The Greasy Spoon | Food & Culture

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... 

 

Dinner with Rasputin

 

 

Researching the life of the remarkable Joseph Vecchi, (restauranteur and bon vivant), I came across an intriguing post featured on the Romanov history website, The Alexander Palace Time Machine.

Joseph Vecchi managed several distinguished restaurants including Claridges; the Kaiserhof, Berlin; the Astoria, St Petersburg and the legendary Hungaria in Lower Regent Street. His autobiography, My Tavern is My Drum (published 1948) includes a fascinating eye-witness account of an all-girl (“the beauty and power of feminine Russia”) dinner party held in honour of Rasputin:

"The Princess X's party in honour of Rasputin was scheduled to begin at ten in the evening, and a party of about twelve ladies accompanied by their young and beautiful daughters were assembled to do him honour. No other male guests were to be present, and I had been asked to ensure that Rasputin's arrival and departure had as little publicity as possible. 

 

 

Selianka d’esturgeon was Rasputin’s favourite dish. Selianka or Solyanka is a thick, sour Russian soup, which can be made from meat, fish or mushrooms. Before the dinnner party Vecchi managed to get the recipe off the court chef, which was made in the following way:

First all the ingredients are assembled together. One needs two lb of sturgeon, four tablespoonfuls of olive oil, two lb of fresh cabbage shredded finely "en julienne", three peeled and sliced cooking apples, one finely chopped onion, four tablespoonfuls of flour, pickled mushrooms, salted cucumbers, chopped parsley, black pepper and breadcrumbs. Next the dish is prepared in the following way.

The chopped onions are fried in one spoonful of olive oil and added to the cabbage, the whole being put in a pan to stew with a tablespoonful of water only, as the cabbage, if slowly and properly cooked, makes its own moisture. The sturgeon in next cut into square pieces and floured all over, then fried in oil. When the cabbage is almost cooked, the sliced apple is added and the stewing continued, the dish being stirred all the time with a rapid, light movement. Next, a spoonful each of oil and flour, and a little water are mixed together until the resultant paste is free from lumps. This is added to the cabbage when the vegetable and onions and apples are quite ready, and stirred until the four has thickened the whole.

The cabbage is next placed in a layer on a china dish and the squares of cooked fish placed on top of it. Black pepper and parsley is sprinkled over, and the whole covered with another layer of cabbage. Garnish with salted cucumber and pickled mushrooms, then pour over the gravy from the fish and finally spread breadcrumbs over the top. The whole dish is then placed in the oven to be slightly browned.

Vecchi doesn’t say if Rasputin enjoyed the dish; I assume that he did, as the guests at this little gathering also sampled the delights of caviar, Bortsch Petite Russienne Pirogki, Sterlet Parovaia, L’ Agneau Caucasienne à la Broche and Soufflé Grand Marnier. Rasputin’s table manners left something to be desired:

Throughout the evening the behaviour of Rasputin was intolerable...I can find no words to mitigate of excuse his disgusting behaviour. When he ate it was like a beast using his long talon-like fingers in lieu of knife and fork, grabbling amongst the food on his plate and stuffing himself in a very vulgar way with no regard of the feelings of the cultured ladies who sat at table with him.

 

Extracts taken from My Tavern is My Drum, the autobiography of Joseph Vecchi, published by Odhams Press, London, 1948.

 

Austerity Chicken Broth

 

 

 

We are still without a kitchen. I'm not blaming the builders, who have been superb and worked like navvies, but our renovations have turned out to be a more ambitious enterprise than we had originally envisaged. The entire floor base has had to be broken up with a pneumatic drill, revealing a sort of packed down clay surface; pipes relayed, walls rebuilt, chimneybreasts knocked back, French windows inserted, everything re-wired. Gutted. They're nailing down re-claimed 1920's floorboards as I write.

It's been chaos, acidic builder's dust choking everywhere and everything (my dried-up hands breaking out into an unpleasant rash), books piled up high at crazy angles, cardboard boxes stacked here and there- an open invitation to trip, both of us trying hard not get grumpy. But it's been difficult.

And that constant drilling noise, from early morning to dusk. But the worst thing of all: No cooker. Yup, nothing to eat except micro-waved food, and sardines straight from the tin. Neanderthal. God, I'm utterly sick of micro-waved food. Initially, it wasn't too bad, and we could sort of cope with "Taste the Difference" packet chicken in black bean sauce. But after several months of this (has it been longer?) and all those supermarkety, ready-to-go, microwavey instant things have blurred into one awful, bland, salt-rich, monosodium glutamate lovin' nightmare.

Talking of which, I'm beginning to dream about food. Properly cooked food. Fresh food. I had a lovely fantasy sequence the other night which involved, amongst other things, the making of a New England Chowder. Fresh crab, little diced carrots, potatoes, onions, chopped flat-leaf parsley. Creamy. Rich. Thick. Intense, deep fishy, sea-side flavours. And I've started to have an obssession with chicken broth. Can't stop thinking about it.

A very kind friend learnt of this, and lent me us a nifty little camping stove, powered by a Calor Gas canister. I managed to make an excellent chicken soup or broth from it, which I served up to Mrs Aitch who was running a temperature. Cooked on the floor, in the ruins of our former kitchen. Next to a Cement Mixer. It was one of most delicious things I've ever tasted for a long, long time: take away decent, properly cooked food for a few months, and Mein Gott, you will start to really appreciate the crucial role food plays in the quality of life. It's terribly important.

Anyway, this is how I made my very simple, but completely beguiling chicken broth. I managed to find a large pan (about the only thing not in storage), rinsed off the dust with the garden tap outside, and into this I placed a very ordinary, ersatz, non-organic supermarket chicken. A whole one. Price: Five Pounds. By the way, for those of you who are sniffy about supermarket chicken, please take into account that in this particular case the poor beast did not die in vain, in the way that it might have done if it had been served up, say, by the Good Colonel Sanders.

