The Greasy Spoon | Food & Culture

Austerity Britain

 

 

Yesterday evening we had dinner at Great Queen Street, a newish restaurant in London's Covent Garden, directly opposite the Freemason's Hall. It's a welcome return to the idea of the old-fashioned dining room.  Formerly a pub, it's now just a large room with bare floor boards, dark aubergine coloured walls, and basic wooden tables. Wine is quaffed from small tumblers of the toothpaste variety, and napkins are quite definitely made from paper.

The menu (on a single scrap of thin, cheap paper) was concise to the point of parody. Rabbit. Prunes. Crab on Toast. Lamb with Chestnuts. Braised Venison. Greens. Roast Pheasant for Two People. I had clocked the pheasant on arrival: two pin-stripe types were tucking into a Gothic looking carcass on a large old-fashioned transfer printed oval plate.

"Crab on toast' turned out to be excellent- a large dollop of mashed, brownish crab on a toasted hunk of brown bread. "Lamb with Chestnuts" was a socking great hunk of lamb cooked on the bone to a melting perfection and oozing fat, served I think, with pickled chestnuts- I could taste the brine. The Girl's "Greens" were a generous helping of Kale, again, cooked beautifully.

In London, this new simplicity comes as a shock-  the antithesis of the dreaded gastropub, where everything is served with "a twist' or with a nod to Escoffier. This is plain, well-cooked British food at its very best, which relies more on the quality of individual ingredients and technique, than complicated flavour combinations. The restaurant was packed out- so the word has obviously spread and the place is very much in vogue. I'm glad.

Steak Tartare

 

 

A few months ago, I met some friends at Brown's Restaurant in Maddox Street. Brown's is an established chain of East Coast style restaurants- you know the sort of place, red checked table cloths, open brick walls, French café chairs. The waiter asked me how I liked my steak cooked and I said 'rare'. Shaking his head, he told me that 'under company policy' they were not allowed to cook rare steaks. What utter lunacy is this?  Are we not responsible for our own decisions?  I've eaten plenty of rare (and with my own werewolf tendencies, I really do mean rare) steaks in my time, and not once, I repeat once, have I ever had any sort of stomach upset. And if the meat is of the highest quality and fresh too...

(Actually, on reflection, I might just possibly be telling a fib. A few years back, I had an excellent Steak Tartare at Le Procope in Paris. Later that evening, I tucked into a plate of marinated, raw herring at a dubious place up in Monmartre. A few hours later, I was violently sick. If I had to put a bet on it, I would point a long finger at the herring).

 

What is Steak Tartare?  It's chopped up raw beef steak (or horse-meat), served with onions, capers, Worcestershire sauce and often, a raw egg.  Supposedly invented by the Tartars, I suspect that Steak Tartare is a 20th century dish of no great antiquity. Luchow's, the Manhatten restaurant founded in 1882 by Guido August Lüchow, has a recipe for Steak Tartare in their cookbook, published in 1952.  

Here's my way of making it.  I stress that not only will you need the best cut of beef, but the freshest example you can find, too. Do not make Steak Tartare out of any old steak you've had lying around in the 'fridge. If you're going to mix in an egg, make sure, again, that the egg is very fresh.

In a small bowl, mash up some anchovies, capers and Dijon mustard. Add the minced beef steak, and fold in some chopped red onion, chopped flat leaf parsley, a dash of Tabasco, a dash of Worcestershire Sauce and a few chili flakes. A spoonful of olive oil goes well, too. If it's your thing, break in a small, fresh egg. Season with lots of salt and pepper, shape the Tartare into a round and serve it with chips in the French manner.

Roman Artichoke Stew

 

 

 

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

 

 

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

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

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

 

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Sage

 

One of the fun things about writing The Greasy Spoon is thinking up new ways of describing the various tastes.  On wikipedia ("it's in wikipedia so it must be true) Sage (Salvia officinalsis) is described as having a peppery taste.  I'm not sure that's right?  I've been a bit off-colour for the last week (with what women call "Man Flu") and The Girl (God Bless 'Er) cooked me up a divine chicken stew laced with copious amounts of sage.  The sage and chicken combination worked well. with the velvety, aromatic, oniony and slightly sweet flavours of the sage helping to create a rich, smooth sauce.

