The Greasy Spoon | Food & Culture

Nina St Tropez

 

 

I'm back. We had a terrific ball at the Battersea Decorative Antiques Fair and Josephine the Pig has found a new home. Sold to a nursery in one of the more salubrious parts of London, you'll be glad to hear. After all the hard work and anxiety, it's always a relief when your stand passes that designer litmus test, you shift enough stock to make a decent profit and new friends sign up for that golden newsletter subscription list.

But back to things gastronomique. Every now and again a book turns up that I rate. I mean I really rate. Please step forward Nina St Tropez. Nina Parker is a London-based chef who ran Bocca Di Lupo's Gelupo. Now as someone whose Desert Island Discs' luxury thing would be genuine Italian Ice Cream (plus a large American 'fridge) this looked promising. The blurb on the back of the book says:

"Classic. Simple. Delicious. This is the food of the South of France. With over 100 recipes inspired by the old-world glamour and elegance of St Tropez, Nina takes us on a journey to discover the culinary secrets of the town." 

 

 

 

Mrs Aitch was the one who first alerted me to the book. She'd read about it on that Voguette's wunder website, A Little Bird. Initially, It looked terribly girly. Nothing wrong with this of course, but there are quite a few of these books currently on the market; you know the thing: numerous lifestyle photographs, pretty girls in Cornish-Wared, retro kitchens; hip parties featuring chiselled, good looking people you have a sneaking suspicion might have been hired from a modeling agency; scented candles territory. And quite often with these sort of books, the recipes don't work.

Well I tell you something- Nina's recipes most certainly work, and not only that, they're extraordinarily delicious. We spent August in Cornwall, at a rather wonderful late 50's house in St Mawes, which my parents rent on a regular basis. It has the most marvellous position, right on the water, with it's own private beach and a sub-tropical garden to die for. Reminds me enormously of that house in Bonjour Tristesse. That slightly dubious B move with silver-foxed, aging roué David Niven wafting around on the terrace in a silk dressing grown, Dry Martini in hand. So what could be more suitable to cook from than Nina St Tropez?

 

 

We tried out several recipes. More than once. My current numéro un favourite is her take on Fennel, Carrot and Nutmeg Gratin aka Gratin de Fenouil et Carotte à la Muscade. Mein Gott, this is divine, the nectar of the gods:

Fennel bulbs, Spanish onions and carrots are sliced and placed into a mixing bowl. Crushed garlic, lots of grated nutmeg and fresh thyme leaves are added along with a decent slug of olive oil, sea salt and black pepper. Everything is then well-tossed until the vegetables are well coated. 

You then take a baking dish and make a layer of fennel and onions at the bottom. A new layer of sliced carrot is placed on top, and the whole thing is finished off with a final layer of fennel and onions. The dish is placed in a hot oven for just over an hour or so. The vegetables will caramelise and get slightly crunchy and charred, but that is all to the good. A mixture of milk and cream is then poured on top and the dish is sprinkled with sourdough breadcrumbs. The gratin is cooked for a further 15 minutes or so, until the top is crunchy and brown. 

It's a terrific (and slightly unusual) combination, the nutmeg, carrot and fennel. Works brilliantly. This is currently in my top ten dishes and I am addicted to it. Well done Miss Parker. Your book is a most definite buy.

 

Bombay Mix

 

 

It's crunchy. It's spicy. It's horribly addictive. It's laced, I suspect, with our old friend, Mr Monosodium Glutamate. It comes in those little bags from the local corner shop. It's Bombay Mix. The Queen's a fan. Apparently she draws lines in felt-tip across her porcelain snack bowls. She discovered that quantities of the stuff were mysteriously vanishing. The Royal Protection Squad were the main suspects.

I've currently got a 'thing' about Bombay Mix too, finding it works beautifully for some reason, with a decent Gin & Tonic (Portobello Gin mixed properly, Fever Tree tonic, ice cubes and a wedge of lime). The rather appealing Bombay Mix in the picture above comes from the admirably named Ludlow Nut Company.

Mrs Aitch asked me what was in it. I'm ashamed to admit I couldn't tell her straight off. Nuts? Noodles? Raisins? I wasn't even sure if it was genuinely Indian either. Could it be one of those strange Anglo-Indian concotions conjured up in the 1970's? 

