The Greasy Spoon | Food & Culture

January Blues

 

 

 

I used to pretend that I liked January. Actually, I don't. It's a bleak, miserable, Cromwellian month, enlivened by never-ending grey skies and not much to look forward to, apart from bills and the promise of February- which says it all. 

So why this sudden trend to go on the wagon over January? Under some strange influence we both fell for this, until about three days ago, when poor Mrs Aitch staggered back from the Blacking Factory, dead-tired and chilled to the bone by the London damp, to find me brandishing a huge gin.

I have no regrets. Life is too short. Recently, I've been reading all sorts of books on Churchill for my recent posts on my sister blog on the antiques website. Which brings to mind a Churchillian quote:

My rule of life prescribed as an absolutely sacred rite smoking cigars and also the drinking of alcohol before, after and if need be during all meals and in the intervals between them.

Not that I want to end up like another hero, Orson Welles. But I couldn't resist posting that infamous out-take: "There is a Californian Champagne by Paul Masson..." I like the pretty poker face girl on the left, trying not to laugh.

(As it's a link to a YouTube video, subscribers will have to log in to the website proper to see it: www.lukehoney.typepad.com) 

 

Bunny Mellon’s Kitchen Library

 

 

 

Very taken by the recent Bunny Mellon sale at Sotheby's: Oak Spring was her understated- and relatively modest- Virginian 50's farmhouse. Wonderful collections of eighteenth century English porcelain, country furniture, equestrian mezzotints, antique silver, and a stunning museum of historic antiquarian gardening books in the grounds.

 

 

Considering the Mellons are one of the richest families in America, the whole shooting match seems to be the antithesis of banker's modernist bling (yawn) and the horror of today's ghastly celebrity culture. Until you remember that within the estate there was, I gather, a private airport, with a jet sitting on the runway, on stand-by. Not that I disapprove, God forbid; four cheers for Marie Antoinette and the Petit Trianon. 

 

 

And then there was Lot 662, described by Sotheby's in that lovely dead-pan manner as: 

" A Group of Cookbooks and Books on Entertaining including Farley, Art of Cookery; A W Kidner, Aspagarus ; Julia Child, Mastering the Art of French Cooking; The Alice B Toklas Cookbook, Jean Krofsky, The Gardener's Cookbook; and other titles. Approximately 200 volumes".

Now one of my quirky little hobbies is looking at other people's bookshelves. Sometimes I even take snapshots on my iphone. Sad.

 

 

I have no idea if Bunny actually cooked herself. I assume that she probably did. As did her private chef. French cookery of the old school seems to have been her thing. They look well thumbed too.

I-Spy with my little eye something beginning with M: Mastering the Art of French Cooking is a terrific book and if you were only going to have just one cookery book, this could very well be the one. The book was published in two volumes, the original hardback edition is the one to get: 

 

 

The Alice B. Toklas Cookbook is another one which I may well cover in a future post:

 

 

 

Happy Christmas

 

 

Rex Whistler (1905-1944): Father Christmas, 1939

 

Wishing all my loyal readers a very Happy Christmas and Best Wishes for the New Year. A massive thank you to all those who have taken the time to leave comments and send personal emails over the last few years.

It's goose for us tomorrow- rather than turkey, and I'm trying to think up ways of cooking those pesky brussel sprouts. About to nip off to the supermarket to buy a bottle of Riesling à l' Alsace. Undercooking them with bacon, shallots and garlic, and then braising them in the wine could be a good way to go.

By the way, until recently, I hadn't really cottoned on to quite how long I have been writing The Greasy Spoon. Checking my records, I see that my very first post was back in the Autumn of 2007. Lea & Perrins was the subject!  In those days, blogging hadn't really taken off and people I met at cocktail parties would give me a strange look when I admitted to them that this is what I did in my spare time. How things have changed in the last eight years. Fascinated to discover what else is store for us over the next decade.

The Spoon has now- in its own small way- become a rather endearing habit, and it would feel strange indeed if it wasn't around. So long may it continue, and I look forward to exploring new ideas with you over the course of 2016. Happy Christmas!

 

Counter Revisited

 

Philip Reicherstorfer: Restaurant Evangelist

 

We dropped by Counter, to see how the building work was getting on. Readers of The Greasy Spoon will remember my recent post: Counter is- or will be- a new restaurant and brasserie for Vauxhall, the brainchild of enterprising restaurateur, Philip Reicherstorfer- or should I say 'restaurant evangelist' (?) as the whole flippin' scale of the project is now becoming apparent. 

 

 

The restaurant fills a massive space, the entire length of an old railway archway (and longer than the height of Nelson's Column) with a "monastic" archway in glass at one end, looking on to what is likely to become (if Lambeth Council succeeds in demolishing the hideous bus station) a new town square for Vauxhall:

 

 

Philip knows exactly what he's doing, and the bones of the restaurant are now taking shape: a bar the Vauxhall end, kitchen in the middle, and further space at the back, not unlike the old concept of the Saloon and Public Bar in a Victorian pub.

 

Mrs Aitch props up the bar to be...

 

Philip in action...

 

 

I gather that a chef has been hired- or is about to be hired- and the menu will inspired by American and French brasserie classics. At the moment, it all rather reminds me of one of those immaculate ocean liners, the RMS Queen Mary or Aquitania, with Philip very much at the helm and in command of every detail; the shiny, metallic ventilation pipes are enormous and, I think, are going to be left on view. Watch this space.

 

 

Victorian Cups and Punches

 

 

 

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

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

 

West Indian Sangaree

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

Mulled Ale

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

Bishop Oxford Nightcap

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

 

  

 

 

The Taste of Belgium

 

 

 

Go on, have a look at your bookshelves. How many cookery books have you got on Belgian cuisine?  None?  Doesn't surprise me one iota; but thinking about it, isn't this a bit strange when Belgium "boasts more three-star restaurants per capita than any other nation, including France"? 

I can't say I know Belgium especially well, but I found it interesting. A few years ago, before the joy that was marriage to Mrs Aitch, there was the most marvellous holiday- perhaps the best holiday I have ever had- driving through the Graveyard of Europe: destination Heidelberg via Alsace-Lorraine.

With hindsight 'driving to Germany' might seem a trifle eccentric (most Brits head off to the Dordogne, Brittany or the Loire), but the adventures along the way certainly didn't let us down: there was an especially amusing dinner party at a crumbling château in the remote, bleak and dusty werewolf country of Lorraine, which included amongst the guests (bizarrely, and by occult coincidence) someone I had worked with years before at Bonhams Chelsea, now in the process of some form of elopement (girl plus van); and a Dutch couple of tangerine hue and late middle age, both in polyester turquoise jumpsuits, on their way back to Eindhoven from their villa on the Côte d'Azur. This they liked to remind us of at every possible moment. The main focus of the conversation (pigeon Franglais and sign language) seemed to focus on the strange fact that we were touring Lorraine in the first place, a region, apparently devoid of tourism. This was met with miscomprehension and utter disbelief. 

Anyway, to get back to Perfidious Albion we had to drive through Belgium, which included- oh great excitement on my part- a stop off at the battlefield of Waterloo, and the châteaux of La Haye Sainte and Hougoumont. Those of us who spent a large proportion of our childhoods toiling over the Airfix kit will remember them well. 

 

 

It's easy to fall into the trap of thinking there's nothing more to Belgium than decent dark chocolate, moules, fries, mayonnaise, trappist monks, beer and Tin-Tin; as the place as some sort of a mini-France, and of course, this is completely wrong. Once you cross the Belgian border, things change; the driving is insane for starters and I gather, possibly as a consequence of nineteen months of non-Government, weeds grow in prolifiation through the broken concrete of the autoroutes. I gather that Belgium didn't introduce a driving test until 1960 and so the noble tradition of free-style driving continues: the roads are populated with meandering vans driven by long-haired Goths.

 

 

But the food there is noticeably very good indeed, and even your bog-standard local restaurant will sell you a well-presented dish, cooked to a high standard and with care. The food is Flemish with a Gallic twist, or indeed, Gallic with a Flemish Twist. Thow in some Nordic influences for good measure, and you're beginning to get an idea of what Belgian cuisine is all about. Which brings me to Ruth Van Waerebeek's The Taste of Belgium, first published in America in 1996, and very recently re-published in a handsome hardback edition by Grub Street with evocative photographs by Regula Ysewijn. 

It's a brilliant new addition to the cookery bookshelves, plugging that worrying gap; and so we have: Sweet-and Sour Cucumbers with Chives, Bay Scallops on a Bed of Belgian Endives, Fish Stew from the North Sea, Mussels with Snail Butter, Waterzooi of Chicken, Braised Partridge with Cabbage & Abbey Beer, Gratin of Brussells Sprouts, Chocolate Mousse, and- of course- the definitive recipe for authentic Belgian fries. By now, you will have got the drift: lots of Northern comfort stuff; we're in home-cooking territory here, and the receipes are relatively easy to make, too.

Having said that I made the Waterzooi of Chicken, which is a soupy stew of fish or chicken bound in a creamy stock, thickened with egg. I didn't read the recipe properly and ended up over-cooking the chicken to a stringy mess. Completely my fault. If I had made it as Ruth Van Waerebeek had instructed it would have been delicious.

  

Ultimate Toad in the Hole with Rich Onion and Cider Gravy

 

 

Photograph: Sam Fraser-Smith, under Creative Commons Licence.

