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.
I've just been poisoned. By a packet of Chinese pine nuts. Here's what happened: about three days ago, I had a sudden craving for pine nuts and drove down to buy a packet from my Sainsbury's Local in the Battersea Park Road.
Yesterday, I suddenly developed a nasty bitter taste in the back of my mouth. Metallic, too. Very unpleasant. Anything that I eat or drink tastes revolting.
Now, I'm not one to panic, but I knew something was up. In an uncharacteristic Woody Allen moment, I typed "nasty bitter taste at the back of the mouth" into my computer.
And guess what came up? Pages and pages of internet forum posts from people suffering exactly the same symptoms. A whole sub-culture of poisoned bitter-taste-in-the-mouth sufferers. It's caused by pine nuts. From China. The taste develops about two to three days after you've eaten these nuts, and can last anything from a few days to several weeks.
The phenomenon was first identified in a paper written for the European Journal of Emergency Medicine in 2001. It's all to do with something called triglycerids, and is caused, I think, by oxidisation. In other words, China may be selling rancid pine nuts to the West. Makes you think, doesn't it?
It's simple. It's delicious. It's a classic of French cuisine. This recipe is almost fool-proof if you follow my exact instructions.
Buy a slab of dark chocolate. Go for a chocolate with a high cocoa content (75% cocoa solids and above). I used a Swiss Lindt chocolate with over 85% cocoa solids. Melt it very slowly in a double boiler (ie a bain-marie) with about four tablespoons of water, until it's smooth and shiny. Make sure the chocolate remains warm, rather than hot. Remove it from the heat.
Next add two tablespoons of unsalted butter and a tablespoon of crème fraiche. Mix them in very slowly. Now it's time for the eggs. Take hold of three eggs (kept at room temperature), and separate the yolks from the whites. Add the three egg yolks, one by one to the chocolate mixture. Stir them in very slowly.
In a separate bowl, whisk up the remaining three egg whites. Make sure that the bowl is clean, and there is no trace of egg yolk, otherwise the whites won't get stiff. Whisk them until they are form stiff peaks. Add a pinch of salt, and a tablespoon or so of fructose or white sugar. This will give the egg whites a lovely gloss. Now for the fun bit.
Add a dollop of the stiff egg whites to the chocolate mixture and stir it in very, very gently with a metal spoon. You need to hold your spoon as if it was a feather. What you don't want to do (as I did the first time I attempted this) is to stir it briskly.The lighter your touch, the lighter your mousse. It's a fine art. Slowly stir in the remaining egg white.
Divide the mixture into ramekin dishes, and place them in your 'fridge for at least three hours. If you're in a cheffy mood, you can pipe the mousse into the ramekins in arty swirls, as shown in the photograph. Decorate with shavings of white and dark chocolate. Eat.
I seemed to have tapped into the zeitergeist: yesterday, there was another feature in, I think, The Sunday Times colour supplement, on the perfect chip. Which made me think- what's happened to our supposed national dish, fish and chips?
In the last few weeks, I seem to have fallen into a dangerously nostalgic, slightly reactionary mood: I was spluttering into my breakfast cuppa on Saturday morning when I read the ghastly news that Bates, the eccentric hatters of Jermyn Street, was under threat of closure. The Crown Estate has its eye on a juicy bit of property along the Haymarket end of the street, and are, apparently, keen to re-develop. I love Bates, and often drop by to touch my forlock to Binks, the stuffed cat and original cigar smoking St James's swell- I like the way he wears his topper at a jaunty angle, and the cut of his dash. Similarly, I've never felt the same since I heard the news that 'Finisterre' was to be replaced by 'FitzRoy' in the BBC Shipping Forecast. It's just not fair.
