The Greasy Spoon | Food & Culture

Happy Christmas

 

 

 

A very Happy Christmas to all readers of The Greasy Spoon, and my best wishes for the New Year. To be frank, the last year’s been a bit of a slog, and I’m crossing my fingers for a more relaxed and less chaotic 2018.

I realise this may not be everybody’s cup of tea, but have a look at my new little friend, as pictured above. It’s a splendid Suckling Pig from the Wicked Food Cooking School.

Since reading Stefan Gates’s brilliant, insane and subversive Gastronaut, I’ve become mildly obsessed with getting hold of a suckling piglet. Although it’s relatively easy to cook- supposedly- the snag is that it feeds ten, and costs over £100. Our dining room table seats eight, and Christmas has virtually bankrupted me. According to Stefan Gates, Pugh’s Piglets is the place to get them. You stuff the critter with black pudding, apples and sausages, glaze him with honey and rum, stuff an apple in his mouth and bung him in the oven. 

 

Charles Laughton in The Private Life of Henry VIII (1933)

 

For those of us with Olde England banqueting fantasies, this is the ultimate ticket. How Splendid! By the way, if you’re looking for a fun film to watch over Christmas and the New Year, that 1930s black and white number with Charles Laughton starring as Henry VIII would be ideal (The Private Life of Henry VIII). Dear old BBC4 is also devoting its entire Christmas Eve schedule to M.R. James ghost stories, which is a treat in store. I’m going to be sitting up late with the hound, getting spooked, while Mrs Aitch goes to Midnight Mass. Can’t wait.

 

Luxury Christmas Pudding

 

 

Christmas Card for V & A by Alice Pattullo

 

Every year we make our own Christmas Pudding. Over the years I’ve more or less worked out how to make a good one. It needs to be moist, it needs to be rich; it needs, I think, to be dark in colour, it needs to be laced with alcohol. My recipe is based on our family version, which in turn, was nicked from the 1960’s Cordon Bleu Cookery Course part-work. I’ve adapted it by adding Guinness stout and black treacle. One year I tried adding a peaty Scotch Whisky, but somehow, the finished result was far too smokey, too peaty, which of course is what’s obviously going to happen if you start playing around with a Single Malt. So back to cognac. And that feels right. 

And now is the time to make it. Traditionally, Stir-Up Sunday is the last Sunday before Advent, ie tomorrow. Everyone takes turns to stir the pudding and make a wish.

One of the great pleasures of Christmas is walking into the food hall at Fortnum & Mason. You’re hit by that particular, delicious scent: a combination of thick wool carpet, glass, plastic wrapping, Turkish Delight, cognac, chocolate and tea. And row after row of “luxury” Christmas puddings. One of the saddest things known to mankind is the single Christmas Pudding for one. The idea of someone sitting there alone, eating it all by themselves is truly awful. Even worse if they’re wearing one of those paper hats.

And what’s the difference between a “Christmas Pudding” and a “Luxury Christmas Pudding”?  That’s a question I would love to ask the manufacturers. Like the dreadful  “iconic”, “luxury” is one of those over-used, mistunderstood, meaningless words. These days everything is luxury. From a yuppy apartment flat in Nine Elms (“the height of sophistication’) to a bog-standard entry level Mercedes-Benz (“luxury in motion”). Does a spoonful of cheap brandy and a few glacé cherries make a pudding de-luxe? 

Here’s our recipe. (This year I’ve got a bottle of sweet 12 year old Pedro Ximenez Sherry lying around, so I’m going to add a teaspoon of the stuff to the mix. Just a tiny bit. An extra hint of raisin will be no bad thing).

Incidentally, the fabulous illustration above is by the brilliant printmaker, Alice Pattullo. Recently she designed an interesting bookplate for me based on that famous painting of Charles II receiving the first pineapple grown on English soil. The Pudding King was a design for a Christmas Card, as sold by the V & A. 

