The Greasy Spoon | Food & Culture

Ginmania

 

 

Gin Lane, etching & engraving by William Hogarth, 1751.

 

I first wrote about gin back in 2007. It's almost hard to believe but that's twelve years ago. In those days, I found myself describing gin as, I quote: 'slighty old-fashioned and fogeyish', a drink favoured by 'retired Colonels and bridge-playing spiritualist mediums: reminiscent of peeling Cheltenham stucco and chipped bowls of stale Twiglets'; actually two worthy reasons to champion the stuff at the time: a contrarian two fingers to the slightly tedious vodka craze; the herd mentality of Youth; the fag-end of Acid House and the Nineties cocktail circuit. Well, well. Hasn't the rest of the world caught up? 

One of the reasons gin has become so popular, I think, is because of the numerous ways it can be flavoured with herbs and botanicals at the distillation phase: Juniper, Coriander, Lemon, Orange, Anise, Angelica and Cassia Bark amongst others- giving rise to endless variations, brand combinations and 'secret recipes', in turn spawning package design inspired by the Victorian apothecary. In an increasingly bland and corporate world, gin can be marketed as the drink of the individual. It's a marketing man's dream. Vodka, in contrast, is distilled from fermented cereal grain or potatoes and generally left unflavoured, although there is a tradition of adding steeped flavour (bison grass, lemon, chili, pepper and honey) after the distillation process.

In 2009, two heroic chaps, name of Sam Galsworthy and Fairfax Hall, persuaded the British government to let them open the first micro copper pot distillery in two hundred years. Up until then, gin, legally, could only be produced on an industrial scale. By conglomerates such as Diageo and Pernod Ricard. For the Gin Revivalists, this was a key moment. It is estimated that there are now over 300 independent gin distilleries in the United Kingdom, and exports of gin are said to have risen by more than a third.

And hand in hand with the craze for hipster gin, comes the rise of quality tonic water. Several years ago I stuck some spare rhino into shares of the Fever-Tree company- as it happened, a wise decision, as the international march of the superlative Fever-Tree remains- for the time being- unstoppable: even our local Co-Op now stocks Fever-Tree 'Premium' tonic as a default, with Schweppes yellow label consigned- if at all- to the back shelves. I suppose, with hindsight, this was going to happen. If a discriminating punter forks out thirty quid or so on a bottle of 'craft' gin, is he or she going to slosh in a saccharine-sweet, bog standard tonic water manufactured by Coca-Cola Great Britain from fizzy tap water? No they are not.

While I'm at it, a quick word about 'London Dry'- a term you will see bandied about on the various labels. Dutch- or jenever gin became popular in England with William of Orange's accession to the throne in 1688. The invention of the two column Coffey still in 1830 produced a better quality gin- lighter in flavour with a smoother character yet of a higher proof. London Dry is made in a Coffey still.

So where do you start? I'm still keen on the upper middling range of gins- relatively affordable, but more interesting, perhaps, than the standard Big Boy's offerings; Gordon's (the world's best selling gin), Bombay Sapphire (slightly sickly?), and Hendricks (cucumbers and all that). 

 

 

Portobello Gin No. 171 was founded above a pub in the Portobello Road, Notting Hill, as recently as 2011- although its wonderfully evocative Neo-Victorian packaging might suggest otherwise. It's a London Dry with a slightly medicinal flavour, with a hint of cloves and liquorice. Currently priced at £26 a bottle, it's a hot favourite at the Greasy Spoon Residence. 42% ABV.

 

 

That said, my current choice is Plymouth- a classic gin popular in the Roaring Twenties, the tipple of the Royal Navy, and the authentic ingredient in a Pink Gin; produced by the Black Friars Distillery- in operation since 1793. It's got a slightly sweeter, creamier flavour when compared to a London Dry, with a hint of parsnip to the taste. The standard 'Plymouth Original' bottle comes in at 41.2% ABV with the 'Navy Strength' version at a punchy 57% ABV. 'Plymouth Original' will set you back £20.

 

Another recent discovery is Mary-Le-Bone London Dry, produced by the Pleasure Gardens Distilling Company. Botanicals include: juniper, lime flower, lemon balm, clove, liquorice, chamomile and grapefruit. 50.2% ABV. Currently discounted at £34 a bottle on Amazon.

 

Gin has a fascinating history, and if you're interested in reading more about it, I would recommend the books of my father's old friend, John Doxat- now available for a pittance on Amazon. Doxat was the 'Thinking Man's Drinker', or perhaps even 'The Drinking Man's Thinker', a writer of some wit, and a leading authority on the Dry Martini cocktail. But what goes up, must come down, and there will come a time- in the distant future- when gin falls out of fashion, although I am still mulling over what's to come next. Teetotalism? 

 

The Strange Affair of Napoleon's Cognac

 

 

 Not tonight Josephine...
 

The cognac was not to Rex’s taste. It was clear and pale and it came to us in a bottle free from grime and Napoleonic cyphers. It was only a year or two older than Rex and lately bottled. They gave it to us in very thin tulip-shaped glasses of modest size.

“Brandy’s one of the things I do know a bit about”, said Rex. “This is a bad colour. What’s more. I can’t taste it in this thimble.”

They brought him a balloon the size of his head. He made them warm it over the spirit lamp.

