The Greasy Spoon | Food & Culture

Gangster Chic & The Chicago Pizza Pie Factory

 

 

Faye Dunaway as Bonnie Parker (1967)

 

When was the first time you tasted the savoury delights of a pizza? If you’re under forty, this will probably seem like a strange question. It’s hard to get your head round now, but back in the 70s, pizza was an alien interloper in the land of Cap’n Birds Eye, frozen beef burgers, dehydrated Vesta Curry, Spangles, Angel Delight, soupy Brussels spouts and assassinated mutton.

I remember saving up to take a girlfriend to The Chicago Pizza Pie Factory. It must have been in 1981 or thereabouts, stylistically the fag end of the 70s. And like Joe Allen’s, I seem to remember that No. 17, Hanover Square, was hard to find: a hole situated in a dark corner the other side of Vogue House, iron steps leading down to a basement in the speakeasy manner, neon lights, soda-fountain graphics, exposed brickwork, a cocktail bar, brash American waitresses (the real thing, presumably imported en masse from a Chicago diner?), a television screen broadcasting recorded videos of American Football, background chatter courtesy of Chicago’s WFYR radio. And you could pay in dollars; at that time a genuine culture shock, especially when a waitress thrust a ghastly doggy bag in my hand and insisted that we took it away on pain of death.

The Chicago Pizza Pie Factory (“Purveyors of Chicago Pizza to London and the World...”) was the brainchild of Bob Payton, an Anglophile American entrepreneur who- in an inspired eureka moment- cooked up the concept of selling deep pan pizza to the impoverished Brits. The first pie factory was installed in Crown Passage, St James’s, a rancid Dickensian alleyway running between Christie’s and Pall Mall.

As you will remember, deep pan pizza is more like a pie or a quiche: the thick doughy crust is cooked in a special oiled pan, covered in grated mozzarella, filled with toppings such as pepperoni, mushrooms and onions, and then filled in with a thick blended tomato sauce. According to Wikipedia:

"it is often reported that Chicago-style deep-dish pizza was invented at Pizzeria Uno in Chicago, in 1943,by Uno’s founder Ike Sewell, a former University of Texas football star. However, a 1956 article from the Chicago Daily News asserts that Uno’s original pizza chef Rudy Malnati developed the recipe...”

 

A dream-like 1930’s Chicago as re-imagined in The Sting (1973): beautiful set design

 

The Sting again...(1973) 

 

With hindsight, the look of the pie factory was very much a product of the late 1970s: Gangster Chic. There’s a convincing theory that middle-aged marketing types become obsessed with the time as it existed just before they were born, which explains why the American Depression, Chicago Gangsters, Fedoras, Soda Fountains, Art Deco, Cloche Hats, Kipper Ties, Tiffany Lamps (and Chicago Deep Pan Pizza) spawned Ralph Lauren, Jack Clayton’s The Great Gatsby, Biba, The Sting (wonderfully evocative and elegant set design), Bonnie & Clyde, Strikes 1926, Soda Stream and Bugsy Malone; an appealing fashion that began in the 1960s and lasted until the late 70s, and, as with the last gasp of the wonder that was Disco, lingered on until the very early 1980s.

 

Stephanie Farrow, Mia’s little sister and the face of Biba

 

For my father’s 40th birthday party, my mother bought a vast purple feather boa from Biba in High Street, Kensington- like a 20s courtesan, although I doubt if she saw it quite like that. And then some genius had the bright idea to repackage Soda Stream with the hint of a 20s soda fountain: Coca-Cola influenced graphics and little glass bottles with impressed swirls, to which your kiddywinks could add brightly coloured cordials, which, ignoring the goody-goody instructions, you fizzed up by pressing a little button two hundred times, not unlike Gatsby’s butler and the machine that extracted the juice of two hundred oranges in half an hour.

 

Fat Sam’s Grand Slam: Alan Parker’s Bugsy Malone (1976) 

 

Alas, the Chicago Pizza Pie Factory is no more, and I can’t remember the last time I ordered a Chicago style deep pan pizza on these shores. 

 

Pinstripe suits and a Yellow Rolls Royce: Ralph Lauren’s take on The Great Gatsby (1974) 

 

 

Too Many Christmas Trees?

 

Steed contemplates the joy of a 1960’s Christmas, “Too Many Christmas Trees”, The Avengers, 1965

 

Fed up with Christmas?  Had enough?  Can’t wait to return to the Blacking Factory?  Does the Counting House call?  Funnily enough, I’m rather fond of this time of year, the ‘in-between’ bit, I mean. The raw, midwinter weather of Boxing Day, with its sporting traditions: hunting, shooting, betting, and the racing on Channel Four. And then the run-up to the New Year; when the Christmas tree’s still up (just!), social media shuts down and your email feed collapses into a meaningless trickle. And you’re left alone. With a fabulous wife and a shoe-munching whippet; a bottle of Veuve yellow label and an old black and white movie. 

London becomes a ghost town: London for Londoners; the deserted streets remind me of old black and white episodes from The Avengers. How I used to love that series!  My all-time favourite episode has to be Too Many Christmas Trees, in which Steed and Mrs Peel spend Christmas at the Gothick country house of a nutcase obsessed with Dickens and Mrs Peel dresses up as a cheeky Oliver Twist. 

Driven by the great god Mammon which everybody, these days, seems to worship without question, the modern focus is on the run-up to Christmas: decorations appear in the London shops while the leaves still cling to the branches of the great planes trees in Berkeley Square.

Historically, of course, the twelve days of Christmas start on Christmas Day and ends on January 5th, the Epiphany (January 6th), or even quite possibly, on January 7th, which as the erudite readership of the Spoon knows, is the date of the Russian Orthodox Christmas. I’ve never worked out in my head which is the right day (I’m counting aloud on my fingers as I type) so please feel free to put me right, those of you prepared to confess to a pedantic streak.

Food at this time of year is also a good thing. After all that turkey, all that goose, the soggy Christmas pudding, the migraine-inducing mulled wine and the sulphurous brussel sprout, Something Light is the order of the day.

I’ve cooked my usual cider and honey glazed Christmas Ham (tweaking a recipe issued by the wonder that is Sarah Raven), and once I’ve finished this post, will start making a traditional Germanic Herring Salad. Mrs Aitch has also discovered Forman’s Smoked Salmon pate on the shelves of our local Waitrose in Nine Elms; outstandingly delicious. I cannot stress how addictive this stuff is. 

 

Tamasin Day-Lewis wrote a fascinating article in the Telegraph about H. Forman & Son, the only surviving East End smokery. The tradition of smoking salmon was brought to London by Jewish immigrants from Eastern Europe in the late 19th century. Scottish smoked salmon only took off later, following developments in fish farming.

