The Greasy Spoon | Food & Culture

The British Country House Breakfast

 

 

Manderley: Hollywood’s evocation of the English Country House, Rebecca, 1940

 

Possibly one of our most significant contributions to civilisation is the idea of a proper breakfast. Personally, as much as I am a fan of all things Franco-Italian, the so-called ‘Continental’ breakfast, as served in numerous hotels across Europe leaves me cold. The little packets of plastic apricot jam, the stale croissant, the bowl of coffee, the slightly acidic curdled hot milk. Awkward bleary-eyed guests bumping into each other over the orange juice machine. And in the worst cases, muzak.

No, given half a chance, I would much rather be sitting at a shiny mahogany dining room table, the Spring light beaming through latticed windows on a raw morning in March or April, slightly naff coaching or hunting table mats, red-hot silvered chafing dishes on a rosewood George IV sideboard; haddock kedgeree, sausage, kippers, porridge (traditionally eaten standing up) and all the trappings that come with this vanishing ideal.

I included ‘British’ rather than ‘English” in the title deliberately, as Scotland has contributed enormously to the Country House Breakfast, and in recent years, a little bit of America has crept in with the cornflakes too; historically, like the Gordon Keeble, the Bristol or Jensen, the British breakfast is a hybrid, in this case, English, Scottish and American.

The Victorians and Edwardians had huge appetites (quite possibly, I suspect, a) because of the lack of central heating and b) because of the nineteenth century’s colder weather patterns) and in 1861 Isabella Beeton lists, as a matter of course and with a nonchalant insouciance: cold joints, potted fish, cold game, veal and ham pie, game and rump steak pie, cold ham, tongue, mutton chops, rump steak, broiled sheep’s kidneys and kidneys à la mâitre d’hôtel: all as suitable dishes for the breakfast sideboard, to be ‘nicely garnished and placed on the buffet’.  

 

“Her Majesty Queen Victoria at Breakfast with Princess Beatrice and Princess Victoria in the 60th year of her reign...”

 

I thought it would be fun to compile the ultimate Country House Breakfast list, which I suppose is a recreation of a breakfast from the 1930s. I’m a big fan of lists. So in no particular order (with links to previous posts on The Greasy Spoon) here it is. 

 

Kippers                   

Porridge

Black Pudding

Kedgeree

Finian Haddie

Sausages

Toast & Marmalade

Haggis

Herrings in Oatmeal

Oat Cakes

Devilled Kidneys

Bacon & Eggs

Scrambled Eggs

Poached Eggs

Boiled Eggs

Orange Juice

Tea & Coffee

 

'But who on earth’s got the time for all this!  I hear you shout, and of course, I must put up my hand and accept the charge as read; for my breakfast list is a romanticised relic from a previous age- these days, you’re as likely to be gulping down a hurried mug of black coffee on a rainy Monday morning (along with a few spoonfuls of organic bran and those bizarre yoghurt drink thingys Mrs Aitch likes), as tucking into a slice of Lea & Perrinsed kidney or savouring the smoky, curried delights of haddock kedgeree. But if you can squeeze in the time to cook one or two of these dishes on a Saturday morning, and serve them to your friends and family sitting down at a table, the world, I think, would be a better place.

Let me know if I’ve left anything off the list. I couldn’t, incidentally, bring myself to include baked beans. Can’t quite put the finger on why exactly, even though I’m still a fan of Heinz and it’s 57 varieties. And should I have included hash browns? Coming to think of it, what are hash browns? 

 

David Ogilvy’s Eggs with Black Butter

 

 

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

 

 

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

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

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

 

Eggs in Black Butter (4 People)

2 tablespoons butter

4 eggs

Squeeze of lemon juice

1 tablespoon Worcester Sauce

4 thin slices of bread

Chopped fresh coriander (optional)

24 capers

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

 

 

Noël Coward's Oeufs Vaudoise

 

 

 

"Make the required quantity of scrambled eggs in the usual way but instead of using a small amount of milk use French Vermouth and at the last moment add a few shrimps, about 8 or 10 per person.

Before serving top with thinly shaved almonds. This recipe can either be a breakfast or supper dish."

 

From "Celebrity Cooking For You", Andre Deutsch, 1961.

 

 

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.

 

 

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.

 

Winston's Breakfast

 

 

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

 

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

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

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

 

 

Jennie Jerome, Lady Randolph Churchill

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Omelette Baveuse

 

I've got a thing about omelettes at the moment. The "runny" variety, as made in France. I'm not sure if I'm a bona fide Francophile (I veer between a wild enthusiasm and an Anglican suspicion), but I do think that, apart from the Euro, there are many things that the French get right, and omelettes are most certainly one of them. 

This is classic, Sunday night food: you take a non-stick, lightly oiled heavy saucepan, and heat it on a medium flame. Three eggs are beaten up with a dollop of crème fraîche, a pinch of salt and a pinch of white pepper. Add a knob of butter to the hot pan, turning the heat down to low. Swirl the butter around the pan as it froths.

