Former auction specialist turned antiques dealer, amateur cook and second-hand book obsessive, Luke Honey has been writing The Greasy Spoon blog since 2007: a personal, unashamedly nostalgic and sometimes irreverent take on the link between food and culture. He lives in London with his wife and book-munching whippet. Current enthusiasms include the food of the American South and London Dry Gin.
Here's a great idea for the Hogmany revels tomorrow: it's a Champagne cocktail with Sloe Gin. Like many of the best ideas, it's utterly simple. Just add a dash of Sloe Gin to a decent Champagne, which, naturellement, you've previously chilled 'on ice'. A perfect winter cocktail, and British in spirit, too; which is no bad thing. For my other Champagne Cocktail recipe, have a look at my post from last year.
I've still got some of the Sloe Gin left from '07. If you remember, I added a bit of almond essence, and having tasted the stuff, I've now decided this is the way forward. The gin's turned a nice, brownish colour too. Sloe Gin improves with age. Definitely.
This in-between period between Christmas and the New Year is always a bit weird. You're still got the holiday spirit, but have, more than likely, returned to the Kafkaesque slog of the Blacking Factory. Here in The Big Smoke, it's cold and frosty, and I'm in the mood for some hearty, warming food. An authentic Ragù Bolognese would be just the ticket.
I'm not talking about that awful tinned stuff; that thin, processed sauce you boiled up in your student days. No, I'm writing about the authentic, slowly cooked, rich and dark sauce, served in Bologna with lasagne verdi. It's okay, of course, to serve it with any type of pasta, I'm not that fussy. Here's one way of making it:
Chop up some onions and fry them in a mixture of butter and oil in your favourite pan. When the onions are soft, add some crushed garlic. Add a diced carrot and some thinly sliced celery. Chop up some streaky bacon, and fry this with the onions, garlic, carrot and celery. So far so good. Transfer the onions, garlic, bacon, carrot and celery to your casserole dish.
Now start frying some minced pork in the frying pan. Use the oil and butter left over from the onions and bacon. If you need to, add a bit more butter or oil to stop the pork burning. Here's a useful tip: rather than stirring the mince around, it's a better idea to let it brown in lumps. If you stir it about, you run the risk that the meat will start to poach, rather than fry.
Transfer the pork to the casserole. Fry some minced beef, and transfer to the casserole. Next, chop up some chicken livers into small pieces, fry them very briefly, and transfer them to the casserole pot.
Tip in a tin of plum tomatoes, a good dollop of tomato purée, and half a bottle of red wine (though strangely, white wine is probably more authentic). Season with salt, pepper, nutmeg, and some finely chopped basil.
Cook the ragù on the lowest heat you can manage, for up to four hours. You will need to check it now and again, to make sure it doesn't burn.
According to the great Elizabeth David in her seminal work, Italian Food: "some Bolognese cooks add at least 1 cupful of cream or milk to the sauce, which makes it smoother". Who am I to argue with that?
This photograph made me laugh. It looks like a Mock Tudor pub, but it's actually a Southern Railway Tavern Car, circa 1947. They called it "At the Sign of the White Hart"; here you could enjoy a pewter tankard of bitter, (or presumably a slice of gammon with pineapple?) as you steamed through the Surrey countryside towards Waterloo or Victoria.
The gel at the front looks a bit like Celia Johnson in Brief Encounter. She's got her foot foward like a Harrod's model. I bet my bottom dollar the chap at the back (missing only a manly pipe clenched between his teeth) is a bogus Wing Commander and drives an MG.
I would love to know what the waiter is serving up through the hatch. Steak and Kidney pie? A grapefruit half, garnished with a glacé cherry? Dover Sole?
Brief Encounter, directed by David Lean, script by Noel Coward, 1945
It's Christmas Eve, and I'm retreating to the country for a few days. Today's post is less about food- and more about people who don't have much of it.
Crisis at Christmas is a superb British charity that helps homeless people- who may be on the streets for a variety of reasons beyond their control. With its emphasis on the family, Christmas for some people can be a time of immense loneliness: I can't think of anything sadder than the single Christmas Puddings you can buy in the supermarkets. Please click on the link, and go to the Crisis at Christmas website. It will tell you far more than I can. A small donation will help to improve someone's Christmas next year.
I wish you all a very Happy Christmas, and I'll catch up with you when I get back from the revels.