But, sorry Scotland, if you want the Real McCoy, Forman’s smokery is the place to go. Known for its “London Cure”, Forman’s uses dry salt rather than chemical brine and stretches the fish to improve the texture with a drip-dry effect.

And so to their Smoked Salmon Pate: it’s amazingly creamy in texture and has a lovely, savoury taste. I see that they make it with Mascarpone cheese, which, I think adds to the creamy taste. Their superior concoction also includes unsalted butter, natural yoghurt, dill and shallots.

Tamasin Day-Lewis gives a recipe to create something similar for yourself, but to be honest, I am such a fan of Forman’s smoked salmon pate, it might be a good plan to hurry along to your local supermarket (both Waitrose and Sainsbury’s stock it) and bag a tub or two for yourself. While stocks last.

 

 

The Perfect Gin & Tonic

 

 

 

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

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

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

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

 

 

 

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

 

 

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

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

Antonis Mor, Queen Mary, 1554.

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

 

 

Shorrocks Cheese and the Lancashire Bomb

 

 

 

 

 

Mrs Aitch discovered the Lancashire Bomb a year or two ago, and it's now become very much a part of our Christmas. It's the most delicious creamy, strongly flavoured cheese. Invented by the Shorrock family about twenty five years ago. Hand-made too, and as they say on their website:

 

It has proven to be a great success in the North of England and is spreading South rapidly by word of mouth due to the great taste and originality of the product. 

Visitors from the South have been sampling and buying the cheese bombs to take home and share with family and friends so they can experience the sensational Shorrock's hand made Lancashire Bombs. 

The Lancashire Bombs are matured over two years creating a very creamy and full flavoured taste and texture. In addition to this original Lancashire Bomb Shorrock's now produce a variety of different flavours, this includes the Vintage Gold which is an extra year matured.

 

The cheese is wrapped in a black wax, with a loop, and looks very much like one of those old-fashioned fuse bombs cartoon characters used to throw: think Guy Fawkes, or sinister men with waxed moustaches, black capes and fedoras. More importantly, the cheese is utterly delicious, with a strong flavour and creamy texture. 

I think it's terribly important to support enterprising local suppliers, such as Shorrocks. So please get on to their website right now and order in some cheese immediately. And if you don't fancy a Lancashire Bomb, there's a wide range of similar bombs to choose from: The Red Onion, The Cracked Black Pepper, The Garlic and Herb, The Hot Chilli, The Whisky and The Green Olive.

 

 

 

And some sad news...

 

Oskie, our beloved little 17 year old Burmese cat, is no more. The End happened suddenly. An urgent trip to the vet, brief hope ("it's probably a balance problem") and then that heart-wrenching call: "we need to make a decision immediately." Kidney failure, neurological problems, various complications and a reluctance on my part to go through the similar trauma we experienced almost exactly last year to the day; and you know that it's time to make that tough, but necessary, decision you've been dreading for the last few years.

And so, on a beautiful, golden afternoon in late November, poor Venetia dragged away from work, we made that final trip to the vet. Struggling to keep a stiff upper lip (and failing miserably), our lovely vet in tears, the whole wretched business was over in a jiffy.

Oskie was my first proper pet- and my first love; I won't deny that I was besotted. There had been a goldfish (won at the Gerrard's Cross fair), a neglected tortoise and a gaggle of miserable stick insects, but that was about it: my parents weren't very keen on animals. Maybe that's why I wasn't prepared for the sporadic gobbets of genuine, deeply felt grief that hit me the following week.

I'm fine now, of course I am, and looking forward, when the time is right, to the new additions to our cat and dog dynasty (Mrs Aitch is keen on a black pug, I like the idea of a whippet, and another Burmese kitten) but Oskie was something special- highly intelligent, elegant, affectionate and pretty. Sometimes, when she sat at the right angle, and cocked her head she looked like something straight from the pages of Beatrix Potter.

She had been through all my bachelor ups and downs, girlfriends good and bad, and survived the famous Battersea boiler explosion (neglected servicing on my part). A feisty little number too: she thought nothing of having a go at intruders: a scraggy town fox, four times her size; Polish builders (don't think she liked the smell of their rancid roll-ups) and poor old Valerie, our long suffering cleaner, who left notes saying 'that she had fed the rat'.  

I wasn't even sure if I wanted to write about this, let alone tack it on to a post about cheese, for blogging is a strange compromise between privacy and self-promotion, but as I've been writing the Greasy Spoon for so long now, I suspect that it would have been false if I didn't. Anyway, I don't think Oskie would have minded. She would have sniffed that Lancashire Bomb, turned her nose up at it nonchalantly, and strolled away.

 

 

The Greasy Spoon tastes...Colman’s Original English Mustard

 

 

A little confession to you before I write this post: I'm already a fan of Colman's Mustard. Actually, I'm a massive, gi-normous, slavering obsessive. But then I'm also a paid-up supporter of the exclusive Heinz Tomato Ketchup Club, which might also include within its hallowed portals: Lea & Perrins's Worcestershire Sauce, Cooper's Oxford Marmalade, Twiglets, Coca Cola, Cadbury's Chocolate Fingers, Schweppes Tonic Water, Uncle Ben's Rice, Marmite, H.P. Sauce, Triscuits and French's Yellow Mustard. And then there's Land Rover, Brooks Brothers, Levi Jeans, Timex Watches, Lacoste, Barbour and Waddington's Cluedo and Monopoly. All classic bona-fide brands, many of them with a long and distinguished history. Plus integrity. Not a good idea to tamper with them, I think; Cadbury's- sorry, Kraft, Hasbro and Brooks Brothers, please take note.

 

 

But I do understand how this happens: some thrusting young marketing exec turns up, and under a great deal of pressure (oh- how glad I am to have escaped the corporate world!), announces in a meeting that what the brand needs is "a make-over, to attract the kids",  without realising that they're in danger of destroying the very essence of what the brand is all about in the first place. Change for Changes Sake. Not necessarily the way forward. And the funny thing- I suspect- is that the young 'uns, or at least the cooler specimens, would probably identify more with the styling of the original packaging in the first place.

For these classic brands are all about comfort, are they not? And today, the concept of 'comfort' is very much at the cutting edge. Many of us will be eating Colman's Mustard, Kellogg's Corn Flakes or Heinz Baked Beans from birth to the grave. Not that I'm completely against the idea of subtle re-invention. But it's a very difficult thing to get right.

Take a look at Budd, the distinguished pajama and shirtmaker; a tiny- but relatively famous- shop in the Piccadilly Arcade, founded in 1910. It's recently been bought up by Huntsman, the Savile Row tailor, and they've given it a very subtle face-lift. Painted the walls a light grey, re-instated some new oak shelving, given the place a Hoover and a decent website. But that's about it Nothing More, Nothing Less. And it works brilliantly. 

