The Greasy Spoon | Food & Culture

Collecting Rare and Vintage Cookery Books

 

 

I've just been sorting out my collection of books on food and wine. I never intentionally set out to collect this sort of thing; but being a second-hand bookshop junkie, have, over the years, amassed a wide assortment of interesting old books on all sorts of different subjects. Above is a first edition of Michael Smith's Fine English Cookery, published in 1973. And how things have changed!  Michael Smith, for example, tells us how to make a traditional kedgeree using tinned salmon. And that's what's interesting about these fascinating old books. Who today would make Bon Viveur's blue-dyed egg canapes, with anchovy garnish, and lover-ly piped mashed potato?

 

 

 

 

The internet has had a beneficial knock-on effect on the price of some of these books, and it's now easy to get online, and discover just how much that old dog-eared copy might actually be worth. Take Floyd's Food, for example. I've got a slightly grubby copy of it, much used over the years, and stained with the shipwreck of time. But it's rather valuable. This was one of the very early Keith Floyd books, published in a tiny print run by a local Bristol publisher just before "Floyd on France" made him famous. For Floyd "completists", that's the hard one to track down. The first edition of Marco Pierre White's White Heat is another sought after title.

 

I'm currently looking out for cookery books published in the pre-war era. They're the sort of thing which you used to be able to find relatively easily, but now are becoming increasingly scarce. Books from the 60's and 70's are still available- and could be a good area for starting a collection. They're also fun- and often have great graphics. One of these is The Bachelor Chef. Written by the elusive "Simon Tiffany", and published by Arlington Books of St James's in 1965, it's full of dodgy recipes involving cans of this, and cans of that; a self-help manual for wannabe playboys, and international men of mystery. Lots of hilariously kitsch drawings too, in the manner of the late Stephen Ward.

 

 

Midsummer Poached Salmon

Midsummer is a fascinating time of the year. For starters, it's associated with all sorts of curious folklore, magic and mythology; and the long summer days give opportunity for parties and lazing around in the garden after work. Traditionally, the 24th June is St John's Day, or Midsummer Day; even though the true solstice is on June 21st. So last weekend, we drove up to Worcestershire to see two great, and important English gardens, Hidcote Manor, and Kiftsgate Court; both currently flowering in all their full glory.

On the way back, I persuaded The Girl to stop off in Oxfordshire and pay our Midsummer respects to The Rollright Stones. This is a lesser known megalithic
stone circle, which dates back over three and half thousand years. As I expected, there were a few pagans (with flowers in their hair) milling around the circle, and soaking up the vibes. I took a quick photograph of the "Whispering Knight"- which is a large, single stone, standing about a hundred yards away from the main formation.

Anyway, back to things culinary. If you're going to have a party at this time of year, one of the most perfect dishes you can offer your guests is a classic whole poached salmon. For this, I would strongly advise that you invest in a fish kettle. This is a great bit of kit: it's just a long, rectangular, metal pan with a lid- big enough to hold a large salmon.

To poach the salmon, you need to fill the kettle up with cold water, to which you've previously added a few peppercorns , a bayleaf, a bouquet garni, and a splash of tarragon vinegar. Place the gutted salmon into the water, and bring the kettle to a slow boil on top of your stove. Once the water is beginning to simmer, put the lid back on, and turn off the heat. Let the fish stand in the hot water. This is a great tip for cooking fish. It stops the flesh from falling apart, and ensures that the fish remains very slightly undercooked (you want that), and moist, too. You'll be able to tell when the fish is cooked: when the flesh begins to flake gently away, and the eyes of the fish turn opaque.

Take out the cooked salmon, and lie it on a plate. Let it rest for a bit. Try and keep the fish as whole as you can. Remove the skin, and the fins, but keep the head and tail. Next, you need to remove the backbone. Run a knife along the top of the fish, and then make a cut to remove the head. The goal is to take off the top fillet, remove all the bones, and then reassemble the fish. Don't worry too much if the fish breaks up a bit, as we're about to disguise this with cucumber.

Once you're happy that most, if not all of the bones, have been taken out, start cutting up a cucumber into thin slices. Overlap these on the top of the salmon, so that they look like scales. So to recap: you've got a de-boned poached salmon, with the head and tail still intact. The centre section (ie the pink flesh) is now covered with cucumber scales.

