The Greasy Spoon | Food & Culture

The Greasy Spoon tastes...Colman’s Original English Mustard

 

 

A little confession to you before I write this post: I'm already a fan of Colman's Mustard. Actually, I'm a massive, gi-normous, slavering obsessive. But then I'm also a paid-up supporter of the exclusive Heinz Tomato Ketchup Club, which might also include within its hallowed portals: Lea & Perrins's Worcestershire Sauce, Cooper's Oxford Marmalade, Twiglets, Coca Cola, Cadbury's Chocolate Fingers, Schweppes Tonic Water, Uncle Ben's Rice, Marmite, H.P. Sauce, Triscuits and French's Yellow Mustard. And then there's Land Rover, Brooks Brothers, Levi Jeans, Timex Watches, Lacoste, Barbour and Waddington's Cluedo and Monopoly. All classic bona-fide brands, many of them with a long and distinguished history. Plus integrity. Not a good idea to tamper with them, I think; Cadbury's- sorry, Kraft, Hasbro and Brooks Brothers, please take note.

 

 

But I do understand how this happens: some thrusting young marketing exec turns up, and under a great deal of pressure (oh- how glad I am to have escaped the corporate world!), announces in a meeting that what the brand needs is "a make-over, to attract the kids",  without realising that they're in danger of destroying the very essence of what the brand is all about in the first place. Change for Changes Sake. Not necessarily the way forward. And the funny thing- I suspect- is that the young 'uns, or at least the cooler specimens, would probably identify more with the styling of the original packaging in the first place.

For these classic brands are all about comfort, are they not? And today, the concept of 'comfort' is very much at the cutting edge. Many of us will be eating Colman's Mustard, Kellogg's Corn Flakes or Heinz Baked Beans from birth to the grave. Not that I'm completely against the idea of subtle re-invention. But it's a very difficult thing to get right.

Take a look at Budd, the distinguished pajama and shirtmaker; a tiny- but relatively famous- shop in the Piccadilly Arcade, founded in 1910. It's recently been bought up by Huntsman, the Savile Row tailor, and they've given it a very subtle face-lift. Painted the walls a light grey, re-instated some new oak shelving, given the place a Hoover and a decent website. But that's about it Nothing More, Nothing Less. And it works brilliantly. 

But back to that all-important mustard. Perhaps the greatest brand of English mustard is made by Colman's of Norwich. That famous 'blood and custard' packaging. The Bull logo. Founded by Jeremiah Colman in 1814, it's a classic English mustard with a deep yellow colour, tangy taste and powerful kick. Trying to pin-point that distinctive taste is difficult: slightly musty? salty? slighty sweet? It's perhaps, at it's best, with roast beef, sliced thinly and slightly rare.

Connoisseurs of the brand reckon that the best version is Colman's Mustard powder, which you mix up with water, and then leave for about twenty minutes to bring out the oils and for the full powerful flavour to develop. Personally, I prefer the stuff straight from the jar. It has a very different, more developed, saltier- dare I say it- slightly synthetic taste. Works brilliantly with fried bread too.

Believe it or not, there's a Colman's Mustard Cookbook. Haven't, as yet, tried any recipes from it, but it looks fun:

 

           

 

 

The Greasy Spoon tastes…Star ai Funghi Porcini Stock Cubes

 

 

Go on. Admit it. You use stock cubes. Of course you do. We all do. I make proper stock from time to time (and freeze it) but when I'm in a hurry (and that's quite often these days) I resort to ready-made, shop-bought stock cubes. The trick is, I think, to track down the better quality brands and to use less of it then the directions tell you to on the packet. Otherwise, everything tastes too salty.

I've just discovered these brilliant mushroom flavoured stock cubes. Made in Italy and exported to the UK, they're currently available in Waitrose and various up-market delis. Perfect for an after-work autumnal mushroom risotto or a Saturday late afternoon beef stew. Makes a change from the ubiquitous chicken, doesn't it?

 

Under the Volcano: Food for The Mexican Day of the Dead

 

 

© Tomas Castelazo, www.tomascastelazo.com

 

The Mexican Day of the Dead (Dia de Muertos) takes place from October 31st to November 2nd. Mexican families gather to honour the departed souls of their loved ones. To us, this may seem macabre, but, in reality, the festival is the exact opposite: it's a joyful occasion with much feasting, dancing and merry-making. Private altars are set up laden with colourful sugar skulls, fruit, marigolds, paper cut-outs and presents. It's an extraordinary, spectacular- and fascinating- carnival. 

 

If you're interested in finding out more, there was a marvellous exhibition at the British Museum, The Skeleton at The Feast, and the accompanying book is still available. Malcom Lowry's neglected minor masterpiece, "Under the Volcano" is worth adding to your reading list. There was also an 'iffy' film starring Albert Finney, Jacqueline Bisset and Anthony Andrews. 

 

 

 

I've had a thing about Mexican food now for several years. My first authentic taste was at a drive-in gas station in San Deigo. You paid your money, and a tanned hairy arm shot out of a hole in the wall with your food. I seem to remember empadanitas. Utterly, utterly delicious.

So for this year's Day of the Dead, I've dug out two authentic- and simple- Mexican recipes that could be cooked at home. I'm aware that getting hold of Mexican ingredients, in England at least, can be next to nigh impossible, unless you buy from an online Mexican food supplier. But then that's all part of the fun, isn't it? Both recipes are taken from Marilyn Tausend's excellent Mexican. 

 

Shrimp in Chipotle Sauce

Take 20 raw shrimps (in England, prawns) and marinade them in 8 cloves of minced garlic, 1/4 cup of lime juice, sea salt and pepper. Toss, until well-coated and let them stand for five minutes.

Heat olive oil in a frying pan and add a finely chopped onion. Fry for a few minutes until golden. Add two tins of chopped tomatoes to the pan and let them bubble away. Transfer the lot to your Magimix and whizz. Add two tins of chiles chipotles en adabo, 1/2 cup of Coca-Cola and a pinch or two of dried oregano. Whizz. That's your sauce.

Remove the prawns from the marinade and pat dry. Fry them in olive oil (in batches so that they fry rather than steam) and cook until opaque. You'll find that this happens very quickly. Only takes a minute or so. Try not to over-cook them. Return the sauce to the pan and cook to taste- until the sauce thickens. Add the cooked prawns and toss through. Again, you just want to warm through the prawns, you don't want to over-cook them. That's it. Serve with rice.

Coca-Cola may seem like an odd ingredient, but apparently, since the 1940's, the Mexicans have been using it to replace piloncillo- after all, it's really just a caramelised syrup when you think about it. Mexican ingredients are available online from the award winning: http://www.mexgrocer.co.uk

 

Watercress Salad with Orange, Apple and Avocado

The original recipe used Jicama, rather than apple. Jicama is the Mexican Turnip, although, just to confuse you, it's not related to the turnip family. It looks a bit like a potato. It has a crunch. The chances of finding Jicama in Britain are remote. It just ain't going to happen- so I've substituted apple.

First, you make the vinaigrette. In a small bowl whisk together lime juice, a thinly sliced green chili, sea-salt and white pepper. Pour in 1/2 cup of olive oil, whisking as you go.

Secondly, the salad. This is just slices of orange, fresh watercress and crisp, peeled apple, cut into thin strips. Dress the salad with the vinaigrette, and carefully fold in sliced hass avocados. Adjust the seasoning with sea-salt, if you feel it needs it, and serve.

 

Louisiana Gold

 

 

 

On our trips to Paris, we normally stay at this rather good little hotel in the 7eme. It's relatively close to the Boulevard St. Germain and almost as importantly, happens to be bang smack next to the Bon Marché Grand Epicerie. 

Here you can buy just about anything. One of my rarer finds was a bottle of Louisiana Gold Horseradish and Pepper Sauce. Now I expect in America this stuff is as ubiquitous as Heinz Baked Beans, but I tell you, in England, you can't get your hands on it. It's completely non available. The shelves are bare.

I've also got no idea if Louisiana Gold is a much loved American brand, or some recent marketing man's invention. It's got all that corny riverboat, gunslinger, Old Man River, cardsharp, Deep South stuff on the label. But I've become addicted to the horseradish version which is genuinely delicious and I've now got a problem. I've run out of the stuff, and I'm looking at an empty bottle as I write. I need my fix. I think it would work brilliantly in a Bloody Mary.

Can anybody tell me if a) Louisiana Gold is a decent brand and b) if not, if there is a better (and more authentic) American pepper and horseradish sauce to recommend?

Oh- and one, preferably, that I don't need to travel to Paris to buy.

 

 

Supermarket Garlic

 

 

I do hope The Greasy Spoon is unpretentious. Know what I'm getting at? I'm always happy to recommend the bog-standard option- if I think it's up to scratch. Take tinned sweetcorn for example. Niblets. The stuff made by the Jolly Green Giant. A terrific product. Can you really tell the difference between corn, taken off the cob, and the tinned variety?

Heinz Tomato Ketchup is another winner. It's just got that certain something. Many tinned beans and pulses are excellent, too. As is Uncle Ben's Long Grain Rice. That rice with the starch removed. Brilliant for making a non-mushy kedgeree. And there was that infamous television programme when Rick Stein, during a blind-tasting, turned his nose up at various organic and corn-fed chickens and declared a plebby battery supermarket chicken the pick of the crop. 