But back to that all-important mustard. Perhaps the greatest brand of English mustard is made by Colman's of Norwich. That famous 'blood and custard' packaging. The Bull logo. Founded by Jeremiah Colman in 1814, it's a classic English mustard with a deep yellow colour, tangy taste and powerful kick. Trying to pin-point that distinctive taste is difficult: slightly musty? salty? slighty sweet? It's perhaps, at it's best, with roast beef, sliced thinly and slightly rare.

Connoisseurs of the brand reckon that the best version is Colman's Mustard powder, which you mix up with water, and then leave for about twenty minutes to bring out the oils and for the full powerful flavour to develop. Personally, I prefer the stuff straight from the jar. It has a very different, more developed, saltier- dare I say it- slightly synthetic taste. Works brilliantly with fried bread too.

Believe it or not, there's a Colman's Mustard Cookbook. Haven't, as yet, tried any recipes from it, but it looks fun:

 

           

 

 

The Brandy of Napoleon

 

 

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

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

 

 

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

 

 

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

 

                   

 

The Greasy Spoon tastes…Kusmi "Anastasia" Earl Grey Tea

 

From left to right: Maria, Alexandra, Alexei, Tatiana, Nicholas II, Olga, Anastasia, 1911

 

It all started with an email. From a German tea company peddling a new product; a variation on the ubiquitous tea-bag. "Please send me the Earl Grey flavour" I said. The tea arrived, along with a demand that it should not be taken with milk. I found this slightly irritating. The English (surely one of the world's greatest nations of tea drinkers?) have always taken their tea with milk, it's what we do, it's ingrained in our culture- and since the 18th century too. I sent them an email pointing this out and was told that this was 'sacrilege'. This irritated me even more. Look, I wouldn't dream of adding milk to say, my smoky, delicate Lapsang Souchong, but Earl Grey which should, by my book, be a mixture of Indian and China teas flavoured with orange and bergamot, has enough punch to take it. And I wouldn't dream of lecturing Germans on how to pickle sauerkraut. 

Anyway, the tea arrived and we tasted it. Mrs Aitch took it into the office and gave it to the boys to try out. There was a general consensus: "Doesn't taste of anything"... "Slightly Bitter"..."Where's the Bergamot?"... "This ain't Earl Grey"... "Dishwater". Nope. I'm afraid this particular tea failed to hit the mark. It seemed, also, to have been made entirely from Indian or Ceylon teas, which didn't seem quite right to me, failing to capture the true spirit of Earl Grey, the very essence of the cult.

The search for the perfect Earl Grey continued for a few months, and then suddenly, yesterday, bingo!- I think I found it. It's "Anastasia" Earl Grey tea from Kusmi of Paris. It's horribly expensive. I paid ten pounds for a small cardboard pack of tea bags. Beautifully made, dinky little muslin bags, mind you- but tea bags.

Kusmi tea has a distinguished history. The company was founded by Pavel Michailovitch Kousmichoff in St Peterbsurg in 1867, relocating to Paris after the Russian Revolution in 1917. I'm a sucker for packaging, and by golly, the Kusmi tea company does this extremely well, evoking images of lost Tsars, displaced Russian aristos, samovars and night-time rides in troikas to remote dachas in the Russian steppes. The blurb says:

Since 1867, Kusmi Tea has been creating exclusive blends and classic teas in baroque and colourful packaging faithful to the original labels. Distributed all over the world, Kusmi Tea gives endless enjoyment and gustative treasures to connoisseurs and neophytes with its inimitable aromas and flavours.

And for once, the hype is true. Fabulous citrusy, floral smells hit you the moment you discard the wrapping. And Mein Gott, this tea is truly, deeply delicious. Utterly delicious. Clean and fresh with a decent hit, masses of marmalade, bergamot and floral flavours going on, with subtle and very slight caramalised sugary hints- and a delicious orangey after-taste that stays in the back of your mouth for several minutes. This tea would be marvellous on a hot English afternoon in late June, served with a a plate of properly made cucumber sandwiches. With milk.

 

 

The London Steak House

 

"Just a Beaujolais sir, but a good bottler..."  The Servant (1963)

 

One of my earliest restaurant memories is being taken by my grandfather to The London Steak House, somewhere near the old Roman Wall in the City of London. We were the only customers in an empty restaurant. I remember a few things. The head waiter falling over backwards to fawn over my grandfather (he looked distinguished- my grandfather, not the head waiter- not unlike David Niven with flamboyant Harvie & Hudson shirts, an Errol Flynn moustache and well-cut suits with narrow Edwardian cuffs and drainpipe trouser bottoms).

The London Steak House, I seem to remember, was a (relatively upmarket?) chain- but to an eight or nine year old's way of thinking, achieved sophisticated heights. Here a waiter would advance, and in a hushed tone ask if Sir would prefer "English, French or German Mustard?" All Colman's of course. I seem to remember thick (burgundy?) carpets, padded banquette seating and linen tablecloths. The claret was served in a ducky wicker cradle. My grandfather kept them waiting for about a minute while he swirled the wine around his glass and sniffed. It was a terrific performance. I was terribly impressed.

 

The London Steak House, Old Brompton Road (1966)

 

"The past is a foreign country, they do things differently there". Back then (this was the early 1970's), people aspired to middle-aged sophistication, to becoming a grown up. Recently I've had fun flipping through old House & Gardens from the 1960's and 70's. Full of advertisements for cognac, expensive cigarettes, fine liqueurs and Martini. Libraries with chocolate lacquered walls, Chinese ancestor portraits and bookshelves lined with fine leather bindings seemed de rigeur. A place to relax at night with a balloon glass of armagnac, admire your collection of Marquis de Sade firsts and listen to the Bach 48 on the Bang & Olufsen.

 

Middle-aged aspiration, the true spirit of the 1970's, Dormeuil (1979)

 

I don't know why when somebody mentions the 1970's everyone starts thinking of Mr Travolta, white suits, hairy chests matted with sun oil, 100% polyester flares and Night on Disco Mountain. I remain unashamedly fond of Disco, for in truth, Studio 54 was a deadly sophisticated affair, a sybaritic rendezvous where Truman Capote, the Jacquelines Onassis and Bisset could intermingle with the likes of Andy Warhol, Disco Sally and the urbane haute monde. And for every tenth thousand turmeric-sprayed Austin Allegro (with square steering wheel and brown deckchair striped seats in static inducing draylon) there was one hand-made Rolls Royce Camargue, coachwork courtesy of Pininfarina, a car in which Lady Penelope herself might have cut a dash.

I found very little about The London Steak House on the net, apart from a stylish matchbook on Ebay, with black salt and pepper pot graphics set against a brown ground and the photograph shown above. Note the half-decent abstracts on the wall, and the serving trolley (Flambéed Steak au Poivre and Crêpes Suzettes?).

