The Greasy Spoon | Food & Culture

Happy Christmas

 

 

Rex Whistler (1905-1944): Father Christmas, 1939

 

Wishing all my loyal readers a very Happy Christmas and Best Wishes for the New Year. A massive thank you to all those who have taken the time to leave comments and send personal emails over the last few years.

It's goose for us tomorrow- rather than turkey, and I'm trying to think up ways of cooking those pesky brussel sprouts. About to nip off to the supermarket to buy a bottle of Riesling à l' Alsace. Undercooking them with bacon, shallots and garlic, and then braising them in the wine could be a good way to go.

By the way, until recently, I hadn't really cottoned on to quite how long I have been writing The Greasy Spoon. Checking my records, I see that my very first post was back in the Autumn of 2007. Lea & Perrins was the subject!  In those days, blogging hadn't really taken off and people I met at cocktail parties would give me a strange look when I admitted to them that this is what I did in my spare time. How things have changed in the last eight years. Fascinated to discover what else is store for us over the next decade.

The Spoon has now- in its own small way- become a rather endearing habit, and it would feel strange indeed if it wasn't around. So long may it continue, and I look forward to exploring new ideas with you over the course of 2016. Happy Christmas!

 

Counter Revisited

 

Philip Reicherstorfer: Restaurant Evangelist

 

We dropped by Counter, to see how the building work was getting on. Readers of The Greasy Spoon will remember my recent post: Counter is- or will be- a new restaurant and brasserie for Vauxhall, the brainchild of enterprising restaurateur, Philip Reicherstorfer- or should I say 'restaurant evangelist' (?) as the whole flippin' scale of the project is now becoming apparent. 

 

 

The restaurant fills a massive space, the entire length of an old railway archway (and longer than the height of Nelson's Column) with a "monastic" archway in glass at one end, looking on to what is likely to become (if Lambeth Council succeeds in demolishing the hideous bus station) a new town square for Vauxhall:

 

 

Philip knows exactly what he's doing, and the bones of the restaurant are now taking shape: a bar the Vauxhall end, kitchen in the middle, and further space at the back, not unlike the old concept of the Saloon and Public Bar in a Victorian pub.

 

Mrs Aitch props up the bar to be...

 

Philip in action...

 

 

I gather that a chef has been hired- or is about to be hired- and the menu will inspired by American and French brasserie classics. At the moment, it all rather reminds me of one of those immaculate ocean liners, the RMS Queen Mary or Aquitania, with Philip very much at the helm and in command of every detail; the shiny, metallic ventilation pipes are enormous and, I think, are going to be left on view. Watch this space.

 

 

Victorian Cups and Punches

 

 

 

Terrific second-hand find for Christmas. It's Victorian Cups and Punches and Other Concoctions, published by Cassell in 1974. I like Cassell's cookery books from this period. Neat little numbers in hardback, charming Victorian engravings, thickish paper and lovely old-fashioned typography. I bought this for a trifling two pounds.

All sorts of goodies in this book: punches, cordials, cups, bishops, mulls, shrubs, cardinals, bishops, caudles, possetts, nightcaps and usquebachs. Some recipes, picked at random:

 

West Indian Sangaree

Crush four ounces of loaf sugar to powder, and pour upon it a large wine-glassful of lime-juice. Stir until the sugar is dissolved, then add a bottle of madeira, half a pint of pure French brandy, and two pints of cold spring water. Grate the fourth part of a small nutmeg over the sangaree, put a large lump of ice into it, and serve. Sponge cake or savoy biscuit is generally serverd with sangaree.

Mulled Ale

Put half a pint of ale, a clove, a little whole ginger, a piece of butter the size of a marble, and tea-spoonful of sugar, into a saucepan, and bring it to boiling point. Beat two eggs with a table-spoonful of cold ale, and pour the boiling ale into them, and into a large jug. Pass the whole from one jug into another for some minutes, and at a good height. Return it to the saucepan and heat it again, but do not allow it to boil. Time, a quarter of an hour. Probable cost 6d. Sufficient for one person.

Bishop Oxford Nightcap

Take two drachms each of cloves, mace, ginger, cinnamon and allspice, boil them for thirty minutes in half a pint of water, and strain. Put part of a bottle of port in a saucepan over the fire, add the spiced infusion and a roasted lemon stuck with six cloves. Take four ounces of sugar in lumps and grate over the outer rind of a small lemon, place them in a punch-bowl, and add the juice of a lemon, pour in the hot wine etc., then the remainder of the bottle of port, and serve. A Seville orange may be roasted instead of a lemon.

 

  

 

 

The Taste of Belgium

 

 

 

Go on, have a look at your bookshelves. How many cookery books have you got on Belgian cuisine?  None?  Doesn't surprise me one iota; but thinking about it, isn't this a bit strange when Belgium "boasts more three-star restaurants per capita than any other nation, including France"? 

I can't say I know Belgium especially well, but I found it interesting. A few years ago, before the joy that was marriage to Mrs Aitch, there was the most marvellous holiday- perhaps the best holiday I have ever had- driving through the Graveyard of Europe: destination Heidelberg via Alsace-Lorraine.

