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.

 

 

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.

 

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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Take Me To Sank Roo Doe Noo!

 

 

 

Harry's Bar, Paris, the legendary haunt of Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald, George Gershwin, Marlene Dietrich, Jean-Paul Sartre, Coco Chanel and Noel Coward is one hundred years old today. Many Happy Returns! Harry's New York Bar opened on November 24th 1911 at no. 5, Rue Daunou; and the decor has changed little since that day: it's currently lined with manly dark wooden panelling, painted shields displaying the coats of arms of famous English public schools, and American Ivy League pennants; all under a nicotine-stained embossed ceiling. It's still worth a visit if you happen to be in Paris, even if the style-gurus of the previous century have been replaced with American tourists.

 

 

F. Scott Fitzgerald

 

Smoking, alas, is no longer allowed in Paris, and that particular 20th century ambiance has vanished presumably forever; however Harry's still serves its famous Bloody Marys- which is especially apt, as the cocktail was invented there in 1920 by Ferdinand Petiot, a barman from Ohio.

The "Bloody" apparently, comes from The Bucket of Blood Club in Chicago, and "Mary" after Petiot's daughter. The original drink was a simple mix of tomato juice and vodka, but Petiot expanded the recipe when he moved to the St Regis Hotel, New York. Here's the famous Greasy Spoon version:

 

 

Put some ice into a cocktail shaker. Pour in a decent slug of Stolichnaya vodka, and top the shaker up with a good quality tomato juice. Add a dash of Tio Pepe or otherwise dry sherry, 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.

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, or subsituting Tabasco with a Horseradish flavoured Hot Pepper Sauce sounds like a good idea) and stay away from the gimmicks. 

I don't like lumps of ice floating around in my Bloody Mary, and think it's much better if strained off. The cocktail'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, if I may make so bold Master Copperfield, is the way to keep vodka if you're going to drink it neat as an accompaniment to blinis and caviar.

 

 

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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.

 

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.

 

Caesar Salad

 

Caesar Salad is one of those classic dishes that has been over-tweaked, bastardised, and generally ruined by self-indulgent chefs over the years. The best Caesar Salad is the original Caesar Salad.

It was invented by Caesar Cardini in 1924. Cardini was a chef working at the Hotel Comerical in Tijuana- the Mexican town a few miles from the Californian border. During Prohibition, large parties of Americans used to cross the border in search of booze. The story goes that Cardini created the salad when a large party of hungry Americans turned up for the Fourth of July celebrations. He had run out of food, so made do with what he had left over.

 

Julia Child, the great food writer, apparently telephoned Cardini's daughter to get the authentic recipe- and came up with this. And who are we to argue with either of them?

First, you need two small heads of Romaine lettuce, preferably organic. Tear the lettuce into large shreds. Add two coddled eggs. Coddling is a technique where you only boil the eggs in their shell for one minute, so that you end up with a runny yolk. Add half a teaspoon of sea salt, and freshly ground black pepper; the juice of two lemons, ten drops of Lea & Perrins' Worcestershire Sauce, half a cup of fresh grated Parmesan cheese, and half a cup of garlic oil. Garlic oil is just a good quality Virgin or Extra Virgin olive oil, infused by some garlic cloves for a day or so.

Toss the salad, so that the ingredients combine with the runny egg yolk, and lettuce leaves are well coated. Finish off the dish with some freshly prepared croutons. This is just deep-fried bread- cut into cubes. For some reason, slightly stale bread makes better croutons. You've probably noticed that I haven't added anchovies to my Caesar Salad. I have a strong hunch that the original recipe didn't include them, and I've tried to keep it authentic.

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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.

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.

Clamato

 

 

For years, I've always assumed that Mott's Clamato was Canadian. Well, I was wrong. It's not. It's American. The drink was invented in 1966 by the Duffy-Mott company of New York.

If you don't know it (and there may be many in Britain who don't), it's a blend of tomato juice and clam juice, with a few extra spices thrown in.

The Canadian connexion comes from the Bloody Caesar, Canada's favourite cocktail. In 1969, Walter Chell was challenged to create a new cocktail to celebrate the opening of a new restaurant, Marco's, in Calgary. He came up with a variation on the Bloody Mary but decided to add clam juice to the tomato juice instead.

 

 

 

Today, Mott's Clamato is owned by Cadbury-Schweppes and is popular throughout North and South America. It's estimated that approximately 70% of Clamato sold in the United States is bought by Hispanics. The Mexicans mix it with Budweiser beer to make the Chavela cocktail. I think I'll stick with the Ceasar for the time being.

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.

 

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.