The Greasy Spoon | Food & Culture

Poulet Forestière

 

 

 

Here's a recipe for an autumnal chicken and mushroom dish that Bon Viveur rather grandly called Poulet Forestière, published by The Daily Telegraph in 1964.  I make it often.  If the cooking techniques seem slightly weird - that's the scary Fanny Cradock and 1960s cookery for you. I would probably flambé the chicken and mushrooms in the cognac to burn off the alcohol (rather then add it neat towards the end as in the original recipe) and also sauté the mushrooms separately (rather then cooking them with the chicken, and risking their disintegration).  

 

Of course, the trouble with this sort of recipe is that it could turn out a trifle bland if you use bog-standard ingredients. To counter-act this, I would suggest that you use meaty, brown field mushrooms (rather than those flavourless button mushroom things), an organic, free-range chicken; be generous on the cognac and make sure that the dish is properly seasoned with a quality sea-salt and lots of chunky black pepper.

Cut up a decent free range chicken, and dredge the pieces in flour, seasoned with sea salt and pepper. Sauté the pieces in unsalted butter (making sure you don't crowd the pan- otherwise the chicken will boil, rather than fry), sauté some nice field mushrooms, and then simmer both the chicken pieces and the mushrooms in a casserole dish with chicken stock and white wine in a medium oven for about three quarters of an hour.

Arrange the chicken and mushroom in a serving dish, and strain off the cooking liquor into a small pan. Thicken it up with a beurre manié (that just means a flour and butter roux), a tablespoon of cognac, and a teacup of cream. Reduce slightly until thick, check the seasoning and then pour the sauce back over the chicken and mushrooms.

 

 

Johnnie and Fanny plug their latest book (starts at 1.01), British television ad, 1970

Alsace Lorraine, Part Two

Next stop was the spooky Chateau de Jaulny in Lorraine. This unfashionable part of North Eastern France is remote, and off the tourist track- which being an admitted "contrarian" was one of the reasons for going there in the first place. The countryside is beautiful, if slightly desolate, and relatively unpopulated; with the lovely, fast, empty French roads surrounded by deep, dark forests, and undulating hills. Perfect werewolf country.

Jaulny stands silhouetted on a ridge and has a whiff of Transylvania about it. The chateau may have once been the residence of Joan of Arc.

Madame was charming, and explained that the stuffed wolf's head mounted on the stone wall in the Hall (which would have done Hammer proud) had been shot by one her ancestors at beginning of the last century. Wolves, apparently have now been re-introduced into France, and are now making their way back to Lorraine. After two unsettling nights (is Jaulny haunted?), we crossed the Vosges mountains into Alsace.

Alsace is a fascinating part of France. Until the end of the First World War it was part of Germany, though today it is a curious hybrid- the look is decidedly German, though the feel of the place is French. As soon as you leave Lorraine, things start getting Germanic: chalets appear; churches start aquiring onion domes, you start to get towns ending in "burg", and "heim"; supermarkets sell canned goat cheese terrine, the hills are alive with the sound of. And this applies to the food, too. If you're going to enjoy Alsatian food, the charming town of Colmar is probably a good place to do it.

Colmar is a Medieval huddle of half-timbered and shuttered houses, cobbled streets, winstraubs and tasty, buxom waitresses in the traditional dirnl. Lots of gingerbread, too.

One of the most delicious Alsatian specialities is the tarte aux flambee. This is similar to pizza, but has a thinner, more delicate crust. The traditional tarte has onion and smoked pork; though in a smallish restaurant opposite the kofihaus, The Girl had a superb asperges blanc tarte, washed down with a carafe of the excellent Alsatian wine.

Another Alsatian dish is sauerkraut, or charcoute. Pickled cabbage is stewed gently for three hours, often with a splash of Reisling at the end of the cooking period, and then served with sausages, bacon, and smoked pork.

Before we left Colmar for The Fatherland itself, I had another chance to sample the delights of the tete de veau. Well, I had to, didn't I? This one was well-prepared, with the chunks of pink coloured simmered meat (and the accompanying gobbets of brains and fat) arranged in an earthenware pot. With the viniagrette came a mayonnaise and caper sauce.

Alsace Lorraine, Part One

Camp Followers of The Greasy Spoon will have noticed that Yours Truly has been away for the last few weeks. I'm not especially apologetic, as The Girl and I have just spent the first half of August on a driving holiday around North Eastern France (destination Alsace Lorraine), Belgium, Luxembourg and the western reaches of Baden-Wurttemberg, which of course, as you all know, is in sunny Deutschland.

One of the raison d'etres of the holiday was the food. I was curious about the cuisine of Alsace- which has a fantastic reputation, and is partly Germanic, partly French (Alsace and large parts of Lorraine were annexed by the newly created German Empire after the Franco-Prussian war of 1870). It didn't fail to disappoint. But more of that later.

First stop was at a chateau close to the Somme battlefield, near Arras. Lovely house, but an immensely sad place, being as it was only a few kilometres from the former Front Line. After all these years, the ghosts of those desperate battles of the summer of 1916 still linger on. The breakfast table was graced by a glass bottle of pure, filtered apple juice, made by the local villagers. Apples, and that means cider too, are a feature of this area, which slightly surprised me, thinking as I did that this sort of stuff was more commonly found in Normandy.

We had a fantastic dinner at a low-key restaurant, La Cote d'Agneau, in the small town of Doullens. Service was pretty dopey, but By Gum, the food was good: lovely, intense flavours- a fabulous foie gras terrine, and rich, roasted tomatoes left to stew on the vine.

I noticed that the French tend to flavour their food far more than we do in England; they're generous with their salt and pepper; and I suppose that this is one of the reasons why they tend not to have salt and pepper pots on the table. This is a tip we can easily copy in our own kitchens.

