The Greasy Spoon | Food & Culture

The Perfect Poached Egg

 

 

Despite writing a food blog, I'm not ashamed to admit to you that I've struggled to cook a decent poached egg. Over the years, I've been bombarded with advice. Some insisted on adding salt to the water, others considered this a serious no-no. Cheffy television types required you to swirl the water with a whisk, and slide the egg into the water from a saucer. An attractive girl on the television demonstrated how to poach eggs using sheets of cling-film. Mrs Beeton recommended that you add vinegar to the water. And so on, and so on. Everyone agreed that it was essential to use a fresh egg.

The trouble was that I also ended up with one mess of an egg. The white would spread everywhere, and in the worst case separate from the yolk. I happen to like soft, runny yolks, but this meant suffering a slightly undercooked white, reminiscent of you said it- snot. And on bad days, the egg white would turn an unappetising grey colour, and even congeal.

In desperation, I ordered one of those 'poach pod' things from a well-known mail order company, advertised as 'a brilliant new invention'. And the result?  Disaster. The result didn't look like any normal egg you and I know, the sort of elusive poached egg you might come across in a decent restaurant. The egg cooked well enough, but ended up with a rubbery white (is there some bizarre scientific connexion with plastic?) in a strange artificial looking shape, not disimilar to the miniature re-creation of a breast implant. Into the culinary dustbin of history went the brilliant invention.

I tried the clingfilm technique. But again, disaster. The egg white stuck to the plastic, and I managed to drop the soft egg all over the kitchen floor.

And then, Oh Praise The Lord!, I discovered (oh serendipity!) the brilliant Time Life 'Good Cook Series', edited by Richard Olney. And sure enough, there, in black and white and glorious technicolor, were simple instructions on how to 'poach an egg'. It works. This is how you do it: 

Take a shallow sauté pan (in the past, I had used a small, deeper pan) and fill it with water (note, no salt, no vinegar). Bring it to the boil. Turn off the heat. Immediately crack your fresh egg into the water, making sure that you crack it as near to the hot water as you can bear (this helps to keep the shape compact). 

Put the lid back onto the saucepan, and let it stand for just under three minutes. Slide the cooked egg onto a slotted spoon and transfer it to a bowl of cold water. This stops the cooking immediately. When you're ready, place the cooked egg onto a kitchen towel to drain off the water. Trim the edges of the egg white with a sharp knife. That's it.

When you're ready to eat them, dip them quickly into hot water to warm them up. You can play around with the timing according to taste. My idea of the perfect poached egg is a firm white (no snot in sight) and a firm-ish (but runny in the centre) yolk, which oozes when you cut into it. A cooking time of just under three minutes seems to do the trick.

 

The Greasy Spoon Visits...The Gunton Arms

 

 

One of the many beauties of England is the diversity of its landscape and architecture. The grey limestone of the Cotswold Hills surrenders to the warm red brick, clay and flint of the The Chilterns in the space of a few miles. Each county- however small- has its own identity. Norfolk, the most English of counties, is no exception, with its wide, open skies, undulating barley fields, ancient copses, Dutch gables and bleak, windswept salt marshes. 

 

And late August is an especially poignant time to visit, reminding me of the spectacular and languid cinematography in Joseph Losey's "The Go-Between", when the great fields turn to the colour of straw, and the heat and dust throw up spectacular Harvest Moons.

 

The Gunton Arms sits away from the Cromer Road, on the edge of a heart-breaking thousand acre deer park. The house itself, gabled, and built presumably, in 1840's chalet style, has more than a whiff of the Hunting Lodge about it. The art dealer, Ivor Braka, spent two years restoring the place with the help of the interior decorator and antique dealer, Robert Kime; re-imagining the interior as a relaxed country house of the Old School (Voysey-esque paper and worn leather in the hall, inlaid Hoshiapur side tables, deep free-standing bathtubs, recycled Persian runners, racing prints) accented with a choice selection of contemporary Brit Art, the likes of Mr Hirst, Miss Emin and Messrs Gilbert and George. It sounds incongrous, but here it works, harmonising into a relaxed whole, albeit with a slight edge. It's all a bit rock n' roll.