If you're in a really cheffy (albeit retro) mood, you can now glaze the salmon with aspic. If you can't be bothered (or if you think this is a bit naff) serve it as it is. In both cases, you'll need a nice, stiff mayonnaise to go with it, preferably made by yours truly. For variety, it could be fun to add some chopped dill, and a squeeze of lemon to the mayonnaise. Serve the finished salmon on a bed of watercress.

Sweetcorn Relish

 

 

After all this talk about finger sandwiches, Eton Mess, and avocados, it's time for something a bit more robust.

I've got a secret yearning for sweetcorn relish. It's American white trash, diner food at its best. Bick's, the Canadian brand, does a great range of "relishes" and I love the retro packaging, too.

A few days ago, I decided to create my own sweetcorn relish, in true diner style. It worked well, and was similar to the stuff you buy in jars.

Here's how I made it: First, I chopped up some shallots, and cooked them in oil. Next, I tipped a tin of sweetcorn into a bowl, and mixed in some green and red peppers (chopped into tiny cubes), a splash of white vinegar, a spoonful of sugar, a teaspoon of garlic powder; seasoned it with sea salt and pepper, and finished off the job with a spoonful of starchy cornflour. I added the cooked shallots to the mixture and heated the thing slowly in a small pan, so that the cornflour cooked properly.

The finished result was pretty darn authentic. For extra heat, you could also add some red chilis, sliced very thinly into strips- I hesitate to use the French term julienne, as in this case, it just doesn't seem appropriate. Perfect with burgers, even better with fried chicken.

Avocado

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Traditional English Sandwiches

 

 

   

 

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

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

 

  John Montagu, 4th Earl of Sandwich

 

Members of The Hellfire Club admire Mrs Peel's assets

 

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

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

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

 

Finally, Queen Alexandra's Sandwiches; classic Edwardian sandwiches with a savoury taste. First, make a mustard butter. This is just unsalted butter (left at room temperature), mixed with a mild French Mustard (say, Dijon), and lemon juice. Spread the sandwich loaf slices with the mustard butter. Next, lay thin slices of tongue onto the buttered bread.

The filling's made from chicken and mayonnaise. Poach some chicken breasts until cooked, and then mince them up. Bind them in home-made mayonnaise, and flavour it with a few drops of Tabasco sauce. Sprinkle with a new layer of mustard and cress and season with sea salt and black pepper. As before, top off with another layer of white bread, remove the crusts carefully, and cut into fingers.

Coronation Chicken

 

 

 

Isn't Coronation Chicken a bit of a joke?   I've got childhood memories of dubious buffet parties where Coronation Chicken was served: yellow in colour, looking a bit like vomit studded with sultanas, okayish in taste- but my god; bland, bland, bland.

As you may have gathered by now, I'm interested in the history of classic dishes- so as I had some time on my hands, I decided to do a bit of good old-fashioned research. I had a sneaky suspicion that Coronation Chicken had been invented for an earlier coronation, say the coronation of George V, or even for that ultimate bon vivant himself, Edward VII.

Well, I was almost right. Constance Spry (the trendy 50's florist) "invented" Coronation Chicken for the Queen's coronation in June, 1953. But a very similar dish (ie chicken bound in curried mayonnaise) was invented for George V's Silver Jubilee in 1935. This was called Jubilee Chicken.

I made something similar the other night- to go with a salad. I simmered some chicken pieces in stock, bound them in a home-made mayonnaise, added some curry powder and finished off the whole shooting match with some grapes. And that's what you normally get: chicken with curried mayonnaise.

However, I've found the original Constance Spry recipe for Coronation Chicken on the net and interestingly enough, it's different- and "gasp of amazement", includes red wine. Here's the original version:

 

Ingredients (Serves 8):

2.3kg (5lb) chicken

1 tbsp vegetable oil

1 small, finely chopped onion

1 tbsp curry paste

1 tbsp tomato purée

100ml red wine

1 bay leaf

1/2 lemon juice

4 finely chopped apricot halves

300ml (1/2 pint) Mayonnaise

100ml (4 fl oz) whipping cream

Salt and pepper

Watercress to garnish

 

Instructions:

1)  Skin the chicken and cut into small pieces and grill it until cooked.