But garlic's a different matter. Let me tell you more. Mrs Aitch recently bought a plump head of garlic from a farmer's market and vineyard shop down in Hampshire. It came from the Isle of Wight. It may- or may not- have been organic. I can't remember. But what I can tell you is that this sun-kissed garlic head was larger in size, juicier and packed full of flavour. It was an utterly different beast from the pathetic, inspid, flavourless, ersatz garlic bulbs currently offered in your local British supermarket; in our case, Sainsbury's, Nine Elms- and even- dare I say it- Waitrose, Belgravia. Supermarket garlic, it ain't good.

 

Pink Peppercorns

 

 

 

I'm suddenly obsessed with pink peppercorns. Big deal, I hear you cry. I expect you've been munching them for several years. But even if you have, are they not a godsend?

Peppery- yes. Strong in taste- sort of. Not really. Sweet- yes. Fruity- yes. And if you add them to a sauce, or as a garnish (sorry, dreadful word, but you know what I'm getting at) they can add an instant je ne sais quois to an otherwise bland dish.

Here's my recent invention for a light, summery dressing:

It's for an "Orange Viniagrette with Pink Peppercorns". I squeezed out the juice of an orange, and combined it with a teaspoon of white sugar, a splash of cider vinegar, a splash of water, a few grains of sea salt, fresh majoram leaves (picked off their stalks) and a handful of crushed pink peppercorns. The peppercorns are suprisingly mild, so it can take it. Put it this way, you can eat the peppercorns raw, and it's a pleasant "taste sensation". Visually, the pink peppercorns are also pretty- and that's important.

I quite like the idea of warming this dressing up and drizzling it over braised fennel and sliced, pink-ish duck breasts.

 

The Black Rice of Venus

 

 

 

 

My latest discovery: Venus Black Rice. Originally Chinese, Italian black rice comes from the Po valley, and I gather is a relatively recent concept; the result of a noble collaboration between a co-operative of Northern Italian rice growers and a Chinese hybridisation specialist (were you aware that there was such a thing?) 

Yesterday, I made myself a simple working lunch using the remains of a packet of Riso Venere from the Sala Cereali Company of Sondrio. You can cook it very much like a risotto. The rice turns a deep purple- indeed the colour of Roman Emperors- and releases a highly fragrant starch. It's delicious.

If you cook it in a good fish stock, it's almost hard to believe that this rice hasn't been cooked in deepest black, rich squid ink. It would work brilliantly with cuttlefish, squid, octopus and the like. Highly recommended.

 

The Chervil Revolution

 

 

I'm going to suggest that we start a Chervil Revolution. For some reason it's quite hard to find chervil in Britain- unlike in France. And I really don't know why, as the plug I bought from a herb nursery a month or two ago is now flourishing in our London town garden- which means semi-shade, pollution and pesky cats.

The secret- as with many herbs- is to re-plant it in a pot full of free-draining, slightly poor stony soil. I bought some grit from our local garden centre and mixed it into standard compost (adding a handful of sand, too). Until I discovered this, all my herb plants used to die a grizzly, wintery death swamped in cold, wet, water-logged compost. Follow my method and you'll have them growing away in no time at all- our tarragon is going beserk! Topping out helps too (especially if you're in the semi-shade and your plants get a bit straggly reaching for the light). This just means snipping away at the top as the plant grows. But you're going to be doing this anyway, you're a cook.

Why do I like chervil so much? It tastes like a sophisticated cross between two of my all-time favourite herbs, dill and parsley. It's got a very subtle aniseedy taste, and visually, looks like those delicate green feathery tops you find on carrots. It's brilliant with fish. Watirose might just sell it in those little plastic bags. Don't think anyone else does, so why not grow your own?

And last, but not least, my new website is now up and running. You can have a look at: http://www.lukehoney.co.uk. There's a new blog on the site too (you'll find it under "inspiration") so if you're interested in architecture, design, interiors, antiques and the like, please go and have a look at it when you've got a spare moment.

 

 

Pork Scratchings Come Out of The Cold

 

 

 

I've got a guilty secret. I like pork scratchings. Until recently, every day on my way home from the Blacking Factory (a quasi-heated, cavernous warehouse found in the scrappy, semi-industrial inner suburbs of North London), I would pull over at a garage on the A40 and buy a packet of Mr Porky's Pork Scratchings. It was sort of addictive. I kept this one quiet from Mrs Aitch, carefully removing the greasy, empty packet from the floor of the car before bounding up the steps to our shiny, Grecian knockered front door.

You see, it's been a sort of secret love affair over the years- I mean with the Pork Scratchings. If you're not British, you probably don't know what I'm talking about. Pork Scratchings are off-cuts of pork rind or skin, deep fried in fat, and then sprinkled with salt, flavourings and undoubtably, our old friend monosodium glutamate. They have a dodgy reputation; they're about as classy as a Knees Up Mother Brown at the local dog track. Those on a diet can look away now.

But now and again, you would run into tantalising, if raffish, home-made versions. The Star Tavern in Belgravia (that excellent traditional London pub; the former haunt of the Clermont gambling set and the Great Train Robbers) sold fresh scratchings, cooked to their own recipe, salted and presented in large glass jars, into which you could plunge your grubby mitts. I liked this.

And now, at last, Pork Scratchings can truly come out of the cold. Tom Parker Bowles, Matthew Fort and pig-farmer, Rupert Ponsonby, are the brainchildren behind a new venture: Mr Trotter's Great British Pork Crackling ('Hand Cooked For a Crisper Crunch'). I'm munching on a packet as I write this, it's a sort of manly, substitute breakfast. According to the packet, "it's seasoned with a special blend of ingredients, without a trace of MSG. Unlike other pork scratchings, Mr Trotter's Great British Pork Crackling is made with 100% prime British pork skin from the finest British Pigs".

They are indeed divine, and far less salty than the more ersatz brands. It's also nice to know that British pigs are being turned into scratchings- sorry boys, crackling, rather than Danish beasts. My only sorrow is that currently, they only seem to be available at the usual up-market parade:  Harvey Nick's food hall, Fortnum's, the Chatsworth Farm Shop. But you can, at least, buy them online, and in bulk (£57 for 30 bags, if you're wondering). I quite like the idea of a pork scratchings hoard; in this case, there's going to be no need to keep it a secret.

 

 

Made in China

 

 

I've currently got a thing about Chinese supermarkets. I like the serried rows of colourful, chromo-lithographed tins, cartons and bottles; the general abundance, the kitsch, the smell of sweet Duck fat, the fact that you can buy a steel wok for a few quid, or a lethal looking cleaver for slightly more.

The brusqueness is quite appealing in a funny sort of way too- it's the diametric opposite to the hushed atmosphere of old school English establishments such as Bate's the Hatter, New & Lingwood or Budd of Piccadilly arcade- Chinese supermarkets are no place to linger, especially. There's pace in spades - and don't the shop owners let you know it?

I love the packaging for Lee Kum Kee Premium Oyster Flavoured Sauce; the soft blues, pinks and yellows of the old-fashioned, rather 50's looking label: 

 

 

 

 

Chervil

 

 

When was the last time you used chervil in the kitchen?  It's one of those herbs which the British don't seem to use very much; which is a shame: "Gourmet's Parsley" (Anthriscus cerefolium) has a delicate, slightly aniseedy, or liquorice, flavour. It looks very much like Italian flat leaf parsley. The Romans were keen on the stuff, and it is supposed to be good for high blood pressure. Excellent in salads and with fish, and as a more sophisticated substitute for parsley.

Popular in France, it's relatively hard to find over here, although the larger branches of Sainsbury's are supposed to stock it. It would be a brilliant thing to try and grow in the garden. I'm going to try sowing it in terracotta pots which I'll place on our new brick steps leading out from the kitchen doors. It prefers cool moist conditions, and needs to be regularly harvested to stop it bolting, or going to seed.

 

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Angostura Bitters

 

 

 

 

How often do you use an ingredient without really knowing anything about it?  Step forward Angostura Bitters. I'm guilty of this myself. I specified its use in my recent Pink Gin post; I use it now and again in cooking. I've grown to appreciate its aromatic, almost piquant taste. I'm in favour of its deep reddish brown amber colour. But I'll admit to you that- until now- I couldn't tell you anything whatsoever about Angostura Bitters. I wasn't even sure what the stuff is made from.

 

What is it?

45% Alcohol, Gentian Root, "Vegetable Flavouring Extracts"- whatever that means: the exact recipe is a closely guarded secret, with only five people knowing the precise recipe.

 

What is Gentian Root?

The root of a plant found in Alpine regions. Gentiana verna. It has a blue flower. It also flavours Polish Zoladkowa Gorzka vodka.

 

Who makes it?

The House of Angostura, Tinidad and Tobago. Founded in 1830 by a German doctor, Johann Gottlieb Benjamin Siegert, Surgeon-General in Simon Bolivar's army in Venezuela. He experimented with bitters as a way of helping the digestion and well-being of his troops. "In 1830, Siegert exported his unique aromatic bitters to England and Trinidad. By 1850, he had resigned his commission in the Venezuelan army to concentrate on the manufacture of his bitters, which was enjoying a huge demand. In 1862 the product was exhibited in London, to great approval."