In goes the egg mixture. Shaking the pan as you work, draw the runny mixture into the centre of the pan with a spatula or a fork. As the omelette cooks, the liquid egg will fill in the empty spaces. Carry on shaking the pan to make sure the edges don't stick.

I like my omelette to be soft- and that is indeed the aim of the Baveuse. To serve, fold over the omelette from both sides towards the middle and turn out on to a plate.

That's how to make a classic omelette. The secret is to use a lowish heat, work with speed, and keep it runny. Once you've mastered the technique you can start experimenting with fillings- chopped tomatoes, bacon, herbs and of course, cheese.

Incidentally, I'm currently experimenting with grated cheese and a dash of cognac; both added to the egg mixture before the beating stage. I like the sophisticated combination of cognac and eggs, although I appreicate that this is not going to be everybody's cup of tea.

There's also the question of when to add the salt. In researching this post, I found a video on Youtube featuring a certain Mr Gordon Ramsay teaching Joan Collins how to make an omelette. There was a scary frisson between the two of them, the "bat's squeak of sexuality", as Evelyn Waugh put it so brilliantly in Brideshead. Gordon reckons that if you add salt to the egg mixture it will turn the omelette "a bit grey". I'm definitely not convinced by this- and bet my bottom dollar that in a blind tasting (or indeed viewing) he wouldn't be able to tell the difference.

 

 

If you're interested in classic recipes and how to get them just so, may I recommend to you Felicity Cloake's Perfect- 68 Recipes for Every Cook's Repertoire. Ms Cloake writes a column for "The Guardian". The book does exactly what it says on the tin. 

 

 

 

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The Santa Fe Dining Car

 

 

Here's an early 60's menu from the Santa Fe Super Chief Express Dining Car, courtesy of Vincent and Mary Price's "Treasury of Great Recipes", first published in 1965. The Super Chief was the flagship passenger train of the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe Railway. It was often called "The Train of the Stars" because of the many Hollywood stars who travelled on the streamliner between Chigaco and Los Angeles. The last train ran in 1974.

 

According to Wikipedia (so it must be true): 

"The Continental cuisine offered aboard the Super Chief went beyond the typical American fare found on other trains, and often rivaled that served in many five-star restaurants, befitting the train's upscale clientele. A "Wake-Up Cup" of coffee was brought to one's private bedroom each morning, on request, a service exclusive to the Super Chief. Breakfast and lunch were served à la carte, while dinner could be ordered either à la carte or table d'hôte.

The elaborate dinner offerings generally included caviar and other delicacies, cold salads, grilled and sauteéd fish, sirloin steaks and filet mignon, lamb chops, and the like. For discerning palates, elegant champagne dinners were an option. Ironically, one of the Super Chief's most popular signature dishes was the A T & SF version of pain perdu, simply and appropriately named Santa Fe French Toast."

 

 

The original recipe (from Vincent and Mary Price's "Treasury of Great Recipes"):

1. Preheat oven to hot (400∘F).

2. Use bread that is a little dry- 2 or 3 days old.

3. Cut 3 slices of bread, ¾ inch thick. Trim custs and cut across diagonally to make 6 triangles.

4. In a bowl beat: 2 eggs until light and frothy. Add ½ cup cream, a pinch of salt and a dash of nutmeg.

5. Soak bread, a few pieces at a time, so that they absorb the egg-cream mixture thoroughly.

6. In a skillet heat: ¼ cup cooking oil.

7. Fry bread on both sides to a golden colour.

8. Remove the bread from the pan and drain on a paper towel to absorb any excess grease.

9. Place on baking sheet and allow to puff up in the hot oven for 3 to 5 minutes.

Presentation: 

On heated plates put 3 triangles of French toast per portion. Sprinkle with confectioner's sugar and serve with Maple Syrup. For variations you can also serve it with applesauce, currant jelly, honey, jam or cinammon sugar.

 

Waldorf Salad

 

 

 

"You're the Top! You're a Waldorf Salad!"

Hands up who doesn't love a Waldorf Salad? Named after the Waldorf Hotel in New York, it's supposed to have been invented in the 1890's. By the maitre d'hotel, Oscar Tschirky- who also laid claim to that tantalising breakfast dish, Eggs Benedict. The original Waldorf Hotel was on the site of what is now the Empire State Building, and demolished in 1929.

 

Anyway, it's a simple old thing, and easily made from a combination of sliced celery, diced apples (I leave the skin on), walnuts, and raisins.

You bind the salad with mayonnaise (or just possibly a simple dressing) and serve it on a bed of peppery lettuce leaves, as the whim takes you. Nothing more, nothing less.

 

Omelette Arnold Bennett

 

 

 

Hands up who saw that Sophie Dahl cookery television programme the other day?  Now, I'm an avid follower of Roald (who's Harry Potter?) and his extended family; and since the age of six I've been a huge fan of anything and everything Dahl-esque: transatlantic peaches, Gypsy caravans, Patricia Neal's cheekbones, chocolate factories, Quentin Blake's illustrations, and All Things Unexpected. 