Back in the '80's, I lived in Notting Hill, and a regular port of call was Geale's. This was a fabulous fish and chip restaurant of the old school- red and white checked tablecloths, Windsor chairs, pints of bitter served in jugs, a chalked up blackboard, lovely crispy lard-based batter, proper English chunky chips, and bottles of Heinz Tomato Ketchup and malt vinegar in those little bottles with the plastic spouts. This was the place where famously, Jeremy 'In The Street Where You Live' Brett, struggling with manic depression and God knows what other gremlins, ordered champagne for the whole restaurant. Geale's is still there- sort of- but has now changed hands, and inevitably lost its original authentic London charm in an unnecessary designer make-over.
Over the next few weeks I'm going on a mission to try and find out where I can order authentic fish and chips in the old tradition. Lots of formica, grumpy proprietors, malt vinegar, fishing nets and linoleum will be the order of the day. I like the look of the North Sea Fish Restaurant in Bloomsbury, and The Golden Hind in Marylebone Lane.
There was an excellent article by Christopher Hirst in The Independent yesterday, about how to make the perfect chips, sorry, America- "freedom fries". After much experimentation and angst he came up with a method loosely based on Heston Blumenthal's:
1) Peel and chip 400/500g potatoes, and then wash them thoroughly.
2) Boil a pan of large salted water. Add the chips and return to the boil, and then reduce to a gentle simmering for ten minutes.
3) Remove the chips from the water, and leave to cool on a cake rack. When cool, chill in the 'fridge.
4) In a heavy bottomed saucepan, heat 1.5 litres of groundnut oilto 130C. Using a wire mesh basket, fry the chips for nine minutes.
5) Remove the basket, and shake off the oil. Cool the chips on a cake rack, and then chill in the 'fridge for the second time.
6) Heat the oil to 190c. Fry the chips in a mesh basket for 2-3 minutes, until they are golden. Drain the chips, then spread them on a double layer of kitchen paper. Serve immediately.
Hands up who remembers The Gasworks? Twenty-odd years ago, I started my glamorous career in the so-called Art World- as a porter at a well-known auctioneer found in the grotty fag-end of The King's Road, London; humping antique brown furniture from lorry to saleroom, and stacking shabby Victorian paintings against the brick walls of the warehouse. A favourite after-work refuge was The Gasworks restaurant (a last gasp of the myth that was Swinging London), in that no man's land between Chelsea and Fulham- a former haunt of Princess Margaret, the Rolling Stones and, if the internet is to be believed, Noel Gallagher.
Where do I begin? It was a London institution, where eccentricity became a creed. Outside, it looked a bit like a private house, with its green painted stucco, latticed windows of stained glass, garish window boxes, and niches filled with ponderous busts and Neo-Classical statues. The proprietors were- how can I put this politely? Different. Shells (Cheryl?) of Wagnerian proportion, fag in mouth and forthright opinion, ruled over her kitchen, offering a choice of rack of lamb (some lover-ly lamb, dearie?) or duck 'all orange'. Jacks, her husband, was a thin, dapper man with a trimmed grey beard and silk stockings. Rumour had it that he had previously held some sort of vague career in the antiques business. He liked to join you for an after-dinner cigar- this had more than a whiff of Reggie and Ronnie about it.
The dining room was reminiscent of an Edward Gorey illustration or a Pinewood set from that early 70's meisterwerk, The Legend of Hell House. Herewas the perfect place to lie on a chaise longue, sip a gin and tonic and admire the Victorian bric-a brac: pornographic chess sets, oil paintings of dubious antiquity and provenance, heavy gilt frames, doubtful portraits in the manner of Greuze, and wall-mounted taxidermy; all set off by a long, polished mahogany dining table, high-back 'Jacobethan' chairs and a massive chandelier.
Choice was not a word in The Gasworks' vocabulary: champignons en croute (a nice bit of tinned mushroom poised daintily on a slice of toasted Sunblest) or avocado pear; rack ('racked' being the operative word) of lamb or assassinated duck; some sort of gateaux horror topped with UHT cream from a spray-on aerosol. Indeed, The Gasworks seemed to be almost obsessed with the trend setting avocado: their seemingly endless supply was stacked up high in the corridor which led to the bogs, which, in turn, were lined to the ceiling with amusing nineteenth-century erotica.