Despite current opinion, I still reckon that French food is generally far superior to British food. Here in London, we've got lots of excellent (and expensive) restuarants patronised by the reasonably affluent, and well-off; but if you drive out to the English countryside, it can be a very different story. In France, the general attitude is different. You can eat in some dusty restaurant in a deserted ghost-town of a village, and the food, although not necessarily superb, will still, generally, be pretty darn good. Shops sell local produce of a superior quality (often organic), and the standard offered by supermarket shines in comparison to the unimaginative, chemical blandness of British supermarkets.

After a night of sin at the ultra haut bourgeois Chateau d'Etoges (serried ranks of shiny cars, pushy wine-waiters, a superb dinner, and a much needed bottle of the excellent local Borel-Lucas champagne) we sped on to Epernay, where we shacked up at the Pierson Whittaker Champagne House.

The Champagne industry is centred on the two towns of Rheims and Epernay. We toured the celllars of the House of Tattinger, founded relatively recently in 1932. They were extraordinary. The offices of Tattinger are on the outskirts of Rheims and above ground are both modernist, and extremely slick. But directly underneath this temple of corporate efficiency is a labyrinth of ancient monastic cellars, stocked with thousands of bottles of maturing champagne. Incidentally, in case you're wondering, Champagne is generally cheaper in the local supermarkets of the Rheims area- and there are definitely some bargains to be had out there. However, in the rest of France, the price of champagne is almost up to UK levels- and that means it's currently pretty expensive.

Tomorrow, in the next exciting installment of The Greasy Spoon: werewolf country, the delights of Colmar, and the gothic horror of German "cuisine"...

Salad Niçoise

It's July, it's holiday time, and I'm thinking "South of France". What better than a Salad Niçoise? By the way, Niçoise, if you've ever wondered, means 'from Nice".

Like other famous dishes, there's lots of different ways out there to make this salad; and as usual, the way that you make it, is better than the way your neighbour makes it.

I reckon that the classic Salad Nicoise has the following ingredients: lettuce, tinned tuna fish, cooked green beans, black olives, tomatoes, baby new potatoes, hard-boiled eggs, anchovies, and just possibly capers. The whole shooting match is then tossed in a garlicky French dressing. I make sure that the beans are crunchy, and slightly undercooked, and the so-called "hard" boiled eggs have a soft yellow yolk.

I'm currently rather keen on a rather nifty new way of serving this dish. Instead of mixing it all together in a salad bowl, try arranging the ingredients separately on a long white serving plate (the sort of plate you would serve a salmon on). You can then either dress the thing with the viniagrette, or as I do, place a dollop of mayonnaise at the end of the dish. An aioli (ie garlic mayonnaise) would work beautifully here.

This method looks stunning visually, and picky guests (lots of them around these days, I'm afraid) have the choice of avoiding the anchovies or the capers, or anything else they don't like the look of. Good idea, what?

The Greasy Spoon's Lobster Thermidor

 

 

Last night The Girl suggested that we make Lobster Thermidor. An interesting choice, as I have to hold my hand up and admit to you that I have never made it before. So, I pulled a few trusted cookery books down off the shelf, and did some research.

There are all sorts of variations on the theme. Essentially, it's chopped lobster flesh bound in a creamy Hollandaise type sauce, put back into the shell, and then grilled with parmesan cheese. Some recipes use egg yolks, others don't; some recipes use chopped parsley, some use cayenne pepper, all seem to use mustard; you get the drift.

Here's what we came up with. It worked extremely well, and was easy to prepare. First we bought Australian lobster tails from Waitrose. We removed the side fins, and cut off the bones, which run across the top. The lobster flesh then came away easily, and was put to one side, while I made the cream sauce. This was straightforward. I chopped up two shallots, and cooked them in butter, until soft.

Next, I poured in a decent amount of dry white wine, with a dash of cognac, and bubbled it away to burn off the alcohol. I then added about a cup of fish stock, and a similar amount of double cream; turned the heat up, and reduced the sauce by about a half, to thicken it up. Next, I added a teaspoon of English mustard, salt and pepper, chopped chives, and a squeeze of lemon juice.

It was then a simple matter to warm the chopped lobster in the sauce (so that the lobster was slightly cooked), pour the mixture back into the cleaned lobster tails, sprinkle it with freshly grated parmesan, and grill it in the oven.

After about five minutes under the hot grill, the slightly browned lobster mixture bubbled up nicely with the melted cheese, and the lobster shell turned an attractive deep pink colour. Overall, a resounding success...

Watercress and Roasted Shallot Purée

 

 

In the same way that I like to experiment with different flavour combinations when I'm making sorbets, vegetable purées offer the perfect opportunity to try out new ideas. Purées are dead easy to make, and, in my opinion, are a sophisticated alternative to ubiquitous vegetable side dishes.

Here's a good 'un: it's my recipe for watercress and roasted shallot purée. I generally prefer shallots to onions, as they have a sweeter and more subtle taste. Take a handful of shallots, remove the skins, and roast them in a hot oven for about an hour. Chuck them into your Magimix and puree them with unsalted butter, salt and pepper, and a teaspoon of sherry vinegar, or lemon juice.

In a steamer, cook a large handful of watercress for a few minutes, until they are slightly wilted, and a deep green colour. Add them to the mixer, and puree until smooth.

Another puree I've come up with is made from an interesting artichoke and leek combination. It's a similar process. I steam chopped leeks until soft, and then purée them with artichoke hearts, lemon juice, and salt and pepper.

I finish off the purée of by cooking it gently in a small pan, and then mixing in a dollop of creme fraiche. Remember, it's a good idea to keep the leeks as green as possible. If you overcook them, they turn yellow, and you loose the crunchy, fresh flavours- so watch them like a hawk when you steam them. It might be a good plan to plunge them under ice-cold water once they've cooked. This will set the colour.

Sorbets of the World Unite...

Last night's sorbet making was a total success. The Earl Grey/Orange combination worked like a treat. I jiggled the flavours a bit, deciding that it was initially too sweet, so cut back a bit on the sugar, added more Earl Grey, and a smidgen more of the orange juice.

