The Greasy Spoon | Food & Culture

Black Velvet

 

 

As I advance- tentatively- into the twilight years of Late Late Youth, I'm finding that simplicity (in all its many splendid forms) is the way forward- most especially when it comes to cocktails- and the making of. Once Upon a Time there was a fashion- I'm thinking back to the 1980s- for exotic cocktails. This may also explain the popularity of vodka in that exuberant time: sapphire blue in colour, decorated with miniature umbrellas and flavoured with chunks of tinned pineapple. It may also explain the enthusiasm for Hawaiin shirts, Ray-Bans, people dancing around swimming pools, and the music of Wham!

No. Give me a Dry Martini over a new-fangled cocktail invention. Any day of the year. Or a Bloody Mary, a Bullshot, a Whisky Sour or a Margarita. Infinitely preferable to some trendy concoction invented by a bearded 'mixologist' in a tight suit, yup- him wot keeps you waiting for fifteen minutes at the bar, as he throws his cocktail shaker in the air. The concept of 'theatre' can be taken to extremes.

And it's the same with food. A simple 'classic' (as The Sunday Times Colour Supplement prefers to call it) is infinitely preferable to a pretentious Gastro-Pub horror, served with a flourish, and on a square plate. I would rather have a well-made Prawn Cocktail- prepared with love- than a trendy 'fusion' dish, which- somehow- doesn't quite seem to work; or along similar lines- a traditional dish given a 'twist' by a twenty-something up and coming 'chef'. What's the point? Why does a classic need a twist? Isn't that why it's a classic in the first place.

Which takes me to the Black Velvet cocktail. Now, there's a classic if there ever was one! Savoury, creamy Guinness stout and bone-dry champagne: it's beautifully simple. The story goes that it was invented at Brooks's to commemorate the death of Prince Albert from typhoid fever in 1861- which makes sense, as when it's made properly, it does look a bit like a black armband- or at least for those of us with over-active imaginations.

Go to the wonder that is YouTube and you will discover a whole plethora of earnest barmen teaching the world how to make it. Some make it better than others. It's not just a matter of mixing Guinness with Champers- plonking in the stout with a fizzy white wine, doing the hokey cokey and stirring it all about. No. To make it properly, you need to do the following:

Get hold of a champagne flute and stick it in the 'fridge. Pour in some Guinness Stout- about halfway up the glass. Now it's time for the Champagne. Very slowly pour the champagne over an inverted silver spoon into the glass. The goal is to separate the Guinness from the champagne, so that the Guinness remains at the bottom of the glass, and the champers blurs in nicely at the top. And that's it. No more, no less. It's a splendid drink.

I'm also keen on serving this with a pheasant casserole- which reminds me. Country Life have just published a bizarre recipe for devilled pheasant, as favoured by HRH The Princess Anne. It's Gothic. It's magnificent. It's a homage to a pint of double cream and a jar of Sharwood's Green Mango Chutney. I need to cover this in a subsequent post.

 

 

Ginmania

 

 

Gin Lane, etching & engraving by William Hogarth, 1751.

 

I first wrote about gin back in 2007. It's almost hard to believe but that's twelve years ago. In those days, I found myself describing gin as, I quote: 'slighty old-fashioned and fogeyish', a drink favoured by 'retired Colonels and bridge-playing spiritualist mediums: reminiscent of peeling Cheltenham stucco and chipped bowls of stale Twiglets'; actually two worthy reasons to champion the stuff at the time: a contrarian two fingers to the slightly tedious vodka craze; the herd mentality of Youth; the fag-end of Acid House and the Nineties cocktail circuit. Well, well. Hasn't the rest of the world caught up? 

One of the reasons gin has become so popular, I think, is because of the numerous ways it can be flavoured with herbs and botanicals at the distillation phase: Juniper, Coriander, Lemon, Orange, Anise, Angelica and Cassia Bark amongst others- giving rise to endless variations, brand combinations and 'secret recipes', in turn spawning package design inspired by the Victorian apothecary. In an increasingly bland and corporate world, gin can be marketed as the drink of the individual. It's a marketing man's dream. Vodka, in contrast, is distilled from fermented cereal grain or potatoes and generally left unflavoured, although there is a tradition of adding steeped flavour (bison grass, lemon, chili, pepper and honey) after the distillation process.

In 2009, two heroic chaps, name of Sam Galsworthy and Fairfax Hall, persuaded the British government to let them open the first micro copper pot distillery in two hundred years. Up until then, gin, legally, could only be produced on an industrial scale. By conglomerates such as Diageo and Pernod Ricard. For the Gin Revivalists, this was a key moment. It is estimated that there are now over 300 independent gin distilleries in the United Kingdom, and exports of gin are said to have risen by more than a third.

And hand in hand with the craze for hipster gin, comes the rise of quality tonic water. Several years ago I stuck some spare rhino into shares of the Fever-Tree company- as it happened, a wise decision, as the international march of the superlative Fever-Tree remains- for the time being- unstoppable: even our local Co-Op now stocks Fever-Tree 'Premium' tonic as a default, with Schweppes yellow label consigned- if at all- to the back shelves. I suppose, with hindsight, this was going to happen. If a discriminating punter forks out thirty quid or so on a bottle of 'craft' gin, is he or she going to slosh in a saccharine-sweet, bog standard tonic water manufactured by Coca-Cola Great Britain from fizzy tap water? No they are not.

While I'm at it, a quick word about 'London Dry'- a term you will see bandied about on the various labels. Dutch- or jenever gin became popular in England with William of Orange's accession to the throne in 1688. The invention of the two column Coffey still in 1830 produced a better quality gin- lighter in flavour with a smoother character yet of a higher proof. London Dry is made in a Coffey still.

So where do you start? I'm still keen on the upper middling range of gins- relatively affordable, but more interesting, perhaps, than the standard Big Boy's offerings; Gordon's (the world's best selling gin), Bombay Sapphire (slightly sickly?), and Hendricks (cucumbers and all that). 

 

 

Portobello Gin No. 171 was founded above a pub in the Portobello Road, Notting Hill, as recently as 2011- although its wonderfully evocative Neo-Victorian packaging might suggest otherwise. It's a London Dry with a slightly medicinal flavour, with a hint of cloves and liquorice. Currently priced at £26 a bottle, it's a hot favourite at the Greasy Spoon Residence. 42% ABV.

 

 

That said, my current choice is Plymouth- a classic gin popular in the Roaring Twenties, the tipple of the Royal Navy, and the authentic ingredient in a Pink Gin; produced by the Black Friars Distillery- in operation since 1793. It's got a slightly sweeter, creamier flavour when compared to a London Dry, with a hint of parsnip to the taste. The standard 'Plymouth Original' bottle comes in at 41.2% ABV with the 'Navy Strength' version at a punchy 57% ABV. 'Plymouth Original' will set you back £20.

 

Another recent discovery is Mary-Le-Bone London Dry, produced by the Pleasure Gardens Distilling Company. Botanicals include: juniper, lime flower, lemon balm, clove, liquorice, chamomile and grapefruit. 50.2% ABV. Currently discounted at £34 a bottle on Amazon.

 

Gin has a fascinating history, and if you're interested in reading more about it, I would recommend the books of my father's old friend, John Doxat- now available for a pittance on Amazon. Doxat was the 'Thinking Man's Drinker', or perhaps even 'The Drinking Man's Thinker', a writer of some wit, and a leading authority on the Dry Martini cocktail. But what goes up, must come down, and there will come a time- in the distant future- when gin falls out of fashion, although I am still mulling over what's to come next. Teetotalism? 

 

Hong Kong Foodie

 

Green Silver Shads outside the Peninsular Hotel, Kowloon

 

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

1 chicken, about 3 Ib

3 tbsp salt

2 cups dry sherry (or Chinese Wine)

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

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

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

 

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

12-18 eggs

3 tbsp black tea or 6 tbsp used tea leaves

2 tbsp salt

1 tbsp star anise cloves

3 tbsp soy sauce

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

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

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

 

 

The Strange Affair of Napoleon's Cognac

 

 

 Not tonight Josephine...
 

The cognac was not to Rex’s taste. It was clear and pale and it came to us in a bottle free from grime and Napoleonic cyphers. It was only a year or two older than Rex and lately bottled. They gave it to us in very thin tulip-shaped glasses of modest size.

“Brandy’s one of the things I do know a bit about”, said Rex. “This is a bad colour. What’s more. I can’t taste it in this thimble.”

They brought him a balloon the size of his head. He made them warm it over the spirit lamp.

Then he rolled the splendid spirit round, buried his face in the fumes, and pronounced it the sort of stuff he put soda in at home

So, shamefacedly, they wheeled out of its hiding place the vast and mouldy bottle they kept for people of Rex’s sort.

“That’s the stuff”, he said, tilting the treacly concoction till it left dark rings around the side of the glass. “They’ve always got some tucked away, but they won’t bring it out unless you make a fuss. Have some.”

“I’m quite happy with this.”

“Well, it’s a crime to drink it, if you don’t really appreciate it.” He lit his cigar and sat back at peace with the world; I too, was at peace in another world than his. We both were happy.”

From “Brideshead Revisited" by Evelyn Waugh, Chapman & Hall, 1945.

 

Napoléon “Grand Reserve” Cognac. 1811. Sounds sexy, doesn’t it? Think Napoleonic cyphers, cobwebs, imperial bees, dusty residue from ancient cellars, decaying chateâux, campaign maps shadowed by spluttering wax, duelling pistols and rickety carriages racing over cobblestones through the night; thunder and lightning. “Children of France, Adieu!” and ”Not Tonight, Josephine”: All the Glamour of the First Empire. It’s a 1970s marketing mans’ dream, of course.

I first played around with this idea in 2014, in a post investigating The Brandy of Napoleon. But this summer’s afternoon, in the interests of objective research, you understand, I’m going one step further. Before I start, I must stress that I am not- in any shape or form- an expert on rare wines, brandy or cognac. Far from it, I have a casual, amateur interest and anything I’m writing is my own opinion based on reading and research. And that’s about it. No shame in that, but what I do claim to know a bit about (like Rex, above!) is antiques and especially selling antiques online. And I think my nose can smell a rat when I see one. 

So, recently, I’ve developed a quirky little interest in old cognacs. It’s really amusing, and a marvellous way to spend a languid Saturday morning online,  especially as there seems to be so many ‘rare’ antique cognacs available to buy on the web. And at the push of a button too.