 

How alcoholic is it?

Very. 44.7% proof.  

 

I've heard a rumour that it contains Angostura Bark?

Angoustura Bitters does not contain Angostura Bark. Instead, it's named after Angostura in Venezula.

 

Why is the label too big for the bottle?

Nobody really knows. One story points to the laid-back Caribbean attitude. An oversized label was ordered by mistake, and no-one bothered to correct it. The portrait of Emperor Franz Joseph I of Austria appeared on the label after Angostura won a medal at the 1873 World Fair in Vienna.

 

Who drinks it?

You're in good company: The King of Prussia, King Alfonso XIII of Spain, King George V, King Gustav VI Adolph of Sweden and HM The Queen.

 

Is it good for you?

Perhaps. A remedy for hiccups and an upset stomach, and- just possibly- a cure for hangover.

 

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It's a wild world

 

 

It's wild garlic time. We get ours from the Pimlico Road Farmer's Market on Pimlico Green. £1.50 a bunch. I like this time of the year; when the boredom and horror of steely grey Feburary suddenly turns into the promise of a raw Spring. The Boat Race...The Grand National...Easter...Daffodils...Chocolate Eggs...Hot Cross Buns. And the whiff of raw garlic in the hedgerows. A few years ago, I was driving along a lane in South Oxfordshire and suddenly, there it was- a distinctive whiff of garlic coming from the grassy verge.

I'm very keen on a simple risotto made from English wild garlic. You'll find that the taste of wild garlic is much more subtle than the standard stuff, so dismiss any worries about any overpowering garlicky tastes. By the way, the look of wild garlic is a bit different too: it comes in the form of slightly limp, green leaves (not entirely unlike spinach) and you use these chopped leaves, rather than the bulb. You'll find that the wild garlic will keep if you stick it into a vase of water. I've just posted two helpful videos on The Greasy Spoon page on Facebook: they'll tell you all about wild garlic; how to find it and how to use it.

Here's how I make a delicious wild garlic risotto: I chop up a small onion and sauté it in hot butter, before adding Carnaroli rice (allowing the rice to soak up the hot butter). Ladle in a small quantity of hot, steaming vegetable stock and stir like mad, until the rice has absorbed the stock.

Carry on ladelling in the hot stock until the Carnaroli rice is ready: this is the art of risotto making. You want the rice grains to remain firm (with a "bite") yet, at the same time, to be bound up in a creamy, starchy, slightly soupy liquid. It might take about half an hour to make it properly. I find that it always takes longer to make than recipe books suggest.

And do beat the rice like mad- as this releases the starch from the grains. I'm currently in favour of Carnaroli rice: I find that this makes a slightly creamier risotto, although of course, arborio rice would be fine too. 

 

Anyway, back to the recipe. About ten minutes from the end, I add the chopped up wild garlic. Wild garlic has a very subtle taste, so I would recommend that you add quite a bit of the stuff: the risotto can certainly take it. I was also keen on the idea of turning the risotto a green colour- this will happen if you add enough. Check the seasoning and when you reckon the risotto's ready, add a small dash of white wine. This will stop the risotto from cooking.

Finish it off with a small helping of grated Parmesan- or indeed, a British cheese. This is Anglo-Italian food at its best.

And last, and certainly not least, I have started writing for The Dabbler. Some of you may know this site- it's an excellent (and slightly quirky) Culture Blog, well worth subscribing too. I was amazed to discover that I had won a Dabbler prize- a bottle of Ten Year Old Single Malt Glengoyne Whisky...

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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.

 

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.

 

 

White Pepper

 

 

In Simon Hopkinson's recent television programme, "The Good Cook", I noticed that he seems to be pretty keen on white pepper, championing its use as a flavour combination with onions. This made me think. I have to admit that I've shunned white pepper in the past as the lesser cousin of the gutsier ground black variety. But is this the right approach?

What is the difference between black and white pepper? They're both obtained from the peppercorn- a small, dried berry which grow on the pepper vine (Piper nigrum). For White Pepper, the berry is picked when fully ripe; the outer layer of skin is removed, leaving the dried, whitish-grey kernel. A black peppercorn is picked when still green, and dried in the sun until it turns black.

And white pepper does have a different taste. It's slightly milder, with a different aroma- even, I think, slightly sweeter in taste? And there are times when it would be a mistake to use black pepper, often when you're cooking lighter coloured stuff. A classic white sauce immediately springs to mind.

 

The English Marrow

 

 

When was the last time you enjoyed a helping of marrow?  That's exactly what I'm talking about- the ever so 'umble, green-skinned English marrow, and it's currently in season. Right now. As a vegetable it's more or less disappeared from our plates; usurped by the courgette- the once trendy, now ubiquitous "zucchini" (the darling of the gastropub and aspirational bistro) and the various squashes and pumpkins of the American East Coast: the autumnal butternut squash (now beloved of the British supermarkets) immediately springs to mind.

But there's something attractively nostalgic, and unpretentious about the common marrow isn't there? The whiff of Dad's allotment, the village fete, garden potting, vintage Dandelion Wine '53, musty pigeon-racing sheds, home-made piccalilli, and crushing up the laburnum pods to get rid of the nagging missus. I'm sure my grandmother used to serve it up in an early Victorian Mason's Ironstone tureen. The marrow- you understand- not crushed laburnum. It's all so incredibly English.

I love marrow, its subtle watery taste and all the summery assocations that go with it. I heard Allegra McEvedy (of Leon fame) singing its praises on the radio a few days ago; and she's absolutely right. Not only is it nutritious, it's also extremely cheap, and, amazingly, still available at the dreaded Sainsbury's- although you'll find that Waitrose doesn't stock it. Far too upmarket.

 

In my last post I wrote about an excellent marrow dish I enjoyed at the Canton Arms. I went back there a day or so ago and had it yet again. This time round I've now worked out more or less exactly how it was made. I'm calling it "Gratin of English Marrow with Cannellini Beans and Rocket Pesto". An Italian take on an English classic.

First, you need to make a simple Tuscan style white bean stew. Chop up some shallots and sweat them in olive oil and butter until soft. Crush a clove of garlic and cook for a few mintues. Add the cannellini beans (I admit to using tinned) and vegetable stock, and simmer gently for an hour or so (or until the stew is reasonably thick and starchy) with a bayleaf and a few chopped up small tomatoes. If you're using uncooked beans, you'll need to soak them overnight in cold water, and then cook them for a longer time; quite possibly for up to two hours.

When the time's up remove a few spoonfuls of the beans, and purée them into a paste along with a tablespoon or so of the cooking liquid. Add this purée back into the pot: this will help to thicken up the stew. Check the seasoning and remove the bayleaf.

In the meantime, cut the marrow into large chunks, keeping the green skin on, but spooning out all the seeds and stuff you'll find in the middle bit of the vegetable. Steam the marrow until tender. 

To assemble the dish: take an oven-proof gratin dish and ladle in the cooked bean stew. Add the cooked marrow to the dish, making sure that it's well covered by the stew. Sprinkle the top with white breadcrumbs, and dot with rocket pesto. This might be a combination of rocket leaves (sans the stalks), garlic, parmesan, walnuts, olive oil, sea salt and black pepper, which you've previously whizzed up in your Magimix or food processor.

Check the seasoning and flash the gratin under a very hot grill. Serve it piping hot straight from the dish. I'm not a vegetarian by any means, but sometimes it makes an enjoyable change to ditch the meat and eat something like this. It's an excellent dish.

Wild Garlic Risotto

 

 

On Saturday I made a deliciously simple Wild Garlic Risotto. The Girl managed to track down some wild garlic (also known as Ramsons) from the Pimlico Green Farmer's Market. If you live in the country, you might be able to find some growing in woodlands. They're currently in season.

I'm very keen on "simple food done well"- it's becoming a mantra. This fitted the bill perfectly.

I chopped up a small onion and sautéed it in hot butter. Next, I added Carnaroli rice and let the rice soak up the hot butter. I ladelled in a small quantity of hot, steaming vegetable stock and stirred like mad, until the rice had absorbed the stock. Then, I carried on ladelling in the hot stock until the Carnaroli rice was "ready".

This is the art of risotto making. You want the rice grains to remain firm (with a "bite") yet, at the same time, to be bound up in a creamy, starchy, slightly soupy liquid. If you make it properly, this might take about half an hour. Beat the rice like mad- as this releases the starch from the grains. 

I'm currently in favour of Carnaroli rice: I find that this makes a slightly creamier risotto, although of course, arborio rice would be fine too. 

We're off to Venice in a few days time, and no doubt we'll bring back some proper Italian risotto rice to add to the larder. I've got a theory that the Italians keep back the best rice for themselves, and fob off the rest of Europe with lesser brands.