The fun thing about sorbets (which are easy to make), is that you can experiment with all sorts of interesting flavours. Pimm's sorbet would be fun- though bear in mind that alcohol will stop the sorbet from freezing, so it might be an idea to initially burn off the alcohol from the Pimm's, add it to the sorbet mixture, and then serve it ice-cold, with Pimm's poured over the top.

There's nothing more satisfying than coming up with a fresh idea for a recipe, experimenting with it- to get it exactly right, and then serving it up to your admiring and ravenous friends. That's what food should be all about...

Red Onion Marmalade

Red Onion Marmalade is one of those retro things, beloved of late 70's and early 80's Bistro's. You know the sort of place: black and white photographs of Greta Garbo, candles dripping wax stuffed into old wine bottles, rickety tables with red and white check tablecloths, 30's dance music on the hi-fidelity system hidden beneath the bar.

Come to think of it, there aren't many of these places left now in London. I can think of Grumbles in Pimlico (a relic of the 60's, I think), and that Polish/Mexican place in Shepherd's Market, but that's about it.

Onion Marmalade goes perfectly with terrines, and pates; which is why, of course, it was a staple of the 70's bistro. It's very easy to make, and keeps well. Here's my own version:

Slice up some red onions thinly, and cook them in a pan with some butter, and some sugar. You want them to caramelise, so let them cook right down. The sugar will help them to go a dark brown colour.

Next add a teaspoon of red wine vinegar, some mustard seeds, a teaspoon of redcurrant jelly, and a generous dash of port. Let the "marmalade" bubble away, until the liquid has more or less evaporated. Season with generous amounts of salt and black pepper.

That's it...

Egon Ronay's Roast Red Mullet with Cumin Sauce

 

Remember Egon Ronay? He was that rather dapper Hungarian who published a series of restaurant guides, in vogue a few years back. One of the favourite books in my modest cookery library is none other than Egon's "The Unforgettable Dishes of My Life', published back in 1989. You should be able to get hold of a copy relatively easily from either amazon.co.uk, or that marvellous antiquarian book website, abebooks.com.

His book's a personal thing, with lots of unpretentious recipes that have held some meaning to him over the years. That's something I like about food: the way a certain dish can bring back memories, or have some literary or historical connotation. Without getting too pretentious; wasn't that, in many ways, what Proust was all about? You know, the madeline dipped into the lemon tea and all that?

Anyway, here's his recipe for Roast Red Mullet with Cumin Sauce. I've posted a picture of the critter above, so that you can recognise one when you go to your local fishmonger- if you have any left in your neighbourhood that is; in London, they're all more or less gone, and have been replaced by Starbucks, Gap, and various other chains of a dubious sort.

Clean and gut a red mullet, keeping back the bones and the livers. Cut off the heads and the tail. Put the heads, tail, and bones into a saucepan, and add leeks, shallots, white wine, and salt. Pour in two pints of water, and bring to the boil. Skim off the scum as it floats to the top. Cover the saucepan, and simmer for about twenty minutes.

Hey presto! You will have a fish stock. Reduce 3/4 pint of this fish stock, first adding two teaspoons of cumin seeds, until the stock takes on a syrupy consistency. Add half a pint of double cream and the Red Mullet livers, and boil for fifteen seconds. Liquidise in your magimix or blender, and then pass it through a sieve. That's the sauce finished.

Brush the cleaned mullet with oil, and wrap it in foil, first seasoning it with a generous amount of sea salt and chunky black pepper. Place the fish on a baking tray, and cook in the oven at 220C (425F) until the fish is cooked. The flesh will flake slightly when it is done. Arrange the cooked fish on a plate, and pour the sauce around it. Eat.

Tête de Veau

 

 

As you probably know by now, apart from the dreaded mashed potato, I'll eat just about anything: snails, frog's legs, octopus, seaweed, haggis, and chicken's feet; but I'm still not entirely sure about the French classic, Tête de Veau. It's one of the great cult dishes of French bistro cooking.

If you've never tried it; it's the face of a baby calf, ripped off the bone, wrapped around a tongue, prepared in a bouillon; and then served with the brains on one side of the plate, and a vinaigrette sauce and capers on the other. Appetising, eh?

I first tried it at a Parisian brasserie specialising in the food of Alsace-Lorraine, Chez Jenny. A fatty, nausea inducing, glutinous, and chunky mess, swamped in vinegar. Not good, I have to admit to you now, though I was darned if I was going to admit it then.

But the version I ordered at Bibendum, was a different ball game altogether. Obviously prepared with great skill, the sweetbreads melted on the tongue, and the piquant vinaigrette gave off just the right balance.

On Friday night, The Girl very kindly treated me to dinner at Tom Ilic's excellent restaurant in Queenstown Road, close to Giles Gilbert Scott's masterpiece, Battersea Power Station. The first thing to point out is that Mr Ilic's restaurant is good value for money. I've worked out that he probably manages to keep his prices down by buying the less fashionable cuts of meat, and then cooking them with care. Like Bibendum, the menu concentrates on classic French country cooking with a sophisticated twist. For the first course, I had croustillants of calf's head with sweetbreads; and for the main course, scallops with honeyed pork belly. Both were delicious, and presentation was top notch.

Towards the end of the evening, we were joined by Tom Ilic himself, who told us that his restaurant has been up and running for five months. He seems to be pretty booked up at the moment, so it looks like the word has spread. I wish him every success.

 

Neck of Lamb Sauté

After all that excitement in Austria, it was a bit of a drag to have to return to The Big Smoke. The weathers currently abysmal, and for months, it's been nothing but grey, grey skies, and endless freezing rain.

April should be about Spring, and despite the weather, it's probably about time to start having a look at Spring food, and even recipes suitable for Early Summer. Neck of Lamb Sauté is one such dish; it would be perfect for a Spring or Summer lunch party. Héere's my take on it:

Buy some meaty neck of lamb cutlets. (By the way, it's a great cut, that; and rather economical, too). Saute the lamb gently in unsalted butter, and then put to one side. In the same butter, fry some peeled baby onions, and some baby carrots, until they are slightly cooked.