Actually it is Indian (chiwda, chevdo, bhuso, chevda (चिवडा) or chivdo (चिवडो), Chanāchura, chanachur (চানাচুর) and chuda) a traditional snack which is enjoyed by millions right across the globe. Ingredients can include: peanuts, fried lentils, chickpeas, flaked rice, fried onion, noodles and curry leaves, flavoured with salt, pepper, coriander and mustard seed.

There are various recipes out there on the net. Every Indian family has their favourite mix, there doesn't seem to be any major rules. I like Ms Marmite Lover's version, which includes aromatic fennel, green chilis, sunflower seeds, red lentils and almonds.

 

Courtesans, Company Style, Northern India, 1800-1825.

 

The Greasy Spoon tastes…The Bath Oliver

 

 

 

I'm not sure why I haven't written about Bath Olivers before, as they're a very Greasy Spoon thing. "Fortt's Bath Olivers". The most elegant biscuit ever created, in my opinion: generously large, soft to the touch, light on the taste, with that quirky indented impression of their inventor, the good William Oliver, Physician of Bath.

 

 

It is thought that Oliver invented them around 1750. I suppose, in a way, Bath Olivers are really just like any other, more ordinary, dry cracker, but they do have that certain something which is hard to define. An Englishness perhaps? In Rudyard Kipling's charming children's book "Puck of Pook's Hill' they evoke the nostalgic Edwardian idyll of Kipling's Sussex manor house, Bateman's (cue Elgar's Nursery Suite):

...they were not, of course, allowed to act on Midsummer Night itself, but they went down after tea on Midsummer Eve, when the shadows were growing, and they took their supper—hard-boiled eggs, Bath Oliver biscuits, and salt in an envelope—with them. [...] Everything else was a sort of thick, sleepy stillness smelling of meadow-sweet and dry grass."

 

Puck of Pook's Hill, illustration by Sir Arthur Rackham, 1906

 

Christmas Pudding

 

 

 

Every year I post my recipe for Christmas Pudding. It works. I hope you attempt to make it rather than buying one of those ready-made affairs from the shops. It's not especially difficult and for those who like this sort of thing, there's nothing like watching their eager little faces as you carry it through to the dining room, set well alight. Here's the post:

 

Believe it or not, it's time to make your Christmas Pudding. Here in London, Christmas seems to start earlier and earlier. The television advertising spree has begun, and suddenly our screens are full of earnest, eager types wrapped up in noddy hats and woolly scarves, grinning kiddywinks, and beaming Old Dears. Teflon snowflakes are having a field day. The lights have gone up in Sloane Square too, yet the leaves are still on the trees. Look, I love Christmas, please don't get me wrong: I'm no Scrooge; but often the expectation is, truthfully, more enjoyable than the actual event itself. But London is particularly pretty in those two weeks leading up to Christmas, and I can't think of a better place in the world to be at this time.

Right now is the time to start making your Christmas Pudding; and if anything it may even be a bit on the late side. Traditionally, the Christmas Pudding was made on "Stir-Up Sunday", which was the last Sunday before Advent, (about four to five weeks before Christmas Day), but in our family we used to make it as early as late October. I love Christmas Pudding. The way your spoon plunges into the moist (you hope!), rich, fruity mass; and the contrast with the smooth, rich, alchohol infusedbrandy butter.

Here is my tried and tested recipe for Christmas Pudding. It's based on our age-old family recipe (which I suspect was nicked from Cordon Bleu), but I've "improved" it with the addition of Guinness and Black Treacle. It went down extremely well with my brother-in-law, who gobbled down the lot, and apparently, declared it "one of the best Christmas Puddings he had ever tasted"; in fact- "never was there such a pudding". Incidentally, as an experiment last year, I added Scotch Whisky instead of the traditional brandy- and it sort of worked, although the resulting smoky taste was not really that appropriate. So back to good old Cognac it is.

 

 

 

Here's the recipe:

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 

50gGrated 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:

Two beaten eggs

The juice of half a lemon and half an orange

Two tablespoons of a dark stout (ie Guinness)

A tablespoon of black treacle 

A dash of decent Cognac (ie Brandy or Armagnac)

 

Stir it up like mad. Now's the time to add the mixture to a basin. Recently, I've had this thing about those old-fashioned ball-shaped puddings- the ones you see in the Victorian illustrations of Phiz and in Walt Disney. A few years ago, I managed to track down a ball-shaped pudding mould from Divertimenti in the Fulham Road, and used that- but 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.