Retro diners are currently toute la rage in Old London Town at the moment (Soho is full of 'em), which is fine- good even; but wouldn't it be refreshing if some brave entrepreneur decided to look up for once, rather than down, ditched the 50's Americana Shack Look and aimed at something, well, just a little bit more sophisticated? These days everybody aspires to be a dungaree-wearing, Pepsi drinking, bearded 17 year old hick from the Deep South rather than a Bentley driving clubable chairman with an interest in rare books, antique furniture and Dry Martini cocktails.

So in memory of The London Steak House (long may it Rest In Peace), here's my recipe for a simple cognac infused Green Peppercorn Sauce. You have it with steak. The green peppercorns come in little jars full of brine.

 

The Greasy Spoon's Green Peppercorn Sauce

 

2 tablespoons peppercorns

Knob of unsalted butter

1 chopped shallot

Dash of Cognac

1 teaspoon of Flour

100ml Beef Stock

60ml Double Cream

 

Heat a small to medium sized saucepan and add the butter. Fry the chopped shallot and the green peppercorns very briefly. 

Add the dash of cognac, and stir. Add a teaspoon of flour and stir, making sure it cooks properly.

Now add the beef stock and bring the sauce to the boil. Turn down the heat and let it bubble away gently. After a few minutes, add the cream and let the sauce reduce gently. 

Season to taste, and serve with steak.

You may need to play around with the quantities of flour, stock and cream. The sauce needs to be just right. Not too thick (and floury) and not too thin (watery). I've found chef Michel Richard's similar recipe from The Washington Post which looks great. He adds a tablespoon of Soy Sauce, which, I think will help to bring out the beefy, meaty, umami flavours.

 

 

Edward Bawden and Fortnum & Mason's Christmas Catalogues

 

 

 

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

 

 

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

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

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

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

 

 

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

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Greasy Spoon tastes…Star ai Funghi Porcini Stock Cubes

 

 

Go on. Admit it. You use stock cubes. Of course you do. We all do. I make proper stock from time to time (and freeze it) but when I'm in a hurry (and that's quite often these days) I resort to ready-made, shop-bought stock cubes. The trick is, I think, to track down the better quality brands and to use less of it then the directions tell you to on the packet. Otherwise, everything tastes too salty.

I've just discovered these brilliant mushroom flavoured stock cubes. Made in Italy and exported to the UK, they're currently available in Waitrose and various up-market delis. Perfect for an after-work autumnal mushroom risotto or a Saturday late afternoon beef stew. Makes a change from the ubiquitous chicken, doesn't it?

 

The Greasy Spoon tastes...Martin Miller's Gin

 

Welcome to the first of a new series: "The Greasy Spoon tastes..."

 

 

I've always rather liked the idea of having your own brand of something or other. The suave actor, Sir Gerald du Maurier, had a brand of cigarettes named after him, as (almost unbelievably by today's standards) did Sotheby's- "Sotheby's Special Service": in a very smart green and gold embossed box. The late Mark Birley had his own cologne. And then that charmer, Patrick Lichfield, had his very own gin, called, you guessed it, "Lichfield Gin". 

And now there's Martin Miller's Gin. I've yet to meet Mr Miller, although our paths may well have crossed in the salerooms, in the Portobello Road or in the back of a lorry. Originally an antique dealer (and then married to the antiques expert, Judith Miller) he now owns a chain of off-beat hotels and restaurants. 

 

Anyway, to cut a long story short, following my recent post on Dodd's Gin, a PR company got in touch and very kindly offered to send me a free bottle of Martin Miller's Gin for review. It arrived with a promotional hardback book, priced slightly bizzarely at £10.50: Born of Love, Obsession and Some Degree of Madness...The story of Martin Miller's Gin.

Within there's a photograph of Mr Miller, looking in part like the hybrid child of Laurence Llewelyn Bowen and Lovejoy, surrounded by a bevy of models (in various stages of undress), pretty boys with waxed chests and eye-liner, a wolf-like creature and a huge poodle, coffiered, topiarised and dyed pink. 

The gin, apparently, is distilled here in England (in an Edwardian still, name of Angela, if you wondered), and then shipped all the way to Iceland, where it is mixed with pure Nordic water, filtered through volcanic rock.

I approve of this madness (in the best traditions of British Industry): it reminds me of the manufacture of the infamous Hillman Imp by the Rootes Group: you will remember that half the car was made in Glasgow, the other half in Coventry, then the whole thing reassembled, vice-versa- a round trip of some 600 miles; or the production of the glorious 1963 V8 American-Engined Gordon Keeble, in which the car cost more to screw together than the selling price. And they wondered why only 100 or so were ever made.

 

But back to the gin. First, the packaging. I like it. The glass bottle has clean, slick lines. There's a charming olde worlde map of the British Isles and Iceland, surmounted with crossed pennants and a silvery-coloured cap. It's all rather nautical in flavour, reminiscent of yacht clubs, Robert Louis Stevenson, and the 1930's- remember Old Spice?  I note that "since 1999" is printed in a tiny- almost unreadable- typeface.

Second, the all-important tasting. The gin is delicious. And that's an objective opinion. It's subtle on the nose, but the number one overwhelming sense is of smoothness and creaminess, with a hint of sweetness to balance the dry. I tried a blind tasting alongside good old Sainbury's own brand (distilled by the distinguished old firm of G. & J. Greenall). Martin Miller's Gin was so smooth that it could quite easily be consumed neat- almost as if it was a liqueur. It would be a perfect candidate for a Dry Martini. It's a buy.

Sainsbury's, in comparison, although a perfectly respectable and drinkable gin, was raw and unsophisticated when taken neat- definitely a candidate as a mixer for Schweppes tonic water. Millers is 40% Alc/Vol., Sainsbury's 37.5%. Miller's costs £25 for 70cl.e, Sainsbury's £15.50 for a litre bottle.

My current worry is the problem of tonic water. I'm not exactly having sleepless nights over this, but you should get the drift. Why buy a premium gin if you're going to mix it with a sweet, fizzy generic tonic water?  Fever Tree is a good brand, and might be the solution. Dunno. I'm also currently researching the possibility of making my own tonic water (from cinchona bark) but that's going to be for a subsequent post. Tomorrow is another day.

 

Louisiana Gold

 

 

 

On our trips to Paris, we normally stay at this rather good little hotel in the 7eme. It's relatively close to the Boulevard St. Germain and almost as importantly, happens to be bang smack next to the Bon Marché Grand Epicerie. 

Here you can buy just about anything. One of my rarer finds was a bottle of Louisiana Gold Horseradish and Pepper Sauce. Now I expect in America this stuff is as ubiquitous as Heinz Baked Beans, but I tell you, in England, you can't get your hands on it. It's completely non available. The shelves are bare.

I've also got no idea if Louisiana Gold is a much loved American brand, or some recent marketing man's invention. It's got all that corny riverboat, gunslinger, Old Man River, cardsharp, Deep South stuff on the label. But I've become addicted to the horseradish version which is genuinely delicious and I've now got a problem. I've run out of the stuff, and I'm looking at an empty bottle as I write. I need my fix. I think it would work brilliantly in a Bloody Mary.

