The Greasy Spoon | Food & Culture

Hong Kong Foodie

 

Green Silver Shads outside the Peninsular Hotel, Kowloon

 

Hong Kong in the Seventies. If there was ever a natural habitat for the International Man of Mystery in his later incarnation, this has to be it. Think "The Man with the Golden Gun" (1974)- the guiltiest of all guilty pleasures: Brown Suede and Kung Fu. Golden Buddhas and Jade. Priceless Antiques (often Fake). Sam's Tailors and The Dragon Boat Bar at the Hong Kong Hilton. The Royal Hong Kong Police (Sam Browne Belts), Cathay Pacific and Suzie Wong. I last visited Hong Kong in the spring of 1997, just before the handover to Communist China, and loved the place from first landing; struck on my first day by the thrusting young tai-pans of Jardine Matheson in their all-wool, English cut bespoke suits- cool as cucumbers in the sweltering humidity of the Hollywood Road. I have no idea if they're still there, for I'm told that the former colony has now changed, some say for the better, many for the worse.

There was also a rather naff aftershave called Mandate, which, I think my Mad Man father advertised (although he consistently denies it), shamelessly championing the ersatz cause of sinful luxury, and with brilliant 70s packaging which, like sunken baths and golden dragon taps, for some reason reminds me of Hong Kong during that glittering decade: the gilt font set against simulated marbled cardboard in decadent chocolate brown.

 

The Man with the Golden Gun (1974): "A guilty pleasure if ever there was one..."

 

I suppose that alongside The American Bar at The Savoy and Harry's Bar in Venice, The Captain's Bar at The Mandarin Hotel (now Oriental) has to be one of the most famous watering holes in the world. It first opened its doors in the 1960s, and the decoration was decidedly clubby, as it more or less remains to this day: red leather banquettes, draught beer served in silver tankards, tropical palms, nautical nick nacks and chess-themed glass screens. By 1997, it had, perhaps, fallen on hard times and lost some of its former allure: I spent several evenings there, with a lonely Dry Martini as company- for it's very much a Greasy Spooner's kind of place, and the select clientele over that time numbered: Yours Truly, a Chanel-clad tart, two Alan Whicker types in double-breasted blazers, and a bowl of salted peanuts.

 

The Captain's Bar, Mandarin Hotel, Hong Kong, circa 1969

 

And it was in Hong Kong that I acquired my love of Dim Sum- those never-ending, bite-sized snacks, served from a trolley and taken as brunch; steamed and braised chicken's claws, a sweet, glutinous treat; shrimp dumplings and pan-fried turnip cake. Browsing our over-stuffed bookshelves this afternoon, I rediscovered a small hardback I had almost forgotten. It's called "A Taste for Music- Recipes from Hong Kong Kitchens", published in 1977 in aid of the Royal Hong Kong Philarmonic; one of those charitable cookbooks to which various well-heeled Society types contributed. My parents must have brought it back from one of my father's business trips. The first recipe is from a Mrs Frank Pong, and I like its utter simplicity. The second recipe is for those rather exotic looking marbled "tea eggs" and comes from Mrs Kitty Siu Hon Sum:

 

Drunken Chicken (Chicken in wine sauce, Shanghai) Recipe from Mrs Frank Pong, A Taste for Music, The Hong Kong Philarmonic Society, 1977

1 chicken, about 3 Ib

3 tbsp salt

2 cups dry sherry (or Chinese Wine)

Wash and clean the chicken. Wipe dry. Rub the inside and outside of the chicken with salt evenly. Let it stand for at least 5 hours. Place the chicken in a deep plate and steam it over a high heat for 40 minutes. Remove the chicken and let cool.

Cut chicken into six pieces. Place these in a deep bowl. Mix the drippings with the dry sherry. Pour the mixture over the chicken and cover the bowl tightly. Put it into the refrigerator for at least 12 hours.

When serving, cut into small pieces about 1/2" wide and 1" long. Serve hot or cold.

 

Tea Eggs (Recipe from Mrs Kitty Siu Hon Sum, "A Taste for Music", 1977)

12-18 eggs

3 tbsp black tea or 6 tbsp used tea leaves

2 tbsp salt

1 tbsp star anise cloves

3 tbsp soy sauce

Hard boil the eggs starting in cold water over a medium fire. Then cool the eggs in cold water for a few minutes and make cracks on the eggshells by rolling them gently on the table or a chopping board. 

Place the cracked eggs in a saucepan together with the tea, soy sauce, salt and spice and simmer for about one hour.

The eggs may be served hot or cold. The eggs should not be shelled before serving as the eggshell will keep the eggs moist. This is a good dish for picnics.  It is also an attractive hors d'oeuvre if prepared before quails' egg, in which case the eggs must be peeled before serving. In the case of the quails' eggs, it is not necessary to cook for as long a period of time and particularly gentle care must be taken when rolling the eggshell.

 

 

Gruel

 

 

Is it worth the waiting for?

If we live till eighty four

All we ever get is gruel!

Every day we say our prayer

Will they change the bill of fare?

Still we get the same old gruel!

 

Gru-el. Sounds dreadful, doesn’t it? Have you ever had it?  Do you know what it’s made from? I have to admit to a ‘no’ on both counts. And that’s despite several long and hard years at Dotheboy’s Hall, which included stainless steel spoonfuls of frog-spawn pudding, stale spotted dick and freeze-dried mashed potato: force fed by Irish hags in stained nylon housecoats. Stop any reasonable person in the street and ask them the same question, and I bet you’ll get a blank look and a vague answer: “a watery soup?”... “a porridge made from floor sweepings, perhaps?” ...”Something to do with Dickens?”

Now our old friend, Wikipedia, rather sniffily describes it thus: “from a literary...or bourgeois point of view...(gruel) has often been associated with poverty...Gruel was on the Third Class menu of The Titanic on the eve of her sinking.”

And so it was, and so it has. Essentially, gruel is a generic term for a cereal- oat, wheat, rye flour or rice boiled in water and milk to create a thin porridge or soup; it was the staple diet of the Ancient Greeks. It can also be made from acorns. The photograph on Wikipedia is appalling.

There’s a whole chapter devoted to gruel in Stefan Gates’s brilliantly subversive, Gastronaut (BBC Books, 2005) which I would recommend without hesitation to anybody else with a dark and twisted mind. I love this book; it’s a comforting bedside companion. It includes recipes for marinated criminal (a Confucian concoction from Ancient China) and Nettle Haggis, and instructions on how to catch, cook and eat the kiddywink’s guinea pigs. Strangely, Gates seems to quite like gruel and includes a recipe made from rice simmered in water for an hour, sweetened with sugar, and flavoured with cinnamon, an orange and a splash of brandy.

 

Private Recipes From Private Clubs

 

 

 

“PLEASE ACCEPT MY RESIGNATION. I DON’T WANT TO BELONG TO ANY CLUB THAT WILL ACCEPT PEOPLE LIKE ME AS A MEMBER”. 

Telegram sent to the Friar’s Club of Beverly Hills, Groucho Marx, 1959

 

I'm back. After a Six Month Break. And there I was bragging that I had never missed a monthly post since the Spoon began- all those years ago, back in 2007. Since those halcyon days, the world, frankly, has gone stark raving bonkers and the pressure to answer emails 24/7 (as our American cousins would put it) or slog away until the early hours of the morning has become immense. Somebody once gave me a copy of “Seven Habits of Highly Effective People": it’s in the growing pile somewhere; I’ve mislaid it. Social Media's ghastly too- although I quite like Instagram. My little sister is urging me to commit ‘Facebook Suicide’ (apparently the latest trend; she's a hot advertising business guru), but as I'm an online antiques dealer, I'm not convinced- just yet, that this would be a sensible way forward.

And then this little number turned up on American eBay. It’s “Private Recipes from Private Clubs" by Beverly Anderson Barbour, one of those elusive, rather expensive, second-hand titles which usually (VG with D/J) go for several hundred dollars. And there it was winking at me with a buy it now price of ten pounds. And free shipping to London. Reader, did I press that button.

“Private Recipes From Private Clubs” was published in 1976, presumably in a small print run, and as the blurb on the inner flap says, “...will help gourmet cooks as well as the professional chef, prepare dishes formerly exclusive to members only.”  It’s a back-lit window into a vanishing world unless you happen to be a member of the Denver Petroleum Club of Colorado, the Offutt Officer’s Club of Nebraska, the India House of New York, the Witchita Country Club of Kansas, or the Atlanta Athletic Club of- you guessed it- Atlanta.

I’ve already spent several happy hours pouring over the marvellously out-of-date recipes, punctuated with furry, over-exposed photographs in glorious monochrome: the Glen Oaks Country Club’s recipe for Lobster Stuffing shows a trout- scales, head, and tail still intact- decorated with a frosted plastic (?) tree stuffed into a tomato, from which hang cute little leprechaun men with long white beards, not unlike Smurfs. Food photography was a science in need of development back then. I am sure that the New Orleans Country Club’s recipe for Rum Mangoes was- still is- delicious, but in the fuzzy 1976 photograph it looks, frankly, like a bowl of fermented sick, as does, I fear, the silvered dish of Cacahuate (“an unusual and very inexpensive Mexican cocktail dip that warms the tongue...”) as served at the River Oaks Country Club, photograph courtesy of Peanut Associates Incorporated. There’s cream. There’s curry powder. There’s tinned consommé. There’s lobster. There’s sherry. There’s the unashamed promotion of  ‘Flavor Enhancer”, aka Monosodium Glutamate. We’re in the world of tax deductions, expense accounts, and the Seven Year Itch.

As a nod to the foreigners, the book includes two non-American clubs: The Lansdowne Club of London, England and The Sanno Club of Tokyo, Japan. Personally, the somewhat downmarket Lansdowne is one of my least favourite places in London, partly because of the unpleasant reception I once had there from the surly front of house staff, coupled with the terrifying concept of Scottish reeling amongst hideous reproduction portraiture. And the Sanno appears to be some recreational facility for off-duty American military personnel stationed in Japan, controlled by the US-Japan Status of Forces Agreement.

Anyway. I’ve picked out a few recipes that you might want to have fun with:

 

Members of the Denver Petroleum Club celebrate the announcement of their new building’s construction, 1953

 

Denver Petroleum Club Dressing (from Private Recipes from Private Clubs by Beverly Anderson Barbour, 1976)

 

“ All of the members of the Denver Petroleum Club are connected with the petroleum industry in one way or another...The cuisine of the club reflects its members’ backgrounds...it runs from Country Gravy (made by adding chopped onions and bacon to chicken fat and then adding as much clour as there is fat...right in the pans the chicken was fried in) to fine French fare... Colorado is famous for its trout, and although the club is able to get some fresh fish in Colorado, better luck and consistency come with the purchase of fast-frozen products. Each local Colorado trout must be purchased through a processor. The club credits a neighbour, the Garden of the Gods Club in Colorado Springs, with an interesting chef’s secret. It’s possible to make a Truite a Bleu with frozen trout!” 

 

INGREDIENTS

Mayonnaise: 1 1/2 cups

Parmesan cheese, grated: 3 tbsps

Lemon Juice: 2 tsp

Pepper, freshly ground: 1/4 tsp

Garlic Powder: 1/4 tsp

Water: 3 tbsps

Salt: to taste

Flavor Enhancer (ie MSG): few grains

 

METHOD

Blend well until all ingredients are thoroughly mixed. The mixture should be the consistency of thick cream. Allow to marinate for a few hours.

 

Gilbert Roland and Constance Bennett at the Beverly Hills Tennis Club, 1938

 

Beverly Hills Tennis Club Antipasto

 

"One member called it “an oasis in Beverly Hills.” But the Beverly Hills Tennis Club is approached on bicycle, not camelback, as early as 8am by many of the 163 members who come to pay court to the body beautiful. With a large number of doctors, a few movie industry personalities, and the normal sprinkling of health food enthusiasts, the membership has to be one of the most diet-conscious in clubdom.”

 

INGREDIENTS

Olive Oil: 1/4 Cup

Garlic, peeled and crushed or chopped: 1/3 clove

Green Beans: 2 oz

Mushrooms: 1/2 lb

Onion, chopped: 1 small

Green Pepper, cut into strips: 1

Carrots, cut in strips: 1-1/2

Zucchini, cut in strips: 1- 1/2

Cauliflower, broken into flowerets: 1/4 head

Celery, cut in strips 1- 1/2 ribs

Tomato Sauce: 1/2 cup

Catsup: to taste

Salt: to taste

Pepper: to taste

Oregano: to taste

Sweet Basil: to taste

Tuna: 1 7oz can

Sardines: 1 can

Ripe Olives: 1/3 cup

Green Olives: 1/2 cup 

 

METHOD

Cook all except last 4 ingredients together until vegetables are tender but still crisp. Before serving, garnish with tuna, sardines, and olives.

 

The Somerset Club, Boston; founded 1846

 

The Union Club of Philadelphia’s Crabmeat Dewey

 

“...Change is not the order of the day at the Union League, and one of the institutions no one would ever tamper with is the New Year’s Day stag reception and open house. Fisthouse Punch and a buffet help to kill the pain from the night before. The punch is an effective combination of blended whiskey, Jamaican rum, Champagne, peach brandy, orange and lemon juices- combined and cut with soda. Members force their medicine down like good soldiers.” 

 

INGREDIENTS

Newburg Sauce:

Butter: 3 tbsp

Flour: 3 tbsps

Light Cream: 1 qt

Sherry: 1/3 cup

 

Crabmeat Dewey:

Newburg Sauce: 1 qt

Pimiento, diced: 1

Mushrooms, diced: 6

Egg Shade or Yellow Food Coloring: 2 to 3 tsp

Lump Crabmeat: 1 lb

Salt: to taste

Pepper: to taste

 

METHOD

For the Newburg Sauce, melt butter and stir in flour. Gradually add cream. Simmer for five minutes. Add sherry. To make Crabmeat Dewey, heat Newburg Sauce, add pimiento and mushrooms; simmer, add colouring. At the last minute add crabmeat, salt, pepper, and additional sherry, if desired. Serve on rice or toast points or in individual shells.

 

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

 

Len Deighton: Making Food Sexy

 

Here’s a post I originally wrote for The Dabbler back in 2013, from a series of features on “Food in the Sixties”:

 

 

Colonel Ross: Champignons? You’re paying ten pence more for a fancy French label. If you want button mushrooms they’re better value on the next shelf.