 

 

 

Anyway, back to the Wild Garlic Risotto. About ten minutes from the end, add the chopped up Wild Garlic. It comes in the form of slightly limp, green leaves (not entirely unlike spinach) and you use these chopped leaves, rather than the bulb. Unlike the standard variety, Wild Garlic has a very subtle taste, so I would recommend that you add quite a bit of the stuff: the risotto can certainly take it. I was also keen on the idea of turning the risotto a green colour- this will happen if you add enough. Check the seasoning and when you reckon the risotto's ready, add a small dash of white wine. This will stop the risotto from cooking.

I served the risotto with some fried shallots- for extra crunch, but The Girl pointed out that the dish didn't need it- and she was absolutely right, as I have to admit, she often is. I would recommend that you more or less leave the risotto as it is, but top it off with a small helping of grated Parmesan- or indeed, a British cheese. Why not?

 

 

 

Wild Garlic

 

 

 

We've just come back from an invigorating five day trip to South Cornwall. It was warm enough to enjoy a simple lunch al fresco at the ever-wonderful Tresanton Hotel in St Mawes. The slightly Agatha Christie-ish ambience of the upper terrace (with its ocean-liner metal railings, sea views and steamship loungers) remains unchanged: fans of "Peril at End House" (first published in 1932) will know what I'm talking about.

 

 

On Monday we dropped in at Rick Stein's Seafood Restaurant in Padstow and enjoyed an intensely flavoured bouillabaisse (Cornish style) with crutons, red pepper aioli and grated cheese; roasted Hake (served in a piping hot earthenware dish with puy lentils) and a pretty concoction of lobster and crab wrapped up in puff pastry and served with a pinkish lobster sauce.

The Seafood Restaurant at Padstow has to be one of my all-time favourite restaurants and, in my 'umble opinion Master Copperfield, remains consistently excellent. The discreet service is of the highest professional standard: raise your eyebrow and in an instant there will be a helpful waiter at your side; tables are spacious and the atmosphere is relaxed. The food is unpretentious and utterly delicious.  I can't recommend the place enough.

I've always had a thing about Cornwall- as a child, we used to spend our summer holidays at the charming sea-side town of St Mawes. It really is the most romantic destination: 

 

The mysterious St Michael's Mount.

 

Caerhays Castle: "Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again..."

 

The Cornish lanes and hedgerows are full of wild flowers, (including violet coloured wild orchids) and at this time of the year, daffodils. A thought occured to me on our drive home over Salisbury Plain and past Stonehenge: the verges of Wiltshire's main roads are barren; and in the case of South Buckinghamshire, I regret to report, littered. Does an enlightened Cornish county council have an active policy to encourage wild flowers?  Or is it that in counties such as Wiltshire and Oxfordshire, with large-scale and mechanised farming, wild flowers are killed by the spillover from intensive crop spraying?

It's the time of year to pick and use wild garlic (Allium ursinum). It can be found in damp woodlands and hedgerows, and gives off an evocative, garlicky smell which can't be missed. I love its subtle taste. Funnily enough, unlike the standard variety in which you use the bulb, with wild garlic you eat the green leaves. In London we have to buy it from specialist shops, the superior supermarkets (such as Wholefoods) or your local farmer's market.

I'm going to make a creamy and simple risotto, flavoured with my favourite wild garlic. If I chop up the leaves small enough, I'm hoping that this will make the risotto turn a pale light green colour.

Nutmeg

 

 

 

I've suddenly got a thing about nutmeg, and very recently have been using it quite a bit in my cooking. It's hard to define its flavour: aromatic, yes. Musky? Perhaps. Slightly sweet? 

As I was driving to the Blacking Factory this morning, a thought occurred to me: we go to the supermarket, and out of a) laziness and b) a genuine lack of time, buy our spices in those little jars on the supermarket shelf without having any idea whatsoever where these spices actually come from. Do we know anything about their history?  The answer is quite probably no, we don't.

Take nutmeg for example. You buy a few nuts in a little jar, which you then grate in the over-complicated nutmeg grater your mother gave you for Christmas; it's all very convenient. But how many of you out there in cyberspace know that nutmeg comes from the evergreen nutmeg tree, indigenous to the Banda or "Spice" Islands of Indonesia? Or that "nutmeg" is actually a seed, and that the growers have to wait a staggering seven to nine years before the first nutmeg is harvested?

Nutmeg oil is also used in toothpaste. Yup, that's right. Toothpaste. And taken in large doses, nutmeg can have a similar effect to marijuana, though for health reasons, this is not especially to be recommended. It's also supposed to be an aphrodisiac for men if mixed with avocado.

In the superlative The Flavour Thesaurus, Niki Segnit lists a collection of interesting pairings for nutmeg, some of which are more obvious than others: nutmeg and apple, nutmeg and aubergine, nutmeg and butternut squash, nutmeg and cabbage, nutmeg and cauliflower, nutmeg and celery, nutmeg and chocolate, nutmeg and lamb, nutmeg and shellfish, and last but certainly not least, nutmeg and oysters.

I love the idea of this, and it's given me the inspiration for a new dish. Maybe something with smoked oysters?  A terrine, perhaps?  Terrine of Smoked Oyster with Nutmeg. It's got a certain je ne sais quois about it, hasn't it? Simplicity is often the way forward. I need to get my thinking cap on and report back. Over and Out.

Lea & Perrins Tomato and Worcester Sauce

 

 

 

Many of you will know that I am a huge fan of Lea & Perrins; indeed, "The Greasy Spoon" has almost become a tribute website to the stuff.  "Tomato and Worcester Sauce" is their latest sensation. I'm not entirely sure about it: it's a bit like a pair of co-respondent shoes or a variegated shrub- it can't make up its mind whether it's Worcestershire sauce or Heinz-style tomato ketchup.

What does it taste like, I hear you ask?  Well, either like Worcestershire sauce with a dollop of tomato ketchup, or tomato ketchup with a dollop of Worcestershire sauce.  A sort of British version of American barbeque sauce, without the hickory bit.

A few days ago, Mrs Aitch treated me to a superb lunch at The Boundary- currently my favourite number one restaurant.  I would love to know how they made their Bloody Marys.  They were sweeter in taste (sherry and lemon juice?), spicy and dark red in colour.  I've got a sneaky feeling they may have added a significant dash of Lea & Perrin's new sauce.  It's the sort of thing they're selling in the Albion Food Store, which can be found on the ground floor above the restaurant.

Related articles

The Dilemma of Tomato Ketchup

Devil Sauce

The Perfect Prawn Cocktail

Bloody Mary Soup for Bonfire Night

Samphire

 

 

 

May I remind you all about wonderful samphire?  At the moment, I just can't eat enough of the stuff. I love its crisp, slightly salty flavour; the way it piles up high on the plate, and the deep green colour it goes when it's been steamed for a few minutes. "Marsh" samphire is the variety you can buy in the shops, and currently, we're getting ours from the fish counter at Waitrose.

What does it taste like?  That's a difficult one. A cross between asparagus and thin green beans, perhaps?  It works beautifully with fish, and should be served with melted butter. I have to admit that I'm currently over-fond of eating it raw, and I'm becoming addicted to it's fabulous salty, juicy and buttery taste. Under-cooking it is the way to go. Why isn't it more widely available?

Related articles

A foodie's delight - Abergavenny Food Festival, 18-19 September 2010, Festivals

The Humble Cabbage

 

 

With the nights drawing in, and winter just around the corner, there's nothing more welcoming than a humble, everyday cabbage. Cabbage is one of those vegetables which everyone thinks they know how to cook, but in fact, is actually quite hard to get right.

There seems to be a general assumption amongst the cognescenti that cabbage should be cooked to a crunchy texture; well, Up to a Point, Lord Copper: quite often this just means that the cabbage is undercooked- and you'll encounter this in Gastro Pubs up and down the kingdom. 

On the other hand, I have nausea-inducing memories of the cabbage as served up to us at Dotheboy's Hall: this involved boiling water, a kitchen timer set to four and a half hours, the colour yellow, and a terrifying smell reminiscent of the Slough Gasworks. In the world of cabbage, you just can't win.

There are two methods of cooking cabbage. With the "fast-cook" method you slice up your cabbage and plunge it into rapidly boiling salted water. When it's cooked (difficult one to get right, that- you want it crunchy, yet not too crunchy), take it out of the pan and drain it in ice-cold water. This will help to set the colour green. Throw it into a small pan, warm it in butter and season to taste. Make sure that all the water has drained off properly. As I'm impatient (and also greedy), I have a tendency to do this in a rush (a "bull in a china shop", as my piano tutor used to say) and end up with nasty pools of water floating around on the plate.

The second method is the "slow-cook" or braising method, as favoured by the French (and The Greasy Spoon's grandmother). Yes, the cabbage will go yellow, and it will smell of sulphur, but if it's cooked very, very slowly, this might (just about) be a good thing. Simon Hopkinson, in his excellent book Roast Chicken and Other Stories, mentions John Tovey's recipe in which the cabbage is braised very slowly in butter, white wine and juniper berries. This sounds like the sort of dish they serve in Alsace, and my instincts tell me that a Reisling or Gewürztraminer would be just the ticket.

 

I've also found an old-fashioned French recipe for "Cabbage Soup with Diced Bacon". Chop up a green cabbage into small pieces and rinse it in vinegar and water. You then fry some chopped garlic in butter, and add diced bacon. After a few minutes add the cabbage and pour in some chicken stock. Simmer the soup very slowly for up to an hour. Serve in earthenware tureens with croutons sprinkled on the top.