 

The Official Greasy Spoon Christmas Pudding

 

Stir up all the following ingredients in a pudding basin:

-350g Mixed fruit and peel (this means crystallised peel, dried apricots, currants, saltanas, raisins, grated lemon rind, and grated orange rind)

-50g Chopped glacé cherries

-25g Flaked almonds

-50g Dried suet (you can't get the proper stuff anymore- the EU has made it illegal)

-35g White breadcrumbs

-35g Plain flour

-70g Moist dark brown sugar

-50g Grated apple

-A dash of mixed spice and grated nutmeg (Some weirdos add carrot- but very sensibly, I leave this one out). 

 

Once you've stirred all the ingredients together, mix in the following ingredients:

 

-2 beaten eggs

-Juice of half a lemon and half an orange

-2 tablespoons of a dark stout (ie Guinness)

-Tablespoon of black treacle

-Dash of decent Cognac (ie Brandy or Armagnac)

 

Stir it up like mad. Now’s the time to add the mixture to a basin. A traditional ceramic pudding basin is just dandy.

Smear the inside of the basin with butter. This will stop the pudding sticking to the side. Pour in the mixture. Top off with a piece of buttered greaseproof paper, ideally cut down to fit. Finally, place a cloth over the basin, and tie it off at the top with a bit of string.

Steam it for five to six hours. This means getting hold of a large pan, filling it about a quarter full with water and bringing it to the boil. Place the pudding in the middle of the pan, and put the lid on. The steam will rise up within the pan, and cook the pudding. Once it's cooked, leave it in a cool place with a piece of tin foil on top. It will mature in the run-up to Christmas. On the great day itself, you will need to steam it for a further three hours.  

Serve with a sprig of holly and brandy butter. Pour over brandy and set light to it. There’s a theory that hot brandy will stay alight longer than cold brandy. I’ve never been entirely convinced. Heating brandy drives off the alcohol. Surely? 

 

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.

  

Eat at Pleasure Drink by Measure

 

 

 

I've been meaning to write about Olof Wijk's 'Eat at Pleasure Drink by Measure' for some time now. This is another long forgotten book, which, like yesterday's 'Clubland Cooking', you can buy online for a pittance. If I had to choose a Greasy Spoon Top Ten, it's very possible that 'Eat at Pleasure Drink by Measure' would cut the mustard. I cannot stress how much I love this book. It's a bedside companion, like having a civilised old friend at your elbow.

Olof Wijk was a director of the now long defunct Jermyn Street wine merchant, Christopher's, and was "born in Gothenburg of Swedish parents. Educated at Harrow and Sandhurst, he assumed British nationality on joining the 4th Queen's Own Hussars in India." 

 

Elizabeth David by Madame Hassia, National Portrait Gallery, London

 

in 1960 he came up with the inspired idea of sending out food and wine leaflets to his clients. Elizabeth David would write the recipes, and Olof would contribute his own thoughts on wine. The result was a charming semi-autobiographical seasonal anthology (including delightful wood-cuts by Yvonne Skargon in the manner of Thomas Bewick, poetry and historical quotations), which Constable re-published in book form in 1970, and like so many other books of this period it's a triumph of production with lovely soft creamy yellow paper and distinguished typography.

I know that if I had met Mr Wijk I would have liked him very much indeed. An Officer and Gentleman of the old school, he comes across as a rather lovely old boy, and his writing is full of humanity and civilised anecdotes. His love of wine, food, classical music and the finer things in life shines out. And he was a terrific writer too- almost Hemingway-esque at times, probably without even realising it. Here's Olof on how to host a dinner during the month of March:

All I ask is that it be easy to do. And I can't spend all day cooking. And it must look sensational. And taste exquisite. And I refuse to be doing something messy in the kitchen while everyone else is drinking. And it has got to be original- one is so sick of Chicken à la Creme and the indomitable mousse. And what with everyone dieting and George Brown going on so, and Lent upon us, one is ridden with guilt if it is at all rich and expensive. I doubt if there is a complete answer.