 

I topped up the pan with water, so that it covered the chicken. Into the pan went: a few leeks (roughly chopped), a parsnip or two for extra sweetness (again, roughly chopped), a few peppercorns, a few onions (roughly chopped), a stick of celery (snapped in two) a few parsley stalks, a sprig of thyme, and a few baby carrots (chopped up into chunks). 

The pan was brought to a slow simmer on a lowish to medium heat, and I scraped off the scum from the top as it did so. I kept on scraping off the scum as it bubbled up to the surface. The stew was then simmered slowly at a low heat, until the chicken started to break up, and a rich stock was formed. From memory, this took about an hour and a half. About twenty minutes beforehand, I had sliced up some further baby carrots into rounds and added them to the broth- for decoration. Taste, and add sea salt if you feel it needs it.

To serve, I ladled out the clearish chicken broth into a soup bowl, leaving all the bits and pieces behind in the pan. With a fork, I rescued some of the white chicken meat I found floating around in the pan, and tore it up into bite-sized pieces or strips. These were placed in the middle of the bowl, and the cooked baby carrot slices scattered around them. The broth was finished off with finely chopped flat leafed parsley.

It's a pretty and delicate looking dish, which also happens to be cheap to make; and if you're clever and bother to skim off the scum as it cooks, you should get a reasonably clear broth or consommé. This will amaze and impress your friends and neighbours.

 

Salad Olivier

 

 

Remember this old favourite?  Otherwise known as the Russian Salad, it was invented by Lucian Olivier, a Belgian chef who ran the fashionable Hermitage restaurant in Moscow during the late nineteenth century. Olivier's salad, apparently, became quite a cause célèbre with le gratin; and enjoyed the patronage of the grand matrons of Muscovite Society. The Hermitage restaurant closed down in 1905, and Lucian Olivier died at the relatively young age of 45. If you're so inclined to pay your respects, he's buried in the Vvedenskoye Cemetry. And the closely guarded secret recipe for his famous salad went with him to the grave. Or did it?

What's in it, I hear you ask?  That's a very interesting question and much open to debate. There's quite a bit of stuff about it on the net; the subject's almost becoming a sub-culture in its own right. The original recipe included all sorts of exotic lovelies: grouse, veal tongue, caviar, crayfish tails, capers and even smoked duck- this was a fabled dish from Pre-Revolutionary Russia after all; nothing like that awful Heinz Russian Salad thing that came in a tin, and looked suspiciously like Oskie the Cat's sick.

 

Nicholas II and Alexandra, in 17th century fancy dress for the Winter Palace Ball, St Petersburg, 1903.

 

Anyway, a certain- and enterprising- Ivan Ivanov, a sous-chef at the Hermitage restaurant, plucked up enough courage to steal the recipe. Look upon his dastardly plan as a late nineteenth century pension pot. Now Olivier prepared the wretched salad himself- and only by himself. No other chef was allowed anywhere near him while he made it. Fortunately he was suddenly called away to deal with some emergency. While Oliver was gone, Ivan sneaked into the kitchen and managed to work out, at the very least, how the secret dressing was made.

Ivan left the Hermitage and went to work for Moskva, a local restaurant with an inferior clientele. A few weeks later, low-and-behold, a new salad appeared on the Moskva menu- the "Capital Salad" which, most suspiciously, looked and tasted very much like the original Olivier salad from the Hermitage restaurant. Naughty old Ivan.

The story goes that Ivan then sold the recipe to various publishing houses. One of the first printed recipes for Olivier salad, by Aleksandrova, appeared in 1894. It included grouse, potatoes, gherkins, lettuce leaves, crayfish tails, capers and aspic. All bound in a Provençal dressing.

Here's my take on Salad Olivier, based on a recipe from the fanastic Taste of Russia by Darra Goldstein. It will serve about eight people. "A Taste of Russia" is one of my favourite cookery books. It rediscovers the cuisine of Pre-Revolutionary Russia; the food from the days of the Romanov Tsars. It's a terrific book.

 

In a large bowl, mix: 225g cooked potatoes (cut into dice), a large cooked carrot (cut into dice), two apples (chopped into dice), one peeled orange (membranes removed, and cut into chunks), two spring onions (chopped), and 120g peas.

Mix in 225g of cooked chicken (which you have previously chopped up into bite-sized pieces.

Make a dressing: Press three hard-boiled egg yolks through a sieve into a small bowl. Mix in two dollops of olive oil and stir, to form a smooth emulsion. Add two tablespoons of cider or wine vinegar and eight tablespoons each of mayonnaise and soured cream. Season, and pour over the vegetables and the chicken, keeping some of the dressing back.

Let it chill in the 'fridge overnight. To serve, form the salad into a neat mold or mound, and pour over the remaining dressing. Garnish with fresh dill. You could of course, for a more piquant taste, ditch the orange and include diced gherkin. An authentic addition. I think it would work. 

Ham Hock

 

 

 

The new Greasy Spoon forum/page on Facebook seems to be going well, with readers beginning to post up their own stuff on it: ideas, comments and food photographs. You can join in the fun at: The Greasy Spoon on Facebook. 

I've posted up a link on the Facebook page to a delicious and gutsy sounding recipe by Helen Graves: "Ham Hock and White Bean Soup with a Green Sauce". I'm going to try it out on The Girl tomorrow evening.

Ham Hock, also known as Pork Knuckle, is the joint or shank where the Pig's leg meets the foot. Ham comes from the back part of the pig. As you might expect, there's quite a bit of tendon, fat, and skin going on down there, and the hock needs to be stewed for a long period of time to cope with it all. Despite that, if properly cooked, a flavoursome pork knuckle is a noble old thing indeed, and a worthy champion of German, East European and American Southern Cooking. It also makes a fabulous terrine.

 

 

Have a look at the two charts I've posted up. I like the slightly retro graphics; the sort of thing you see posted up in old-fashioned butcher shops. The top chart shows British cuts, the chart at the bottom, American cuts. If you look closely, you will see that they are slightly different.