Get hold of a large pan, and put in the vegetables. Add some smallish new potatoes. Pour in some milk, so that the vegetables and potatoes are covered. Season generously with sea salt, and lots of chunky black pepper.

Let the pot simmer away extremely slowly, and at a lowish heat, for about half an hour. When the time's up, add some peeled broad beans (I hate to say this, but frozen broad beans are surprising good, as long as you peel them), artichoke hearts, petis pois, one or two tomatoes cut in half, and a sprig of fresh mint.

Cook until tender. You will find that the milky sauce will probably curdle a bit, so to tidy things up it would probably be a good idea to strain off the sauce (using a fine sieve), and then reduce it in a small pan with a knob of butter. It might also be a good idea to use semi-skimmed milk, as this will reduce the curdling effect. Whisk it like crazy, and make sure that it doesn't boil over.

If you're keen on a clean looking presentation, rinse the vegetables with boiling water. This will remove the curdled bits from the milk. Pour the sauce back over the lamb and vegetables, and serve.

Auguste Escoffier, King of Chefs

 

 

If you trawl through my previous posts, you'll see that the name of Auguste Escoffier seems to crop up quite a bit. Of all the great chefs, Escoffier, perhaps, is the greatest of them all, and his influence is still with us today, albeit in a diluted form.

Auguste Escoffier was born in 1846, and with Cesar Ritz, took over the Savoy Hotel in London: using this as a base, the pair opened various Ritz hotels around the world. Escoffier was eventually forced out of the Savoy Hotel after an investigation revealed that Escoffier had been receiving back-handers from his suppliers.

Escoffier took the sophisticated cusine of Antoine Careme, and then rewrote it with a simplified twist. He championed "service a la Russe", where dishes were served in order; as on today's printed menus, rather than all at once- as had previously been the case. Genius.

If you pick up a cookery book from the 1960's, you will see that the Escoffier influence reigns supreme. Rich sauces made from stock, with added cream; meat flambeed in cognac, puddings such as Peach Melba, lots of aspic.

Then in the late 80's and 90's there was a change in taste; and the peasant food of the Mediterranean became popular. It was lighter in touch, and healthier too; using simple fresh ingredients. This new style of cooking coincided with an huge improvement in living standards and the general availability of ingredients in supermarkets, which ordinary working people could buy for the first time.

Many of the relatively sophisticated dishes published today, would have been impossible to make back in the 1950's and 60's, as the ingredients (arborio rice, pancetta, sun-dried tomatoes, butternut squash, bird's eye chilis et al) weren't available- unless, perhaps you visited a specialist delicatessen. In Michael Smith's "Fine English Cookery" published in 1973 (hugely acclaimed at the time), kedgeree is made with tinned salmon. We've come a long way since then.

Having said that, I have to say that I'm a fan of classic French cuisine, and aspiring cooks and chefs should ignore Escoffier at their peril. I was in Hatchard's bookshop the other day, and it was revealing to see that the French section  in the cookery department was far smaller than say, the Indian or Italian section. The same goes with wine shelves at the local supermarket. The French section is smaller than the New World sections. I would like to see a return to the appreciation of French food (at least in this country). It's still pretty good, and if so inpsired, Escoffier's Le Guide Culinaire, will help you with your all-important technique. Once you've mastered the basics, the battle's almost half won.

 

Duck à l'Orange

 

 

So far on The Greasy Spoon, we've given you Prawn Cocktail, Crepes Suzette, Eggs Benedict, and Zucchini Fritters; and now (gasps of amazement, trumpet fanfares) I'm giving you none other than Duck à l'Orange.

Is Duck à l'Orange really so naff? Okay, it's a bit retro, but as with so many other classic recipes, if the ingredients are good, and the dish is cooked with care, you'll end up with a fine old thing indeed.

I'm not sure about the history of Duck à l'Orange, but I detect a whiff of Escoffier about it. The secret is in getting the balance right between the sweetness of the honey (or sugar), and the bitterness of the oranges- so use Seville oranges if you can get them; you know, the oranges used in English Marmalade.

Here's my version: it should be easy to rustle up when you get in from work. Take some duck breasts, and score them with a knife. Season them with salt and pepper. Fry them in a pan, until they are browned on both sides. You don't want the duck to dry out, and you will find that the duck will give off masses of fat.

When the duck breasts are cooked properly, take them out and keep them warm, and throw out the fat. Deglaze the pan with some fresh orange juice. Next add some chicken stock, a tablespoon or so of honey to taste, grated orange rind, and a teaspoon of balsamic vinegar.

Cook on a reasonably high heat, stirring like mad, until the sauce begins to thicken. Add a decent slug of Grand Marnier, and bubble away until the alcohol is burnt off. Now, turn the heat up to high, and let the sauce reduce- only stirring now and again to stop it sticking to the bottom of the pan. Finish it off with a knob of butter. This will give the sauce a velvety texture.

If you're happy with the seasoning, arrange the duck breasts on a plate, and pour on the sauce. To counteract the richness of the sauce, I suggest keeping your vegetables simple, and crunchy French beans or New Potatoes would be just the ticket.

Crêpes Suzette

Ah, Crêpes Suzette! Back in the halcyon days of the 1960's, they were considered to be the height of sophistication: flambéed at your table by suave waiters in maroon mess-jackets.

It's a great dish, and I have no time for saddos who think that Crêpes Suzette are beneath their contempt. It's exactly the same with German wine. The "BMW and Chardonnay" crowd has learnt to despise German wine- all those years of Blue Nun, and Golden Oktober (which always sounded to me like a band of East German Revolutionaries), I suppose; but what if I told you that the most revered and expensive wines in the Edwardian period were Mosels, and Hocks; and not Clarets or Burgundies? German wine may be out of fashion, but there are some wonderful wines out there, and they can be great value, too. So buy German! There, I've had my little rant. Now on with the Crêpes Suzette.