If you're going to use the "slow-cook" method, a heat diffuser might be a good plan. This is a simple device which you place directly on top of the gas hob, and spreads the heat.  It will allow you to cook food at a snail's pace.

Kippers

 

 

For Saturday breakfast, I had a lonely boil-in-the-bag kipper. A few days ago, The Girl had been caught by the police in a sneaky scooter trap set up just outside Buckingham Palace, and was having to retake her scooter driving test.

The kippers were surprisingly good, and it occurred to me that this is another traditional food that has fallen in popularity.

Kippers are salted herring that have been split and then cold smoked. According to wikipedia (probably best read out in a fusty "Mr Kipling Makes Exceedingly Good Cakes" sort of voice): 

"The English philologist and ethnographer Walter William Skeat derives the word from the Old English kippian, to spawn. The origin of the word has various parallels, such as Icelandic kippa which means 'to pull, snatch', and the German word kippen which means 'to tilt, to incline'. Similarly, the English kipe denotes a basket to catch fish. Another theory traces the word kipper to the kip, or small beak, the male salmon deveop during the breeding season."

Etcetera, etcetera. I'm sure you all knew that back to front. My dear old Grandma used to make a sort of kipper butter or, I suppose, pâté, for spreading on toast at picnics. She simmered some boil in the bag kippers in water until they were cooked, and then mashed them up with creamed unsalted butter, a dash of Worcester Sauce and the juices from the bag. She then seasoned the kipper butter with salt, pepper and a squeeze of lemon juice, and served them in ramekin dishes with a garnish of lemon and parsley.

The Great Pine Nut Mystery

 

 

I've just been poisoned. By a packet of Chinese pine nuts. Here's what happened: about three days ago, I had a sudden craving for pine nuts and drove down to buy a packet from my Sainsbury's Local in the Battersea Park Road.

Yesterday, I suddenly developed a nasty bitter taste in the back of my mouth. Metallic, too. Very unpleasant. Anything that I eat or drink tastes revolting.

Now, I'm not one to panic, but I knew something was up. In an uncharacteristic Woody Allen moment, I typed "nasty bitter taste at the back of the mouth" into my computer.

And guess what came up?  Pages and pages of internet forum posts from people suffering exactly the same symptoms. A whole sub-culture of poisoned bitter-taste-in-the-mouth sufferers. It's caused by pine nuts. From China. The taste develops about two to three days after you've eaten these nuts, and can last anything from a few days to several weeks. 

The phenomenon was first identified in a paper written for the European Journal of Emergency Medicine in 2001. It's all to do with something called triglycerids, and is caused, I think, by oxidisation. In other words, China may be selling rancid pine nuts to the West. Makes you think, doesn't it?

Woody Allen via last.fm

To Be or Not to Be?

 

I've got mixed feelings about all this 'organic" malarkey. The Girl is far greener than I am, and has persuaded me to recycle properly- something which I had spectacularly failed to do in the past.  And one side of me knows that she's right, as you will find from my previous posts urging you to buy organic food. But there's another side of me, alas, which remains sceptical.

Recently, I saw poor old Rick Stein humiliated on television when he was asked to pick out an organic, free-range chicken at a blind tasting. He thought about it long and hard, and then chose the mass-produced, battery chicken. Now, I'm not in any way supporting battery farming- as amongst other things, I think it's unnecessarily cruel; but there was a part of me which leapt into the air with smug glee when this happened.

I've also noticed a tendency (in London at least) for Greens to be found lurking amongst the- how can I put it- richer, chattering classes. A few years ago, I was invited down to a friend's idyllic weekend retreat. We were banned from travelling in more than one car ('to save the environment'), and I think from memory, urged to share a bath. By the end of the weekend, I was having dark fantasies, not surprisingly about the shared baths, but about backing the double exhaust of a V8 engined Bristol 411 onto her organic Elizabethan herb garden.

If you live in London, you will have seen the extraordinary G-Wiz. This is one cute little deathtrap of a car, manufactured in India, and powered exclusively by electricity.  I was tempted to get one- you plug them into the mains, and you don't have to pay the Mayor's Congestion Charge. But - and it's a huge but- I am told on good authority that you have to buy a replacement battery every  few years- which costs in the region of £3000, is decidely toxic, and consequently not green at all.

It's harder to be green if you don't earn much money, have a family to look after, and are currently finding things tough. Surely, it's going to be the least of your priorities in that sort of situation, right?  But proper home-cooked food is another thing in itself, and it doesn't cost much at all to rustle up say, a healthy and delicious parsnip soup, a creamy mushroom risotto, or a rib-sticking Toad in the Hole. I'm with Jamie on this one...

Organic Vegetables Delivered

 

 

We're thinking of signing up for one of those organic food and vegetable delivery boxes. The Girl is far 'greener' than I am, and is currently on a mission to get me to recycle more. I'm happy with that; and I know that she is right- I just need a bit of a kick up the old derrière to get me going.

I reckon that we will probably go for a small 'de-luxe' affair- I don't want the vegetables to pile up in the kitchen, unused; and I have a feeling that the more ordinary boxes are going to be carrots, carrots and yet more carrots. A good bet for a donkey, but not for The Greasy Spoon.  Abel & Co look promising.

Can anyone give us a recommendation? Which is the best one to go for? Is it worth the expense? I assume the box is left on your doorstop- just in time for the ravenous street urchins of Battersea to take their pick; no doubt in the name of sweet charity.

Foie Gras

I had forgotten how crazy I am about Foie Gras.  The Girl and I have been beetling around Paris over the weekend, and it was an opportunity to re-visit old haunts.  We were staying in the 7eme- very close to the fabulous Bon Marché food market (La Grande Epicerie) and department store- which I would urge you to visit next time you're there.  It's a massive supermarket, filled with every conceivable food you can possibly think of, albeit with a French slant, naturellement.  For some reason, I'm a big fan of terrines, and when I'm in France I always seem to end up ordering the stuff, time after time. I like the way the French serve foie gras: a simple slab of terrine, with a small ramekin or tot-glass of chutney or onion confit.

First stop was at Le Petit Prince de Paris (of vodka sorbet fame)- a popular, local restaurant in the Rue Lanneau, up near the Sorbonne. I like the place, it's good value, and inside is decorated with mirrors, candles, and slightly campy antiques. The food is excellent in a relaxed sort of way, and the service is friendly. I had the terrine de foie gras.  It came with the obligatory confit, and a glass of cranberries. The bitter-sweetness of the cranberries was a perfect counter-foil to the richness of the foie-gras. Incidentally, the French seem to have a current obsession with square plates.  What's this all about? I find it slightly pretentious, also off-putting and not very practical: your knife and fork has a tendency to scrape along the side of the plate rather too often.  A bit like someone dragging their spikey finger nails down a blackboard. Anyway, back to the foie gras.

On Saturday night, I had the same thing all over again, but this time flavoured with vanilla.  I adore vanilla- and that's worthy of a separate post at a later date. But, strangely enough, the best foie gras of the lot was at a tiny bistro in Le Marais, Chez Pierro.  This is just a tiny brick-walled room with a few tables, a studenty yet discriminating clientele, and a young and enthusiastic staff. You didn't get much foie gras, only a few chunks with some delicious nutty bread, and seved with a pot of home-made mango and ginger chutney, but Mon Dieu, it was formidable.

By the way, you may already have noticed: I've added some fun, inter-active things to The Greasy Spoon. I'm conducting a Marmite poll.  Please vote.  Once you've pressed the button and cast your vote you will see a map of the world which tracks the distribution of Marmite haters and Marmite lovers around the globe.  All utterly pointless of course, unless you're a shareholder in the Marmite Corporation of the United Kingdom.  Much more useful is the "Answer Tips" application. Double-click any word on The Greasy Spoon, and you will be taken to a detailed encyclopedic link, which might be especially useful if I've gone off on some bizarre tangent.

Chestnuts

Where have the London roasted chestnut street sellers gone? Not that long ago, they were all over the place- in Piccadilly, outside The Ritz, several in the Charing Cross Road; quite a few near Oxford Circus. I liked the way they stacked up their hot chestnuts on their grimy braziers- in rows, and in little paper bags.

I love Chestnut Stuffing.  Buy a packet of peeled chestnuts. Cut them in half, and then fry 225g of chopped streaky bacon. Turn up the heat, and add the chestnuts.  Fry them on a high heat. Remove the chestnuts, and add 50g of butter to the pan, so that it mixes in with the bacon.  Add 110g fresh brown breadcrumbs, and fry until brown. In a separate bowl, mix up the chestnuts, the breadcrumbs and bacon, a bunch of chopped watercress, a beaten egg, and season with lots of salt and pepper, and a tablespoon of caster sugar.

Still on the subject of chestnuts, if you've ever wondered, here's how they make marron glacés in France: the chestnuts are blanched in lightly salted water to loosen their membranes. The membranes are removed. Next, the chestnuts are simmered in a vanilla flavoured sugar syrup for up to twenty four hours. Finally, the marron glacés are dried out in a hot oven.