 

 

Beef Stroganoff

 

 

 

Remember Beef Stroganoff?  Many moons ago, my mother had a fledgling enterprise selling pre-cooked dinner party food to local housewives who couldn't be bothered to cook. Dishes were rustled up ahead of time, frozen, and then delivered to her clients in our rusting Lancia. I suspect there was quite a bit of fibbing going on, and the naughty dinner party hostesses would pretend that they had cooked it themselves. It was all very Stepford. From memory, Beef Stroganoff was one of the best-sellers on her menu. Strips of filet beef, cooked briefly, and bound in a mustardy sauce.

What exactly is Beef Stroganoff?  That's a very good question. In the authoritative The Prawn Cocktail Years, Simon Hopkinson and Lindsey Bareham reckon that the origins of the dish are suspect, and about as Russian as I am Chinese. My own guess was that it might have had something to do with that fascinating post-Revolutionary period in America, when Hollywood was awash with dubious Russian counts and every exile worth their salt was cousin to the Tsar. Wikipedia, however, is a mine of information on the subject, pin-pointing the birth of the dish to Elena Molokhovet's classic Russian cookbook of 1861: "Beef à la Stroganov with mustard, a simple concoction of fried beef cubes in a mustard and sour cream sauce". Stroganoff also appears in the 1938 edition of Larousse Gastronomique, but with the addition of onions and the option of tomato paste.

Here's my recipe for a classic Beef Stroganoff. I'm of the opinion that you need to cook the beef very quickly; the steak needs to be tender, rather than chewey. It's not really a stew. This should make enough for about four people.

You take 600g or so of filet steak, and cut it into slivers. The meat is seasoned and fried very quickly in a hot frying pan, until it's browned, but still relatively rare. Don't crowd the pan, otherwise the beef will stew, rather than fry; for the best results it could be a good idea to fry the meat a few pieces at a time. Take out the browned meat, and set aside on a plate.

Add a knob of butter to the pan, and cook some finely sliced onions until golden. Take them out of the pan and set them aside. Add a further knob of butter to the pan and add 350g of sliced button or baby mushrooms. Once cooked through, remove and add to the onions.

Turn down the heat, and carefully spoon 400ml of soured cream into the pan. Mix in a generous dollop of French mustard, and a small spoonful of tomato paste for colouring. Simon Hopkinson and Lindsey Bareham add paprika at the mushroom stage (cooking the spice in the hot butter for a minute or so), and there's nothing wrong with that. But The Greasy Spoon version is, perhaps, the more authentic and I don't think the dish should be too spicy. Is it possible to make a virtue of the bland?

Warm the sauce through, and combine the cooked mushrooms and onions back into the pan. Simmer the Stroganoff very gently for around ten minutes. I really do prefer the beef to be rare- but I understand that this is very much a matter of personal taste.

To finish off the dish, check the seasoning, and stir in generous amounts of freshly chopped dill and a squeeze of lemon juice. You serve it with plain rice.

 

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

The Greasy Spoon's Swedish Style Dressing

 

 

Recently, I find that I'm looking for increased simplicity in food. I've said this before, and there's no guilt in saying it again. Classic dishes, cooked properly (using the correct techniques) and presented simply- and not too much of it, either. Less is more. The dreaded garnishes are out too: nothing worse than those two ridiculous chive snippets placed at jaunty right angles to each other on top of a dish, forming a cross- I'm sure you know what I'm getting at. The sort of thing you see in "gastro-pubs", where it's all about poncy presentation, rather than flavour and technique. In fact, I'm currently rather in favour of ditching garnishes all together. Nothing More, Nothing Less.

I'm keen on lighter dishes, too. It's interesting that Scandinavian food is currently all the rage. Mrs Aitch gave me a signed copy of the Noma cookbook for Christmas, which was a terrific present: it's all ligonberries and wild flowers served up on stone palettes. I like this a lot.

 

 

So I've come up with my own version of a light Swedish dressing. It's water based and there's no oil in it. I suppose it is fat-free, though as it's also packed with salt and sugar, I would have thought that one evil has been ruled out by another. Or vice versa. But it's definitely light and delicate in taste, and I think your guests will love it; especially the girls.

I tipped several tablespoons of white sugar into a small pan and then spashed a rather expensive balsamic white wine vinegar we happened to have in the cupboard over the sugar. You'll need to experiment here: I found that I needed to use quite a bit of sugar (and less of the vinegar) to end up with a balanced taste.

Warm the pan, so that the sugar dissolves in the vinegar and forms a syrup. You want to thicken it up, but you definitely don't want to caramelise it. Cook it very gently for a minute or so. As there's going to be no oil in the dressing, this syrup, in effect, replaces the oil and needs to have body. Remove the pan from the heat.

Add a few pinches of salt, and a generous squeeze of fresh lemon juice. Whisk in several tablespoons of water and serve cold. You could also steep the dressing in fresh dill for a few hours before serving, which I think would taste delicious.

Miniature Blini Canapés with Herring, Keta Caviar and Dill

 

 

 

I came up with this idea for canapés on New Year's Eve, and they went down a treat.  I expect someone's thought of them before, but they were utterly delicious, and I would, without any hesitation, serve them again.  

First, you need to get hold of some miniature blinis. Mine came in a packet from Sainsbury's, but they were fine. You'll find that they have been pre-cooked, so you will need to heat them up in the oven for about five to ten minutes.  Grate some fresh horseradish into several spoonfuls of sour cream (making sure you grate across the base of the root) and add a squeeze of lemon juice.  

Spread the blinis with the sour cream, horseradish and lemon juice. Cut up some cured herring (ie marinated roll-mops) and place a small "square" of the herring onto the blinis. Top up with a teaspoon of keta caviar (that's that wonderful juicy orange stuff from H. Forman & Sons) and arrange the blinis on a serving plate.  Finish the canapés off by sprinkling freshly chopped dill over the canapés and the plate.  Happy New Year!