So please go ahead and type “Napoleon 1811 Cognac” into your computer. Now press the image button. What do you see? Over a hundred images of ‘fine and rare’ early 19th century Napoleon cognacs. Incidentally, don’t confuse these with modern “Napoleon” branded cognacs. Until relatively recently many reputable cognac houses, such as Courvoisier, Hine or Martell, marketed a “Napoleon” cognac (although interestingly, the modern trend is to play down the association) and significantly, they didn’t seem to attach the Napoleonic tag to the premium cognacs at the very top of their lists.

But antique cognacs- and their like- dating from the early years of the nineteenth century, are an entirely different matter. And the year 1811 seems to hold a special allure, partly because of the Great Comet which appeared in the sky over the fields of France. Many of these bottles are being flogged by slick wine merchants or specialist online auctioneers, who, frankly, in my opinion, should know better. Here’s a taste of what’s on offer (an amalgamation from various websites, picked entirely at random and without prejudice):

“Perhaps one of the rarest finds, this bottle represents an important time in history...a stunning example...1811 is described as a mythical year among wine enthusiasts, not only because of a comet which was visible by astronomers at the time for 17 months...Many ascribed the extraordinary weather this year to the Comet, historically during the months of September and October 1811, when the grapes would have been harvested, the comet was clearly visible to the naked eye...This is probably - together with the A. E. Dor Cognac 1811 (sic) which was the best cognac vintage of the 19th century...the most valuable and a highly sought cognac of the famous year of the “comet”...1811 was regarded at the time as the greatest vintage in living memory...an important historical example...”

I could go on and on and on. And it would all be such fun if it wasn’t for the eye-watering prices being asked for this stuff. I’ve just seen one bottle with a £9,000 price tag. And there’s another priced by the seller at 15,000 golden nugs. Yup, that’s right: the price of a decent second-hand car.

 

Courvoisier: The Brandy of Napoleon

 

You see, the first problem we’ve got is rarity. It's a term which is bandied about at will and tends to be frowned upon by the more distinguished auction houses. I admit that now and again- and against better judgment- I use it on my own antiques website, but then I only apply it to items that I reckon are genuinely scarce- maybe I’ve come across one or two examples of something in a career spanning twenty-five years?  But anybody with a brain investigating 1811 Napoleon Cognacs online, will discover that there are many, many similar examples for sale (or photographs posted up by financially desperate people trying to find out more about the value of grandpa’s inherited bottle) with printed or engraved labels- sometimes featuring a portrait of Napoleon- often soiled by dust and grime, and augmented by a pressed Napoleonic cipher in the glass, suggesting origination from a single source, and judging by the typography, design and style of the paper label, a date stretching back to the Edwardian period, or possibly the 1920s.

Rare they ain’t. It reminds me of the famous Fabergé Frog incident which other antique valuers of a certain vintage might remember. As a junior works of art specialist at Phillips Auctioneers in Bond Street I had to man the departmental counter; a brilliant training exercise in its own right: you never knew what was going to turn up. One day an excitable old boy in a rancid mac turned up with a crumpled plastic bag. Inside was a little frog with the words FABERGE in Russian Cyrillic, and an Imperial Romanov Eagle pressed onto the underside. All very thrilling. Except that it was made of plastic. Or ‘resin’ as we used to call it (a useful euphemism, especially in the sale of plastic chess sets). And then precisely the very same frog turned up the next day, except this time it was a different colour, brandished by a young girl in her teens who had bought it in a car boot sale and was already planning her retirement. Over the following weeks, we had a plague of frogs. Of biblical proportions. 

The second problem is Napoleon. According to Andrew Roberts, he was teetotal, or at least, ‘never drank any spirits, preferring a cup of coffee after breakfast, and another after dinner’. So when did cognac become associated with Napoleon? Courvoisier, famously, promotes itself as The Brandy of Napoleon’. According to the Courvoisier website:

After his defeat at the Battle of Waterloo, Napoleon was exiled to the remote island of St Helena, in the wild Atlantic Ocean, halfway between Africa and South America. Legend has it that he chose several casks of cognac as his one granted item of luxury, a treat much appreciated by the English officers on board HMS Northumberland during their 67-day voyage. They named it ‘The Brandy of Napoleon'.

 

Wing Commander Dennis Wheatley, RAFVR, Rtd., Wine Merchant turned Thriller Writer

 

Brilliant marketing, that. It’s significant that the cult of Napoleon was at its height in the 1920s, especially popular with American tycoons and international Men of Mystery- including none other than Sidney Reilly of Ace of Spies fame. In his autobiography, Drink and Ink, wine merchant turned thriller writer, Dennis Wheatley, claims- with endearing modesty- to have invented the old brandy racket during the 1920s: 

Most of the bottles had what were then unusual features. The Tuileries, for example, had an embossed medallion containing an ’N’ with the Napoleonic crown above it. But what really mattered was that the old Fine Champagne Cognacs in them were truly superb. I have never tasted finer. But in a year or two imitations were appearing in every restaurant. The bottles had the ’N’ medallion and were often covered in fake cobwebs; but the brandy in them was indifferent stuff. Whenever a waiter produced one at my table I used to say: ‘Take it away. Bring me some John Barnett or Delamain’. Unintentionally, I had started the old Brandy racket.

 

Cyril Ray, Author and Respected Cognac Enthusiast, photograph by Bill Brandt, 1940s

 

So what’s at the bottom of all this?  I turned to Cyril Ray’s beautifully written and definitive, Cognac, published in 1973, in which he devotes a complete chapter to the Napoleon problem. According to Mr Ray there is no such thing as a true Napoleon brandy. If any did still exist (i.e. it had been in wood since Napoleon’s time) it would now be undrinkable, because brandy deteriorates in the cask after about seventy years...unlike wine, brandy ceases to develop once it is in glass. He goes on to quote a director of the firm that ships Bisquit Dubouché: “No, of course, Bisquit Debouché no longer market bottles purporting to contain 1809 or 1811 or 1865 brandy: it is now generally agreed in the trade that any brandy more than about 70 years old would have to be ‘refreshed’ so much by younger spirits that it could no longer claim the earlier date.” And here’s another quote from a director at the venerable cognac house, Remy Martin: “It would be most unlikely that it is a genuine 1811, and if it were it would be undrinkable”. 

So with our charitable cap on, we might presume that these 1811 Napoleonic cognacs are an early 20th-century blend containing a tiny proportion of genuine 1811 cognac- especially as I gather there was a tradition to date a cognac by the earliest spirit in a blend made up from a selection of brandies of varying dates. Another possibility is that they’re an Edwardian recreation of an earlier style cognac- or frankly- and I hate to say this to you cognac collectors out there- yes, you with your fat wallets- an out-and-out early 20th-century fake capitalising on the fashionable interest in all things Napoleonic. I do wonder... 

 

The Metropolitan Hotel Champagne Cocktail

 

David Niven and Ginger Rogers in Bachelor Mother (1939) 

 

And so we come to my favourite time of the year. That in-between bit. I just love it. London’s deserted. My bloated email feed has evaporated. The telephone’s stopped ringing. Those over-familiar identity-badge-wearing people who knock on your shiny front door and ask for money seem to have gone away. Cue Plain Song, Cue Silence. Cue the Slow Ticking of an Antique Clock. Peace and Harmony Reign. It’s interesting how in the modern world there’s all this focus on the run-up to Christmas, which now seems to start in October, while the leaves are still on the trees. And all for only one day. As my little sister succinctly puts it: “All for a Bit of Bloody Turkey”.

But historically, of course, the Christmas season is still very much with us. Christmas Day was just the start of the whole shebang, which ran over the Twelve Days (ending on Twelfth Night) and Christmas Day itself wasn’t especially important. By the 1830s Christmas had become a minor, rather low key festival, in danger of vanishing, which was one of the reasons why writers such as Washington Irving and Charles Dickens romanticised it in their writings and in turn, helped to re-invent the nineteenth century Christmas. Judith Flanders’ excellent Christmas: A Biography looks into all this in greater depth: the truth is that people have been celebrating mid-winter for thousands of years, actually long before the advent of Christianity, which- I hate to say it- means that all those hand-wringing, tut-tutting Cromwellian religious types who moan about the commercialisation of Christmas, have, I fear, got it all completely wrong: historically, at least, the middle of December has always been a time for carousing, dancing, spending money, drinking too much and generally behaving in a disreputable fashion. And long may this tradition continue.

Looking ahead we’ve got some old friends coming over to the hovel for the New Years Eve revels and Jiminy Cricket, do those two renegades like cocktails. Champagne Cocktails. Luckily we’ve got a bottle of Veuve Clicquot yellow label knocking about, so it’s time to make classic champagne cocktails courtesy of the Metropolitan Hotel New York, circa 1934. For some reason, New Year’s Eve makes me think of Manhattan in the 1930s, top hats, the Rockefeller Center and ginormous Christmas trees. Anyway. Here’s the recipe: 

Soak a sugar cube with a dash of Angostura Bitters. Drop it into the bottom of a champagne flute.

While I'm about it: a quick word on champagne glasses. I use the classic flute shape. My parents still think it’s amusing to use those rather kitsch Victorian novelty shallow glass things- fashioned, I gather, from Marie Antoinette’s left tit. They’re fun- but I’ve been told on competent authority that they’re not a friend of bubbles, and makes the champagne go flat rather quickly. I’m not keen, although its quite fun seeing the tiny bubbles whizz up the stems. 

 

 

But on with the cocktail: Fill up the glass with a decent Champagne. Our bottle of Veuve will do just fine, although some wiser types might think this a waste of the good stuff. Finish it off with a twist of lemon.

Thank you to everyone and anyone who has taken time off to read The Greasy Spoon over the last year, and I wish you all a happy and peaceful 2018. Happy New Year!

 

Commander Schweppes

 

 

 

For several years now, I’ve had a secret hankering to join- or at least to apply for membership of- The London Whiskers Club. Beards, however, can be a risky proposition. The secret is to go for the “Rugged English Gentleman Explorer meets the James Robertson Justice” Look. But there’s a wafer-thin divide between looking like the Tsar, a Victorian Liberal MP or HRH Prince Michael of Kent and the cheeky geezer who’s come to mend the washing machine, the Gormless Middle-Aged Dad as portrayed on numerous and tiresome television commercials, or even worse, an earnest guitar-playing Play School presenter from the 1970s. And then there’s that worrying hipster thing, which despite being So Last Week Darling, still lingers- like a bad smell that just won't go away.