In the programme, the delicious Miss Dahl (hang on, shouldn't she be the delicious Mrs Cullum?) rustled up a few bits and bobs in a retro-looking kitchen, and let us into a few charmingly girly secrets. And that was about it. Nothing more. Safe television, bland.

She looks great (amazingly like her grandmother) and her food looks good, but crikey o' reilly, I look back on the enthusiasm of the early Keith Floyd or the ravings of a certain Mrs Cradock with genuine nostalgia, and for the days when old pros like Anton Mosimann or Albert Roux stood in some boring, brightly-lit studio somewhere, with a set of sparkling saucepans and a brand new gas stove and just showed us how it was done properly.

The girl likes cooking, I have no doubt about that, but I don't detect a genuine obsession for food there- she's the star and the food is almost incidental. And I doubt it's her fault. I can just see it. Some thrusting young television exec takes her out to lunch at Sketch, or somewhere like that, and there's lots of exciting talk: "The New Nigella"..."You'll be huge, darling" (as if she already isn't- or wasn't)..."massive book sales", and so on, and so on. And who can blame her for taking the bait?  I would. You would. My Cat would.

The trouble is that, currently, the British Broadcasting Corporation is one gigantic yawn when it comes to food. And I have a solution: may I suggest that the BBC clears all its food programmes off the schedules for a year (bit of a problem there, I admit, as this accounts for nearly all their programming, and I can see a queue at the Shepherds Bush unemployment office of hairy bikers, voluptious Belgravia housewives, fat ladies, bald masterchefs, and pock-marked prima donnas), and then after, say, a year of food abstinence, commissions one new food programme of intelligence, content, integrity and dare I say it, quirkiness?  And one programme only.

There. I've had my little rant.  And I've gone off on a tangent too, as this post was supposed to be about Omelette Arnold Bennett, which the supermodel showed us how to cook. It was an inspired choice, as Omelette Arnold Bennett is delicious, and thinking about it, I'm amazed that I haven't covered it before. It's very much a Greasy Spoon type dish. Here's how I make it (this will make two omelettes) and you'll need to make up some Béchamel and Hollandaise sauce before hand.  If I haven't written about these two sauces before, by golly, I'm just about to over the next few posts.

Poach 150g skinned haddock fillets in a mixture of milk and water. I would recommend using undyed haddock, rather than the yellow dyed stuff.

A fool proof cooking method is as follows: put the fish into cold water, bring it to the boil, put on the saucepan lid, and then turn off the heat. The fish will sit in the hot water and cook slowly, to taste. When you're happy with it, take the haddock out of the pan, drain and flake up the fish. I like my fish to be very slightly under-done. 

Whisk up six eggs, add half the flaked haddock and season to taste. Heat an omelette pan, add a knob of butter and swirl it around. Add enough egg mixture to cover the pan, and stir immediately, tipping the pan quickly, to allow the runny egg mixture to fill the gaps. Work like a navvie, without pause. Knowing how to make an omelette is an art, something you will need to practise. Mrs Aitch is extremely good at it; I am not. Once the omelette has lightly set, slide it out on to a plate.

Mix a cup of Béchamel Sauce with three tablespoons of Hollandaise Sauce. Add the remaining smoked haddock flakes and fold in a largish tablespoon of whipped double cream. Cover the omelette with this mixture, sprinkle with some freshly grated Parmesan Cheese and bake under a hot grill until glazed.

And who was Arnold Bennett?  It's amusing how celebrity and transience go together like tea and biscuits or Jekyll and Hyde. Back in the 1920's Bennett was a famous man of letters, and a director of The Savoy Hotel to boot; where the famed omelette was invented for him.  As Andy Warhol said: "in the future, everyone will be world famous for fifteen minutes".

 

Scrambled Eggs Revisited

 

 

 

We had the usual lazy Sunday: lots of lounging around on sofas; newspapers sprawled all over the floor, Alfred Hitchcock's "Suspicion" on the television- that sort of thing. There was a short article in one of the colour supplements (was it "The Sunday Times", or even the dreaded "Stella"?) about scrambled eggs. Which set me thinking: what is the best way to make the perfect scrambled eggs?

Back in the 80's, I had an interesting plate of scrambled eggs at the Hilton Hotel in Park Lane. This was a breakfast affair- we had all been to some charity ball at the Dorchester, and drifted in to the Hilton at seven o' clock in the morning, feeling shattered. The scrambled eggs were bright yellow in colour. And I really mean bright yellow.

Now I'm sure that The Hilton use some sort of rare organic hen's egg (the shell no doubt mottled in a delicate Eton Blue); and I would hate to imply that their chefs took short cuts in any shape or form (this was the 1980's after all); but I have to state that the long finger of suspicion pointed to the remote possibility that they had used yellow food dye in the cooking process. Quelle Horreur.

 

Up until now, I've made scrambled eggs in the Escoffier tradition, and I wrote about this on The Greasy Spoon a year or two back:

"Break eight good eggs into a mixing bowl. Blend them very very gently with a fork. You do not want to beat them. You do not add water or milk. That's what Irish cooks did in the 1950's. You don't want to add salt at this stage, either, as it makes the eggs watery.  Not good.