 

 

I realise it's not summer yet, but here's Elizabeth David's recipe for Fresh Figs with Orange Juice, taken from 'Eat at Pleasure, Drink by Measure'. It sounds refreshing and original:

Elizabeth David's Fresh Figs with Orange Juice

Allow two firm, very slightly under-ripe purple or green figs per person. Cut the stalks from the figs but do not peel them. Quarter them, put them in a bowl, and over them pour juice, freshly squeezed, of one large or two small oranges for eight figs. No sugar is necessary, but the fruit should be prepared an hour or so before it is to be eaten.

Presented in a perfectly plain white china salad bowl, or in individual clear glass wine goblets, this fig salad is one of the most beautiful as well as one of the most exquisite of all fresh fruit dishes

But before we get too carried away with all this, while browsing my much-thumbed copy this morning I discovered a pencilled annotation in my grandmother's spidery hand writing against Olof's entry for Mousse de Jambon: NO GOOD AT ALL.

 

Edward Bawden and Fortnum & Mason's Christmas Catalogues

 

 

 

Having grown up with the various shops dotted around St James's, I think I can afford to be grumpy when they close down, or get 'made-over', which seems to happen at an alarming rate these days.

 

 

Sullivan Powell (where I used to buy little boxes of unfiltered Turkish Sobranie Cigarettes rolled, apparently, on the thighs of hearty Balkan peasant girls). Gone. Maitland's the Chemist (until very recently, a corner shop at the top end of Piccadilly Arcade, where perfumed soap gathered dust and the clock stopped in 1914). Gone. Hawes & Curtis (once purveyors of fine shirts to King Edward VIII, Lord Mountbatten and Cary Grant). Completely, Utterly Ruined. Bates the Hatter (most famous resident Binks the Cat, stuffed and boxed, jaunty topper and cigar in his mouth). Demolished. That one really hurt. One of the last, original, authenticly preserved, genuine 1920's shop interiors, unnecessarily knocked down to make way for a parade of bland, slick 'international' units. Where Bates traded for almost a hundred years, can now be found Sunspel, the Y-Front shop, which looks, frankly, if it could be found in any city where rich people cluster: New York, Shanghai, Hong Kong or Geneva, or failing that Terminal 4 at Heathrow Airport.

And there are several others I could mention. I'm currently worried about D.R. Harris, chemist and perfumers, established 1790, which has recently closed for re-furbishment and re-development. I'm praying that this is going to be nothing more than a lick of paint and that the old atmosphere of the Victorian shop, with its apothecarist's bottles and mahogany shelving, will be preserved. Modernisation for Modernisation's Sake. The relentless creep of Internationalism. I don't like it.

But I'm not a complete curmudgeon. I do realise that times change, and if shops are gong to survive, they need to move with the times. The trick, I think, is balance; to keep somehow, the ethos of the old place: a daunting task for designers who may often have been raised on distant shores.

Budd, the shirt and pajama makers in Piccadilly Arcade, recently bought up by Huntsman, has re-fitted the shop brilliantly, improving things here and there, but keeping the atmosphere of the old, rather discreet shop, known to the lucky few. This is the antithesis of global brands such as Ralph Lauren, where cricket bats are displayed as props and portraits on the walls are still wet to the touch. Long may it thrive. Budd, not Ralph Lauren.

 

 

Fortnum's is another example. The recent re-fit has been a triumph. Every Christmas I make a quick trawl, primarily to buy presents on my way to Hatchards, but also as an excuse to breath in 'that' honeyed smell which hits you as you push your way through the swing doors: a mixture of rich wool carpet, glass, crystallised fruit, liquers and plastic. It's very hard to describe. They've managed to keep all the essential elements that make Fortnum's so special, the fitted carpets are still cerise, the woodwork is still painted in eau de nil, the staff still wear morning dress, often a size too small, or a size too big. It's a shame that the old St James's restaurant is now kaput, as for many Londoners, this place held special memories: the carving trolley (I can see my grandfather discreetly tipping the carver), the poe-faced waitresses in their 1920's starched linen headbands, the naff Montague Dawsons in their heavily gilded Impressionist frames. Full riggers in stormy seas. Still.