There's a nice legend about how Crêpes Suzette were invented. Henri Charpentier, an assistant waiter at Monte Carlo's cafe in Paris, claimed that he invented the Crêpes to cover up a mistake he made when preparing pancakes for the Prince of Wales (later Edward VII), and one of his numerous dollybirds, who just happened to be called Suzette. Well, it's a great story, even if I detect that Henri may have been a trifle economique with the actualite.

First, make a pancake batter. In your Magimix, blend the following ingredients together: 100g plain flour, a pinch of salt, an egg, an egg yolk, the grated rind of half an orange, 275ml of milk, and 50g melted butter. Let the batter stand for about half an hour.

To fry the pancakes, chuck a knob of butter into a sizzling hot pan, and then pour in enough batter to cover the bottom of pan. By the way, just like sex, the first one's always a mess, so don't worry if it goes wrong, throw it out, and the remaining batch will improve each time. Gently fold each pancake up on each side, put them to one side, and keep them warm.

To make the sauce, rub eight sugar lumps over the skin of an orange, and then drop the lumps into a pan once they have become saturated with the orange oils. Melt the sugar lumps in a pan very carefully over a gentle heat. They should caramelise. Next, pour in the juice of two large oranges, the juice of a lemon, and 50g of unsalted butter. Bring to the simmer, and reduce the sauce slowly. When it has thickened up, bring it to a fast boil, and add a further 50g of unsalted butter. You should get a glossy sauce. Add two tablespoons of Cointreau. Pour the sauce over the pancakes, and let the sauce soak in.

And last, but not least: the final touch. Pour some warmed Cognac over the Crepes Suzette, and apply a match. Your friends will be delighted and amazed!

Coq au Vin

 

 

 

A properly made Coq au Vin is a noble dish indeed. Forget all those bastardised chicken stews you've had in dubious French themed bistros, Coq au Vin (literally "rooster in red wine") is the speciality of the Burgundian region, and needs to be cooked with care, attention, and a bit of love for good measure, too. I've turned to Julia Child's Mastering the Art of French Cooking for guidance. If my hovel ever caught fire, and I was allowed to rescue only one book, that would be the one- I've no doubt.

Anyway, back to the Coq au Vin. Cut up some good bacon into lardons (small strips). In a casserole dish, sauté the bacon in hot butter until they are lightly browned, and then set aside. Next, fry a jointed, or cut-up chicken in the butter, until brown, and then season with sea salt and pepper. Return the cooked bacon to the dish, and cook slowly for a further ten minutes with the casserole lid on.

Now it's time to flambé the chicken and bacon in cognac. Pour in a decent glass of cognac, and light it with a match. The fat will mix with the alchohol and ignite.

When the flames have died down, pour in a whole bottle of red wine, ideally a Burgundy like Chambertin, a Beaujolais, or a Cotes du Rhone. Add some brown chicken stock, so that the chicken pieces are well covered, a tablespoon or so of tomato purée, two cloves of crushed garlic, a bayleaf, and some fresh thyme.

Bring to just under the boil, and then simmer gently for a further twenty minutes. Next, add some brown-braised onions, and some sautéed mushrooms. The "brown-braised" onions are just onion slices that you have previously cooked in oil and butter, until they have taken on a slightly caramelised brown colour. The mushrooms, likewise, you have previously sautéed in hot butter, and in small batches- so that they fry, rather than steam.

When the cooking time's up, skim the cooking juices off the fat, and reduce the sauce on a high heat. This will thicken up the sauce. Finally drop in a beurre manie, which is just a roux, or paste, made with butter and flour. Whisk this into the sauce. Season with salt and pepper.

Take the chicken, bacon, mushrooms, and onion out of the casserole, and arrange them in a dish. Chuck away the bayleaf and the thyme. Push the sauce through a sieve, and then pour it over the chicken. This way, you should end up with a smooth, almost velvety sauce. Finally, garnish the finished dish with chopped parsley.

 

Poached Eggs with Sauce Soubise

 

 

Coming back to my house hungry and late on a Sunday Night, I soon discovered that my larder shelves were depressingly bare. What to eat? I had a few eggs, an onion, and a stale loaf of Mother's Pride. The answer: Poached Eggs with Sauce Soubise and Crutons.

First make the Sauce Soubise. This is just an Onion Sauce. I chopped up the onion, and cooked it in butter, until soft. Next, I pureed it in the Magimix, and then stirred it into a bechamel sauce. You should remember this from other posts. It's just white flour cooked in butter (which forms a "roux"), to which is added milk, to form a smooth white sauce. I seasoned the sauce with salt, pepper and nutmeg.

Then I poached three eggs. The easiest way to do this is to crack the egg into a saucer, and then slide it in to a deep pan of water, which you have brought to just under the boil. Before you slide the egg in, swirl the water around with a spoon. If your eggs are fresh enough, the egg white should then curl up around the yolk. Try to keep the egg yolks soft and runny. Incidentally, I don't add either salt or vinegar to the water.

I arranged the eggs in a chafing dish, and poured the sauce around the eggs. I finished off the dish by frying a slice of white bread in olive oil, and then cut off the crusts, and divided the slice into four triangles- to make crutons, which I arranged around the eggs. If you've got time, it might be a good idea to flash the dish under the grill for a minute or so. It worked beautifully. Perfect Sunday Night food.

Vodka Sorbet

 

 

I first had Vodka Sorbet at a small local restaurant in Paris, just off the rue Monsieur Le Prince in the 6eme. I'm not exactly sure how they made it, but I've come up with a method that produces very similar results. Try and use a good quality Russian vodka such as Stolichnaya.

In your favourite pan, combine a cup of sugar with two cups of water over a medium heat. When the sugar has completely dissolved, stir like mad, and bring it to the boil. Reduce the heat to low, and let it simmer for about five minutes, then take it off the heat, cover the pan, and let it stand for about ten minutes to cool off.