Can anybody tell me if a) Louisiana Gold is a decent brand and b) if not, if there is a better (and more authentic) American pepper and horseradish sauce to recommend?

Oh- and one, preferably, that I don't need to travel to Paris to buy.

 

 

Dodd's Gin

 

Last week I had the greatest pleasure in tasting a new gin; a well received present from Mrs Aitch. Dodd's Gin, the stuff's called; I had only been vaguely aware of it, which is not really surprising as it's a brand spanking new gin, fresh on the market. Not that you would think that from the brilliantly Victorian packaging, and the beautiful old-fashioned bottle with its wooden stopper: 'crafted by season and established in 1807'.

This gin is produced by the London Distillery Company, at a traditional distillery in Battersea (just down the road from the Greasy Spoon Residence), using a 140 litre copper alembic by the name of Christina. Its organic botanicals include rasberry leaf and wait-for-it, London honey.

This gin really tastes of something, it's clean and almost medicinal (in a good sense) with a strong sense of clove which cuts through, but doesn't overwhelm.

But then you start looking at the price. It costs around thirty quid for a 500ml bottle. I realise, of course, that this is an artisan crafted gin, produced in small numbers (each gin has a hand-written batch number) and aimed at a high budget, connoisseur's market, but I just can't get out of my head that a 1 litre bottle of the perfectly drinkable Sainsbury's own, distilled by the distinguished old firm of G & J Greenall up in Scotland (but sold with naff Sainsbury's packaging) costs a very reasonable £15.50 (and is often available on discount, too). 

'But that's unfair!', I can hear the gin distillers cry, 'that's like comparing Teacher's blended whisky with a Knockando Single Malt'. Perhaps. But as I happen to enjoy that Old English habit of adding tonic to my gin, I'm not entirely convinced. Sainsbury's Own for the tonic, and Dodd's for the Dry Martinis, served on High Days and Holidays (including the opportunity to toast St Swithin). That might be the way forward.

Nico Landenis once said: "A gin and tonic says a lot about you as a person. It is more than just a drink, it is an attitude of mind. It goes with a prawn cocktail, a grilled Dover Sole, Melba toast and Black Forest Gateau."

I would like to state publicly, on record, that I adore Prawn Cocktail, love a grilled Dover Sole, and would sell my mother to get my hands on a decent bit of Melba Toast. 

 

Sainsbury's Own Label 1962-1977

 

 

Over the years I've had an on-off relationship with Sainsbury's. Actually, I tell a lie, scrub out the "on" bit. Back in the mists of time, probably before many of you were born, Sainsbury's had a reputation for quality. There may have even been a hint of smugness in the middle class housewife's "I bought it at Sainsbury's". 

I can just about remember the Sainsbury's in Gerrard's Cross High Street, used as a location in Noel Coward's "Brief Encounter"- which says it all (actually, I tell another fib, as it was nearby Beaconsfield High Street, but you will get my drift); an old fashioned shop with a Mock Tudor shop front (circa 1914), with glazed Edwardian tiles, and a meat-counter, where a butcher in white apron and straw boater (or am I imagining this?) sliced out decent bits of ham on one of those stainless steel slicing machines. 

 

 

So where did it all go wrong? Some might point the long finger of suspicion at Tesco's. In the 70's "Tesco Reject" was a term of mild abuse, doled out by little boys in long shorts and grubby, bloodied knees. Today, in London, if you compare the two flag-ship stores of Sainsbury's (Nine Elms) and Tesco's (The Hoover Building) Tesco's wins hands down. I'm a frequent (if reluctant) shopper at Nine Elms (purely, I admit, out of sheer laziness) and although the staff are hardworking and cheery, they seem to be constantly let down by bad stocking policies; at times, this so-called "Super Store" feels like something out of the good old German Democratic Republic, circa 1968. It's pretty tired and shabby, too. There are plans afoot to replace Nine Elms with a shiny new mega-store; part of the huge re-generation project in the area: so I'm watching this one with interest. Please don't get me wrong on this, I want Sainsbury's to succeed.

There, I've had my say. Which brings me to this fascinating book I discovered at the Artwords Bookshop in the fabulous Broadway Market. It's Jonny Trunk's Own Label, Sainsbury's Design Studio 1962-1977. It's a terrific book and a reminder that packaging of relatively recent years is an often-forgotten or overlooked phenomenon. In this case, I think images work better than words:

 

 

 

 

                     

 

 

The Black Rice of Venus

 

 

 

 

My latest discovery: Venus Black Rice. Originally Chinese, Italian black rice comes from the Po valley, and I gather is a relatively recent concept; the result of a noble collaboration between a co-operative of Northern Italian rice growers and a Chinese hybridisation specialist (were you aware that there was such a thing?) 

Yesterday, I made myself a simple working lunch using the remains of a packet of Riso Venere from the Sala Cereali Company of Sondrio. You can cook it very much like a risotto. The rice turns a deep purple- indeed the colour of Roman Emperors- and releases a highly fragrant starch. It's delicious.

If you cook it in a good fish stock, it's almost hard to believe that this rice hasn't been cooked in deepest black, rich squid ink. It would work brilliantly with cuttlefish, squid, octopus and the like. Highly recommended.

 

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!

 

 

Pork Scratchings Come Out of The Cold

 

 

 

I've got a guilty secret. I like pork scratchings. Until recently, every day on my way home from the Blacking Factory (a quasi-heated, cavernous warehouse found in the scrappy, semi-industrial inner suburbs of North London), I would pull over at a garage on the A40 and buy a packet of Mr Porky's Pork Scratchings. It was sort of addictive. I kept this one quiet from Mrs Aitch, carefully removing the greasy, empty packet from the floor of the car before bounding up the steps to our shiny, Grecian knockered front door.

You see, it's been a sort of secret love affair over the years- I mean with the Pork Scratchings. If you're not British, you probably don't know what I'm talking about. Pork Scratchings are off-cuts of pork rind or skin, deep fried in fat, and then sprinkled with salt, flavourings and undoubtably, our old friend monosodium glutamate. They have a dodgy reputation; they're about as classy as a Knees Up Mother Brown at the local dog track. Those on a diet can look away now.

But now and again, you would run into tantalising, if raffish, home-made versions. The Star Tavern in Belgravia (that excellent traditional London pub; the former haunt of the Clermont gambling set and the Great Train Robbers) sold fresh scratchings, cooked to their own recipe, salted and presented in large glass jars, into which you could plunge your grubby mitts. I liked this.

