It appears that the late Richard John Bingham, 7th Earl of Lucan, was a man of conservative habit. According to Patrick Marnham’s Trail of Havoc (a superb account of the sorry affair), Lucan’s two favourite dishes (as served at the Clermont Club in Berkeley Square) were Smoked Salmon and Lamb Cutlets (which he ate in the Winter), and Salmon and Lamb Cutlets en Gelée (which he ate in the Summer):
"To this destructive atmosphere Lucan returned night after night, week after week, for eleven years, munching his smoked salmon and lamb cutlets, losing his fortune and stubbornly insisting on his skill and his luck. If Lord Lucan ate four lamb cutlets a day, for four days a week, for forty weeks a year, for eleven years, and if there are seven cutlets in a sheep, then he would have by the end have dispatched 1,006 sheep.”
I’ve been fascinated by the Lucan case for years. It’s a desperately sad story, yet somehow representative of London in an evocative period- the early 1970s. I remember my father coming home from work- dog tired, in mac and racing trilby, the Evening Standard on tow- which I devoured avidly. The famous photograph, as pictured above, haunts me still. The papers were full of it. That must have been on a rainy night in early November 1974.
In the 90s, as a thrusting young specialist and valuer working for Phillips auctioneers in New Bond Street, I spent several days in the company of Veronica Lucan, sifting through stacked family portraits, books, tatty cardboard boxes and ephemera in the disused garage of her genteel, yet shabby mews house tucked away behind the original family house in Lower Belgrave Street, Belgravia. Underneath a pile of foxed antiquarian books, we discovered a battered dispatch tin. Inside was an original letter from the 7th Earl of Cardigan, protesting his reluctance to lead the Charge of the Light Brigade. Like others under his command, he obeyed orders. An awful man in many ways, but My God, a brave one.
Lady Lucan reminded me of a frail, chirpy little bird- bright as a button, damaged, although- how can I put it tactfully- not exactly the easiest client to deal with. She lived cardigan-clad, in semi-seclusion, surrounded by flickering moths and yellowed photographs of her husband in silver frames. Lucan’s golf clubs were still leaning in the corner, presumably where he had left them. I liked her.
Lamb Cutlets (taken from “Clubland Cooking” by Robin McDouall, Secretary, the Traveller’s Club, 1974)
“Lamb cutlets in clubs ought to be like the lamb cutlets of my youth at every dinner before a deb. dance, except in very grand houses: grilled and served leaning against a mound of mashed potato. Only they should be trimmed of all the fat along the bone and should be cooked, French style, well done outside and slightly pink inside. Do not season them till right at the end of the cooking. Paper frills looks nice.
Do not serve gravy with them.
I fight a constant war against gravy: certain catering establishments, which shall be nameless, serve the same gravy with everything- chicken, lamb, beef, liver. Most of the things that call for gravy make their own in the process of cooking: making gravy is an abomination.
Lamb cutlets can also be dipped in egg yolk and then breadcrumbs and fried in clarified butter.
A further variation is to mix grated Parmesan with the breadcrumbs and fry them like that. You can serve them round a mound of macaroni, drained, cut up, a lump of butter on top, plenty of grated Parmesan cheese and ground black pepper.”
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