 

I've just been experimenting with that British all-time classic, Toad in the Hole. Jamie Oliver's recipe from Jamie's Great Britain is quite good, but didn't work as well as I had hoped. His batter was excellent- light and puffy, but I wasn't convinced by the gloopy apple and onion sauce or the dried up rosemary. He's keen on de-construction is our Jamie: the sausages are served separately from the Yorkshire pudding. I didn't really see the point of this: isn't the Toad supposed to be in the Hole?  Or is it the Hole in the Toad?

So I've developed my own recipe, tweaking it a bit here and there, simplifying (and I hope refining) it until we get to what I think, might just be a near-perfect Toad in the Hole. The rosemary infused milk gives the dish that extra dimension. Here's how you make it:

Pour 250ml semi-skimmed milk into a jug. Take two fresh rosemary sprigs and pull off the leaves, crumbling and rolling them in your fingers to release the oils. Add the rosemary leaves to the milk and let it infuse for about half an hour.

Strain the milk (discarding the rosemary leaves) and whisk in three eggs, 100g plain flour, a pinch of salt and white pepper to form a light, slightly runny, rosemary scented batter. Set aside.

Take a selection of Cumberland Sausages, place into a roasting pan and toss in olive oil. Cook in a hot oven (240° C) for about ten minutes. When the time's up, take out the pan and pour off most of the fat. Then pour in the batter, so that it surrounds the sausages. Back into the oven goes the pan. Watch it like a hawk (but don't open the door!). After a few minutes the batter will start rising and turning brown. You'll have your own idea when it's ready. The trick is to cook the batter properly, so that it's brown and crispy on top, yet soft in the centre. You dont' want to overdo the sausages either. Sprinkle the remaining rosemary leaves on top. 

I serve this with a rich onion and cider gravy, which you can serve from a separate jug. It's very easy to make. Slice up two white onions very thinly indeed, and fry them in butter on a medium heat until they turn brown and caramelise. Sprinkle a bit of white sugar onto the onions to help. 

I always think that onions need a great deal of cooking, so don't be scared to take your time over this. In goes a tiny splash of Balsamic Vinegar, a decent slug of Cider and 250ml beef stock. Bubble away like mad.

Whisk in a teaspoon of white flour mixed with water and cook on for a bit. This will help to thicken up the gravy.

Finish it off with a shake of Worcestershire Sauce to taste and then whisk in a final knob of butter to create a shiny glaze.  

This will create a rich, very dark brown gravy with a piquant taste. You can of course, alter ingredients to taste, leaving out the balsamic vinegar if you find it too strong. I would also be tempted to add a dash of Soy Sauce for that extra umami kick. Those onions should be well cooked, very, very thin, and the sauce should not be too thick or gloopy. I also quite like the idea of straining off the onion slices- for that extra refinement; just leaving a glossy, dark, rich onion-flavoured gravy. Bisto?  What on earth's that?

 

Shorrocks Cheese and the Lancashire Bomb

 

 

 

 

 

Mrs Aitch discovered the Lancashire Bomb a year or two ago, and it's now become very much a part of our Christmas. It's the most delicious creamy, strongly flavoured cheese. Invented by the Shorrock family about twenty five years ago. Hand-made too, and as they say on their website:

 

It has proven to be a great success in the North of England and is spreading South rapidly by word of mouth due to the great taste and originality of the product. 

Visitors from the South have been sampling and buying the cheese bombs to take home and share with family and friends so they can experience the sensational Shorrock's hand made Lancashire Bombs. 

The Lancashire Bombs are matured over two years creating a very creamy and full flavoured taste and texture. In addition to this original Lancashire Bomb Shorrock's now produce a variety of different flavours, this includes the Vintage Gold which is an extra year matured.

 

The cheese is wrapped in a black wax, with a loop, and looks very much like one of those old-fashioned fuse bombs cartoon characters used to throw: think Guy Fawkes, or sinister men with waxed moustaches, black capes and fedoras. More importantly, the cheese is utterly delicious, with a strong flavour and creamy texture. 

I think it's terribly important to support enterprising local suppliers, such as Shorrocks. So please get on to their website right now and order in some cheese immediately. And if you don't fancy a Lancashire Bomb, there's a wide range of similar bombs to choose from: The Red Onion, The Cracked Black Pepper, The Garlic and Herb, The Hot Chilli, The Whisky and The Green Olive.

 

 

 

And some sad news...

 

Oskie, our beloved little 17 year old Burmese cat, is no more. The End happened suddenly. An urgent trip to the vet, brief hope ("it's probably a balance problem") and then that heart-wrenching call: "we need to make a decision immediately." Kidney failure, neurological problems, various complications and a reluctance on my part to go through the similar trauma we experienced almost exactly last year to the day; and you know that it's time to make that tough, but necessary, decision you've been dreading for the last few years.

And so, on a beautiful, golden afternoon in late November, poor Venetia dragged away from work, we made that final trip to the vet. Struggling to keep a stiff upper lip (and failing miserably), our lovely vet in tears, the whole wretched business was over in a jiffy.

Oskie was my first proper pet- and my first love; I won't deny that I was besotted. There had been a goldfish (won at the Gerrard's Cross fair), a neglected tortoise and a gaggle of miserable stick insects, but that was about it: my parents weren't very keen on animals. Maybe that's why I wasn't prepared for the sporadic gobbets of genuine, deeply felt grief that hit me the following week.

I'm fine now, of course I am, and looking forward, when the time is right, to the new additions to our cat and dog dynasty (Mrs Aitch is keen on a black pug, I like the idea of a whippet, and another Burmese kitten) but Oskie was something special- highly intelligent, elegant, affectionate and pretty. Sometimes, when she sat at the right angle, and cocked her head she looked like something straight from the pages of Beatrix Potter.

She had been through all my bachelor ups and downs, girlfriends good and bad, and survived the famous Battersea boiler explosion (neglected servicing on my part). A feisty little number too: she thought nothing of having a go at intruders: a scraggy town fox, four times her size; Polish builders (don't think she liked the smell of their rancid roll-ups) and poor old Valerie, our long suffering cleaner, who left notes saying 'that she had fed the rat'.  

I wasn't even sure if I wanted to write about this, let alone tack it on to a post about cheese, for blogging is a strange compromise between privacy and self-promotion, but as I've been writing the Greasy Spoon for so long now, I suspect that it would have been false if I didn't. Anyway, I don't think Oskie would have minded. She would have sniffed that Lancashire Bomb, turned her nose up at it nonchalantly, and strolled away.

 

 

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 visits...Otto's

 

 

 

It's 1968. I'm in a swankpot restaurant entertaining Dollybird Number Two. Edda Dell'Orso's crooning Morricone. There's a fawning waiter in a maroon mess jacket. He's flambéing Crêpes Suzette at the table. Behind him hovers a suave eagle-eyed maitre d' of the old school. Or that, at least, is how I imagine it; in my dreams. Silver Service. That's what they used to call it. And when was the last time you had that?

Well, Greasy Spooners, I have some exciting news. Please make your way as fast as you can to the soon-to-be-hallowed doors of Otto's in the Gray's Inn Road. Otto's opened in 2012, so it's a relatively new kid on the block. It's a small-ish restaurant, sandwiched between a dry cleaner and a sushi bar, just across the road from the barristers of Gray's Inn and almost next door to the newscasters of ITN. Visiting Otto's is to enter a culinary time machine. A little trip in time back to one of those smartish, sophisticated and very grown up local restaurants which used to exist in the land of Never-Never. We're in Frasier and Niles Crane territory; this, I think, is what used to be known as 'gastronomy'. 

The maverick genius behind this new enterprise is Austrian-born Otto Albert Tepassé, old-hand and late of the Tour d' Argent and Mirabelle. If you're lucky- and rich- you may have eaten at the Tour d' Argent. It's that oh-so-famous restaurant in Paris where they serve the spécialité de la maison: pressed duck. But this is no ordinary duck. Each dish comes with a signed and numbered certificate as if it was a trinket from the Franklin Mint.

 

Tour d'Argent, Paris, 1974. The generosity of a more leisurely age.

 

Now, too, you can experience the delights of pressed duck, here in foggy old London. If you're prepared to pre-book a slot, pay £140 and watch the whole performance (it takes over an hour). For this is the generosity of a more leisurely age. No second sittings with this one. Otto's devotes a whole page on its menu to the story behind its very own Edwardian duck press (Christofle, 1910, if you're wondering). They have a lobster press too, but somehow that doesn't seem quite as exciting:

Pressed Duck is mostly prepared in front of the customer. The Duck is roasted to rare and carried to the table where thin slices are cut from the breasts. The breast slices are then placed in a dish of reduced red wine. The rest of the Duck except for the legs, which are served grilled, is pressed in the special screw press. The juice obtained is flavoured with Cognac, thickened with Duck liver and poured over the slices of breast which finish cooking in the sauce. 

Which reminds me. Back in the early 90s, I managed- with difficulty- to secure a job of sorts as a junior 'expert' (I now hesitate to use the word) at the defunct auction house, Phillips, which then eeked its trade at the shabbier end of New Bond Street. The first objet I ever had the pleasure of cataloguing was- you guessed- a silver-plated duck press; a relic, I expect of some smart high falutin' 50s restaurant gone bust. Floundering, I described it as a 'grape press' and gave it an embarrassingly low guesstimate. Prudence Leith won it for a pittance.

