The Greasy Spoon | Food & Culture

Eat at Pleasure Drink by Measure

 

 

 

I've been meaning to write about Olof Wijk's 'Eat at Pleasure Drink by Measure' for some time now. This is another long forgotten book, which, like yesterday's 'Clubland Cooking', you can buy online for a pittance. If I had to choose a Greasy Spoon Top Ten, it's very possible that 'Eat at Pleasure Drink by Measure' would cut the mustard. I cannot stress how much I love this book. It's a bedside companion, like having a civilised old friend at your elbow.

Olof Wijk was a director of the now long defunct Jermyn Street wine merchant, Christopher's, and was "born in Gothenburg of Swedish parents. Educated at Harrow and Sandhurst, he assumed British nationality on joining the 4th Queen's Own Hussars in India." 

 

Elizabeth David by Madame Hassia, National Portrait Gallery, London

 

in 1960 he came up with the inspired idea of sending out food and wine leaflets to his clients. Elizabeth David would write the recipes, and Olof would contribute his own thoughts on wine. The result was a charming semi-autobiographical seasonal anthology (including delightful wood-cuts by Yvonne Skargon in the manner of Thomas Bewick, poetry and historical quotations), which Constable re-published in book form in 1970, and like so many other books of this period it's a triumph of production with lovely soft creamy yellow paper and distinguished typography.

I know that if I had met Mr Wijk I would have liked him very much indeed. An Officer and Gentleman of the old school, he comes across as a rather lovely old boy, and his writing is full of humanity and civilised anecdotes. His love of wine, food, classical music and the finer things in life shines out. And he was a terrific writer too- almost Hemingway-esque at times, probably without even realising it. Here's Olof on how to host a dinner during the month of March:

All I ask is that it be easy to do. And I can't spend all day cooking. And it must look sensational. And taste exquisite. And I refuse to be doing something messy in the kitchen while everyone else is drinking. And it has got to be original- one is so sick of Chicken à la Creme and the indomitable mousse. And what with everyone dieting and George Brown going on so, and Lent upon us, one is ridden with guilt if it is at all rich and expensive. I doubt if there is a complete answer.

 

 

I realise it's not summer yet, but here's Elizabeth David's recipe for Fresh Figs with Orange Juice, taken from 'Eat at Pleasure, Drink by Measure'. It sounds refreshing and original:

Elizabeth David's Fresh Figs with Orange Juice

Allow two firm, very slightly under-ripe purple or green figs per person. Cut the stalks from the figs but do not peel them. Quarter them, put them in a bowl, and over them pour juice, freshly squeezed, of one large or two small oranges for eight figs. No sugar is necessary, but the fruit should be prepared an hour or so before it is to be eaten.

Presented in a perfectly plain white china salad bowl, or in individual clear glass wine goblets, this fig salad is one of the most beautiful as well as one of the most exquisite of all fresh fruit dishes

But before we get too carried away with all this, while browsing my much-thumbed copy this morning I discovered a pencilled annotation in my grandmother's spidery hand writing against Olof's entry for Mousse de Jambon: NO GOOD AT ALL.

 

The Recipes That Made A Million

 

 

 

Not mine, I'm afraid. Franco Lagattolla's. It's the title of a fun book that I bought the other day for the princely sum of £2.50. That's right, £2.50. One of the things I love about second-hand book hunting is the amount of pleasure old books can bring you for say, the price of some awful paper cup of cold take-away coffee, otherwise known as a "Mocha Light Frappucino Blended Beverage- To Go". The coffee's gone in an instant, but the book stays on your shelf, to be poured over again and again; the cover, typography and graphics to be re-admired, the contents to be savoured and used as a spark for new ideas, or more simply, to dispel the gloom of a boring Sunday afternoon. Oh yes, I love old books. They're like trusty friends. And I like, especially, forgotten books from around forty years ago.

I've written about Franco before. As the blurb on the dust jacket of The Recipes That Made A Million says: "What did Michael Caine, Gregory Peck and Frank Sinatra all have in common? Answer: they all dined at Mario & Franco's superb Italian restaurants in London- the eating success story with the 'beautiful' people in the swinging sixties". 