Harry Palmer: It’s not just the label sir, these do have better flavour.

Colonel Ross (sarcastically): Of course, you’re quite the gourmet, aren’t you Palmer?

The Ipcress File (1965)

I want you to go back in time if you will, to the mid-1960s. To the years when olive oil, famously, could only be tracked down at the local chemist, and Crêpes Suzette was a dish of mystery, savoured only by the likes of the Fab Four and those lucky diners who could afford to splash out at the more desirable restaurants; where at your table, a fawning waiter in a maroon coloured monkey jacket would flambé a steak au poivre.

 

 

Into this culinary desert, strides an egg whisk bearing Harry Palmer, the working class protagonist in Len Deighton’s thriller, The Ipcress File, first published in 1962. Palmer is the perfect anti-hero: vice-versa, a flawed Mister Bond. While Bond holds Her Majesty’s commission in the Senior Service, Palmer scrapes the rank of Sergeant in the Intelligence Corps. Bond wears a Walther PPK; Harry Palmer wears National Health Specs. And if fussy old Bond requires his housekeeper to boil the speckled brown egg of a Maran hen for three and a half minutes precisely, Harry Palmer slips Mozart’s Prague onto his trusty record player and whips up an Armagnac soufflé.

 

 

Len Deighton was- is- a man of many talents. He studied at Saint Martin’s before winning a scholarship to the Royal College of Art. Ou Est Le Garlic? (his first cookery book, based on his weekly cookery strip for The Observer) was published in 1965. His column appealed to the simplistic and mechanical brains of men: technical, cartoon-like DIY manuals on the fine arts of French and Italian Cuisine. Wannabe sophisticates learnt how to order from an A La Carte Menu (the correct pro-nunc-iation spelt out phonetically), how to stuff a Chou with Tomates, how to deglaze a copper pan, prepare Caneton à l’Orange, cut a cigar correctly (paper band on or off?) and ring up a fancy fishmonger to order smoked eel.

 

 

 

“You’re not the tearaway you think you are” purrs sexy Sue Lloyd during the kitchen scene in The Ipcress File, “You also like books…music…cooking.”

“I like birds best,” says Harry- an unsubtle reminder to a Sixties audience that although Sergeant Palmer appreciates the finer things in life, he reassuringly bats for the home side. At the time, Michael Caine’s character must have seemed remarkably novel, a prototypical yuppy before that depressing acronym had been invented, making it quite clear that it was okay for Real Men to cook, and quite possibly not just okay, but a desirable aid in persuading that voluptuous dollybird in the office (the one you’ve had your eye on for several weeks) to enjoy the delights of your home cooked Rôti de Porc aux Navets, and to climb in between your shiny black nylon sheets after the event.

International Men of Mystery, please take note: The Action Cook Book is still available to buy, albeit via the sinister Kindle. The art of seduction aside, it’s a brilliantly entertaining introduction to decent food, and in our Brave New World of Marks & Spencer microwaved mushroom risotto, this can be no bad thing. Even if Harry Palmer buys tinned Indian Prawn Curry from the supermarket.

 

 

 

 

White Trash Cooking

 

 

 

And now for something completely different. White Trash Cooking by Ernest Matthew Mickler. I came across this by chance (understandably it’s not as well known in England) and added it to lucky Mrs Aitch’s Christmas stocking. Ernie Mickler was born in Palm Valley, Florida, the son of a shrimper and a filling station attendent. White Trash Cooking was first published in 1986, to cult acclaim: “A marvelous and genuine book’ (Vogue), “a sociological document of such beauty...” (Harper Lee), “ a delight” (New York Times Book Review). 

 

 

I’m fascinated by American Food, and especially the food of the Southern States, with its intriguing mix of English, Irish, Scottish, French, Caribbean and African flavours. And I’m fascinated by White Trash Cooking, which does exactly what it says on the tin- sorry, can.

If anything, it’s slightly edgy, subversive, even. American Gothic. And I’m struggling to find anything that looks, even remotely, appealing. The Russian Communist Tea Cakes, perhaps?  Or Mamma’s Brown Gravy?  Sheba Spann’s Mock She-Mock Crab Stew?  But then I’m probably missing the point. To get you in the mood, here’s one of the best:

 

 

Mama Leila’s Hand-Me-Down Oven-Baked Possum

 

After you kill the possum be careful not to let him get away. While you’re talking and planning how you going to eat him, he’s going to be slipping right from under your nose. All he was doing was playing possum. Skin him and clean him before you go another foot, then the mess is gone and he won’t get away.

When you get him home, rub salt and pepper all over his body then run a mixture of vinegar and brown sugar over the salt and pepper. Wrap up the possum in a good baking pan and let it stand in the refrigerator overnight.

The next morning put the pan with the possum still in it (hopefully) on top of stove. Add 2 or 3 spoons of bacon fat and sear him on all sides. Then add chopped onion (2 of them). Put in the oven and bake for 1 hour at 350 degrees. Pull him out and roll him over, and now you can add your sweet potatoes (just surround him with ‘em). Put back in the oven and bake for another 1 ½ hours or until he is tender and juicy.

“Possum is tender and mild regardless of what other people think” Mama Leila say, “but you’ve got to watch ‘em cause they’ll slip away.” 

 

 

 

Penny Pinching Tarka Dhal

 

 

 

I’m suddenly interested in cheap food. Not that I’ve succumbed to the oily and addictive horrors of Chicken Valley in the South Lambeth Road. No. What I’ve woken up to is how well you can eat on a modest budget, and by “modest”, I really mean modest. And by “well” I really mean well. Forget the dreaded pasta bake, we’re thinking serious food.

The late- and great- Jocasta Innes led the field with The Pauper’s Cookbook, first published back in 1971. I’m the proud owner of a well-thumbed penguin. It’s a classic, although perhaps now slightly limited by the constraints of the period it was written in. The Cordon Bleu Cookery Course meets the WI. 

 

 

I’ve got two other books on the subject: Great Value Gourmet, Meals and Menus for £1 by Paul Gayler and David Chater’s Impoverished Gastronome. The first was published in 1996, so taking inflation into account, we can forgive the optimistic title. The second book is a collection of cheffy recipes from various trendy restaurants, which is fun; but I’m not convinced that the recipes are that cheap. One of the problems is that you’ll need a well-stocked larder to cook them. That chicken thigh from Lidl might be great value it’s true, but the overall cost of the spices, bayleaves, lemon grass, jar of honey, tub of yoghurt, whipping cream, Thai paste, chilli and ginger required to cook the recipe is going to leave a whopping hole in your modest supermarket budget if you haven’t got these ingredients in the first place. 

No, I’m thinking seriously cheap food. And to do this properly, you need to broaden your horizons. Take tarka dhal for example. In England most people come across this as a side-dish to eat with their curry. If you go to one of the better chains (Masala Zone or Dishoom immediately spring to mind) this will be served to you in a small bowl.

Of course, in India dhal is a staple food and often served as a course by itself with rice or bread. We’ve started to have it as a supper dish on a regular basis (served with steamed basmati rice) and I’m really beginning to appreciate it’s silky, buttery, subtle, savoury, comforting taste. Personally, I prefer it to be quite thin in consistency- almost like a soup- and I’m glad to hear that’s how the Indians like it too.

Get into dhal and you will find there’s a whole sub-culture out there; one region likes it this way, another region prefers it with this or that spice- there’s room for experimentation. This recipe comes from the excellent Anjum Anand, and I’ve now made it on numerous occasions with great success. All the ingredients can be found in the Indian section of a standard British supermarket:

 

 

Take 100 g of chana dhal lentils and mix them in a bowl with 50 g of dried red lentils. Cover with water and wash them through several times, until the water becomes reasonably clear. There’s no need to soak either lentil beforehand. Put the washed lentils into a large pan and cover with 1 litre of cold water. Bring the pan to the boil and skim off the white foamy scum that will start to collect on the surface of the water. 

While this is going on, chop up the flavourings. Peel four cloves of garlic and chop and smash them up with a large pinch of sea salt to form a juicy paste. I use the back of a knife. Grate a large knob of peeled ginger and again, chop and smash it up with a knife to form a smooth paste. Add a teaspoon of turmeric, then the salt, garlic and ginger to the pan and simmer on a low heat, with the pan covered for forty minutes. 

Now it’s time to make the tarka, which involves frying spices in oil. Heat a combination of oil and butter in a small frying pan. Add three dried red chillies and a teaspoon or so of cumin seeds to the pan and cook them until they are slightly browned. Be careful not to burn the cumin. Add a small onion, finely chopped and cook until well browned. 

Next, add two chopped tomatoes, a decent pinch of garam masala and another pinch of sea salt and cook until the masala releases the oils. Anjum says ten minutes but I find this can happen sooner. 

After the lentils have cooked for half and hour pour the finished spicy tarka into the pan with the lentils. Take off the lid and raise the heat and cook on a highish heat for another ten minutes or so. I like to add more water at this stage, so that it’s a bit like a soup. Check the seasoning and serve in a bowl with crisply fried onions and some chopped coriander.

I find that red onions for some reason are much easier to shallow fry than white or yellow onions and don’t seem to burn to the same extent. I’ve also tried adding more tomatoes- nice flavour, but shame about the colour, as I think for this classic dish you want more of a yellow colour which you’ll get (surprisingly) from the red lentils, once they’re cooked, as well of course, as from the turmeric.

There you are. A delicious, filling classic. Incredibly good for you too. And Mein Gott, it’s cheap. This recipe is enough for two people- and with small second helpings to spare. You can buy a 500 g packet of chana dhal lentil on the net for £1.05. A 500 g packet of red lentils from the same source costs £1.25. That works out as 21 p for the chana dhal and 12½ p for the red lentils. For two people.

Obviously you’ve also got to factor in the other ingredients, and if I’ve got time later on this afternoon, I might get my maths into action and work out the exact cost. I’ll report back with an update. But I think you will all agree, this recipe is amazing value for money. And it tastes fantastic, which is half the battle won.

 

Sophia Loren: In the Kitchen with Love

 

 

 

Ahoy, there Lovebirds! It exists. An Italian cookery book by- cue trumpet fanfare- one Sophia Loren. In the Kitchen with Love was published in 1971. In an American edition, translated from the Italian original: 

To open this book is to join Miss Loren in her own kitchen, where she talks about the art of preparing, serving and enjoying fine food. With customary spontaneity, she relates intimate details pertinent to the background of her favorite dishes...

 

 

Surprisingly, it’s actually quite good: I had assumed that it had been ghost-written, but then changed my mind on first reading; until I came across a glorious technicolor plate in which we discover that  "Miss Loren likes to prepare tomato sauce with her cook, Livia”, and then you do begin to wonder who the actual author was...

 

 

All this Italian cooking reminds me of my all-time favourite gloomy Sunday afternoon feel-good film, How To Murder Your Wife, and if you’ve seen that wunderwerk you’ll know what I’m getting at. Except that it stars the devastatingly beautiful Virna Lisi. Bachelor Jack Lemmon marries her on a drunken stag night (she comes out of a cake), and then plots her murder. Why? Because she over-feeds him with delicious- if fattening- provincial Italian cuisine. Okay, Virna comes with a Wagnerian mother-in-law in tow and a tiresome, yappy little lap dog, but even so, it still has to be one of the most barmy, bonkers, crazy, ridiculous, implausible and bizarre motives for murder ever devised on celluloid. 

 

  

Anyway, here’s Sophia Loren’s recipe for Gnocchi Alla Romana:

 

These gnocchi have a more delicate flavor than the others, as will be quickly seen from the ingredients.

For six people melt 3 tablespoons of butter in 1 quart of milk over a low flame, then increase the heat, and when the milk comes to the boil, pour in 1 cup of semolina, sirring it the entire time, when the mixture thickens and threatens to solidify, pour in another dash of milk; stir again, turn out the fire, add 2/3 cup of grated Parmesan, two egg yolks, without ever ceasing to stir.

When you see that the mixture, now very hot, has a uniform consistency, pour it out onto the marble top of the kitchen table, which you have previously dampened with cold water; shape it into a flat “cake”, about a quarter of an inch high, and leave to cool. Then with the rim of a glass cut the pasta into circlet: these of course are the gnocchi.

To cook them greasproof a fireproof dish and dust it with breadcrumbs; lay in it the gnocchi in tight rows wach with its edge resting on the next one, cover with melted butter and grated Parmesan, add another layer of gnocchi, then more butter and Parmesan; and bake uncovered in a moderate oven for one hour. 

 

 

 

 

Hugh Millais & The Name-Dropper’s Cookbook

 

 

 

I bought The Name-Dropper's Cookbook (or to be pedantic, Hugh's Who: The Name-Dropper's Cookbook) second-hand, from one of those splendid old-fashioned bookshops in Burnham Market, Norfolk. It's been languishing on the shelf for a year or so, unread, and I've only just taken it down and started to use it. It's a terrific book.

Thinking about it, I remember hearing the old charmer on a local Oxfordshire radio station (Hugh left this planet in 2009) reminiscing with some DJ about his unusual life, famous friends, exotic travels and love of cooking.

As his obituary in The Independent says:

Hugh Geoffrey Millais, who has died at the age of 80, falls into the category of artistic dabbler and business adventurer who, when he wished to, could bring an immense presence to those films in which he appeared.

And in The Daily Telegraph:

Hugh Millais, who has died aged 79, wafted genially through life- sailing around the caribbean in his own yacht as a Calypso singer; starting an ambitious house building scheme in Spain, and appearing in two of Robert Altman's films - without ever having to suffer the indignity of full-time employment.

And in The Guardian:

Hugh Millais, who has died aged 79, was a brilliant sailor, an actor, a wonderful cook, a storyteller extraordinaire and a singer who could invent calypsos of sublime silliness. He also had a natural eye for design. But the greatest of his talents was a gift for life.

 

 

His star performance was as "Mad Dog Butler" in Robert Altman's western, McCabe & Mrs Miller, in which he plays a macho fur-coated gunslinger turned bounty hunter. For some bizarre reason, this film has escaped my radar (God knows how, as I love westerns), so I had a quick look at a video clip on YouTube (If you're a subscriber, I think you will need to log into The Greasy Spoon proper to see it):

 

 

 

Hugh puts in a terrific act; Altman told him to keep his English drawl and this adds to the panache. He also featured as a turtle-necked letch in Altman's Images, a shady camel-coated financier in The Dogs of War and a goaty old squire in the dreadful Michael Winner's hilarious re-make of The Wicked Lady.