Then he rolled the splendid spirit round, buried his face in the fumes, and pronounced it the sort of stuff he put soda in at home

So, shamefacedly, they wheeled out of its hiding place the vast and mouldy bottle they kept for people of Rex’s sort.

“That’s the stuff”, he said, tilting the treacly concoction till it left dark rings around the side of the glass. “They’ve always got some tucked away, but they won’t bring it out unless you make a fuss. Have some.”

“I’m quite happy with this.”

“Well, it’s a crime to drink it, if you don’t really appreciate it.” He lit his cigar and sat back at peace with the world; I too, was at peace in another world than his. We both were happy.”

From “Brideshead Revisited" by Evelyn Waugh, Chapman & Hall, 1945.

 

Napoléon “Grand Reserve” Cognac. 1811. Sounds sexy, doesn’t it? Think Napoleonic cyphers, cobwebs, imperial bees, dusty residue from ancient cellars, decaying chateâux, campaign maps shadowed by spluttering wax, duelling pistols and rickety carriages racing over cobblestones through the night; thunder and lightning. “Children of France, Adieu!” and ”Not Tonight, Josephine”: All the Glamour of the First Empire. It’s a 1970s marketing mans’ dream, of course.

I first played around with this idea in 2014, in a post investigating The Brandy of Napoleon. But this summer’s afternoon, in the interests of objective research, you understand, I’m going one step further. Before I start, I must stress that I am not- in any shape or form- an expert on rare wines, brandy or cognac. Far from it, I have a casual, amateur interest and anything I’m writing is my own opinion based on reading and research. And that’s about it. No shame in that, but what I do claim to know a bit about (like Rex, above!) is antiques and especially selling antiques online. And I think my nose can smell a rat when I see one. 

So, recently, I’ve developed a quirky little interest in old cognacs. It’s really amusing, and a marvellous way to spend a languid Saturday morning online,  especially as there seems to be so many ‘rare’ antique cognacs available to buy on the web. And at the push of a button too.

So please go ahead and type “Napoleon 1811 Cognac” into your computer. Now press the image button. What do you see? Over a hundred images of ‘fine and rare’ early 19th century Napoleon cognacs. Incidentally, don’t confuse these with modern “Napoleon” branded cognacs. Until relatively recently many reputable cognac houses, such as Courvoisier, Hine or Martell, marketed a “Napoleon” cognac (although interestingly, the modern trend is to play down the association) and significantly, they didn’t seem to attach the Napoleonic tag to the premium cognacs at the very top of their lists.

But antique cognacs- and their like- dating from the early years of the nineteenth century, are an entirely different matter. And the year 1811 seems to hold a special allure, partly because of the Great Comet which appeared in the sky over the fields of France. Many of these bottles are being flogged by slick wine merchants or specialist online auctioneers, who, frankly, in my opinion, should know better. Here’s a taste of what’s on offer (an amalgamation from various websites, picked entirely at random and without prejudice):

“Perhaps one of the rarest finds, this bottle represents an important time in history...a stunning example...1811 is described as a mythical year among wine enthusiasts, not only because of a comet which was visible by astronomers at the time for 17 months...Many ascribed the extraordinary weather this year to the Comet, historically during the months of September and October 1811, when the grapes would have been harvested, the comet was clearly visible to the naked eye...This is probably - together with the A. E. Dor Cognac 1811 (sic) which was the best cognac vintage of the 19th century...the most valuable and a highly sought cognac of the famous year of the “comet”...1811 was regarded at the time as the greatest vintage in living memory...an important historical example...”

I could go on and on and on. And it would all be such fun if it wasn’t for the eye-watering prices being asked for this stuff. I’ve just seen one bottle with a £9,000 price tag. And there’s another priced by the seller at 15,000 golden nugs. Yup, that’s right: the price of a decent second-hand car.

 

Courvoisier: The Brandy of Napoleon

 

You see, the first problem we’ve got is rarity. It's a term which is bandied about at will and tends to be frowned upon by the more distinguished auction houses. I admit that now and again- and against better judgment- I use it on my own antiques website, but then I only apply it to items that I reckon are genuinely scarce- maybe I’ve come across one or two examples of something in a career spanning twenty-five years?  But anybody with a brain investigating 1811 Napoleon Cognacs online, will discover that there are many, many similar examples for sale (or photographs posted up by financially desperate people trying to find out more about the value of grandpa’s inherited bottle) with printed or engraved labels- sometimes featuring a portrait of Napoleon- often soiled by dust and grime, and augmented by a pressed Napoleonic cipher in the glass, suggesting origination from a single source, and judging by the typography, design and style of the paper label, a date stretching back to the Edwardian period, or possibly the 1920s.

Rare they ain’t. It reminds me of the famous Fabergé Frog incident which other antique valuers of a certain vintage might remember. As a junior works of art specialist at Phillips Auctioneers in Bond Street I had to man the departmental counter; a brilliant training exercise in its own right: you never knew what was going to turn up. One day an excitable old boy in a rancid mac turned up with a crumpled plastic bag. Inside was a little frog with the words FABERGE in Russian Cyrillic, and an Imperial Romanov Eagle pressed onto the underside. All very thrilling. Except that it was made of plastic. Or ‘resin’ as we used to call it (a useful euphemism, especially in the sale of plastic chess sets). And then precisely the very same frog turned up the next day, except this time it was a different colour, brandished by a young girl in her teens who had bought it in a car boot sale and was already planning her retirement. Over the following weeks, we had a plague of frogs. Of biblical proportions. 

