until golden. Take the chicken out of the pan and add two crushed garlic cloves, a pinch of saffron threads, a teaspoon of fennel seeds, three sprigs of thyme, two bay leaves, two tablespoons of tomato puree, a dash of Pernod, a cup of dry white wine, and two cups of chicken stock. Stir, and bring it to the boil. You'll get a lovely, Saffron infused, rose-coloured sauce.

Next, add the chicken pieces and some quartered and peeled potatoes, and simmer slowly for about twenty minutes. In practice, you may find that you need to par-boil the potatoes first, as they seem to take longer than twenty minutes to cook- especially if you're simmering the dish on a lowish heat.

The Red Pepper Aioli is straightforward. First char-grill some red peppers. All this means is placing some quartered peppers directly onto the gas flame. Once they start charring, you will find it easier to peel off the skin. To help this along, put the hot peppers into a bowl and cover the bowl with a cloth.

In your Magimix, whizz up the skinned red peppers, with two egg yolks, six crushed garlic cloves and some salt and pepper. Slowly drizzle in the olive oil and make a mayonnaise in the usual way. You will end up with a pink-coloured, garlicky aioli. Season with Cayenne Pepper and serve with the Chicken Stew.

Squid in Black Ink

 

 

Apologies for my absence over the last few days, but I have just returned from a jaunt around Venice with The Girl. As you might expect in that City of Dreams (and lover-ly Murano Glass) we had a wonderful time and even managed to squeeze in a few Dry Martinis and Bellinis at Harry's Bar.

I can also whole-heartedly recommend the Ristorante Corte Sconta (Calle del Pestrin 3886), where the thinly sliced and marinated tuna was to die for. A local dish that seemed to crop up again and again, was Seppie in Tecia Col Nero, otherwise known as Squid cooked in its own Black Ink. Here's a genuine version of the thing taken from Arrigo Cipriani's Harry's Bar Cook Book. It's all a bit gothic and when you're cooking it, the black ink goes everywhere and stains everything, so be warned.

 

 

Buy or catch your squid. Pull the head and body of the squid apart. Cut off the tentacles below the eyes. Remove the silvery ink sacs on either side of the innards and discard the rest. Pull out the bone from the body and chuck it out. Rinse the prepared squid under the tap, and peel off the pink skin. Cut the body and tentacles into pieces.

Heat some olive oil in a hot pan and add a chopped celery rib, chopped onion and a crushed garlic clove. Fry until soft. Next add some plum tomatoes, and the squid, and toss for a few minutes, turning the heat to high. Add a cup or so of dry white wine, and some chopped basil and parsley, and let it all bubble away for a few minutes.

Take the ink sacs (which you have kept back), and force the black ink into the pan, little by little, until you have a rich black sauce. Season with salt and pepper, and cook for about an hour or so, until the squid is soft. If the sauce dries out, add some fish stock. That's it. Serve with polenta, and a bottle of Prosecco on ice. Prosecco is the regional sparkling wine of the Veneto, and it's amazing value for money. I'm planning to stock up on the stuff in bulk. And as an added bonus, here's an arty photograph I took of a party of Japanese schoolgirls outside Florian's Cafe.

 

 

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Duck à l'Orange

 

 

So far on The Greasy Spoon, we've given you Prawn Cocktail, Crepes Suzette, Eggs Benedict, and Zucchini Fritters; and now (gasps of amazement, trumpet fanfares) I'm giving you none other than Duck à l'Orange.

Is Duck à l'Orange really so naff? Okay, it's a bit retro, but as with so many other classic recipes, if the ingredients are good, and the dish is cooked with care, you'll end up with a fine old thing indeed.

I'm not sure about the history of Duck à l'Orange, but I detect a whiff of Escoffier about it. The secret is in getting the balance right between the sweetness of the honey (or sugar), and the bitterness of the oranges- so use Seville oranges if you can get them; you know, the oranges used in English Marmalade.