With hindsight 'driving to Germany' might seem a trifle eccentric (most Brits head off to the Dordogne, Brittany or the Loire), but the adventures along the way certainly didn't let us down: there was an especially amusing dinner party at a crumbling château in the remote, bleak and dusty werewolf country of Lorraine, which included amongst the guests (bizarrely, and by occult coincidence) someone I had worked with years before at Bonhams Chelsea, now in the process of some form of elopement (girl plus van); and a Dutch couple of tangerine hue and late middle age, both in polyester turquoise jumpsuits, on their way back to Eindhoven from their villa on the Côte d'Azur. This they liked to remind us of at every possible moment. The main focus of the conversation (pigeon Franglais and sign language) seemed to focus on the strange fact that we were touring Lorraine in the first place, a region, apparently devoid of tourism. This was met with miscomprehension and utter disbelief. 

Anyway, to get back to Perfidious Albion we had to drive through Belgium, which included- oh great excitement on my part- a stop off at the battlefield of Waterloo, and the châteaux of La Haye Sainte and Hougoumont. Those of us who spent a large proportion of our childhoods toiling over the Airfix kit will remember them well. 

 

 

It's easy to fall into the trap of thinking there's nothing more to Belgium than decent dark chocolate, moules, fries, mayonnaise, trappist monks, beer and Tin-Tin; as the place as some sort of a mini-France, and of course, this is completely wrong. Once you cross the Belgian border, things change; the driving is insane for starters and I gather, possibly as a consequence of nineteen months of non-Government, weeds grow in prolifiation through the broken concrete of the autoroutes. I gather that Belgium didn't introduce a driving test until 1960 and so the noble tradition of free-style driving continues: the roads are populated with meandering vans driven by long-haired Goths.

 

 

But the food there is noticeably very good indeed, and even your bog-standard local restaurant will sell you a well-presented dish, cooked to a high standard and with care. The food is Flemish with a Gallic twist, or indeed, Gallic with a Flemish Twist. Thow in some Nordic influences for good measure, and you're beginning to get an idea of what Belgian cuisine is all about. Which brings me to Ruth Van Waerebeek's The Taste of Belgium, first published in America in 1996, and very recently re-published in a handsome hardback edition by Grub Street with evocative photographs by Regula Ysewijn. 

It's a brilliant new addition to the cookery bookshelves, plugging that worrying gap; and so we have: Sweet-and Sour Cucumbers with Chives, Bay Scallops on a Bed of Belgian Endives, Fish Stew from the North Sea, Mussels with Snail Butter, Waterzooi of Chicken, Braised Partridge with Cabbage & Abbey Beer, Gratin of Brussells Sprouts, Chocolate Mousse, and- of course- the definitive recipe for authentic Belgian fries. By now, you will have got the drift: lots of Northern comfort stuff; we're in home-cooking territory here, and the receipes are relatively easy to make, too.

Having said that I made the Waterzooi of Chicken, which is a soupy stew of fish or chicken bound in a creamy stock, thickened with egg. I didn't read the recipe properly and ended up over-cooking the chicken to a stringy mess. Completely my fault. If I had made it as Ruth Van Waerebeek had instructed it would have been delicious.

  

Ultimate Toad in the Hole with Rich Onion and Cider Gravy

 

 

Photograph: Sam Fraser-Smith, under Creative Commons Licence.

 

I've just been experimenting with that British all-time classic, Toad in the Hole. Jamie Oliver's recipe from Jamie's Great Britain is quite good, but didn't work as well as I had hoped. His batter was excellent- light and puffy, but I wasn't convinced by the gloopy apple and onion sauce or the dried up rosemary. He's keen on de-construction is our Jamie: the sausages are served separately from the Yorkshire pudding. I didn't really see the point of this: isn't the Toad supposed to be in the Hole?  Or is it the Hole in the Toad?

So I've developed my own recipe, tweaking it a bit here and there, simplifying (and I hope refining) it until we get to what I think, might just be a near-perfect Toad in the Hole. The rosemary infused milk gives the dish that extra dimension. Here's how you make it:

Pour 250ml semi-skimmed milk into a jug. Take two fresh rosemary sprigs and pull off the leaves, crumbling and rolling them in your fingers to release the oils. Add the rosemary leaves to the milk and let it infuse for about half an hour.

Strain the milk (discarding the rosemary leaves) and whisk in three eggs, 100g plain flour, a pinch of salt and white pepper to form a light, slightly runny, rosemary scented batter. Set aside.

Take a selection of Cumberland Sausages, place into a roasting pan and toss in olive oil. Cook in a hot oven (240° C) for about ten minutes. When the time's up, take out the pan and pour off most of the fat. Then pour in the batter, so that it surrounds the sausages. Back into the oven goes the pan. Watch it like a hawk (but don't open the door!). After a few minutes the batter will start rising and turning brown. You'll have your own idea when it's ready. The trick is to cook the batter properly, so that it's brown and crispy on top, yet soft in the centre. You dont' want to overdo the sausages either. Sprinkle the remaining rosemary leaves on top. 