 

 

Inside, Otto's has an Old European vibe. Whitewashed walls. Large tables, pressed linen, spacious padded banquettes in crushed raspberry, art nouveau lamps and Viennese busts. Decorative nick-nacks in silver-plate grace each table. Ours was a lobster. Downstairs, there's a framed poster of Catherine Deneuve's naked back, Belle de Jour; upstairs, bizarrely, there's a thing for Marilyn Monroe going on, and Audrey Hepburn to a lesser extent- photographs, posters and cushions. It's kitsch. But it works. I think. Up to a Point. It's weirdly edgy, even slightly eccentric as, seemingly, is Mein Host.

We sat quite close to the fabled duck press. Saw it in action, too- surrounded by a team of eager white-coated waiters wrestling with the wheel on the top. They like trolleys at Otto's. And waiters, of which there seems to be an inexhaustible supply. After a bit, one of them came along and with ceremony parked a trolley, spiked with a piglet's haunch, at the table opposite (presumably the Jambon Agé de Serrano?).

 

 

The food is of the Old School. It's rich. It's Gothic. It's French. It's wonderful. My first course of brains (Cervelle de Veau a la Grenobloise, Poêlée de Champignons Sauvage) was superb. Barely cooked, flashed in the pan - as it should be, meltingly soft, almost runny, served in a complex sauce enlivened with lemon, capers, parsley and mushrooms. Mrs Aitch's Snail Ravioli (Ravioles d’Escargots à la Bourguignonne) was 'divine'. 

Then I had to have the Steak Tartare with Rôsti potatoes (Tartare de Bœuf, Préparé à la Table, Pomme d’Arphin), of course, I did- it's a very Greasy Spoon dish. It said 'prepared at the table' on the menu. I thought this was going to take a minute or so. Not so, this was theatre. It took about fifteen minutes. Having something done in front of you is, of course, a childish pleasure. Then another trolley was wheeled out with various ingredients spread out across the top. And a wooden bowl. Our waitress cracked an egg into it and made a mayonnaise, subsequently mashing in all the other ingredients one by one with Lea & Perrins and Tabasco added to taste. 

Mrs Aitch had Saddle of Hare in a Raspberry Vinegar and Bitter Chocolate Sauce (Selle de Lièvre de Fennes, Choux Rouge, Vinaigre de Framboise et Sauce au Chocolat), an enlightened choice for a dark and rainy London night. The dish was 'immaculate', the meat was 'unbelievably tender' and it arrived with 'delicious creamed potatoes'. 'It was so much better than I thought it was going to be'. Always a good sign, that.

Through all this culinary excitement, Otto remained inscrutable. But on leaving, I told him how much I had enjoyed the brains, and his face lit up into a huge smile. The bill came to about £75 for two, including wine, two courses and coffee. And that included a Kir Royale and a Bellini. You can also have a very reasonably priced lunch at Otto's: two courses cost £24, and a half carafe of the superior house wine is £12.

 

 

As you can gather, we're rather smitten with Otto's. He's ignored popular opinion and just gone ahead and done it. Opened an old-fashioned French restaurant of the Old School. As if the River Café had never existed. It's all so splendidly unfashionable. It's terribly exciting. Who's ever heard of bruschetta?

 

Otto's, 182 Gray's Inn Road, London WC1X 8EW (020 7713 0107)

 

Clientele: Barristers, Judges, Newsreaders, Gourmands, Drs Frasier & Niles Crane

Ambience: Old School Kitsch 

Food: Superb

Service: Silver

Price: ££/£££ 

 

Bonfire Night Bullshot

 

 

 

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

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

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

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

 

 

Underneath the Arches: a Restaurant is Born

 

 

 

Just got back from a fascinating hour or so being shown round the building site of Counter, a new restaurant in London's Vauxhall- on the South Bank, just across the river from Westminster and the Houses of Parliament. It's the current baby of our enterprising friend, Philip Reicherstorfer, former J. P. Morgan banker turned restaurateur and visionary.

 

 

I've mentioned Vauxhall in previous posts- it's where we happen to live, and currently, I believe, now Europe's biggest re-generation zone and building site. The new American Embassy is under construction, and near the location of the original 18th century Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens one Mr Damien Hirst is opening a gallery featuring his entire art collection. A mini-Manhattan is planned linking the once edgy streets of Vauxhall to the East with a re-imagined Battersea Power Station complex to the West.

And that's only the half of it. Over 10,000 new residents are expected to live in the previous wastelands and bomb-sites of Nine Elms. That's 18,000 new homes.

 

 

 

You'll find Counter- or what is to become Counter- in one of those Victorian brick railway arches originally constructed by the London & South Western Railway. And it's not a half-hearted enterprise. The space stretches a phenomenal 60 metres, long enough to fit in the entire length of Nelson's Column with room to spare. The slightly Gothic arch at the end creates an almost cathedral like ambience, with the distant rumble of over-head trains echoing into the cavernous space.

 

 

I admire Philip's ambition. He knows exactly what he wants. It's going to be dreadfully smart. "Art Deco meets Disco" is the plan. No brick walls à la Joe Allen going on here. Or scrubbed pine floorboards. Or chalked-up blackboards. "Shabby Chic" ain't a popular phrase in these parts.

Instead, the walls are going to be lined with soft antiqued glass, creating a 'Hall of Mirrors, Versailles-ish' vibe. The space will be divided into two restaurants with a bar in the middle and private dining rooms. Orange is the house colour.

 

Philip examines the re-claimed wooden floor blocks

 

A darkish slate grey is the colour

 

 

 

The ceilings are being left in their semi-industrial state and are currently being sprayed with gallons and gallons of Farrow & Ball paint in a subtle off-black.

Food will be of the unpretentious comfort variety, covering different regions of the globe, suitable for London's increasingly international population. Sam Adams beer will be available on tap. 

Philip has asked me back in a month or two's time, and I'll report back with a progress update. In the meantime, watch this space. Counter plans to open in January 2015.

 

The Greasy Spoon in Florence

 

 

A Room with a View

 

We're just back from a few days in Florence. I've got a thing about the place. Thinking about it, I've got a thing about Italy, but Florence just has that special 'something'. I adore Venice. I'm excited by Rome. I'm turned on by the Amalfi Coast. But Florence? I'm not sure exactly why this is. The stern fortifications of the Palazzo Vecchio? Quite probably. The scented delights of the Santa Maria Novella apothecary? Quite possibly. The simplicity of the convent of San Marco and the wonder that is The Annunciation? Without doubt. The dreamy, water-colour view from the Boboli Gardens, Rus in Urbe? Most definitely. The food? Now that's an interesting conundrum.

 

The dusty Boboli Gardens

 

I first visited Florence back in the late 90's with my then girlfriend. We were both strapped for cash (a struggling junior auction specialist and a chain-smoking lapsed journalist between us); this was in the early days of the internet, before the addiction of ipads and iphones. We trawled the touristy area near the Piazza della Repubblicca, ending up in a generic 'trattoria', the memory subsequently banished to the dustbin of culinary history. 

 

Quattrocento Virginal Beauty, Santa Maria Novella

 

I suppose the same could be said of any major European city. God help those poor visitors to London who end up in that steak house on Oxford Street, or Parisian optimists searching in vain for the ghosts of Jean-Paul Sartre, Gertrude Stein and Simone de Beauvoir and finding instead, a chain café in the Boulevard du Montpernasse- or even worse- the bacterial breeding grounds of a restaurant on the Place du Tertre.

 

Florence from the Bardini Gardens

 

But on this trip to Florence- thanks to internet recommendations- we ate extremely well. In a way, the food of Tuscany (at least in the chill of autumn and winter) reminds me of the best of England. It's hearty, rib-sticking stuff; comfort food at its best: wild boar, funghi, trippa alla Fiorentina, rustic tomato soups thickened with bread, slow cooked meat stews, prosciutto, white beans.

First up was the Trattoria La Casalinga. This is an old-fashioned family-run restaurant in Oltarano, that rather appealing 'arty' area on the wrong side of the Arno. Nothing much to talk about from the outside- and the inside either, but the staff were charming, considering we hadn't booked, and managed to find us a small table in the corner for an hour or so. Incidentally, the place was full of American and British tourists; but then in Florence every restaurant is packed full of Fodor brandishing tourists: the city is a monument to well-heeled American tourism.

 

The convent of San Marco

 

The food at La Casalinga is outstanding. Divine. Actually tastes of something. This is rustic simplicity. And the value for money! A carafe of the local chianti came to four Euros- I repeat, four Euros. A plate of thinly sliced proscuitto, served with bruschetta, chicken liver and some sort of fish, plus tomatoes of a wonderful flavour, came to seven Euros.

My main course was nectar. I asked for their house speciality, the peposa beef stew (beef stew with black pepper) but instead, ended up with a stew cooked with onions: bubbled on a low heat for hours, enriched with white onions, melting into a rich sauce; slightly Gothic but hitting the mark. Mrs Aitch's tagliatelle came with a seasonal funghi sauce. The whole shooting match came to 36 Euros. Including service.

 

Autumn funghi at the Mercato Centrale

 

Next up was the Mercato Centrale food market. This is a Victorian ironwork structure not unlike the now demoished Les Halles market in Paris or our own Covent Garden. Instead of pulling it down (Parisians please take note) the Florentines, very sensibly, have re-invented it as- gasp of amazement- a food market. And this time, there's not a tourist in sight. The range of fruit, vegetables, meat and dry goods is astonishing. It's a reminder that the food in Britain is languishing- still- behind the rest of Europe. I see this time and time again- in France, Belgium, Italy and Germany.