Traditionally, sage was used in the cooking of Merrie Olde England. It works well with pork, beautifully in stuffings, is the perfect match for onion and an essential ingredient in bread sauce. I love it.

Here's my recipe for bread sauce. In England, we serve bread sauce with game, such as partridge or pheasant. It really is the genuine taste of this country, with the rather Medieval flavours of sage, nutmeg, mace and cloves. It's also a good 'un with poultry. Some strange people out there like their sauce thick. Personally, I prefer my bread sauce to be a bit sloppy.

Add the following ingredients to a saucepan: 300ml milk, 50g butter, a chopped small onion, a crushed garlic clove, a bayleaf, two cloves, a blade of mace and some chopped fresh sage. Heat. Once the mixture is warm, stir in 75g of fresh white breadcrumbs and cook until thick and smooth, stirring the whole time.

When you're happy with the consistency, remove the bay leaf, mace and cloves, and pour in 150ml of single cream. Adjust the seasoning with salt and pepper and grind in a decent amount of nutmeg.

Reheat the sauce, but to stop it going thick- mix in a knob of unsalted butter and some more milk, to taste.

Still on the subject of sage, a simple Italian sauce I'm rather fond of is Sage and Butter Sauce. This is just butter, heated until it turns a golden noisette colour (ie not burnt), lots of fresh chopped sage, salt and pepper and a decent squeeze of lemon juice. Very simple. I like it.

Colonel Skinner's Mango Chutney

 

 

At Dotheboys Hall, I remember being fascinated by an ancient copy of Hobson Jobson which I found hidden away on a dusty shelf in the school's Victorian Gothic library. First published in 1903, Hobson was an etymological glossary of Anglo-Indian words and language. A study of words such as Pajama, Veranda, Bungalow, Tiffin, Kedgeree and of course, our very own Curry.

Anglo-Indian food is another fascinating study, in its own right. One of the best books on the subject is David Burton's The Raj at Table, published by Faber & Faber.

Here's a recipe for Colonel Skinner's Mango Chutney. Today, there are various brands out there using this name. Actually, Colonel Skinner's Mango Chutney is something that you will find in the old Anglo-Indian cookery books and the original recipe involved leaving the chutney outside in the backyard to fester under the hot sun for a few days. I tried to find out who the original Colonel Skinner was (sounds Irish?), but without success.

Chop up the following ingredients in your Magimix or otherwise trendy food processor: twelve ounces of dried mangoes, half a pound of brown sugar, ginger, raisins, chillis and garlic to taste. Once they're chopped up, spoon the mixture into a large preserving pan.  Add two and half pints of vinegar and season with salt. Bring to the boil and simmer for an hour. Transfer into sterlilised jars and store in a dark cupboard.

 

Dr Kitchener's Curry Powder

 

 

I was leafing through a paperback copy of the original 1861 edition of "Mrs Beeton's Book of Household Management" (Oxford World's Classics) and came across her recipe for Indian Curry-Powder, founded on Dr Kitchener's Recipe. William Kitchiner (1775?-1827) was the author of the "Apicus Redivivus, The Cook's Oracle", first published in 1817.

I'm quite fond of these historic Anglo-Indian curry powders; the sort of thing we chuck into stews and then have the nerve to call "curry". Here's my version of Dr Kitchener's curry powder, as described by Mrs Beeton. I've slightly adapted it for the modern kitchen and added cardamom and black pepper.

 

Add the following ingredients to a mixing bowl: two teaspoons of powdered turmeric, two teaspoons of powdered cinammon,  two teaspoons of powdered ginger, two teaspoons of powdered fenugreek, a dash of cayenne pepper and a good grinding of black pepper. Mix them up so they form a powder.

In a pestle and mortar, grind up the following ingredients until they form a fine powder: two teaspoons of coriander seeds, two teaspoons of mustard seeds, and a few cardamom pods. (You will have to discard the cardamom's outer shells). I love grinding up spices: all those lovely, aromatic smells. When you reckon the ingredients are ready, mix them in with the other spices.  