I think it was the restauranteur, Marcel Boulestin, who suggested that Escoffier also rubbed garlic onto his fork to add a bit of flavour to the eggs. I'll have to check up on that one- I may be wrong.

Anyway, heat up a small copper pan. Add a knob of unsalted butter. Pour in the eggs, crank down the heat, and start to cook them at an extremely low temperature. In a professional kitchen they would probably use a "bain-marie". That means placing the smaller pan over a larger pan full of simmering boiling water.

As I've got a job of sorts to hold down, and have limited time, I don't do this; but I can only stress that for it to work, you need to set your heat to the lowest possible setting. Stir slowly with a wooden spoon from the middle, so that the egg sets in creamy curds.

This is a real art. You don't want the egg to stick to the pan, yet at the same time, you want the egg to set. When the eggs are almost ready, stir in some cream. Quickly remove the eggs from the heat. They will carry on cooking in the pan. Now you can stir in some more butter to taste, and season with salt, pepper, and if you're in the mood, chopped chives."

But we can improve on this. Elizabeth David came up with a brainwave. She deleted an egg white. So if you're using say, four eggs- use four egg yolks but only three egg whites. This will make your scrambled eggs yellow. No need for food dye. And that's how you make the Perfect Scrambled Egg.

 

The Greasy Spoon's Perfect Bloody Mary

 

I'm sitting here after a pretty stressful week (we're moving house) and sipping an almost perfect Bloody Mary cocktail. It's almost perfect, but it's not cold enough and it's crying out for a dash of dry sherry. 

I've always thought that the three most famous cocktails in the world are (in no particular order), the Dry Martini, the Margarita, and the Bloody Mary. I've tried making Bloody Marys in various ways, but time after time, I return to The Greasy Spoon's own recipe, which, as I'm a kind sort of chap, I'm about to share with you. 

Remember, as with so many other things in life, keep it simple, don't try and doll it up with extra ingredients (I'm not convinced by the addition of creamed horseradish, or chunky black pepper, although steeping a peeled horseradish root in your bottle of vodka sounds like a good idea ) and stay off the gimmicks:

First, you put some ice into a cocktail shaker. Next, pour in a decent slug of Stolichnaya vodka, and top up with a good quality tomato juice. Add a dash of Tio Pepe, a squeeze of lemon or lime juice, a pinch of cayenne pepper, celery salt, a few shakes of my favourite Tabasco and Lea & Perrin's Worcestershire Sauce. 

Do the Hokey Cokey and shake it all about.  Strain it off into a glass and add, if you must, a stick of celery. You'll find that the lemon juice smooths it out, and the sherry gives it an added kick.

I don't like lumps of ice floating around in my Bloody Mary, and think it's much better if strained off.  But the drink's at its best if served very cold, so keep the vodka buried away in the 'fridge, as the Russians do. You'll find the vodka goes thick- and that's the way to keep it if you're going to drink it neat, as an accompaniment to blinis and caviar.

Moroccan Scrambed Eggs with Tomato and Oregano

 

 

One of the best things you can do when travelling is to keep an eye out for small details that might improve your cooking when you get home. Last year, when we were touring Alsace-Lorraine, I noticed that the French use far more salt and pepper in their cooking than we do; and this humble observation has made a substantial difference to my cooking.

The fabulous Riad Enija serve iced water in large jugs stuffed with fresh mint, leaving the water with a subtle menthol taste, which, I'm sure would go down well in the dusty, humid dog days of a London August. A useful hint.

Breakfast at the Riad Enija was on the French model, with a Morroccan twist: beghrir (honeycomb griddle cakes), pancakes, slices of cheese, pastries, croissant, black coffee and orange juice. With this came what they called a "Moroccan omelette". Actually, it was really what we would call scrambled eggs, flavoured with chopped tomatoes and oregano.

 

 

I think I've worked how it's made: add a dash of olive oil to a flat pan, and add chopped tomatoes. Cook them for a few minutes. Next, add three or four lightly beaten eggs, and swirl them around until they start to set. Season with a generous helping of oregano, salt and freshly ground black pepper.

Kippers

 

 

For Saturday breakfast, I had a lonely boil-in-the-bag kipper. A few days ago, The Girl had been caught by the police in a sneaky scooter trap set up just outside Buckingham Palace, and was having to retake her scooter driving test.

The kippers were surprisingly good, and it occurred to me that this is another traditional food that has fallen in popularity.

Kippers are salted herring that have been split and then cold smoked. According to wikipedia (probably best read out in a fusty "Mr Kipling Makes Exceedingly Good Cakes" sort of voice): 

"The English philologist and ethnographer Walter William Skeat derives the word from the Old English kippian, to spawn. The origin of the word has various parallels, such as Icelandic kippa which means 'to pull, snatch', and the German word kippen which means 'to tilt, to incline'. Similarly, the English kipe denotes a basket to catch fish. Another theory traces the word kipper to the kip, or small beak, the male salmon deveop during the breeding season."