 

The Commander channels The Captain Scott Look

 

So last month, purely as an experiment, you understand,  I stopped shaving. And as I’ve now reached the golden twilight years of Late Youth, the bristles that appeared on my manly chin were silver in colour, and shock horror actually looked quite good. Mrs Aitch seemed to like it. And then, despite the promising start, it all went wrong. Suddenly I was walking around with a wiry bog brush glued to my chin. An oily, matted, painful horror which itched liked mad and cried out- no begged- to be removed.

 

The Commander in action. That beard...

 

Possibly one of the most splendid beards of the mid-twentieth century is the groomed specimen pictured above, as sported by Commander Schweppes, aka Commander Walter Edward Whitehead CBE, RNVR (Rtd.), president of Schweppes (USA), polo player, fisherman, gourmand, explorer, sailor, author of How to Live the Good Life: The Commander Tells You All and star of David Ogilvy’s famous advertising campaign.

I love David Ogilvy’s ads. They’re so urbane. I suppose in those days- we’re talking about the late 1950s- people aspired to become crusty, smooth-talking, tonic-drinking Naval officers. I used to waste hours in the Gothic gloom of the school library pouring over dog-eared back-copies of The New Yorker, with its tantalising advertisements for Harris tweed, expensive hand-built cars, rare whiskies, Sotheby’s cigarettes, Napoleonic Cognacs and tailored Viyella shirts worn by a mysterious silver-haired gentleman with an eyepatch- peddled in a glorious, backlit, soft-focus Technicolor. 

And despite the unstoppable march of the excellent Fever Tree, I’m still drinking Schweppes Tonic. Partly because of a nostalgic feeling for that famous yellow and black label (although how splendid it would be if they brought back some a special edition tonic in the original glass bottles) and because the proper stuff is actually quite good. But unless you’re trying to lose weight, avoid the saccharine slimline version at all costs. Artificially sweet, in my opinion. Thinking about it, if you’re trying to lose weight, I’m not sure you should be drinking gin in the first place?

 

 

Beer Street or Gin Lane? The Perfect Tonic

 

 

 Brexit: Gin Lane or Beer Street?

 

Since I started writing The Greasy Spoon back in the Autumn of 2007, I don’t think I have ever missed a monthly post. Not that I am going to do that now, but truthfully, over the last few days, I’ve been glued to both the television and the dreaded internet, and my usual enthusiasm for blogging has waned. With all the political, economic and constitutional turmoil, a post on, say, muffins, the joys of tomato ketchup, or even- dare I say it- the chance of Boris Johnson being reincarnated as an olive seems trite. The reaction to the referendum result in London and on social media has been extraordinary, frankly bordering on hysteria, with both the capital and cyberspace erupting into a barrage of angst, negativity and hand-wringing on a scale worthy of the colossus. Thankfully, calmer and wiser heads, with an eye to the wider picture, are beginning to emerge; and I hope- and trust- that they will prevail. Life goes on. Of course it does. Which brings me, in a roundabout way, to tonic, or rather tonic water. 

Tonic. It’s something, here in Britain, we’re rather good at. What’s in it? Quinine. Quinine was first isolated from the bark of the cinchona tree (a genus of flowering plants in the family Rubiacae) in 1820. According to that simple sword of truth, Wikipedia: “Linnaeus named the genus in 1742 after the Second Countess of Chinchón, the wife of a viceroy of Peru. According to some accounts, she suffered from malaria and was cured by a botanical remedy made of the powdered bark of a native tree. The veracity of the story is uncertain, but the tree still carries her name.”  

What we do know is that quinine cures or helps to cure malaria. During the days of colonial India, the British began to take quinine as a precaution against the illness. To counter act the bitter taste of the quinine powder, they mixed it up with sugar and soda, in effect, creating a primitive version of the tonic water we all know and love today. The first commercial tonic water was produced in 1858. 

And the best tonic water on the market?  The long finger has to point, of course, to the excellent and innovative Fever Tree, but before we get too excited, I must also stick up for Schweppes, which still makes a classic tonic water in the best traditions of Abigail’s Party, the ‘fast’ Gloucestershire hunting set and retired spirtualist mediums from the stucco’d backstreets of Cheltenham. The important thing to understand is that the slimline stuff ain’t no good. I used to drink it for years. It tasted pretty foul, far too sweet and saccharine for my liking, but I had genuine concerns about my expanding middle section, which Mrs Aitch can confirm. I’m glad to report that I’ve reverted back to the proper stuff and it’s a completely different drink, which gives the designer tonics, at least, a run for their money. For those on a budget, Waitrose tonic water has also scored highly in blind tasting tests. 

Of course, the recent boom in designer tonics is very much linked to the Great Gin Revival. I’m sure it’s because of the loose nature of gin itself (as opposed to the blander manufacturing methods of vodka); it’s quite possible to set up a small semi-amateur or “artisan” (a slightly pretentious word which Mr Peter York disdains, with good reason) and produce your own gin, flavoured with all sorts of unusual and original botanicals, as indeed the numerous and enterprising micro-distilleries have proved. I’ve lost count. Britain is, undoubtably, the best gin producer in the world.

Incidentally, and back on the subject of who is going to be our next Prime Minister, now that Govers is confirmed as a the perfect Brutus (Central Casting couldn’t do better) and Boris is out of the race, I’ve just placed twenty quid on Andrea Leadsom at 5/1. I have a sneaky hunch...Watch this space.

 

William Hogarth (1607-1764): Beer Street, 1751.

 

 

Toast Water

  

Toast Water? Really? Or more accurately 'Toast- and- Water’, as Isabella Beeton put it. Like coddled egg, it’s one of those slightly fragile Victorian recipes intended, presumably, for invalids- and back in the dark days of Queen Victoria’s reign, there were plenty of those, including, ultimately poor old Mrs Beeton herself.

Surprisingly it actually tastes rather good. I’ve just made a jug of the stuff. The water takes on an attractive pale golden colour, and includes (as other bloggers have discovered) pleasing hints of nutty caramel, yeast and- wait for it- toast. 

 

To MAKE TOAST- AND- WATER

Ingredients- A slice of bread, 1 quart of boiling water

Mode- Cut a slice from a stale loaf (a piece of hard crust is better than anything else for the purpose), toast it of a nice brown on every side, but do not allow it to burn or blacken. Put it into a jug, pour the boiling water over it, cover it closely and let it remain until cold. When strained, it will be ready for use. Toast- and- Water should always be made a short time before it is required, to enable it to get cold: if drunk in a tepid or lukewarm state, it is an exceedingly disagreeable beverage. If, as is sometimes the case, this drink is wanted in a hurry, put the toasted bread into a jug, and only just cover it with the boiling water; when this is cool, cold water may be added in proportion required- the toast- and- water strained, it will then be ready for use, and is more expeditiously prepared than by the above method.

(From Mrs Beeton’s Household Management, 1861) 

 

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 Duke of Windsor and J & B Rare Scotch Whisky

 

 

 

Over at The Peak of Chic, my blogging friend Jennifer Boles’s recent posts on The Duke and Duchess of Windsor had me scurrying to the bookcase to dig out the Duke’s fascinating memoir, A Family Album.

Jennifer’s post featured rare colour photographs of the Windsor’s country retreat, Le Moulin de Tuilerie, a rambling eighteenth century stone Mill house, twenty-two miles South West of Paris. Read the comments on both posts and you’ll find much hand-wringing amongst the interior design aficionados, upset by the country house clutter, dodgy furniture, relaxed technicolor mish-mash, liberal mix of styles and that infamous fitted tartan carpet. Actually, I have no shame in declaring to cyberspace that I’m rather taken by The Mill, and would have been more than happy to have been invited there for a pampered and comfortable Friday to Monday. 

And the Duke’s favourite tipple? J & B Rare Scotch Whisky. Which is a good thing, as it also happens to be The Greasy Spoon’s house whisky of choice- and makes a regular appearance on the drinks tray. If you’re going to serve whisky to your guests, I would suggest stocking up on two styles. A decent single malt like the smoky, peaty Laphroaig (a favourite of the current Prince of Wales) which I would drink more or less neat, but with a splash of mineral water as an after dinner liqueur, and a more affordable, lighter blended whisky such as J & B or Cutty Sark for mixing cocktails and everyday drinking.

 

 

 

The history behind J & B and Cutty Sark is fascinating. Both are products of two distinguished rival British wine merchants, Justerini & Brooks (founded 1749) and Berry Brothers & Rudd (founded 1698). Both, I am delighted to report, can still to be found- almost directly opposite other in St James’s Street; and I would recommend that you take the time to enter Berry’s hallowed and panelled portals, as much for their attractive, unstuffy approach; where a timid buyer, looking for a modest bottle of white to go with their curry, will be given as much courtesy, thought and advice as the knowledgable high-roller, brandishing a black Amex and looking to stock their humidity-controlled cellars with rare cognacs, champagnes and expensive burgundies.

Both J & B and Cutty Sark were developed in the early 1930’s in direct reponse to the ending of Prohibition in America. Cocktails became fashionable as a way of disguising (and possibly hiding) bad moonshine. Or so at least, is the theory. Although I have a feeling that cocktails, like ragtime, flappers, bobbed hair and Picasso, came into being in the years just before the First World War. Anyway, the big idea was to create a light, peppery whisky, specifically for the export market: a perfect mixer in cocktails. And so the new blended whiskies enjoyed a great success abroad. 

J & B became a great hit in the United States, especially when it became widely known that the Duke of Windsor drank the stuff. It’s blended from 42 different whiskies, including Knockando, Auchroisk and Glen Spey. By 1963 they were selling one million cases a year. 

 

Dennis Wheatley’s Nectarine Gin

 

 

 

"I desire to state that I, personally, have never assisted at, or participated in, any ceremony connected with Magic - Black or White....Should any of my readers incline to a serious study of the subject, and thus come into contact with a man or woman of Power, I feel that it is only right to urge them, most strongly, to refrain from being drawn into the practice of the Secret Art in any way. My own observations have led me to an absolute conviction that to do so would bring them into dangers of a very real and concrete nature." (DENNIS WHEATLEY)"

 

Does anybody read Dennis Wheatley any more?  Remember those tacky book clubs ads found at the fag end of The Sunday Times Magazine? “A collection of almost sinful luxury”...”now, if you dare, accept this wickedly handsome volume...” “luxuriously bound in scarlet kidron...” ”sumptious golden tooling...” “silken book-ends...”