 

 

He was also a keen amateur cook of the Old School. Robert Altman said "As an actor he is an excellent cook, as a cook he is an excellent actor", and sure enough the recipes in The Name Dropper's Cookbook are actually rather good. Interspersed with the amusing- and highly readable- yarns featuring the likes of Ernest Hemingway (inevitably they run with the bulls), Orson Welles, Rita Hayworth, Wolf Mankowitz, David Niven and Ava Gardener are a hundred or so recipes, of which, two have been tried so far.

And by golly, they're excellent. The Choufleur au Gratin was, essentially, steamed caulifower florets served with Hollandaise Sauce and grilled Parmesan cheese, but if you follow his instructions you will end up with a classic dish, perfectly cooked. He's keen on relatively simple Spanish, French and Italian classics; so you have: Pollo al Ajillo (chicken with garlic and chili), Cassoulet de Toulouse (baked pork, sausage, preserved goose and beans), Risotto al Tartufo (truffle risotto). All these sound like tried-and-tested favourites, and I have no doubt that they are delicious. We shall find out.

 

 

 

In later life, Hugh Millais enjoyed a career as an interior designer in partnership with his second wife, Anne Sheffield. I love his Oxfordshire kitchen with its huge seventeenth century iron fireback, Aga and huge copper pots and pans. Here, at the stove, I am sure many tales were told, stories woven and recipes perfected.

 

 

Bunny Mellon’s Kitchen Library

 

 

 

Very taken by the recent Bunny Mellon sale at Sotheby's: Oak Spring was her understated- and relatively modest- Virginian 50's farmhouse. Wonderful collections of eighteenth century English porcelain, country furniture, equestrian mezzotints, antique silver, and a stunning museum of historic antiquarian gardening books in the grounds.

 

 

Considering the Mellons are one of the richest families in America, the whole shooting match seems to be the antithesis of banker's modernist bling (yawn) and the horror of today's ghastly celebrity culture. Until you remember that within the estate there was, I gather, a private airport, with a jet sitting on the runway, on stand-by. Not that I disapprove, God forbid; four cheers for Marie Antoinette and the Petit Trianon. 

 

 

And then there was Lot 662, described by Sotheby's in that lovely dead-pan manner as: 

" A Group of Cookbooks and Books on Entertaining including Farley, Art of Cookery; A W Kidner, Aspagarus ; Julia Child, Mastering the Art of French Cooking; The Alice B Toklas Cookbook, Jean Krofsky, The Gardener's Cookbook; and other titles. Approximately 200 volumes".

Now one of my quirky little hobbies is looking at other people's bookshelves. Sometimes I even take snapshots on my iphone. Sad.

 

 

I have no idea if Bunny actually cooked herself. I assume that she probably did. As did her private chef. French cookery of the old school seems to have been her thing. They look well thumbed too.

I-Spy with my little eye something beginning with M: Mastering the Art of French Cooking is a terrific book and if you were only going to have just one cookery book, this could very well be the one. The book was published in two volumes, the original hardback edition is the one to get: 

 

 

The Alice B. Toklas Cookbook is another one which I may well cover in a future post:

 

 

 

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.

  

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.

 

The Greasy Spoon tests...Rick Stein's India

  

 

 

One more post about curry. Then I will shut up. You will remember, dear reader, that in the last post we were flirting with the charms of British Indian Restaurant Cookery. I tried a recipe or two from Undercover Curry (the secret of British Indian Restaurant cookery) and, Mein Gott, it was one hell of a marathon. The base sauce took an hour or two, and then I diligently obeyed orders and had to make a garlic and ginger paste, a tomato and tandoori mix and a tandoori masala marinade. Several years later, I came up with a reasonably authentic curry. A bit like the sort of thing you might order from your local takeaway. Except it wasn't as good. Tasted similar, but something was missing. The Sag Aloo was greasy, the base sauce had a lingering cabbagey smell, and the 'Madras' was far too tomatoey. Scary amount of vegetable oil too. Swimming in the stuff. All this, of course, could have been- and probably was- the fault of Mein Host, but it would have been far easier, frankly, to have picked up that telephone and rung up my old friend from bachelor days, Captain Korma.

 

 

Which takes me to Rick Stein. One of my favourite restaurants is his Seafood Restaurant in Padstow. I like their professional, friendly attitude, I like the fact the tables are spacious. I like the way they ladle their Cornish version of Bouillabaisse from a generous tureen, enough for two. And the food is still fabulous. It tastes of something. Oh yes, Rick Stein is still going strong, after all these years. And first "discovered" by none other than one Mr Keith Floyd during the making of his early series, "Floyd on Fish".

 

 

Rick Stein's India is a recent addition to the cookery library, and it's a superb compilation. It's based on his recent television series in which we enjoyed the sight of Mr Stein eating his way across the Sub-Continent. Don't be put off by all the generic BBC television hype. It's a buy.

Don't know about you, but I am so fed up with the current crop of television documentaries. Photogenic Oxbridge dons striding across the Saharan desert in jeans and open necked blue shirts, gesticulating wildly. Next shot they're on the Great Wall of China. Then they're driving a hired open Mustang on the freeways of the Deep South, their Byronic locks blowing in the breeze. Cue long shot of television expert standing on the edge of Beachy Head (Go on Man! Jump!), staring out to sea. Or on the Grand Canyon. Or gazing at the heavens and contemplating the mysterious Universe. Step forward Doctor So and So. You know who you are. And those ridiculous repetitive intros. Which reminds us retards- i.e. those of us with attention spans of five seconds- you and me- what the series is all about in the first place. Because we've forgotten since last week, haven't we? Tiresome intros which run about five minutes into the programme. "Im Professor So and So, and in this series, for the first time in television history, I will be unlocking the secrets of the ancient kingdom of ..." Cue commercial break for international television. They're always "unlocking" the past in these programmes. Yawn.

This is the reason why the younger crowd don't watch British television. Because it ain't no good no more. There, gastronauts, I've had my little rant. Now back to Mr Stein and the dilemma of authentic and not so authentic curries.

 

 

I've really thought about this one. Not quite sleepless nights, but it's been niggling me for the last few days. I don't see the point of going to all the trouble of making a British Indian Restaurant curry when you can knock up authentic street food from Rick Steins' book in about fifteen to twenty minutes, with minimum ingredients and little washing up. So far I've made the Dry "Curry of Cabbage, Carrot and Coconut", "Cochin First-Class Railway Mutton Curry" and "Chettinad Chicken". All were superb, especially the last two. I'll be using this brilliant book for years to come. Before you reach for that telephone, please give it a try. Buy it.

 

Secrets of the Great British Indian Restaurants

 

 

Gastronauts- a question for you this fine, sunny, July morning. Do you have a thing about takeaway curry? A secret addictive vice? Go on. Admit it. It's gloriously tacky, I know, unquestionably laddish, and possibly, no probably, horribly fattening (more about that later), but isn't there just something so very comforting indeed about a rich, oily, meaty, salty, spicy Madras on a Friday night, after a difficult week? There's a place for it, despite what Mrs Aitch thinks. Her view being that why on earth anybody would want to re-create the flavours of a British Indian Takeaway is beyond comprehension.

British Indian Restaurant (BIR as the aficionados call it) is a different ball game from genuine and traditional Indian food- as prepared and eaten by families across the Sub-Continent. It all started when Bangladeshis arrived in Britain just after the Second World War. They developed a new style of cooking, perhaps more suited to British taste buds, which could be prepared with relative ease, and on a strict budget, allowing many different dishes to be served at once. 

Ever wondered how your local Indian Taj Mahal manages to serve up so many different dishes at such short notice? Ever wondered how Indian restaurants manage to survive even though you're the only punter in the room?

The secret lies in the various very affordable base sauces and pastes which the restaurant makes up before hand. I became curious about this and started to investigate. Surprise, surprise, there's a whole BIR sub-culture on YouTube, with beery jokey blokey types revealing 'for the first time' the mystery of the 'base sauce' and curry fanatics peddling their e-books revealing the 'secret' recipes of British Indian Restaurant Cookery. There's also several internet forums full of angst-ridden middle aged men arguing about the exact quantity of this spice and that sauce. In truth, there are now so many of these curry evangelists, that to claim the whole caboodle a 'secret' is, perhaps, as trifle economique with the actualité. 

I've discovered that the base sauce tends to be, in essence, a puréed vegetable stock. There doesn't seem to be any major rules, but the sauce tends to include cabbage, carrots, peppers, fresh coriander, garlic and ginger paste, green chillies, tomatoes, water and a great deal of onions. And a great deal of oil. As much as a litre of sunflower oil is poured into the cooking pot, which explains why you get that dark red oily surface floating on top of your curry. The vegetable bit is extremely healthy, but I'm not sure about the quantities of oil. A litre of oil does seem like an enormous amount. Scary. Coming to think about it, none of the Curry Crusaders I watched on YouTube seemed to have- how can I put it delicately? - washboard stomachs.

Anyway, to move on. To cut a very long story short, it's simmered for several hours. When ready it can be used as a base for any dish you think of. There are all sorts of other nifty little tricks to know about too. In a Korma, super fine coconut flour is used, not desiccated coconut. And butter is added to the dish, as well as cream. Tomato ketchup often goes into a Rogan Josh. And so on and so on. Meat is pre-cooked and then warmed through in the sauce before serving. 

 

 

The first book published on the subject seems to be Kris Dhillon's The Curry Secret. In its day it was breaking new ground. I've read this slim volume from cover to cover, and it's a bit different from all the e-books and YouTube videos out there. Very pared down. Basic even. The base sauce, for example, is much simpler and seems to lack ingredients (like cabbage and carrots) everyone else is recommending. I finished this book slightly unfulfilled, not convinced that with this one, we really were learning "The Secret"- whatever that might be.

A more complicated (and perhaps more genuine) approach seems to come from Dave Loyden's Undercover Curry, an insider's expose of British Indian Restaurant Cookery, which goes into great length and detail about exactly how to prepare all the sauces, pastes and wotnot that you need to create genuine BIR food. It's like a technician's manual. All great stuff, and worth getting, but there's so much emphasis on the technique, there's not much room left for the recipes. Classics such as Chicken Korma (which I would have loved to have learnt how to cook properly) seems to have been left out.

And then you turn to the internet. I love YouTube, I think, partly because I like enthusiasts. There's so much quirky stuff out there for enthusiastic amateurs. If you suddenly decide you want to breed orchids, raise Alpacas, restore a Bentley Mark VI or learn how to speak Cornish with a Newlyn dialect, there's going to be some nut on YouTube showing you exactly how to do it. And with their videos come helpful 'how-to-do-it' e-books.

For once, the Sinister Kindle seems to have come into its own. Talking of which, I'm toying- and I mean toying- with the idea of writing a "Best of The Greasy Spoon" recipe book. There could be two paths- a relatively expensive de-luxe edition, wood-cuts, hand-made paper, limited print run et al, or a democratic, affordable e-book, which could be downloaded immediatley to the computer screens at your Counting House for a few golden nuggets. With the first option, I would probably end up loosing money, with the second- I might actually make a few bob or two. Enough to keep me in take-away curries for a few months. But that's beside the point.

Which one would you prefer? Are there any unmissable classic dishes that you think I should include? Please email me at [email protected] with your views. 

 

Raymond Blanc's Braised Cod with Boulangère Potatoes

 

 

 

Over the years I've managed to amass a large collection of cookery books without even really thinking about it. It's easy to forget once popular books languishing at the back of the shelf. I had forgotten about Raymond Blanc's Cooking For Friends, first published back in 1991.

It's a terrific book and comes with my recommendation. I remember buying it new- today, looking at the photographs of a svelte Monsieur Blanc in his all-white kitchen with its Villeroy & Boch Luxembourg pattern tureens and the emphasis on the French Cuisine Bourgeoise, it seems slightly dated. 

Thinking about it, there are two types of cookery book. There's the complicated, cheffy, 'secrets of the so-and-so restaurant' type of book. And then at the other end of the spectrum there's the dumbed-down, pretty pictures, coffee-table, celeb chef, supermarket blockbuster thing. There's often a problem with both of these. The recipes don't work!

How many times have you tried a recipe exactly as written, only to find that there's not enough sauce, or the fish is overcooked, or there's too much sauce, or the blasted thing is burnt to a cinder. And quite often the measurements are just wrong, as if the books been rushed to the printer, and nobody seems to have actually tried the recipes out first.

Cooking For Friends falls somewhere in the middle. Okay, it ain't perfect- I tried the Poulet à la Creme et au Riz, and it definitely needed a bit of tweaking, but the Cabillaud à la Boulangère, which I am about to share with you, was fantastic, even if I poured in too much stock and the sauce was a bit watery. But that was my fault, not the fault of the book.

The recipes are relatively simple, (ingredients can easily be sourced from any supermarket) but aimed at people who enjoy cooking and have a bit of knowledge to go with it. Enthusiastic, intelligent amateur cooks. 

Here's how I made Raymond Blanc's Cabillaud à la Boulangère. Braised Cod with Boulangère Potatoes. 

First you make the Boulangère Potatoes. You get one of those shallow rectangular or oval enamel dishes (with a lid) and grease it with a knob of butter. Into the dish goes a layer of sliced onions, over that goes a layer of sliced skinned potatoes which you've previously rinsed in cold water (I used Maris Piper), and then another layer of onions, topped off with a final layer of potatoes. Each layer is seasoned generously with sea salt and black pepper, and sprigs of thyme and a few bayleaves added to the dish. Chicken stock is poured up to half the height of the dish.

Put the dish on the hob and bring the stock up to simmering point. Obviously you need to make sure at this stage that your dish won't crack with the direct heat. The dish is then placed inside a pre-heated oven (230°C) and cooked without a lid for about half an hour.

While this is going on, cook the cod. Heat oil and butter in a large non-stick frying pan and pan-fry the cod very briefly. Raymond Blanc says 'both sides for five minutes', although I found the fish cooked much quicker than that. The important thing is to not to over-cook the fish, otherwise it will start to flake and go rubbery.

The browned cod is then placed on top of the onion and potatoes, the lid put back on top of the dish, and the whole thing is finished off in the hot oven for about eight minutes. 

To serve, arrange the sliced potatoes and onion to one side of the plate, place the braised cod on top, squeeze over a bit of lemon, and check the seasoning. The sauce is spooned over the dish. Garnish with finely chopped parsley.