The second problem is Napoleon. According to Andrew Roberts, he was teetotal, or at least, ‘never drank any spirits, preferring a cup of coffee after breakfast, and another after dinner’. So when did cognac become associated with Napoleon? Courvoisier, famously, promotes itself as The Brandy of Napoleon’. According to the Courvoisier website:

After his defeat at the Battle of Waterloo, Napoleon was exiled to the remote island of St Helena, in the wild Atlantic Ocean, halfway between Africa and South America. Legend has it that he chose several casks of cognac as his one granted item of luxury, a treat much appreciated by the English officers on board HMS Northumberland during their 67-day voyage. They named it ‘The Brandy of Napoleon'.

 

Wing Commander Dennis Wheatley, RAFVR, Rtd., Wine Merchant turned Thriller Writer

 

Brilliant marketing, that. It’s significant that the cult of Napoleon was at its height in the 1920s, especially popular with American tycoons and international Men of Mystery- including none other than Sidney Reilly of Ace of Spies fame. In his autobiography, Drink and Ink, wine merchant turned thriller writer, Dennis Wheatley, claims- with endearing modesty- to have invented the old brandy racket during the 1920s: 

Most of the bottles had what were then unusual features. The Tuileries, for example, had an embossed medallion containing an ’N’ with the Napoleonic crown above it. But what really mattered was that the old Fine Champagne Cognacs in them were truly superb. I have never tasted finer. But in a year or two imitations were appearing in every restaurant. The bottles had the ’N’ medallion and were often covered in fake cobwebs; but the brandy in them was indifferent stuff. Whenever a waiter produced one at my table I used to say: ‘Take it away. Bring me some John Barnett or Delamain’. Unintentionally, I had started the old Brandy racket.

 

Cyril Ray, Author and Respected Cognac Enthusiast, photograph by Bill Brandt, 1940s

 

So what’s at the bottom of all this?  I turned to Cyril Ray’s beautifully written and definitive, Cognac, published in 1973, in which he devotes a complete chapter to the Napoleon problem. According to Mr Ray there is no such thing as a true Napoleon brandy. If any did still exist (i.e. it had been in wood since Napoleon’s time) it would now be undrinkable, because brandy deteriorates in the cask after about seventy years...unlike wine, brandy ceases to develop once it is in glass. He goes on to quote a director of the firm that ships Bisquit Dubouché: “No, of course, Bisquit Debouché no longer market bottles purporting to contain 1809 or 1811 or 1865 brandy: it is now generally agreed in the trade that any brandy more than about 70 years old would have to be ‘refreshed’ so much by younger spirits that it could no longer claim the earlier date.” And here’s another quote from a director at the venerable cognac house, Remy Martin: “It would be most unlikely that it is a genuine 1811, and if it were it would be undrinkable”. 

So with our charitable cap on, we might presume that these 1811 Napoleonic cognacs are an early 20th-century blend containing a tiny proportion of genuine 1811 cognac- especially as I gather there was a tradition to date a cognac by the earliest spirit in a blend made up from a selection of brandies of varying dates. Another possibility is that they’re an Edwardian recreation of an earlier style cognac- or frankly- and I hate to say this to you cognac collectors out there- yes, you with your fat wallets- an out-and-out early 20th-century fake capitalising on the fashionable interest in all things Napoleonic. I do wonder... 

 

Ice Creams, Sorbets & Gelati: The Definitive Guide

 

 

 

A few weeks ago my friends at Grub Street publishing sent me a review copy of Robin and Caroline Weir’s Ice Creams, Sorbets & Gelati: The Definitive Guide. I knew I was going to like this book from the moment I read the author blurb on the back cover: “Caroline and Robin have one of the largest collections of ice cream books, prints, machines, equipment, ephemera and memorabilia in the world. They divide their time between London and Cornwall.” In other words, they’re a pair of driven, compulsive, obsessive, maniacal ice cream geeks. 

Abandoned on that metaphorical desert island, my ‘one luxury item’ would have to be a selection of Italian ice cream- the proper stuff, as you get in the marbled salons of Rome, Milan, Venice and Florence, not British ice cream, as made by Walls Sausages and Lyons Old Maid. And a ‘fridge to go with it, although I expect that would be considered cheating and wouldn’t be allowed.

Ice Creams, Sorbets & Gelati is a terrific book, all 327 pages of it: packed full of recipes, historical anecdotes, and vintage illustrations from the golden age of ice cream.

 

I’ve got a thing about old-fashioned American soda fountains. The Italo-American styling, the gangster graphics and evocative typography- later to be hijacked in the 1970’s by the Chicago Pizza Pie Factory and Soda-Stream. During the dark days of Prohibition (1920-1933) bars were turned into ‘soda fountains’, often annexed to pharmacies where a ‘soda jerk’ would serve fizzy drinks, ice creams, healthy mineral waters and the like. I’ve covered ice-cream chairs in a previous post on my sister antiques blog. It’s all very Bugsy Malone. 