The advertisement showed the naked back of a girl kneeling before a cowled monk, like extras from that Hammer wunderwerk, “The Satanic Rites of Dracula”. Now if you were eleven years old, this was tantilising stuff. Verboten. Dog-eared paperbacks of “The Devil Rides Out” and “To the Devil- A Daughter” were traded surreptitiously during playground breaks. 

 

 

Years later, I’m still an unashamed fan of the Old Boy. These days he’s mainly remembered for the occult stuff, (funnily enough he only wrote eight of ‘em) but during the 1960s he was one of Britain’s best-selling thriller writers, churning out splendid pulp in the manner of Dornford Yates or Sapper. His prose can, at times, seem turgid, but, By Jove, the man knew how to spin a yarn- and his work shows an extraordinary- and at times, bizarre, imagination. There’s a terrific biography by Phil Baker, which comes with my personal recommendation: The Devil is a Gentleman, the Life and Times of Dennis Wheatley. It’s a constant bedside companion.

Wheatley’s early career was spent as a Mayfair wine merchant. For the select few who collect his books in first editions, there’s a charming (and little known) title to add to the pile: The Seven Ages of Justerini’s.

In 1949  Wheatley was asked to write a history of Justerini & Brooks, the distinguished St James’s wine merchants, to celebrate the bi-centenary of the firm. It’s worth getting hold of a copy (or the later revised and expanded edition) in as much that it contains Giacomo Justerini’s original eighteenth century recipes for home made liqueurs, cocktails and wines. Here’s one for Nectarine Gin. Wheatley had a notoriously sweet tooth and liked to serve it to as an after-dinner liqueur at Grove Place, his country house in Lymington, Hampshire. 

 

 

Nectarine Gin

Prick your Nectarines all over with a fork and put them in an open vessel. Pour upon them as much Gin as will cover the fruit, and add a quarter-of-a-pound of soft white sugar with each quart of Gin. Cover the vessel with a cheese cloth and leave to stand, Give the contents a stir twice or thrice in the next forty-eight hours, then strain off the liquor and bottle it.

 

I haven’t made this- as yet, so please don’t blame me if it’s far too sweet for modern tastes. You might need to play around with the amount of sugar to add. The revised edition (The Eight Ages of Justerini’s), also includes recipes for Dennis Wheatley’s favourite cocktails. I like his take on Bloody Mary, which includes bouillon:

 

Dennis Wheatley’s Bloody Mary

One nip Tomato Juice, one Sherry glass Vodka-Smirnoff, one Sherry glass Campbells Beef Bouillon, one nip Worcester Sauce, half glass- Lime or Lemon- fresh, ice- shake until froth appears- serve.

 

And his recipe for Whisky Sour, one of my all-time favourite cocktails:

 

Dennis Wheatley’s Whisky Sour

One large Sherry glass J & B rare Scotch Whisky, half Sherry glass Syrop de Gomme or half Sherry glass sweet Lemon Squash- Lime or Lemon juice squeezed equal to above with sugar to taste, ice- shake very well till it froths- serve.

 

Gunfire at Dawn

 

 

She saw him as Siegfried Sassoon, an infantry subaltern in a mud-bogged trench, standing-to at dawn, his eyes on his wrist watch, waiting for zero hour...

Evelyn Waugh, Put Out More Flags, 1942.

 

I’ve been reading up on The First World War recently, and would recommend without hesitation John Lewis-Stempel’s Six Weeks, a magnificent (and moving) account of the ‘short and gallant life of the British Officer in the First World War’.

One of the trench duties of any young subaltern was to dole out the daily rum ration:

After ‘stand to’ in the hour before dawn, when the entire company was armed and alert against a German attack, the subaltern waited for the NCO in charge of the platoon’s sections to report his men as present and their rifles clean. At this good news, the officer dished out the rum ration of a quarter-gill (one sixteenth of a pint) per man. This was sent up by battalion quartermasters in brown earthenware jars marked ‘SRD’, the abbreviation for ‘Special Rations Department’, but universally and jokingly assumed to stand for ‘Seldom Reaches Destination’, ‘Service Rum Diluted’ or ‘Soon Runs Dry’. The rum ration- it was Navy Rum- was dispensed by the platoon commanders into hot tea and was intended as medicine; the ration was ordered by the divisional commander on the advice from his principal medical officer that conditions were sufficiently debilitating to require it. Most commanders sensibly granted the ration every day, no matter what the weather.

It seems that ‘Gunfire’ (tea laced with rum) was a popular drink in the British army as early as the 1890’s, and (according to that simple sword of truth, Wikipedia) in some regiments is still served by the officers to their men at Christmas.

Adding a tot of rum to your tin mug of tea might, indeed, be a good plan- especially with the chill of the London autumn soon to be upon us. The various internet cocktail sites just talk about black tea and rum, but being English, I’m not sure this is completely right. Bet you anything the British Army added milk and the whole mess was stewed up in those awful battered enamel canteens with taps at the bottom- ‘one with sugar, and one without’- just like we had at Dotheboy’s Hall in the very late 70’s. For that appealing ‘Trench Tea’ taste, I would suggest a brand such as Yorkshire, P G Tips or Typhoo. Don’t you think?

 

 

And the most appropriate rum for the job is probably going to be Pusser’s Gunpowder Proof British Navy Rum. As the blurb on the label says: Pusser’s is a classic Royal Navy style rum, ‘inspired by the recipe used to produce the tot given to the sailors as their daily ration until Black Tot Day, 31 July 1970.’

Pusser’s is considered to be one of the best rums in the world and shares some of the characteristics of Scotch Whisky. The company itself was actually founded in 1979, when the founder, Charles Tobias, decided to recreate the original Admiralty recipe which was based on a blend of five West Indian rums.

 

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.

 

 

Victorian Cups and Punches

 

 

 

Terrific second-hand find for Christmas. It's Victorian Cups and Punches and Other Concoctions, published by Cassell in 1974. I like Cassell's cookery books from this period. Neat little numbers in hardback, charming Victorian engravings, thickish paper and lovely old-fashioned typography. I bought this for a trifling two pounds.

All sorts of goodies in this book: punches, cordials, cups, bishops, mulls, shrubs, cardinals, bishops, caudles, possetts, nightcaps and usquebachs. Some recipes, picked at random:

 

West Indian Sangaree

Crush four ounces of loaf sugar to powder, and pour upon it a large wine-glassful of lime-juice. Stir until the sugar is dissolved, then add a bottle of madeira, half a pint of pure French brandy, and two pints of cold spring water. Grate the fourth part of a small nutmeg over the sangaree, put a large lump of ice into it, and serve. Sponge cake or savoy biscuit is generally serverd with sangaree.

Mulled Ale

Put half a pint of ale, a clove, a little whole ginger, a piece of butter the size of a marble, and tea-spoonful of sugar, into a saucepan, and bring it to boiling point. Beat two eggs with a table-spoonful of cold ale, and pour the boiling ale into them, and into a large jug. Pass the whole from one jug into another for some minutes, and at a good height. Return it to the saucepan and heat it again, but do not allow it to boil. Time, a quarter of an hour. Probable cost 6d. Sufficient for one person.

Bishop Oxford Nightcap

Take two drachms each of cloves, mace, ginger, cinnamon and allspice, boil them for thirty minutes in half a pint of water, and strain. Put part of a bottle of port in a saucepan over the fire, add the spiced infusion and a roasted lemon stuck with six cloves. Take four ounces of sugar in lumps and grate over the outer rind of a small lemon, place them in a punch-bowl, and add the juice of a lemon, pour in the hot wine etc., then the remainder of the bottle of port, and serve. A Seville orange may be roasted instead of a lemon.

 

  

 

 

Bonfire Night Bullshot

 

 

 

Here's a Greasy Spoon classic for that most British celebration, "Bonfire Night": The Bullshot Cocktail. 

It's supposed to be served cold, on ice; but I see no reason why it shouldn't be served hot (in a similar fashion to mulled wine or cider) and I have a sneaky suspicion that you might find it even better this way.

Empty a tin of beef consommé soup into a large pan. Pour in a large slug of vodka and add a dash of Lea & Perrins Worcestershire sauce, a squeeze of lemon juice, a pinch of celery salt, and finish it off by seasoning it with salt and pepper.

Warm up the bullshot on a medium heat, making sure that you don't boil it. If you've got guests, I would suggest serving it in small coffee cans or cups. If you're going to the Park, I would urge you to fill up your hip-flask and pass it around.

 

 

How to Mix a Negroni

 

 

One part Gin. One part Red Vermouth. One part Campari. Serve on the rocks with a twist of orange.

Its origins are unclear. Count Camillo Negroni is supposed to have asked his barman to replace the soda in his Americano with Gin. This was back in 1919. In Florence. A the Caffè Casoni.

The Negroni was a favourite of that wunderkind, Orson Welles, who tried it for the first time in 1947 and is supposed to have said in that marvellous fruity voice: 

“The bitters are excellent for your liver, the gin is bad for you. They balance each other.”

Nice one, Mr Welles, and a great excuse to post a photograph from another all-time favourite, F For Fake, which includes a hilarious sequence at La Méditeraneé, Paris: Orson holding court on Modern European Art, surrounded by an entourage of giggly and extremely pretty girls.

 

 

I'm a massive fan of Orson, and not just because of his tacky advertising campaigns (Paul Masson, California Carafe "we will sell no wine before its time"). His 1938 "War of the Worlds" radio broadcast was terrific in the true meaning of the word. Would I have joined the panicking hordes, as they fled their cities from alien invasion?  Quite possibly.

 

                    

 

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.

 

                   

 

Seville Orange Gin

 

 

 

Mrs Aitch is making marmalade- as I write this. She makes it every year, and there's this terrific wait for the Seville oranges to arrive in England. Some years they arrive early, other years they arrive late. But January's the month for Seville oranges. If you're interested in her original recipe, here's the link. It works every time and makes an extremely professional tasting marmalade- I gather the secret is all about the quality of the pectin in the oranges and getting to the right temperature to release it. It sounds scientific.

This time I thought I'd have a shot at making Seville Orange Gin. It's a lovely old-fashioned drink, and apparently, a favourite of HRH The Prince of Wales. I've never made it before, so I've trawled the web and come across several recipes. They're all very similar- and pretty simple.