This is delicious. Its' simple to make and looks great on the plate. If your sauce is too thin and watery, you could always strain it into a small saucepan and reduce it on a high heat. This would thicken it up. I haven't tried doing this yet, but it might be a small improvement.

 

 

Roald Dahl's "Memories with Food at Gypsy House"

 

Roald Dahl with Cartier cigarette 

 

It's odd that I haven't written about Roald Dahl before. Perhaps I've been waiting for the right moment. Like so many others reared on "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory" or "James and the Giant Peach", I'm a fan of the old boy (described memorably by Lynn Barber, I think, as Baldilocks). Actually, I'm a massive fan. Of course I am. The man was a genius. I've still got my dog-eared copy of "James and the Giant Peach" lying around somewhere; a bizarre book if you think about it: a group of insects hi-jack a gigantic peach and fly it across the Atlantic to New York, where, if I remember rightly, it ends up spiked on the Empire State Building, and the centipede becomes Mayor.

 

Roald Dahl by Sir Matthew Smith, 1944

 

Back in the late '60s and 70s (about the time I was wearing long grey shorts, sporting bloodied knees and fantasising over the admirably plummy Jenny Agutter in Lionel Jeffries' The Railway Children) Dahl was known as much for his creepy short stories as his children's books. Who can forget that amusing story about the gormless American vegetarian served up as a juicy top side of pork?

Those of a certain vintage will remember "Tales of the Unexpected". The slightly ersatz television series from London Weekend Television. Dahl introduced each episode by firelight from the civilised environs of his country house library in Buckinghamshire. The tantalising opening titles featured a voluptuous woman in a body stocking and Lady Diana hair-do (according to my father and the South Buckinghamshire Advertiser, a housewife from Princes Risborough), prancing Bond-Like- super-imposed over a montage of tarot cards, roulette wheels and Aztec crystal skulls. I've got that slightly sinister fairground-y theme music going on in my head as I type. 

 

 

We lived relatively close to the Dahls' house in Great Missenden, and sometimes stories about the goings-on at Gypsy House filtered through, fourth hand, through "friends of friends". This included Roald wheeling in one of those domed silver hotel serving affairs at a dinner party, from which sprang a flapping, live chicken. I have no idea if this tale is true, but it does seem very much in keeping with the Master of the Unexpected. 

 

 

 

Gypsy House, Great Missenden, Buckinghamshire

 

Roald's widow, Felicity, opens the garden at Gypsy House from time to time in aid of the worthy Roald Dahl Foundation which supports children in the three areas of neurology, haematology and literacy (Dahl's seven-year-old daughter, Olivia, died of measles and his son, Theo, was severely injured following a horrific accident with a New York taxi). It's well worth a visit if you have any interest in gardens or the great man himself. It's a delightful house. And a delightful garden. I've posted some of my photographs from a recent visit.  

Which takes me to "Memories with Food at Gypsy House", later re-published as "Roald Dahl's Cookbook". This is a charming book which I bought from one of those dreaded remainder piles back in the early '90s. You can buy it from amazon, and currently the price ranges from a ridiculous penny to a ridiculous £99.

 

 

This is a gourmand's cookbook, with a collection of sophisticated recipes, anecdotes, quirky Quentin Blake drawings, and an opportunity for Roald to digress on subjects as wide-ranging as wine, gambling, the history of chocolate, mushrooming and the beneficial health effects of the sweet potato. I like Roald's recipe for Oeufs en Geleé: "...this is the most beautiful and delicious dish, but it is difficult to make well. If you can succeed in having the eggs not only soft-boiled inside but also separately suspended in the jelly, and yet not having the jelly too firm, then you have achieved the miracle." It's a buy.

 

                 

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.

 

Clubland Cooking

 

 

I bought this charming- and splendidly crusty- little book for a few pounds in a second hand bookshop. It's called Clubland Cooking by Robin McDouall, published in 1974 by Phaidon. I've just twigged that it's in the same series as Fortune Stanley's English Country House Cooking. They're both attractive books, with decent typography and illustrated with old Victorian wood-cuts. 

 

 

For us members of The Don't Like Puddings Club, Clubland Cooking comes up trumps, with a chapter dedicated to savouries. Nobody seems to serve these anymore. But how refreshing- and stylish- it would be if someone offered you Canapés Ivanhoe or Beignets soufflés au fromage instead of the obligatory trifle-like concoction. Pretty easy to make too.

To get you in the mood- and inspire ideas- here's a selection of savouries taken from Robin McDouall's Clubland Cooking. The instructions for White's Club Canapé Windsor remain slightly enigmatic, but I assume that you serve the ham mixture on top of fried bread or toast cut into a manageable square.

 

 

Devils on Horseback

A great favourite with Edwardian hostesses and my friend and favourite novelist, Anthony Powell: prunes instead of oysters wrapped in bacon. The only merit I can see in them is that do not do much harm to a red wine. The Guards Club do a savoury of grapes wrapped in bacon.

Mushrooms on toast

De-stalk some mushrooms- flat ones, if they are bought mushrooms, flat or button if they are home-picked. Fry them in plenty of butter, turning them to cook on both sides. Either fry de-crusted bread in butter or toast it and butter it. Pile each piece high with mushrooms, season with salt, white pepper and cayenne and pour on butter from the pan.

White's Club Canapé Windsor

2 oz of ham minced very fine. Add a little port and double cream. Place one large grilled mushroom on top of the ham. Serve hot.

Cheese Ice

This recipe I pinch from Lady Sysonby's Cook Book.

"1 pint of thick cream, 3 tablespoons of grated Parmesan, salt, pepper and cayenne, and a little paprika. Stir well together..."

Leaving her recipe at this stage, make the ice a you would any other ice- I make it in the ice-cube drawer of my refrigarator. It takes about 3 hours at maximum freezing and needs stirring every hour.

Returning to Lady Sysonby, she says "With this serve plain ice wafers (unsweetened), dipped in melted butter and sprinkled with a little salt, and cayenne. Bake in a hot oven, and serve with ice on cold plates."

 

Venus in the Kitchen

 

 

Mrs Aitch gave this to me this morning; as a present for Valentine's Day. Venus in the Kitchen or Love's Cookery Book was first published in 1952, edited by Norman Douglas (the subversive author of South Wind) and with an introduction by Graham Greene.

 

 

 

It's a collection of recipes with an aphrodisicial twist: Sturgeon Soup à la Chinoise, Black Risotto, Kidneys with Champagne, Oyster Cocktail, Artichoke Bottoms, Wild Boar. Many of the recipes have an Italian flavour, which is not surprising, as the author lived in exile on the island of Capri. The blurb on the front dust jacket reads:

The author explains that "after a succulent dinner with several bottles of red wine", some of the elder guests began to lament their declining vigour. Someone suggested that there must be certain dishes whose ingredients and spices would be likely to revive the fading ardours of middle age. The author then began to make a collection of these recipes.

 

 

I love old books like this: the slightly musty smell, the browning to the edge of the crisp, acidic paper, the decidedly old-fashioned pen-and-ink graphics ("decorations by Bruce Roberts"). And then there are those interesting bits of ephemera which fall out of books: old tickets, bookmarks, postcards, even letters. In this one some dreadful old goat had bookmarked the page opening at "Pie of Bull's Testicles" with a torn piece of old newspaper, leaving a tell-tale foxing mark behind on the page.

Here's Norman Douglas's recipe for Anchovy Toast:

Cut some slices of bread, toast nicely, trim to any shape required. Have ready a hot-water plate, on which put four ounces of butter; let it melt; add the yolks of four raw eggs, one tablespoon of anchovy sauce, Nepaul pepper to taste. Mix all well together, and dip the toast in, both sides; let it well soak into the mixture. Serve very hot, piled high on a dish, and garnished with parsley.

Anchovies have long been famed for their lust-provoking virtues.

 

Norman Douglas's last words were: "Get those f*****g nuns away from me".

 

 

Mr and Mrs Croque Monsieur

 

 

 

I'm a great believer in doing simple things well. This is far better than doing complicated things badly. The Croque Monsieur is a case in point. I've very recently eaten one (or more accurately, a Croque Madame) at Boulestin, and my God, it was good: perfectly fried brioche, creamy Emmental (or Gruyère) cheese, Béchamel Sauce, salty juicy ham and a fried egg. It's a fabulous classic- very much the sort of thing The Greasy Spoon approves of- and champions.

 

 

Not that you've forgotten, the "Monsieur" is essentially a fried cheese and ham sandwich, and the "Madame" is more of the same, except it's topped with a fried egg. The egg is supposed to look like a fashionable woman's hat (knowing the French, isn't there a far more obvious explanation?), and according to Wikipedia (so it must be true) only dates back to around 1960. In Normandy the "Madame" is known as a croque-à-cheval. The strange thing is that experts think that the "Mister" only made its first appearance on a Parisian cafe menu in 1910. The earliest mention seems to have been in Marcel Proust's "A Remembrance of Things Past", published in 1918.

 

 

But how to make the perfect Croque Monsieur?  I turned to Dining with Proust, a luxurious coffee-table book published in 1992. Splendid book, but no recipe. There was another book, "Dining with Marcel Proust", but I haven't- as yet- got it and it's currently on my amazon wish list.

 

 

I had better luck with the New Larousse Gastronomique: 

Cut slices from a fresh or stale loaf. Spread with butter on one side, and lay a thin slice of Gruyère cheese on top, with a slice of lean ham on top of that. Close the sandwich and fry until golden in clarified butter.

 

 

Ginette Mathiot's I Know How To Cook says:

Cut the (stale) bread into thin, evenly shaped slices. Spread all the slices with some of the butter and sprinkle with the cheese. Put a piece of ham on half the bread slices. Cover each one with a buttered slice. Tie together with kitchen string. Melt the remaining butter in a frying pan over a moderate heat. Add the croque-monsieurs and brown for 4 minutes on each side. Remove the string and serve.

 

But how did Boulestin make theirs? The bread tasted very similar to a brioche and I suspect that this was fried in butter very carefully- to avoid burning. I'm not exactly sure what cheese they used, but it may well have been Emmental- which had been grated into a creamy Béchamel sauce. Personally, I'm keen on the "Mrs". I like the way you cut into the fried egg, and the soft, runny yolk oozes over the fried bread.

 

Collecting Books on Indian Cookery

 

 

 

One of the greatest pleasures of life, I think, is spending a happy Sunday afternoon, or so, re-arranging your books. It's a simple pleasure- as often the best pleasures are- and it gives you a chance to take stock, throw-out (or give away) those books you've lost interest in, and re-discover old friends. If our house ever burnt down (God Forbid!) it would be the books I would miss most- more, I think than the furniture, paintings, silver, Chinese porcelain, mezzotints, clocks, tin-plate clockwork toys, rocking horses, looking glasses, globes and all those other nick-nacks you've either inherited or accumulated over the years.

 

 

Anyway. I discovered that I'd built up an accidental collection of books on Indian Food, especially Anglo-Indian food as it was back in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. In recent years the British have adopted "curry" as a national dish. We're an odd lot (a difficult people, I think sometimes); it's strange that we've adopted curry considering we've been lampooned in the past for our bland culinery tastes. But then, historically, the British have always been adapatable; compromise is a fine art.

 

 

So I'm posting up their covers to inspire you. All these books should be available from amazon or second-hand from AbeBooks. Maybe you could start your own collection?  British cookery would be another great area to think about, as would the food of the American Deep South.

 

 

 

 

 

Elizabeth David's Kitchen

 

 

I was sorting out my considerable stock of old auction catalogues the other day, and came across one I had forgotten about: the Elizabeth David Kitchen sale from 1994. Many moons ago, I used to work as a works of art specialist for that venerable, if slightly eccentric, auctioneers, Phillips (or Phillips Son & Neale as it then was) founded 1796; and this auction was one of their more interesting efforts.

 

 

  Elizabeth David, 1957

 

Held at their shabby Bayswater salerooms, on the day of the auction a queue formed around the block. Everyone wanted a slice of the action. At the time, the directors of Phillips hadn't really appreciated quite how famous Mrs David was. I seem to remember one of them- who shall remain nameless- openly admitting that he had no idea who she was at all. Not one iota. I shake my head in disbelief: obviously not an admirer of the cuisine bourgeoise. 

 

The auction, of course, went crazy, with a scruffy kitchen table fetching £1,850, famously bought by one Pru Leith, and pots of worn wooden spoons running into many hundreds of pounds.

It was almost as if, by some occult osmosis, Mrs David's relics might impart or transfer a little bit of that magic into your own cooking. Could Potage aux Haricot Blancs et à l'Oseille really taste better if served in Lot 34, an "earthenware two-handled crock, part glazed, 34cm high"?

 

Elizabeth David by John Ward, National Portrait Gallery

 

 

Barbara Cartland: Love at the Kitchen Sink

 

 

Photograph from The Daily Telegraph

 

The Barbara Cartland Cookbook. It exists. Or more accurately, 'The Romance of Food,' published by Hamlyn in 1984. I came across a copy on eBay and couldn't resist it: I've got a soft spot for the old gal in a way; not, of course, that I've read any of her lovey-dovey stuff- it's just not my cup of tea, dear.

But may I recommend John Pearson's (the biographer of Ian Fleming and the Clermont Club Gamblers) amusing biography, Crusader in Pink, (written under the pseudonym of 'Dr Henry Cloud')?  And for a few days, Bab's bizarre, semi-autobiographical, I Seek the Miraculous made hilarious (and strangely compelling) bedtime reading, a breathless index of supernatural and mystical experiences encountered over her long, and over-documented life.

 

Barbara Cartland, of course, was a terrific self-publicist, and The Romance of Food is no exception. We learn that as well as being a playwright, lecturer, political speaker, and television personality, she is also a historian, and has sold over 400 million books across the world. And so it goes on and on: as a gossip columnist she raced MGs at Brooklands, and in 1984 she received the Bishop Wright Air Industry Award for her pioneering long-distance 200-mile tow in a glider, eventually contributing to troop-carrying gliders which were used so effectively during the D-Day landings.

