The Greasy Spoon | Food & Culture

Pink Peppercorns

 

 

 

I'm suddenly obsessed with pink peppercorns. Big deal, I hear you cry. I expect you've been munching them for several years. But even if you have, are they not a godsend?

Peppery- yes. Strong in taste- sort of. Not really. Sweet- yes. Fruity- yes. And if you add them to a sauce, or as a garnish (sorry, dreadful word, but you know what I'm getting at) they can add an instant je ne sais quois to an otherwise bland dish.

Here's my recent invention for a light, summery dressing:

It's for an "Orange Viniagrette with Pink Peppercorns". I squeezed out the juice of an orange, and combined it with a teaspoon of white sugar, a splash of cider vinegar, a splash of water, a few grains of sea salt, fresh majoram leaves (picked off their stalks) and a handful of crushed pink peppercorns. The peppercorns are suprisingly mild, so it can take it. Put it this way, you can eat the peppercorns raw, and it's a pleasant "taste sensation". Visually, the pink peppercorns are also pretty- and that's important.

I quite like the idea of warming this dressing up and drizzling it over braised fennel and sliced, pink-ish duck breasts.

 

Sainsbury's Own Label 1962-1977

 

 

Over the years I've had an on-off relationship with Sainsbury's. Actually, I tell a lie, scrub out the "on" bit. Back in the mists of time, probably before many of you were born, Sainsbury's had a reputation for quality. There may have even been a hint of smugness in the middle class housewife's "I bought it at Sainsbury's". 

I can just about remember the Sainsbury's in Gerrard's Cross High Street, used as a location in Noel Coward's "Brief Encounter"- which says it all (actually, I tell another fib, as it was nearby Beaconsfield High Street, but you will get my drift); an old fashioned shop with a Mock Tudor shop front (circa 1914), with glazed Edwardian tiles, and a meat-counter, where a butcher in white apron and straw boater (or am I imagining this?) sliced out decent bits of ham on one of those stainless steel slicing machines. 

 

 

So where did it all go wrong? Some might point the long finger of suspicion at Tesco's. In the 70's "Tesco Reject" was a term of mild abuse, doled out by little boys in long shorts and grubby, bloodied knees. Today, in London, if you compare the two flag-ship stores of Sainsbury's (Nine Elms) and Tesco's (The Hoover Building) Tesco's wins hands down. I'm a frequent (if reluctant) shopper at Nine Elms (purely, I admit, out of sheer laziness) and although the staff are hardworking and cheery, they seem to be constantly let down by bad stocking policies; at times, this so-called "Super Store" feels like something out of the good old German Democratic Republic, circa 1968. It's pretty tired and shabby, too. There are plans afoot to replace Nine Elms with a shiny new mega-store; part of the huge re-generation project in the area: so I'm watching this one with interest. Please don't get me wrong on this, I want Sainsbury's to succeed.

There, I've had my say. Which brings me to this fascinating book I discovered at the Artwords Bookshop in the fabulous Broadway Market. It's Jonny Trunk's Own Label, Sainsbury's Design Studio 1962-1977. It's a terrific book and a reminder that packaging of relatively recent years is an often-forgotten or overlooked phenomenon. In this case, I think images work better than words:

 

 

 

 

                     

 

 

Literary Boiled Eggs: A Winner is Announced

 

 

 

A big thank you to all those kind people who took the time (and bother) to enter The Greasy Spoon "Literary Boiled Eggs" competition. To remind you: I asked readers to describe the art of boiling an egg, but in the style of their favourite writer. The prize is a copy of Grub Street's "A Taste of Portugual". 

The standard of entries was high. There were some cracking efforts. Honourable mentions must go to Will "Worm" Sterling for his "hard-boiled" pastiche of the crime writer, Jame Ellroy; Nick Good for his flamboyant interpretation of a Dorian Gray style kitchen bust-up, and Jody Porter for his elegant take on the poetry of William Carlos Williams. 

But we have a clear winner. Please step forward one Katrina Dixon. Of all the entries, hers was the one which most clearly identified with the spirit of Greasy Spoonery. I also happen to be a fan of Edgar Allan Poe's creepy short story, The Black Cat- so I'm biased.

 

Edgar Allan Poe's How To Boil An Egg

 

I cannot conceive of how I first thought of it, but in the hours between midnight and dawn a perverse notion came to haunt me. True, the disease had seized hold of my senses like a demon - but oh, what a demon! A fiend of gourmet tastes! Hark, let me tell you!

You may fancy me mad, but madmen know nothing of breakfast. As the first pale light of dawn dissolved the nightmares of the night - oh, what a night! - I slipped into the kitchen - as dank and fearful a place as ever I have beheld. A gloom descended over me, agitated by a faint shivering. I had not worn my slippers. I ventured towards the cooker, eggbox in one hand, took one egg - one brown, speckled egg - and placed it quickly in the saucepan of cold water. I could not look. Why, I cannot say. A great fear overtook me, as if in this saucepan, this metal beast, my own wretched heart lay, rather than a simple egg.

I regained my composure - I was not mad! Yet at the moment of lighting the gas burner my weak frame shuddered. Such a flame as might have come from hell! My hands shook, and my fingers went tapping of their own accord, tap-tap-tapping on the counter - no! no more tapping! - as I waited for the water to boil. I dared not breathe. And then - a shriek such as only the damned might offer overtook me - the water had boiled!

Two minutes and the egg would be boiled. Boiled such that I could depart this loathsome place and be done with this distasteful task. But that noise - barely audible at first - was increasing with every second. Louder it arose and yet louder. How could anyone bear it? This ungodly spluttering of boiling water. This sinister bubbling. When would it stop! A great rage suddenly filled me and I fell to my knees, praying for anything to drown this noise. Anything would be better than this fateful agony! Louder - louder still - the infernal noise would not abate! No, I must scream - I must surely die!

I do not know what I might have done had the egg-timer not announced its shrill desist at that very point of my unravelling, yet it did. The terror was over. The deed was done. The egg was boiled!