I can't hand-on-heart tell you if this recipe is any good, as I'm literally just about to make it. What I have learnt with Sloe Gin and Gooseberry Gin, is that it's often a good idea to go easy on the sugar, and if anything, deliberately add less sugar than the recipe demands. If your gin is too bitter in taste, it's an easy matter to add more sugar to taste. But if your gin is too sweet- there's nothing you can do about it, apart from chucking the whole thing down the sink.

 

5 Seville oranges

a litre bottle of gin

4 oz caster sugar

2 cloves

 

Peel the Seville oranges, carefully removing the zest from the pith – the pith is bitter and you need to get rid of it. Cut the orange peel into strips.

In a large sterilized demijohn combine the gin, sugar, orange peel and two cloves. Seal and keep in a dark cupboard for three months. Turn (or shake) the container every few days to make sure that the sugar dissolves.

After three months you strain the orange gin and, using a funnel, pour off the strained alcohol into sterilized bottles and seal. Ideally, you need to leave the orange gin for a year or two to mature and mellow over time.

 

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.

 

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. 

 

The Dry Martini Revisited

 

 

 

Another great programme from Simon Hopkinson yesterday evening (Simon Hokinson Cooks, More 4, Monday Evenings), in which he made a classic Dry Martini. I know that this blog is in danger of becoming a tribute site to Mr Hopkinson, but he really is exceedingly good. And he made his Martini exactly how it should be made- right down to the Harrys' Bar glass pitcher.

First point- it's a gin martini. Gin. Not Vodka (Mister Bond got that one wrong), nor, god forbid, apple juice. No cherries, slices of limes, "inspired" extra flourishes, garnishes or anything like that.

Second point- it's stirred, not shaken. Stirred. (Mister Bond got that one wrong, too).

How to make it? Greasy Spooners won't need to be told. But if you're a new reader, this is how you do it:

You get hold of large glass pitcher or mixing jug and you pour into it a decent amount of fresh ice. Simon H rinsed his ice off with running water to get rid of the 'fridge smells- and that seems like an excellent plan.

Into the pitcher goes a decent splash of a dry white vermouth. Noilly Pratt (to rhyme with cat) would be great. Or, of course, Martini Extra Dry. Simon H probably put in a bit more vermouth than I would have done, but, hey, each to their own. Swirl the ice around with a mixing stick, spoon or chopstick.

Next, in goes the cold neat gin. Plymouth Gin would be an excellent choice, as would Tanqueray. The proportions of vermouth to gin should be about 1: 9 or 2:8. Something like that.

The Martini is poured into cold, frosted glasses- straight from the deep freeze. My own preference is for dinky, small glass tumblers, rather than those Martini glasses everyone seems to use, and you see on television. But, again, that's me.

Finish it off with a twist of lemon peel. Simon H just twisted his peel over the glass, so that the citrus oils floated onto the Martini- and then discarded it. I like the simplicity of this. No fuss. No garnishes. Just a classic Dry Martini, made properly. Simple, and served very, very cold. In small tumblers.

 

 

And to you your wassail too...

 

Here we come a-wassailing
Among the leaves so green;
Here we come a-wand'ring
So fair to be seen.

REFRAIN:
Love and joy come to you,
And to you your wassail too;
And God bless you and send you a Happy New Year
And God send you a Happy New Year.

English Traditional Carol, circa 1850 

 

A few years ago I became fascinated by Wassail. It's a word that gets bandied about at Christmas, but I bet you anything that most people haven't a clue as to what exactly it is or means. And neither did I until I did a bit of good old internet research. Wassail is a traditional mulled punch, drunk at Christmas-time in the Northern and Germanic countries. Wassailing can either mean the singing of carols (at Christmas, the serfs would wassail the Lord and Lady of the Manor), or, as in Gloucestershire, and the other western counties, the wassailing of an apple tree: to ensure a good harvest and drive away the evil spirits. This happens on Twelfth Night. The wassail is served in a wassail cup or bowl.

Every year, I make my own recipe for Mulled Cider, and it's exceedingly good, I tell you. I'm not really a fan of Mulled Wine: it's too heavy, there's too much tannin, it gives you a headache. And then many people get it wrong. Very wrong. They chuck in a bottle of plonk, boil it up, and then add all sorts of other dodgy ingredients, including vodka; and the result is an over-acidic, pungent brew which can leave you with a god-awful hangover. 

Mulled Cider is "different", smoother- and in my opinion delicious. There are no rules; but to get the best results, I suggest that you keep it simple. In a large pan, I pour in a decent dryish West Country of Norman organic cider. The stuff that looks like still, dark, pond water. Try and avoid the cheaper, sweeter, fizzy stuff.

Next, I cut an orange in half, and add that. I do the same with a lemon. I add a few spices: a cinnamon stick, a few cloves, ground nutmeg, and a kernel of ginger. All of these would work well. I taste it.

If it's too dry, add a bit of brown sugar. Start warming it up. You do not want to boil it. Keep it simmering at just below boiling point. If you boil it, all the alcohol will vapourise away, defeating the whole point of the thing in the first place. If you're going to serve it in glass mugs, make sure that you put a silver spoon in the mug first. This will prevent the glass from shattering. 

If you've got time, decorate the wassail with "Lamb's Wool". This is just bits of peeled apple, simmered in cider until woolly (it "explodes"). The pulp is floated on top of the mulled cider. 

 

Bloody Mary Soup for Bonfire Night

 

 

 

I like Bonfire Night, who doesn't? I would dearly love to take part in the revels being held in Lewes tonight, but this time round, I'm stuck in London. And there's a titillating whiff of paganism about the whole proceedings, isn't there?

Bonfire Night, for me, means piping hot thermos flasks; which means soup. I think a Bloody Mary style Tomato Soup- in other words, a soup laced with vodka, would work brilliantly.  

 

It would be possible to make it in various ways; you could, perhaps, roast tomatoes with garlic, celery and onions in a hot oven (keeping the skins intact), and then whizz up the cooked vegetables in a Magimix to form a soft pulp.

The pulp would be cooked briefly in butter and olive oil, vegetable or chicken stock added (and perhaps some extra tomato juice and tomato purée for colour), and the soup simmered for ten minutes or so, before adding Tabasco and Lea & Perrins and adjusting the seasoning (celery salt, black pepper and a squeeze of lemon juice?).

The soup would be strained through a sieve and then laced with vodka and, perhaps, a dash of dry sherry. I would keep it hot- and avoid bringing it to the boil; a bit like the way you might make a mulled wine or cider.

 

 

 

 

Robert Carrier and Drinking in Vogue

 

 

 

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

 

Hintlesham Hall, Suffolk

 

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

 

 

Mr Carrier in action for the BBC

 

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

 

 

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

 

 

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

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

 

          

 

 

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Orange Blossom Cocktails and the Strange Mystery of William Desmond Taylor

 

 

 

 

 

I first read about the strange- and fascinating- case of William Desmond Taylor a few years ago and it's haunted me ever since. I expect you've never heard of it (most people haven't, there's no particular reason why you should have done either), but back in 1922, the mysterious events leading up to his murder became a sensational cause célèbre of the day.

 

William Desmond Taylor

Desmond Taylor was a famous (and hugely successful) British silent film director: suave, handsome, urbane, cultured, a former British army officer, charming, erudite, built like an athelete with a reputation for integrity; a bibliopile and collector of rare books. I'm sure you get the picture: he enjoyed numerous "friendships" with all sorts of charming young actresses- and quite possibly their mothers too.

Anyway, at 7:30 am on the morning of 2 February 1922, the body of William Desmond Taylor was found inside his bungalow at the Alvarado Court Apartments, 404-B South Alvarado Street, Los Angeles. He had been shot in the back. The evening before, his neighbour claimed to have the sound of a gunshot ("like a car back-firing") and seen a "funny looking" stranger leaving Taylor's bungalow wearing a muffler and a plaid cap pulled down over his- or her- eyes.

 

 

The Taylor Residence, Alvardo Court Apartments, Los Angeles

The case remains unsolved to this day. There's a whole cast of sinister suspects: Edward Sands, Taylor's dodgy valet; Henry Peavey, Taylor's camp butler; Mable Normand (the silent era comedienne); Mary Tyler Minter (the Hollywood film star), Charlotte Selby (Minter's mother) and starlet Margaret Gibson, who apparently, confessed to the murder on her deathbed.

 

 

And the case gets stranger. It turned out that Desmond Taylor wasn't really Willliam Desmond Taylor at all. His real name was William Cunningham Deane-Tanner, son of an Anglo-Irish British army major. Deane-Tanner had emigrated to New York where he had set up business as a Society antique dealer. On the 23 October, 1908, he had suddenly vanished, leaving behind a wife and young daughter, only to resurface four years later with a changed name, and a discovered talent for acting. The intervening years remain a bit of a mystery- he may have worked as a rancher; he may have laboured in the gold mines of Yukon. What I find striking is the contrast between Deane-Tanner the unhappy, hard-drinking antique dealer (there are rumours of forgery, his disapperance coincided with a dubious affair with a married women) and Desmond Taylor the distinguished film director- of whom, not one person would say a single bad word about after his murder. If ever there was an example of someone completely re-inventing himself, this is going to be it.

What's all this to do with food?, I hear you say. Not much, I admit, but William Desmond Taylor did enjoy an Orange Blossom cocktail with Mabel Normand a few hours before the shooting. They played the piano, discussed Nietzsche and Freud (as one does) until a quarter to eight; Taylor walked Normand to her car, they blew kisses at each other as her chauffeur drove off. With the exception of the murderer, she was the last person to see Desmond Taylor alive.

Here's a suitably grainy, film noiry photograph of that very cocktail tray; can't you just imagine the bungalow swarming with over-excited photographers, the smell of flash powder, the utter sensation of it all?

 

The Orange Blossom cocktail was an extremely popular cocktail during Prohibition. It's essentially just a mixture of orange juice and gin; although there are many different versions using a wide variety of ingredients. The Old Waldorf Astoria Bar Book has a recipe for "Orange Blossom No. 1": 

3/4 oz gin, 3/4 oz sweet vermouth (ie Cinzano Bianco), 3/4 oz orange juice. Pour the ingredients into a mixing pitcher or glass filled with ice cubes, stir well and strain. 