And don't forget that "in 1976, Miss Cartland sang an Album of Love Songs with the Royal Philarmonic Orchestra". One for the record collection, eh? As Barbara croons: "I did fall in love in Berkeley Square, and I swear a nightingale did sing in the trees as I was kissed":

 

Barbara Cartland sings I'll See You Again

 

But back to The Romance of Food. It had me on the floor. Doubled up. In Stitches. Where do I begin? It's full of rather pretty technicolor photographs, beautifully arranged in 80s style, with carefully chosen antique porcelain and Regency pearlware nick-nacks ("all photographs were taken under the personal supervision of the author at her home in Hertfordshire using her own background and ornaments"). And then, underneath each dish, Babs's romantic captions to put you in the mood for love: enamoured with "the throbbing enchantment of gipsy violins" and "the allure of passionate Russians." The Queen of Love peppers each recipe with historical asides, anecdotes, and nutritional recommendations: our heroine is, of course, a champion of multivitamins and Royal Jelly.

 

"What women does not long to be carried like a lamb in the arms of the man she loves?"

 

But of course, she's an easy target. In truth, the recipes, have been taken from her private chef, Nigel Gordon, and in their 80s way are perfectly all right, if not actually rather good (ignoring the decorative chicken wishbones soaked in bleach) with that understated Country House vibe. I'm keen on the food private chefs rustle up: old favourites, with a nod to the French classics, cooked with care, and presented on the plate with a simple flourish. Who wants to eat restaurant food on a daily basis? An invitation to spend the weekend- sorry the Friday to Monday- with Babs at her appealing country house, Camfield Place, Hertfordshire- (once the childhood home of Beatrix Potter) might have been a hot passport to the shores of love; in these mundane times, The Romance of Food is the next best ticket.

I made her Devilled Crab, and it was surprising all right: Fry some chopped spring onions until soft (shallots might be better here, surely?) and then stir in dry English mustard powder and two teaspoons of cognac. Make a roux from butter, flour and cream; season and combine it with the mustard mixture, and then stir in fresh crabmeat. Spoon the mixture into ramekin dishes, with breadcrumbs scattered on top. Bake the dish in a moderate oven (180° C, 350° F) and serve piping hot.

I will leave you with a Barbara Cartland anecdote. During the 1960s, Sandra Harris interviewed Miss Cartland for the BBC's Today programme:

Sandra Harris (to Barbara Cartland): Do you think class barriers have broken down?

Barbara Cartland: Of course they have, or I wouldn't be sitting here talking to someone like you.

 

 

 

The Good Cook

 

 

It's fun to discover a new series of books to collect. Browsing the net, I came across the Time Life "The Good Cook" series, edited by none other than our old friend, the great American gourmet, Francophile and food writer, Richard Olney.

 

I'm ashamed to admit to you that I had never heard of it before. Several foodie websites rate it as one of the best, most useful, and most comprehensive cookery books ever produced; they have a cult following. Published in hardback between 1978 and 1981, they were sold on a month-by-month basis. There are a whopping 28 volumes to collect; you'll find them on ebay and amazon priced at a few pounds each. I think the American and British editions are slightly different. Here's an entertaining American television ad for the series, I've just discovered on youtube, featuring an extremely pretty Stepford-y housewife (If you're a subscriber to The Greasy Spoon, you will have to log back on via your browser to see it): 

 

              

 

I've ordered three so far- "Terrines, Pates & Galantines", "Hot Hors-d'Oeuvre", and "Snacks and Canapes", and from the moment the first one arrived, I can see what all the fuss is about. They're fantastic. This is serious cooking.

The first half of each volume covers technique (fully illustrated with step-by-step colour photographs), the second half has a comprehensive selection of recipes, carefully chosen from various highly reputable sources- Richard Olney, Jane Grigson, Michel Guerard, Fernand Point, Mrs Rundell, writers like that. The beauty of the thing, is that with 28 volumes covering a multitude of subjects, all the intricacies of sophisticated cookery can be explored in loving detail. I learnt, for instance, to add cold water at regular intervals to a simmering stock to stop it boiling. Sounds obvious, doesn't it?, but in the past I've just turned the heat down- and ended up with a cloudy stock as a result.

 

The Good Cook series is, of course, a trifle out of date (some even might consider it retro) with its emphasis on French cuisine; its detailed examination on how to disect, cook and glaze a dear little sucking piglet (presented Henry VIII style on a huge silver platter, curly tail and all), and it's obsession with layered vegetable terrines and aspic. Personally, that's part of its charm, and I can hand-on-heart say that if you studied, and followed, the instructions in these 28 volumes, you will learn a great deal.

 

A very different book is Charlotte and Peter Fiell's Essential Equipment for the Kitchen, A Sourcebook of the World's Best Designs which has just been sent to me for review. Charlotte and Peter Fiell are distinguished modern design gurus. If The Good Cook series is all about hands on technique, method and practical preparation, "Essential Equipment" is an indulgent trawl through a century of kitchen utensils and gadgetry (in all their immaculate glory), a bible of materialism and product placement.

Did you know that the Rex Model 11002 peeler was designed in Switzerland in 1947?  That's that ubiquitous peeler which you know and love- the one that works. Or that Le Parfait jars were born in the 1930's?

Although this is an amusing- but utterly non-esssential- book to add to your cookery library, there is undoubtably the smack of perfectionism going on here. A case of 'Hey, Come Round and Have a Look at my Brand New Francis Francis XI Espresso Machine' (first designed in 1995 by Luca Trazzi, bn. 1962 if you've ever wondered).

All this reminds me of Patrick Bateman's' apartment in Bret Easton Ellis's "American Psycho". It made me have a sudden- and most juvenile- urge to seize hold of a shiny new Le Creuset L25W3-3630 wok (designed in 1992) and dribble sesame oil all over it, so that it stains. I'm afraid it is a truth universally acknowledged that there are many people out there who have shiny and immaculate kitchens, and yet never cook. 

 

Essential Equipment for the Kitchen by Charlotte & Peter Fiell, published by Goodman Fiell RRP £19.99 is available from www.carltonbooks.co.uk and all good bookshops. 

Mireille Johnston

 

 

I've had fun re-watching some of the programmes from Keith Floyd's "Floyd on France". This was a brilliant (and intelligent) television series made during the 1980's, exploring the regional cooking of France. It made the radical innovation of filming in real-life kitchens, in real time; a sort of antithesis to the likes of Auntie Delia and the scary Mrs Cradock. Floyd's anarchic antics were, of course, very amusing too. But, oh, what a contrast "Floyd in France" makes with the formulaic, yoof-orientated rubbish peddled on the television (or computer screens) of today!

 

 

 

 

Which suddenly reminded me of Mireille Johnston and her French Cookery Course. I had forgotten all about her. In her BBC television series from the early 90's, Mireille comes across as a dishy and sophisticated French housewife, with a drop-dead sexy accent that will break your heart- a lip smackin' mid-life male fantasy. In reality, she was a dishy- and sophisticated- academic; a Fulbright scholar, and translator; she held a doctorate in comperative literature and taught at Yale. In her "Cook's Tour of France", like Floyd, she travelled across the regions of France investigating the local food and sharing the secrets of various Michelin starred restaurants. I'm sure that if we had ever met, I would have liked her. A Lot.

Her book was published by the BBC in two volumes. I bought the first yonks ago and, to my chagrin now, barely looked at it. But it was still there at the back of the shelf- a little yellow in places, slightly dusty and tired, but crying out to be used and loved. And what a terrific book it is!  As I get older, I'm really coming to the conclusion that the simple and classic food of the cuisine bourgeoise is The Way Forward for home cooks.

So far, I've made Poule au Pot Farcie (Poached chicken with a chicken liver and spinach stuffing), Poulet au Vinaigre (chicken with vinegar and cucumber), Marmite Dieppoise (creamy mixed fish and seafood flavoured with curry), and Salmon aux Lentilles (salmon with lentils). I love the integrity, simplicity and relative sophistication of local French food. Incidentally, the Salmon with Lentils dish could easily be rustled up as an after-work thing; it's essentially a pan-fried salmon filet served with a creamy lentil sauce.

Mireilles' recipes are easy to make, work brilliantly, don't require strange ingredients and look beautiful on the plate. But I am of course, typing the obvious. All these classic recipes have been handed down from generation to generation, and have been tried, tested, discussed, argued over and refined over many, many, many years. They smack of authenticity. How different from today's so-called celebrity cook books, rushed out for the Christmas market, peppered with mistakes, so often leaving you slightly disappointed; with over-complicated recipes that don't really work. 

Mireille Johnston's Complete Cookery Course is currently being peddled on amazon for a penny. I've posted up two videos of Mireille from youtube. If you're a subscriber you may have to have a look at The Greasy Spoon via your web-browser to see them.

 

 

 

 

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!

 

 

The Recipes That Made A Million

 

 

 

Not mine, I'm afraid. Franco Lagattolla's. It's the title of a fun book that I bought the other day for the princely sum of £2.50. That's right, £2.50. One of the things I love about second-hand book hunting is the amount of pleasure old books can bring you for say, the price of some awful paper cup of cold take-away coffee, otherwise known as a "Mocha Light Frappucino Blended Beverage- To Go". The coffee's gone in an instant, but the book stays on your shelf, to be poured over again and again; the cover, typography and graphics to be re-admired, the contents to be savoured and used as a spark for new ideas, or more simply, to dispel the gloom of a boring Sunday afternoon. Oh yes, I love old books. They're like trusty friends. And I like, especially, forgotten books from around forty years ago.

I've written about Franco before. As the blurb on the dust jacket of The Recipes That Made A Million says: "What did Michael Caine, Gregory Peck and Frank Sinatra all have in common? Answer: they all dined at Mario & Franco's superb Italian restaurants in London- the eating success story with the 'beautiful' people in the swinging sixties". 

 

Franco Lagattolla and Mario Cassandro; former waiters at The Mirabelle, first opened the starry La Trattoria Terrazza in Romilly Street, Soho, in 1959. It's hard to believe now, but La Terrazza was the first restaurant in Britain to serve genuine regional dishes from all over Italy. Their story is covered admirably by Alasdair Scott Sutherland in The Spaghetti Tree, Mario and Franco and the Trattoria Revolution, which I would recommend without hesitation.

 

 

Here's a recipe I liked the look of from "The Recipes That Made a Million". It's for Pȇches Flambées, otherwise known as Peaches flamed in kirsch. Those of you with pyromaniacal tendencies will appreciate it:

"Peel four firm but ripe peaches. Poach them in plain water and sugar syrup until barely tender. Do not over-cook. Keep them warm.

In a copper pan melt 25g (1oz) of castor sugar and allow it to take on the slightest colour over a low flame. Add the juice of one orange, four tablespoons of the poaching liquor and a string of lemon peel. Dissolve the caramelising sugar, moving it around with the back of a spoon. Now stir in two tablespoons of Melba sauce and add the poached peaches. 

Bring up the heat a little and, turing the peaches gently, glaze them in the syrupy sauce. Pour in a large wine glass of kirsch. Prick the peaches so that they absorb some of the flavours. Pull the pan sharply across the fire, and stand well back while the whole lot bursts into beautiful flames".

Melba Sauce, by the way, is just a pureé of rasberry jam, diluted with a little water and simmered for a few minutes, then strained.

 

 

Pierre Koffmann's Memories of Gascony

 

 

 

I've just had this for my birthday- it's Pierre Koffmann's Memories of Gascony. The book was originally published in 1990, and became a cult classic. Until this sumptious reprint, it was relatively hard to find, and was horribly expensive second-hand. Koffmann opened La Tante Claire in 1977.

 

I love the food in this book. It's simple, gutsy food of the French rural persuasion. Lots of armagnac, garlic, foie gras, duck... I'm tempted to have a shot at "Gratin d'Haricots Verts": green French beans in a creamy, garlic sauce, served with Bayonne Ham. Either that or the "Terrine de Foie Gras", soaked in armagnac. Or maybe "Lièvre à la Royale"? Stuffed Hare in a White Wine. But where to start?  It's all fabulous.

 

Richard Olney

 

 

Do you remember remainder bookshops? Back in the bad old days of the Net Book Agreement, I used to hang around the plethora of pop-up shops that had spawned, like some form of bibliomanical penicillin in the Charing Cross Road. They were slighty seedy; often with open fronts, exposed to heavy traffic and all the debris of the London street scene: soggy newspapers, discarded McDonald's cartons, broken glass from the neighbouring ale house; and with an 'adult' department down rickety staircases. This was in the days when booksellers could return unsold copies to the publisher on a "sale, or return" basis. This made life easier for the harrassed rep. He could persuade the bookseller to take, say, twenty copies of Bernard Manning's kiss and tell autobiography, when the hard truth was that the bookshop might just about sell one copy if they were lucky, and on a sunny day at that. The remaining copies would be returned to the publisher to be pulped- or remaindered. It was all a terrific waste of trees.

But amongst the dross- the Z list celebrity memoirs, the regurgitated encylopedias of Ancient Egypt, gardening handbooks by people you had never heard of, picture books of The River Thames in CameraColour, Jane's "Handbook of American Warships" and "The Reader's Digest Book of English Villages", you could discover some gems. One such find was Richard Olney's "French Menu Cookbook".

 

Richard Olney was an interesting character. An American, he had lived almost his entire adult life in Solliès-Toucas, Provence, mingling with the Anglo-American bohemian set, including the likes of the avant-garde occultist and filmmaker, Kenneth Anger. Olney died of a heart attack in 1992. His books are beautifully written and have become highly sought after, although I see that you can currently buy my rather lovely edition of "The French Menu Cookbook" for a few pounds on amazon.

 

 

"Simple French Food' (republished by Grub Street in 2003, first published in 1974) is another Olney book well worth adding to your library. Simple it ain't. I'm looking at his recipe for Raviolis aux Grenouilles (Frog Ravioli) as I write, and it involves a fumet, a parsley, chive, tarragon and frog stuffing, and a noodle dough. He liked stuffing things, did Richard Olney. The ingredient list for his Terrine de Poissons, Crème Mousseline Tomatée (Fish Terrine, Whipped Tomato Cream) spreads out over two pages. No, this is relatively sophisticated cooking for a more lesiurely age- for a long, hot, dusty French August, with the dahlias coming into bloom- and all the better for that.

I gather that he enjoyed a mild feud with Julia Child. I love "Mastering the Art of French Cooking", but of the two of them, I think I would naturally gravitate towards Olney at the cocktail party (there was just something a bit strange about Mrs Child). Richard Olney's languid prose can be almost Proustian at times:

"Happily a stew is rarely subject to quite such a complicated and uncertain conceptual process...fired by the touching and too human desire to flatter a Sybaritic guest, to compose a menu, each of the parts of which may be of an exquisite purity, but which, in its plethoric whole, adds up to something in the way of barbaric orgy..."