Keep the finished curry powder in an air-tight container. It should keep reasonably well. Obviously, if you want to make more of the stuff, you will need to increase the quantities. Half the fun of this sort of thing is to play around with the proportions, to suit your own tastes. Secret recipes and all that.

Juniper

 

Following on from yesterday's post, I thought, this Friday afternoon, that I would write more about the juniper berry. Juniper is actually an evergreen tree- a conifer in the genus Juniperus in the cypress family Cupressaceae. The berries are small, wrinkled, dark brown things with a tiny stone in the centre. If crushed, they give off a lovely woody, peppery, pine-like flavour, with a bittersweet taste, and it's this very flavour which is used in the making of London Gin. Juniper also goes extremely well with game (such as pheasant and venison) and ham.

Here's a simple recipe for Ham with Juniper Berries, otherwise known as Ham in a Piquant Sauce:

Pour six tablespoons of wine vinegar into a small saucepan. Crush up eight juniper berries and add them to the vinegar. Chop up four shallots very finely and add to the vinegar and juniper berries. Turn up the flame and boil away until the vinegar has reduced and there is very little left in the saucepan.

In a larger pan, chuck in a knob of unsalted butter, and stir in some flour; to make a roux. Once the flour and butter are sufficiently cooked, stir in 300ml of chicken stock and 300ml of white wine to make a smooth, creamy sauce. Now add the juniper flavoured vinegar mixture, stir and bring to the boil. Crank down the heat and let the sauce simmer for about twenty minutes.

Sieve the sauce to get rid of the bits and pieces, turn down the heat, and carefully stir in 150ml of double cream. Check the seasoning.

In a flat oven proof dish, arrange some slices of ham. Cover the ham with the piquant sauce and cover with a lid. Heat it up in a lowish to moderate oven for about half an hour.

Pheasant Casserole

 

 

Pheasant Casserole! I can't think of anything more suitable for a cold November. I once had it at a Sunday lunch party, served with a jug of foamy Black Velvet- and this worked surprisingly well. If you don't know anyone who shoots, pheasant are amazingly cheap to buy, either from your local butcher or decent supermarket such as Waitrose. I've plucked a few pheasants in my time, and I have to say that I'm not sure that it's worth the hassle, when you can a) get the butcher to pluck them for you (and do a much better job) or b) buy them from the shops, ready plucked, for a few quid.

Here's my family recipe for pheasant casserole (from The ABC of Tried and Tested Recipes), which I've adapted slightly from the original version. Take a large cock pheasant and fry it in butter and oil, until lightly browned. Add a dash of cognac, and flambé it quickly until the flames die down. Remove the pheasant and put it into a casserole.

In the same pan, fry some chopped bacon, diced celery and carrots cut into batons. Add two tablespoons of flour, and cook. After a few minutes pour in half a bottle of red wine (I suggest using a Burgundy or a Rhone) and top up with some chicken stock.

Bring to the boil, and simmer gently so that the alcohol burns off. Pour it over the pheasant in the casserole and add 50g button mushrooms and 175g button or baby onions.

Cook in a moderate oven for just over an hour. Pheasant has a tendency to get dry and stringy very quickly, so I've cut down the cooking time. I'm sure you'll get the drift: you want lots of sauce, and you need to make sure that you don't over cook the pheasant.

When you reckon the pheasant is ready, take the casserole out of the oven and let it cool down. Lift out the pheasant and carve it up: cut the legs and wings off and carve the breasts. Place the carved meat in a flat casserole dish with the sliced breasts in the centre, surrounded by the legs and the wings. Place the vegetables, mushrooms and onions over the pheasant.

Strain off the sauce through a sieve into a small sauce pan-  this will get rid of all the nasty bits and pieces. Add two teaspoons of redcurrant jelly to the sauce and chuck in some crushed juniper berries. I'm currently crazy about juniper (which, of course, is used to flavour gin).  It has a rich, pine-nut, woodlandly sort of  taste and works beautifully with game. Check the seasoning. When the sauce is at the right consistency, pour it back over the pheasant.