Sage

 

One of the fun things about writing The Greasy Spoon is thinking up new ways of describing the various tastes.  On wikipedia ("it's in wikipedia so it must be true) Sage (Salvia officinalsis) is described as having a peppery taste.  I'm not sure that's right?  I've been a bit off-colour for the last week (with what women call "Man Flu") and The Girl (God Bless 'Er) cooked me up a divine chicken stew laced with copious amounts of sage.  The sage and chicken combination worked well. with the velvety, aromatic, oniony and slightly sweet flavours of the sage helping to create a rich, smooth sauce.

Traditionally, sage was used in the cooking of Merrie Olde England. It works well with pork, beautifully in stuffings, is the perfect match for onion and an essential ingredient in bread sauce. I love it.

Here's my recipe for bread sauce. In England, we serve bread sauce with game, such as partridge or pheasant. It really is the genuine taste of this country, with the rather Medieval flavours of sage, nutmeg, mace and cloves. It's also a good 'un with poultry. Some strange people out there like their sauce thick. Personally, I prefer my bread sauce to be a bit sloppy.

Add the following ingredients to a saucepan: 300ml milk, 50g butter, a chopped small onion, a crushed garlic clove, a bayleaf, two cloves, a blade of mace and some chopped fresh sage. Heat. Once the mixture is warm, stir in 75g of fresh white breadcrumbs and cook until thick and smooth, stirring the whole time.

When you're happy with the consistency, remove the bay leaf, mace and cloves, and pour in 150ml of single cream. Adjust the seasoning with salt and pepper and grind in a decent amount of nutmeg.

Reheat the sauce, but to stop it going thick- mix in a knob of unsalted butter and some more milk, to taste.

Still on the subject of sage, a simple Italian sauce I'm rather fond of is Sage and Butter Sauce. This is just butter, heated until it turns a golden noisette colour (ie not burnt), lots of fresh chopped sage, salt and pepper and a decent squeeze of lemon juice. Very simple. I like it.

Colonel Skinner's Mango Chutney

 

 

At Dotheboys Hall, I remember being fascinated by an ancient copy of Hobson Jobson which I found hidden away on a dusty shelf in the school's Victorian Gothic library. First published in 1903, Hobson was an etymological glossary of Anglo-Indian words and language. A study of words such as Pajama, Veranda, Bungalow, Tiffin, Kedgeree and of course, our very own Curry.

Anglo-Indian food is another fascinating study, in its own right. One of the best books on the subject is David Burton's The Raj at Table, published by Faber & Faber.

Here's a recipe for Colonel Skinner's Mango Chutney. Today, there are various brands out there using this name. Actually, Colonel Skinner's Mango Chutney is something that you will find in the old Anglo-Indian cookery books and the original recipe involved leaving the chutney outside in the backyard to fester under the hot sun for a few days. I tried to find out who the original Colonel Skinner was (sounds Irish?), but without success.

Chop up the following ingredients in your Magimix or otherwise trendy food processor: twelve ounces of dried mangoes, half a pound of brown sugar, ginger, raisins, chillis and garlic to taste. Once they're chopped up, spoon the mixture into a large preserving pan.  Add two and half pints of vinegar and season with salt. Bring to the boil and simmer for an hour. Transfer into sterlilised jars and store in a dark cupboard.

 

Dr Kitchener's Curry Powder

 

 

I was leafing through a paperback copy of the original 1861 edition of "Mrs Beeton's Book of Household Management" (Oxford World's Classics) and came across her recipe for Indian Curry-Powder, founded on Dr Kitchener's Recipe. William Kitchiner (1775?-1827) was the author of the "Apicus Redivivus, The Cook's Oracle", first published in 1817.

I'm quite fond of these historic Anglo-Indian curry powders; the sort of thing we chuck into stews and then have the nerve to call "curry". Here's my version of Dr Kitchener's curry powder, as described by Mrs Beeton. I've slightly adapted it for the modern kitchen and added cardamom and black pepper.

 

Add the following ingredients to a mixing bowl: two teaspoons of powdered turmeric, two teaspoons of powdered cinammon,  two teaspoons of powdered ginger, two teaspoons of powdered fenugreek, a dash of cayenne pepper and a good grinding of black pepper. Mix them up so they form a powder.

In a pestle and mortar, grind up the following ingredients until they form a fine powder: two teaspoons of coriander seeds, two teaspoons of mustard seeds, and a few cardamom pods. (You will have to discard the cardamom's outer shells). I love grinding up spices: all those lovely, aromatic smells. When you reckon the ingredients are ready, mix them in with the other spices.  

Keep the finished curry powder in an air-tight container. It should keep reasonably well. Obviously, if you want to make more of the stuff, you will need to increase the quantities. Half the fun of this sort of thing is to play around with the proportions, to suit your own tastes. Secret recipes and all that.

Cardamom

 

 

Yesterday, I wrote about a white chocolate mousse flavoured with a hint of cardamom. Did you know that cardamom was a member of the ginger family?  There are two types of cadamom: green cardamom (Elettaria) and black cardamom (Amomum). The type you buy over here in little jars is more likely to be the green variety. It's quite likely to have come from Sri Lanka too.

Cardamom has a deeply aromatic smell, which reminds me of menthol, or perhaps even mint. The pods contain seeds, which quickly loose their flavour once the pod's broken apart. It's also used to cure toothache, digestive disorders and skin conditions. According to Kew Gardens, it's the third most expensive spice in the world.

 

I like the fact you can use cardamom in both savoury and sweet dishes. If you're cooking basmati rice, try throwing in a few cardamom pods and a squeeze of lemon juice to give it an extra lift.

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.

Capers

 

 

Thinking about what on earth I was going to write about for today's post, I opened my storecupboard to be greeted by a jar of salted capers winking up at me cheekily. It occurred to me that I didn't really know what capers were- okay, we all buy them in little tubs, or salted and in glass jars, but I bet many people out there couldn't say where they come from.

So, I did some research. The caper (Capparis spinosa L.) is a perennial spiny shrub that bears rounded, fleshy leaves and big white to pinkish-white flowers. The capers that we buy in the shops are the pickled bud of this plant. The bush is native to the Mediterranean region, growing wild on walls or in rocky coastal areas.

A classic British dish is "Mutton with Caper Sauce". My dear ol' grandma used to eat mutton. It disappeared from the shops in the '70's, when lamb took off. Remember all those ads for New Zealand lamb? But a properly cooked mutton is a noble thing, indeed.

To make caper sauce, start off with a white sauce in the usual way- (cook a roux of butter and flour, add milk, chicken or vegetable stock, and season with salt and pepper.) Add a handful of capers, and adjust the seasoning. Check that the flour is cooked properly, and serve with the mutton.

Aspic

 

 

If you leaf through old cookery books from the 60's and 70's, you will find illustration after illustration of bizarre looking dishes covered in a thick layer of aspic jelly. Tastes have changed, but, now and again, I think there's still a place for using the stuff.

A few years back, I was lucky enough to sample some canapes at the Hotel Crillon in Paris; they were utterly delicious; tiny crutons topped with all sorts of goodies set in a rich meaty aspic, which melted smoothly on the tongue. Most of those retro recipes called for a packet of aspic. I've a feeling that packet aspic has either been banned in the EU, or it's just not made anymore because of a lack of demand. In any event, it's probably a better idea to make your own aspic, as the packet stuff had a similar texture to industrial rubber.

If you want to make your own aspic, here's how you do it: Make a brown stock in the usual way. Leave it to cool, and then skim off all the fat. Pour four cups of the stock into a decent sized pan, and add two tablespoons of white wine vinegar, a bouqet garni, the whites and crushed shells of two eggs, four tablespoons of white wine, and 40-50g of gelatine. (You can buy leaf gelatine in wafer-thin strips which you need to break up into small pieces.)

Bring to a near boil very slowly, whisking the whole time. (It might be a good idea to melt the gelatine in a separate pan first (ie a bain marie), as you will find that it sets very quickly). A thick crust should develop at the top of the pan. This is a good thing, and will help to clarify your stock. Stop whisking for a minute, and let the liquid rise up to the top of the pan.

Finally, strain the liquid through a muslin cloth, trying to keep the crust intact, as it will act as a filter. Strain the aspic a second time, and you should end up with a crystal clear liquid, that will set- and become- trumpet fanfare- aspic...

The Miraculous Garlic

 

 

I tend to use a lot of garlic in my cooking. It's supposed to be terribly good for you, though I'm not sure if this has been scientifically proven. For those of you with a botanical bent, garlic is a species of the onion family, Alliacae, and it's latin classificaton is Allium sativum L.

I've recently discovered smoked garlic, which you should be able to find in any decent supermarket. For some reason, I find that the raw, pungent taste of the garlic bulb is neutralised by the smoking effect, and consequently, you end up with a smoother taste.

This morning, I've decided to give you a recipe for Smoked Garlic Soup. It's not something you're going to want on a regular basis, but it's ideal if you're feeling a bit under the weather- a shot of this garlic infused soup can do wonders for the soul! This recipe will make enough soup for six to eight people.

Drop a head of smoked garlic (yes, a head- that's about sixteen or so cloves) into boiling water. Take it out after thirty seconds, and peel.