I held my 30th birthday party there (I was less interested in food, then), and as that night finished in the wee wee hours (Jack locked the front door at midnight) and the alcohol flowed, my memory is hazy. Pearl, the long-suffering waiter, rather sweetly made me a little chocolate cake with the word 'Love' piped on the top in shaky handwriting.
If they approved of you for some reason (as a wannabe auctioneer, I was in 'the biz', Guv), everything was just dandy. If they didn't (and this could change on a daily basis, as when my brother in law had a bit of mutton bone pointed directly at him, and told that he was 'evil'), you couldn't even get past the oak studded door. An earnest European couple in immaculate Loden coats, no doubt enticed by the cosy Englishness of the bow-windowed exterior and the enchanting prospect of avocado vinaigrette, had the door slammed in their faces and were told to 'get lorst, and don't even think of comin' back!'.
But a few months ago I did go back. From the outside, everything looked the same: Jack's black Rolls-Royce Corniche (fitted with darkened glass and vanity numberplates) was still parked opposite, and the house looked immaculate. But most ominously, the menu had been taken down. We threw gravel at the upstairs windows, but the net curtains remained firmly closed, and we didn't even get a twitch. Sadly, it looks like Jacks and Shells are no longer plying their trade. I do hope they haven't gone to the great gasworks in the sky, and are enjoying their retirement. That fast changing corner of SW6 won't be the same without them. Even without the duck.
Many moons ago, I used to live in Hampstead. Subsequently, I've always had rather fond memories of the place; comparing it (perhaps foolishly) to Montmartre; and having been weaned as a nipper on Walt Disney's The Aristocats, think longingly of crooked chimneys, jumbled roof-tops, Victorian gas-lamps, hilly cobbled streets, and silvery Parisian light. In London.
If you've been following my blog, you'll know that I'm not especially keen on change for change's sake, and think continuity is often a quality overlooked by many restaurants. In a world of establishments modelling themselves on the Los Angeles airport transit lounge, circa 1961, it's refreshing to visit such restaurants as Wilton's (all banquettes, shabby velvet and heavily gilded frames) and Odin's (Edwardian British paintings, crisp linen tablecloths, and a discreet double-breasted maitre d'). Yesterday we had a Sunday afternoon coffee at the Louis Pâtisserie, and I can tell you now that it hasn't changed one iota since I last graced it with my presence- oh- at least ten to fifteen years ago.
Louis' is an institution. It's a Hungarian pâtisserie, café and tea rooms on Heath Street- that means it's in the centre of Hampstead village, proper. For some reason, East European restaurants always look a bit like railway carriages or waiting rooms- I can think of The Gay Hussar (railway carriage), or Daquise (waiting room). Louis' looks like a railway carriage- but a first class railway carriage at that: panelled with cherry wood, lined with slightly dubious 1950's still-lifes, and offering its clientele the luxury of banquette seating covered in sinful kidron. It's staffed by rather efficient little old ladies- heavily made up, plucked eyebrows, bee-hives, pearls; and (reassuringly) younger blonde girls with cracking figures and a brisk attitude.
Louis' is deservedly busy, and we had to wait in the crush for about ten minutes before being seated. One of the blonde girls brought a large silver plated tray of tempting looking goodies. I chose a chestnut, chocolate cream thingy, with worm-like bits on the top. The Girl went for some sort of chocolate torte, decorated with an L for Louis in swirly writing. The strawberry topped cake looked fabulous, too.
In this sort of place, you can't but help listen in to other people's conversations (not that I would normally dream of doing this sort of disreputable activity). There were two youngish types (clearly from distant shores), not I regret plotting revolution, but trying instead to finish off some sort of marketing deal in broken English- with lots of gesticulation, stabbing of the table, and 'how do you say's'. The rest of us were more interested in the cake.