Next add two and half tablespoons of fresh lemon juice, and a decent slug of vodka. Pour it into a container (tupperware is ideal), and shove it into your deep freeze. When it is half-frozen, take it out and mash it together with a fork. Put it back into the freezer again.

When it's re-frozen, take it out, and blend it together in the trusty Magimix. Re-freeze. Serve it with a sprig of fresh mint, and drizzle some more cold vodka over it. You will find that cold vodka goes thick, and stops the sorbet from freezing up completely- and that's how you want it. Like other recipes from The Greasy Spoon, engagingly simple.

Mock Pâté de Foie Gras

 

 

Venetia's Sauternes Jelly post made me think about pâtés and terrines. I love Foie Gras (apart from animal rights activists, who doesn't?), but in this country, it's just so darn expensive.

Here's a worthy substitute. Okay, it doesn't taste exactly the same, but I think the finished result is super smooth, and melts on the tongue.

This is how I make it: Get hold of 300g fresh chicken livers, cut them up into pieces and remove all the skin and the fat. Soak them in cognac for an hour or so.

Next, flash fry them in goose fat. This means frying them quickly, so that the outside of the liver goes brown, but the inside remains pink. This will help the pate to remain smooth.

Saute three chopped shallots in goose fat until they are are soft. Whizz up the cooked livers, shallots, a crushed garlic clove, and the juice of half a lemon in your Magimix (or blender), until you have a smooth paste. You will now need to mix in some fat. I use about half a packet of melted unsalted butter, and a tin of goose fat. This sounds like a scary amount, but remember that goose fat is an unsaturated fat, and is, apparently, rather good for you. The technique's a bit like adding oil to make mayonnaise. I recommend that you add the melted butter (which you've left to cool down) and the goose fat very, very slowly- to avoid curdling. Look- it probably will curdle, but strangely enough, even if it does, your pate will still be extremely smooth once set. Trust me on this. Carry on whizzing your machine the whole time as you pour in the butter and fat, and try and get the mixture to become as smooth as you possibly can.

Season with salt, pepper and a pinch of sugar. Next, push the mixture through a sieve, and gently fold in two tablespoons or so of double cream.

Pour the finished pate into small ramekin dishes and leave to set in the 'fridge. When the pate's firm, sprinkle the top with sugar, and use a kitchen blow-torch to caramelise the sugar. You don't want the sugar to burn, but instead, to bubble up and turn a golden brown colour. Serve with Melba Toast, Chutney, or Sauternes Jelly.

Sauternes Jelly

 

 

I'm delighted to welcome Venetia Jeffcock as another guest contributor to The Greasy Spoon. Venetia is both a talented and elegant cook, and her recipe for Sauternes Jelly is unusual, different, and delicious.

I sampled some yesterday, when she dropped some off at my place on her scooter, and it had a subtle, smooth- and even lemony taste, which melted on the tongue. It would work beautifully with Foie Gras, pates, and other rich and gamey terrines. ]

She writes: "A friend of mine loves Foie Gras, and Chateau Y'quem is the ideal accompliment. Sadly, she has Rolls-Royce tastes on a Mini Metro budget, so she buys the Foie Gras on holiday in France, where it is much cheaper (a bloc of 200g will serve six people), and serves it with a Sauternes Jelly- which can be hard to find. It also makes a change from the more traditional confit of onions or figs, and the sweetness cuts perfectly through the fat of the Foie Gras. In Austria, Foie Gras is served with Cranberry Sauce. Pimento Jelly made from peppers works well too.

Here's how she made it: First you need to work out how much liquid you are going to use, and soak some fine gelatine leaves according to the instructions on the packet. Dissolve 180g of sugar in 360ml of warm water, and allow it to cool for a little while.

Next, add the dissolved gelatine and Sauternes, and stir over a low heat until the gelatine has completely dissolved. Use a half bottle of Sauternes (you can buy Chateau Liot (375ml) in Waitrose). I am also a fan of Tokaji from Hungary, with its honeyed overtones. But you can use whatever you like.

Pour the mixture into sterilised glass jars, and re-frigerate. It should have set after four hours. Serve it with toasted brioche and Foie Gras. It will keep for a long time in the 'fridge."

Basque Chicken

 

 

Here's a perennial favourite of mine, which I've based on a recipe from Patricia Wells' excellent book "Bistro Cooking". As she points out, "Poulet Basquaise", is one of those standard French bisto dishes, which if not cooked properly, can be pretty grim. However, I make it often: it's easy, quick, and if cooked with care, delicious.

Take some chicken thighs (removing the skins first), and then season them with lots of salt and pepper. Fry the chicken pieces in a pan with some olive oil, until the outside goes golden brown. I find that the salt helps to keep the outside crispy, and the inner meat juicy.

Next, add twelve fat garlic cloves (yes, I mean twelve!), thickly sliced red bell peppers (again, it might be a good idea to remove the skins first), four green chilis cut into strips, and some thick slices of unsmoked ham. Cover the pan, and cook slowly for about an hour, shaking the pan as it cooks, to stop the ingredients burning. The peppers will make lots of cracking noises, and will give off a nicely flavoured liquid.

Finally, it's a simple matter of making a tomato sauce. Cook some chopped onions in some olive oil. Once they're soft, add some chopped tomatoes (or a can of tomatoes in their juice), and cook for about half an hour, until you have a slightly reduced sauce. Season with salt and pepper. Serve the Basque Chicken with rice, and pour the tomato sauce over the cooked chicken, peppers, garlic and chili.

Madeleines

 

 

If you've ever read (or attempted to read) Marcel Proust's "The Remembrance of Thing Past", you will know what a Madeleine is. In the novel, the narrator dips his Madeleine into his Limeflower scented tea; and the crumbly textures, taste and smell trigger off memories of his past life; and once those memories start coming, Mon Dieu, do they never stop coming...

Madeleines are a small biscuit or pastry- often with a buttery, lemony, orange or vanilla taste; and traditionally made in the Commercy area in North West France. They're always a rather pretty shell or scallop shape, and are supposed to have been named after Madame Madeleine Paulmier, who was a cook in the nineteenth century.