Pour three pints of water into a large pan. Add a few cloves, some chopped sage, a bayleaf, a sprig of thyme, and a slug of olive oil. Season with salt and pepper, and add the smoked garlic heads. Bring to the boil, and simmer slowly for about thirty minutes.

In a soup tureen, beat three egg yolks, and then add a thin stream of olive oil, so that it forms an emulsion- like making a mayonnaise. Beat in a ladle-full of the hot soup, and whisk. Once the egg yolk, olive oil, and liquid have combined, strain in the rest of the garlic liquor.

You will finish up with a delicate, light, cream-coloured soup. Serve with crispy crutons, or hot toast, and grated Parmesan cheese. The strange thing is that when the garlic is cooked properly, it will loose it's raw, pungent flavour, and take on a more delicate twist. And yes, you do need to use a whole garlic head. Trust me on this one...

 

Saffron

 

 

Yesterday, I gave you Patricia Wells' Chicken Stewed with Fennel and Saffron. I'm fascinated by saffron. It's expensive- scarily expensive; but luckily you don't need that much of the stuff to bring out the deep yellow colouring and the distinctive, metallic, oily, and petrolly flavours.

The history of Saffron goes back over three thousand years, when it was an important spice in the Ancient World. The name comes from the 12th century Old French word, safran. It's made from the flower of the saffron crocus (Crocus sativus), a species of crocus in the family Iridaceae. Historically, it's also been used both as a medicine and as a dye.

What about the saffron you can buy in the shops today? Where does it come from? Spanish saffron tends to be mellow in flavour and aroma. Italian varieties are stronger. Even stronger still is the saffron grown in Greece, Iran, and India (although the Indian government has banned the export of its high-grade saffron). The pungent "Aquila" saffron (zafferano dell'Aquila) is grown exclusively on eight hectares in the Navelli Valley of Italy's Abruzzo region, near L'Aquila; introduced to Italy by some Dominican monk.

But in Italy the biggest saffron cultivation, for quality and quantity, is in San Gavino Monreale, Sardinia. Another superb saffron is the Kashmiri purple-coloured Mongra or Lacha saffron (Crocus sativus 'Cashmirianus'), which is almost impossible to get hold of, and when and if you do, you'll need to take out a second overdraft. I'm going to finish off by giving you an interesting link to a website I've just discovered: Vanilla Saffron Imports. I know nothing about this company (they're American importers of high-grade saffron), so if you decide to use their services- on your head be it...

Pepper

It's about time I wrote about pepper. Black pepper (Piper nigrum) is a flowering vine in the family Piperaceae, cultivated for its fruit, which is usually dried and used as a spice and seasoning. The same fruit is also used to produce white pepper, red/pink pepper, and green pepper. Pepper has been with us for a very long time: black peppercorns were found lodged in the nostrils of the Egyptian Pharaoh, Ramesses II, placed there as part of the mummification rituals shortly after his death in 1213 BCE.

For general use in the kitchen, it's probably a good bet to buy good quality black peppercorns, and then grind them yourself in a decent pepper mill. I've got one of those obscenely vulgar and gi-normous wooden pepper mills; you know- the sort of phallic things that those irritating Italian waiters pester you with, just as you're about to tuck into your gnocchi alla Romana.

If you're in a foodie sort of mood, may I point you in the direction of the Paramesaran Wynad Black Peppercorn from Kerela; considered by many connoisseurs to be the best pepper in the world. Usually pepper is picked before it has ripened. The Paramesaran pepper is picked after it has ripened, is never sprayed (and therefore, genuinely organic), and involves workers slithering up long poles to get to it. It's all very labour intensive, as you can imagine, and of course, fiendishly expensive.

Horseradish Sauce

 

 

Do you like genuine horseradish sauce? By that I don't mean the stuff you get in jars from the supermarket, but instead the real, home-made version. Horseradish (Armoracia rusticana, syn. Cochlearia armoracia) is a perennial plant of the Brassicaceae family, which includes mustard, wasabi, and cabbages.

Horseradish was cultivated in antiquity, and, according to Greek mythology, the Delphic Oracle told Apollo that the horseradish was worth its weight in gold.

The photograph shows horseradish roots. You eat the roots, not the green leaves of the plant. You should be able to buy a root from your local grocer, or if you are lucky enough to have one, a farmer's market.

Here's my recipe to make a classic English horseradish sauce. It goes well with beef, and smoked fish, like eel and mackerel.

Clean and peel a horseradish root. Grate about two heaped tablespoons of the prepared root into a mixing bowl. Add a dollop of English Mustard, a dash of white wine or cider vinegar, salt, pepper, and sugar. Whip up a quarter of a pint of cream, and mix it carefully with the other ingredients.

Baked Beans

 

 

 

One of the amusing things about Fortnum & Mason in London's Piccadilly, is that they stock Heinz Baked Beans. Apparently, they always have, and always will. During the late nineteenth century, Baked Beans were considered a delicacy, and were extremely expensive. They still are- if you insist on buying them at Fortnum's.

Incidentally, when you're next in The Big Smoke, drop into the newly re-furbished Fortnum & Mason. I think they've done a terrific job, and managed to keep the old-style charm of the place, even though they have completely re-built the interior, and made it into the sort of store genuine Londoners might shop at; rather than just for the good ol' tourists (God bless 'em)- and that's how it always used to be.

Anyway, Baked Beans. Baked Beans have a mysterious past, and are probably descended from the cassoulets of Southern France. I suspect, of course, there is also a considerable American influence. The first tinned Baked Beans were produced by the Burnham & Morrill Company in 1876, for use by the fishermen of Maine. But why the 57 varieties? It's nothing more than Henry Heinz's clever marketing ploy, first used in 1896; and has nothing to do with how many different products Heinz was selling at the time. There's a photograph of the Baked Bean King, below.

I do make my own home-made Baked Beans from time to time, but frankly, I reckon the genuine stuff in the tins (and always by Heinz) is the best bet. If you do want to make your own, its simple: just heat up some cooked haricot beans in stock, add some tomato paste, onion salt, pepper, a tiny bit of vinegar, and some sugar. And remember, if you're going to cook dried beans, it's essential that you soak them in water over-night, otherwise you could suffer a serious stomach upset. You've been warned!

 

 

Savoy Cabbage

 

 

I love cabbage, and especially Savoy Cabbage. If you cook cabbage for too long, it turns a nasty yellow colour, and gives off lots of dodgy sulphuric smells. For the best result you need to cook your cabbage briefly (and on a high heat). This will also help to keep the cabbage a rich, and dark green colour.

A tried and tested way to cook cabbage is as follows: First, take off the outer leaves. Slice the Savoy Cabbage in two, and remove the hard woody core in the centre. Then slice up the cabbage into chunks.

Get hold of a wok, and when the pan is hot enough, pour in some nut oil. Nut oil burns at a higher temperature, and so is perfect for this sort of thing. Fry the cabbage in the hot oil, shaking the wok as you go. Add a crushed garlic clove, some salt, pepper and a pinch of sugar. After a few minutes the cabbage should be ready. Simplicity itself.

Guinness

 

 

Today's post is about that classic stout, Guinness. Guinness is a form of porter, a beer which originated in London in the early eighteenth century, and has been brewed at the St James's Gate Brewery in Dublin since 1759.

The dark colour, and bitter flavour comes from unfermented roasted barley. The creamy head comes from nitrogen. I've got a great recipe for you: Beef Stew in Guinness with Parsley Dumplings. What could be better for a cold December day?

This is my own recipe. It's easy to make, but remember, as ever, keep the stew cooking at a low temperature for at least three hours. This will help the toughish cut of beef to break down.

Let's start: Slice up some onions, and saute them in butter. Chop up some stewing steak, dust it with flour, salt and black pepper, and fry it in the butter. When the meat is brown, add some beef stock, and a pint of Guinness. Bring to the boil to burn off the alchohol, and then reduce to a simmer. Add a dash of good old Lea & Perrins.

Next throw in some carrots, which you've previously peeled and cut into batons. Add a tablespoon or so of tomato puree. This will help to thicken it up even further. Simmer in a medium oven for at least three hours. At least.

You should end up with a reasonably thick sauce, and nicely cooked beef- which should be beginning to break down.

Now it's time for the dumplings. Very easy to make. In a bowl mix some dried suet (the EU has banned the real thing; what on earth's going on there?), with twice the amount of self raising flour. Add some salt and pepper, and some chopped parsley; and form smallish balls with your hands. Float the uncooked dumplings on top of the stew, and shove the thing back into the oven.

Cook until the dumplings have risen and the flour in them has cooked. It shouldn't take too long. Ideal for December. I like it.

Brown Sauce

 

 

 

 

Nothing can be more reminiscent of a British Greasy Spoon than a bottle of H P Sauce. H P Sauce was invented by Frederick Gibson Garton, a grocer from Nottingham, in 1896. He named his tangy new concoction after the Houses of Parliament in London.

For years H P Sauce was made in a factory in Birmingham, but now- shock horror- the stuff is made in The Netherlands. What's it made of? Well, amongst other things, Malt Vinegar, Dates, Molasses, Onion, Tamarind, Garlic and Mustard Flour.

