Mezzotint by Philip Dawe, 1773, in the collection of the British Museum
I’m convinced that the best food in the world is governed by simplicity; cooked with skill, precision and care, and presented with honesty. No flamboyant garnishes, superfluous flourishes or cheeky little twists if you please. I’m reminded of the humble- but tantalising- food we enjoyed on honeymoon in Marrakesh (Riad Enija) or the simple comfort food as cooked for Jacqueline Kennedy by her private cook, Marta Sgubin. Clare Latimer’s Comfort Food Cook Book (currently available online for a penny) is excellent on this front and well worth a second look. It’s one of the many reasons I’m a fan of Simon Hopkinson who, in the banal world of celebrity chefdom, alone has the self-confidence to describe himself as a cook, rather than a chef.
Ian Fleming had similar enthusiasms, which he passed on to our friend, Mister Bond. Old-Maid Bond, is, of course, a pernickety old bore and, presumably, a potential guest-from-hell at the dinner table (everything has to be oh just so, doesn’t it? ) but he does have a point:
“I’ve got a mania for really good smoked salmon”, said Bond. Then he pointed down the menu. “Lamb cutlets. The same vegetables as you as it’s May. Asparagus with Béarnaise sauce sounds wonderful. And perhaps a slice of pineapple...
A waitress appeared and put racks of fresh toast on the table and a silver dish of Jersey butter. As she bent over the table her black skirt brushed Bond’s arm and he looked up into two pert, sparkling eyes...
M smiled at him indulgently. “It’s your funeral” he said. “Now we’d better get on with our dinner. How were the cutlets?”
“Superb” said Bond. “I could cut them with a fork. The best English cooking is the best in the world — particularly at this time of the year...”
From Ian Fleming’s Moonraker, first published by Jonathan Cape, 1955
But these days I’m lucky to be married to a talented cook, who happens to get better and better by every passing minute. Take her version of that old English classic, Macaroni Cheese. It’s currently an obsession. As a child, I can’t remember liking it especially. But cooked in the right way, it’s a miniature work of art: Crispy, slightly browned bites of crunchy pasta. A creamy, nutmeg-laced béchamel sauce. Hits of mustard and savoury crumbly bacon. Salty grilled tomatoes. Chunky black pepper flakes. It’s to die for.
The history of macaroni, incidentally, is fascinating and worthy of another post in itself. Put very briefly, it’s a dry Italian pasta, cut into hollow tubes which comes in a variety of sizes. Personally, for Macaroni Cheese, I prefer the smaller bite-size pieces, as the pasta crisps up beautifully. Etymologists think that the word derives from the Ancient Greek, μακαρώνεια, which, as you will remember, was a barley broth served to commemorate the dead. During the mid 18th century fashionable aristocratic English fops acquired a taste for the stuff on their Grand Tour and were said, by those in the know, to belong to the “Macaroni Club”.
Here’s an excellent recipe for Macaroni Cheese, as enjoyed by the Greasy Spoon. It’s similar in many ways to Simon Hopkinson’s version, which is topped by sliced tomatoes but has the welcome addition of fried crispy bacon. The white sauce/grilled tomato/bacon combination is a match made in heaven. I find that a pinch of sea-salt draws out the flavour of the tomatoes in a miraculous way.
A Jelly-House Pick-Up, mezzotint published by Carrington Bowles, 1772
Mrs Aitch’s Macaroni Cheese
Preheat the oven to 190 C and then cook the macaroni pasta in salted boiling water, as directed on the packet. (I like the smaller sized macaroni, available from Waitrose).
Next, make a béchamel sauce. You will need a decent amount. Mrs Aitch tells me that many Macaroni Cheeses fail because they don’t have enough sauce. Melt a dollop of butter in a hot pan, drop in a fresh bay leaf, and whisk in a tablespoon or so of white flour to make a roux in the usual way. When it’s cooked, stir in some milk and flavour with a spoonful of Dijon mustard, nutmeg, sea salt flakes and white pepper. Then in goes 200ml Double Cream and some grated cheese (Simon Hopkinson uses Cheddar or Lancashire). Check the consistency. The goal is a thick-ish, silky-smooth white sauce.
Take an ovenproof dish and pour in the sauce, and then mix in the cooked macaroni. Put to one side.
Fry some bacon bits in a shallow pan until crispy. Mix these into the macaroni. Slice up some tomatoes and lie these overlapping on top of the finished dish. A little bit more sea salt, flaked black pepper and grated parmesan on top of the tomatoes will work wonders.
Stick the dish into the heated oven for about 20 mins or so, until the tomatoes are blistered, and the top is slightly brown and crunchy.
Personally, I like to “go easy", as our American cousins might say, on the cheese and prefer more of a classic white sauce. But that’s a matter of opinion. Clare Latimer’s version, incidentally, includes both cheddar and parmesan, diced ham, blanched asparagus tops, breadcrumbs and chopped parsley.
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