Here's my version: it should be easy to rustle up when you get in from work. Take some duck breasts, and score them with a knife. Season them with salt and pepper. Fry them in a pan, until they are browned on both sides. You don't want the duck to dry out, and you will find that the duck will give off masses of fat.

When the duck breasts are cooked properly, take them out and keep them warm, and throw out the fat. Deglaze the pan with some fresh orange juice. Next add some chicken stock, a tablespoon or so of honey to taste, grated orange rind, and a teaspoon of balsamic vinegar.

Cook on a reasonably high heat, stirring like mad, until the sauce begins to thicken. Add a decent slug of Grand Marnier, and bubble away until the alcohol is burnt off. Now, turn the heat up to high, and let the sauce reduce- only stirring now and again to stop it sticking to the bottom of the pan. Finish it off with a knob of butter. This will give the sauce a velvety texture.

If you're happy with the seasoning, arrange the duck breasts on a plate, and pour on the sauce. To counteract the richness of the sauce, I suggest keeping your vegetables simple, and crunchy French beans or New Potatoes would be just the ticket.

Parsley

 

 

 

 

I love parsley (Petroselinum crispum) with its fresh, distinctive, grassy taste. Generally, there are two varieties of parsley available, the curly leaf; and the "Italian" flat leaf version (P. neapolitanum). Many people think flat leaf parsley has a stronger flavour, and this opinion is backed by chemical analysis which finds higher levels of essential oil in the flat-leaved cultivars. Undoubtably, flat-leaf parsley is the more cheffy of the two, and visually, at least, looks better on the plate.

The best solution, perhaps, is to use the curly leaf for the traditional British dishes, such as Cod in a Parsley Sauce, and flat-leaf for risottos, and other European or Mediterranean dishes. Back in the 70's there was a tendency for cooks (chefs even!) to garnish everything with chopped parsley. The parsley was often stale, and tired; and as a result, became a cliché, which the more avant-garde foodies amongst you now avoid like the plague. And that's the same case with the now forgotten aspic- which I might tackle in a later post. However, I love the simplicity and taste of fresh parsley, used sparingly. I've noticed that none other than Rick Stein, uses it quite a bit. He's one of the few "celeb" chefs I admire, and The Seafood Restaurant in Padstow, Cornwall is well worth a visit if you're ever lucky enough to travel to that lovely part of England.

 

Millionaire's Shortbread

 

 

 

 

 

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

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

Using your hands, kneed the crumbs to form a dough. Smooth the dough out in the baking tin, and bake in the oven for about 20 minutes.

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

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

 

Welsh Potato and Leek Cakes with Mint

 

 

Last Saturday, the 1st March, was St David's Day; St David being, of course, the patron saint of Wales. We have a rather quirky tradition over here, in which anyone with Welsh connexions stuffs a leek into their buttonhole: The Prince of Wales was being interviewed on television last night, and I noticed that instead of a leek, he was wearing a nifty Welsh Onion (or scallion) in the buttonhole of his Anderson & Shepherd suit. 

Anyway, on with the food: Here's a Welsh themed recipe for you. How about some potato and leek cakes? They're simple to make, and would go brilliantly with Welsh lamb (you want it pink), and a glass of something red and juicy, like a Rhone, or a Beaujolais.

First, peel some potatoes, and let them stand in salted water, so that some of the starch drains out. Take out the potatoes, and pat them dry with kitchen paper. Next, shred them in a Magimix, or similar machine. Pat them dry again. As we are going to fry them, you want to remove as much water as possible. If they're watery, they'll boil, rather than fry- and you don't want that.

Chop up some leeks or some Welsh Onions into thin slices. In a mixing bowl, combine the potato shreds with the leeks, and season with lots of sea salt and black pepper. Add some chopped fresh mint leaves, discarding the stalks. Using your hands, form the mixture into patties or small cakes. Chuck a knob of unsalted butter into a hot non-stick frying pan, and add a splash of olive oil. Fry the cakes quickly on both sides, until they are golden brown. Eat.