I love the new range of tea caddies that F & M have just brought out. Guard's Blend in particular. Brilliant, evocative packaging. They remind me of Edward Bawden's sumptious designs for Fortnum's Christmas catalogues.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Particular Delights

 

 

I'm very aware that I haven't written anything since last month. Having said that, I'm not especially keen on the blogger who only posts sporadically, with accompanying gushy excuses about "being incredibly busy" and "life is hectic". You will know the type. It's a bit like people who are late for meetings complaining about the "awful traffic". In Soho, Covent Garden or St James's.

But this time, I have a proper excuse: I've been working for the last six months on my new online decorative antiques shop (www.lukehoney.co.uk). I don't normally plug my "other life" on The Greasy Spoon, but this time I'm going to. Unashamedly. It's currently a holding page, although you can quite easily log on, and sign up for my regular newsletter. I'm expecting the site to go officially live over the next few days.

Although I'm currently known in the business as a specialist in antique games (you know the sort of thing- ivory chess sets, leather backgammon boards, eighteenth century gambling chips, mah jong, interesting antique roulette wheels) I'm also going to be dealing in other Country House goodies: Regency reverse glass mezzotints, Fornasetti, Modern British paintings and prints, Gothic revival furniture, old ikats, Chinese blue and white ceramics, convex Empire mirrors, library ladders, vintage globes, fascinating old medical charts. There's going to be a blog too, linked to the site. A new blog on antiques, architecture, design and the like; anything that grabs me- and as you've probably worked out by now, I've got eclectic interests.

In the meantime, back to the food- and long may that continue. Grub Street very kindly sent me an advance copy of Nathalie Hambro's Particular Delights through the post. I'm a big fan of Grub Street. They publish foodie authors of interest, and I love the quality of their production: lovely smooth, creamy paper; well sewn bindings, soothing typography, tasteful illustrations.

Particular Delights was first published in 1981 and won the Glenfiddich Award for food writing, and it's been a favourite on my bookshelf for some time now. Some of Nathalie Hambro's recipes are a bit weird, (I seem to remember a scrambled egg studded with kidney beans, and a celery and banana salad), but that would be missing the point; the book is stunningly original. I like the sound of Grape and Radish salad (sliced radishes, black and white grapes, bound in a yoghurt and dill dressing) and Smoked Oysters steamed in Vine Leaves (vine leaves stuffed with ricottta cheese, smoked oysters, dried fungi, coriander, spinach and spring onions and seasoned with cayenne pepper, mace and salt).

I like cooks who invent their own dishes. If this sort of thing floats your boat, have a look at Sybil Kapoor's Taste, A New Way to Cook; and Niki Segnit's The Flavour Thesaurus. Experimentation and Creativity are the way forward!

 

 

Happy Christmas

 

Robert Braithwaite Martineau (1826-1869) The Christmas Hamper

 

To all readers of The Greasy Spoon, wishing you a very Happy Christmas and with every best wish for the New Year!

 

Rex Whistler and The Tate Gallery Restaurant

 

 

Rex Whistler (1905-1944), "Self-Portrait", 1940, National Army Museum

One of my favourite biographies of the 1980's is Laurence Whistler's The Laughter and The Urn, an affectionate portrait of his brother, the artist and illustrator, Rex Whistler. Rex was killed in July 1944 as the Guards Armoured Division attempted to break out of the salient at Caen. His languid self-portrait, painted in 1940, is now in the possession of the National Army Museum. He's sitting on the edge of the balcony of one of those Nash stucco terraces in Regent's Park, self-aware in his new uniform of the Welsh Guards; Sam Browne belt unbuckled, cocktail tray and paint brushes at the ready.