And now, at last, Pork Scratchings can truly come out of the cold. Tom Parker Bowles, Matthew Fort and pig-farmer, Rupert Ponsonby, are the brainchildren behind a new venture: Mr Trotter's Great British Pork Crackling ('Hand Cooked For a Crisper Crunch'). I'm munching on a packet as I write this, it's a sort of manly, substitute breakfast. According to the packet, "it's seasoned with a special blend of ingredients, without a trace of MSG. Unlike other pork scratchings, Mr Trotter's Great British Pork Crackling is made with 100% prime British pork skin from the finest British Pigs".

They are indeed divine, and far less salty than the more ersatz brands. It's also nice to know that British pigs are being turned into scratchings- sorry boys, crackling, rather than Danish beasts. My only sorrow is that currently, they only seem to be available at the usual up-market parade:  Harvey Nick's food hall, Fortnum's, the Chatsworth Farm Shop. But you can, at least, buy them online, and in bulk (£57 for 30 bags, if you're wondering). I quite like the idea of a pork scratchings hoard; in this case, there's going to be no need to keep it a secret.

 

 

On Quality Street

 

Katherine Hepburn in "Quality Street", 1937

 

Did you see Nigel Slater's brilliantly nostalgic television programme on old-fashioned sweeties?: Life is Sweets. We got very excited this end. It brought back so many childhood memories: Spangles, Crunchies, Lemon Sherbets, Flying Saucers, Sweet Cigarettes, Jelly Babies, and Liquorice Allsorts. And then there was all that wonderful 70's chocolate advertising: "All because the Lady Loves Milk Tray", "A Finger of Fudge...", "Take a Break, Take a Kit-Kat", "Fry's Turkish Delight...The Taste of Paradise", "Everyone's a Fruit and Nutcase..." Surely, some of the greatest and most effective advertising slogans of all time?  These are the ones you remember, far more than some dreary pitch about car insurance. Especially if they star irritating meerkats. 

Anyway, in the middle of the programme, there was suddenly a sneaky glimpse of an old Quality Street tin. You know the one- that slightly kitschy, Regency Revival thing with the chocolate nutcracker soldier and the pretty girl wearing a bonnet. And a bow-windowed shop, if I remember rightly- a bit like the Burlington Arcade in Piccadilly. My grandparents used to keep a large tin of Mackintosh's Quality Street, and we were allowed to plunge our grubby little mitts into it when we visited- and sadly, we didn't visit that often.

 

J.M. Barrie's Quality Street (1913) from David Brass Rare Books

 

Quality Street is now owned by Nestles, and is the best selling brand of chocolate in the world. It was invented in 1936 by Mackintosh's of Halifax and was the first box- or tin rather- of chocolates aimed at a mass market.

"Quality Street" was originally a play, written by J.M. Barrie in 1901. Mackintosh then had the bright idea of using the name as a play on "Quality Sweets". Of course, all that Marie Antoinette/Regency/Early Victorian stuff was dead fashionable in the 1930's. It was very much the era of the Dickensian "Coach & Horses" Christmas Card. There was also a film with Katherine Hepburn (1937), capturing the zeitgeist. In 2000, Nestles banished Major Quality and Miss Sweetie from the tin: I am sad about that- the new tin design seems bland and boring in comparison, just like any other ordinary chocolate brand. Bring them back!

 

 

Tomato, Egg and Salad Cream Sandwiches

 

 

 

 

I stopped off yesterday at a garage on the Western Avenue and bought an M & S Tomato, Egg & Salad Cream Sandwich. It was delicious: a guilty, if slightly tacky, pleasure; the substitution of Salad Cream for Mayonnaise a masterstroke. The vinegary taste of the Salad Cream worked beautifully with the egg, salted tomato and brown bread.

Making your own version would be easy enough: I would suggest that you spread the Salad Cream onto slices of brown bread; adding a layer of sliced tomatoes (removing the skin by immersing the tomatoes in boiling water for a minute or so, and discarding the pips), and a further layer of chopped hard-boiled eggs. Season with salt and white pepper, remove the crusts and cut into rectangles or fingers.

Salad Cream was invented in 1925 by our old friend, H. J. Heinz & Co; apparently the first brand developed exclusively for the British market. Oh yes, it's a very British thing, is Salad Cream. There's also a Crosse & Blackwell version. I can't honestly tell you which one is better.

There was also a rather scary radioactive substance called "Sandwich Spread"- which I haven't tasted for about twenty five years. I think I will probably leave it at that. 

Talking of which, The Greasy Spoon Kitchen is still out of action, and as I write, the vibrations of a pneumatic drill are reverberating around the house. It's like hearing Gog or Magog undergoing treatment in the dentist's chair. Today, a load-bearing wall is being demolished. We're sick of micro-waved food. Initially, it wasn't quite as bad as I thought it was going to be. This morning I'm not so sure. It's so bland. I appreciate that it is very affordable, but how on earth can people live on this stuff day in day out?

 

 

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. 

 

 

Related articles

The London Grill

The Perfect Prawn Cocktail

Heinz to Launch Jalapeno Ketchup on Cyber Monday

Devil Sauce

Ketchup: A Saucy History

Fake Heinz Ketchup Bottles Explode

The Ivy's Hamburger

Bloody Mary Soup for Bonfire Night

Coca-Cola

 

 

 

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

 

An Apple a Day...

 

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

Greenall's Gin

 

 

 

 

Currently the routine gin of choice in The Greasy Spoon Residence. It's a classic no-nonsense gin in the London Dry manner: crisp and clean, with juniper and citrusy tastes. I've discovered that it makes a fabulous G & T when mixed with Fever Tree Naturally Light Tonic. A subtle, light and deliciously clean drink, especially when mixed with a slice of lime.

Founded in 1761, G & J Greenall is one of the older distilleries, which also happens to make the perfectably drinkable and reasonably priced Sainsbury's own brand gin. They also distill Bombay Sapphire. Personally, I find Bombay Sapphire a bit too sickly and floral for my taste; originally aimed at the 80's cocktail crowd- the sort of people who added cherries to their drinks, wore Hawaiian Shirts with Ray-Ban wayfarers and approved of cocktail umbrellas.

Greenall's have very recently redesigned their packaging, presumably aiming the brand at a younger market. Gin's suddenly hip again! But of course!  Gin never went away, did it?  This time round, I like the clean lines of their new look, and the rather Forties looking- and very British- typeface.

Kallo Organic Chicken Stock Cubes

 

I tried these the other day and thought they were good. They're "Improved Recipe Original Organic Free Range Chicken Stock Cubes" by Kallo; gluten and lactose-free, too- whatever that means. No Monosodium Glutamate (boo hoo!), artificial colours, flavours or preservatives.

If you can't be bothered to brew up your own chicken stock (we do this on a regular basis, and freeze it), this could be your answer. They've got an intense chicken flavour and, in my opinion, are most certainly better than the good old Knorr's version- unbelievably championed by than none other than one Marco Pierre White of infamous Wheeler's fame.