I'm amused by soufflés. There's just something terribly camp about them, isn't there? I'm not exactly sure what it is: the acute accent on the e? Or the high drama of 'The Rise", perhaps? The fact that the Table has to wait for the Soufflé, rather than the Soufflé having to wait for the Table- giving you the chance to fuss dramatically around the kitchen, and then to have queeny hysterics when your soufflé collapses.
Control Freaks love them, too. There's all that stuff about the right temperature, the correct way to beat the egg whites, the proper way to do this, the proper way to do that. So I was quite happy to leave this one to The Girl, who came up with a fabulous aromatic soufflé, flavoured with tarragon.
I will go as far as saying that I think her soufflé was the best one I've ever had. Tarragon, as you will remember, has an intense aniseedy, licoriquey, Pernod-y taste, and is considered by le gratin to go extremely well with poultry. It worked well with the cheese in the soufflé, and gave the dish a punchy, herbal flavour. If you like tarragon, you're going to love it. Not that I want to patronise you in any way; I am aware that most subscribers to The Greasy Spoon have probably made more soufflés, than I've had hot dinners:
First you need to turn on you oven. It's really important that you get your oven really hot (200C) as this sudden heat is what makes ths soufflé rise. Get hold of a soufflé dish, and smear the inside with the greasy bit of a butter wrapper.
Next, it's time to make a roux. You'll remember how to do this. Flour cooked in a large knob of butter, stirred until smooth, and then turned into a sloppy kind of sauce with the addition of milk. Keep the pan on a gentle heat and stir or whisk like crazy, until all the lumps have been removed.
Remove from the heat, and let the white sauce cool down a bit (you don't want the eggs to cook as yet). Whisk in three egg yolks, add a dollop of mustard, grate in someGruyère cheese, and throw in a good handful of tarragon leaves. Season with salt, pepper and lots of grated nutmeg.
Whisk up three egg whites until they're stiff. It's very important not to get any fat in the mixing bowl (ie egg yolk) as this will prevent the egg whites thickening up. The mixing bowl needs to be extremely clean. Finally, mix the egg white into the cheesy, herby, white sauce, using gentle hand movements. Use a metal spoon.
That's about it. The soufflé mixture, not surprisingly, goes into the soufflé dish, and the dish goes into the hot oven. Half an hour later it should be ready. If it hasn't risen properly, you can blame me, this blog, the cat's mother, and the world in general. Nothing like throwing a tantrum to clear the air, is there?
With Shrove Tuesday looming (it's on the 24th February), here's a genuine pancake recipe from Stone's Chop House. Stone's was a famous old restaurant in Panton Street, near Piccadilly Circus, London. I fear it went out of business many moons ago. Here's the recipe (taken word-for-illiterate-word) from "The Best of British Cooking" published as a "book cassette" in the very early 1970's:
Separate eggs and mix yolks with cream. Whip whites with sugar then fold into mixture. Pour into small frying pan (4 in for 1 pancake) heated and buttered. Place in oven for about 5 minutes at 400F (Mark 6). Remove and tip out pancake and fill with filling made by putting apple, raisins, butter and cinnamon in a pan and heating and adding rum at the end. Fold and serve, sprinkling with icing sugar.
I've got mixed feelings about all this 'organic" malarkey. The Girl is far greener than I am, and has persuaded me to recycle properly- something which I had spectacularly failed to do in the past. And one side of me knows that she's right, as you will find from my previous posts urging you to buy organic food. But there's another side of me, alas, which remains sceptical.
Recently, I saw poor old Rick Stein humiliated on television when he was asked to pick out an organic, free-range chicken at a blind tasting. He thought about it long and hard, and then chose the mass-produced, battery chicken. Now, I'm not in any way supporting battery farming- as amongst other things, I think it's unnecessarily cruel; but there was a part of me which leapt into the air with smug glee when this happened.