First, you need to pre-heat your oven to 400 F (200 C). That's moderately hot. Next, grease some madeleine moulds with butter. The easiest way of doing this is with the back of the butter wrapper. Madeleine moulds are easier to find than you may think. I was down at my local kitchen shop in Battersea recently, and they had some for sale. They come in the form of metal baking sheets with the scallop shapes stamped into them in rows.

Next, mash up 125g butter in a mixing bowl (probably best to use an electric beater here if you've got one), add 110g castor sugar, and then beat the mixture with a wooden spoon until light and fluffy. Beat two eggs lightly with a fork, and then slowly add them to the butter mixture, stirring away like crazy to make sure it mixes properly. Sift 110g of plain flour with a teaspoon of baking powder, and then fold lightly into the butter mixture.

When the batter is smooth, add a teaspoon of finely grated orange rind, and a tablespoon of fresh orange juice. Instead of orange, you could always use lemon instead. Or, if like me, you love vanilla, a few drops of vanilla extract (or "imitation" vanilla essence as a make-do). But a word of warning, you only need very few drops, otherwise the flavour will be over-powering and sickly.

Fill the moulds with the batter- up to about three quarters full is best. Bake them in the oven for about eight to ten minutes. They should be springy to the touch. Dust them with icing sugar before serving.

Tartiflette

 

 

 

Happy New Year! I love New Year's Day; a time to clear your debts, make impossible resolutions, and generally take stock; and it's especially reassuring if you've got the strains of the Vienna New Year's Day concert on in the background.

For New Year's Day you want something hearty, and full of carbohydrates- particularly after all that partying and excess the night before. I read somewhere that Kate Spade, the New York based fashion designer, always has a bowl of chili on New Year's Day, and I'm with her on that one. But for this afternoon's post, I'm going to take a look at a classic chalet dish, The Tartiflette.

 

  

 

If you've ever been lucky enough to have gone ski-ing, you may already know it. Tartiflette's a French dish from the Savoie region, which originated in the valley of Aravis, home of Reblochon cheese. Curiously, it was invented as late as the 1980's in an attempt to push the sales of the local Reblochon cheese- and then heavily promoted by the relevant trade unions to boost employment in the area.

And how to make it?  Fry some chopped smoked bacon, and sliced onions for about five minutes in your favourite pan. If you've got some goose fat, use that.

Next, slice up some waxy potatoes, and arrange them in a bottom of a dish, which you've previously greased with the goose fat. It might also be a good plan to rub half a garlic clove over the dish as well- this will give the Tartiflette a subtle garlicky flavour, without killing off all the other flavours in the dish.

Season the potatoes with salt and pepper, and then cover them with the cooked bacon and onions. Next, add a layer of Reblochon cheese which you have cut into small cubes. It would be worth you while to track down some authentic Reblochon- as this gives the dish its authentic edge. Try you local deli, and see if they stock it. If they don't it's always worth making a fuss- in the nicest possible way of course, and they may be able to get some in for you.

Finally, it's a simple matter of adding another layer of sliced potatoes, some more cheese, and finishing off the thing with a carton of double cream, unsalted butter and more salt and pepper. Bake in the oven for over an hour, until the cheesy cream topping goes brown and crusty.

 

 

Braised Fennel with Orange and Pernod

 

 

Another classic from The Greasy Spoon, to which I've given a subtle twist. Fennel has that lovely licourishy, aniseedy taste; and this recipe brings out these flavours to the full. The photograph shows a selection of fennel bulbs at a local farmers' market.

Trim the fennel and cut them into wedges. In a pan, saute them in unsalted butter, so that they get brown all over, and slightly caramelised.

Next, you're going to braise them. Braising is an old-fashioned technique, which uses a small amount of liquid. In effect you are using the rising steam as a cooking method, and you will be left with a thickish sauce which is created by reduction.

When the fennel wedges are sufficiently brown, add a teaspoon of sugar, salt and pepper, a splash of fresh orange juice, a small dash of Pernod, some meat stock, and a dash of balsamic vinegar. The liquid should come about a quarter to half-way up the pan. Bring to the boil (you want to burn off the alchohol from the Pernod), then turn down the heat and simmer, basting the fennel now and again with the sauce. Put the lid back on the pan.

After about fifteen minutes or so, your fennel should be nicely braised, and glazed by the orange and balsamic sauce. It might be a good idea to shake the pan now and again, while the braising is going on to stop the fennel burning. Arrange the cooked fennel in a dish, and pour over the reduced sauce.

Ratatouille

 

Ratatouille was originally a poor man's dish from Nice in the South of France. To make it properly, it needs a bit of preparation before hand. Whatever happens, don't just just chuck all the ingredients into a pan and cook them. If you do that you will end up with a mess. Instead you need to cook all the vegetables separately. Here's my method, and it works every time:

Cut up some aubergines (egg plant) into small bite-sized cubes, put them into a bowl, and sprinkle them with salt. Do the same thing with some courgettes (zucchini). The salt will draw out water from the vegetables.

Meanwhile, slice up some red onions, and cook them in olive oil. Towards the end of the cooking, stir in some crushed garlic. You need to cook the garlic later on, because it has a tendency to burn very quickly. When the onions and garlic are soft, put them to one side.

Next fry the drained aubergines in the same oil until they are browned and cooked properly. Put to one side. Fry the courgettes in the same way. Chop up some red and green peppers into cubes. Fry them in the olive oil. Now, combine all the cooked vegetables and cook them briefly on a gentle heat with a few springs of thyme.

Next you need to add tomatoes. In London, I find it incredibly difficult to get hold of decent red coloured , ripe tomatoes (most supermarkets seem to stock those rather pathetic under-ripe efforts), so for this dish, I tend to use a tin of quality plum tomatoes in juice. Stir those in.