 

 

Hot Cross Buns

 

 

 

I haven't as yet got my head around the idea that Easter is almost upon us. I love Easter; it should be like Christmas, but without the hassle. I've got a thing too about Hot Cross Buns: the combination of creamy butter, sweet rasins and yeasty dough have a Proustian effect, bringing back memories of Easters past- when, at least, it was bright, fresh and almost warm. Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah. How memory plays tricks.

Hot Cross Buns are one of those traditional dishes whose origins have been lost in the mists of antiquity. The "crosses" were supposedly meant to ward off evil spirits, and the buns, apparently, were banned by the Protestant church for Popery. You eat them on Good Friday.

Here's the recipe, adapted from Sara Paston-William's definitive book, "Christmas and Festive Day Recipes":

Mix up half a pint of milk and water, and warm it up to blood heat. Stir in 22g of fresh yeast, let the mixture get frothy and let it stand for ten minutes.

Sieve 450g plain flour, a teaspoon of salt, a teaspoon of mixed spice,a teaspoon of cinnamon, and some grated nutmeg into a mixing bowl. Stir in 50g of caster sugar. Rub in 50g butter with your fingers. Make a well in the flour mix, pour in the yeasty milk, two beaten eggs, and 175g of currants. Mix it all up to make a dough. Use your hands!

Turn the dough onto a floured board, and knead it with your hands until the dough is elastic. Place it in a warm, greased bowl; sprinkle with flour, and cover with a kitchen towel. If you leave it in a warmish place, the dough should rise.

Once it has doubled in size (this might take over an hour), knock it down, and leave it to rise again for another half an hour. Form the dough into smallish buns. Reserve some of the dough, and roll it out flat. Cut the dough into strips, and place on the top of each bun to form a cross. Set them aside to rest for about fifteen minutes.

Bake them in a pre-set oven at 425F (220C). It might be a good plan to place a tin of water at the bottom of the oven to create a steamy atmosphere. After twenty minutes, the buns should be cooked.

Finish the buns off with a sugar glaze. This is just sugar-water which you have boiled rapidly to form a syrup. Once the syrup is thick enough (and very slightly brown), brush it over the buns.

 

Perfect Madeleines, Time and Time Again...

 

 

I've suddenly got a craze for Madeleines- those delicious French tea-time treats; similar to little cakes, but shaped into scallop shells: fans of Proust will I'm sure, agree. I made a batch yesterday afternoon, and I think I've got the recipe almost exactly right. Here's how to do it:

First, heat up your oven to 200∘C. Crack three eggs into a bowl, and add 150g of white sugar. Using an electric beater, whisk until the eggs and sugar form a white, creamy and reasonably stiff "cream".

 

In a small pan, melt half a pack of butter, and then set aside to cool down. Sift 150g of white flour into the beaten eggs and sugar, and pour in the melted, liquid butter. Using a spoon, very slowly and gently fold in the sifted flour and butter to form a batter.

Now's the time for the flavouring. Last week I used a teaspoon of vanilla extract and that worked reasonably well. You could also use lemon juice. However, yesterday I decided to give my Madeleines an orangey tang- and this seemed to work best of all. So, mix in the finely grated zest and juice of half a small orange.

Next, you'll need a Madeleine baking tray.  I managed to find mine without any problem- and any decent, reasonably upmarket kitchen shop should sell one. It's a tin baking tray with twelve scallop or shell shaped molds. Brush the molds with melted butter (I dipped my brush into the butter I had previously warmed up). Pour the batter into each mold. Surprisingly, you will find that the Madeleines don't expand that much during baking, so I would level off the batter in each mold, making sure that the "scallops" are properly filled.

 

Bake in the hot oven for about nine minutes- until the Madeleines are a light brown and golden colour. Take the molds out of the oven and let them cool down slightly, before turning out the Madeleines onto a plate. Sprinkle them with sifted icing sugar. I found that as the Madeleines cooled down, the outside bit became crunchy and slightly caramelised, while the insides remained soft and slightly moist.