Soused Mackerel with Cider and Thyme

 

 

 

Recently, Lucas Hollweg wrote about a similar recipe in The Sunday Times style magazine. Soused Mackerel is a North European classic.  "Sousing" means to pickle.  I've used mackerel in this dish, but, typically, you could use any other oily fish such as herring ("maatjesharing" in Dutch or "matjes" in German and Swedish), and it might be an intriguing exercise to try the dish out with smoked haddock, instead. I think it would work. 

In my version, I've used cider; as many of you will remember, I favour the use of cider in my cooking over white wine (it also gives this particular dish an added North European slant); but you could of course, use a dry white wine instead. The following recipe will serve four hungry people:

First, you'll need eight mackerel fillets. Living in central London, I bought my mackerel from the local supermarket and filleted them myself, as the so-called "fishmonger" behind the counter told me that he "hadn't been trained to fillet, had he?".  I raise my eyes to heaven. Filleting is pretty straightforward, and would make a good subject for a future post. I managed to do a reasonable job- even without a proper filleting knife: our kitchen is currently in chaos.

Clean the mackerel fillets and arrange them in a flat dish. Sprinkle them with sea salt, and leave them for at least half an hour.

In the meantime, heat up your oven to 220C.  Into a saucepan put: two thinly sliced red onions, one thinly sliced carrot, three cloves of peeled whole garlic, several sprigs of thyme, two bay leaves, two cloves, a small handful of black peppercorns, 500ml of a decent dry cider, and 120ml of cider or white wine vinegar. This will make your brine. Add 150ml of water and bring it to the boil. Simmer for ten minutes, add three small slithers of lemon peel, and simmer away for a five further minutes.

Wipe the surplus salt away from the fish, and pour over the hot liquor. Cook in the hot oven for up to nine minutes or so- until the fish is just about cooked through. Cool in the 'fridge and leave overnight. You will find that the red onions make the liquor go a subtle tinted rose-pink colour.  

Check the seasoning, and serve cold with a generous amount of chopped parsley and hunks of warm bread to mop up the juice. If you're fussy about presentation, it might be an idea to remove the lemon peel and the cooked thyme (which will have gone a bit soggy and brown during the cooking), replacing it with a few fresh sprigs. Incidentally, I served my fish with the silvery skin of the mackerel intact; you could of course, remove this after cooking.

Ideal for a summer buffet in the garden.

Melon Sorbet with Iced Bison Vodka

 

 

 

I'm a big fan of sorbets, especially as they're so easy to make; even for those living with tiny kitchens, and without the luxury of expensive ice-cream makers. All you need is a deep freeze (however small), a terrine-shaped metal container, a blender, and lots of patience. Once you've mastered the technique, the sky's the limit, and great fun can be had by one and all inventing interesting new flavour combinations.

Here's an idea for a melon sorbet, seved with Polish bison vodka. The grassy taste of the vodka works well the summery flavours going on in the melon.

Take a cantaloupe melon and remove the skin. Cut it into chunks and take out the seeds and any pith. Put it to one side.  You could of course use any melon you liked the look of; experimentation is the key. In the meantime, dissolve three quarters of a cup of white sugar in three quarters of a cup of water, and heat gently to make a syrup. When it's properly dissolved, pour it into the metal terrine, and stick it into the 'fridge to cool down.

Whizz the melon up in your magimix or blender, until it's smooth. I happen to prefer my sorbets to be very smooth, and I don't like nasty bits floating around in it, so I would then push the blended melon through a sieve. Once that's done, pour the blended, sieved melon into the metal terrine and mix it around with the cooled syrup, adding a squeeze of lemon juice as you go. Stick it into the deep freeze.

Now it's a matter of patience. Wait until the sorbet is almost frozen, and then take it out of the deep freeze and mash it up with a fork. Put it back into the freezer. Wait again until it's almost frozen, take it out and mash it up. To finish it off, wait until it's almost frozen, take it out, but this time whizz it up in a blender, return it to its container and re-freeze.

To serve the sorbet, I pour iced Zubrowka bison vodka over it. Zubrowka vodka is curious stuff, which has a very distinctive grassy taste ( a bit like that evocative summer smell of freshly cut grass and petrol lawn mowers). To quote from the hilarious marketing blurb on the label: "In a remote corner of Poland in the North Podlaise Lowland lies a mysterious place called Bialowieza, the last primeval forest in Europe, home to Europe's last remaining herd of bison and to a distinctively, aromatic plant- Bison grass...since the 14th century, Bison-grass has been used to infuse a unique vodka, Zubrowka, a singular spirit of supreme smoothness..."

I'm not sure I like Zubrowka as a neat vodka, but I think it works brilliantly when used in conjunction with other foods. (Incidentally, there's no point adding vodka directly to the sorbet mix, as the alcohol won't freeze properly).

For the bibliophiles amongst you, it might be worth your while tracking down a copy of Elizabeth David's "Harvest of the Cold Months: The Social History of Ice and Ices", edited by Jill Norman, and published by Michael Joseph in 1994. I've got a feeling that this book was published in a small print run, and several years ago, scarce used copies were scarily expensive. But that was before the internet, and there's now a reasonable selection of copies available on Abebooks.

 

Related articles

• Europe on a budget: top chefs' tips for dinner on the cheap

Marinated Haddock with Prawns, Dill and Spring Onions

 

 

 

This recipe comes from Nathalie Hambro's "Simple Fare" (1986), one of the more interesting cook books in my collection. As well as being a fashion designer, and an all-round style guru, Nathalie Hambro is one of the most innovative and inspiring cookery writers out there, and if you are looking for fresh ideas I whole-heartedly recommend her books. Most of them, I think, are out of print but can be bought easily from amazon.co.uk, or abebooks.co.uk. I like this recipe for its Baltic, or Nordic, overtones, and it's very easily made with the simplest of ingredients. In concept, it's very similar to Gravlax.