I serve this with a rich onion and cider gravy, which you can serve from a separate jug. It's very easy to make. Slice up two white onions very thinly indeed, and fry them in butter on a medium heat until they turn brown and caramelise. Sprinkle a bit of white sugar onto the onions to help. 

I always think that onions need a great deal of cooking, so don't be scared to take your time over this. In goes a tiny splash of Balsamic Vinegar, a decent slug of Cider and 250ml beef stock. Bubble away like mad.

Whisk in a teaspoon of white flour mixed with water and cook on for a bit. This will help to thicken up the gravy.

Finish it off with a shake of Worcestershire Sauce to taste and then whisk in a final knob of butter to create a shiny glaze.  

This will create a rich, very dark brown gravy with a piquant taste. You can of course, alter ingredients to taste, leaving out the balsamic vinegar if you find it too strong. I would also be tempted to add a dash of Soy Sauce for that extra umami kick. Those onions should be well cooked, very, very thin, and the sauce should not be too thick or gloopy. I also quite like the idea of straining off the onion slices- for that extra refinement; just leaving a glossy, dark, rich onion-flavoured gravy. Bisto?  What on earth's that?

 

Shorrocks Cheese and the Lancashire Bomb

 

 

 

 

 

Mrs Aitch discovered the Lancashire Bomb a year or two ago, and it's now become very much a part of our Christmas. It's the most delicious creamy, strongly flavoured cheese. Invented by the Shorrock family about twenty five years ago. Hand-made too, and as they say on their website:

 

It has proven to be a great success in the North of England and is spreading South rapidly by word of mouth due to the great taste and originality of the product. 

Visitors from the South have been sampling and buying the cheese bombs to take home and share with family and friends so they can experience the sensational Shorrock's hand made Lancashire Bombs. 

The Lancashire Bombs are matured over two years creating a very creamy and full flavoured taste and texture. In addition to this original Lancashire Bomb Shorrock's now produce a variety of different flavours, this includes the Vintage Gold which is an extra year matured.

 

The cheese is wrapped in a black wax, with a loop, and looks very much like one of those old-fashioned fuse bombs cartoon characters used to throw: think Guy Fawkes, or sinister men with waxed moustaches, black capes and fedoras. More importantly, the cheese is utterly delicious, with a strong flavour and creamy texture. 

I think it's terribly important to support enterprising local suppliers, such as Shorrocks. So please get on to their website right now and order in some cheese immediately. And if you don't fancy a Lancashire Bomb, there's a wide range of similar bombs to choose from: The Red Onion, The Cracked Black Pepper, The Garlic and Herb, The Hot Chilli, The Whisky and The Green Olive.

 

 

 

And some sad news...

 

Oskie, our beloved little 17 year old Burmese cat, is no more. The End happened suddenly. An urgent trip to the vet, brief hope ("it's probably a balance problem") and then that heart-wrenching call: "we need to make a decision immediately." Kidney failure, neurological problems, various complications and a reluctance on my part to go through the similar trauma we experienced almost exactly last year to the day; and you know that it's time to make that tough, but necessary, decision you've been dreading for the last few years.

And so, on a beautiful, golden afternoon in late November, poor Venetia dragged away from work, we made that final trip to the vet. Struggling to keep a stiff upper lip (and failing miserably), our lovely vet in tears, the whole wretched business was over in a jiffy.

Oskie was my first proper pet- and my first love; I won't deny that I was besotted. There had been a goldfish (won at the Gerrard's Cross fair), a neglected tortoise and a gaggle of miserable stick insects, but that was about it: my parents weren't very keen on animals. Maybe that's why I wasn't prepared for the sporadic gobbets of genuine, deeply felt grief that hit me the following week.

I'm fine now, of course I am, and looking forward, when the time is right, to the new additions to our cat and dog dynasty (Mrs Aitch is keen on a black pug, I like the idea of a whippet, and another Burmese kitten) but Oskie was something special- highly intelligent, elegant, affectionate and pretty. Sometimes, when she sat at the right angle, and cocked her head she looked like something straight from the pages of Beatrix Potter.

She had been through all my bachelor ups and downs, girlfriends good and bad, and survived the famous Battersea boiler explosion (neglected servicing on my part). A feisty little number too: she thought nothing of having a go at intruders: a scraggy town fox, four times her size; Polish builders (don't think she liked the smell of their rancid roll-ups) and poor old Valerie, our long suffering cleaner, who left notes saying 'that she had fed the rat'.  

I wasn't even sure if I wanted to write about this, let alone tack it on to a post about cheese, for blogging is a strange compromise between privacy and self-promotion, but as I've been writing the Greasy Spoon for so long now, I suspect that it would have been false if I didn't. Anyway, I don't think Oskie would have minded. She would have sniffed that Lancashire Bomb, turned her nose up at it nonchalantly, and strolled away.