Hot Cross Buns

 

 

 

"Hot cross buns, Hot cross buns, one ha' penny, two ha' penny, hot cross buns. If you have no daughters, give them to your sons, one ha' penny, two ha' penny, Hot Cross Buns"

I love Easter, I really do. Don't get me wrong, I like Christmas too, and would hate to be considered some sort of a tight-fisted Scrooge; but I think it's the combination of chocolate, breezy fresh air, Spring sunshine (if you're lucky), and, as an added bonus, its proximity to the Grand National; which does it for me.

My grandparents used to celebrate the holiday in style, and as well as the ubiquitous chocolate, Easter Egg hunts, and daffodils, we used to have wrapped-up presents too, and a massive turkey. It was just like Christmas, but without the hassle.

"Hot Cross Buns" have an evocative taste. What is it about them?  The combination of buttery, yeasty tastes with the sweetness of the currants? Maybe that's it. Hot Cross Buns are one of those traditional dishes whose origins have been lost in the mists of antiquity. The "crosses" were supposedly meant to ward off evil spirits, and the buns, apparently, were banned by the Protestant church for being too popish. Anyway, you eat them tomorrow, on Good Friday. I've adapted the recipe from Sara Paston-William's definitive book, "Christmas and Festive Day Recipes".

 

Mix up half a pint of milk and water, and warm it up to blood heat. Stir in 22g of fresh yeast, let the mixture get frothy and let it stand for ten minutes.

Sieve 450g plain flour, a teaspoon of salt, a teaspoon of mixed spice, a teaspoon of cinnamon, and some grated nutmeg into a mixing bowl. Stir in 50g of caster sugar. Rub in 50g butter with your fingers. Make a well in the flour mix, pour in the yeasty milk, two beaten eggs, and 175g of currants. Mix it all up to make a dough. Use your hands!

Turn the dough onto a floured board, and knead it with your hands until the dough is elastic. Place it in a warm, greased bowl; sprinkle with flour, and cover with a kitchen towel. If you leave it in a warmish place, the dough should rise.

Once it has doubled in size (this might take over an hour), knock it down, and leave it to rise again for another half an hour. Form the dough into smallish buns. Reserve some of the dough, and roll it out flat. Cut the dough into strips, and place on the top of each bun to form a cross. Set them aside to rest for about fifteen minutes.

Bake them in a pre-set oven at 425F (220C). It might be a good plan to place a tin of water at the bottom of the oven to create a steamy atmosphere. After twenty minutes, the buns should be cooked.

Finish the buns off with a sugar glaze. This is just sugar-water which you have boiled rapidly to form a syrup. Once the syrup is thick enough (and very slightly brown), brush it over the buns.

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Mince Pies

 

 

Looking back at my posts past, I'm amazed that I've never covered these before. Of course, "mince" pies have got nothing to do with meat or even minced meat; the reason why they're called this goes back to the days of Merry Olde England, when mince pies did indeed include meat, or at least, a "mincemeat" consisting of chopped meat, candied fruit, suet, and sugar, all soaked in brandy. These days, we leave the meat out.

Here's our family recipe for mince pies. Ideally, you leave the mincemeat to mature for god knows how long, but as time is short, I'm sure that it won't be the end of the world if you don't.

First, you need to make the "mincemeat". Peel, core and chop 450g apples and mix them up with 335g raisins, 225g sultanas, 175g shredded suet, 335g soft dark brown sugar, 225g  chopped mixed peel (that's candied fruit), 110g chopped almonds, and a teaspoon of mixed spice.

Grate the rind off a lemon and squeeze out the juice. Pour this into the mixture, and add 110ml of brandy or rum. Ideally, you would leave the mincemeat to mature for up to three months, but as time is short, leave it to mature overnight.

To make the pastry: mix up 335g plain flour, 75g ground almonds, and 75g caster sugar. Stir in two egg yolks and 225g unsalted butter, so that the mixture takes on a breadcrumb type texture. Finally, mix in two tablespoons of cold water. Leave the mixture in the 'fridge for 45 minutes.

Roll the pastry flat, and use it to line small jam jar tart tins. Fill each space with heaped teaspoonfuls of mincemeat, and then top with a smaller circle of pastry. Wet the edges of the pastry and press down well at the sides. Cut a slit or a cross on the top of each pie, and brush with milk or egg white, and dust with caster sugar.