A few days ago I was amazed to discover that a foodie friend of mine (over here for a few months from Bangkok) had never been to the cult South London Indian restaurant, Hot Stuff. Hot Stuff reminds me of one of those tiny local restaurants you can find in France: a few tables, an enthusiastic patron, and a loyal clientele. The food at Hot Stuff is not going to win any awards, but it's still pretty darn good, and a refreshing change from the mediocre delights of the Pimlico Curry Centre, paparazzi photographs of Lady Di, withstanding.
Hot Stuff lies in that windswept hinterland between Vauxhall, Stockwell and Clapham, just south of the river Thames. If you stretch your imagination and ignore the gang-land graffiti, 60's brutalist architecture, and otherwise edgy concrete surroundings; it's all a bit reminiscent of the Blitz with green painted vegetable barrows, oily cobbled streets and a "Knees up Mother Brown" pub on the corner; from which floats the strain of inebriated group singing: "Wun Wabbit, Wun Wabbit, Wun, Wun, Wun": highly appropriate, as the eager chefs of Hot Stuff lurk a few doors up. Hot Stuff doesn't have a licence, so you have to nip next door to the offie to buy marked-up plonk. The enlightened bring beer.
As usual, we were met by the affable transfer-tattooed host, Raj, who suggested that he leave the order to him. Hot Stuff is really just a small room, with a few formica tables squeezed inside, and a blackboard on the wall. You can watch the kitchen from the "restaurant": a team of hoodies (baggy jeans half way down their derrières) all working in unison to the soothing harmonies of Snoop Dog. The chilli prawns, saag gosht, karahi chicken, masala fish, makhani dhal and 'magic mushroom' rice were all good; The nan bread was also delicious.
It's the sort of place where they don't give you a bill ("let's call it twenty quid, mate"), but instead, round it up (or more likely, down), for Hot Stuff is remarkably good value. It would be wonderful if there were more family-run restaurants like this in London: serving unpretentious, well-cooked food that won't break your wallet. Often, local restaurants still suffer from delusions of grandeur (do the ghosts of Nouvelle Cuisine still linger?) and entirely miss the point. If you're planning a visit to Hot Stuff, it's essential to book.
Place 8oz (225g) unsalted butter into a bowl with 6oz (175g) icing sugar. Mix them up well, and then slowly pour in three tablespoons of cognac. Add the grated peel of an orange, and a small splash of fresh orange juice. Pat into a jar, and keep in the 'fridge.
Christmas Turkey and all the Trimmings! How those words fill me with dread. I'm sure you know why. It conjures up visions of: stale food kept under hot lamps, old people's homes, Bisto packet gravy, office parties, forced jollity, soggy Brussels Sprouts, paper crowns (both on the head and on the bird), dry turkey, and last and least, ready made packet stuffing.
It doesn't have to be like that. Cooking a Christmas dinner or lunch is not especially difficult; it just needs a bit of planning. Here are some nuggets of wisdom:
The Turkey
If at all possible, try and buy a fresh bird, and avoid a frozen specimen. If you've left it too late and are forced to buy a frozen bird, for God's sake make sure that it is properly de-frosted. Rub the turkey with butter, and season it with salt and pepper. Place rashers of bacon over the breast. Wrap the turkey in tin foil, so that there is air circulating around the bird. Being impatient, I'm a fan of the fast school of cooking. Preheat the oven to 200C (400F, gas mark 6) for birds weighing up to 6kg (13lb). Cook them for 26 minutes per kg (12 mins per lb). Once the turkey's properly cooked, let it rest for at least 15 minutes. Cover the bird with tin-foil, and a cloth while its resting. This will help to keep it moist.
The Stuffing
For health reasons, it's not a good idea to stuff the turkey the night before. If possible, stuff the bird just before it goes into the oven. My chestnut and watercress stuffing is delicious.
Sausages
I like to put chipolatas around the bird. Check them towards the end of the cooking period, to make sure they don't burn.
Roast Potatoes
Skin your potatoes, and par-boil them for ten minutes. Drain, and put them back in the saucepan. Put the lid back on and shake the pan around so that they get fluffy. Another way to do it, would be to scrape them with a fork. Melt some goose fat (available tinned in supermarkets) in a roasting tin, and add the potatoes, making sure that they get covered with the fat. They'll take about 40-50 minutes in a hot oven.