Etcetera, etcetera. I'm sure you all knew that back to front. My dear old Grandma used to make a sort of kipper butter or, I suppose, pâté, for spreading on toast at picnics. She simmered some boil in the bag kippers in water until they were cooked, and then mashed them up with creamed unsalted butter, a dash of Worcester Sauce and the juices from the bag. She then seasoned the kipper butter with salt, pepper and a squeeze of lemon juice, and served them in ramekin dishes with a garnish of lemon and parsley.

Devilled Kidneys

 

 

I don't think I've written about Devilled Kidneys before. Very English, very clubby; not to everyone's taste, but certainly to mine. This recipe is similar to the one in Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall's book The River Cottage Meat Book, but frankly, as this dish is an absolute classic- it could have come from anywhere.

First you heat up some oil in a pan.  Next you cut some lamb's kidneys into quarters, first trimming away the whitish core. Drop the kidneys into the pan, and sauté them very briefly. Add a dash of sherry, bubble it away, and add a further dash of cider vinegar.

Next, add a spoonful of redcurrant jelly, and allow it to melt. Now it's time for a generous dash of Worcestershire Sauce, a good pinch of Cayenne Pepper, a dollop of English Mustard (it's got to be Colman's), and ground Black Pepper.

Season with a pinch of sea salt, and mix in a spoonful or two of double cream. Bubble it away until the sauce is glossy. Serve on fried bread, and garnish with freshly chopped parsley.

It's important not to overcook the kidneys: you want them rare s'il vous plait.

The Greasy Spoon visits...The Old Ebbitt Grill, Washington D.C.

 

 

I've just got back from a quick business trip to Washington D.C. I like Washington: it's a grown up sort of place; understated, with fabulous museums and art galleries, swanky hotels, oodles of history, and fabulous eighteenth century colonial architecture in the Georgetown district.  Having a bit of time on my hands, I took refuge from the pouring rain at the Old Ebbitt Grill on 15th Street- almost literally a stone's throw from The White House; incredibly convenient for a certain Mr Barack Obama if he's suddenly feeling a bit peckish.

The Old Ebbitt Grill is a Washington institution, and many famous American politicians, movers and shakers have crossed its threshold over the years. The original restaurant was founded in 1856, and moved to it's present address in the 1980's. You could see this clearly in the decor: there was a nice old 19th century dial clock over the door (presumably brought over from the original restaurant), acres of dark mahogany and various historic bits and pieces scattered around the restaurant, but the whole effect was ruined by the huge and tacky wall murals, painted in particularly nasty shades of turquoise and beige.  

This reminded me of the fate of P.J. Clarke's in Manhatten. This used to be a lovely, shabby, Irish bar on 55th and 3rd; the haunt of Truman Capote, Jacqueline Kennedy and the like; with a dirty, cracked photograph of Abe Lincoln above the counter, grumpy Irish bartenders, and a 50's Juke Box that didn't work. And what did the new owners do?  They closed it down; ripped out all the original fittings, and then put everything back in again, exactly how it was- except, and it's a huge except, everything was not only identical, but also happened to be brand, spanking new. 'orrible.

Service at the Old Ebbitt was good, and I ordered Eggs Chesapeake with hash browns. This was a local variation on Eggs Benedict, with Maryland Crab Cakes thrown in for good measure, and a Hollandaise Sauce flavoured with Old Bay Seasoning.  

It should be easy to put together. Make Eggs Benedict in the usual way, but place the Maryland Crab Cakes on top of the ham slice, cover them with the top of the muffin, and then pour over the Hollandaise Sauce, to which you've previously stirred in a spoonful or so of spicy Old Bay Seasoning. It's simple, classic American food at its best.

Perfect Fried Eggs

 

 

I realise that I haven't written anything on The Greasy Spoon for some time. Apologies- my trusty mac needed urgent repair and, darn it, that took over a week.

Anyway, I'm back now with a post about the perfect fried egg. I saw Gary Rhodes talking about this on televison a few days ago. Gary Rhodes is one of the few television chefs I admire: his technique is, of course, top notch, and I like the way (apart from a dubious appearance on that dancing programme) he hasn't sold out to the celeb culture, in the manner of Blanc, Ramsay et al.

In a hot non-stick pan, melt a knob of unsalted butter. Crack the eggs onto a plate, and then slide them carefully into the hot butter. If you egg is fresh, the egg white will stay firm. If your egg is stale, the white will become watery, and spread out all over the place. Ideally, your eggs will be fresh. Season them with salt and pepper and cook them gently on a low heat, letting the egg white bubble up around the yolk. Baste the eggs with the hot butter.

That's it. I like my egg yolk to be runny- though of course, as ever, it's all a matter of personal taste, isn't it?

Earl Grey Tea

One of the best English tea blends is Earl Grey. Named after the 2nd Earl Grey, who was the Prime Minister in the 1830's, it's a particularly delicious tea, flavoured with orangey oil of bergamot, and giving off a flowery, scented nose.