Bake in a moderate oven until the pies start to turn brown.  Serve hot- or cold- with brandy butter. Traditionally, the first mince pie of the season grants you a wish, but only on the condition that you don't talk while you're eating.

 

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Irish Soda Bread

 

 

The great thing about Irish Soda Bread is that it's so incredibly easy to make, always works out, and only takes about half an hour. I also happen to like it, and think it would work well with a lovely bowl of hot Irish Stew. So if you're tempted to make your own bread, but can't be bothered to faff around with scary yeast mixtures- this is the one for you.

I've taken the recipe from Terence and Vikki Conran's Classic Conran Cookbook. This is one of the best cookery books I've got on my over-laden bookshelves. If you haven't got a copy, I urge you to head for your local bookshop and order a copy.

Back to the Soda Bread. Pre-heat your oven to 230 C (450 F). Put in a baking sheet and warm it up. Meanwhile sift 350g wholemeal stone-ground flour, 220g plain white flour, a teaspoon of salt, and a teaspoon of bicarbonate of soda into your favourite bowl and mix them up well.

Rub in 20g butter. That means mixing the butter into the flour with your hands. Strangely satisfying. Now mix in 300ml of buttermilk. The buttermilk contains lactic acid, which will react with the bicarbonate of soda to form tiny bubbles of carbon dioxide.

By now you should have a soft, but not sticky dough. Next flour a board or work surface and turn your dough out onto it. Knead it lightly. Shape it into a flattish round, and cut a cross onto the surface. Place the loaf onto the hot baking sheet, and bake in the oven for ten minutes. Once that's done, turn the oven down to 200 C (400F) and cook for a further fifteen minutes.

And that's it. You can find out if it's ready by tapping the base. If it sounds hollow- it's ready. Finis.

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~ Joe Preschutti's "Roasted" Pumpkin Quick Bread ~

Millionaire's Shortbread

 

 

 

 

 

This is completely delicious. I can't think of anything better: shortbread covered in a layer of caramel, and then finished off with a dark chocolate topping. There are various recipes out there, but I've based this on one I found recently in a Sunday colour supplement.

First, make the shortbread. Butter a baking tin, and line it with greasproof paper. Preheat your oven to 180 C. Mix up the following ingredients in your Magimix: 175 g butter, 250g plain flour, 75g golden caster sugar, and half a teaspoon of vanilla extract. You should end up with fine crumbs.

Using your hands, kneed the crumbs to form a dough. Smooth the dough out in the baking tin, and bake in the oven for about 20 minutes.

The caramel is relatively easy. Melt 50g butter with 100g light muscovado sugar over a low heat. Stir until the sugar has dissolved. Carefully stir in two tins of condensed milk, and cook gently until the milk begins to thicken. When it's thick enough, pour it over the shortbread, and bake in the oven or a futher ten minutes. Take it out, and allow it to set.

Finally, the chocolate topping. Break up 250g of dark chocolate, and melt it in a bain-marie. You will need a very gentle heat here, so make sure the water is only just simmering. If the temperature is too high, the chocolate will start to act in a very strange way. When the chocolate has melted, smooth it out over the caramel, and leave the shortbread to cool down. Finish it off by slicing the shortbread into fingers.

 

Madeleines

 

 

If you've ever read (or attempted to read) Marcel Proust's "The Remembrance of Thing Past", you will know what a Madeleine is. In the novel, the narrator dips his Madeleine into his Limeflower scented tea; and the crumbly textures, taste and smell trigger off memories of his past life; and once those memories start coming, Mon Dieu, do they never stop coming...

Madeleines are a small biscuit or pastry- often with a buttery, lemony, orange or vanilla taste; and traditionally made in the Commercy area in North West France. They're always a rather pretty shell or scallop shape, and are supposed to have been named after Madame Madeleine Paulmier, who was a cook in the nineteenth century.

First, you need to pre-heat your oven to 400 F (200 C). That's moderately hot. Next, grease some madeleine moulds with butter. The easiest way of doing this is with the back of the butter wrapper. Madeleine moulds are easier to find than you may think. I was down at my local kitchen shop in Battersea recently, and they had some for sale. They come in the form of metal baking sheets with the scallop shapes stamped into them in rows.