This is going to be pretty sweet in taste, maybe too sweet for modern sensibilities? An interesting historical fact is that people seemed to have much sweeter tooths (or is it teeth?) at the beginning of the Twentieth Century. The Edwardians loved German wine and Hungarian Tokay for instance. I gather that these wines fetched far higher prices than clarets or Burgundies.

 

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Cocktails at Ciro's

 

 

 

 

I thought this looked quite interesting: it's a reprint of "Cocktails by Jimmy, late of Ciro's London", originally published in 1930. There's someone selling paperback reprints of vintage cocktail books on amazon. They're not very expensive, but I gather from a friend who ordered one recenty that they're really nothing more than scans or photocopies of the original book. Still, if you're interested in the history and origin of cocktails, the information contained within may well be of some use, and I see that there's a dealer on abebooks.co.uk currently offering the 1930 edition for well over a thousand pounds.

Ciro's was a fashionable London nightclub, founded in 1915 (despite the War) and located in Orange Street, just off Haymarket. According to Pathé news: Ciro's was "the famous London rendezvous of Smart Society." It even boasted it's own all-black dance band, possibly the first one in this country. Ciro's bartender, Harry McElhone, left to start up Harry's Bar in Paris ("roo sank der noo"), handing over his cocktail shaker to Jimmy, who I'm sure did an admirable job. Incidentally, there was another Ciro's- in Los Angeles- but the only thing it shared in common was the name.

 

The Pegu Club, 1910

 

According to the reprint's editor, Ross Bolton, this is one of the few cocktail books of the period to share the secret of the Pegu Club Cocktail, the signature drink of the Pegu Club, Rangoon, set up in the 1880's as a watering hole for British army officers.

There are all sorts of different opinions on how to mix a Pegu Club Cocktail, but I found this recipe on The Gin is In blog, and thought it looked good: 3oz gin (our old friend Plymouth would be ideal), 1oz Cointreau, .75oz fresh lime juice, two dashes of aromatic bitters, two dashes of orange bitters. Serve cold.

While you're mixing the drink, and to get you in the mood, here's a recording of the "Ciro's Club Coon Orchestra" in action:

 

 

 

 

If you like all this historic jazz age cocktail stuff, for my next post I might well cover the mysterious slaying of one time antiques dealer and Hollywood silent film director, William Desmond Taylor. He shared an Orange Blossom cocktail with the silent comedienne Mabel Normand a few hours before his death. The case remains unsolved. But that's for my next post. After all, tomorrow is another day.

 

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Plymouth Gin

 

 

 

 

The excellent Peak of Chic blog left an interesting comment on my recent post on Pink Gin. She wondered if she could buy Plymouth Gin in America?  I expect she can, but I have a feeling that it's going to be more readily available from specialist shops.

Plymouth Gin was the traditional gin of choice as used by the Royal Navy, and traditionally, Pink Gin was made with Plymouth, rather than London Dry gin. I read somewhere that originally, back in the 19th century, Plymouth Gin did taste considerably different from today's London Dry (it was sweeter and more aromatic); and it was also the gin of choice for Harry Craddock's Savoy Cocktail Book, first published in 1930.

Since starting The Greasy Spoon (was it really over five years ago?), I've developed an interest in package design- especially for spirit brands. I've noticed that Plymouth Gin have updated their bottle and label. I really like their new design. They've used their historical archives as inspiration, gone back to the "curves"  and reinstated the friar on their label- for this I applaud them; ditching their more rectangular, modernist bottle in the process. Many brands seem to have gone for this style in very recent years; no doubt to try and appeal to a younger, cocktail bar clientele. I'm not entirely convinced.

I really dislike the recent re-packaging of Mount Gay "Eclipse" rum. They've got "rid" of their charming old-fashioned bottle (reminiscent of the 50's Captain's Cabin, pirates, treasure maps, Robert Louis Stevenson and the romance of the Caribbean) and replaced it with a bland, perceivedly trendy, cocktail bar thing. Honestly, it could now be a bottle of Amaretto.

 

 

Mount Gay "Eclipse" rum- the old design, on sale until very recently

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Coca-Cola

 

 

 

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

 

Harry's Bar, Venice

 

 

 

 

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

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

 

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

 

        Mr Claudio Ponzio in action

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

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

 

 

 

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

 

 

Gooseberry Gin

 

 

Gooseberries are the most English of fruit, although for some reason it's becoming incredibly hard to find any for sale here in London. The season is just about coming to an end. I had been meaning to make Gooseberry Gin for ages, but, typically, had never got around to it until last weekend, when I managed to track down a packet of frozen gooseberries from the wonderfully helpful Wholefoods in Kensington High Street.

Gooseberry Gin is a flavoured, gin-based liqueur, made in a similar way to the much-loved, traditional Winter tipple, Sloe Gin. I find that freezing the fruit helps to break them down- which, as you want the sugars and juices to be released- is a good thing.

Making the gin was straightforward. I bought a standard large bottle of Sainsbury's home-brand gin (actually distilled by Greenall's, so it's more than all right). I smashed up the thawed green gooseberries with a wooden mallet and filled an empty glass bottle (an ex-olive oil bottle with one of those plastic swing corks) with the gooseberries- about half way up. I poured granulated white sugar into the bottle- about a third way up. I topped up the bottle with the Sainsbury's gin, and finished it off with a few teaspoons of concentrated organic Belvoir Elderflower Cordial. I shook it up. The gin turned a lovely light greeney-grey Eau de Nil colour. I need to carry on shaking the bottle every day for about two weeks, and then it's going into the dark, cool(ish) cellar for six months or so.

I've had a sneaky taste already, and it's looking good. Very floral, very grassy, masses of tart grapefruit, similar in a way to those lovely grassy, summery tastes you get in a decent Sauvignon Blanc. I think it's going to be excellent as a summer liqueur in its own right, or perhaps, as an alternative to the standard gin and tonic. I like the idea of offering guests a Gooseberry Gin & Tonic. 

The photograph comes from an inspirational Scottish deli called Demijohn in Edinburgh. This sort of thing really turns me on. It looks a bit like an apothecary in a monastary. Love the white painted brick walls. The only thing lacking is chanted plain song in the background. They sell all manner of home-made liqueurs, steeped vinegars, balsamics, whiskies, scented oils- the lot. 

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Americano

 

 

"Tu vuò fa l' americano!

mmericano! mmericano

siente a me, chi t' ho fa fa?

tu vuoi vivere alla modama se bevi whisky and soda

po' te sente 'e disturbà"

 

Ah yes, the Americano. The cocktail was first served at the Caffè Campari in the 1860s. Its original name was the "Milano-Torino". Campari is made in Milan, and Cinzano, the vermouth, is made in Turin. Anyway, the story goes that the drink became popular with rich American tourists who flocked to Italy during the Prohibition Era. Hence the name "Americano".

Making one is easy enough: Into a high glass filled with ice, pour one part Campari to one part red vermouth (Cinzano Rosso), and top off with one part club soda. Garnish with a slice of orange, or a twist of orange peel. 

It turns out that none other than our old friend, Mister Bond, was a reluctant connoisseur of the Americano: "No, in cafés you have to drink the least offensive of the musical comedy drinks that go with them, and Bond always had the same thing, an Americano.”  (From a View to a Kill, 1960). Very Ian Fleming.

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The Graham Greene Cocktail

 

 

Graham Greene discusses a script with film director, Carol Reed: Life Magazine Archives

 

As a long time fan of Graham Greene, I was amused to discover that he had a cocktail named after him. There was always something slightly raffish about Greene: the crumpled Burberry, his Citroën Maserati SM (one of my all-time favourite dream machines and a self-indulgent excuse for a photograph, below, plus early Seventies dollybird), the apartment in Antibes, the French mistress, his collection of rare Victorian Crime Fiction, his adolescent games of Russian Roulette- all these things tempered by Catholic Guilt.

The Graham Greene Cocktail was invented at the Metropole Hotel, Hanoi, Vietnam in 1951. Greene was a correspondent for Paris Match. It's essentially a classic Dry Martini with a dash of Crème de Cassis. Being a Martini purist (and reared as a sproglet on John Doxat's instructive "Stirred not Shaken- the History of the Dry Martini") I had my doubts about this; it didn't sound that hot, to be frank; but I am sipping on one as I write, and it's surprisingly good- the blackcurrant flavours of the Cassis balancing the dryness of the gin and the vermouth rather well. Refreshing too. I would suggest that you serve it very cold- and very plain. No olives, no lemon peel. And use those tiny frosted tumblers, like the ones they use in Harry's Bar.

Shovel generous amounts of ice cubes into a glass Martini pitcher. Add a dash of Noilly Pratt (to rhyme with Cat), and a dash of Crème de Cassis. Swirl around the ice, and shake off the excess. Pour in a decent slug of Dry London Gin. Stir. Strain into iced tumblers and serve.

 

 

 

 

 

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.

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.

 

 

Related articles

Harry's Bar, Venice

Cocktails at Ciro's

The Best Bloody Mary

Bloody Mary Soup for Bonfire Night

Perfect Bloody Mary Bar

Recommended: Charleston Bold & Spicy Bloody Mary Mix

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.

Zucchini Fritters

 

 

 

I like the word "Zucchini". It rolls off the tongue. Here in England we call them "courgettes". Anyway. If you've got the time and inclination, zucchini fritters are the perfect thing to serve with drinks, and especially with a Dry Martini.

I'm currently keen on the idea of tiny fritters; the size of a small coin: slice up some baby courgettes very thinly, put the slices into a colander, and sprinkle them with sea salt. The salt will draw out enormous quantities of water. Your friends will be thrilled and amazed.

Next, beat an egg white until frothy, and dip the courgette slices into the egg white. Shake off the excess, and then dip them again into strong flour which you've previously seasoned with salt and white pepper.

In a deep-fat fryer, heat some peanut oil to about 375 F (190 C). If you don't have a fryer, use a wok. As nut oil burns at a higher temperature, it's an excellent choice for this sort of operation. Drop the courgettes into the oil, a few at a time, and fry them until they are crisp. Watch them like a hawk, and make sure they don't burn.

Incidentally, when frying, it's always best never to overcrowd the pan; if you do, you run the risk that your food may steam or boil, which, of course, is a different technique all together.

Drain the fritters on kitchen paper, and sprinkle them with more salt and pepper. Okay, this means that your fritters are going to pretty salty, but I think that in this case, it provides a perfect balance with the dry oiliness (is that a word?) of a classic Martini cocktail.