There are various legends involving Chinese mandarins, urbane British diplomats, and the like, about how this tea was created. One story (I doubt if it is true), is that the exported tea leaves were packed inside wooden barrels soaked in tarry oil of bergamot, and an English tea-taster realised that the oils had soaked into the tea to beneficial effect.

Well, whatever its origins, Earl Grey is deservedly one of the most famous and popular blends, and Jackson's of Piccadilly lay claim to having the original recipe.

I have a rather sanguine attitude to tea, preferring coffee (strong and black), in the mornings, but, at the same time, appreciating a scalding, refreshing cuppa on a hot summer's afternoon.

I've just made a sorbet flavoured with Earl Grey tea, too. I've never made it before, suddenly having a flash of inspiration last night that the combination of flavours might work well; so it will be interesting to see how it turns out when we eat it tomorrow.

I mixed a cup of sugar with two cups of water, and brought it to the boil; then simmered it for about five minutes, and left it to cool down. Next, I mixed several spoons of prepared Earl Grey tea, with a squeeze of fresh orange juice, and infused the mix with some fresh mint leaves (which I previously rolled around between my fingers to release the oils). I tipped this liquid into the sugar and water (first removing the mint leaves), mixed it around, and left it to cool.

I poured the tea flavoured sugar water into a plastic container, and shoved it into the deep freeze. All that's left to do now, is to take it out when it's half-frozen; mash it up with a fork, and shove it back in again. When it's frozen, I need to take it back out, mix it up in the Magimix, and then re-freeze it.

I'll report back tomorrow on what it tastes like...

Marmalade

 

 

I've got a sneaky confession to make: I've never made marmalade. So I've asked Venetia Jeffcock (of Sauternes Jelly fame) to explain how to make a classic English breakfast marmalade. 

She writes: "It's that time of year again and Seville oranges are on the shelves in supermarkets. I make marmalade every year - home made marmalade is so much better than anything you can buy in a shop, and makes a great present for your urban friends who eat breakfast. Marmalade is uniquely English; the oranges from Seville are grown almost exclusively for us Brits, and have a history dating all the way back to 1700. Seville oranges are bitter, so don't think that Navel's or Valencia's will work instead.

This recipe will be enough for seven to ten jars.

 

You will need:  

2 lbs. Seville Oranges

1 lemon

4 lbs sugar

4 pints of water  

muslin

A copper based pan (The copper helps to distribute the heat evenly).  

some old jam jars  (sterilised in the oven, or in a hot dishwasher).

 

Cut your muslin cloth into a large square (bigger than man's handkerchief and smaller than a headscarf) and place it in a medium size mixing bowl. Halve and juice the oranges (and the lemon).

Add the juice to the pan with the water and put the pips into the muslin. Scrape out all the pith left behind from the oranges and lemons, and add it to the the pips. This is important. The pips and pith contain the pectin which sets the marmalade.

Pull the top of the muslin together and tie it together with some string. Next, suspend the bag in the liquid from the handle of the pan. You will then need to chop the rind. How you do this is purely down to personal taste. I prefer little bits to big chunky bits- so you will need to cheat a bit and bung the rind into a blender. This way is so much quicker.

Add the rind to the pan and simmer for about two hours. To see if it's cooked enough, press some of the rind between your thumb and forefinger, and it should give right through. If it doesn't, keep simmering until it does. I always keep the lid partly on the pan as this prevents some of the evaporation.

Next, turn off the heat and remove the bag from the pan putting it on one side to cool - it will be seriously hot. Add the sugar to the pan, stir, and allow it to dissolve completely. Put about four saucers or redundant ashtrays into the freezer. When the bag has cooled a little, start squeezing out as much of the pectin as you can into the pan - it should seep out rather like sap. Bring to the boil and boil for twenty minutes.

Put a spoonful of the mixture on to one of the dishes in the freezer, and pop it back into the freezer for about five to ten seconds. Run your finger through the mixture in the dish. If the surface wrinkles, the marmalade is ready and will set; if not, repeat this process every fifteen minutes until you get a wrinkle. I find this a bit of a "moveable feast" - sometimes it can takes two attempts, other times as much as five or six.

Finally, pour the marmalade into the jars and allow it to cool. It should be set by the following morning. Label and store."

Brown Sauce

 

 

 

 

Nothing can be more reminiscent of a British Greasy Spoon than a bottle of H P Sauce. H P Sauce was invented by Frederick Gibson Garton, a grocer from Nottingham, in 1896. He named his tangy new concoction after the Houses of Parliament in London.

For years H P Sauce was made in a factory in Birmingham, but now- shock horror- the stuff is made in The Netherlands. What's it made of? Well, amongst other things, Malt Vinegar, Dates, Molasses, Onion, Tamarind, Garlic and Mustard Flour.

The rival brown sauce, Daddie's Favourite, was launched in 1904, and, apparently, is still in production, though I haven't seen a bottle on the shelves for years. Both brands are now owned by none other than our old friend, Heinz. Brown Sauce is an acquired taste, and I suspect that anyone not born on the Perfidious Isle is probably going to hate it.

 

Personally, I have a nostalgic thing about the fruity combination of brown sauce mixed with a runny fried egg. But then, our American cousins eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, which sounds to me like something from Planet Nine. Enough said.