In Britain, it's possible to eat very well indeed- but only at shops, restaurants and bars aimed at an affluent, yuppy clientele. In mainland Europe, good food is part of the every-day culture. Where a French or Italian lorry driver can pull over at some roadside watering hole and eat simple and decent food. Or where some impecunious little old granny can buy a loaf of incredible, hand-made bread. In Britain, it's a Little Chef or a packet of Sun-Blest.

 

Rus in Urbe. The water-colour light of Florence.

 

On our last night we tried to get into Il Santo Bevitore, again in the Oltarano area. This has had rave reviews with the likes of The Daily Telegraph, no less, describing it as 'surprisingly gourmet for what at first looks like a Bohemian Drinking Den'. I tried to book, but they seemed to have left the telephone off the hook. Deliberately.

We arrived early (it opens at 7.30) and joined the queue. Immediate conversation. Charming Americans with the same problem. Eventually a harrassed waitress came out and separated us into two lines. Those who had reservations and those who didn't. Moral of the story: When in Florence, book.

So we ended up at the excellent Enoteca Pitti Gola e Cantina, a small wine bar offering individual glasses of artisan Tuscan wines. You eat out in the street directly opposite the magnificent Pitti Palace, formerly the residence of the Grand Dukes of Tuscany, as Baedeker puts it. Simple ingredients again: grilled funghi in a fondue sauce, fresh pasta, wild boar, anchovies- that sort of thing. The helpful waiter recommends a glass of this or that wine with each course. I like this approach. Eminently sensible. I wish more restaurants could do this.

Four cheers for Florence! We've rubbed that boar's nose. We'll be back.

 

 

Nina St Tropez

 

 

I'm back. We had a terrific ball at the Battersea Decorative Antiques Fair and Josephine the Pig has found a new home. Sold to a nursery in one of the more salubrious parts of London, you'll be glad to hear. After all the hard work and anxiety, it's always a relief when your stand passes that designer litmus test, you shift enough stock to make a decent profit and new friends sign up for that golden newsletter subscription list.

But back to things gastronomique. Every now and again a book turns up that I rate. I mean I really rate. Please step forward Nina St Tropez. Nina Parker is a London-based chef who ran Bocca Di Lupo's Gelupo. Now as someone whose Desert Island Discs' luxury thing would be genuine Italian Ice Cream (plus a large American 'fridge) this looked promising. The blurb on the back of the book says:

"Classic. Simple. Delicious. This is the food of the South of France. With over 100 recipes inspired by the old-world glamour and elegance of St Tropez, Nina takes us on a journey to discover the culinary secrets of the town." 

 

 

 

Mrs Aitch was the one who first alerted me to the book. She'd read about it on that Voguette's wunder website, A Little Bird. Initially, It looked terribly girly. Nothing wrong with this of course, but there are quite a few of these books currently on the market; you know the thing: numerous lifestyle photographs, pretty girls in Cornish-Wared, retro kitchens; hip parties featuring chiselled, good looking people you have a sneaking suspicion might have been hired from a modeling agency; scented candles territory. And quite often with these sort of books, the recipes don't work.

Well I tell you something- Nina's recipes most certainly work, and not only that, they're extraordinarily delicious. We spent August in Cornwall, at a rather wonderful late 50's house in St Mawes, which my parents rent on a regular basis. It has the most marvellous position, right on the water, with it's own private beach and a sub-tropical garden to die for. Reminds me enormously of that house in Bonjour Tristesse. That slightly dubious B move with silver-foxed, aging roué David Niven wafting around on the terrace in a silk dressing grown, Dry Martini in hand. So what could be more suitable to cook from than Nina St Tropez?

 

 

We tried out several recipes. More than once. My current numéro un favourite is her take on Fennel, Carrot and Nutmeg Gratin aka Gratin de Fenouil et Carotte à la Muscade. Mein Gott, this is divine, the nectar of the gods:

Fennel bulbs, Spanish onions and carrots are sliced and placed into a mixing bowl. Crushed garlic, lots of grated nutmeg and fresh thyme leaves are added along with a decent slug of olive oil, sea salt and black pepper. Everything is then well-tossed until the vegetables are well coated. 

You then take a baking dish and make a layer of fennel and onions at the bottom. A new layer of sliced carrot is placed on top, and the whole thing is finished off with a final layer of fennel and onions. The dish is placed in a hot oven for just over an hour or so. The vegetables will caramelise and get slightly crunchy and charred, but that is all to the good. A mixture of milk and cream is then poured on top and the dish is sprinkled with sourdough breadcrumbs. The gratin is cooked for a further 15 minutes or so, until the top is crunchy and brown. 

It's a terrific (and slightly unusual) combination, the nutmeg, carrot and fennel. Works brilliantly. This is currently in my top ten dishes and I am addicted to it. Well done Miss Parker. Your book is a most definite buy.

 

Luke Honey at the Battersea Decorative Antiques Fair, Autumn 2014

 

 

Apologies for my absence. New foodie post coming very soon. In the meantime, I've been getting ready for my stand at the Battersea Decorative Antiques Fair, which starts next Tuesday and runs to the 5th October. Many Greasy Spooners will know by now that in my other life I live a slightly precarious existence dealing in quirky antiques. Oh the Long Suffering Mrs Aitch!

Slightly different theme this time, with a hint of Victorian London: chocolate brown walls, Victorian Magic, Fairground and Circus Posters, glittering antique Witch Balls, a huge 1908 map of the London Underground, mechanical games in tinplate, furniture from the Festival of Britain, a fabulous 19th century German Toy Theatre and, of course, the usual stock of backgammon boards, chess and gambling antiques.

And, last but not least, Josephine the Pig will be making a star appearance. She's German, and dates from the 1930's. From a children's carousel or merry-go-round. Would have given hundreds- if not thousands- of children many many hours of happy entertainment.

If anybody wants free tickets to the fair, please Email Me and I would be delighted to send you an e-ticket, which you will need to print out to get entry. Will save you fifteen golden nuggets, so not to be sniffed at. Stand 59

 

Noël Coward's Oeufs Vaudoise

 

 

 

"Make the required quantity of scrambled eggs in the usual way but instead of using a small amount of milk use French Vermouth and at the last moment add a few shrimps, about 8 or 10 per person.

Before serving top with thinly shaved almonds. This recipe can either be a breakfast or supper dish."

 

From "Celebrity Cooking For You", Andre Deutsch, 1961.

 

 

Happy Birthday to The Greasy Spoon!

 

 

Six years, ten months and twenty three days old today. 

 

 

Le Manoir d'Hasting's Jambon au Cidre

 

 

 

 

Here's a brilliant recipe I discovered in an old 1970's book on French Regional Cookery. Jambon au Cidre. Ham with Cider. It comes from Le Manoir d'Hastings, a hotel found in a 17th century priory in Normandy. It's an old dish. I love the simplicity.

You take a 3 kg ham and soak it in several changes of cold water for 24 hours. You then place it inside a large saucepan and pour in two bottles of cider, or enough to cover the ham. I would try and find a decent Norman cider, rather than using that sparkly, fizzy, sweet stuff. 

The pan is brought slowly to the boil and any scum skimmed off the top. The heat is lowered and the ham simmered very gently until tender. About two and a half hours. 20 minutes per ½ kg. Once done, the ham is left to cool in all that lovely cooking liquor.

And now for the interesting bit. Slice the ham and sauté the slices in a frying pan, in unsalted butter, until they get a little bit of colour. Transfer the cooked slices to a serving dish.

To make the sauce, déglacez the pan with six tablespoons of Cider Vinegar, add 250ml of the reserved cooking liquor and reduce over a brisk flame until syrupy. Taste, and season with salt and white pepper, if needed. Whisk in a knob of unsalted butter, which will give your sauce a nice glaze. Pour over the ham slices, garnish with finely chopped flat leaf parsley and serve.

  

Earl Grey and Orange Sorbet

 

 

Enjoying yourself? said a voice behind me.
It was Mr Maudsley, also bent on meteorological investigation.
Wriggling (I could not help wriggling when he spoke to me) I told him that I was.
'Been pretty hot today,' he remarked.
'Is it a record?' I asked eagerly.
'I shouldn't be surprised,' he said. I shall have to look it up. Hot weather suit you?'

L. P. Hartley The Go-Between (1953)

 

Last night the man on the television set said that this August was quite possibly going to be the hottest on record, with temperatures touching 100 °F.  In our Brave New World of topsy-turvy weather this was reassuring news. For this is how August should be. There is something evocative about this time of the year, reminiscent of languid summer holidays in Italy and France (the under-rated Rumer Godden re-creates this brilliantly in her once-famous novel, The Greengage Summer), drousy wasps and ripening fruit; spider's webs and haystacks; or the vacuous laziness of the South of France in Françoise Sagan's rights-of-passage novella, Bonjour Tristesse; or the harvest moons, dusty cornfields and deer-parks of Norfolk, so beautifully depicted in Joseph Losey's film, The Go-Between.

 

 

If I was ever banished to a desert island and was only- God Forbid!- allowed to take just one book, it would have to be a toss up between The Great Gatsby and The Go-Between; an agonising decision, as both books, I think, are contenders for 'the most beautiful novel ever written in the English language' competition.

What's the most appropriate food for this month? The French, of course, are very good at this, and I'm thinking long painted tin tables set up on gravel outside Breton and Norman Manor Houses, stuffed with friends, family and photogenic well-behaved children all drinking the chilled local hooch and having a jolly good time. Cue the music of Fauré and Debussy.