Anyway. Back to the book. There are so many tantalising (and varied) recipes; it’s hard to know where to start. I like the look of: angelica sorbet, banana yoghurt ice, bay leaf, lemon & white wine granita; brown bread ice cream, rich chocolate ice cream, Terry’s chocolate orange ice cream, mars bar ice cream, chocolate gelato with tobacco, white chocolate ice cream, coffee iced froth, gin & tonic sorbet, mint julep ice cream...

I toyed with the idea of making the Terry’s Chocolate Orange Ice Cream (so deliciously tacky) but ended up making the Mars Bar Ice Cream instead. Couldn’t resist it. And the result was surprisingly sophisticated. A light brown, with rather subtle hints of caramel. Not especially sweet. Here’s the recipe, as taken from Robin & Caroline Weir’s Ice Cream, Sorbets & Gelati (Grub Street):

 

Robin & Caroline Weir’s Mars Bar® Ice Cream

This is our answer to the phenomenon of the Mars Bar® Ice Cream. The success of this product launched in the 1990s rocked the British Ice-Cream industry by taking 10% of the market in the first 22 months- an unprecedented achievement. Such was its success that it prompted manufacturers to develop a whole range of ices based on different candy bars. Although the Mars Bar® Ice Cream, is readily available we think our version is superior.

Mars Bar®/Snickers ™ (US) 4 x 65g (4 x 2 1/4 oz)

Whole Milk 250 ml (1 cup)

Whipping/heavy cream (36% fat), chilled 500 ml (2 cups)

Makes about 1 litre (4 cups)

Chop each Mars Bar®/Snickers™ bar in four and put in a saucepan with the milk. Heat gently, stirring frequently, until all but a few melted bits remain. Do not worry about these as they will disappear in the churning action of the ice-cream machine. Remove the pan from the heat and transfer to sit in a few inches of cold water to cool the mixture quickly.

When read, add the chilled cream and either still or stir freeze and store. Serve within 1 hour or so, if frozen solid, allow 30 minutes in the fridge to soften sufficiently for serving.

Mars Bar® is the registered trade mark of Mars Bar® Ltd., England.

 

Claire Windsor, starlet of the silver screen, samples the delights of the American soda fountain, 1920s

 

Commander Schweppes

 

 

 

For several years now, I’ve had a secret hankering to join- or at least to apply for membership of- The London Whiskers Club. Beards, however, can be a risky proposition. The secret is to go for the “Rugged English Gentleman Explorer meets the James Robertson Justice” Look. But there’s a wafer-thin divide between looking like the Tsar, a Victorian Liberal MP or HRH Prince Michael of Kent and the cheeky geezer who’s come to mend the washing machine, the Gormless Middle-Aged Dad as portrayed on numerous and tiresome television commercials, or even worse, an earnest guitar-playing Play School presenter from the 1970s. And then there’s that worrying hipster thing, which despite being So Last Week Darling, still lingers- like a bad smell that just won't go away.

 

The Commander channels The Captain Scott Look

 

So last month, purely as an experiment, you understand,  I stopped shaving. And as I’ve now reached the golden twilight years of Late Youth, the bristles that appeared on my manly chin were silver in colour, and shock horror actually looked quite good. Mrs Aitch seemed to like it. And then, despite the promising start, it all went wrong. Suddenly I was walking around with a wiry bog brush glued to my chin. An oily, matted, painful horror which itched liked mad and cried out- no begged- to be removed.

 

The Commander in action. That beard...

 

Possibly one of the most splendid beards of the mid-twentieth century is the groomed specimen pictured above, as sported by Commander Schweppes, aka Commander Walter Edward Whitehead CBE, RNVR (Rtd.), president of Schweppes (USA), polo player, fisherman, gourmand, explorer, sailor, author of How to Live the Good Life: The Commander Tells You All and star of David Ogilvy’s famous advertising campaign.

I love David Ogilvy’s ads. They’re so urbane. I suppose in those days- we’re talking about the late 1950s- people aspired to become crusty, smooth-talking, tonic-drinking Naval officers. I used to waste hours in the Gothic gloom of the school library pouring over dog-eared back-copies of The New Yorker, with its tantalising advertisements for Harris tweed, expensive hand-built cars, rare whiskies, Sotheby’s cigarettes, Napoleonic Cognacs and tailored Viyella shirts worn by a mysterious silver-haired gentleman with an eyepatch- peddled in a glorious, backlit, soft-focus Technicolor. 

And despite the unstoppable march of the excellent Fever Tree, I’m still drinking Schweppes Tonic. Partly because of a nostalgic feeling for that famous yellow and black label (although how splendid it would be if they brought back some a special edition tonic in the original glass bottles) and because the proper stuff is actually quite good. But unless you’re trying to lose weight, avoid the saccharine slimline version at all costs. Artificially sweet, in my opinion. Thinking about it, if you’re trying to lose weight, I’m not sure you should be drinking gin in the first place?

 

 

Chop Suey

  

 

In a way I’m as interested in the bastardisation of food as I am in original, bona-fide, pukka version of a dish. Perhaps even more so. Go into a bookshop and sniff around the Chinese bit of the cookery section. You will find several earnest volumes on ‘authentic’ regional Chinese cookery. But how many books are there on the 20th century Anglo-American interpretation of the ‘Chinese’ takeaway, as eaten since the 1920’s? Or for that matter, the fascinating- and historically important- story of Chinese restaurants in the West? 