I've also noticed a tendency (in London at least) for Greens to be found lurking amongst the- how can I put it- richer, chattering classes. A few years ago, I was invited down to a friend's idyllic weekend retreat. We were banned from travelling in more than one car ('to save the environment'), and I think from memory, urged to share a bath. By the end of the weekend, I was having dark fantasies, not surprisingly about the shared baths, but about backing the double exhaust of a V8 engined Bristol 411 onto her organic Elizabethan herb garden.
If you live in London, you will have seen the extraordinary G-Wiz. This is one cute little deathtrap of a car, manufactured in India, and powered exclusively by electricity. I was tempted to get one- you plug them into the mains, and you don't have to pay the Mayor's Congestion Charge. But - and it's a huge but- I am told on good authority that you have to buy a replacement battery every few years- which costs in the region of £3000, is decidely toxic, and consequently not green at all.
It's harder to be green if you don't earn much money, have a family to look after, and are currently finding things tough. Surely, it's going to be the least of your priorities in that sort of situation, right? But proper home-cooked food is another thing in itself, and it doesn't cost much at all to rustle up say, a healthy and delicious parsnip soup, a creamy mushroom risotto, or a rib-sticking Toad in the Hole. I'm with Jamie on this one...
Mein Gott, this one takes me back: Toad in the Hole is perfect fodder for a Saturday Lunch. I feel strongly that there are certain dishes that are best suited to particular days of the week; and for some weird reason Toad means Saturday lunch. Not Sunday or Tuesday, or even Friday for that matter. Saturday.
Incidentally, as much as I am curious to sample one of those tantalising little critters, the 'toad' is some sort of English slang for sausage. It's a bit like Welsh Rabbit (which ain't a rabbit), or Scotch Woodcock (which ain't a woodcock, either).
Back to the Toad: Heat your oven to 220C (425F). Get hold of some decent, fat, organic sausages and chuck them into a roasting tin with a few knobs of lard. You could have fun experimenting with different types of sausage. The better your sausage, the better your Toad in the Hole will taste. Cook the sausages in the oven for about ten minutes.
Meanwhile, mix up the batter. Sieve 4oz (110g) of self raising flour into a bowl, and add a pinch of salt and some pepper. Make a hole or a "well" in the centre of the flour, and pour in 5 fluid oz (150ml) of semi-skimmed milk into the hole. Crack in an egg, too. Mix the flour, milk, and egg up very gradually with a wooden spoon. Beat well, and then add the same amount of milk, again. Pour the finished batter over the sausages, and cook them in the oven for a further 45 minutes or so, until the Toad is risen and browned.
The Onion Gravy is a cinch. You slice up some onions, and brown them in a frying pan. If you add a few pinches of sugar and salt, this will help them to caramelise. You want them to get brown and a bit burnt. This is a good thing. Add a tablespoon of flour, and let it cook in the oniony fat. Once the onions and flour are brown enough, you can deglaze the pan with some stock, water, and perhaps, a slug or two of white wine. Instead of gravy browning (what's that?), I use a few drops of Soy Sauce, which will give the gravy an even richer colour and taste. A teaspoon of redcurrent jelly is not a bad plan, either. Onion Gravy should be thin.
I think I've probably just had the best oyster of all time. At the Whitstable Fish Market. In a shed. The future Mrs Aitch and I were down in Kent for the weekend, and decided to investigate Whistable; that fascinating sea-side town on the North Kent coast- where the Thames Estuary meets the bleak North Sea.
Forget all your fancy London oyster bars, and swanky fish restaurants; I've decided that there is only one way to sample oysters, and that's the way we did it late on Saturday afternoon: standing on a wet concrete floor in the Whitstable harbour fishing sheds.
The fishmonger shucks your oyster on the spot (65p a shot), piles up some crushed ice on a small plastic tray, and throws on a roughly cut wedge of lemon. You take your tray over to a grubby formica table, where there are plastic bottles of chili and malt vinegars, and Tabasco.
Really fresh oysters give you an immediate kick: it's the ozone rich, salty liquor- which tastes slightly metallic; and is full of zinc. It's the taste of The Sea.
Woody Allen via last.fm
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