Oh, so much more desirable than the hell of the pseudo-Antipodean English barbeque: the flimsy orange Sputnik rocking on it's rickety tripod, the under-cooked salmonella drumsticks wrapped in tin-foil, the cold lumpy barbeque sauce, the hearty Neanderthals in their Ralph Lauren polo shirts with their ridiculous over-sized logos knocking back cans of lager. One of them always has to be in charge, have you noticed that?  A spooky, control freak, he-man, fire-making thing going on there. And then you have to stare at the hideous contraption all the year round, rusting on your terrace, when the truth is that you've probably only used it once or twice due to the vagaries of our beloved English climate. No. I don't like barbeques. Family lunches in the French manner are so much more appealing. And a home-made sorbet would be perfect for this, would it not?

 

Françoise Sagan's House, photograph from The Peak of Chic.

 

Back in 2008 (loyal Greasy Spooners may remember) I came up with my own recipe for an Earl Grey Sorbet flavoured with Orange. I didn't have an ice-cream maker then, so I experimented using a plastic carton. And by golly, it worked.

I mixed a cup of sugar with two cups of water, and brought it to the boil; then simmered it for about five minutes, and left it to cool down. Next, I mixed in several spoons of prepared Earl Grey tea, with a squeeze of fresh orange juice, and infused the mix with some fresh mint leaves (which I previously rolled around between my fingers to release the oils). I tipped this liquid into the sugar and water (first removing the mint leaves), mixed it around, and left it to cool.

I poured the tea flavoured sugar water into a plastic container, and shoved it into the deep freeze. It was then taken out of the deep freeze when half-frozen, mashed up with a fork, and shoved back into the deep freeze again. Once frozen, it was taken out, mixed up again in the Magimix and put back into the deep freeze before use.

It would be a good idea to experiment further, perhaps reducing the sugar and adding more of the tea. The sorbet comes out a lovely, very subtle light biscuity colour and looks utterly appealing. Your friends and guests- seated at that Long French Tin Table Under The Vines- will be impressed.

The number one aim of sorbets is to achieve that silky smooth texture. I know I talk about 'freezing' but actually you don't really want the mixture to freeze. It's not an ice-lolly. It's not a flavoured ice-cube. There are a few tricks to help you achieve this.

There's an excellent recipe for Armagnac Sorbet in Michel Roux Jr's The Gavroche Cookbook. The Rouxs add glucose to their syrup as it helps stop the sugar crystallise. This is a useful technique to know about, and it might be worth adding a small dollop of glucose to my Earl Grey recipe. The other trick is to add a bit of alcohol- as it stops the whole thing from freezing. But in this case I think alcohol would be best left to the armagnac and vodka sorbets. Alcohol and tea is not necessarily a good match. It's an elegant plan to serve the sorbet as a palate cleanser- between courses, rather than as a pudding or at the end of lunch. I'll leave it to you.

  

Highland Fling: Balmoral Chicken with Whisky Sauce

 

 

 

 

Scotland in August!  Heather. Haggis. Single Malts. Stalking. Tartan. Fingal's Cave. Deep Fried Mars Bar. Midges. And here's another find to add to the list: Balmoral Chicken. Strangely- for a Scotophile, I had never come across it before, only learning about it very recently from someone I ran into at a Scottish Love In. At a Pop-Up in Darkest Vauxhall- of all places. It's a very Greasy Spoon dish.

Before I reveal the recipe, a little bit about its history. There isn't any. Or not much to speak of. Like tartan, I have strong suspicions that it's a relatively modern affair. 

 

 

Making the thing is simple enough. You take some chicken breasts and make a deep incision along the side to create a pocket, leaving a centimetre or two at each end. You then take a spoonful of Haggis, squash it into a sausage shape and stuff it into the chicken. 

The breasts are then wrapped in back bacon, seasoned with salt and pepper and brushed with melted butter, before being sealed with tin foil (much as you would do with Haggis) and cooked in a pre-heated oven at 200° C for half an hour. Ten minutes before the end, the foil is opened up to allow the bacon to crisp up.

To make the Whisky Sauce, add a generous slug of Scotch Whisky ( I would use a decent peaty Single Malt such as Laphroaig) to a hot pan. Flambé it (you'll find it goes up with quite a whoosh). Add some double cream (double rather than single, otherwise it will split). Reduce to a medium consistency and season with salt and pepper. 

To serve, slice the Balmoral Chicken across the width, arrange on the plate and pour over the Whisky Sauce.

 

 

The Greasy Spoon tests...Rick Stein's India

  

 

 

One more post about curry. Then I will shut up. You will remember, dear reader, that in the last post we were flirting with the charms of British Indian Restaurant Cookery. I tried a recipe or two from Undercover Curry (the secret of British Indian Restaurant cookery) and, Mein Gott, it was one hell of a marathon. The base sauce took an hour or two, and then I diligently obeyed orders and had to make a garlic and ginger paste, a tomato and tandoori mix and a tandoori masala marinade. Several years later, I came up with a reasonably authentic curry. A bit like the sort of thing you might order from your local takeaway. Except it wasn't as good. Tasted similar, but something was missing. The Sag Aloo was greasy, the base sauce had a lingering cabbagey smell, and the 'Madras' was far too tomatoey. Scary amount of vegetable oil too. Swimming in the stuff. All this, of course, could have been- and probably was- the fault of Mein Host, but it would have been far easier, frankly, to have picked up that telephone and rung up my old friend from bachelor days, Captain Korma.

 

 

Which takes me to Rick Stein. One of my favourite restaurants is his Seafood Restaurant in Padstow. I like their professional, friendly attitude, I like the fact the tables are spacious. I like the way they ladle their Cornish version of Bouillabaisse from a generous tureen, enough for two. And the food is still fabulous. It tastes of something. Oh yes, Rick Stein is still going strong, after all these years. And first "discovered" by none other than one Mr Keith Floyd during the making of his early series, "Floyd on Fish".

 

 

Rick Stein's India is a recent addition to the cookery library, and it's a superb compilation. It's based on his recent television series in which we enjoyed the sight of Mr Stein eating his way across the Sub-Continent. Don't be put off by all the generic BBC television hype. It's a buy.

Don't know about you, but I am so fed up with the current crop of television documentaries. Photogenic Oxbridge dons striding across the Saharan desert in jeans and open necked blue shirts, gesticulating wildly. Next shot they're on the Great Wall of China. Then they're driving a hired open Mustang on the freeways of the Deep South, their Byronic locks blowing in the breeze. Cue long shot of television expert standing on the edge of Beachy Head (Go on Man! Jump!), staring out to sea. Or on the Grand Canyon. Or gazing at the heavens and contemplating the mysterious Universe. Step forward Doctor So and So. You know who you are. And those ridiculous repetitive intros. Which reminds us retards- i.e. those of us with attention spans of five seconds- you and me- what the series is all about in the first place. Because we've forgotten since last week, haven't we? Tiresome intros which run about five minutes into the programme. "Im Professor So and So, and in this series, for the first time in television history, I will be unlocking the secrets of the ancient kingdom of ..." Cue commercial break for international television. They're always "unlocking" the past in these programmes. Yawn.

This is the reason why the younger crowd don't watch British television. Because it ain't no good no more. There, gastronauts, I've had my little rant. Now back to Mr Stein and the dilemma of authentic and not so authentic curries.

 

 

I've really thought about this one. Not quite sleepless nights, but it's been niggling me for the last few days. I don't see the point of going to all the trouble of making a British Indian Restaurant curry when you can knock up authentic street food from Rick Steins' book in about fifteen to twenty minutes, with minimum ingredients and little washing up. So far I've made the Dry "Curry of Cabbage, Carrot and Coconut", "Cochin First-Class Railway Mutton Curry" and "Chettinad Chicken". All were superb, especially the last two. I'll be using this brilliant book for years to come. Before you reach for that telephone, please give it a try. Buy it.

 

Secrets of the Great British Indian Restaurants

 

 

Gastronauts- a question for you this fine, sunny, July morning. Do you have a thing about takeaway curry? A secret addictive vice? Go on. Admit it. It's gloriously tacky, I know, unquestionably laddish, and possibly, no probably, horribly fattening (more about that later), but isn't there just something so very comforting indeed about a rich, oily, meaty, salty, spicy Madras on a Friday night, after a difficult week? There's a place for it, despite what Mrs Aitch thinks. Her view being that why on earth anybody would want to re-create the flavours of a British Indian Takeaway is beyond comprehension.

British Indian Restaurant (BIR as the aficionados call it) is a different ball game from genuine and traditional Indian food- as prepared and eaten by families across the Sub-Continent. It all started when Bangladeshis arrived in Britain just after the Second World War. They developed a new style of cooking, perhaps more suited to British taste buds, which could be prepared with relative ease, and on a strict budget, allowing many different dishes to be served at once. 

Ever wondered how your local Indian Taj Mahal manages to serve up so many different dishes at such short notice? Ever wondered how Indian restaurants manage to survive even though you're the only punter in the room?

The secret lies in the various very affordable base sauces and pastes which the restaurant makes up before hand. I became curious about this and started to investigate. Surprise, surprise, there's a whole BIR sub-culture on YouTube, with beery jokey blokey types revealing 'for the first time' the mystery of the 'base sauce' and curry fanatics peddling their e-books revealing the 'secret' recipes of British Indian Restaurant Cookery. There's also several internet forums full of angst-ridden middle aged men arguing about the exact quantity of this spice and that sauce. In truth, there are now so many of these curry evangelists, that to claim the whole caboodle a 'secret' is, perhaps, as trifle economique with the actualité. 