Take Chop Suey. If you stopped someone in the street and asked them to name a ‘Chinese’ dish, this would be the one, wouldn’t it?  Perhaps with the exception of Chow Mein. That would be the other contender. But it may surprise you to learn that Chop Suey is, quite probably, an American invention from the 19th century or early 20th century.

 

 

Where to start?  There are many different theories and legends concerning the mysterious origins of Chop Suey. The unlikely semi-offical story is that the dish was invented by a chef at the Palace Hotel, San Francisco for the visit of the Chinese premier, Li Hongzhang, in the 1890’s. But we do know that by the end of the nineteenth century, a dish known as Chop Suey, or similar, was in existence. Wikipedia tells us:

Chop suey appears in an 1884 article in the Brooklyn Eagle, by Wong Chin Foo, “Chinese Cooking," which he says "may justly be called the "national dish of China". An 1888 description states "A staple dish for the Chinese gourmand is chow chop svey [sic], a mixture of chickens' livers and gizzards, fungi, bamboo buds, pigs' tripe, and bean sprouts stewed with spices."In 1898, it is described as "A Hash of Pork, with Celery, Onions, Bean Sprouts, etc."

During his travels in the United States, Liang Qichao, a Guangdong (Canton) native, wrote in 1903 that there existed in the United States a food item called chop suey which was popularly served by Chinese restaurateurs, but which local Chinese people did not eat.

 

 

Another theory suggests that Chop Suey was brought to the Old West by Chinese coolies building the railroads, or by Chinese miners at the time of the Californian Gold Rush, an idea that Wikipedia dismisses somewhat loftily, but which strikes me as eminently plausible considering the influx of Chinese immigrants to America during the mid to late 19th century. And here’s yet another yarn:

In the 1860’s, a Chinese restaurant cook in San Francisco was forced to serve something to drunken miners after hours, when he had no fresh food. To avoid a beating, the cook threw leftovers in a wok and served the miners who loved it and asked what dish is this—he replied Chopped Sui.

 

And what is Chop Suey? That’s a difficult one. Meat of some form (chicken, beef, pork or prawns) is stir-fried quickly with shredded vegetables (cabbage, bean-sprouts and sliced celery) and bound up in a glossy, gloopy, starchy sauce. There are numerous Chop Suey recipes on the net. Take your pick.

Here’s a version from ex Davis Cup tennis player, diplomat, Cambridge graduate and all-round Good Egg, Kenneth Lo:

 

Chopsuey (From Kenneth Lo’s Chinese Food, Penguin Books, 1972)

For 5- 6 people

1 egg

4 tablespoons vegetable oil

4 oz meat (pork, chicken, lamb or beef)

2 tablespoons soya sauce

1 teaspoon salt

1½ teaspoons sugar

2 tablespoons dry sherry

1 tablespoon tomato sauce (or pureé)

4 tablespoons chicken broth

dash of pepper

2 tablespoons of lard

4 spring onions (cut in 2. in segments)

1 clove garlic (crushed)

1 slice root ginger (finely chopped)

¾ llb bean sprouts

½ teaspoon MSG (or ½ chicken stock cube)

 

Beat egg and make a thin omelette in a small omelette pan in 2 tablespoons of oil, and put aside.

Slice the meat thinly and then into matchstick strips. Fry in 2 tablespoons oil for 2 minutes over high heat. Add sugar, soya sauce, tomato sauce and half the sherry. Continue to stir fry for half a minute. Add chicken broth and pepper. Heat until the mixture boils. Stir gently for ½ minute and withdraw from fire.

Heat lard in a saucepan. When it has melted, add spring onion and crushed garlic and ginger. Stir fry for ½ minute over high heat. Add bean sprouts and sprinkle with salt. Continue to stir fry over high heat for 2 minutes. Add the meat and gravy from the frying pan. Turn, toss and stir for 1 minute. Sprinkle the contents with MSG and the remaining sherry. Continue to stir fry gently for ½ minute. Pour the contents into a serving bowl, and serve, capping the dish with the omelette.

 

Beer Street or Gin Lane? The Perfect Tonic

 

 

 Brexit: Gin Lane or Beer Street?

 

Since I started writing The Greasy Spoon back in the Autumn of 2007, I don’t think I have ever missed a monthly post. Not that I am going to do that now, but truthfully, over the last few days, I’ve been glued to both the television and the dreaded internet, and my usual enthusiasm for blogging has waned. With all the political, economic and constitutional turmoil, a post on, say, muffins, the joys of tomato ketchup, or even- dare I say it- the chance of Boris Johnson being reincarnated as an olive seems trite. The reaction to the referendum result in London and on social media has been extraordinary, frankly bordering on hysteria, with both the capital and cyberspace erupting into a barrage of angst, negativity and hand-wringing on a scale worthy of the colossus. Thankfully, calmer and wiser heads, with an eye to the wider picture, are beginning to emerge; and I hope- and trust- that they will prevail. Life goes on. Of course it does. Which brings me, in a roundabout way, to tonic, or rather tonic water. 