 

 

 

Line a dish with tin foil. Spread some fresh dill over the foil, and season with sugar, Maldon salt, and black pepper. Next, place a fresh smoked haddock fillet over the dill. Normally I would use undyed haddock, but for this recipe I've found that the dyed yellow haddock works better. The Haddock needs to be as fresh as you can get it.

Cover the fish with more dill, sugar, sea salt and pepper. It's best to use more sugar than salt, and to go easy with the pepper. Sprinkle some large peeled prawns on top. Wrap the whole thing up tightly with the tin foil, and stick it into the 'fridge, with a weight on top, for at least twenty four hours- preferably longer.

When it's ready, slice the haddock into long, thin pieces. It's a bit like Japanese sushumi. Arrange in a serving dish with the prawns. 

Finally, take some spring onions, and cut them in four lengthways. Soak them in a bowl of ice-cold water- after a few minutes the green tops will start to curl up; this looks impressive. Zero effort. Take them out, drain them; and stick them in with the marinated haddock and the rest of the prawns.

Chicken Kiev

 

 

Last night I made an almost perfect Chicken Kiev. It's not especially difficult to make, but my previous attempt ended in failure, with a burnt outside, and a raw inside. Not good.

Some of you out there think that Chicken Kiev is a classic Ukranian dish- perhaps. More promising is the information provided by Alasdair Scott Sutherland's fascinating book The Spaghetti Tree, Mario and Franco and the Trattoria Revolution, which reckons that the Kiev (albeit without the garlic) was initially brought over by some Polish restauranteurs after The War, and then re-invented and italianised by the trendy La Trattoria Terrazza during the 1960's.

Franco and Mario added grated parmesan and garlic to the dish, and this undoubtably gives it a je ne sais quois. Here's how to make my definitive version:

First make the butter mixture. This is just salted butter mashed up in a bowl with lots of chopped parsley, some lemon juice, a few shakes of Tabasco, some freshly grated parmesan cheese, a decent dollop of crushed garlic, and freshly milled black pepper. Fashion the butter into a quenelle shape with a spoon, and let it stiffen up in the 'fridge.

Next, get hold of a chicken breast, and take a good look at it. There should be an extra bit of meat (almost forming a flap) on the side. Run a sharp knife along the edge and remove this, so that you end you with two pieces of chicken meat.

Beat them flat with a kitchen mallet, and then season them with sea salt and black pepper. Brush with a beaten egg, and lightly dust with seasoned flour. Put the quenelle of garlicky butter onto the larger bit of chicken. Place the smaller piece on top, and try and pinch the two pieces of chicken together, so that the butter is sealed inside. Wrap up the finished effort tightly in some cling film, and shove it into the 'fridge.  This should help it stick together. Then you can roll the chicken in the seasoned flour, and then brush it with the beaten egg. 

Finally, dip the Kiev into seasoned breadcrumbs, making sure that the chicken is well covered. Deep fry in oil, until the breadcrumbs turn golden brown. Make sure that they don't burn. It should take about five minutes.

I'm not completely sure what shape the Kiev should be. If you follow my method, there's a tendency for the Kiev to end up a turd-like sausage shape. I've got a hunch that it might look better if it's in a round, or at least a kidney or tear-drop shape. I'll leave that one up to you; it's going to taste the same isn't it?

 

The Greasy Spoon visits... Louis Pâtisserie of Hampstead

 

 

Many moons ago, I used to live in Hampstead. Subsequently, I've always had rather fond memories of the place; comparing it (perhaps foolishly) to Montmartre; and having been weaned as a nipper on Walt Disney's The Aristocats, think longingly of crooked chimneys, jumbled roof-tops, Victorian gas-lamps, hilly cobbled streets, and silvery Parisian light. In London.

If you've been following my blog, you'll know that I'm not especially keen on change for change's sake, and think continuity is often a quality overlooked by many restaurants. In a world of establishments modelling themselves on the Los Angeles airport transit lounge, circa 1961, it's refreshing to visit such restaurants as Wilton's (all banquettes, shabby velvet and heavily gilded frames) and Odin's (Edwardian British paintings, crisp linen tablecloths, and a discreet double-breasted maitre d'). Yesterday we had a Sunday afternoon coffee at the Louis Pâtisserie, and I can tell you now that it hasn't changed one iota since I last graced it with my presence- oh- at least ten to fifteen years ago.

Louis' is an institution. It's a Hungarian pâtisserie, café and tea rooms on Heath Street- that means it's in the centre of Hampstead village, proper. For some reason, East European restaurants always look a bit like railway carriages or waiting rooms- I can think of The Gay Hussar (railway carriage), or Daquise (waiting room). Louis' looks like a railway carriage- but a first class railway carriage at that: panelled with cherry wood, lined with slightly dubious 1950's still-lifes, and offering its clientele the luxury of banquette seating covered in sinful kidron. It's staffed by rather efficient little old ladies- heavily made up, plucked eyebrows, bee-hives, pearls; and (reassuringly) younger blonde girls with cracking figures and a brisk attitude.

Louis' is deservedly busy, and we had to wait in the crush for about ten minutes before being seated. One of the blonde girls brought a large silver plated tray of tempting looking goodies. I chose a chestnut, chocolate cream thingy, with worm-like bits on the top. The Girl went for some sort of chocolate torte, decorated with an L for Louis in swirly writing. The strawberry topped cake looked fabulous, too. 

In this sort of place, you can't but help listen in to other people's conversations (not that I would normally dream of doing this sort of disreputable activity). There were two youngish types (clearly from distant shores), not I regret plotting revolution, but trying instead to finish off some sort of marketing deal in broken English- with lots of gesticulation, stabbing of the table, and 'how do you say's'. The rest of us were more interested in the cake. 