Roast Parsnips
Cook in a similar way to the potatoes, making sure that they are basted in fat before the go into the oven. I find that parsnips cook quicker than potatoes, and should take about 30 minutes. Make sure they don't burn.
Brussels Sprouts
Not everyone's cup of tea by any account. No need to make a deep "cross" in the root, and if you're going to boil them, make sure that they are slightly undercooked and crunchy. Put masses of sea salt into the water (this will help keep them green), and plunge them straight into the rapidly boiling water. To be different, try Brussels Sprouts in Riesling with Bacon.
I love this traditional English sauce, which is also excellent with game. Make sure it's not too thick. Here's the link.
Gravy
Home-made si vous plait. Bisto's a dirty word. It's simplicity itself. Once you've removed the turkey from the roasting pan, you will see that there is a bit of fat and various bits of pieces left in the bottom of the pan. Keep the pan on the heat, and stir in a spoonful of flour. Whisk it into the fat, to remove any lumps. Cook the flour for a few minutes. Add a decent splash of wine and some stock, and let it bubble away. Add a spoonful of redcurrant jelly, and season with salt and pepper. I like to add a dash of soy sauce, which helps the gravy to turn a nice brown colour. If the gravy's too thick, add some more stock. Personally, I like my gravy to be thin. It's a personal thing.
Are you fed up with Christmas yet? Want me to go on? For this post, I thought I would have a look at kitchen equipment, especially as it's the sort of thing that you might be giving as a present.
I'm fascinated by the concept of kitchen equipment- the sort of stuff that people buy for show, and then never use. I suppose Terence Conran invented the whole caboodle, back in the Sixties, with his innovative market stall-like displays at Habitat in the King's Road, Chelsea. You know the sort of thing: blue and white striped Cornish ware, copper pans, red enamel coffee perculators, 19th century French dial clocks, and scrubbed pine tables. All offset by a framed Toulouse-Lautrec poster of the Folies Bergère. This was a new non-aristocratic, democratic look for the upper middle and professional classes, with a nod to the Welsh Methodism of Laura Ashley. An amlgamation of Mrs Bridge's "downstairs" kitchen, and the rustic charms of the imagined French countryside. It said "I'm a sophisticated urban person, but I don't have servants".
One of the highlights of the Christmas season used to be my annual Christmas Eve visit to The General Trading Company in Sloane Street. Here, a guaranteed quota of gormless, spaced-out men wandered around like Neanderthals, while dippy alice-banded girls flirted with their hair, and flogged them useless ethnic nick nacks from Sri Lanka. You see, typically, I always leave my Christmas presents to the last minute.
Incidentally chaps, probably about the worst present you can give to a girl is kitchen equipment. It's a funny thing. For some reason, women seem to think that it relegates them to the status of kitchen slave, by appointment. A few years ago, I very generously gave a pasta machine to my then girlfriend, and she went ballistic. The ultimate Christmas present nightmare would be a Magimix stuffed with kinky lingerie.
I would be delighted if anyone gave me some kitchen stuff- even a humble wooden spoon. Tom Parker Bowles wrote an excellent article recently, in which he urged readers to dispose of their gimmicky gadgets, and, instead, buy a few, high quality (albeit expensive) kitchen utensils. Brands of note are: Wusthof (knives), Le Creuset (pots), Stellar (pans), Mauviel (copper cookware), and Anolon Professional (non-stick). You have the advantage that these will probably last you a life time.
I've noticed that quite a few readers of The Greasy Spoon have been searching for wassail on the internet. As I'm feeling in a helpful mood, I'm revisiting a post that I wrote last year on the subject. I've also added a nice interactive link to a quirky short film I've found, explaining the wassail tradition in Herefordshire, England. Please take note of my own recipe for Mulled Cider. It's so utterly preferable to the ubiquitous Mulled Wine. I can't stress that enough. Here's the article:
Wassail is a traditional mulled punch, drunk at Christmas-time in the Northern and Germanic countries. Very Nordic. Wassailing can either mean the singing of carols (at Christmas, the serfs would wassail the Lord and Lady of the Manor), or, as in Gloucestershire, and other western counties, the wassailing of an apple tree- to ensure a good harvest, and drive away the evil spirits. This is done on Twelfth Night. I reckon that The Wicker Man was closer to the bone than many people realise.