 

At first glance The Gunton Arms doesn't shout from the rooftops, but with time there's the realisation that everything works beautifully, with great attention to detail- there's a hidden light in the wardrobe, curtains have been beautifully sewn, the beds are spacious and comfortable, there are digital Roberts Radios by your bedside, your keyring is attached to a tiny deer antler from the park- a lovely touch. This is understatement taken to a high art. It's also staffed with a seemingly never-ending supply of helpful and charming young people.

There are eight bedrooms. We stayed in "Langtry" (it is thought that the Jersey Lily stayed in the house during the 1890's; it's relatively close to Sandringham). 

 

The restaurant (The Elk Room) is dominated by a huge pair of pre-historic Elk Antlers displayed over an open spit and grill: here you can watch the chef toast your Cumberland sausage. This must be an evocative room in autumn, especially when venison makes a welcome return, and the heat of the fire banishes the October chill. The menu is inspired by Mark Hix; this is very much my sort of thing: British food, cooked extremely well, for the food at the Gunton Arms is rather good.

Over two successive nights, we sampled (amongst other things) a Middle White Pork Terrine with Piccalilli (£7.50), Cornish Squid with Heritage Tomatoes and Chili (£6.50), Scallops marinated in olive oil and lemon juice, a Cider and Ham Hock Pie (£12.00), Barbequed Beef Brisket with Slaw (£14.50), home-made bread, and Ivor's Crab and Chili Pasta with Parsley (£12.50).

The terrine was superb, full of meaty flavour, and nicely offset with a tangy Piccalilli, properly made in the old-fashioned way. The Cider and Gammon Pie, again, came with a rich sauce, and is possibly one of the best pies I have recently tasted. The scallops, sadly, failed to meet their mark, their delicate sweet taste over powered by an unneccesary marinade, and Ivor's own pasta (although admirable in concept) was too salty and too spicy for most palates- but hey, these are trifling quibbles over what was otherwise, a delightful experience. The house wine (Am anti del vino prmitivo salento, 2011) was also a relative bargain at £16.00 a bottle: smooth, full of blackcurrent and velvet plum; a relevation. Iced tap water is served (in old whisky advertising jugs) without request.

 

After dinner we took our drinks into the garden and as darkness fell, watched the deer herds drift across the landscape.

As you've probably gathered, I like the Gunton Arms- very much indeed. They've got it right. Spot On. It's thoroughly unpretentious. There may be some who dislike the lively bar- it's very much still a pub, with a snooker table, television, rock music and bags of peanuts hanging from a saucy display card- but this is a good thing. There's nothing worse than a Farrow and Ball'd gastro-pub which alienates the locals, many of whom have probably been going there since before you or I were born.

There may be others who wring their hands over the torn leather, the slightly louche atmosphere, the naughty Tracy Emin plates hanging over the bar, the deer droppings in the park. And to them, I say, it's your loss and our gain. Four Cheers for The Gunton Arms! We will be returning.

Photographs from The Gunton Arms website.

 

The Gunton Arms, Cromer Road, Thorpe Market, Norwich, NR11 8TZ (01263 832010)

 

 

The Good Cook

 

 

It's fun to discover a new series of books to collect. Browsing the net, I came across the Time Life "The Good Cook" series, edited by none other than our old friend, the great American gourmet, Francophile and food writer, Richard Olney.

 

I'm ashamed to admit to you that I had never heard of it before. Several foodie websites rate it as one of the best, most useful, and most comprehensive cookery books ever produced; they have a cult following. Published in hardback between 1978 and 1981, they were sold on a month-by-month basis. There are a whopping 28 volumes to collect; you'll find them on ebay and amazon priced at a few pounds each. I think the American and British editions are slightly different. Here's an entertaining American television ad for the series, I've just discovered on youtube, featuring an extremely pretty Stepford-y housewife (If you're a subscriber to The Greasy Spoon, you will have to log back on via your browser to see it): 

 

              

 

I've ordered three so far- "Terrines, Pates & Galantines", "Hot Hors-d'Oeuvre", and "Snacks and Canapes", and from the moment the first one arrived, I can see what all the fuss is about. They're fantastic. This is serious cooking.

The first half of each volume covers technique (fully illustrated with step-by-step colour photographs), the second half has a comprehensive selection of recipes, carefully chosen from various highly reputable sources- Richard Olney, Jane Grigson, Michel Guerard, Fernand Point, Mrs Rundell, writers like that. The beauty of the thing, is that with 28 volumes covering a multitude of subjects, all the intricacies of sophisticated cookery can be explored in loving detail. I learnt, for instance, to add cold water at regular intervals to a simmering stock to stop it boiling. Sounds obvious, doesn't it?, but in the past I've just turned the heat down- and ended up with a cloudy stock as a result.