 

Franco Lagattolla and Mario Cassandro; former waiters at The Mirabelle, first opened the starry La Trattoria Terrazza in Romilly Street, Soho, in 1959. It's hard to believe now, but La Terrazza was the first restaurant in Britain to serve genuine regional dishes from all over Italy. Their story is covered admirably by Alasdair Scott Sutherland in The Spaghetti Tree, Mario and Franco and the Trattoria Revolution, which I would recommend without hesitation.

 

 

Here's a recipe I liked the look of from "The Recipes That Made a Million". It's for Pȇches Flambées, otherwise known as Peaches flamed in kirsch. Those of you with pyromaniacal tendencies will appreciate it:

"Peel four firm but ripe peaches. Poach them in plain water and sugar syrup until barely tender. Do not over-cook. Keep them warm.

In a copper pan melt 25g (1oz) of castor sugar and allow it to take on the slightest colour over a low flame. Add the juice of one orange, four tablespoons of the poaching liquor and a string of lemon peel. Dissolve the caramelising sugar, moving it around with the back of a spoon. Now stir in two tablespoons of Melba sauce and add the poached peaches. 

Bring up the heat a little and, turing the peaches gently, glaze them in the syrupy sauce. Pour in a large wine glass of kirsch. Prick the peaches so that they absorb some of the flavours. Pull the pan sharply across the fire, and stand well back while the whole lot bursts into beautiful flames".

Melba Sauce, by the way, is just a pureé of rasberry jam, diluted with a little water and simmered for a few minutes, then strained.

 

 

Preserved Lemons

 

 

Preserved lemons are an essential ingredient in an authentic Moroccan tagine. You can't really use ordinary lemons, as the taste of preserved lemons is different: sour, fragrant and salty. They would make a fantastic present for someone; I can't think of anything more cheerful than a jar of home-made preserved lemons.

Making them is easy enough, and fun; wash the lemons thoroughly, then take a lemon and slice it downwards, in quarters, but leaving the bottom intact (ie finishing the cut an inch or so from the stem), so that your cut forms an X shape.

Open up the cut lemons and pack them with generous amounts of coarse sea salt. Pack the lemons into a clean glass kilner jar. Pack them tightly, so that the juices from the lemon fill the jar. If you're in the mood, you can add some dried spices to taste: bayleaves and coriander seeds would be good; a dried chili is another possibility. I tried adding thyme once, but it didn't really work. The brine turned the fresh herb a bit brown and it didn't look as aesthetically appealing as it should have done.

Store away in the larder for a few days. Take it out and have a look at the jar. Ideally, the juice should cover the lemons. If not, pour in some fresh lemon juice so that the lemons are covered. 

The preserved lemons will be ready to use in a month's time, and should keep for a further six months if stored in a cool place.

To use them, wash the salt of the preserved lemons, scrape out the pulp and pith and cut up the skin into strips. 

For my next post, I'll put up a recipe for a genuine Moroccan Tagine with Preserved Lemons.

 

Sliced Oranges with Calvados and Almonds

 

 

This is a simple dish that we came up with (in other words improvised) over Christmas.  As we didn't have any cognac left, I found a decent bottle of Obertin Calvados on my drinks tray, and used that instead. The results were spectacular- the fruity, applely taste of the Calvados complimented the oranges brilliantly, and brought out the juice.

Slice up some oranges and arrange them in a glass bowl (one of those deep, cut-glass things would be ideal). In the meantime, make a syrup by heating up a few spoonfuls of white sugar in some water. Peel the skin off an orange, and cut it up into very thin strips. Blanche the orange strips in boiling water, and then add them to the syrup.

Pour a decent slug of Calvados into the hot syrup, stir it around, and then pour the now Calvados-infused syrup over the sliced oranges.

Garnish with almonds. If you can be bothered, "dry-roast" or toast the almonds in a hot frying pan, until they are golden brown.

Funnily enough, I think this dish would be ideal for either a raw Winter's day, or a languid Summer's afternoon.

Sugared Blood Oranges

 

 

If you've been following my blog, you'll know that I don't like puddings. By that, I mean English trifles, and similar concoctions covered with sickly custard, and made from sponge, and suet. It's a personal thing, but I would rather have something simple, and clean on the palette, too.

If you ever have the inclination to invite me to dinner (lucky you), the following recipe would work wonders. It's endearingly simple, and after a hard day's work at the blacking factory, undeniably easy.