Anyway, although I realise that the chances of wassailing an apple tree in down town Vancouver are practically zero, I'm going to give you my recipe for my very own wassail, otherwise known as Mulled Cider. I prefer it to Mulled Wine, I really do. The problem with the wine version, is that many people get it wrong. Very wrong. They chuck in a bottle of plonk, boil it up, and then add all sorts of other dodgy ingredients, including vodka; and the result is an over-acidic, pungent brew which can leave you with a god-awful hangover.
Mulled Cider is "different", smoother- and in my opinion delicious. There are no rules; but to get the best results, I suggest that you keep it simple. In a large pan, I pour in a decent dryish West Country or Norman organic cider. Try and avoid the cheaper, sweeter, fizzy stuff. Next, I cut an orange in half, and add that. Do the same with a lemon. Now it's time for the spices. A cinnamon stick, a few cloves, nutmeg, and a kernel of ginger would work well. Taste it! If it's too dry, add a bit of brown sugar. Start warming it up. You do not want to boil it. Keep it simmering at just below boiling point. If you boil it, all the alcohol will vapourise away- and you want your party to go with a swing, don't you? If you're going to serve it in glass mugs, make sure that you put a silver spoon in the mug first. This will prevent the glass from shattering.
If you've got time, decorate the wassail with Lamb's Wool. This is just peeled apple simmered in cider until it goes woolly, and "explodes"; once that's done, you can float the pulp on top of the mulled cider.
I detect a whiff of change in the air. I've just got back from lunch at the Princess Victoria, a former Victorian Gin Palace in Darkest Shepherd's Bush. That's right- in that valhalla of discarded litter, mini cabs, kebab parlours and the imaginativly named "Chicken Land". The Princess Victoria, apparently, won the "Time Out Gastropub of the Year" award; but I don't think that's doing it full justice. I find gastropubs slightly tiresome, who doesn't? But, like Great Queen Street in Covent Garden, it's one of the new breed of re-invented Dickensian Dining Rooms flogging well-cooked, plain British food at its best.
There's a large dining room painted a blueish austerity grey, with mid-Victorian portraits of various whiskered worthies that would do the Reform Club proud. Add to the mix a heavy William IV mahogany sideboard, etched glass, long oak dining tables in the refectory manner, bare floor boards, non-matching chairs and leather armchairs. The type of austere room that I can imagine the directors of The Great Northern Railway having a hearty luncheon in, in say 1865. The whole effect was decidedly architectural, which was an interesting observation, as the architectural historian, Dan Cruickshank, happened to be tucking in at the next table.
Now to the food. My parsnip soup was to die for. Creamy, sweet, and savoury, with nuggety mushrooms lurking in the bottom of the tureen. The belly of pork was, perhaps, a trifle disappointing (cooked properly and topped with a decent bit of crackling, but, a smidgen on the mean side), however, the brussel sprouts were beautifully undercooked and crunchy, which, I suggest, is the only civilised way of cooking the critters. Pudding was bypassed in favour of a generous and gooey cheese board (including the obligatory goat's cheese) served with walnuts, and some form of Germanic looking, nutty black bread.
It's refreshing to see a restaurant- or should I say, dining room?, which we can claim as genuinely one of our own. English. Unpretentious. Cromwellian, yet full of Rabelasian cheer. It's the New Austerity.
I had forgotten how crazy I am about Foie Gras. The Girl and I have been beetling around Paris over the weekend, and it was an opportunity to re-visit old haunts. We were staying in the 7eme- very close to the fabulousBon Marché food market (La Grande Epicerie) and department store- which I would urge you to visit next time you're there. It's a massive supermarket, filled with every conceivable food you can possibly think of, albeit with a French slant, naturellement. For some reason, I'm a big fan of terrines, and when I'm in France I always seem to end up ordering the stuff, time after time. I like the way the French serve foie gras: a simple slab of terrine, with a small ramekin or tot-glass of chutney or onion confit.
First stop was at Le Petit Prince de Paris (of vodka sorbet fame)- a popular, local restaurant in the Rue Lanneau, up near the Sorbonne. I like the place, it's good value, and inside is decorated with mirrors, candles, and slightly campy antiques. The food is excellent in a relaxed sort of way, and the service is friendly. I had the terrine de foie gras. It came with the obligatory confit, and a glass of cranberries. The bitter-sweetness of the cranberries was a perfect counter-foil to the richness of the foie-gras. Incidentally, the French seem to have a current obsession with square plates. What's this all about? I find it slightly pretentious, also off-putting and not very practical: your knife and fork has a tendency to scrape along the side of the plate rather too often. A bit like someone dragging their spikey finger nails down a blackboard. Anyway, back to the foie gras.