Tonic. It’s something, here in Britain, we’re rather good at. What’s in it? Quinine. Quinine was first isolated from the bark of the cinchona tree (a genus of flowering plants in the family Rubiacae) in 1820. According to that simple sword of truth, Wikipedia: “Linnaeus named the genus in 1742 after the Second Countess of Chinchón, the wife of a viceroy of Peru. According to some accounts, she suffered from malaria and was cured by a botanical remedy made of the powdered bark of a native tree. The veracity of the story is uncertain, but the tree still carries her name.”  

What we do know is that quinine cures or helps to cure malaria. During the days of colonial India, the British began to take quinine as a precaution against the illness. To counter act the bitter taste of the quinine powder, they mixed it up with sugar and soda, in effect, creating a primitive version of the tonic water we all know and love today. The first commercial tonic water was produced in 1858. 

And the best tonic water on the market?  The long finger has to point, of course, to the excellent and innovative Fever Tree, but before we get too excited, I must also stick up for Schweppes, which still makes a classic tonic water in the best traditions of Abigail’s Party, the ‘fast’ Gloucestershire hunting set and retired spirtualist mediums from the stucco’d backstreets of Cheltenham. The important thing to understand is that the slimline stuff ain’t no good. I used to drink it for years. It tasted pretty foul, far too sweet and saccharine for my liking, but I had genuine concerns about my expanding middle section, which Mrs Aitch can confirm. I’m glad to report that I’ve reverted back to the proper stuff and it’s a completely different drink, which gives the designer tonics, at least, a run for their money. For those on a budget, Waitrose tonic water has also scored highly in blind tasting tests. 

Of course, the recent boom in designer tonics is very much linked to the Great Gin Revival. I’m sure it’s because of the loose nature of gin itself (as opposed to the blander manufacturing methods of vodka); it’s quite possible to set up a small semi-amateur or “artisan” (a slightly pretentious word which Mr Peter York disdains, with good reason) and produce your own gin, flavoured with all sorts of unusual and original botanicals, as indeed the numerous and enterprising micro-distilleries have proved. I’ve lost count. Britain is, undoubtably, the best gin producer in the world.

Incidentally, and back on the subject of who is going to be our next Prime Minister, now that Govers is confirmed as a the perfect Brutus (Central Casting couldn’t do better) and Boris is out of the race, I’ve just placed twenty quid on Andrea Leadsom at 5/1. I have a sneaky hunch...Watch this space.

 

William Hogarth (1607-1764): Beer Street, 1751.

 

 

The Perfect Gin & Tonic

 

 

 

The Perfect Gin & Tonic? An interesting dilemma. The current prize (for me at least) has to go to a Portobello Road Gin, on the rocks, mixed with Fever Tree Premium Indian Tonic Water and a slice of lime.

It’s an inspirational drink. Portobello Road Gin has intriguing, slightly medicinal hints of cinammon and clove. And relatively affordable too at twenty five quid a bottle. Fever Tree’s clean. And fizzy. And doesn’t taste saccharine. And the lime slice gives a nod to the colonial origins of this most Engish of cocktails. Especially good with a dry and spicy Bombay Mix. Although I also like the idea of those cheese straws- from the American Deep South.

The only way I can think of improving this would be to freeze your ice cubes using a decent bottled mineral water, such as Highland Spring. But I expect the readers of The Greasy Spoon are already on to this.

One of my current Room 101’s is London tap water. I cannot stress how foul this stuff is. There’s a rumour that it’s been around the block about five times or so before we’re allowed to  drink it. And you’re never more than five yards away from a London rat.

 

 

 

The Duke of Windsor and J & B Rare Scotch Whisky

 

 

 

Over at The Peak of Chic, my blogging friend Jennifer Boles’s recent posts on The Duke and Duchess of Windsor had me scurrying to the bookcase to dig out the Duke’s fascinating memoir, A Family Album.

Jennifer’s post featured rare colour photographs of the Windsor’s country retreat, Le Moulin de Tuilerie, a rambling eighteenth century stone Mill house, twenty-two miles South West of Paris. Read the comments on both posts and you’ll find much hand-wringing amongst the interior design aficionados, upset by the country house clutter, dodgy furniture, relaxed technicolor mish-mash, liberal mix of styles and that infamous fitted tartan carpet. Actually, I have no shame in declaring to cyberspace that I’m rather taken by The Mill, and would have been more than happy to have been invited there for a pampered and comfortable Friday to Monday. 

And the Duke’s favourite tipple? J & B Rare Scotch Whisky. Which is a good thing, as it also happens to be The Greasy Spoon’s house whisky of choice- and makes a regular appearance on the drinks tray. If you’re going to serve whisky to your guests, I would suggest stocking up on two styles. A decent single malt like the smoky, peaty Laphroaig (a favourite of the current Prince of Wales) which I would drink more or less neat, but with a splash of mineral water as an after dinner liqueur, and a more affordable, lighter blended whisky such as J & B or Cutty Sark for mixing cocktails and everyday drinking.

 

 

 

The history behind J & B and Cutty Sark is fascinating. Both are products of two distinguished rival British wine merchants, Justerini & Brooks (founded 1749) and Berry Brothers & Rudd (founded 1698). Both, I am delighted to report, can still to be found- almost directly opposite other in St James’s Street; and I would recommend that you take the time to enter Berry’s hallowed and panelled portals, as much for their attractive, unstuffy approach; where a timid buyer, looking for a modest bottle of white to go with their curry, will be given as much courtesy, thought and advice as the knowledgable high-roller, brandishing a black Amex and looking to stock their humidity-controlled cellars with rare cognacs, champagnes and expensive burgundies.