Next, mash up 125g butter in a mixing bowl (probably best to use an electric beater here if you've got one), add 110g castor sugar, and then beat the mixture with a wooden spoon until light and fluffy. Beat two eggs lightly with a fork, and then slowly add them to the butter mixture, stirring away like crazy to make sure it mixes properly. Sift 110g of plain flour with a teaspoon of baking powder, and then fold lightly into the butter mixture.

When the batter is smooth, add a teaspoon of finely grated orange rind, and a tablespoon of fresh orange juice. Instead of orange, you could always use lemon instead. Or, if like me, you love vanilla, a few drops of vanilla extract (or "imitation" vanilla essence as a make-do). But a word of warning, you only need very few drops, otherwise the flavour will be over-powering and sickly.

Fill the moulds with the batter- up to about three quarters full is best. Bake them in the oven for about eight to ten minutes. They should be springy to the touch. Dust them with icing sugar before serving.

Gingerbread

 

 

Today is the Feast of St. Nicholas. Father Christmas, or Santa Claus, is partly derived from this saint. In Holland and other parts of Europe, children put out a boot for Saint Nick on the night of the 5th December to get presents. St. Nicholas has, I think, a creepy assistant called "Black Peter" who gives naughty kiddiwinks a lump of coal.

For me, the run-up to Christmas really starts about now. I was in a Black Cab with a friend a few nights ago, and as we sped through Sloane Square on the way back to the mean streets of Battersea, the Christmas lights looked fantastic. Bond Street is also currently looking pretty amazing.

Anyway, as I'm now in that sort of mood, I thought it might be a good plan to have a look at Gingerbread. As a ginger fanatic, I can't get enough of the stuff. Here is a recipe to make Gingerbread Men (I'm rebelling against the latest politically correct trend to call them Gingerbread People. The world is mad enough as it is).

I've adapted this recipe from the internet. First you need to pre-heat your oven to 170 C. Line a baking tray with baking parchment to stop the Gingerbread sticking. Melt 125g of unsalted butter, 100g dark muscavado sugar, and 4 tablespoons of golden syrup (that's the stuff in those picturesque old-fashioned tins). Sieve 325g flour, a teaspoon of bicarbonate of soda, and two teaspoons of ground ginger into a bowl, and then stir in the melted ingredientsto form a dough. Use your hands!

 

 

Turn the dough out on to a lightly floured board, and using a rolling pin, roll it out to a reasonable thickeness. I like them quite thick.

Now for the fun bit. You can use a Gingerbread Man cutter thing (available from cookshops) to make Gingerbread Men, or if you prefer other shapes, you can make stars, and biscuits, and goodies like that. Place them on the tray, shove in the oven, and cook them for about nine to ten minutes. When they're cooked properly, you can decorate them with icing. Frankly, I can't be bothered, and they're long gone before then. Patience is a virtue- and it ain't found in me.

Irish Soda Bread

 

 

The great thing about Irish Soda Bread is that it is so incredibly easy, always works out and only takes about half an hour to make. I also happen to like it. So if you are tempted to make your own bread, but can't be bothered to faff around with scary yeast mixtures- this is the one for you.

I've taken the recipe from Terence and Vikki Conran's Classic Conran cookbook. It's one of the best cookery books I've got on my over-laden bookshelves. If you haven't got a copy, I urge you to head for your local bookshop and order a copy.

 

Back to the Soda Bread. Pre-heat your oven to 230 C (450 F). Put in a baking sheet and warm it up. Meanwhile sift 350g wholemeal stone-ground flour, 220g plain white flour, a teaspoon of salt, and a teaspoon of bicarbonate of soda into your favourite mixing bowl and mix them well. Rub in 20g butter. That means mixing the butter into the flour with your hands. Strangely satisfying.

Now mix in 300ml of buttermilk. The buttermilk contains lactic acid, which will react with the bicarbonate of soda to form tiny bubbles of carbon dioxide. By now you should have a soft, but not sticky dough. Next flour a board or work surface and turn your dough out onto it. Knead it lightly. Shape it into a flattish round, and cut a cross onto the surface. Place the loaf onto the hot baking sheet, and bake in the oven for ten minutes.

Once that's done, turn the oven down to 200 C (400F) and cook for a further fifteen minutes. And that's it. You can find out if it's ready by tapping the base. If it sounds hollow- it's ready. Finis.