Louis Pâtisserie, 32, Heath Street, Hampstead, London, NW3 6TE (020 7435 9908)

 

Gravlax

 

Gravlax is the Scandinavian way of pickling Salmon.  In Norway, it's called Gravet Laks. In Iceland, Graflax, and in Denmark, Gravad Laks. This means, literally, "Grave Salmon", and refers to the Medieval practice of curing the raw fish by burying it in the sand above the level of the high tide. It's probably the perfect first course for the Christmas season. I like it's simplicity- and it's fun to make too. I've based this method of making it on a Jane Grigson recipe mentioned in Paul Levy's The Feast of Christmas.

You start off with a tail piece of salmon, weighing approximately 1 kg. Get your fishmonger to slice it in half, lengthways, and to remove the backbone, so that you end up with two slices of fish. Remove the remaining 'pin bones' with a pair of tweezers. Gravlax is usually made with the skin of the fish left on, but if you prefer, you can remove it.

Next, you need to mix up 'The Cure". Combine the following ingredients in a bowl: one heaped tablespoon of sea salt, one tablespoon of brown sugar, one teaspoon of crushed black peppercorns, and one tablespoon of cognac, schnapps or vodka.

Take some tin foil, and lie it down, flat. Spread some of the cure onto the foil. Lie one of the salmon pieces down onto the foil. Spread more of the cure onto the upper side of the salmon. Next, sprinkle lots of fresh, chopped dill on top of the salmon. Take the second piece of salmon, spread it with the cure, and place it directly on top of the first piece of salmon, so that you end up with a sort of salmon sandwich, with the dill and cure mixture filling up the middle. Does that make sense?

 

 

Fold over the tin foil, and crunch it tightly around the salmon pieces, so that it forms a package. Lie this in a shallow dish, and press some weights down on top of it.  I use some heavy iron weights from my grandmother's old-fashioned scales I've got lying around in my kitchen. Keep the salmon in a cool place for up to five days, turning the fish over once or twice. You'll find that juices from the fish will run out and mix with the cure and the dill. In effect, you're curing the salmon.

To serve the Gravlax, take it out of the tin foil, drain away the juices, and slice it thinly. I like it with dark rye bread and Dill Sauce.

You make Dill Sauce in a similar way to mayonnaise. Crack an egg yolk into a bowl, and mix in a dollop of French Dijon mustard and a tablespoon of white sugar. Whisk, and start to add Grapeseed Oil, drop by drop- as you would with a mayonnaise. The emulsion will thicken. Keep going until you're happy with the consistency. I like it thick. Flavour the sauce with two tablespoons of white wine vinegar, and season with salt and pepper. Finish it off by mixing in a decent amount of fresh, chopped dill. It's best if you remove the dill stalks, and then chop the feathery bits of the dill plant finely.

Amazing Dill

 

 

As I'm interested in Eastern European food, I use quite a bit of dill in my cooking. I bought a cheap packet of dill seeds a few weeks ago, and was amazed, after sowing them in a small terracotta pot, when they started sprouting in abundance. Herbs are difficult to grow in London, usually due to the lack of clean air, sun (like others, I've got a shady garden), and all the usual problems that come with city gardening.

If you look up dill on wikipedia, you will find lots of info about this fascinating herb. Apparently, it was used to ward off witchcraft and evil spirits. I use it with fish. It goes beautifully with salmon, and marinated haddock; and many dishes with an East European slant will benefit from its aniseedy, liquorice flavoured taste.

Polish Food Revisited...

 

 

Apologies for my absence; the workload at The Counting House has been phenomenal, and I've been crawling back to my hovel exhausted, and lacking my usual joie de vivre.

Having said that, on Sunday, I took The Girl to The Wallace Collection to have a look at Fragonard's racy painting "The Swing"; and on the way back to The Silver Beast- parked rakishly (and badly) in Manchester Square, we passed none other than Stara Polska- or if you have been following this blog, "Old Poland". Well, we had to stop by and have a late lunch; and I had a second opportunity to re-try their White Borscht.

 

I've had an email from Nancy of Vancouver, who has very kindly pointed me in the direction of a website with an authentic recipe. If you want to have a look at this site, here's the link: http://www.soupsong.com/rbarscz.html

Otherwise, here's my take on it: First, you need to make a Barscz. In a mixing bowl, mix together a quarter of a pound of dark rye flour, with four cups of warm water. Lie a drying up cloth over it, and leave in a warm place for five to six days, stirring once a day, so that it starts to ferment. Bring a quart of water to a simmer on the hob. Beat together an egg, and a cup of milk, and then stir it into the simmering water. Turn up the heat, let it thicken, and then stir in the Barscz which you've made previously. Thicken it up even more, and season with salt and pepper.

In a serving bowl, place rye bread (torn up into chunks), a sliced hard-boiled egg, sliced smoked sausage (kielbasa), and freshly grated horseradish mixed with a little white vinegar. Ladle in the prepared Barscz stock, and finish off the soup with a bit more grated horseradish.

Check the seasoning and serve. I reckon that's almost exactly what I had at Old Poland, except they probably add some garlic, and also garnish the whole shooting match with parsley. Incidentally, the label I've used as an illustration is for the excellent Zwiec Polish beer. Don't ask me how to pronounce it exactly, but I like the stuff, and of course, it goes beautifully with hearty Polish food.

Stara Polska

 

 

Last night, I was taken to a new Polish restaurant in Marylebone- close to St Christopher's Place. It's called Old Poland, otherwise known as "Stara Polska".

It was a funny, ramshackled sort of a place, with stuffed squirrels in glass cases, and uninvitingly hard wooden benches. But the food was rather good- I reckon that the couple who run the place had probably just arrived off the boat, so the food seemed genuinely authentic; I hope they do well.

I had a delicious White Borscht soup. I've never had this before, assuming wrongly that all borschts were made from beetroot, and therefore pink in colour. Apparently, Polish White Borscht is a traditional Easter Dish. It was sour in taste (with a hint of horseradish?), with garlic, slices of sausage, and sliced hard boiled eggs. I've trawled the net looking for an authentic recipe, but so far haven't found one.

As I've got a hard day ahead of me at the Blacking Factory, I'm going to have to put this one on hold for the time being, and report back later. If anyone out there in cyberspace can send me a decent recipe for this, please do, and I'll post it up on The Greasy Spoon.