Trot down to the shops and buy some Italian red blood oranges. Peel them. If there's any white pith left behind, dip the oranges quickly into boiling water, and the pith will come off. A useful tip. Cut the oranges into thick slices, and arrange them on a plate. Sprinkle them with sugar, and some grated lemon rind. Finally, garnish the dish with a sprig of mint, but, first, crush the mint gently between your fingers to release the oils and aromas.

Poached Pears with Stilton Walnut Quennelles

 

 

Here's a gem I've taken from The Tate Cookbook. The Tate Gallery Restaurant (now Tate Britain), has always been one of the better London gallery restaurants, and it's also decorated with fascinating murals by the pre-war artist, Rex Whistler.

Despite being English, I have to admit to not being a "pudding" sort of person; but I like this recipe for the balance between the sweetness of the pears, and the savoury Stilton Quennelles. A Quennelle, by the way, is usually just a tablespoon of mousse, which has been poached in stock, or some other similar liquid. You may have been lucky enough to have sampled "Quennelles of Pike" if you have ever been to France- that beacon of hope and civilisation in a world gone mad.

Anyway, let's get started: Peel some pears, but keep the stalks intact, and remove the cores from the bottom end of the pears with a sharp knife, or better still, a corer. Rub the pears with lemon juice.

Chuck them into a saucepan, and add some sugar, mixed spice, about half a cup of red wine, the same again of port, and a cinnamon stick. Top up with water until the pears are covered. Bring to the boil, and then reduce the heat, and simmer until the pears are tender. They will take on an interesting dark red colour. Leave them to cool, and then take them out and set them aside. You will be left with a syrup in the bottom of the pan. Boil that away, until the syrup is reduced by a half. This will also thicken the sauce.

The Quennelles are easy. In a Magimix, whizz up some Stilton cheese (which you've previously chopped up into small pieces), with some dill, and chopped walnuts. You will end up with a paste. Season with black pepper (there's no need for salt, as the Stilton is already salty), and add some single cream.

Cut the pears in half lengthways, and then slice the pear halves downwards, so that you get nicely shaped pear slices. Fan out the pear slices on a plate, shape the Stilton mixture with a tablespoon to form a Quennelle, and place this next to the pear. Pour a little of the sauce around the pear on the plate. Voila!

 

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Marmalade

 

 

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

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

This recipe will be enough for seven to ten jars.

 

You will need:  

2 lbs. Seville Oranges

1 lemon

4 lbs sugar

4 pints of water  

muslin

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Twelve Days of Christmas

 

 

King Arthur lay at Camelot upon a Christmas-tide, with many a gallant lord and lovely lady, and all the noble brotherhood of the Round Table. There they held rich revels with gay talk and jest; one while they would ride forth to joust and tourney, and again back to the court to make carols; for there was the feast holden fifteen days with all the mirth that men could devise, song and glee, glorious to hear, in the daytime, and dancing at night.

Traditionally, The Twelve Days of Christmas starts on Christmas Day, and ends on Twelfth Night. It was a time of great Medieval feasting and revelry. I'm very fond of St George's Hall, Windsor, which is an early Victorian fantasy of what a Medieval Hall should look like; and the recent restorations after the disastrous fire have been superb. There's a suit of armour there, stuck up in front of a great roundel on the wall- with all the overtones of Arthurian legend and the great Medieval poem, Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. And how suitable for a Christmas feast! In a similar vein, the engraving below shows the famous Boar's Head being brought into The Queen's College, Oxford. The boar is paraded into the Hall, to the strains of the fifteenth century Boar's Head Carol.

 

 

 

Still on the subject of Christmas food, I've got a great family recipe for Candied Fruit.

First, you need to get hold of five large oranges. Cut them in half, and squeeze out the juice. Discard the flesh, but not the pith. Next, cut the peel into strips about half an inch wide, and place them into a saucepan. Cover with boiling water and simmer for about five minutes. Drain and repeat this four times, using fresh water each time.

In a large pan, pour 250 ml (8 fl oz) of water over 1 1/2 lb of granulated sugar, and dissolve the sugar over a gentle heat. Add the orange peel, and cook them slowly, with the lid partially on, until they are soft. This should take about half an hour- or a bit longer. Leave them to cool down, and then sprinkle them with caster sugar.

Leave out to dry for a day or so- and then store them away in an air-tight tin. They are utterly delicious, and would make an original- if simple- present for someone. You can also try the same technique on lemons, but we all reckoned this Christmas, that the orange version was probably better. But as always, it's a matter of personal taste, isn't it?