Season with salt and pepper- although you may already have enough salt from the courgettes and the aubergines. I'll leave it to you to decide. The finished ratatouille will keep well in the 'fridge- some say, that this will even improve it. It goes amazingly well with lamb.

I finish off the dish with a squeeze of lemon juice, an extra dash of virgin olive oil, and some chopped parsley. One of my favourite recipes. Truly scrumptious.

French Chicken Salad with Curry Vinaigrette

 

 

A few months ago I went on a trawl of the Parisian antique markets at Porte de Clignancourt, the last stop on the Metro. If you haven't been there yet, you must go. The quality and range of things for sale is good, and the stands are arranged with Gallic elan. All was dandy, apart from one desperate furniture dealer who tried to flog me a third division bureau, which she insisted had been made by the ebiniste Reisner for none other than Louis XVI. Well.

To escape this outrage, we stopped off at a small unpretentious bistro. One of the dishes they came up with was this simple chicken salad. It was delicious, and the slightly unusual curried vinaigrette worked surprisingly well.

Up until then, I had been slighly suspicious of the use of curry in French cooking, thinking that the French didn't really understand how to use it properly. You will find Sauce Indienne in French cuisine, and usually they just stir in uncooked curry powder into a mayonnaise or a bechamel sauce. The Indians (and Brits!) know that they need to cook the spices first- to bring out the full flavour and get rid of that rather bitter taste.

Anyway, here's my adapted version of what I had that day- and I think it works. Try it out for yourself. First, I chopped up some organic chicken breasts into thick slices. You could also chop them up into chunks. Brush some honey over them, and season them with a generous amount of salt and pepper. Shove them under a grill.

 

 

Now you need to make the curry vinaigrette. In a small bowl add a dollop of curry paste (I used a Madras paste- may have been too strong), Dijon mustard, lemon juice, and a tablespoon of sugar.

Next, slowly pour in some good grapeseed oil. As you stir it around, you should end up with a thickish emulsion, a bit like a sloppy mayonnaise.

On the serving plate, arrange some fresh crunchy lettuce. Place the grilled chicken, which should be nice and golden in colour, yet not over-cooked. Drizzle the vinaigrette over it. You could of course add other salady ingredients (the Parisian version had tomatoes), but I'm currently a fan of all things simple (and all things green) when it comes to salad, so I just added some chopped tarragon, which worked well with the chicken. Season again with Maldon salt, and pepper, and squeeze a bit of fresh lemon juice over the salad. Bon Appetit.

Scrambled Eggs

 

 

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

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

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

 

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

 

            

 

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

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

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

The Genius of Edouard de Pomiane

 

 

One of my all-time favourite cookery writers is Edouard de Pomiane. Born in 1875, He was a dietician, amateur gourmand, and academic at the Institut Pasteur in Paris, and approached food with a simple enthusiasm that I find, even now, refreshing and inspirational.

His food was of the French Country school- those time honoured dishes that you will encounter on driving holidays across France, and I wholeheartedly recommend his two better-known books: Cooking in 10 minutes and Cooking with Pomiane. They may well be out of print, but you will be able to buy them from sites such as Amazon, and abebooks.co.uk. Here's his recipe for "Snails": 

Buy a dozen snails from a conscientious tradesman, that is to say, a man who will use good butter for stuffing his snails. Arrange the twelve snails on a large fireproof dish. It is not as easy as it sounds. The opening of the shell must face upwards. Otherwise as soon as the butter melts it runs out of the shell and the snail becomes dry and tough. When you have arranged the shells properly, pour a little water into the dish. Put the dish on the fire for three or four minutes, just long enough to warm it. Then put it under the grill. In five to six minutes the butter has melted and the snails are hot. Eat them as long as they burn your fingers.

Isn't that marvellous?

Mayonnaise

 

 

Mayonnaise is easy to make. I'll repeat that. Mayonnaise is easy to make. I don't know why some cookery writers make such a big deal about it, but if you follow The Greasy Spoon method, you'll soon be whizzing up a decent mayonnaise in no time at all.

First, break two egg yolks into a mixing bowl. Add a teaspoon or so of mustard (in this case, I prefer to use a milder type such as Dijon), some salt, and a splash of lemon juice or vinegar (French wine vinegar or cider vinegar is good). With a wooden spoon stir these together until they bind. Now's the time to start adding your oil.

I'm now going to let you into a secret.  Grape seed oil is a miraculous ingredient. First, it's good for you. Secondly, it's light.  Thirdly, it's a brilliant binding agent for making emulsions- you need far less of the stuff to make your mayonnaise go thick, and that's a good thing.  I've noticed that The Fat Duck at Bray uses grapeseed oil to make mayonnaise- and they use it for a reason. You could, of course, use only olive oil, but when I've made it that way in the past, the mayonnaise becomes, in my opinion, a bit heavy and also bitter. If you can't get away from the olive oil trap, add a tablespoon or so towards the end of the mixing.

Now, this is the stage where if it's going to go wrong, it's going to go wrong. It's essential to pour in the oil in small batches, otherwise, your mayonnaise might curdle. The goal is to form a smooth emulsion.

Carry on pouring in the oil bit by bit, stirring at the same time. Once you've got your emulsion up and running, you can start adding the oil in a steady stream. Keep stirring. The more oil you add, the thicker it'll get. Towards the end of the process, I like to switch over to olive oil for the extra flavour. Anyway, you'll eventually end up with a thick, jelly-like mayonnaise, that you can plunge a spoon into upright, and it won't fall over. That's a sign that your labours are finished.

I'm now going to let you into a secret. Stir in a tablespoon of boiling water to your finished mayonnaise. The effects are nothing short of miraculous. You will end up with a light, fluffy, creamy mayonnaise, which is slightly lighter in colour too.

So there you are. You can also break all the rules, and mix up a decent mayonnaise in your food processor, using the above method, though, in practice, I find it best to use three egg yolks, as the food processor method tends to make a much thicker sauce. Oh, and if you leave your mayonnaise in the ' fridge, it'll get even thicker. Spread the word.