I've discovered that the base sauce tends to be, in essence, a puréed vegetable stock. There doesn't seem to be any major rules, but the sauce tends to include cabbage, carrots, peppers, fresh coriander, garlic and ginger paste, green chillies, tomatoes, water and a great deal of onions. And a great deal of oil. As much as a litre of sunflower oil is poured into the cooking pot, which explains why you get that dark red oily surface floating on top of your curry. The vegetable bit is extremely healthy, but I'm not sure about the quantities of oil. A litre of oil does seem like an enormous amount. Scary. Coming to think about it, none of the Curry Crusaders I watched on YouTube seemed to have- how can I put it delicately? - washboard stomachs.

Anyway, to move on. To cut a very long story short, it's simmered for several hours. When ready it can be used as a base for any dish you think of. There are all sorts of other nifty little tricks to know about too. In a Korma, super fine coconut flour is used, not desiccated coconut. And butter is added to the dish, as well as cream. Tomato ketchup often goes into a Rogan Josh. And so on and so on. Meat is pre-cooked and then warmed through in the sauce before serving. 

 

 

The first book published on the subject seems to be Kris Dhillon's The Curry Secret. In its day it was breaking new ground. I've read this slim volume from cover to cover, and it's a bit different from all the e-books and YouTube videos out there. Very pared down. Basic even. The base sauce, for example, is much simpler and seems to lack ingredients (like cabbage and carrots) everyone else is recommending. I finished this book slightly unfulfilled, not convinced that with this one, we really were learning "The Secret"- whatever that might be.

A more complicated (and perhaps more genuine) approach seems to come from Dave Loyden's Undercover Curry, an insider's expose of British Indian Restaurant Cookery, which goes into great length and detail about exactly how to prepare all the sauces, pastes and wotnot that you need to create genuine BIR food. It's like a technician's manual. All great stuff, and worth getting, but there's so much emphasis on the technique, there's not much room left for the recipes. Classics such as Chicken Korma (which I would have loved to have learnt how to cook properly) seems to have been left out.

And then you turn to the internet. I love YouTube, I think, partly because I like enthusiasts. There's so much quirky stuff out there for enthusiastic amateurs. If you suddenly decide you want to breed orchids, raise Alpacas, restore a Bentley Mark VI or learn how to speak Cornish with a Newlyn dialect, there's going to be some nut on YouTube showing you exactly how to do it. And with their videos come helpful 'how-to-do-it' e-books.

For once, the Sinister Kindle seems to have come into its own. Talking of which, I'm toying- and I mean toying- with the idea of writing a "Best of The Greasy Spoon" recipe book. There could be two paths- a relatively expensive de-luxe edition, wood-cuts, hand-made paper, limited print run et al, or a democratic, affordable e-book, which could be downloaded immediatley to the computer screens at your Counting House for a few golden nuggets. With the first option, I would probably end up loosing money, with the second- I might actually make a few bob or two. Enough to keep me in take-away curries for a few months. But that's beside the point.

Which one would you prefer? Are there any unmissable classic dishes that you think I should include? Please email me at [email protected] with your views. 

 

Raymond Blanc's Braised Cod with Boulangère Potatoes

 

 

 

Over the years I've managed to amass a large collection of cookery books without even really thinking about it. It's easy to forget once popular books languishing at the back of the shelf. I had forgotten about Raymond Blanc's Cooking For Friends, first published back in 1991.

It's a terrific book and comes with my recommendation. I remember buying it new- today, looking at the photographs of a svelte Monsieur Blanc in his all-white kitchen with its Villeroy & Boch Luxembourg pattern tureens and the emphasis on the French Cuisine Bourgeoise, it seems slightly dated. 

Thinking about it, there are two types of cookery book. There's the complicated, cheffy, 'secrets of the so-and-so restaurant' type of book. And then at the other end of the spectrum there's the dumbed-down, pretty pictures, coffee-table, celeb chef, supermarket blockbuster thing. There's often a problem with both of these. The recipes don't work!

How many times have you tried a recipe exactly as written, only to find that there's not enough sauce, or the fish is overcooked, or there's too much sauce, or the blasted thing is burnt to a cinder. And quite often the measurements are just wrong, as if the books been rushed to the printer, and nobody seems to have actually tried the recipes out first.

Cooking For Friends falls somewhere in the middle. Okay, it ain't perfect- I tried the Poulet à la Creme et au Riz, and it definitely needed a bit of tweaking, but the Cabillaud à la Boulangère, which I am about to share with you, was fantastic, even if I poured in too much stock and the sauce was a bit watery. But that was my fault, not the fault of the book.

The recipes are relatively simple, (ingredients can easily be sourced from any supermarket) but aimed at people who enjoy cooking and have a bit of knowledge to go with it. Enthusiastic, intelligent amateur cooks. 

Here's how I made Raymond Blanc's Cabillaud à la Boulangère. Braised Cod with Boulangère Potatoes. 

First you make the Boulangère Potatoes. You get one of those shallow rectangular or oval enamel dishes (with a lid) and grease it with a knob of butter. Into the dish goes a layer of sliced onions, over that goes a layer of sliced skinned potatoes which you've previously rinsed in cold water (I used Maris Piper), and then another layer of onions, topped off with a final layer of potatoes. Each layer is seasoned generously with sea salt and black pepper, and sprigs of thyme and a few bayleaves added to the dish. Chicken stock is poured up to half the height of the dish.

Put the dish on the hob and bring the stock up to simmering point. Obviously you need to make sure at this stage that your dish won't crack with the direct heat. The dish is then placed inside a pre-heated oven (230°C) and cooked without a lid for about half an hour.

While this is going on, cook the cod. Heat oil and butter in a large non-stick frying pan and pan-fry the cod very briefly. Raymond Blanc says 'both sides for five minutes', although I found the fish cooked much quicker than that. The important thing is to not to over-cook the fish, otherwise it will start to flake and go rubbery.

The browned cod is then placed on top of the onion and potatoes, the lid put back on top of the dish, and the whole thing is finished off in the hot oven for about eight minutes. 

To serve, arrange the sliced potatoes and onion to one side of the plate, place the braised cod on top, squeeze over a bit of lemon, and check the seasoning. The sauce is spooned over the dish. Garnish with finely chopped parsley.

This is delicious. Its' simple to make and looks great on the plate. If your sauce is too thin and watery, you could always strain it into a small saucepan and reduce it on a high heat. This would thicken it up. I haven't tried doing this yet, but it might be a small improvement.

 

 

The Greasy Spoon visits…Dram & Smoke

 

 

 

I like pop-ups restaurants. They're creative. They're fun. They're slightly bonkers. So I don't think it's especially clever to be too hard on them. You're eating food cooked in a garage or shed-like environment; look- it's not exactly The Ritz or The Waterside Inn at Bray is it?

Bearing this in mind, we booked ourselves into the Dram & Smoke, a new pop-up venture in edgy, up-and-coming inner-city Vauxhall. It's where we happen to live, so it was a pleasant five minute scurry from our Victorian hovel to get there. It's in a former steel yard. Think cobbled streets, holes in walls, shabby old typography, rusty iron braziers and the wafting aroma of roast pigeon and you'll get the picture. Wun, Wabbit, Wun Wabbit Wun Wun Wun. There was a roof.

 

 

The brainchild of Edinburgh entrepreneurs, Paul Ross and Nick Fulton, Dram & Smoke has food of a Scottish theme, with the emphasis on theme. You sit at communal tables and there's a bar to one side, selling the excellent toffee flavoured Innis & Gunn Beer, whiskies and bottles of wine. The transfer printed Royal Worcester porcelain was a nice touch. Monarch of the Glen, Landseer, the Famous Grouse and all that.

 

 

To be honest, the whole thing was a massive Scottish Love-In, which slightly caught me off guard as I was expecting (perhaps idiotically) to encounter- how shall we say- a more international bunch?  

Scottish Independence was, thank God, off the menu, although talk was consistently of the "Back in Scotland..." and "I support Andy Murray, as I am Scottish" persuasion. I did, at least, learn the recipe for Balmoral Chicken.

Does Scottish Cuisine exist? Does British Cuisine exist? What makes a menu Scottish? Is it the ingredients? Is there a thin dividing line between classic and cliché? Dare I open an English themed pop-up in Glasgow serving Sussex Pond Pudding, Cromer Crab, Toad in the Hole and Brown Windsor soup without being lynched? If I did, I don't think I would try and serve Autumnal or Winter dishes in the middle of Summer, even in the climatic heaven that exists north of the border.

Anyway. First up were balls (bon-bons) of deep-fried Haggis, served with Chili Jam. I'm always a champion of Haggis (aka "sheep's pluck boiled in its stomach" to non-Brits) and it hit the mark, although the 'jam' was strangely runny, almost sauce like in its consistency.

 

 

Next came 'Scottish' Charcuterie. Lots of it. Good-ish chunks of Chorizo and Parma Ham served up on a bit of old plank, with pickled vegetables in a Kilner bottle. Not sure how 'Scottish' that was.

 

 

Then came some form of marinated, potted Smoked Mackerel, served up in those jars you used to catch tadpoles in as a child. Juicy and Fresh. Decent Flavour. The Cullen Skink (like Vichyssoise, but with the addition of Smoked Haddock) was fine.

 

 

And then came hunks, I repeat hunks, of red, rare, Smokin' Venison Haunch, served on pearl barley, propped up on a pair of bricks, with some form of beetroot sauce. Now, I'm definitely a rare steak sort of man, (as it happens I turn into a werewolf at the rise the Full Moon), but this was food of the Gothic persuasion. I couldn't banish from my mind the image of a circle of ravenous Neanderthals gnawing into the raw backside of one very kaput deer.