Scrambled Eggs

 

 

You may be surprised that I am devoting a whole post to scrambled eggs. What's there to know about them, I hear you ask? Well, quite a bit.

For seven long and hard years, I had to endure the scrambled eggs made by the gastronauts who ran my school kitchen at Dotheboy's Hall. Watery, and rubbery, like some experimental industrial plastic; I reckon that they had added quite a bit of egg powder and water to the mix.

But scrambled eggs made properly is an entirely different matter. Here's how that great French chef, Auguste Escoffier, made them: Break eight good eggs (yup, eight eggs) into a mixing bowl. Blend them very very gently with a fork. You do not want to beat them. You do not add water or milk. That's what British cooks did in the 1950's. You don't want to add salt at this stage, either, as it makes the eggs watery, and the finished product will end up less yellow. I think it was the restauranteur, Marcel Boulestin, who suggested that Escoffier also rubbed garlic onto his fork to add a bit of flavour to the eggs. I'll have to check up on that one- I may be wrong.

 

Anyway, now heat a small copper pan. When the pan is hot, add a knob of unsalted butter. Pour in the eggs, and start to cook them on an extremely low heat. In professional kitchens, they would probably use a bain-marie. That means placing the smaller pan over a larger pan full of simmering boiling water to get the lowest heat. As I've got a job of sorts to hold down, and have limited time, I don't do this; but I can only stress that for it to work, you need to set your heat to the lowest possible settings.

 

            

 

Stir slowly with a wooden spoon from the middle, so that the egg sets in creamy curds. It's a real art. You don't want the egg to stick to the pan, yet at the same time, you want the egg to set. When the eggs are almost ready, stir in some cream.

Quickly remove the eggs from the heat. They will carry on cooking in the pan. Now you can stir in some more butter to taste, and season with salt, pepper, and some chives.

As Ian Fleming once wrote: "Scrambled Eggs, Bacon, and Strong Black Coffee- they never let you down." Though I suppose at the same time, he was implying that his women did. Enough said.

Black Pudding

 

 

I love Black Pudding. There will be unfortunate finickity and squeamish individuals out there who will take one look at this post, and want to run for the hills, so my mission this sunny October morning is to try and convert them to the cause.

It's like that Scottish favourite, Haggis, which tastes a bit like a spicy American meatloaf. Yes, the preparation sounds, and probably is gothic; but the taste and result is something to be recommended.

So, let's get the gothic part out of the way: how is Black Pudding made? What exactly is Black Pudding?

It's a sausage made from the blood of a pig. The blood is then cooked with a variety of ingredients, which could include goodies such as suet, oatmeal, milk, onions, breadcrumbs, cayenne pepper, and nutmeg.

Cooking the blood in these ingredients will make the blood congeal, and hey presto! You have a black pudding; or blood pudding in America, blutwurst in Germany, boudin noir in France, and white pudding in Ireland. You eat it for breakfast.

I cook mine very gently in a knob of butter for a few minutes on each side. In Britain, Black Pudding tends to be a local speciality of the northern counties such as Lancashire, but in fact, similar puddings are found all over the world.

I'm going to take this opportunity to have a little rant about the reputation and state of British Food. Okay, we now have some top-notch (and fiendishly expensive) restaurants in London; and generally, the standard of food in Britain is better than it was in the post-war period of rationing, spam fritters, and dried eggs.

But the tradition of cooking food at home, especially the local culture, has been lost. Many of the old-fashioned British classics, are similar- if not identical- to dishes you can find in the French Countryside. They make Moules Mariniere, we have Devon Mussels in Cider. They make Boudin Noir, we have Lancashire Black Pudding, they make Boeuf Bourginon, we have Beef in Guinness with Dumplings.

 

 

The difference is that your typical French grandmother will have a whole list of local specialities up her sleeve- and she will know how to prepare them with love and attention. In Britain, granny is far more likely to be found slumped in front of East Enders eating Sainsbury's Chicken Tikka Masala Surprise straight from the packet. Look at our food shops. In France, you will find endless small corner shops selling wonderful selections of beautifully presented ingredients. Like this boulangerie in Paris, pictured above.

In Britain, we have er- the supermarket (with, in my opinion, pretty dire stocking policies), and miserable corner shops selling dusty tins of this and that at inflated prices. And look at the generous selection of foods you can find in New York delis! Fantastic! Rant over.

Eggs Benedict

 

 

I think my favourite American dish has to be Eggs Benedict. There's just something about its simplicity: the runny poached eggs, the buttery Hollandaise sauce, and the crisp bacon or ham contrasting with the soft English muffins.

There are various theories as to how it was invented; one being that the legendary Oscar Tschirky (of Waldorf Salad fame) put it on his hotel breakfast menu after Lemuel Benedict, a retired Wall Street stockbroker, came up with the idea as a cure for his hangover in 1894. This may or may not be the case.