On Saturday night, I had the same thing all over again, but this time flavoured with vanilla. I adore vanilla- and that's worthy of a separate post at a later date. But, strangely enough, the best foie gras of the lot was at a tiny bistro in Le Marais, Chez Pierro. This is just a tiny brick-walled room with a few tables, a studenty yet discriminating clientele, and a young and enthusiastic staff. You didn't get much foie gras, only a few chunks with some delicious nutty bread, and seved with a pot of home-made mango and ginger chutney, but Mon Dieu, it was formidable.
By the way, you may already have noticed: I've added some fun, inter-active things to The Greasy Spoon. I'm conducting a Marmite poll. Please vote. Once you've pressed the button and cast your vote you will see a map of the world which tracks the distribution of Marmite haters and Marmite lovers around the globe. All utterly pointless of course, unless you're a shareholder in the Marmite Corporation of the United Kingdom. Much more useful is the "Answer Tips" application. Double-clickany word on The Greasy Spoon, and you will be taken to a detailed encyclopedic link, which might be especially useful if I've gone off on some bizarre tangent.
Where have the London roasted chestnut street sellers gone? Not that long ago, they were all over the place- in Piccadilly, outside The Ritz, several in the Charing Cross Road; quite a few near Oxford Circus. I liked the way they stacked up their hot chestnuts on their grimy braziers- in rows, and in little paper bags.
I love Chestnut Stuffing. Buy a packet of peeled chestnuts. Cut them in half, and then fry 225g of chopped streaky bacon. Turn up the heat, and add the chestnuts. Fry them on a high heat. Remove the chestnuts, and add 50g of butter to the pan, so that it mixes in with the bacon. Add 110g fresh brown breadcrumbs, and fry until brown. In a separate bowl, mix up the chestnuts, the breadcrumbs and bacon, a bunch of chopped watercress, a beaten egg, and season with lots of salt and pepper, and a tablespoon of caster sugar.
Still on the subject of chestnuts, if you've ever wondered, here's how they make marron glacés in France: the chestnuts are blanched in lightly salted water to loosen their membranes. The membranes are removed. Next, the chestnuts are simmered in a vanilla flavoured sugar syrup for up to twenty four hours. Finally, the marron glacés are dried out in a hot oven.
I'm quite curious about the food people ate in the Middle Ages. In The Big Fat Duck Cookbook, Heston Blumenthal mentions his fascination with a bizarre 14th century French cookery book,Le Viander de Taillevent, in which a chicken is plucked alive, basted with soya, wheat-germ and dripping to simulate roasting, coaxed asleep, and then 'brought back to life' at the table.
In case you're wondering, the rather beautiful illustration is from the Duc de Berry's Book of Hours and depicts the month of January. It probably shows the Twelfth Night banquet, as during the Middle Ages the focus of the Christmas festivities tended to be during the Twelve Days of Christmas, and after the Advent Fast.
I've adapted a 15th century English recipe for "Goose in a Garlic and Grape Sauce" which you could easily make at home. I haven't tried it yet, so I've no idea what it tastes like- it could be foul:
You make a stuffing out of garlic cloves, seedless grapes, chopped parsley and salt, and then stick it up a goose. Roast the bird in an oven set at 350༠C (twenty minutes per pound). When you're happy that the goose is cooked, take it out of the oven, and set aside to cool.
Spoon out the cooked stuffing and blend it in a food processor, adding three hard-boiled egg yolks, and half a cup of cider vinegar. Spoon the finished sauce over the goose.
There's an urban myth currently doing the rounds that Santa Claus (or as we say here in Blighty, Father Christmas) was invented by the Coca-Cola Corporation of America. Well, there's a little bit of truth in the story. Santa Claus is an amalgamation of the 17th century English folk personification of Christmas, "Father Christmas" , and the 19th century "Saint Nick" of Clement Clarke Moore's poem, "The Night Before Christmas". Father Christmas was usually portrayed as a scrawny, bearded old man wearing a fur robe, and the "Spirit of Christmas Present" in Charles Dickens's "A Christmas Carol" was illustrated wearing a similar robe, but in green. In Europe, "St Claus" was sometimes imagined as a sprightly little elf.