Over and Out.

 

Russian Blinis

 

 

 

Did you know that today, Epiphany Eve, is Twelfth Night? It's all very complicated and historical- and in part, I think, to do with the Old and New Calenders (the Russian Orthodox Chrismas is on January 7th); although I reckon it was also the day when the Magi (ie the Three Wise Men) finally arrived at the manger.

So what better, than to have a look at Russian food? I love blinis. They're small pancakes, and you top them up with goodies like caviar, and smoked salmon. Fresh caviar has recently been banned, because of the decline in sturgeon stocks- so make do with smoked herring roe, or that delicious Japanese stuff- which looks like caviar, but is bright orange in colour.

Blinis are reasonably easy to make. A few years ago, I was lucky enough to find a small blini pan at that Parisian temple to Mammon, Fauchon. They also used to sell ready made Blini mixture in jars. Maybe they still sell them? Next time I'm in Paris I'll stock up.

Otherwise, this is how it goes: Dissolve a tablespoon of active dry yeast in four tablespoons of lukewarm milk. Next, stir in one teaspoon of sugar, and a half a pint of the milk. Add 4oz (120g) of buckwheat flour, and stir like mad, until you get rid of the lumps. You've done all this in a bowl. Cover it with a cloth, and leave it to rise (you hope!) for about an hour.

Melt some butter, and mix it with three egg yolks, and four tablespoons of sour cream. Add this to the risen flour mixture, along with a quarter of a pint of milk, a teaspoon of salt, and 6oz (170g) plain flour. Beat it again, to get rid of the lumps, and leave covered for two hours. It should rise even more.

 

 

 

Finally, beat up a quarter of a pint of double cream until stiff. Beat three egg whites (hopefully, you've got them left over from the yolks), and fold them into the double cream. Fold this mixture into the batter, and let it rest for thirty minutes. If it's too thick, add some warmed milk. See why it's easier to buy the Fauchon ready-mixed blini powder?

But let's carry on. Heat up a cast iron pan, and spread it with oil and butter. Take a dollop of the blini mix, and spread it around the pan. Cook it for a few minutes, and then flip it over. And remember the old Russian saying: "Pervyni blin komom": the first blini's a lump! Blini nos. 2, 3, & 4 should be much better. Stack them up on a plate, and serve with caviar, mock caviar, or smoked salmon with sour cream. Neat vodka (kept in the 'fridge until it goes thick), would be a good plan, too.

Christmas Herring Salad

 

 

A German style Christmas market has come to town. I haven't been yet, but all sorts of stalls, fairground rides, and ice-rinks have gone up in Hyde Park. And for once, it's suddenly cold and frosty here in London. Every Christmas I make a German or Scandanavian style Herring Salad. I was given the recipe by my great uncle whose family originally came from Cologne. He treated the enterprise as a work of art, and "built" up the salad over three or four days; however I recently ran into a Swedish girl at a cocktail party who insisted that it needed to be made quickly- and then finished off immediately. I'm going to go with my great-uncle on this one, as the vinegars in the salad should act as a preservative.

Want to make it?

This is how I do it: You will need a large mixing bowl. Chop up some herring. You are supposed to use salted herring, but I use Scottish roll-mops- which are herring marinated in vinegar and spices. Add some diced cooked potatoes, peeled diced apples, diced gherkin, chopped celery, chopped anchovies, and ham- chopped up into small pieces. Mix it all around. Throw in a handful of capers, and some diced cooked beetroot.

 

 

The beetroot will make the salad go an interesting bright pink colour. Next, mix up a vinaigrette. That's just a small dollop of mustard mixed with sugar, and wine vinegar to form an emulsion, with oil added slowly. I suggest you use a light oil, such as sunflower oil, rather than olive oil for this one. Olive oil is too Mediterranean in style and flavour. Finish off the salad with lots of chopped dill, and chopped egg white. It's delicious.

Gingerbread

 

 

Today is the Feast of St. Nicholas. Father Christmas, or Santa Claus, is partly derived from this saint. In Holland and other parts of Europe, children put out a boot for Saint Nick on the night of the 5th December to get presents. St. Nicholas has, I think, a creepy assistant called "Black Peter" who gives naughty kiddiwinks a lump of coal.

For me, the run-up to Christmas really starts about now. I was in a Black Cab with a friend a few nights ago, and as we sped through Sloane Square on the way back to the mean streets of Battersea, the Christmas lights looked fantastic. Bond Street is also currently looking pretty amazing.

Anyway, as I'm now in that sort of mood, I thought it might be a good plan to have a look at Gingerbread. As a ginger fanatic, I can't get enough of the stuff. Here is a recipe to make Gingerbread Men (I'm rebelling against the latest politically correct trend to call them Gingerbread People. The world is mad enough as it is).

I've adapted this recipe from the internet. First you need to pre-heat your oven to 170 C. Line a baking tray with baking parchment to stop the Gingerbread sticking. Melt 125g of unsalted butter, 100g dark muscavado sugar, and 4 tablespoons of golden syrup (that's the stuff in those picturesque old-fashioned tins). Sieve 325g flour, a teaspoon of bicarbonate of soda, and two teaspoons of ground ginger into a bowl, and then stir in the melted ingredientsto form a dough. Use your hands!

 

 

Turn the dough out on to a lightly floured board, and using a rolling pin, roll it out to a reasonable thickeness. I like them quite thick.

Now for the fun bit. You can use a Gingerbread Man cutter thing (available from cookshops) to make Gingerbread Men, or if you prefer other shapes, you can make stars, and biscuits, and goodies like that. Place them on the tray, shove in the oven, and cook them for about nine to ten minutes. When they're cooked properly, you can decorate them with icing. Frankly, I can't be bothered, and they're long gone before then. Patience is a virtue- and it ain't found in me.