 

Anyway, I've had various versions of it over the years, including Eggs Benedict with scallops; but if you want to make the original and genuine dish- this is how you do it. First, you need to make a classic Hollandaise Sauce:

Melt 8oz (225g) of butter in a pan. Meanwhile liquidise two egg yolks, the juice of one lemon, and freshly ground black pepper. When the butter is hot, turn the liquidiser onto full, and slowly pour in the butter. Next, poach some large eggs in salted water. Toast the English Muffins, and spread them with butter. Put some slices of ham, or Canadian Bacon on top of the muffins, and top with the poached egg. Pour over the Hollandaise sauce and serve immediately.

Bloody Mary

 

 

 

For some reason, the Bloody Mary cocktail always makes me think of Connecticut gymkhanas, tailgate picnics, Mock Tudor woodies, and hearty Nantucket sailing types; especially if served from the old family tartan thermos flask.

There's a theory that the Bloody Mary was invented in 1921 by Fernand "Pete" Petiot, the barman at Harry's Bar in Paris (Sank Roo Doe Noo), which was a hang-out for American ex-pats such as Ernest Hemingway and F. Scott Fitzgerald.

I'm glad to report that I've sunk a great many Bloody Marys in my time, but so far, not that many have lived up to scratch. After years of experimentation, I've finally cracked the secret, and you're in luck, because, against my better judgement, I'm about to reveal all.

Crush some ice and drop it into a cocktail shaker. Pour in some good tomato juice, vodka (I prefer Stolichnaya), a few drops of Lea & Perrins, a few drops of Tabasco, a modest sprinkling of celery salt, and some cayenne pepper.

And now for a tip that sorts the men from the boys: add a generous dash of dry sherry (Tio Pepe is ideal), and a squeeze of lemon or lime juice. I picked up this idea from the excellent Grenadier Pub in Wilton Row, packed on a raw Sunday morning with high-budget American tourists, and braying Guards Officers. It's supposed to be a secret, but I looked over the pewter bar counter and saw what they were up to when the bar-girl wasn't looking.

Shake it all around. Strain it into a chilled highball glass. That's it. If you really must, you can add a stick of celery as a garnish. Some people add horseradish, but I'm not that keen, because it curdles, and your cocktail ends up looking a mess. I've also had one recently at a gastro-pub down in Dorset, which had large chunks of black pepper floating around in it, and that wasn't that great either- unless you're addicted to raw pepper.

 

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.

Kedgeree

 

 

I've had arguments with a friend of mine about what makes up a proper kedgeree. A breakfast relic of the British Raj, in its purest form it's essentially rice, smoked fish and eggs (the original dish, khichdi, included lentils); and Great Aunt Agatha, in a naughtier moment, might have stirred in a smidgin or two of curry powder. Here's my improved creamier version. And there's wild rice for extra crunch, too.

First, cook a cup or two of wild rice for about 25 minutes. Next, fry some chopped onions in oil and butter.  Next stir in some rice. (I prefer Uncle Ben's Long Grain- which has had the starch removed, and will stop the kedgeree becoming one big mess).

Add a few teaspoons of curry paste and some grated nutmeg, and then add the partially cooked wild rice. Cook for a few minutes, so that the rice becomes translucent and soaks up the spices.

Meanwhile, cook some smoked haddock fillets (preferably undyed) in a mixture of milk and water, with a few peppercorns and a bay leaf. Bring to a simmer, and then turn off the heat, and let the fish sit in the hot milk and water (with a lid on) until cooked. This is the best way to poach smoked haddock.

Set the cooked fish aside, and tip the resulting milky fish stock over the rice. Simmer this on a low heat until the rice is cooked. In effect, you are making a pilaf. You may need to add some more water and stock.

When the liquid has been absorbed, flake up the haddock into large pieces and fold into the mixture with a dollop of single cream, a few knobs of butter and a good squeeze of lemon juice. Slice up some softly boiled eggs, and serve with chopped flat leaf parsley, and a pinch or so of Cayenne Pepper. For some reason, this dish works well with Mango Chutney.

 

Mark Birley's Corned Beef Hash

 

 

 

In America, corned beef is pickled in brine, highly seasoned, and can be found in delis and specialist shops. The British variety, as eaten by the troops during the Boer War, comes in a tin with an endearing key which somehow you have to turn to get the stuff out.

Both versions make a "Corned Beef Hash", which is a surprisingly delicious breakfast or supper dish, and with the addition of mustard and Worcester Sauce, smooth and rich too. I've adapted this version from the recipe used by Mark Birley (the urbane owner of Annabel's) which has been recently posted on the net.

First, gently sauté some finely chopped onions in olive oil. Steam a potato or two for about twenty minutes. Take off their skins and cut into small cubes. Fry these in the olive oil with a tiny sprinkling of sea salt, so that the potatoes start to get crispy and slightly brown.

In a mixing bowl, chop up the refrigerated corned beef into small cubes. Refrigerating the corned beef will make it less likely to crumble. Add English mustard, Lea & Perrins, pepper and chopped parsley.

Now tip this into the pan. Cook for a few minutes, stirring now and again, but try if possible to keep the ingredients separate. Serve with a soft poached egg on top.