Both J & B and Cutty Sark were developed in the early 1930’s in direct reponse to the ending of Prohibition in America. Cocktails became fashionable as a way of disguising (and possibly hiding) bad moonshine. Or so at least, is the theory. Although I have a feeling that cocktails, like ragtime, flappers, bobbed hair and Picasso, came into being in the years just before the First World War. Anyway, the big idea was to create a light, peppery whisky, specifically for the export market: a perfect mixer in cocktails. And so the new blended whiskies enjoyed a great success abroad. 

J & B became a great hit in the United States, especially when it became widely known that the Duke of Windsor drank the stuff. It’s blended from 42 different whiskies, including Knockando, Auchroisk and Glen Spey. By 1963 they were selling one million cases a year. 

 

David Ogilvy’s Eggs with Black Butter

 

 

One of my favourite books is David Ogilvy’s entertaining autobiography Confessions of an Advertising Man. Ogilvy was a maverick advertising legend, the genius behind “The Man in the Hathaway Shirt”, the splendidly urbane "Commander Schweppes” (in reality Cdr. Ed Whitehead RN (Rtd), president of Schweppes USA) and the pithy advertising slogan: “at 60 miles an hour the loudest noise in a brand new Rolls-Royce comes from the electric clock”.

 

 

Before Madison Avenue, Ogilvy had enjoyed a varied career as a hotel chef, Gallup researcher, door-to-door Aga salesman and Pennyslvanian farmer. Sent down from Christchurch, Oxford without a degree, Ogilvy became a cook- I hesitate to use the word chef- at the Hotel Majestic, Paris.

Apparently the brigade’s favourite after-work dish was this variation on the French working man’s classic, Ouefs au Beurre Noir. It’s one of the recipes listed in the back of his book.

It more usually includes vinegar, rather than Worcester Sauce and lemon juice, and you might want to substitute the latter two with say, tarragon vinegar. Ogilvy also suggests the use of coriander, but I would have thought that chopped flat-leaf parsley might work better:

 

Eggs in Black Butter (4 People)

2 tablespoons butter

4 eggs

Squeeze of lemon juice

1 tablespoon Worcester Sauce

4 thin slices of bread

Chopped fresh coriander (optional)

24 capers

Melt the butter in a small frying pan and heat until it goes black. Add the Worcester Sauce, the capers and a squeeze of lemon juice. Fry the eggs very gently in this sauce, basting frequently. When cooked, trim into rounds with a pastry cutter. Drain. Fry bread in the sauce. Transfer the cooked bread to a warm plate and place the egg on top. Pour remaining sauce around the egg. Decorate with fresh chopped coriander.

 

 

After Eight: Every Woman Loves Temptation

 

 

 

The Duke de Richleau and Rex Van Ryn had gone into dinner at eight o’clock but coffee was not served till after ten.

Dennis Wheatley, “The Devil Rides Out”, 1934

 

We’re in Courvoisier territory again. Serve up a box of After Eight Chocolate Mint Wafers to your dinner party guests, and you will be instantly transported into the world of the sophisticated Society Hostess: elegant country house parties, stuccoed London town houses, a Rolls Royce Silver Cloud in Dove Grey, Chinese antiques and private chefs; a box at Covent Garden. Or that, at least, is how the 1960’s adman envisaged it. 

 

 

“Every woman loves temptation, that’s the secret of After Eight” purrs Mrs Roy Boulting, wife of the producer of “I’m All Right Jack”. Did she really serve up After Eights to her fashionable guests? Somehow I suspect not. But then did Patricia Neal really placate her mercurial husband, Roald Dahl, with a cup of lover-ly Maxwell House- “Good to the Last Drop”? 

"The fascinating history of the mint has been collated by Nestle's archive curator Alex Hutchinson who recently rediscovered the old ads and publicity shots." You can read more about it here. 

The Louis XV style clock on the After Eights box, if you ever wondered, used to grace the board room of Rowntree’s, the famous York chocolate manufacturer, and according to The Daily Mail disappeared under mysterious circumstances in the 1980’s. I would love to know where it is now. 

 

 

 

 

The Greasy Spoon tastes...Cox’s Original Bloody Mary Spicer

 

 

It’s a cheat, I know, but it’s a quality cheat at that. It’s Cox’s Original Bloody Mary Spicer. I’ve been in and out of bed over the last few days with a boring February sniffle and living off over-spiced Bloody Marys, which I’m really beginning to appreciate for their anesthetical qualities. Usually I would mix a Bloody Mary to my own recipe (which as you will remember involves lemon juice, sherry and celery salt) but for the time being, a generous dash of Cox’s Original to the ubiquitous tomato juice has come in just dandy.

I couldn’t find much about the company which makes it, apart from the fact that it seems to be a small, privately-owned concern based in Nottingham. Bizarrely in this day and age they don’t seem to have a website, although they have their own page on the dreaded Facebook.

The first thing I like is its punchy flavour. A few drops of the stuff into the old tomato juice is going to be just the ticket. And for once, that’s enough. This is the antithesis of those wishy-washy boil in the bag ‘curries’, which have about as much spice as a randy fish finger on heat. The label on the bottle tells me that it’s made from tamarind, chilli peppers, horseradish, molasses, celery seeds, ginger and xanthan gum. You’ll also end up with chunky bits of black pepper floating around in your cocktail- which, in my opinion, could be a good thing.