I also quite like the idea of cutting up the courgettes into wider slices, and serving them in that simple way, as a side dish. Baby yellow courgettes could be an interesting concept, too. Lots of ideas.

Campari and Soda

 

 

 

May I sing the praises of the Campari and Soda?  Now it's summer (sort of), we're knocking this back on a regular basis in the Greasy Spoon Household. It's a vastly under-rated drink (once popular amongst the fast Scimitar-driving Gin and Jag set); today, I really don't know anyone else who drinks it.

Campari was invented in 1860 by Gaspare Campari in Novara, Italy. The original recipe is still in use today, and it's kept a close secret; apparently there's only one person in the world knows the complete formula.

I like to serve it with fresh, fizzy soda, on the rocks and with a slice of orange. The soda tends to play down the bitterness of the Campari, and then, of course, there's that extraordinarily vivid pinky-orange colour going on in the glass.

Refreshing...relaxing...utterly civilised... I like the idea of lounging around in an easy chair, listening to a Bach prelude & fugue on the piano, and sipping a C & S after a difficult day at work. It's time for a Campari Revival!

 

 

Whiskey Sour

 

 

There's something very grown up about a Whiskey Sour. It reminds me of that amusing moment in Whit Stillman's "The Last Days of Disco" when Chloë Sevigny, trying to be sophisticated and avoiding the "preppy girl's cliché of the Vodka Tonic" orders a "Whiskey Sour" at a thinly disguised Studio 54.

Incidentally, for all you Scots out there, it is a Whiskey Sour with the e. The drink's based on Bourbon, rather than Scotch Whisky, so I'm going to keep to the authentic American spelling for now. But according to wipkipedia, the Whiskey Sour was invented by an Englishman, one Eliot Stubb, who opened a bar in the port of Iquique, Peru. He added lime juice and sugar to a glass of whisky and was pleasantly surprised by its refreshing taste.

There's another theory that the earliest mention of the Whiskey Sour can be traced to a newspaper recipe in Wisconsin in 1870. I've got a sneaky feeling that the authentic recipe is more likely to be American; it might even have the whiff of Prohibition about it. The slightly sweet taste of Bourbon balances out well with the acidity of lemon.

Like all the great and classic cocktails, a genuine Whiskey Sour is simplicity itself. No chunks of pineapple, no silly umbrellas or fussy ingredients. You fill up your cocktail shaker with ice, pour in 2 oz of Bourbon Whiskey, the strained juice of half a lemon and two and a half teaspoons or so of powdered sugar. The cocktail is shaken and then strained into a cold glass, and garnished with a slice of orange peel and a cherry. If you follow these proportions you will make just enough to fill up a Martini glass- and I think that would work well.

You could also serve it on the rocks, and some people also add a splash of soda. Personally, I prefer it straight up, but as ever, it's a matter of personal choice, isn't it?

 

The Last Days of Disco (1998), directed by Whit Stillman

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!

Vodka Bullshot

 

 

Snow in November! Here in London. It's seriously cold. The Blacking Factory is currently unheated, and I'm praying that this year my Christmas stocking will include a pair of those fingerless woollen gloves. Those Bob Cratchitty things; I can't remember what they're called: mittens?

On Sunday afternoon we made steaming glasses of Vodka Bullshot- and I couldn't get them down fast enough. It's a great cocktail. Not the sort of thing you would want to drink everyday of course, or even at a party, but for a raw winter's evening it's just the ticket. It's very similar to a Bloody Mary, except you substitute the tomato or clamato juice with beef bouillon.

Here's how we made it.  Into a heatproof mixing jug, pour: a decent slug of vodka (Stolichnaya is the current brand of choice), a few shakes of green Tabasco, Lea & Perrins' Worcestershire Sauce, a good pinch of celery salt, freshly ground pepper, a squeeze of lemon juice and a few tablespoons of a decent dry sherry.  Mix, and top up with hot beef boullion (we used tinned beef consommé).

 

 

 

You don't want to boil the drink, as this will evaporate the alcohol and may even shatter the glass.  Warm to steaming hot is the goal. Surpisingly good. Try it.

 

 

 

Gin and Tonic

 

 

Recently, I seem to have reverted to my former tipple of choice, The Gin and Tonic. Our hovel is in danger of becoming a temple to the stuff. As I regretfully say farewell to the years of late youth, I seem to be turning into an updated version of my father. My father was- and is- a creature of habit, and back in the early 70's, come hell or high water, every Saturday morning was spent in ritual fashion, stocking up on Victory Gin from Victoria Wine, and a bag or two of spicy Bombay Mix.

Own brand gins are not to be sniffed at: I've started to drink the excellent and extremely affordable Sainsbury's London Dry Gin, which I can see from the small print is actually distilled by Greenall's up in Warrington (where, incidentally, Bombay Sapphire is made.) It's a clean, light and rather subtle gin and comes highly recommended, although I'm not that happy about the new packaging- until a few weeks ago, it came with an amusing 18th century black and white engraving of St Paul's Cathedral, London Bridge, and the spires of Old London Town. This has now been relegated by some trendy packaging consultant to a small, over-stylised motif in the left hand corner of the label.

Any serious gin drinker will know that the different brands vary dramatically in taste. Bombay Sapphire for example, is highly scented, and in my opinion, slightly too sweet, even a trifle sickly. The brand, too, is not as ancient as the label suggests, and I'm guessing that it's deliberately marketed at a younger metropolitan crowd. Tanqueray Export is popular in America and with its higher alcohol content is excellent for a Dry Martini. Beefeater is a smooth and crisp gin which consistently wins approval in blind tastings, and is reasonably affordable. I'm a huge fan.

I suppose that my interest in gin derives from the days when my father used to advertise Booth's Gin. Booth's was the gentleman's gin, founded in London around 1740, and a favourite, if it is to be believed, of both Her Majesty the Queen, and Her Late Majesty, Queen Elizabeth, The Queen Mother.

 

 

Strangely, "Booth's Finest London Dry Gin" was actually yellow in colour: I seem to remember some story about how the straw in the wooden barrels turned the gin yellow by accident;  a tradition which Booth's maintained until the demise of the company in, I suppose, the mid 1980's. "Booth's High and Dry" (which came in a lovely frosted bottle, a splendid heraldic red plastic lion on a "silver" chain around the neck) was the gin of choice for the connoisseur of the Dry Martini.

As you've probably realised by now, Booth's panelled offices in Park Lane closed their doors for the last time some years back, and the brand was swallowed up by one of the corporate Big Boys, who allowed it to fall into obscurity. There is a gin calling itself "Booth's London Dry" (in a blue plastic bottle, but with the famous red lion) which seems to be still available in the United States, but I read somewhere that it's actually distilled in New Jersey, and I suspect that it has no authentic connection with the original British brand. I really don't know. It's all a terrific shame: it would really make my day to see those suave frosted bottles back on the shelves once again.

Anyway. I digress. What's the best way to serve gin?  The classic gin and tonic is an excellent (and under-rated) drink, and I hate to admit it, not often served properly (and that includes by yours truly himself). Nothing worse than warm gin in one of those cheap hotel glass tumblers with a white line on it, and a limp lemon slice floating around in it.

Ideally, the gin needs to be chilled in the 'fridge, and then poured into a clean tumbler over fresh ice cubes. Schweppes make a classic tonic, though I also happen to like the taste of Britvic (founded in the mid 19th century as the British Vitamin Products Company). It's quite a good idea to buy those small cans of tonic which keep fizzy, as tonic kept in those plastic screw-top bottles tends to go flat. There are some very strange people out there who claim that a slice of cucumber works well in gin. I reckon that's a complete aberration, and am of the firm belief that a slice of lime is your best bet, with lemon coming up from behind in a close second.

That's it.

 

 
 

Wassail

 

 

 

I've noticed that quite a few readers of The Greasy Spoon have been searching for wassail on the internet. As I'm feeling in a helpful mood, I'm revisiting a post that I wrote last year on the subject. I've also added a nice interactive link to a quirky short film I've found, explaining the wassail tradition in Herefordshire, England. Please take note of my own recipe for Mulled Cider. It's so utterly preferable to the ubiquitous Mulled Wine. I can't stress that enough.

Here's the article:

Wassail is a traditional mulled punch, drunk at Christmas-time in the Northern and Germanic countries. Very Nordic. Wassailing can either mean the singing of carols (at Christmas, the serfs would wassail the Lord and Lady of the Manor), or, as in Gloucestershire, and other western counties, the wassailing of an apple tree- to ensure a good harvest, and drive away the evil spirits. This is done on Twelfth Night. I reckon that The Wicker Man was closer to the bone than many people realise. 

Anyway, although I realise that the chances of wassailing an apple tree in down town Vancouver are practically zero, I'm going to give you my recipe for my very own wassail, otherwise known as Mulled Cider. I prefer it to Mulled Wine, I really do. The problem with the wine version, is that many people get it wrong. Very wrong. They chuck in a bottle of plonk, boil it up, and then add all sorts of other dodgy ingredients, including vodka; and the result is an over-acidic, pungent brew which can leave you with a god-awful hangover. 

Mulled Cider is "different", smoother- and in my opinion delicious. There are no rules; but to get the best results, I suggest that you keep it simple. In a large pan, I pour in a decent dryish West Country or Norman organic cider. Try and avoid the cheaper, sweeter, fizzy stuff.

Next, I cut an orange in half, and add that. Do the same with a lemon. Now it's time for the spices. A cinnamon stick, a few cloves, ground nutmeg, and a kernel of ginger would work well.Taste it!

If it's too dry, add a bit of brown sugar. Start warming it up. You do not want to boil it. Keep it simmering at just below boiling point. If you boil it, all the alcohol will vapourise away- and you want your party to go with a swing, don't you? If you're going to serve it in glass mugs, make sure that you put a silver spoon in the mug first. This will prevent the glass from shattering. 

If you've got time, decorate the wassail with "Lamb's Wool". This is just peeled apple simmered in cider until it goes woolly, and "explodes"; once that's done, you can float the pulp on top of the mulled cider.