Marinated Haddock with Prawns and Dill

 

 

 

This recipe comes from Nathalie Hambro's Simple Fare (1986), one of the more interesting cook books in my collection. As well as being a fashion designer, and all-round style guru, Nathalie Hambro is one of the most innovative and inspiring cookery writers out there, and if you are looking for fresh ideas, I whole-heartedly recommend her books. Most of them, I think, are out of print, but can be bought easily from amazon.co.uk, or abebooks.co.uk.

I like this recipe for its Baltic, or Nordic, overtones, and it's very easily made with the simplest of ingredients. Here's how you do it: Line a dish with tin foil. Spread some dill over the foil, and season with sugar, Maldon salt, and black pepper.

Next, place a fresh smoked haddock fillet over the dill. Normally I would use undyed haddock, but for this recipe I've found that the dyed yellow haddock works better. The Haddock needs to be as fresh as you can get it. Cover the fish with more dill, sugar, salt and pepper. It's best to use more sugar than salt, and to go easy with the pepper. Sprinkle some large peeled prawns on top. Wrap the whole thing up tightly with the tin foil, and stick it into the 'fridge, with a weight on top, for at least 24 hours- preferably longer.

When it's ready, slice the haddock into long, thin pieces. It's slightly like Japanese sushumi. Arrange it in a serving dish, with the prawns. Take some spring onions, and cut them in four lengthways. Soak them in a bowl of ice-cold water- after a few minutes the green tops with start to curl-up- which looks impressive, for virtually zero effort. Take them out, drain them; and stick them in with the marinated haddock and the rest of the prawns.

Paprika

 

 

As I wrote about Hungarian Goulash the other day, I thought it would be an excellent time to investigate paprika. Paprika was unknown in Europe until the discovery of America. It's made by grinding up dried red chili peppers to form a colourful powder and is used in the cooking of Eastern Europe, Spain, Portugal and The American Deep South; where they cook interesting dishes like Paprika Chicken and Sour Cream.

Hungarian paprika comes in all sorts of shapes and sizes: Eros (Hot), Rozsa (Rose), Csemegepaprika (Exquisite Delicate); and there are also smoked varieties for increased flavour.

Here in jolly old England, it can be hard to find the better brands. For years, we've been used to buying our paprika in little glass jars from the supermarket spice rack. Out of sheer laziness on my part, I used an old jar of this the other day, and my goulash turned brown, and didn't taste that great- so be warned. But if you have a look in the deli sections, you may well be able to find decent Spanish smoked paprika. It comes in small tins.

I'm currently using the "smoked and sweet" version for my goulash, but in theory, I should be able to find "bitter sweet" and 'hot". One of the advantages of the recent influx of East Europeans into London is that Polish food is beginning to creep onto supermarket shelves as a matter of course.

I was down at my local corner shop yesterday, and there were curious jars of pickled sausages and sauerkraut, and God knows what else, in a newly created section. I realise that there are less Hungarians here, but it would be lovely to see proper Hungarian paprika making an appearance too. Otherwise, it's going to have to be a trip to the new Wholefoods Emporium in Kensington High Street.

Goulash

 

      

 

Did you know that in Hungary, Goulash, or more properly gulyas (meaning a herdsman), is actually a soup? This peasant dish became fashionable in the nineteenth century when Magyar nationalism reasserted itself in the Hungarian lands of the Austrian Empire.

Like so many other bastardised recipes, genuine goulash is slightly different from Anglo-American interpretations, which have turned it into a thickish stew. Here's the Greasy Spoon version. I've kept the correct ingredients to make it more authentic but usually go for a thicker, rather than a soupy sauce.

Heat some butter and oil in an oven-proof casserole dish. Slice up some medium-sized onions, and cook them gently, until they soften. Next add a sprinkling of caraway seeds, and some crushed garlic. Cook for a minute or so. Now add your beef (which you have previously cut up into cubes; stewing beef is ideal). If you want a thick sauce, you can dust your beef cubes in plain flour, salt and pepper, beforehand.

However, a warning. If you want to make friends and influence people in Budapest, this is not the way to do it. Sprinkle in a generous amount of sweet ground paprika, and a handful of salt- so that the meat in the bottom of the pan is well covered. Stir, so that the meat is browned.

Now it's time to add your vegetables. For this dish, I like them diced, except the peppers, which I like sliced. Into the pot go: diced carrot, a tomato, celery, and sliced green bell-peppers. Pour over some water, or stock, and simmer gently until the meat is nice and soft. If you are using stewing steak, this could take quite a long time. If you're using a more expensive cut, your cooking time will be shorter. I'll leave it up to you.

Towards the end of the cooking, add your diced potatoes, and simmer until they are cooked. Finally, add a few pasta pieces and cook for a further five minutes. Serve the whole shooting match with noodles or hunks of hot, fresh white bread.

Oh- and a tip; try and find some genuine smoked hot or sweet paprika (in small tins), which will give your goulash a deep red colour. Avoid at all costs the cheaper stuff (which goes brown) and has a far blander taste.

 

Related articles

Called to the Bar

" Borscht "

Russian Lemon Soup

 

 

Jiminy Cricket, I love this soup! I've taken it from Dara Goldstein's "A Taste of Russia", which is a must for your cookery library if you like hearty East European cuisine. It's straightforward to make, cleansing, unusual, and most importantly delicious. Here's how you make it:

In your favourite pan cook a handful of rice (I use Uncle Ben's Long Grain American Rice) in unsalted butter until the rice absorbs the butter and becomes translucent. It should only take a few seconds. Next, add some good chicken stock (home-made si'il vous plait- I'll be coming to this in another post). Simmer for about twenty minutes.

You will probably need to add more stock bit by bit- you want to get the balance right between the rice and the liquid. Wait until the rice is cooked, and then stir in some double cream, and the finely grated rind and juice of a lemon. Keep on stirring to make sure the soup is well blended.

Finally, serve in bowls with a slice of lemon floating on the top and chopped parsley or dill. Make sure that each bowl has a spoonful of rice on the bottom.