 

Now you see her, now you don't: Mary Queen of Scots, or Mary Tudor?

 

The second thing I like- no love- about Cox’s Original is the quirky Neo-Victorian packaging. It hasn’t been around on the supermarket shelves for that long, so I happen to have kept a bottle dating back to the time when it first came out. The label shows Bloody Queen Mary- 16th century ruff and all- clutching a large glass of the red stuff. Except that it ain’t Bloody Mary. Someone’s made a boob. It’s Mary Queen of Scots!

 

Antonis Mor, Queen Mary, 1554.

So to keep the pedants at bay, they’ve now done a nifty hatchet job (courtesy of photoshop) to the label, and on later bottles the correct Queen’s head, presumably lifted from the Antonis Mor portrait, has been cut out and plonked slightly awkwardly on to the body. It’s much better now. It’s a mean face for a mean cocktail.

 

 

January Blues

 

 

 

I used to pretend that I liked January. Actually, I don't. It's a bleak, miserable, Cromwellian month, enlivened by never-ending grey skies and not much to look forward to, apart from bills and the promise of February- which says it all. 

So why this sudden trend to go on the wagon over January? Under some strange influence we both fell for this, until about three days ago, when poor Mrs Aitch staggered back from the Blacking Factory, dead-tired and chilled to the bone by the London damp, to find me brandishing a huge gin.

I have no regrets. Life is too short. Recently, I've been reading all sorts of books on Churchill for my recent posts on my sister blog on the antiques website. Which brings to mind a Churchillian quote:

My rule of life prescribed as an absolutely sacred rite smoking cigars and also the drinking of alcohol before, after and if need be during all meals and in the intervals between them.

Not that I want to end up like another hero, Orson Welles. But I couldn't resist posting that infamous out-take: "There is a Californian Champagne by Paul Masson..." I like the pretty poker face girl on the left, trying not to laugh.

(As it's a link to a YouTube video, subscribers will have to log in to the website proper to see it: www.lukehoney.typepad.com) 

 

How to Mix a Negroni

 

 

One part Gin. One part Red Vermouth. One part Campari. Serve on the rocks with a twist of orange.

Its origins are unclear. Count Camillo Negroni is supposed to have asked his barman to replace the soda in his Americano with Gin. This was back in 1919. In Florence. A the Caffè Casoni.

The Negroni was a favourite of that wunderkind, Orson Welles, who tried it for the first time in 1947 and is supposed to have said in that marvellous fruity voice: 

“The bitters are excellent for your liver, the gin is bad for you. They balance each other.”

Nice one, Mr Welles, and a great excuse to post a photograph from another all-time favourite, F For Fake, which includes a hilarious sequence at La Méditeraneé, Paris: Orson holding court on Modern European Art, surrounded by an entourage of giggly and extremely pretty girls.

 

 

I'm a massive fan of Orson, and not just because of his tacky advertising campaigns (Paul Masson, California Carafe "we will sell no wine before its time"). His 1938 "War of the Worlds" radio broadcast was terrific in the true meaning of the word. Would I have joined the panicking hordes, as they fled their cities from alien invasion?  Quite possibly.

 

                    

 

The Brandy of Napoleon

 

 

It's easy with hindsignt to imagine what career path you might have taken, if say, the course of events had led you down a different course. I quite like the idea of marketing spirits and liquers, especially if (through some sort of occult timewarp) I had been whisked back in time to the 1970's. But then my father used to be the account director on the Booth's Gin account, and I seem to remember tales of long liquid lunches at their panelled offices in Park Lane. Full Circle.

Another amusing fantasy career would to have been some sort of slick exec for the Franklin Mint. Hours of entertainment thinking up new ideas to flog to the unsuspecting readers of The Sunday Express: "I'm loving your King Henry and His Six Wives Chess Set, Luke" (dig in the ribs) "Real Class, Kiddo"..."Tooled in 24 karat gold and lined in lovingly crafted kidron?"..."Sure"..."But we're gonna up the limited edition size"... "Saya Ten Thousand?"

 

 

The Courvoisier account would have been fun too. Brilliant advertising. A fairly ordinary, supermarket shelf brandy was transformed into a sophisticated cognac enjoyed- no savoured- by connoisseurs, aristos and no one less than the Emperor himself. Buying a bottle of Courvoisier gave you that certain 'je ne sais quoi'- or that at least, is what the advertisers hoped for: the whiff of a leather-bound library, an ancient chateau in the countryside outside Paris, the discreet chime of an antique clock, the crunch of a gravel drive, sophisticated after dinner chat, the hint of an aristocratic pedigree. We're in the same territory as After Eight Mints.

 

 

Imperial Leather soap- by Cussons- was another one. Pretty ordinary stuff to be honest. But then the Imperial Leather family used it, didn't they?  They liked to share a bath. All of them together. Didn't their butler bring them one of those old fashioned telephones to use? As they played backgammon whilst reading the Financial Times?  These days that sort of thing would be banned. I can hear the tut-tutting now as I type, drifiting up over the leafy environs of Tunbridge Wells.