The rival brown sauce, Daddie's Favourite, was launched in 1904, and, apparently, is still in production, though I haven't seen a bottle on the shelves for years. Both brands are now owned by none other than our old friend, Heinz. Brown Sauce is an acquired taste, and I suspect that anyone not born on the Perfidious Isle is probably going to hate it.

 

Personally, I have a nostalgic thing about the fruity combination of brown sauce mixed with a runny fried egg. But then, our American cousins eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, which sounds to me like something from Planet Nine. Enough said.

Black Pudding

 

 

I love Black Pudding. There will be unfortunate finickity and squeamish individuals out there who will take one look at this post, and want to run for the hills, so my mission this sunny October morning is to try and convert them to the cause.

It's like that Scottish favourite, Haggis, which tastes a bit like a spicy American meatloaf. Yes, the preparation sounds, and probably is gothic; but the taste and result is something to be recommended.

So, let's get the gothic part out of the way: how is Black Pudding made? What exactly is Black Pudding?

It's a sausage made from the blood of a pig. The blood is then cooked with a variety of ingredients, which could include goodies such as suet, oatmeal, milk, onions, breadcrumbs, cayenne pepper, and nutmeg.

Cooking the blood in these ingredients will make the blood congeal, and hey presto! You have a black pudding; or blood pudding in America, blutwurst in Germany, boudin noir in France, and white pudding in Ireland. You eat it for breakfast.

I cook mine very gently in a knob of butter for a few minutes on each side. In Britain, Black Pudding tends to be a local speciality of the northern counties such as Lancashire, but in fact, similar puddings are found all over the world.

I'm going to take this opportunity to have a little rant about the reputation and state of British Food. Okay, we now have some top-notch (and fiendishly expensive) restaurants in London; and generally, the standard of food in Britain is better than it was in the post-war period of rationing, spam fritters, and dried eggs.

But the tradition of cooking food at home, especially the local culture, has been lost. Many of the old-fashioned British classics, are similar- if not identical- to dishes you can find in the French Countryside. They make Moules Mariniere, we have Devon Mussels in Cider. They make Boudin Noir, we have Lancashire Black Pudding, they make Boeuf Bourginon, we have Beef in Guinness with Dumplings.

 

 

The difference is that your typical French grandmother will have a whole list of local specialities up her sleeve- and she will know how to prepare them with love and attention. In Britain, granny is far more likely to be found slumped in front of East Enders eating Sainsbury's Chicken Tikka Masala Surprise straight from the packet. Look at our food shops. In France, you will find endless small corner shops selling wonderful selections of beautifully presented ingredients. Like this boulangerie in Paris, pictured above.

In Britain, we have er- the supermarket (with, in my opinion, pretty dire stocking policies), and miserable corner shops selling dusty tins of this and that at inflated prices. And look at the generous selection of foods you can find in New York delis! Fantastic! Rant over.

Tomato Ketchup

 

 

I know there are other brands on the market, but for me, tomato ketchup has to be Heinz tomato ketchup. In 1801, a recipe for tomato ketchup appeared in an American cookbook, the Sugar House Book; and by 1837, an enterprising character, Jonas Yerks (great name!) was selling it across America. F & J Heinz first marketed their version in 1876.

What's in it? Well, tomatoes (obviously), vinegar, salt, allspice, cloves, and cinnamon. I've tried to make it at home (by reducing tomatoes, adding a bit of sugar and some decent vinegar), but although the results have been reasonably good, I still prefer the famous stuff in the bottles.

Oh- and I miss the glass bottles. I know that the new plastic squeezy ones are much more practical, but there was something wholesome about the old classic glass bottles- even though you had to turn them upside down to get anything out, and then suddenly all the ketchup would be over the floor.

 

 

Why the 57 Heinz varieties? It was an original slogan of the H. J. Heinz Company of Pittsburgh; used as a marketing tool. Although the company had more than 60 products in 1892, the number 57 was chosen because the numbers "5" and "7" held a special significance to Mr Heinz.

In a later post, I'm going to have a look at two British classics: HP Sauce, and Daddie's Favourite Sauce- two variations on brown sauce made from molasses. I have a feeling that Daddie's is now defunct. Put it this way, I haven't seen a bottle on the shelves for a long, long time. The world is becoming too sophisticated, by half.

Clamato

 

 

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

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

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

 

 

 

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

Mushrooms

 

 

It's Autumn, and I'm thinking mushrooms. Moist, meaty, woody mushrooms. There's a place I know on a wooded hill in South Oxfordshire, where at this time of the year top London chefs drive out to and pick fungi for free; then charge a fortune for them in their fancy restaurants back in The Big Smoke. Believe me, I've seen it with my own eyes: Volvo estates loaded up entirely with mushrooms; every variety of mushroom you could ever think of.

The English have never really been into mushroom hunting. It's far more common in mainland Europe, and in France you can take your crop into a local chemist, and get them to point out which are the deadly ones; in other words, whicha the ones that are gonna kill you. If you're going to go mushroom hunting, you need to know what you are doing, otherwise you could end up in trouble- serious trouble. So kiddywinks- a word of advice from The Greasy Spoon: please, please don't do this at home...

 

 

As I was in an autumnal mood, I decided to make Mushroom Risotto. And who better as a guide than Arrigo Cipriani of The Harry's Bar Cookbook. The Harry's Bar Cookbook is one of my all-time favourite foodie reads. The recipes are unpretentious, delicious, and always seem to work out.

The next time you're in Venice, save up, and enter the hallowed doors of Harry's (It's next to the Gritti Palace, near the Grand Canal, opposite a rather dubious dive called Haig's Bar)- you won't be disappointed,; although I have to admit that it has a reputation for being fiendishly expensive. Fiendishly.

Anyway, this is how you make "Harry's Bar Mushroom Risotto":  First, you need to make a "mushroom mixture". Sweat some porcini mushrooms in olive oil, for about seven minutes or so, until they are cooked and golden. Next, add some crushed garlic, and some chopped flat leaf parsley. Cook for a bit. Add a cup or so of white wine. I used a dry Italian Soave. Put to one side.

Now for the risotto. They say that the mark of a good chef is how well he or she makes risotto. It could be true. I'm usually quite good at it, but now and again I go wrong; especially if my attention span starts wandering, which as my ex-girlfriend contests, happens on a regular basis. Heat some olive oil in a pan. My much loved and battered bright orange Le Creuset thing was perfect.

Now saute a minced onion. I chopped up my onion in the Magimix. Cook for a bit. Now add your rice. It's crucial that you use risotto rice. Under no circumstances use any old rice you've got hanging around in the cupboard. The best rice to use is either Carnaroli rice or Arborio. Let the rice absorb the oil for a minute or so. Add your mushroom mixture and stir.

 

 

 

Now for the important stock bit. You need to use a chicken stock, which you have kept on or near the boil. You are going to ladle in your hot stock bit by bit, so that the rice absorbs the liquid. What you must not do is tip in the stock all at once. Stir like crazy. Ladle. Stir. Ladle. Carry on adding the stock bit by bit. Risotto always takes much longer than the cookery books say. I would guess at least half an hour, to forty five minutes.

When the stock runs out, use boiling water. You should finish up with a well-cooked risotto. I like mine to be somewhat sloppy, though the Italians prefer the rice to be slightly crunchy. Grate in some fresh parmesan cheese and stir in some butter. That's it. Perfect for October. And I expect you want to know where that mushroom hot spot is in South Oxfordshire, don't you? I'm not gonna tell you.

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.

Chicken Stock

 

 

      

 

Good home-made stock is one of the most useful ingredients in the kitchen. Okay, there are endless types of processed stock cubes out there, but for the most part, I find them far too salty; unless you want to go for the Pot Noodle effect, avoid them.

However, when you're in a hurry (and most people are these days), Reduced Salt Marigold Bouillon Powder (from Switzerland of all places) is a worthy substitute.

But how to make the real thing? Chop up a chicken carcass and put into a large stock pot or saucepan. Ideally, this will be a mixture of bones, scraps and meat. A fresh chicken would give you a superb stock; otherwise, chicken left-overs will do the trick. Next, pour in some cold water, to cover the bones. Place the pan over a moderate heat.

It's crucial that you don't boil the stock. What you want is a gentle simmering process, so that scum, fats and other stuff start floating gently to the surface. Remove the scum floating on the surface with a spoon. Keep on skimming away. Don't stop. Next add a peeled onion, a few peeled carrots, a bayleaf, a clove or two, and a celery stalk. Keep the stock at a bare simmer, with the lid half-on. You want to see a few bubbles rising- but no more. Keep this up for about three to four hours, topping up with water if the levels start getting too low. Skim now and again. When the stock is ready, strain it into a bowl and let it settle. When it's cold, you will see that a layer of fat forms at the top of the stock. You can now remove this. If you've been skimming correctly, you should be left with a clear broth. But remember, if you boiled your stock by accident (easily done, I have to admit), your stock will go cloudy.

A nifty idea is to freeze your stock in ice-cube trays- and then keep them in bags in the deep-freeze for future use. And, if you've followed my instructions, you will never, ever have to buy those scary processed stock cube things again, will you? I'll believe that when I see it...