The modern image of Santa Claus (the one you see at your local department store grotto); the red cap and suit, huge buckled belt, enormous stomach, black boots and Mr Kiplingesque whiskers was, in part, invented by a series of Coca-Cola advertisments illustrated by Haddon Sundblom. These ran from the 1930's.
Talking of Coca-Cola, I've got a slightly weird recipe for you: it's "Ham Glazed in Coca-Cola".Okay, it doesn't sound that great; but as Coke is really just a very sugary, brown, fizzy, syrup, there's reason why this shouldn't work nicely on a lovely, juicy ham. And the recipe's an old favourite from the American Deep South, too. Here's how you make it:
You get hold of a large pan, and into that you place a medium sized gammon. Throw in a peeled onion (for flavour), and then pour in a litre of coca-cola. Bring to the boil, put the lid back on, and turn down the heat. Let it braise in the liquid for 2 1/2 hours.
Take the gammon out of the pan, and let it rest. Remove the skin and preheat your oven to 210C. Meanwhile mix up a glaze from 100g breadcrumbs, 100g brown muscovado sugar, two tablespoons of French Dijon Mustard, and a tablespoon of Colman's Mustard Powder. Add a spoonful or so of coca-cola to the mixture, and then slap it onto the gammon. Roast the gammon in the hot oven for about ten minutes, or until the glaze has cooked.
Incidentally, I've just had an interesting comment from "carrotosaurus": it's a recipe for White Borscht. Go and have a look...
Oh crikey, I'm not even sure if I like eggnog. You see, in England, we hardly ever have it. To be entirely honest with you, until I started writing this post, I didn't really know what it was. Okay, I knew it had egg in it, perhaps a splash of cognac too, but that was about it. Even thought it might have had something to do with Advocaat, which in a sense, it has, as they're made from similar ingredients.
There's an interesting article on the history of eggnog on the net. It originated in England, apparently, and then became popular in the United States, especially at Christmas.
I found a recipe for a Mexican version of eggnog in Elisabeth Lambert Ortiz's excellent little book, The Festive Food of Mexico: Ponche de Leche y Emas y Cognac. Her recipe will make 4.5 litres of the stuff.
Beat 15 egg yolks with 450g caster sugar in a large bowl until light and lemon coloured. Whisk in 2 litres of milk. Pour the mixture into the top of a double boiler set over hot water and cook. Stir at a very low heat until the mixture is thick enough to coat a spoon. Remove from the heat and stir in a tablespoon of grated orange peel. Whisk in a bottle of cognac (or other brandy). Serve in tots or small punch cups topped with a little grated cinammon, and one or twowafer thin strips of orange peel for decoration. If you're in the mood, you can also put a cinnamon stick into each cup.
Gravlax is the Scandinavian way of pickling Salmon. In Norway, it's called Gravet Laks. In Iceland, Graflax, and in Denmark, Gravad Laks. This means, literally, "Grave Salmon", and refers to the Medieval practice of curing the raw fish by burying it in the sand above the level of the high tide. It's probably the perfect first course for the Christmas season. I like it's simplicity- and it's fun to make too. I've based this method of making it on a Jane Grigson recipe mentioned in Paul Levy's The Feast of Christmas.
You start off with a tail piece of salmon, weighing approximately 1 kg. Get your fishmonger to slice it in half, lengthways, and to remove the backbone, so that you end up with two slices of fish. Remove the remaining 'pin bones' with a pair of tweezers. Gravlax is usually made with the skin of the fish left on, but if you prefer, you can remove it.
Next, you need to mix up 'The Cure". Combine the following ingredients in a bowl: one heaped tablespoon of sea salt, one tablespoon of brown sugar, one teaspoon of crushed black peppercorns, and one tablespoon of cognac, schnapps or vodka.
Take some tin foil, and lie it down, flat. Spread some of the cure onto the foil. Lie one of the salmon pieces down onto the foil. Spread more of the cure onto the upper side of the salmon. Next, sprinkle lots of fresh, chopped dill on top of the salmon. Take the second piece of salmon, spread it with the cure, and place it directly on top of the first piece of salmon, so that you end up with a sort of salmon sandwich, with the dill and cure mixture filling up the middle. Does that make sense?