 

The Good Cook series is, of course, a trifle out of date (some even might consider it retro) with its emphasis on French cuisine; its detailed examination on how to disect, cook and glaze a dear little sucking piglet (presented Henry VIII style on a huge silver platter, curly tail and all), and it's obsession with layered vegetable terrines and aspic. Personally, that's part of its charm, and I can hand-on-heart say that if you studied, and followed, the instructions in these 28 volumes, you will learn a great deal.

 

A very different book is Charlotte and Peter Fiell's Essential Equipment for the Kitchen, A Sourcebook of the World's Best Designs which has just been sent to me for review. Charlotte and Peter Fiell are distinguished modern design gurus. If The Good Cook series is all about hands on technique, method and practical preparation, "Essential Equipment" is an indulgent trawl through a century of kitchen utensils and gadgetry (in all their immaculate glory), a bible of materialism and product placement.

Did you know that the Rex Model 11002 peeler was designed in Switzerland in 1947?  That's that ubiquitous peeler which you know and love- the one that works. Or that Le Parfait jars were born in the 1930's?

Although this is an amusing- but utterly non-esssential- book to add to your cookery library, there is undoubtably the smack of perfectionism going on here. A case of 'Hey, Come Round and Have a Look at my Brand New Francis Francis XI Espresso Machine' (first designed in 1995 by Luca Trazzi, bn. 1962 if you've ever wondered).

All this reminds me of Patrick Bateman's' apartment in Bret Easton Ellis's "American Psycho". It made me have a sudden- and most juvenile- urge to seize hold of a shiny new Le Creuset L25W3-3630 wok (designed in 1992) and dribble sesame oil all over it, so that it stains. I'm afraid it is a truth universally acknowledged that there are many people out there who have shiny and immaculate kitchens, and yet never cook. 

 

Essential Equipment for the Kitchen by Charlotte & Peter Fiell, published by Goodman Fiell RRP £19.99 is available from www.carltonbooks.co.uk and all good bookshops. 

Dodd's Gin

 

Last week I had the greatest pleasure in tasting a new gin; a well received present from Mrs Aitch. Dodd's Gin, the stuff's called; I had only been vaguely aware of it, which is not really surprising as it's a brand spanking new gin, fresh on the market. Not that you would think that from the brilliantly Victorian packaging, and the beautiful old-fashioned bottle with its wooden stopper: 'crafted by season and established in 1807'.

This gin is produced by the London Distillery Company, at a traditional distillery in Battersea (just down the road from the Greasy Spoon Residence), using a 140 litre copper alembic by the name of Christina. Its organic botanicals include rasberry leaf and wait-for-it, London honey.

This gin really tastes of something, it's clean and almost medicinal (in a good sense) with a strong sense of clove which cuts through, but doesn't overwhelm.

But then you start looking at the price. It costs around thirty quid for a 500ml bottle. I realise, of course, that this is an artisan crafted gin, produced in small numbers (each gin has a hand-written batch number) and aimed at a high budget, connoisseur's market, but I just can't get out of my head that a 1 litre bottle of the perfectly drinkable Sainsbury's own, distilled by the distinguished old firm of G & J Greenall up in Scotland (but sold with naff Sainsbury's packaging) costs a very reasonable £15.50 (and is often available on discount, too). 

'But that's unfair!', I can hear the gin distillers cry, 'that's like comparing Teacher's blended whisky with a Knockando Single Malt'. Perhaps. But as I happen to enjoy that Old English habit of adding tonic to my gin, I'm not entirely convinced. Sainsbury's Own for the tonic, and Dodd's for the Dry Martinis, served on High Days and Holidays (including the opportunity to toast St Swithin). That might be the way forward.

Nico Landenis once said: "A gin and tonic says a lot about you as a person. It is more than just a drink, it is an attitude of mind. It goes with a prawn cocktail, a grilled Dover Sole, Melba toast and Black Forest Gateau."

I would like to state publicly, on record, that I adore Prawn Cocktail, love a grilled Dover Sole, and would sell my mother to get my hands on a decent bit of Melba Toast.