Rex Whistler died at far too young an age. He is remembered now for his charming, delightful, whimsical if frivolous, illustrations (Beverley Nichol's Down the Garden Path, immediately comes to mind); he was after all, a friend of Stephen Tennant and a Bright Young Thing, but his later work shows the promise of greater things. Here's his portrait of Sargeant Isaacs, Welsh Guards:

 

 

Rex Whistler (1905-1944) "The Master Cook", Sergeant Isaacs of the Welsh Guards, 1940 or 1941.

 

 

Rex Whistler (1905-1944), "Caroline Paget", circa 1938

 

In 1926, The Tate Gallery commissioned Whistler to redecorate the murals of their then refreshment room, now the Rex Whistler Restaurant at Tate Britain (the restaurant is currently closed for re-fururbishment until 2013).

With quirky wit, Rex called his murals The Expedition in Pursuit of Rare Meats: "a hunting party is formed, including a princess and her maid, a prince, a colonel, a captain, a pantry boy and the son of an impoverished nobleman. At the start of the mural they are seen leaving a palace and riding across the countryside, spearing sturgeon, hunting for truffles and other delicacies. The hunters encounter wild and mythical beasts on their journey through the mountains and forests including a leopard and a unicorn".

 

 

Rex Whistler (1905-1944), "The Expedition in Pursuit of Rare Meats", Tate Gallery, London, 1927

 

Yesterday I mentioned my "cook books to save in the event of a fire shelf". I've got another one to add (this is growing by the day). It's The Tate Cookbook, by Paul King and Michael Driver, published by The Tate Gallery in 1996. It might just be still available new, otherwise you should easily be able to track one down through amazon or abebooks. I really love it. Published in an elegant format, with a terrific dust-jacket by William Strang ("Bank Holiday", painted in 1912) it's generously illustrated with food-related paintings and drawings by the likes of William Nicholson, Vanessa Bell, Elisabeth Blackadder, William Scott, Duncan Grant, Stanley Spencer and Walter Sickert.

Inside, there's a selection of relatively simple, elegant (like "iconic", a much over-used word, but I'm going to use it again without hesitation in this case), recipes with a British, even Nursery twist: buttered crab, venison pâté en croûte with Cumberland Sauce, poached pears with stilton walnut quennelles, omelette arnold bennett, breast of pheasant with pâté croutons and Madeira sauce, whisky and coffee ice cream, brioche and butter pudding, lemon soufflé. All this is similar, in some ways, to the 1920s' and 30's recipes in Arabella Boxer's Book of English Food.

 

 

William Strang (1859-1921), "Bank Holiday", 1912, dust-jacket design for The Tate Cookbook

 

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Coca-Cola

 

 

 

Doesn't it just taste so much better in a bottle?

 

Before the Theatre

 

 

Before the theatre: Prunier's Snack Bar by "Eric" (Carl Erickson, 1891-1958), Vogue Magazine, late 1930's, (from Food in Vogue, Six Decades of Cooking and Entertaining, edited by Barbara Tims, Harrap London, 1976)

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Winston's Breakfast

 

 

Sir William Nicholson (1872-1949), Study for Breakfast at Chartwell II, Sir Winston Churchill and Clementine Ogilvy Hozier, Lady Churchill, in the Dining Room at Chartwell, with their cat, Tango, The National Trust

 

I had an unashamedly teary afternoon yesterday watching Richard Attenborough's poignant film, Young Winston, (1972). It's shown in an edited version on minor television channels from time to time, which is a pity- as it is a marvellous film. Terrific (no, outstanding performances) from Anne Bancroft as Jennie Churchill and Robert Shaw as Lord Randolph. Simon Ward's also superb as the young thruster, and there's lots of Elgar.

Which reminded me of Sir William Nicholson's charming Study for Breakfast at Chartwell, painted just before the outbreak of the Second World War, at the time of Churchill's Wilderness Years. Those of you who have visited Chartwell will probably recognise the rather stylish 1930's dining room. Their little marmalade cat, Tango, is sitting on the table next to Clemmie. I was pleased to see this, as this is just the sort of behaviour we get from our beloved, but utterly pesky, Burmese brown, Oskie.