Fold over the tin foil, and crunch it tightly around the salmon pieces, so that it forms a package. Lie this in a shallow dish, and press some weights down on top of it. I use some heavy iron weights from my grandmother's old-fashioned scales I've got lying around in my kitchen. Keep the salmon in a cool place for up to five days, turning the fish over once or twice. You'll find that juices from the fish will run out and mix with the cure and the dill. In effect, you're curing the salmon.
To serve the Gravlax, take it out of the tin foil, drain away the juices, and slice it thinly. I like it with dark rye bread and Dill Sauce.
You make Dill Sauce in a similar way to mayonnaise. Crack an egg yolk into a bowl, and mix in a dollop of French Dijon mustardand a tablespoon of white sugar. Whisk, and start to add Grapeseed Oil, drop by drop- as you would with a mayonnaise. The emulsion will thicken. Keep going until you're happy with the consistency. I like it thick. Flavour the sauce with two tablespoons of white wine vinegar, and season with salt and pepper. Finish it off by mixing in a decent amount of fresh, chopped dill. It's best if you remove the dill stalks, and then chop the feathery bits of the dill plant finely.
Christmas Pudding is a British obsession; I don't think our American cousins are that keen on it, which is a great shame, 'cos it's a fine old thing. I love Christmas Pudding. The way your spoon plunges into the moist (you hope!), rich, fruity mass; the contrast with the smooth, rich, alcohol infusedbrandy butter, and the noble tradition of soaking the pudding in even further brandy, and then setting it alight. Traditionally, the Christmas Pudding was made on "Stir-Up Sunday", which was the last Sunday before Advent, (about four to five weeks before Christmas Day). This is the way I make it:
First, you need to stir up all the following ingredients in a pudding basin: 350g mixed fruit and peel (this means crystallised peel, dried apricots, currants, saltanas, raisins, grated lemon rind, and grated orange rind); 50g chopped glace cherries, 25g flaked almonds, 50g dried suet (you can't get the proper stuff anymore- the EU has made it illegal), 35g white breadcrumbs, 35g plain flour, 70g moist dark brown sugar, 50g grated apple, and a dash of mixed spice and grated nutmeg. Some weirdos add carrot- but very sensibly, I leave this one out.
Once you've stirred all the ingredients together well, add two beaten eggs, the juice of half a lemon, and half an orange, pour in two tablespoons of a dark stout (ie Guinness), a tablespoon of black treacle, and a dash of decent Scotch Whisky. Most recipes will tell you to add brandy, but being a contrarian, I've decided that whisky works better. Stir it like mad.
Now's the time to add the mixture to a basin. Recently, I've had this thing about those old-fashioned ball-shaped puddings- the ones that you see in Dickens and Walt Disney. I managed to track down a ball-shaped pudding mould from Divertimenti in the Fulham Road, and used that- but a traditional ceramic pudding basin will be just dandy. Smear the inside of the basin with butter. This will stop the pudding sticking to the side. Pour in the mixture. Top off with a piece of buttered greaseproof paper, ideally cut down to fit. Finally, place a cloth over the basin, and tie it off at the top with a bit of string.
Steam it for five to six hours. This means getting hold of a large pan, filling it about a quarter full with water and bringing it to the boil. Place the pudding in the middle of the pan, and put the lid on. The steam will rise up within the pan, and cook the pudding. Once it's cooked, leave it in a cool place with a piece of tin foil on top. It will mature in the run-up to Christmas. On the great day itself, you will need to steam it for a further three hours.
As a child, I always knew that Christmas had arrived by the encouraging state of our 'fridge. My mother was (is) an excellent cook; and at Christmas, this meant: Glazed York Ham, Potted Mushroom Salad, Cumberland and Cranberry Sauce, Home-Made Chutneys, Sage Stuffing, Gravlax with Dill Sauce, Smoked Eel, Spiced Beef, Mince Pies and Christmas Pudding.
I have to put my hand up and admit that I am a hypocrite. In yesterday's post I accused Nigella Lawson of late-night 'fridge raiding, and when it comes to the jar of Potted Mushroom Salad lurking tantilisingly in my mother's 'fridge, I am utterly guilty of this crime myself.
Here's how you make Potted Mushroom Salad: You'll need 900g of mushrooms. I would suggest that for extra flavour, you go for the brown chestnut variety; button mushrooms are, frankly, a bit of a yawn. Chop up the mushrooms into quarters, and then sauté them in a mixture of butter and oil at a high heat. The addition of oil will help to stop the butter burning. Add two crushed cloves of garlic, and cook briefly, making sure the garlic doesn't burn.