2)  In a small saucepan, heat the oil, add the onion and cook for about three minutes, until softened.

3)  Add the curry paste, tomato purée, wine, bay leaf and lemon juice.

4)  Simmer, uncovered, for about 10 minutes until well reduced.

5)  Strain and leave to cool.

6)  Purée the chopped apricot halves in a blender or food processor or through a sieve.

7)  Beat the cooled sauce into the mayonnaise with the apricot purée.

8)  Whip the cream to stiff peaks and fold into the mixture.

9)  Season, adding a little extra lemon juice if necessary.

10) Fold in the chicken pieces, garnish with watercress and serve.

Clear Gazpacho

Clear Gazpacho is one of my favourite summer recipes. It's very easy to make, though slightly time consuming- but could be made in advance and then assembled at the last minute.

It uses similar ingredients to a traditional gazpacho soup, but, instead, has as a base a mouth watering, flavour infused, clear, tomato "consommé".

Take a largish quantity of ripe red tomatoes and blitz them in your mixer with some sea salt. The riper the better, as the salt helps to draw out the juices. Next, line a sieve with muslin or coffee filter paper, and fill it up with the tomato pulp, placing a large bowl underneath. Stick it in the 'fridge and let the "tomato water" drip slowly into the bowl. When I'm in the mood, I sometimes add some crushed mint leaves to the pulp as well.

The next morning you'll have a bowl full of an amazingly clear, rose-coloured, light but flavour-rich, tomato stock. The first time I made it, I was amazed. Add a bit more salt to it, if it needs it.

Pour the cold tomato water into bowls. Garnish with thinly sliced radishes, cubed avocado, sliced baby tomatoes, apple cut into tiny batons, red chili cut into wafer thin julienne, red, yellow and green peppers, courgettes, and chopped basil.

The secret is to try and cut the ingredients into the smallest shapes you possibly can: these can include batons, diamonds, cubes and thin strips, as the mood takes you. If they're small enough, they should float on top of the soup with ease. Serve it chilled.

That's it.

Eton Mess

This is simple, and so-very English. It's just whipped double cream, broken up meringue pieces and chopped up strawberries, served in a glass bowl. Ideal for picnics beneath the Immortal Elms, if Dutch Elm Disease hasn't got there first, that is.

I like to add a dash of brandy to the cream. Instead of the meringue, you could also use sponge fingers.

The Savoy Cocktail Book

 

 

Harry Craddock, The Savoy Cocktail Book, first published 1930

When I was eighteen, my father was extremely generous about all that male-bonding "rites of passage" stuff. This included a pint of warm bitter at our local Buckinghamshire pub, The White Hart, where by chance, a troupe of bearded civil servants from Slough, masquerading as Morris Men in skin hugging white breeches, pranced around to the strains of "zummer-is-a-cummin-in".

More promising, was my first visit to The Savoy Hotel, where my father introduced me to the legendary Peter Dorelli, then head man at The American Bar. We had Dry Martinis- of course we did. And Dry Martinis, mixed properly; none of that bizarre Fleming "shaken not stirred" piffle. Instead, the iced gin was poured into a pitcher with ice, stirred around with a few drops of Noilly Pratt, and then strained out into a small iced tumbler, with a twist of lemon. If you want to learn more, the bible of choice is "Stirred not Shaken, the History of the Dry Martini", written by my father's old colleague, John Doxat, with an introduction by Kingsley Amies.

For those of you fascinated by cocktails, the best book on the subject is "The Savoy Cocktail Book". This was first published in 1930, with recipes compiled by Harry Craddock, and the "decorations" by Gilbert Rumbold. The first edition's got a fabulously striking Art Deco cover with foil embellishments, and for antiquarian book nuts, is eminently collectable. The 1999 revised edition has a number of new cocktails by Peter Dorelli. If you come across a first edition in a second hand book shop, buy it immediately, as the grander rare book dealers sell it for big bucks. Over and Out.

 

 

The legendary Peter Dorelli mixes a Dry Martini.

Postcard Teas

 

 

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

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

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

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

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