 

 

And then came the pudding. Deep Fried Mars Bar with Ice Cream and Irn Bru sauce. It was ghastly. How is this Caledonian delicacy made? A Mars Bar (made in Slough if you've ever wondered), is dipped in batter and then deep-fried in a vat of boiling oil. I cannot even begin to describe the horror. It tastes like a piece of shrivilled skin embalmed on a nodule of chemically zapped caramel. Even the complimentary mini-bottle of single malt Monkey Shoulder whisky couldn't sterlise the taste. Mrs Aitch liked it. I'll leave that one to the Scots.

£40 a head plus the cost of a bottle of wine. 

 

 

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Related articles

Bombay Mix

 

 

It's crunchy. It's spicy. It's horribly addictive. It's laced, I suspect, with our old friend, Mr Monosodium Glutamate. It comes in those little bags from the local corner shop. It's Bombay Mix. The Queen's a fan. Apparently she draws lines in felt-tip across her porcelain snack bowls. She discovered that quantities of the stuff were mysteriously vanishing. The Royal Protection Squad were the main suspects.

I've currently got a 'thing' about Bombay Mix too, finding it works beautifully for some reason, with a decent Gin & Tonic (Portobello Gin mixed properly, Fever Tree tonic, ice cubes and a wedge of lime). The rather appealing Bombay Mix in the picture above comes from the admirably named Ludlow Nut Company.

Mrs Aitch asked me what was in it. I'm ashamed to admit I couldn't tell her straight off. Nuts? Noodles? Raisins? I wasn't even sure if it was genuinely Indian either. Could it be one of those strange Anglo-Indian concotions conjured up in the 1970's? 

Actually it is Indian (chiwda, chevdo, bhuso, chevda (चिवडा) or chivdo (चिवडो), Chanāchura, chanachur (চানাচুর) and chuda) a traditional snack which is enjoyed by millions right across the globe. Ingredients can include: peanuts, fried lentils, chickpeas, flaked rice, fried onion, noodles and curry leaves, flavoured with salt, pepper, coriander and mustard seed.

There are various recipes out there on the net. Every Indian family has their favourite mix, there doesn't seem to be any major rules. I like Ms Marmite Lover's version, which includes aromatic fennel, green chilis, sunflower seeds, red lentils and almonds.

 

Courtesans, Company Style, Northern India, 1800-1825.

 

Roald Dahl's "Memories with Food at Gypsy House"

 

Roald Dahl with Cartier cigarette 

 

It's odd that I haven't written about Roald Dahl before. Perhaps I've been waiting for the right moment. Like so many others reared on "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory" or "James and the Giant Peach", I'm a fan of the old boy (described memorably by Lynn Barber, I think, as Baldilocks). Actually, I'm a massive fan. Of course I am. The man was a genius. I've still got my dog-eared copy of "James and the Giant Peach" lying around somewhere; a bizarre book if you think about it: a group of insects hi-jack a gigantic peach and fly it across the Atlantic to New York, where, if I remember rightly, it ends up spiked on the Empire State Building, and the centipede becomes Mayor.

 

Roald Dahl by Sir Matthew Smith, 1944

 

Back in the late '60s and 70s (about the time I was wearing long grey shorts, sporting bloodied knees and fantasising over the admirably plummy Jenny Agutter in Lionel Jeffries' The Railway Children) Dahl was known as much for his creepy short stories as his children's books. Who can forget that amusing story about the gormless American vegetarian served up as a juicy top side of pork?

Those of a certain vintage will remember "Tales of the Unexpected". The slightly ersatz television series from London Weekend Television. Dahl introduced each episode by firelight from the civilised environs of his country house library in Buckinghamshire. The tantalising opening titles featured a voluptuous woman in a body stocking and Lady Diana hair-do (according to my father and the South Buckinghamshire Advertiser, a housewife from Princes Risborough), prancing Bond-Like- super-imposed over a montage of tarot cards, roulette wheels and Aztec crystal skulls. I've got that slightly sinister fairground-y theme music going on in my head as I type. 

 

 

We lived relatively close to the Dahls' house in Great Missenden, and sometimes stories about the goings-on at Gypsy House filtered through, fourth hand, through "friends of friends". This included Roald wheeling in one of those domed silver hotel serving affairs at a dinner party, from which sprang a flapping, live chicken. I have no idea if this tale is true, but it does seem very much in keeping with the Master of the Unexpected. 

 

 

 

Gypsy House, Great Missenden, Buckinghamshire

 

Roald's widow, Felicity, opens the garden at Gypsy House from time to time in aid of the worthy Roald Dahl Foundation which supports children in the three areas of neurology, haematology and literacy (Dahl's seven-year-old daughter, Olivia, died of measles and his son, Theo, was severely injured following a horrific accident with a New York taxi). It's well worth a visit if you have any interest in gardens or the great man himself. It's a delightful house. And a delightful garden. I've posted some of my photographs from a recent visit.  

Which takes me to "Memories with Food at Gypsy House", later re-published as "Roald Dahl's Cookbook". This is a charming book which I bought from one of those dreaded remainder piles back in the early '90s. You can buy it from amazon, and currently the price ranges from a ridiculous penny to a ridiculous £99.

 

 

This is a gourmand's cookbook, with a collection of sophisticated recipes, anecdotes, quirky Quentin Blake drawings, and an opportunity for Roald to digress on subjects as wide-ranging as wine, gambling, the history of chocolate, mushrooming and the beneficial health effects of the sweet potato. I like Roald's recipe for Oeufs en Geleé: "...this is the most beautiful and delicious dish, but it is difficult to make well. If you can succeed in having the eggs not only soft-boiled inside but also separately suspended in the jelly, and yet not having the jelly too firm, then you have achieved the miracle." It's a buy.

 

                 

Rook Pie

 

 

 

I'm back. And itching to write about all things rook. Yup, the good old Corvus frugilegus. I've always had a thing about that very particular sound rooks make; it's very English: a croaking, cawing noise so typical of a raw morning in February or March. Thinking about it, it's up there with other comforting sounds: the peal of church bells on a Sunday morning, the thwack of a tennis racket on a hot June day, children playing on an echoing tarmac ground, the buzz of a light aircraft on a lazy Saturday afternoon, the distinctive grumble of a London Taxi on a wet, foggy evening in November.

In English folklore, rooks build their nests- the rookery- near places where money is to be found, which is why I am very keen indeed for Mr and Mrs Rook to come and build their nest in the tiny back garden of our London hovel.

Did you know that the glorious 12th of May is traditionally, rook shooting day? According to Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall's River Cottage Cookbook: 

In Victorian times, this used to be considered a suitable sport for boys and young ladies, who would traditionally gather on 12th May, with their specially made rook rifles, for a little genteel sport.

 

 

Shades of Gormenghast. Now my wife, Mrs Aitch, claims to have been fed Rook Pie on a regular basis as a child by her grandmother's cook. Does this fill you with horror? Four and Twenty Black Birds, baked in the Pie? No reason why it should, as I gather that the breast of young rooks ("the branchers") tastes very similar- if not better- than pigeon, and, apparently, has a "delicate gamey flavour". Mr Conran, if rumours are to be believed, has even put it on the menu at one of his "fashionable London restaurants". 

Here's Mrs Beeton's recipe for Rook Pie, taken from the 1936 edition:

6 young rooks

¾ lb. of rump steak

¼ lb. of butter or good dripping

½ pint of stock

salt and pepper

pastry

Skin the birds, without plucking them by cutting the skin near the thighs, and drawing it over the body and head. Draw the birds in the usual manner, remove the necks and backs, and split the birds down the breast. Arrange them in a deep pie dish, cover each breast with strips of steak, season well with salt and pepper, intersperse small pieces of stock as will three-quarter fill the dish.

Cover with pastry and bake from ½ to 2 hours, for the first ½ hour in a hot oven to make the pastry rise, and afterwards more slowly to allow the birds, etc., to become thoroughly cooked.

When the pie is three-quarters baked, brush it over with yolk of egg to glaze the crust, and before serving, pour in throught the hold on the top, the remainder of the stock.

Time- To bake, from 1½ to 2 hours. Sufficient for 5 or 6 people.

 

Elementary My Dear Watson!

 

 

We're almost there with our stand at the Battersea Decorative Antiques Fair which opens this Tuesday (29th April 2014). Please join us for cocktails and canapés on Tuesday evening. It's been a terrific amount of hard work, all slightly bonkers- but enormous fun.

We've gone for "The Gothic Victorian Rectory meets English Gentleman's Retreat" Look. Here I'm examining a most delightful bakelite kidney section, while my trusty assistant, Miss Caroline Watson, reads a stirring John Buchan thriller.

Back to food stuff when it's all over.

 

 

Luke Honey at the Battersea Decorative Antiques Fair

 

 

 

 

I hope you'll forgive me if I write a quick post about my up-coming stand at the Battersea Decorative Antique Fair in London. 

In my other life- that is when I'm not dreaming or thinking about food, I'm an antique dealer specialising in quirky "Country House" stuff: old globes, Directoire backgammon boards, 18th century racing mezzotints, library steps, convex mirrors, Gothic furniture, tinplate toys, Mahjong sets, gamblng antiques, 1920's fortune telling machines, 1950's Fu Manchu books- quirky and amusing things like that. Oh, and a large (and splendid) 1930's shop display model of a Goodyear Zeppelin.