Turn down the heat, and pour over 150ml of white wine, or a decent cider, and then add plenty of salt and pepper. Crank up the heat, and bring the mushrooms and wine to the boil. Keep at it, until there is hardly any liquid left in the pan. This will take, say, ten minutes.
Reduce the heat, and leave the mushrooms to cool. Mix in some finely chopped parsley. (Chop the parsley up as finely as you can, otherwise it will go soggy). Spoon the mushrooms into sterilised jars with an airtight lid, and top the mushrooms up with French Dressing. The dressing's up to you- I make a classic dressing from mustard, olive oil, white wine vinegar, salt and sugar.
It's December, it's Advent. Here in London, it's suddenly cold. With the run up to Christmas, I'm going to be concentrating on Christmas food, but we're going to kick off with a look the dreaded Christmas cookery book market.
Come mid-November, the bookshops are suddenly awash with Christmas themed cookery books. I had a quick look at the best-selling lists on amazon.co.uk: Nigella Christmas: Food, Family, Friends, Festivities is currently in the lead at number one, with that old chestnut, Delia Smith's Christmas coming up fast from behind at number three. I've got mixed feeling about both of those two. Delia's recipes are often good (I detect the influence of Simon Hopkinson), but there is just something too perfectionist and goody-goody (butter's a sin!) about her style. Nigella's the opposite: she-er- looks fab (a saliva inducing mid-life fantasy) but I'm disturbed by all the late night 'fridge raiding "finger in the taramasalata" stuff going on- and I hate to say it, I'm not sure that her rather mucky recipes are up to the ticket, either.
No, for me, the Christmas book of choice has to be Paul Levy's The Feast of Christmas. This is one of my all-time favourite food books, if not my favourite book of all time. Paul Levy is a highly literate food critic, and writes beautifully. The Feast of Christmas was originally a publisher's tie-in for a television series shown some time ago on good old Channel Four (back in those halcyon days when it was producing stimulating and intelligent television programmes). Paul Levy looks at the mythology and history behind Christmas, and includes Christmas recipes from food writers such as Claudia Roden, Ken Hom, Frances Bissell and M.F.K. Fisher. It's The Greasy Spoon's Book of the Month.
Elizabeth David's Christmas is another good 'un. Published after her death, and edited by Jill Norman, Elizabeth David's Christmas includes 150 Christmas recipes from her private papers. These include Marcel Boulestin's Turkey, Roast Capon with tomatoes and rice and walnut stuffing, Fish Consommé, and Lemon and Celery Sauce.
I've just got back from a quick business trip to Washington D.C. I like Washington: it's a grown up sort of place; understated, with fabulous museums and art galleries, swanky hotels, oodles of history, and fabulous eighteenth century colonial architecture in the Georgetown district. Having a bit of time on my hands, I took refuge from the pouring rain at the Old Ebbitt Grill on 15th Street- almost literally a stone's throw from The White House; incredibly convenient for a certain Mr Barack Obama if he's suddenly feeling a bit peckish.
The Old Ebbitt Grill is a Washington institution, and many famous American politicians, movers and shakers have crossed its threshold over the years. The original restaurant was founded in 1856, and moved to it's present address in the 1980's. You could see this clearly in the decor: there was a nice old 19th century dial clock over the door (presumably brought over from the original restaurant), acres of dark mahogany and various historic bits and pieces scattered around the restaurant, but the whole effect was ruined by the huge and tacky wall murals, painted in particularly nasty shades of turquoise and beige.
This reminded me of the fate of P.J. Clarke's in Manhatten. This used to be a lovely, shabby, Irish bar on 55th and 3rd; the haunt of Truman Capote, Jacqueline Kennedy and the like; with a dirty, cracked photograph of Abe Lincoln above the counter, grumpy Irish bartenders, and a 50's Juke Box that didn't work. And what did the new owners do? They closed it down; ripped out all the original fittings, and then put everything back in again, exactly how it was- except, and it's a huge except, everything was not only identical, but also happened to be brand, spanking new. 'orrible.
It should be easy to put together. Make Eggs Benedict in the usual way, but place the Maryland Crab Cakes on top of the ham slice, cover them with the top of the muffin, and then pour over the Hollandaise Sauce, to which you've previously stirred in a spoonful or so of spicy Old Bay Seasoning. It's simple, classic American food at its best.
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