 

 

Related articles

Wassailing

Spiced Wassail, Traditional Apple Cider

Mulled Fresh Cider

September 30 is Hot Mulled Cider Day

Sloe Gin

 

It's that time of the year again: Sloe Gin Time. Sloe Gin is a liqueur made from the sloe berries of the Blackthorn bush, which grow in the hedgerows of the English countryside. By ancient lore, they're picked at the end of October (around Hallowe'en and supposedly just after the first frost); but with global warming, I can't quite work out if you should pick them earlier, or pick them later.  Anyway, they're quite easy to spot- medium sized purplish coloured  berries with a slight dusty bloom. I get mine from an idyllic spot I know in Oxfordshire- that is if the good burghers of Wallingford haven't got there first. Sloe gin is easy to make at home.

First, you need to pick a decent amount of ripe sloe berries. If you live in the city, you can buy sloe berries on ebay. I think it's probably a good idea to freeze the berries first to simulate the effects of a first frost. The freezing process will help to break down the berries, and extract the juices. 

Then you need to prick each berry, so that the juices can be released.  Traditionally this was done with a silver fork.  I'm not exactly sure why, but it certainly adds to the mystique. 

Next, you need to get hold of some gin. I use Plymouth Gin, the traditional tipple of the Royal Navy. One year as an experiment, and in a misguided attempt to be trendy, I made a batch from vodka; it was okay, but I missed out on the junipery flavours that gin gives you. It's easiest to make your sloe gin in the gin bottle itself, but if you're really keen you can use one of those large demi-john glass jars used for home brewing.

 

Using a funnel, pour your pricked berries into the gin bottle, so that they come up to between a third and a half way.  Drink the surplus gin.  Now it's time to add some sugar. (Up to about a third of the gin bottle is probably right). So you will now have a bottle of gin, with the berries coming up to about half-way, and sugar up to about a third of the way. I hope that's clear.

To give my Sloe Gin extra flavour, I add a teaspoon of almond essence, a clove and a stick of cinnamon, for added spice. Screw the cap back on tightly, and shake the bottle like crazy. The gin will start to turn a pink colour. Store it away in a dark cupboard, shaking daily for two weeks, and then once a week thereafter.

Over the next few weeks, your sloe gin will start to take on a darker, rich-ruby red colour, and will begin to thicken up. In theory, it will be ready to drink after about three months, but I find the longer you keep it, the better it gets. I had some in my cupboard for years- and it kept on improving with age. When it's ready, you will obviously need to get rid of the berries, and strain it off several times over. Sloe Gin has a rich, spicy, woody, plum-like flavour, which is perfect as a winter tot, or as a traditional Hunting stirrup cup.

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.

Pink Gin

 

 

 

The Pink Gin is a forgotten cocktail, worthy of resurrection.  It was a fashionable drink in the 1930's, and the unofficial cocktail of the Royal Navy, reminiscent of smart cocktail parties, cigarette holders and the stiff upper lip.

It's a simple cocktail, and is easy to make. Swirl a few drops of Angostura Bitters around a glass. Add some crushed ice, and a slug of Plymouth Gin. Top it up with iced water, to taste. The finished cocktail has a lovely, very light pink colour. Or is that stating the obvious?

 

Thrift and the Art of the Home Made

 

 

Do you remember the craze for home-made wine and beer?  Back in the 1970's it seems everyone was at it. Maybe it had something to do with the Real Ale, Beard and Sandals brigade- then, vaguely in fashion; but if I had to point a long finger at any root cause, it would be at the now forgotten concept of "thrift".  

This is something that we lost in the Eighties, Nineties and Naughties; but with the onslaught of the credit crunch (dreadful expression, that), I suspect is coming back into vogue. My father brewed his own beer and lager, and my poor mother had to put up with an evil-smelling red plastic bucket, which he kept in the kitchen cupboard (it was exactly the right temperature, apparently). Consequently, our hovel smelt like an outpost of Whitbread's.

Beer making was touchingly ritualistic: there was all the interesting paraphernalia you bought from Boot's, lots of "tut-tutting' over thermometers, and then the excitement of the first tasting. I seem to remember the lager tasted all right (if a bit soapy), but the bitter (how can I put this delicately, needed urgent revision.

Do it yourself wine making might be a noble and arcane rural pursuit worthy of re-discovery. A few years ago, I paid a visit to some Old Boy down in Stoke Poges- ostensibly to value his antique nick-knacks; but of a far greater interest were the dusty bottles lurking in his potting shed. Pigeon Fancying and Wine making were his hobbies- indeed his passions- and spurred on by my sudden enthusasiam, he urged me to sample his wares. Every bottle had been neatly labelled in a spidery handwriting, ready for tasting. Was Dandelion '73 better than Carrot '84? Was '92 a bad year for Cowslip?  Had he put too much sugar into the Elderflower "Champagne"? And so on, and so forth.

Now, I'm currently in a money pinching, tight-fisted mood, worthy of that shining example to us all: Ebeneezer Scrooge; and I salute the enterprise of Mr What Not of Stoke Poges. 

And on the same tack, what's happened to SodaStream? Those of us of a certain vintage will remember this well. Home-made tonic water, bitter lemon, and ersatz " cola" costing tuppence a shot. They seem to have a website going, though I don't know anyone whose got one.  And don't you have to get carbon di-oxide canister refills from somewhere? I'll have to investigate.

Champagne Cocktail

 

Here's a great idea for the Hogmany revels tomorrow: it's a Champagne cocktail with Sloe Gin. Like many of the best ideas, it's utterly simple.  Just add a dash of Sloe Gin to a decent Champagne, which, naturellement, you've previously chilled 'on ice'. A perfect winter cocktail, and British in spirit, too; which is no bad thing. For my other Champagne Cocktail recipe, have a look at my post from last year.

I've still got some of the Sloe Gin left from '07. If you remember, I added a bit of almond essence, and having tasted the stuff, I've now decided this is the way forward. The gin's turned a nice, brownish colour too. Sloe Gin improves with age. Definitely.

Wassail

 

 

I've noticed that quite a few readers of The Greasy Spoon have been searching for wassail on the internet. As I'm feeling in a helpful mood, I'm revisiting a post that I wrote last year on the subject. I've also added a nice interactive link to a quirky short film I've found, explaining the wassail tradition in Herefordshire, England. Please take note of my own recipe for Mulled Cider. It's so utterly preferable to the ubiquitous Mulled Wine. I can't stress that enough. Here's the article:

Wassail is a traditional mulled punch, drunk at Christmas-time in the Northern and Germanic countries. Very Nordic. Wassailing can either mean the singing of carols (at Christmas, the serfs would wassail the Lord and Lady of the Manor), or, as in Gloucestershire, and other western counties, the wassailing of an apple tree- to ensure a good harvest, and drive away the evil spirits. This is done on Twelfth Night. I reckon that The Wicker Man was closer to the bone than many people realise. 

Anyway, although I realise that the chances of wassailing an apple tree in down town Vancouver are practically zero, I'm going to give you my recipe for my very own wassail, otherwise known as Mulled Cider. I prefer it to Mulled Wine, I really do. The problem with the wine version, is that many people get it wrong. Very wrong. They chuck in a bottle of plonk, boil it up, and then add all sorts of other dodgy ingredients, including vodka; and the result is an over-acidic, pungent brew which can leave you with a god-awful hangover. 

Mulled Cider is "different", smoother- and in my opinion delicious. There are no rules; but to get the best results, I suggest that you keep it simple. In a large pan, I pour in a decent dryish West Country or Norman organic cider. Try and avoid the cheaper, sweeter, fizzy stuff. Next, I cut an orange in half, and add that. Do the same with a lemon. Now it's time for the spices. A cinnamon stick, a few cloves, nutmeg, and a kernel of ginger would work well. Taste it! If it's too dry, add a bit of brown sugar. Start warming it up. You do not want to boil it. Keep it simmering at just below boiling point. If you boil it, all the alcohol will vapourise away- and you want your party to go with a swing, don't you? If you're going to serve it in glass mugs, make sure that you put a silver spoon in the mug first. This will prevent the glass from shattering. 

If you've got time, decorate the wassail with Lamb's Wool. This is just peeled apple simmered in cider until it goes woolly, and "explodes"; once that's done, you can float the pulp on top of the mulled cider.

Eggnog

Oh crikey, I'm not even sure if I like eggnog.  You see, in England, we hardly ever have it. To be entirely honest with you, until I started writing this post, I didn't really know what it was. Okay, I knew it had egg in it, perhaps a splash of cognac too, but that was about it. Even thought it might have had something to do with Advocaat, which in a sense, it has, as they're made from similar ingredients.

There's an interesting article on the history of eggnog on the net. It originated in England, apparently, and then became popular in the United States, especially at Christmas.

I found a recipe for a Mexican version of eggnog in Elisabeth Lambert Ortiz's excellent little book, The Festive Food of Mexico: Ponche de Leche y Emas y Cognac.  Her recipe will make 4.5 litres of the stuff.

Beat 15 egg yolks with 450g caster sugar in a large bowl until light and lemon coloured. Whisk in 2 litres of milk.  Pour the mixture into the top of a double boiler set over hot water and cook.  Stir at a very low heat until the mixture is thick enough to coat a spoon.  Remove from the heat and stir in a tablespoon of grated orange peel. Whisk in a bottle of cognac (or other brandy). Serve in tots or small punch cups topped with a little grated cinammon, and one or two wafer thin strips of orange peel for decoration. If you're in the mood, you can also put a cinnamon stick into each cup.

Convinced by all this? I'm not entirely sure...

Bonfire Night Bullshot

 

 

Until recently Hallowe'en wasn't particularly celebrated in the British Isles. The odd mask might have appeared in the local newsagents, and children at school might have peformed some sort of spooky play at school, but that was about it. Instead, the emphasis, at this time of year, was on Guy Fawkes Night, and that meant private bonfire parties, fireworks, bangers and "Penny for the Guy" on the Fifth of November.

For the celebrations tonight, why don't you fill up your hip flask with a hot bullshot cocktail? Normally this is drunk cold, on ice; but I see no reason why it shouldn't be served hot (in a similar fashion to mulled wine or cider) and I have a sneaky suspicion that you might find it even better this way.

Empty a tin of beef consommé soup into a large pan. Pour in a large slug of vodka and add a dash of Lea & Perrins Worcestershire sauce, a squeeze of lemon juice, a pinch of celery salt, and finish it off by seasoning it with salt and pepper.

Warm up the bullshot on a medium heat, making sure that you don't boil it.  If you've got guests, I would suggest serving it in small coffee cans or cups.  If you're going to the Park, I would urge you to fill up your hip-flask and pass it around.