I'm firmly of the opinion that a proper English Breakfast is one of our greatest contributions to civilisation. Taken sitting at a shiny mahogany table; with the bright morning light streaming in through the windows, bouncing off the polished silver. Starched white linen napkins, silver toast racks, little pots for the hot, tangy English mustard. Chafing dishes on the sideboard. Kedgeree, kippers, grilled sausages, devilled kidneys, toast, Seville orange marmalade, grilled bacon, grilled tomatoes, eggs both poached and scrambled, smoked haddock, porridge, Earl Grey tea, black coffee.

 

 

Jennie Jerome, Lady Randolph Churchill

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Photographer: Melvin Sokolsky

Model: Dorothea McGowan

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An Apple a Day...

 

Lovely graphics from the William Tell Apple Co. of North Carolina. 1940's. As it's Burns Night this evening, I'm am also featuring one of my early posts on Haggis at the top of the page.

Restaurants in Art

 

 

The New Yorker

 

I've been a massive fan of the iconic New Yorker covers since as long as I can remember. The dry, urbane humour of the magazine's cartoon art is marvellous, too. This one's "Turkey Dinner" by Wayne Thiebaud, published tomorrow (November 21st, 2011).  

The style reminds me of David Hockney's 1978 menu cover for the Ma Maison restaurant:

 

 

Hockney also designed the menu covers for Odin's, Langan's Brasserie and the Neal Street Restaurant. I love his menu design for the Salts Diner:

 

 

The Penguin Great Food Series

 

 

 

"In this memoir-turned-cookbook, Alice B. Toklas describes her life with partner Gertrude Stein and their famed Paris salon, which entertained the great avant-garde and literary figures of their day. With dry wit and characteristic understatement Toklas ponders the ethics of killing a carp in her kitchen before stuffing it with chestnuts, decorating a fish to amuse Picasso at lunch and travelling across France during the First World War in an old delivery truck..."

 

Here's Alice B. Toklas's "Murder in the Kitchen" from the new Penguin Great Food Series, the cover designed by Coralie Bickford-Smith. Despite the threat from the sinister Kindle, I happen to think that this country is enjoying a "golden age of book design", and I often unashamedly buy new books as much for the design of their dust-jackets or typography, as for their contents. The pleasure book-collecting has given me over the last few years has been immense, and you'll find that paperbacks such as these are not only eminently collectable, but also affordable too.

 

But I have a major quibble- and Penguin Books, I hope you're reading. Why-oh-why did you decide to issue this potentially marvellous series in abridged form? They're slim little critters, priced at seven golden nuggs a piece- and remind me of those freebie books you're given now and again with "The Times" or "The Daily Telegraph". I loved Colonel Wyvern's "Notes from Madras", and am now desperate to read more of it. A slim 78 or so pages ain't enough! Is this a form of dumbing down?  Do Penguin think that buyers are incapable of reading the complete book?

Chefs in Art

 

 

Sir William Orpen (1878-1931) "The chef of l’Hotel Chatham", shown at the Royal Academy in 1921.

 

 

Rex Whistler (1905-1944) "The Master Cook", Sergeant Isaacs of the Welsh Guards, 1940 or 1941.

 

 

David Hockney (bn. 1937) "Peter Langan in his kitchen at Odin's", ink on paper, 1969, sold at Christie's for £19,120 (inc. buyer's premium) in 2004.

 

 

Chaim Soutine (1893-1943) "The Pastry Chef", 1927.

 

 

Francis Edwin Hodge (1883-1949) "The Arts Club's Woman Chef", 1935, The Arts Club, London.