From "Simple French Food"

 

The Last Days of The Raj: Food in British India

 

 

The Veerasawmy, from an old postcard

 

The Veeraswamy (99-101 Regent Street, London W1) is said to to be the oldest Indian restaurant in Britain. It was founded in 1926 by Edward Palmer, a retired Indian army officer. Palmer is an interesting character. From an Anglo-Indian family, his grandfather founded a Hyderabad banking house in the 18th century, and his grandmother was Indian. His great grandmother was the Princess Begum Fyze Baksh. Palmer's company E. P. Veerasawmy & Co. (note the slightly different spelling) ran the Indian foods section at the British Empire exhibiton in 1924, selling spices, chutneys and curry pastes to the British public- this must have seemed deeply exotic at the time.

 

 

 

In 1936 he published "Indian Cookery: For Use in All Countries". This is a rare book in first edition, and difficult to find, but I see that a paperback edition, published by Mayflower in 1972, is readily available, and there are various other fun editions you can get your teeth into:

 

 

 

In 1930, The Veerasawmy was taken over by the Conservative MP, Sir William Steward. The restaurant was popular with all the usual Society suspects of the day: Edward, Prince of Wales, Mrs Simpson, Winston Churchill, Charlie Chaplin. And it's still there (although you will find the decor much changed), managed by the owners of Chutney Mary, and the brilliant and highly affordable chain, Masala Zone- which I would recommend without hesitation. 

I'm interested in Anglo-Indian food. Like so many other people in this country, I have (or have had) relations who lived in India. My great uncle, from memory, had been in the Indian Army. One of my all-time favourite dishes is kedgeree- that savoury Anglo-Indian confection of rice, smoked fish, chopped eggs and "curry" flavourings. Piccallili (which I wrote about yesterday) is another example. It's sort of in the blood. There are some who will say that Anglo-Indian food is not authentic; a bastardised version of the real McCoy. This may or may not be the case, but it exists (if slightly out of fashion) and for me, that's as real as it gets.

I've built up a modest collection of books on the topic:

 

David Burton, "The Raj at Table", Faber, 1994

 

Jennifer Brennan, "Curries & Bugles",  Harper Collins, 1990

 

Lizzie Collingham, "Curry, A Tale of Cooks & Conquerors", Random House, 2006

 

Rhona Aitken, The Memsahib's Cookbook, Piatkus Books, 1993

 

Pat Chapman's "The Taste of The Raj", Hodder & Stoughton, 1997

 

The Dilemma of Tomato Ketchup

 

 

Henry Heinz, the genius behind the "57 varieties"

 

And now for something completely different. I'm never entirely sure about tomato ketchup. Not the classic stuff in bottles, that sauce made by Heinz- but the various recipes you come across telling you a) how to make it and b) how much better it is than the shop version.

It's the same thing with several famous and established classic brands. Is fresh corn-off-the-cob really that much better than Jolly Green Giant niblet sweetcorn in the tin? I remember the Roux brothers admitting on camera that they most certainly used tinned sweetcorn ("it is a good quality product"). Are home-made baked beans really that much better than the Heinz version?  Isn't it a case of the Emperors' New Clothes?

The more I think about it, there's a group of food brands and products which are, frankly, sacrosanct. Many of them were dreamt up in the Victorian, Edwardian or early 20th century periods. It's partly do to with childhood nostalgia, it's partly to do with the packaging. It may have something to do with the taste. Like old friends, they've just got that je ne sais quoi, they never let you down. The following, in my opinion, are members of this august club: Heinz Baked Beans, Kit-Kat, Mars Bars, Heinz Tomato Soup, Jolly Green Giant Sweetcorn, Lea & Perrin's Worcestershire Sauce, Schweppes Tonic Water, Hellman's Mayonnaise, Colman's Mustard, Marmite, Coca-Cola, Jaffa Cakes, H.P. Sauce, Tabasco, Angostura Bitters, Cadbury's plain chocolate digestives, Pimm's, J & B Rare blended whisky, Bournville dark chocolate, Camp coffee. 

Do you notice how most of these brands have more-or-less never changed the general style of the package design, although there may well have been very subtle changes to the overall packaging over the decades? Tamper with the classics at your peril! I'm not at all happy with what Heinz have done to our very own Lea & Perrins. They've simplified the label, and introduced nasty thick funeral black borders. Mr Lea and Mr Perrin, I think, have disappeared too. Having said that, the last time I was at the supermarket, I saw a shelf newly stacked with bottles of the old design, so it looks possible that the re-branding has failed, and Heinz have been forced to revert to the original packaging.

Another disaster (from my point of view, I have no idea if they have increased sales or not) is what the Kraft corporation have done to the classic Terry's All Gold, first produced in 1932. It's now a completely different product, split into two separate boxes, one for plain and one for milk chocolate. The fondants taste different. And where's the barrel of rum?

Anyway. Back to the Tomato Ketchup. If you feel like running against the grain, here's Lindsey Bareham's recipe for fresh tomato sauce, from her excellent Big Red Book of Tomatoes, published by Grub Street: 

Cut 350g tomatoes in half lengthways, then grate the tomatoes with the cut side facing the grater. Discard the skins and season with salt, pepper, a tablespoon of vinegar and a crushed clove of garlic. Beat in four tablespoons of olive oil, and shred basil over the top. 

 

 

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Robert Carrier and Drinking in Vogue

 

 

 

It's hard trying to be a food writer when you haven't got a kitchen. It's the reason why you've had a series of posts from me on cocktails over the last few days. You're also going to get quite a bit about books over the next few weeks or so; that is until the dust settles, the builders are banished and the ribbon, unveiling the new kitchen, is cut. I might even post up a photograph of the whole shooting match when it's finished.

For this one, I'm combining the two by recommending Drinking in Vogue, written by Henry McNulty, first published in 1978. Condé Nast published a series of excellent design and style books in the 60's, 70's and 80's; all of which are now becoming highly collectable. Henry Piper McNulty sounds like one of those splendid old school Henry Jamesy Americans. His Princeton obituary describes him as "a man of the world". I like the dry, spare irony of his biographical entry on the back flap of Drinking in Vogue: "Henry McNulty was born in Soochow, China, the son of missionary parents..."

And what a useful little book is Drinking in Vogue; peppered with amusing stories and witty asides:

"Learning to appreciate wine is a bit like falling in love. It happens to you without you actually encouraging it. But unlike love there is little chance that divorce will set in, unless your doctor intervenes".

He's also disarmingly candid: " I make no claim to wine expertise. I just like wine. My personal preference is for red over white, and French over others, and Bordeaux over Burgundy..." 

 

 

 

Hintlesham Hall, Suffolk

 

I was amused to see Henry McNulty mentioning a recipe for the "Hintlesham White Lady" (gin and lemon juice in equal measures, a dash of cointreau, a touch of sugar to taste, shaken with the white of an egg and ice). Oh, crikey, that's a trip down memory lane. Back in the late 70's, Hintlesham Hall was the fashionable country house restaurant owned by the starry American food writer and television "chef", Robert Carrier. Hintlesham was the sort of place where the waiters would count to three, and lift their silver tureen lids in unison. I buy old Robert Carrier books whenever I see them. They go for a song.

 

 

Mr Carrier in action for the BBC

 

It's funny how nobody seems to remember Robert Carrier anymore. In his day, he was huge: a contributor to Vogue, the proprietor of a trendy cookery school, author of many urbane cookery books, the inventor of the wipeable Robert Carrier Cookery Card System- a novel concept at the time. Food, Wine & Friends (the book of his now long forgotten 1979 television series) remains a particular favourite. If I can find my copy, I'll post up some photographs from the book at a later date. You will find them highly entertaining. His "friends", of course, included glamour girls like Joanna Lumley, Liv Ullmann, Susannah York, and Valentina Cortese. 

 

 

Robert Carrier's dining room at Hintlesham, "Robert Carrier's Entertaining", Sidgwick & Jackson, 1977 

 

 

And he was a terribly nice man to deal with: a very long time ago, as a junior auction specialist at a well know auctioneers in New Bond Street, I was told to telephone Mr Carrier to tell him that his rather camp 17th century wood carvings (gilt-wood angels, heavenly cherubs, South German putti- that sort of thing) had failed to sell. He was utterly charming, shouted "good, good!" down the telephone and told me he was delighted to be "getting his old friends back".

There's hardly anything featuring Robert Carrier on youtube, but I did find him trying to flog Magimixes in an old ad from the 1980's:

 

          

 

 

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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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Jackie Kennedy's Shepherd's Pie

 

 

That famous photograph, Ron Galella in pursuit

 

I've always admired Jacqueline Kennedy's taste, especially in antiques, pictures and books. The Sotheby's catalogue (The Estate of Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis, April 23-26, 1996) was a revelation; proving that she had an excellent, understated eye (from memory as the catalogue's currently in storage) for: old master drawings, charming hand-coloured Regency and Biedermeier prints, John Singer Sargent sketches, creamware Corinthian candlesticks, Louis XVI furniture, natural history engravings by Audubon. Everything was slightly tatty, too. I liked that: her books had been well thumbed, and well-read; the antithesis of the immaculate coffee table books you see piled up in interior design magazines.

 

 

 

Then trawling the internet one day, I came across "Cooking for Madam, Recipes & Reminiscences from the Home of Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis", by Martha Sgubin (with Nancy Nicholas). Martha Sgubin was Mrs Onassis's cook, or private chef. 

To be honest, initially I thought the book was going to be a bit of a joke. Cringy title. A slightly embarrasing buy, not quite at the brown paper bag stage, but you will get the drift. How wrong I was!  It was a terrific buy, and it's now got pride of place on that shelf of cookery books I'd rescue if the house caught fire (which is more than likely with the full-scale renovations currently in progress); alongside The Harry's Bar Cookbook, The Prawn Cocktail Years, Lindsey Bareham's Just One Pot and Arabella Boxer's English Food.

Martha Sgubin cooks the sort of food I know I'd love if- and when- we ever get round to employing a private chef. Simple but relatively sophisticated; unpretentious, Anglo-American with a French and Italian influence. Honest food cooked extremely well- and with style. Flicking through at random, we have: Mussel Salad, Shepherd's Pie, Frozen Lemon Soufflé, Pear Sorbet, Green Risotto, Tarragon Chicken, Warm Lobster Salad with Basil Viniagrette, Truffle Soup and Strawberry Shortcake.

I now have something shocking to admit to you. I have declared this house "A Mashed Potato Free Zone". For some reason, I loathe mashed potato. It's weird, I know. I can quite happily tuck into waxy new potatoes; sautéed potatoes are good, chips are divine. But mashed potato is the Mark of the Beast. It may be something to do with the floury texture. It may be something to do with school (antique Irish cooks at Dotheboy's Hall, fags dangling from their pursed lips, blue nylon housecoats) or those robotic alien creatures which peddled instant mashed potatoes for Cadbury's back in the 70's. Mash Get Smash. But for today only, I'm going to lift my ban, and actually recommend a dish which includes the evil substance. I'm quite happy to serve this up to our guests. Just bear in mind that I won't touch it. But if it's good enough for Mrs Onassis...

Here's the recipe for Jackie Kennedy's Shepherd's Pie, as cooked by Martha Sgubin, and adapted by The Greasy Spoon:

 

 

 

4 cups chopped cooked lamb or roast beef (the meat must be rare)

2 large cloves of garlic

1 large onion, chopped

1 teaspoon of fresh rosemary leaves

8 Tablespoons (1 stick) butter, divided

3 Tablespoons flour

1 cup beef stock

Salt and Pepper

4 cups mashed potatoes

 

Preheat your oven to 350°. Combine the lamb, garlic, onion and rosemary and put them through a meat grinder twice. It does need to be a meat grinder.

Melt six tablespoons of the butter in a large pan, and stir in the flour. Stir constantly on a low heat to form a roux. You'll need to do this for a few minutes so that the flour cooks.

Add the ground lamb mixture and stir it in. Add sea salt flakes and pepper to taste. Pour the combined mixture into an oven-proof oval casserole dish. Spread the mashed potatoes over the top. Make sure the lamb mixture is completey covered and that the potato is spread evenly, touching the rim of the dish. Take a fork and rake a design across the potato. Long grooves across the width could be a good plan. Dot with butter. Bake in the oven for 40 minutes until the filling is hot and the potato has browned.

 

 

Cooking For Madam, Recipes and Reminiscences from the Home of Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis by Marta Sgubin (and Nancy Nicholas), published by Scribner, New York, 1998.

 

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Old Covent Garden Market

 

 

 

We spent yesterday evening watching Julien Temple's brilliant film, London: The Modern Babylon: a slightly surreal scrapbook of London images, beautifully edited, thought-provoking and at times, moving. It's a more than a worthy addition to the growing backlist of London documentaries, which include Norman Cohen's The London Nobody Knows (1969) and Patrick Keiller's London (1994). Julien Temple has caught the zeitgeist: with the success of the Olympics, London's suddenly very much the place to be at the moment; there's a positive vibe in the air. With all its chaos.

 

 

All this coincides with the re-publication in paperback of photographer Clive Boursnell's Old Covent Garden; an evocative collection of images taken during the 1960s' and 70's, before the fruit, vegetable and flower market was relocated to the brutalist wasteland of Nine Elms. I can just about remember the old market as a child- we must have driven past it on the way to the theatre. Newspapers lying on the cobbles, cartons of rancid fruit, Victorian green painted barrows, the smell of sulphuric, rotting cabbage. To think that the bowler hatted bureaucrats had plans to drive a motorway right through the middle of it! Can you imagine?

 

Alfred Hitchcock set one of his last films, Frenzy, there, two years before the market closed. I'm also a huge fan of Cecil Beaton's romanticised designs for My Fair Lady.

Old Covent Garden: The Fruit, Vegetable and Flower Markets by Clive Boursnell is published by Frances Lincoln in paperback and is priced at £12.99.

 

 

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Harry's Bar, Venice

 

 

 

 

I'm not sure how many "Harry's Bars" there are in the world. Quite a few, I expect. There's that famous pub in Paris, there's the late Mark Birley's smart dining club in London; I would imagine there are some pretty divey bars in god-forsaken fleshpots using the name. But for me, the one and only, the place that can truly describe itself as "Harry's Bar" is the famous institution in Venice, opened by Giuseppe Cipriani in 1931.