I once had dinner with a pair of sophisticated Italian sisters in Milan. They had a thing about "Mr Knorr" (along with the American Campbell's soup) which they seemed to think was the height of retrospective British cuisine. What they didn't realise is that Knorr, in fact, is a German brand, now owned by the Anglo-Dutch corporation, Unilever. And, no- I haven't got shares in Kallo, or had temptation dangled in front of me by some eager PR girl. This is a genuine recommendation.

 

 

Innis & Gunn Beer

 

 

 

This has been a recent discovery: it's Innis & Gunn beer from East Lothian, Scotland. It's got an especially scrumptious taste- butterscotch, toffee, hints of vanilla, caramel. Despite the Victorian style label, the brand was only established as recently as 2003, and the "unique" brewing process was discovered by accident.

The beer is brewed at Dunbar, East Lothian, before being matured in American White Oak Bourbon barrels for thirty days, and then for a further forty seven days in a marrying tun. There's also a limited edition beer, matured in Navy Rum barrels.

Boodles British Gin: Over There, But Not Over Here

 

 

I'm currently in the mood for a good old rant. And Jiminy Cricket you're about to get it, big time. It all started like this: on Wednesday we were having some friends over to dinner, and I had the bright idea of serving them my raw herring, keta salmon "caviar" (roe) and dill canapés beforehand.

Waitrose Belgravia stocked bog-standard mock "caviar". It would have done the job, but I had a very real craving for the keta stuff. For some bizarre reason (which escapes me now) I seemed to recall dimly that none other than Sainsbury's Nine Elms stocked keta "caviar" (that's the delicious orange coloured salmon roe, often used by the Japanese and usually priced at about £6.50 for a small jar) in their deli or "Foods of the World" section.

So off I went, happily hopping and skipping down the South Lambeth Road, my naive optimism glowing with a capital "O". And how wrong I was to be.

I spent a frustrating ten to fifteen minutes trawling the aisles, and walking round in circles: couldn't find anything remotely caviar or roe-related, let alone of the keta or even mock varieties. Finally found a member of staff. Could barely speak English: didn't know what "caviar" was, couldn't give a toss, to be frank. His friend behind the fish counter had to explain that the mysterious ingredient I was searching for was, in fact "fish eggs". Titters all round. It was a bit like the time (same branch) when I asked for White Spirit, and was taken over to the Gin section.

Eventually another member of staff waddled up, and shaking his head sadly, explained that he hadn't seen that sort of thing for some time now. Wasn't entirely sure, was he? Didn't think they stocked it.

And in case you think I'm being horribly unfair (or even dare-I-say it, snooty), this isn't some small out-of-the way branch. I'm talking about a big "flag-ship" store, located about a mile south of the Houses of Parliament, in an area which is about to go through a massive urban re-generation. It's the general apathy, lack of enthusiasm, and sloppy standards that I find so depressing. Utterly wet. Mealy mouthed. You could push them over.

One of the things I like about America is the generosity of spirit. Go into any small newsagent, and you will find virtually every and any magazine currently available and in publication laid out for sale; in serried rows, on wooden racks. It's all about choice and range: if that's what sir wants, we'll get it for you, no problem!

The American-owned Wholefoods in Kensington High Street has this excellent philosophy in abundance. The range of foods for sale there is superb. If you want that horseradish root, they'll stock it. If you suddenly feel like buying a Jersualem artichoke or an unusual Mexican chocolate, they'll have it. In American supermarkets, there are smiling and eager members of staff- in uniforms- God Forbid- to pack up your groceries in large brown paper bags, and wait for this- to carry your bags out to your car!

A great friend of mine, currently living in Bangkok, thinks that people here get an appalling deal when it comes to choice, price and service. Rip-off Britain. I'm beginning to understand what he's getting at. Keep reading.

 

Ever heard of Boodle's British Gin?  If you live in Perfidious Albion, chances are that you haven't. Founded in 1845 apparently, named after the famous Gentleman's Club in St James's Street, and by repute, the tipple of choice of none other than a certain Sir Winston Spencer Churchill, KG, and Mister James Bond himself.

If you look it up on the internet, you'll find testament after testament from gin aficionados; waxing lyrical about Boodle's subtle taste, its smoothness, its wonderful properties as used in the Perfect Martini, for the making of.

According to the net, it's made here in Britain and distributed in the United Kingdom by the firm of James Burrough for Pernod Ricard. I've read this over and over again. Except that it's not. I've done my research and I can tell you now that Boodle's British Gin seems only to be available in America. So if you want to drink it in Britain, I've got some bad news for you- you can't. Many gin drinkers seem to think that it's possibly one of the best tasting British gins of all time; an absolute classic. Lovely packaging, too.

It's just not fair! I want to join the club and taste Boodle's British Gin!

Coca-Cola Glazed Ham

 

 

 

Last Christmas or so, I wrote a post about a slightly weird recipe: "Ham Glazed in Coca-Cola".  It's still one of my most popular posts, and as I'm currently getting increased hits (no doubt because of Thanksgiving), I'm going to give you the recipe again.

It doesn't sound that great, does it?  However, as Coke is really just a very sugary, brown and fizzy syrup, there's no reason why it shouldn't work nicely with a lovely, juicy ham.  And the recipe's an old favourite from the American Deep South, too- which is no bad thing.  So, here's how you make it:

Put in a medium sized unsmoked gammon into a large pan.  Add a peeled onion (for flavour), and then pour in a litre of coca-cola.  Bring to the boil, put the lid back on, and turn down the heat.  Let the ham braise in the liquid for 2 ½ hours.

Take the gammon out of the pan, and let it rest.  Remove the skin and preheat your oven to 210˚C.  In the meantime, mix up a glaze from 100g breadcrumbs, 100g brown muscovado sugar, two tablespoons of French Dijon Mustard, and a tablespoon of Colman's Mustard Powder.  With a sharp knife, scour the gammon to make a criss-cross pattern. Stir in a spoonful or so of coca-cola into the sugar and mustard mixture, and then slap it onto the gammon. 

Roast the gammon in the hot oven for about ten minutes, or until the glaze has cooked.

 

Lea & Perrins Tomato and Worcester Sauce

 

 

 

Many of you will know that I am a huge fan of Lea & Perrins; indeed, "The Greasy Spoon" has almost become a tribute website to the stuff.  "Tomato and Worcester Sauce" is their latest sensation. I'm not entirely sure about it: it's a bit like a pair of co-respondent shoes or a variegated shrub- it can't make up its mind whether it's Worcestershire sauce or Heinz-style tomato ketchup.

What does it taste like, I hear you ask?  Well, either like Worcestershire sauce with a dollop of tomato ketchup, or tomato ketchup with a dollop of Worcestershire sauce.  A sort of British version of American barbeque sauce, without the hickory bit.