Collecting Rare and Vintage Cookery Books

 

 

I've just been sorting out my collection of books on food and wine. I never intentionally set out to collect this sort of thing; but being a second-hand bookshop junkie, have, over the years, amassed a wide assortment of interesting old books on all sorts of different subjects. Above is a first edition of Michael Smith's Fine English Cookery, published in 1973. And how things have changed!  Michael Smith, for example, tells us how to make a traditional kedgeree using tinned salmon. And that's what's interesting about these fascinating old books. Who today would make Bon Viveur's blue-dyed egg canapes, with anchovy garnish, and lover-ly piped mashed potato?

 

 

 

 

The internet has had a beneficial knock-on effect on the price of some of these books, and it's now easy to get online, and discover just how much that old dog-eared copy might actually be worth. Take Floyd's Food, for example. I've got a slightly grubby copy of it, much used over the years, and stained with the shipwreck of time. But it's rather valuable. This was one of the very early Keith Floyd books, published in a tiny print run by a local Bristol publisher just before "Floyd on France" made him famous. For Floyd "completists", that's the hard one to track down. The first edition of Marco Pierre White's White Heat is another sought after title.

 

I'm currently looking out for cookery books published in the pre-war era. They're the sort of thing which you used to be able to find relatively easily, but now are becoming increasingly scarce. Books from the 60's and 70's are still available- and could be a good area for starting a collection. They're also fun- and often have great graphics. One of these is The Bachelor Chef. Written by the elusive "Simon Tiffany", and published by Arlington Books of St James's in 1965, it's full of dodgy recipes involving cans of this, and cans of that; a self-help manual for wannabe playboys, and international men of mystery. Lots of hilariously kitsch drawings too, in the manner of the late Stephen Ward.

 

 

Absinthe

 

 

As I'm in a rather decadant, fin de siecle sort of mood, I've decided this morning to write about absinthe. Recently, I asked a friend if they would like a glass of "the green fairy". My generous offer was rejected with a look of horror, fear, and pity. Yes, absinthe still has a more than sinister reputation, and most people out there are vaguely aware that the stuff used to be illegal.

What exactly is absinthe? Absinthe is a distilled, anise-flavored spirit derived from herbs including the flowers and leaves of the medicinal plant Artemisia absinthium, also called Grand Wormwood or Absinthe Wormwood. The wormwood contains small quantities of thujone. It's also highly alchoholic.

The stuff I drink, La Fee, is a staggering 68% proof (that's almost double the strength of Gordon's Gin)- and some brands are even stronger. But there are so many half truths in the absinthe legend. You don't drink the absinthe neat, you dilute it with water; and this involves a curious ritual. Ideally you need a proper absinthe glass, which has a small reservoir at the bottom. Into the glass goes the neat absinthe. Next, you place the pierced absinthe spoon over the top of the glass, on to which goes a lump of sugar. Iced water is poured over the sugar, through the spoon, and down into the glass. The water turns the absinthe opaque (this is called the "louche"), and the flavours, herbals, and  aromatics are released.

 

 

 

Absinthe was originally invented in Switzerland, but became hugely popular in France, especially at the end of the nineteenth century. During the 1880's and 1890's the wine trade suffered badly, and absinthe drinking became widespread, especially amongst Parisian artists, intellectuals and the Bohemian set. So widespread in fact, that it became a social problem; but more from the amount of absinthe consumed, than the scientific properties of the drink itself. After a series of rather grisly murders (blamed on absinthe), the drink was banned by the French government in 1915, and then by other countries around the world, apart from Great Britain, Spain, and Portugal.

 

It's still quasi-illegal in the United States, because of the thujone content, which can supposedly give you hallucinations if taken in high quantities. But then so can oil of bergamot (used to flavour Earl Grey tea)! Modern absinthes have significantly small, and I stress, non-harmful levels of thujone. Absinthe is safe. Trust me! So there it is. The story of absinthe. I had a glass last night, and it was good. Extremely good. And less bitter than you would think, helped along by the iced water and the sugar cube. They say it leaves you with a clear head, and helps to concentrate your thinking. And I think it does, as I leapt out of bed this morning full of joie de vivre. Allez l'absinthe!