Serve the casserole with parsnip chips.

Spanish Omelette

 

 

Before the days of package holidays and cheap international travel, many people in Britain had never been to places like Italy or Spain. In Britain, "Risotto" was cooked in a casserole dish in the oven; and to be fair, I suspect this was as much because the proper arborio or carnaroli rice needed to make a proper Italian risotto wasn't available back then. "Spanish Omelette" was cooked with peas, ham and red and green peppers. 

This British version is, no doubt, delicious, but it's not a proper Spanish omelette. By this I mean an omelette- as cooked by the Spanish, in Spain. Tortilla de Patatas. The genuine article is made from eggs, potatoes and onions. 

Cook 300g of waxy potatoes in salted water. In a decent non-stick frying pan cook some chopped onion in olive oil. Drain the potatoes, remove the skins, and then slice them up. Add the potatoes to the hot pan.  

Whisk up four eggs, and season them with salt and pepper. Pour the egg into the pan, shaking the pan around so that the onion and potatoes begin to set with the egg. When the egg is almost set (this should only take just under a minute) place the pan under a hot grill. You want the top of the omelette to take on some colour (i.e. to turn golden brown), but at the same time, you don't want it to burn.

Turn the Spanish Omelette out onto a plate. The Spanish often serve it cut in to wedges.

Bonfire Night Bullshot

 

 

Until recently Hallowe'en wasn't particularly celebrated in the British Isles. The odd mask might have appeared in the local newsagents, and children at school might have peformed some sort of spooky play at school, but that was about it. Instead, the emphasis, at this time of year, was on Guy Fawkes Night, and that meant private bonfire parties, fireworks, bangers and "Penny for the Guy" on the Fifth of November.

For the celebrations tonight, why don't you fill up your hip flask with a hot bullshot cocktail? Normally this is drunk cold, on ice; but I see no reason why it shouldn't be served hot (in a similar fashion to mulled wine or cider) and I have a sneaky suspicion that you might find it even better this way.

Empty a tin of beef consommé soup into a large pan. Pour in a large slug of vodka and add a dash of Lea & Perrins Worcestershire sauce, a squeeze of lemon juice, a pinch of celery salt, and finish it off by seasoning it with salt and pepper.

Warm up the bullshot on a medium heat, making sure that you don't boil it.  If you've got guests, I would suggest serving it in small coffee cans or cups.  If you're going to the Park, I would urge you to fill up your hip-flask and pass it around.

Poulet Forestière

 

 

 

Here's a recipe for an autumnal chicken and mushroom dish that Bon Viveur rather grandly called Poulet Forestière, published by The Daily Telegraph in 1964.  I make it often.  If the cooking techniques seem slightly weird - that's the scary Fanny Cradock and 1960s cookery for you. I would probably flambé the chicken and mushrooms in the cognac to burn off the alcohol (rather then add it neat towards the end as in the original recipe) and also sauté the mushrooms separately (rather then cooking them with the chicken, and risking their disintegration).  

 

Of course, the trouble with this sort of recipe is that it could turn out a trifle bland if you use bog-standard ingredients. To counter-act this, I would suggest that you use meaty, brown field mushrooms (rather than those flavourless button mushroom things), an organic, free-range chicken; be generous on the cognac and make sure that the dish is properly seasoned with a quality sea-salt and lots of chunky black pepper.

Cut up a decent free range chicken, and dredge the pieces in flour, seasoned with sea salt and pepper. Sauté the pieces in unsalted butter (making sure you don't crowd the pan- otherwise the chicken will boil, rather than fry), sauté some nice field mushrooms, and then simmer both the chicken pieces and the mushrooms in a casserole dish with chicken stock and white wine in a medium oven for about three quarters of an hour.

Arrange the chicken and mushroom in a serving dish, and strain off the cooking liquor into a small pan. Thicken it up with a beurre manié (that just means a flour and butter roux), a tablespoon of cognac, and a teacup of cream. Reduce slightly until thick, check the seasoning and then pour the sauce back over the chicken and mushrooms.

 

 

Johnnie and Fanny plug their latest book (starts at 1.01), British television ad, 1970