A few days ago, Mrs Aitch treated me to a superb lunch at The Boundary- currently my favourite number one restaurant.  I would love to know how they made their Bloody Marys.  They were sweeter in taste (sherry and lemon juice?), spicy and dark red in colour.  I've got a sneaky feeling they may have added a significant dash of Lea & Perrin's new sauce.  It's the sort of thing they're selling in the Albion Food Store, which can be found on the ground floor above the restaurant.

Related articles

The Dilemma of Tomato Ketchup

Devil Sauce

The Perfect Prawn Cocktail

Bloody Mary Soup for Bonfire Night

Coca-Cola Glazed Ham

 

 

There's an urban myth currently doing the rounds that Santa Claus (or as we say here in Blighty, Father Christmas) was invented by the Coca-Cola Corporation of America. Well, there's a little bit of truth in the story. Santa Claus is an amalgamation of the 17th century English folk personification of Christmas, "Father Christmas" , and the 19th century "Saint Nick" of Clement Clarke Moore's poem, "The Night Before Christmas". Father Christmas was usually portrayed as a scrawny, bearded old man wearing a fur robe, and the "Spirit of Christmas Present" in Charles Dickens's "A Christmas Carol" was illustrated wearing a similar robe, but in green. In Europe, "St Claus" was sometimes imagined as a sprightly little elf. 

The modern image of Santa Claus (the one you see at your local department store grotto); the red cap and suit, huge buckled belt, enormous stomach, black boots and Mr Kiplingesque whiskers was, in part, invented by a series of Coca-Cola advertisments illustrated by Haddon Sundblom. These ran from the 1930's.

Talking of Coca-Cola, I've got a slightly weird recipe for you: it's "Ham Glazed in Coca-Cola". Okay, it doesn't sound that great; but as Coke is really just a very sugary, brown, fizzy, syrup, there's reason why this shouldn't work nicely on a lovely, juicy ham. And the recipe's an old favourite from the American Deep South, too. Here's how you make it:

You get hold of a large pan, and into that you place a medium sized gammon. Throw in a peeled onion (for flavour), and then pour in a litre of coca-cola. Bring to the boil, put the lid back on, and turn down the heat. Let it braise in the liquid for 2 1/2 hours.

Take the gammon out of the pan, and let it rest. Remove the skin and preheat your oven to 210C. Meanwhile mix up a glaze from 100g breadcrumbs, 100g brown muscovado sugar, two tablespoons of French Dijon Mustard, and a tablespoon of Colman's Mustard Powder. Add a spoonful or so of coca-cola to the mixture, and then slap it onto the gammon.  Roast the gammon in the hot oven for about ten minutes, or until the glaze has cooked.

Incidentally, I've just had an interesting comment from "carrotosaurus": it's a recipe for White Borscht. Go and have a look...

You either love it or your hate it...

 

 

 

 

What can be more British than Marmite? To my American readers, Marmite is a thick, dark, tangy, rich and glutinous mess that you spread on your toast, typically at breakfast or perhaps as a late night supper snack. For years I assumed, wrongly, that it was some sort of meat derivative, but Marmite makes the stuff from brewer's yeast, and so in theory, it's suitable for vegetarians.

The Marmite Food Extract Company was founded in 1902. Some clever spark realised that you could manufacture an edible savoury paste out of the waste yeast used in beer making. The Edwardians were heavily into these yeast extracts ( Bovril being another example, but with the addition, shock horror, of beef ); one reason being that you could make up a cheap but nourishing bouillon with the simple addition of boiling water.  As you gourmands all know, the word Marmite means a pot or casserole in French, and that's why the cultish jar is shaped, er- like a marmite.

And now ( trumpet fanfare, gasps of amazement ) there's new limited edition Guinness Marmite. It's got Guinness in it! I am dying to try it, but it seems to have sold out across the nation, and the supermarket shelves are bare. There seems to be a dubious trade in the stuff on eBay, but I have yet to bring myself to fork out the obligatory ten quid or so required to get hold of a jar.

Tabasco

The famous McIlhenny company of Avery Island, Louisiana, has been producing their inimitable Tabasco pepper sauce for five generations. According to legend, the bottle shape was derived from the original cologne bottles used by Edward McIlhenny in 1869.

Until recently, they made the sauce from peppers grown entirely on Avery Island, although these days, the company sources peppers from Central and Southern America. I've recently started using the subtle green jalapeno version, and have to admit that it's currently my number one choice, which, no doubt will brand me as a Tabasco heretic amongst die-hard Tabasco aficionados.

For some reason, the green sauce is incredibly hard to find in Britain, and most supermarkets don't seem to stock it; but my local corner shop in Battersea, bizarrely, seems to have an inexhaustible supply.

In a later post, I'm going to look into Louisiana Gumbo, that wonderful stew of meat, shell-fish, onions, celery and bell-peppers. Several gumbo recipes call for a liberal dash of Tabasco; and in a grey, and often uninspiring world, that's a marvellous thing.

 

 

It has to be Colmans'...

I remember as a child being taken by my grandfather to the now sadly defunct London Steak House, and being especially impressed by a fawning waiter, no doubt in an egg stained maroon mess jacket, offering me a suave choice of English, German or French mustard. And, when you're ten years old, that's a big deal.

Colman's of Norwich make one of the most famous brands of mustard. Founded by Jeremiah Colman in 1814, it's a classic English mustard with a deep yellow colour, tangy taste and powerful kick. Connoisseurs of the brand reckon that the best version is Colman's mustard powder, which you mix up with water, and then leave for about twenty minutes to bring out the oils and for the full, robust flavour to develop.

I'm also fond of the classic all- American French's Mustard, which has as about as much to do with France as the Empire State Building. Created in 1904 by Robert Timothy French, this is a creamy, bland mustard, which is similar in some ways, to milder German varieties.

 

Worcestershire Sauce

Let's start with a look at the iconic Lea & Perrin's Worcestershire Sauce. In effect, it's a fermented fish sauce. I read somewhere about a nauseating Eskimo delicacy. They would make a large hole in the ground, chuck gobbets of raw fish down there, relieve themselves all over it to get the fermentation going, and then dig it back up again after a month or so. Sounds good, eh?

The British version was first sold by Mr Jon Wheeley Lea and Mr William Henry Perrins in 1838, from a family recipe given to them by a Lady Sandys, recently returned from India. They were a pair of enterprising, and no doubt, bewhiskered chemists from Worcester and their world famous sauce is still made at the old Worcester factory, close to the Malvern Hills; although the company is now part of the French food conglomerate, Danone.

The "original and genuine" stuff is made from malt vinegar, molasses, sugar, salt, anchovies, tamarind extract, onions, garlic, flavourings and salt; although the American version uses distilled white vinegar and has a slightly less rich flavour. And it's an essential ingredient in two all-time American classics; the Bloody Mary Cocktail, and the Caesar Salad.