I've unashamedly described my love for this place over the years- and I make no apologies for it. I like its wooden simplicity (a bit like a saloon in a varnished schooner), I like the fact that the food is prepared by "cooks" rather than "chefs"- suggesting a remarkable honesty, at least when it comes to the food. I like the immaculate service- the way you can return a decade later, and there will be the same barman behind the counter, I like the continuity; the idea that the ghosts of Ernest Hemingway, Orson Welles, Truman Capote and Peggy Guggenheim might just, if you played your cards right, come over and say hello.

 

Very many years ago, as a callow youth (all of nineteen years old) I developed an interest in the Dry Martini. I was in Venice with my girlfriend of the time. We were shy and naive. We had never been to Harry's before. We plucked up courage and pushed through the hallowed swing doors. It was pouring with rain. We found a seat at the bar and ordered two dry martinis. Harry's serve them in tiny, rather stylish little tumblers with their famous Deco motif, frosted, very cold and straight from the 'fridge. The barman- Mr Claudio Ponzio please step forward- was charming and treated us as if we were royalty, even though starry people like Roger Moore and Michael Caine happened to be sitting over in the corner. The next day we came back, and Claudio had "your usual, sir?" waiting for us before we had even arrived, served up with a wry smile. Now, that's why I like Harrys' Bar.

 

        Mr Claudio Ponzio in action

There will be certain people- visitors to Venice- who will grumble about the place "not being as good as it used to be". They will complain about the quality of the Bellinis; about the number of badly dressed tourists packing out the downstairs bar, they will dismiss the exorbitant prices in the separate restaurant. Despite its fame, Harry's remains remarkably unpretentious- and this, I think, might be the cause of the trouble.

But I do think- and I've been meaning to say this for some time- that's it's often a question of respect, which Venice, as one of the greatest tourist destinations in the world often doesn't get. The last time we were there (a few months ago) we were greeted with a reserved charm, and offered a little dish of canapés. Just for us. We had just been to La Fenice- or possibly High Mass at St Mark's (I forget which, my wife is a Catholic) and were dressed appropriately, a suit for me, my wife as immaculate as ever. You get back what you give.

 

 

 

May I also recommend The Harrys' Bar Cookbook by Arrigo Cipriani? If our house ever caught fire, this would be first cookery book that I would try and save. We use it the whole time. The recipe for Minestrone is certainly the best version I've made- so far. Pollo alla Veneta and Insalata di Cape Sante are particular favourites.

 

 

Claudia Roden's Picnics

 

 

Another terrific reprint. This time it's Picnics by Claudia Roden, first published by Jill Norman in 1981. For some reason, food writers seem to have avoided the subject, which in some ways, seems surprising. This one fills a gap in the market.

The book's very much an international affair; an erudite and idiosyncratic discource on picnics, and the art of picnicking. As Claudia Roden says in her introduction: "Everything tastes better outdoors." Picnics is published by Grub Street, priced at £14.99.

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Polpo & English Food

 

 

 

Two new cookery books hot off the presses: Polpo, a Venetian Cookbook (Of Sorts) by Russell Norman, and a reprint of Arabella Boxer's English Food in hardback.

One of the things I find exciting about this country is our excellence in book design. And what a beautiful thing is Russell Norman's Polpo. The design and typography are exquisite; Bloomsbury have done something clever with the spine (it's just the edges of the paper, sewn- if that makes sense), so that the book lies completely flat when open. The paper is creamy and smooth. The typeface is elegant. The photography is evocative. The book even smells right.

For those of you more interested in the food, Polpo is based on the recipes used in Russell Norman's successful London restaurants. I've got a thing about Venetian food. Not that awful trat stuff you get near St Marks' Square, but the genuine, regional cooking you'll find in out of the way restaurants like the wonderful Corte Sconta or in standup working men's bars tucked away down sinister alleyways. We're talking about Warm Squid Salad with Cavolo Nero and Chickpeas, Broad Bean, Mint & Ricotta Bruschette, Grilled Fennel & White Anchovy Skewers, Chopped Chicken Liver Crostini. Polpo, a Venetian Cookbook of Sorts is published by Bloomsbury and is priced at twenty five pounds.

 

Another recent publication which caught my eye is a reprint of Arabella Boxer's classic Book of English Food (published by Fig Tree/Penguin in hardback, and priced at £20). It's another sumptuous effort of high quality, with a fabulous Art Nouveau dustjacket, sumptious creamy paper and a decent typeface. The book was first published back in 1991. I've got a Penguin paperback edition, which I seem to remember cost me an arm and a leg second hand. Lady Arabella's book is a terrific read, and covers Country House and restaurant food of the 1920's and 30's. It's a gem.

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Last Dinner on The Titanic

 

 

Like so many others with slightly macabre sensibilities, I have a near obsession with The Titanic. And I've had this for as long as I can remember, long before all the recent media hype and the James Cameron blockbuster of 1997.

I've got a very real problem with the latter: am I alone in thinking that this film is an example of the worst possible taste?  A very tragic real-life disaster, in which over a thousand people died, is reduced to a simplistic, anachronistic teen romance, fermented by a trite, retarded script; the Titanic's passenger list reduced to "them" and "us": "them" being the 'orrible upper classes- all cruel snobs with phoney Oxford accents and twirling waxed moustaches, and "us" being the brave, true, noble, kind, hard-working, down-trodden working class, on their way to create a Brave New America- except that they don't, 'cos they all drown at the expense of the cowardly toffs who dress up in drag to get to the life-boats before the women and children.

An interesting historical fact by the way- before we all get too revolutionary here- is that around double the amount of men in Third Class survived when compared to the poor old burghers in Second Class who suffered, I think, the worst survival rate of all, a terrifying 8.33 per cent.

And then there's all that bizarre cruciform spread-eagled arm waving stuff going on in the film, Leonardo and Kate at the bows of the great ship, offset by corny Irish folksy flutey music (why does modern day Hollywood have a thing about this? Although I'll grudgingly admit that the Titanic was made in Belfast) and the wailings- nay, shrieking- courtesy of the Franco-Canadian diva, Ms. Celine Dion.

 

 

A Night to Remember, 1958

No, I don't like "Titanic". Instead, have a look at William McQuitty's excellent A Night to Remember, directed by the late Roy Ward Baker and starring Kenneth More and a very young Honor Blackman (aka Mrs Gale). Yup, it's in black and white, yup, it was made in 1958. Yup, it requires a bit of effort to watch. Yup, it's got Kenneth More with a plummy accent, and it's all very Stiff Upper Lip. These are good things.

The Times today ran an article entitled "The other last supper". The byline said: "...inspired by the final Titanic meal, chefs around the world are serving variations of its first-class menu". Again, although fascinating, isn't this just a little dubious?  Not the Times article, which was interesting, but the idea that restaurants all around the world are staging "Last Dinner on The Titanic" banquets?

In the spirit of all this fun, one of my more recent second-hand buys has been, yes, you guessed it Last Dinner on The Titanic...Menus and Recipes from the Great Liner, by Rick Archbold and Diana McCauley, with a forward by Walter Lord. Walter Lord, by the way, wrote the book on the Titanic disaster, which I would recommend without hesitation.

 

So why not amuse and entertain your boss and his lady wife by inviting them to a Titanic dinner party?  If they're first class guests you could serve them eleven courses, consisting at a glance of: Oysters à la Russe, Poached Salmon with Mousseline sauce, Vegetable Marrow Farci, Chậteau potatoes, Asparagus Salad with Champagne-Saffron vinagrette (I like the sound of this one), and Waldorf pudding. If your guests warrant the second class menu, there's a choice of Baked Haddock with Sharp Sauce, Curried Chicken and Rice, Turnip Purée, Wine Jelly and American Ice Cream. Steerage gets, amongst other things, Roasted Pork with Sage, Vegetable Soup, Green Peas and Plum Pudding with Sweet Sauce.

Here's the recipe for the Asparagus Salad with Champagne-Saffron vinagrette (courtesy of "Last Dinner on The Titanic"):

Snap off the woody ends of the fresh asparagus stalks, and chuck them away. Plunge the asparagus into salted boiling water and cook them for 3 to 5 minutes until tender. Drain them under cold water- which will help to set the colour and will stop them cooking.

Meanwhile, soak some saffron strands in a few teaspoons of boiling water, and let it stand for a few minutes, until the saffron softens (you'll find that the water turns yellow). Stir in about a tablespoon or so of champagne vinegar, half a teaspoon of smooth Dijon mustard and a good pinch of white sugar. Whisk until smooth, and drizzle in three tablespoons of olive oil, until it forms an emulsion. Season with salt and white pepper. Toss with the asparagus and red and/or yellow peppers, finely diced. Arrange on a plate with a selection of designer lettuce leaves- those things in plastic bags you can buy from the supermarkets.

 

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In praise of Lindsey Bareham

 

Followers of this blog will know that I'm a fan of Simon Hopkinson; "Roast Chicken and Other Stories" and "The Prawn Cocktail Years" are particular favourites. But if Simon Hopkinson's a culinary Batman, Lindsey Bareham has to be Robin: she was the co-writer on both books. Or maybe it should be the other way round, as Ms Bareham, in her understated way, has produced a large number of extraordinarily good cookery books over the years, as well as writing an inspirational column for the Evening Standard, read by thousands on their way back from work on The Tube.

Rummaging around in a cardboard box of discarded books, I came across Just One Pot, published by Cassell in 2004. The rather boring cover doesn't do the book justice- this has suddenly become one of my all-time favourite reads. I'm currently working through the recipes one-by-one. It's aimed at busy people who like to cook, but come back from work knackered and hungry. Everything can be made in one pot, in less than an hour. Ingredients are readily available from supermarkets.

Lindsey's food is gutsy, I detect the influence (of course) of Elizabeth David; she likes North African, Italian and Spanish flavours. So lots of chorizo, tomato, saffron, beans, the generous use of sea salt and herbs. I've noticed that she doesn't seem to use much stock; instead often adding salt and spices to onion and garlic at the frying stage. Her flavour combinations are imaginative and fabulous. She seems to be very keen on saffron, egg and almonds as a combination; this works beautifully.

So far we've had (in no particular order): Moroccan Chicken, Egg and Almond Tagine, Chicken Pilaf (this one was especially delicious, again with that saffron, almond and egg combination), Chorozio and White Bean Stew, Chicken with Bacon and Lentils, Lamb with Cumin and Aubergine.

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Floyd Remembered

 

 

 

I've just put up some old clips from the television series "Floyd on France" on the new Greasy Spoon Facebook page. I loved this series when it was first shown on British television back in September 1987. Floyd had actually made three series before that ("Floyd on Fish", "Floyd on a Pub Run", and "Floyd on Food"), but it was "Floyd on France", produced by David Pritchard, that put him on the map. I think it may have been one of the first cookery programmes in which food was cooked in real restaurant kitchens, in real time. At the time it seemed fresh, original and amusing. I remember my mother tut-tutting with disapproval, but as she ain't that keen on France, alcoholics, or people who stick their fingers into the sauce, it was kind of understandable. The rest of us loved it.

I'm afraid that I'm a bit sniffy about the later Floyd programmes- they lacked the magic of "Floyd on France", and by the end ("Floyd's India" and "Floyd's Fjord Fiesta", both 2001) had degenerated into formulaic early evening programming which lacked the integrity and passion of the earlier serieses. I remember Floyd wearily admitting at the end of "Floyd's India' how much he disliked the country- can you imagine him saying that about his beloved France?

 

 

Of course, with hindsight, "Floyd on France" was very much a certain type of Englishman's take on France, the view of a Private Eye reading 80's Rabelasian seen through rose-coloured glasses: panama hats and paunches, the Garrick Club tie and the Citroen 2CV; affordable French farmhouses and never-ending supplies of the local red. Peter Mayle carried on the tradition in his "A Year in Provence" (1989).

I would love to be able to see the complete series again. I've got the official video- but it's an edited version, and vast chunks of the original series have been cut. Even so, it's a rare old thing, and I gather might cost you £30 or so, to buy one second hand. The complete series doesn't seem to be available on DVD, no doubt because of the usual copyright problems.

Keith Floyd's first cookbook "Floyd's Food" (1981) has been re-printed and is now available brand new from amazon. I've got the original (albeit dog-eared and splattered) first edition: it's now extremely rare, and as I write, not one copy seems to be available for sale online. In any event, it's a terrific little book, full of simple but heart-felt ideas, and as the re-issued version's not very expensive, would make a lovely present for someone if you felt so inclined: I can almost guarantee they won't already have it.

 

 

 

 

Simon Hopkinson: The First Verdict

 

 

Various things I want- no, need to get off my hairy chest:

Did you watch the first episode of Simon Hopkinson's new television series "The Good Cook" (BBC1, Fridays, 7.30pm)?  The incidental music drove me nuts. 95% of the programme is accompanied with a loud, retro soundtrack: Stevie Wonder, Northern Soul; that sort of thing. Now, I love the music of Mr Marvyn Gaye and his friends; trust me, I really do. But not in this context. Not as a consistantly loud, in-your-face, soundtrack to a potentially decent food programme. It's along similar lines to that Sophie Dahl series: some hip, acned producer has fallen for the "let's go for the Jamie Oliver yoof culture" angle: it's all a huge shame. Simon Hopkinson is one of our best food writers, and he certainly doesn't need his new series dressed up with ersatz production values.

Because of the distracting music, I couldn't grasp anything he was saying. I'm not very good at multi-tasking, I have to admit. But am I alone in genuinely wanting to hear what Mr Hopkinson had to say for himself?  Am I one of that rare breed which actually watches a television programme for its own sake, rather than turning it on as some sort of background entertainment- as they all do in Los Angeles?  One of those saddos who buys the "Radio Times" at Christmas, and rings the programmes he wants to record in black felt-tip?  Am I turning into my parents?

And then there was all that ridiculous "freeze frame", macro close-up stuff going on- as, say, he poured flour into his Cornishware blue and white stiped sick bowl. I'm trying so hard not to turn into a grumpy old man. But in the modern world, this is becoming incredibly difficult. I'm swimming against the tide.

Having said that, my friend Miles pointed out that at least Hoppo was being introduced to a younger generation, and that surely, is a good thing. He could well be right. I had a quick look at the BBC website for the programme, and reckon that half the commentators liked the background music, and the other half couldn't stand it. I suspect that this later half is over 40 years in age. I need to move with the times.

On a completely different tack: has anyone out there attempted to make my "Gratin of Marrow with White Beans and Rocket Pesto"?  If you haven't yet, don't. I made it a few days ago; followed my own instructions to the letter- and the result was bloody awful. I steamed the marrow and then amalgamated it with the bean stew. The stew was fine: nice and thick. But the steamed marrow was stringy, and reminded me of the austere fare they served up at Dotheby's Hall. I need to go back to the drawing board with this one. As the great Eric Thompson (of Dougal and the Blue Cat Fame) one said: "If you can't fail, you can't do anything".

The Old Original Bookbinder's Restaurant Cookbook

 

 

I've just bought this book for the princely sum of £4.50. From a little bookshop in the quaint Cotswold town of Chipping Camden, of all places. It's the 1961 edition of the official "Old Original Bookbinder's Restaurant Cookbook", by Charlotte Adams.

Bookbinder's was a distinguished American restaurant, first founded as a Philadelphia oyster saloon back in 1893. It's wikipedia entry describes its 1950s' heydey as ''a hot spot where red-jacketed waiters scurried through dark-panelled rooms festooned with photographs of VIPS; redolent of cigar smoke tinged with shellfish." This sounds very much my sort of place. I gather that the restaurant fell on hard times, lost its exclusive allure, became a tourist trap, and is now quite probably defunct. A pity, because I miss this sort of joint: the type of restaurant where a fawning mess-jacketed waiter might flamb-ay something jaw-droppingly expensive at M'sieur's very own table.

 

I've picked out two recipes at random, which I haven't tried yet, but, I think, with a bit of tweaking, could be good. The first one's for the obscene sounding "Crab Balls". I would suggest that you make these very small in size, and serve them as canapés- perhaps with some sort of a dipping sauce to go with them:

In a bowl mix together: one tablespoon of chopped green pepper, one tablespoon of finely chopped onion, one tablespoon of finely chopped celery, one tablespoon of minced pimento (ie sweet red pepper), and a teaspoon of fresh thyme leaves. Season with salt, black pepper and a dash of Worcestershire Sauce. Sweat in butter over a lowish heat for about ten minutes.

Sprinkle in four tablespoons of flour (this sounds like quite a bit, even too much; so I would suggest that you go easy on this) and stir in to the vegetable mix. Cook for a further five minutes. Next pour in a cup of milk, and stir until thickened (in effect you've made an old-fashioned white sauce). Then add a pound of crabmeat. Take off the heat, mix in well and chill the mixture in the 'fridge.

When it's cold enough, you take out the crab mixture and roll it into small balls. The balls are then dipped into beaten egg, coated with breadcrumbs- or even more authentically Yankee- crushed up cream crackers, and fried in deep fat until golden brown.

The second recipe is for "Bookbinder's Shrimp Chowder":

Sweat chopped onions in butter until golden, and put to one side. Make a smooth white sauce in the usual way from butter, two tablespoons of flour and four cups of hot milk. The sauce is then placed over a bain-marie, seasoned with salt, pepper and a blade of mace. Pre-Cooked shrimps (large prawns in England) are added and the whole thing cooked gently for twenty minutes. The mace is removed, and the chowder finished off with an extra cup of hot cream and the onion flavoured butter which you've previously strained off. On second thoughts, I'm not exactly sure about this recipe. It could be a bit bland: it's certainly a heart attack in a bowl- not that I'm one of those Cromwellian types pulsating with disapproval at any symptom of a sybaritic lifestyle. I'm not even sure if it's a genuine chowder; I suspect that it isn't.

In complete contrast, I had the most divine thing at the Canton yesterday evening. It was a vegetarian marrow gratin, served piping hot in one of those dinky orange Le Creuset dishes. Half a marrow- cut in half, and scooped out. Covered in Italian Borlotti white beans, and flavoured with a stock, perhaps, and most certainly salt and black pepper. Persillade (ie garlic and parsley finely chopped and crushed together) dotted the top, and the dish was finished off with grated parmesan and butter, before being flashed under a hot grill. At least, I think that how it was made. There may have been tomatoes in there as well. C'etait formidable.

 

Simon Hopkinson: The Good Cook

 

 

 

I'm a massive fan of Simon Hopkinson and I was thrilled to learn that he's got a new book out; although I couldn't find any news about the publication date. It's a tie-in for his new television series. This is really good news: the current crop of so-called "celebrity" chefs are, in my opinion, dire (with the notable exception of one Nigel Slater). Can't wait.

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?

Tom Ripley's Venetian Lemon Chicken

 

 

I bought an amusing little book yesterday. It's called Recipe for Murder: Frightfully Good Food Inspired by Fiction by Estérelle Payany. The blurb on the back says: "Allow yourself to be lured into the kitchen by the great gourmet-villains of popular literature, from Lady Macbeth to Dr. Jekyll, to the Marquis de Sade and Hannibal Lecter". It's enormous fun, and there are lots of stylish illustrations by Jean-François Martin in the manner of Richard Hamilton.

I like the look of Count Dracula's "Paprika Hendl" and Fantomas' "Truffled Eggs without Truffles". But the recipe that immediately leapt out of the page was "Tom Ripley's Venetian Lemon Chicken". I'm a massive fan of Patricia Highsmith's "Ripliade"- the five crime novels published between 1955 and 1991, featuring the cultured and sophisticated Mr Ripley- the reluctant con-man, murderer and art fraudster.

 

I made this dish last night and the results were fabulous. A worthy candidate for "The Best of The Greasy Spoon" - when (and if) I ever publish it.

You take a chicken breast and beat it out flat to form an escallop. You fry the escallop in hot olive oil until it is cooked on each side, flipping it over in the process, which should take a minute or so on each side.

The fried chicken is then removed and put to one side. You chop up half a large red onion into dice and sweat it in the oil (with the heat turned down to low) until translucent. The juice of two large lemons, the zest of half a lemon, and a tablespoon or so of honey are added.

You return the fried chicken to the pan, and cook it gently in the tangy sauce for about five minutes. Finally, fresh thyme leaves are sprinkled over the sauce (making sure that the leaves are pulled off the woody stalks), and the dish is seasoned with salt and pepper, in the time honoured tradition.

It's a remarkably pretty dish: rose-pink in colour (from the red onions); studded with the fresh green of the thyme, and it has a deep citrusy taste; healthy too: just fresh lemon juice and honey. No stock, no cream; fast cooking. Ideal for a quick summer lunch al fresco.

Incidentally, I've got no idea if this is indeed a genuine Venetian recipe (I couldn't find anything similar in any of the books I've got on Venetian food), or actually features in any of the Ripley books; although I have a vague memory of Tom eating this in the last few pages of "The Talented Mr Ripley". An excuse to re-read the entire Ripley series over the coming summer.

 

The Sainsbury Classic Cookbook Series

 

Stocking problems at our local Sainsbury's continue: on a very recent visit I was unable to buy fresh leeks, tinned artichoke, tinned asparagus or Clamato juice, yet fennel bulbs and fresh mint could be found in abundance- two ingredients they seem to run out of on a regular basis. Their stocking policies seem bizarre. If you want to buy fresh dill there, forget it- but yet, just now and again, you will find it there: masses of it, heaped up untidily on the otherwise near-empty shelves. It's like a store from the bad old days of the Soviet controlled Eastern Bloc. Very hit or miss. And sad too, as there was a time back in the '80's when Sainsbury's had a reputation for quality, value and service.

Why do you bother going there then, I hear you ask? It's a fair comment. The answer's not especially one I'm proud of: out of sheer laziness. The supermarket's about a five minute drive away. But I'm on the verge of ditching Sainsbury's completely and switching one hundred percent to the excellent and wonderful Waitrose. Incidentally, The Girl introduced me to the equally excellent John Lewis Food Hall, which can be found in Cavendish Square. As with the superb Wholefoods, whoever manages its stocking deserves some sort of award.

 

Anyway, back to Sainsbury's. About twenty years ago, they produced a charming series of cook-books, edited by one of the most famous editors in the food business, Jill Norman, and published by the excellent Walker Books (better known for their beautifully illustrated children's books). It's hard to believe now these lovely books were associated with the very same supermarket we're discussing, as frankly, the original "Sainsbury Classic Cookbook" series could have come from another planet.

 

So far, I've bought three of them, for a few pounds each: "Simple Fare" by Nathalie Hambro (with illustrations by Sally Davies),  "Classic French Cooking" by Ann Willan (with illustrations by Susan Alcantarilla) and my latest find, "Fish and Shellfish" by George Lassalle, with illustrations by Alan Cracknell.

 

Alan Cracknell's work reminds me of Kit Williams and his "Masquerade". In case you've forgotten, he's that bearded artist chap (similar in his style of painting to David Inshaw and the Brotherhood of Ruralists) who fashioned a hare made from beaten gold, buried it in a field near Tewksbury and then published a book with all manner of esoteric clues to the golden hare's whereabouts hidden within the illustrations.

The Flavour Thesaurus

 

 

 

This was a brilliant Christmas present from The Girl. A signed copy, too. One of the most satisfying things in life is coming up with the idea for a brand new recipe- which you've completely invented yourself; no cookery books used ('onest Guv'), and then discovering that it works; or at least that your guests clamour for a second helping.

If you're in the mood for invention, simplicity is the way forward. If you then log on to the internet and find out that others out there have come up with the same idea, not to worry; there's a good chance that the flavours you've come up with well, work- and that's why someone's been there before you.

And that's why Niki Segnit's "The Flavour Thesaurus" is such an inspiring book. It lists various foods in an alphabetical order, and then suggests suitable flavour combinations. This is creative stuff.

I looked up "chicken": I had a very boring packet of mass-produced chicken thighs (which said "Sainsbury's" all over) and wanted to do something different with it.  

The Thesaurus suggested "pear" as an interesting combination. So I chopped up an onion and sautéed it until soft, added some smoked bacon lardons, and fried the chicken thighs (sprinkled with seasoned white flour) until golden brown. I poured in some decent stock and a generous slug of a dryish white wine: bubbled off the alcohol, and then added the pears, which had I had previously peeled and sliced. The dish was finished off with fresh thyme (with the leaves pulled off the stalk).

The flavours worked well: chicken, bacon, pear and aromatic thyme. But The Girl thought that there was something missing, and I think she was probably spot on. Although I''m not exactly sure what?  The dish, I have to confess, was slightly anemic to look at. A trifle bland; at least visually, though perhaps not in taste? Maybe it needed more colour? Tomatoes?  Not sure about that one. What do you reckon? Any ideas?

Paul Levy's "The Feast of Christmas"

 

 

Of the numerous "Christmas" cook books, Paul Levy's The Feast of Christmas is without doubt my favourite, combining as it does, a literate and erudite examination of Christmas customs and folklore, and some excellent recipes from the likes of Ken Hom, Claudia Roden, Frances Bissell, Raymond Blanc and M.F.K Fisher.  Apparently, on Christmas Day they all gather around Paul's scrubbed kitchen table, and take turns to cook.  Can you imagine?

The "Feast of Christmas" was published by Channel 4 to co-incide with his Channel 4 television series, made back in 1992;  when Channel 4 was a challenging and intelligent television channel, rather than what it has become now.  In the good old days, before they churned out cheaply-made dross.  Before Big Brother. You should be able to buy a second-hand copy of "The Feast of Christmas" through either amazon.co.uk or abebooks.co.uk for a very affordable price.  I've currently got a paperback copy, and need to upgrade to the hardback.

There are other Christmas books on the market: Nigella Christmas: Food, Family, Friends, Festivities, and that old chestnut, Delia Smith's Christmas. They are both still on the bestseller lists. I've got mixed feeling about both of those two. Delia's recipes are often good (I detect the influence of Simon Hopkinson), but there is just something too perfectionist and goody-goody (butter's a sin!) about her style.

 

Nigella's the opposite: she looks fab (a lip smackin' mid-life fantasy), but I'm disturbed by all the late night 'fridge raiding "finger in the taramasalata" stuff going on- and I hate to say it, I'm not sure that her slightly mucky recipes are up to the ticket, either. Dunno.

Elizabeth David's Christmas is another good 'un. Published after her death, and edited by Jill Norman, Elizabeth David's Christmas includes 150 Christmas recipes from her private papers. These include Marcel Boulestin's  "Turkey, Roast Capon with Tomatoes and Rice and Walnut Stuffing", "Fish Consommé", and "Lemon and Celery Sauce".

Egon Ronay

 

 

 

Sad news about old Egon Ronay, who has just died at the grand old age of 94. A year or so ago, I wrote this post:

Remember Egon Ronay?  He was that rather dapper Hungarian who published a series of restaurant guides; in vogue a few years ago. One of the favourite books in my modest cookery library is Egon's "The Unforgettable Dishes of My Life', published in 1989. If you're interested in getting hold of a copy, you should be able to get track one down from either amazon.co.uk, or that marvellous antiquarian book website, abebooks.com.

The book's very much a personal thing, with recipes that have held meaning to him for various reasons over the years. That's something I like about food: the way a certain dish can bring back memories, or have some literary or historical connotation. Without, I hope, getting too hyper-intellectual, wasn't that what Proust was all about?  You know, the madeline dipped into the lemon scented tea and all that?

Anyway, here's his recipe for "Roast Red Mullet with Cumin Sauce". Hopefully you will be able to buy one from your local fishmonger- if you have any left in your neighbourhood that is.  In London, they're more or less gone, and have been replaced by the fish counters of your local supermarket. And Sainsbury's ain't nearly as good as it used to be.

Clean and gut a red mullet, keeping back the bones and the livers. Cut off the heads and the tail. Put the heads, tail, and bones into a saucepan, and add leeks, shallots, white wine, and salt. Pour in two pints of water, and bring to the boil. Skim off the scum as it floats to the top. Cover the saucepan, and simmer for about twenty minutes. Hey presto! You will have a fish stock.

Add two teaspoons of cumin seeds and reduce three quarters of a pint of the stock, until the it takes on a syrupy consistency. Add half a pint of double cream and the red mullet livers, and boil for fifteen seconds. Liquidise in your magimix or blender, and then pass it through a sieve. That's the sauce finished.

Brush the cleaned mullet with oil, and wrap it in foil, first seasoning it with a generous amount of sea salt and chunky black pepper. Place the fish on a baking tray, and cook in the oven at 220C (425F) until the fish is cooked. The flesh will flake up a bit when it's done. Arrange the cooked fish on a plate, and pour the sauce around it.

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