I spent today putting down the floor for my stand, which is open to the public next Tuesday. The distressed reclaimed floorboards are from an old house in London's East End- and they look great- the stand's going to look fab. Asparagus green walls from a 50's paint range, bookshelf wallpaper from Andrew Martin- the idea is to re-create a Country House library with a "London Edge", if that makes sense. 

I would be delighted if you can join us for a drink and Venetia's (aka Mrs Aitch) home-made canapés on Tuesday evening. Please click on the link below (which will take you to my newsletter) and you will be able to print out free tickets to the Fair: 

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Aromatic Garlic & Ginger Chicken Curry

 

 

Here's a recipe for an excellent- and aromatic- chicken curry which I've based on a version in Manju Malhi's recommended book, Brit Spice. It's similar-in a way- to the chicken curries of the Punjab in Northern India. I like the simplicity of the dish. It's a brilliant after-work standby: if you're in the mood for a decent supper, but can't be bothered to make anything elaborate. The ingredients are more than readily available in any supermarket- even one of those ersatz 'quick-stop' corner places.

Whiz up two green chillies, a generous knob of peeled ginger, a few cloves of garlic and a squirt of lemon juice in your magimix. This will create a paste. Put some chicken breasts into a bowl and smear them with the paste. Leave them to marinate for a few minutes.

Meanwhile, take a largish saucepan (I love those wide-ish, flat-ish saucepans with sides) and fry two chopped onions in oil, until brown. Fry them gently. You want them to go a golden brown colour, to caramalise. This will help to create a brown-coloured sauce. This is a good thing.

Stir in a teaspoon or so of garam masala, a teaspoon of turmeric and a generous pinch of sea salt. Add the marinated chicken pieces and cook for a few minutes, stirring until the oils come to the surface. Top the dish up with water, cover, and simmer for a few minutes. You can play around with the amount of water to add, depending on how thick you like your sauce to be. That's it. Incredibly easy, and you'll end up with an authentic tasting curry in no time at all.

Before I sign off, a quick note on Garam Masala. In Britain (a nation of curry lovers) you can buy this easily enough in little jars. It's a blend of spices used in the cookery of Northern India. If you're in the mood you can make your own: 

Heat up a heavy frying pan and 'dry roast' the following ingredients: a handful of cloves, a cinammon stick or two, a few green cardamon pods, black cardamon pods, a tablespoon of cumin seeds, a few coriander seeds, one or two black peppercorns, a teaspoon of black mustard seeds and some grated nutmeg. 

I gather that recipes for Garam Masala vary from household to household, so don't freak out if you can't get all the ingredients. Nothing is set in stone.

Don't add any oil to the pan- you just want to toss the spices very quickly in the pan until you start smelling the aromas. Make sure they don't burn. We're only talking about a minute or so on the heat. Whizz them up on in a coffee grinder or spice grinder and store. You could, of course, also crush them the old-fashioned way in a good old pestle and mortar.

 

The Greasy Spoon tastes…The Bath Oliver

 

 

 

I'm not sure why I haven't written about Bath Olivers before, as they're a very Greasy Spoon thing. "Fortt's Bath Olivers". The most elegant biscuit ever created, in my opinion: generously large, soft to the touch, light on the taste, with that quirky indented impression of their inventor, the good William Oliver, Physician of Bath.

 

 

It is thought that Oliver invented them around 1750. I suppose, in a way, Bath Olivers are really just like any other, more ordinary, dry cracker, but they do have that certain something which is hard to define. An Englishness perhaps? In Rudyard Kipling's charming children's book "Puck of Pook's Hill' they evoke the nostalgic Edwardian idyll of Kipling's Sussex manor house, Bateman's (cue Elgar's Nursery Suite):

...they were not, of course, allowed to act on Midsummer Night itself, but they went down after tea on Midsummer Eve, when the shadows were growing, and they took their supper—hard-boiled eggs, Bath Oliver biscuits, and salt in an envelope—with them. [...] Everything else was a sort of thick, sleepy stillness smelling of meadow-sweet and dry grass."

 

Puck of Pook's Hill, illustration by Sir Arthur Rackham, 1906

 

How to Mix a Negroni

 

 

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

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

 

                    

 

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.

 

Clubland Cooking

 

 

I bought this charming- and splendidly crusty- little book for a few pounds in a second hand bookshop. It's called Clubland Cooking by Robin McDouall, published in 1974 by Phaidon. I've just twigged that it's in the same series as Fortune Stanley's English Country House Cooking. They're both attractive books, with decent typography and illustrated with old Victorian wood-cuts. 

 

 

For us members of The Don't Like Puddings Club, Clubland Cooking comes up trumps, with a chapter dedicated to savouries. Nobody seems to serve these anymore. But how refreshing- and stylish- it would be if someone offered you Canapés Ivanhoe or Beignets soufflés au fromage instead of the obligatory trifle-like concoction. Pretty easy to make too.

To get you in the mood- and inspire ideas- here's a selection of savouries taken from Robin McDouall's Clubland Cooking. The instructions for White's Club Canapé Windsor remain slightly enigmatic, but I assume that you serve the ham mixture on top of fried bread or toast cut into a manageable square.

 

 

Devils on Horseback

A great favourite with Edwardian hostesses and my friend and favourite novelist, Anthony Powell: prunes instead of oysters wrapped in bacon. The only merit I can see in them is that do not do much harm to a red wine. The Guards Club do a savoury of grapes wrapped in bacon.

Mushrooms on toast

De-stalk some mushrooms- flat ones, if they are bought mushrooms, flat or button if they are home-picked. Fry them in plenty of butter, turning them to cook on both sides. Either fry de-crusted bread in butter or toast it and butter it. Pile each piece high with mushrooms, season with salt, white pepper and cayenne and pour on butter from the pan.

White's Club Canapé Windsor

2 oz of ham minced very fine. Add a little port and double cream. Place one large grilled mushroom on top of the ham. Serve hot.

Cheese Ice

This recipe I pinch from Lady Sysonby's Cook Book.

"1 pint of thick cream, 3 tablespoons of grated Parmesan, salt, pepper and cayenne, and a little paprika. Stir well together..."

Leaving her recipe at this stage, make the ice a you would any other ice- I make it in the ice-cube drawer of my refrigarator. It takes about 3 hours at maximum freezing and needs stirring every hour.

Returning to Lady Sysonby, she says "With this serve plain ice wafers (unsweetened), dipped in melted butter and sprinkled with a little salt, and cayenne. Bake in a hot oven, and serve with ice on cold plates."

 

The Brandy of Napoleon

 

 

It's easy with hindsignt to imagine what career path you might have taken, if say, the course of events had led you down a different course. I quite like the idea of marketing spirits and liquers, especially if (through some sort of occult timewarp) I had been whisked back in time to the 1970's. But then my father used to be the account director on the Booth's Gin account, and I seem to remember tales of long liquid lunches at their panelled offices in Park Lane. Full Circle.

Another amusing fantasy career would to have been some sort of slick exec for the Franklin Mint. Hours of entertainment thinking up new ideas to flog to the unsuspecting readers of The Sunday Express: "I'm loving your King Henry and His Six Wives Chess Set, Luke" (dig in the ribs) "Real Class, Kiddo"..."Tooled in 24 karat gold and lined in lovingly crafted kidron?"..."Sure"..."But we're gonna up the limited edition size"... "Saya Ten Thousand?"

 

 

The Courvoisier account would have been fun too. Brilliant advertising. A fairly ordinary, supermarket shelf brandy was transformed into a sophisticated cognac enjoyed- no savoured- by connoisseurs, aristos and no one less than the Emperor himself. Buying a bottle of Courvoisier gave you that certain 'je ne sais quoi'- or that at least, is what the advertisers hoped for: the whiff of a leather-bound library, an ancient chateau in the countryside outside Paris, the discreet chime of an antique clock, the crunch of a gravel drive, sophisticated after dinner chat, the hint of an aristocratic pedigree. We're in the same territory as After Eight Mints.

 

 

Imperial Leather soap- by Cussons- was another one. Pretty ordinary stuff to be honest. But then the Imperial Leather family used it, didn't they?  They liked to share a bath. All of them together. Didn't their butler bring them one of those old fashioned telephones to use? As they played backgammon whilst reading the Financial Times?  These days that sort of thing would be banned. I can hear the tut-tutting now as I type, drifiting up over the leafy environs of Tunbridge Wells.

 

                   

 

The Greasy Spoon tastes…Kusmi "Anastasia" Earl Grey Tea

 

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

 

It all started with an email. From a German tea company peddling a new product; a variation on the ubiquitous tea-bag. "Please send me the Earl Grey flavour" I said. The tea arrived, along with a demand that it should not be taken with milk. I found this slightly irritating. The English (surely one of the world's greatest nations of tea drinkers?) have always taken their tea with milk, it's what we do, it's ingrained in our culture- and since the 18th century too. I sent them an email pointing this out and was told that this was 'sacrilege'. This irritated me even more. Look, I wouldn't dream of adding milk to say, my smoky, delicate Lapsang Souchong, but Earl Grey which should, by my book, be a mixture of Indian and China teas flavoured with orange and bergamot, has enough punch to take it. And I wouldn't dream of lecturing Germans on how to pickle sauerkraut. 

Anyway, the tea arrived and we tasted it. Mrs Aitch took it into the office and gave it to the boys to try out. There was a general consensus: "Doesn't taste of anything"... "Slightly Bitter"..."Where's the Bergamot?"... "This ain't Earl Grey"... "Dishwater". Nope. I'm afraid this particular tea failed to hit the mark. It seemed, also, to have been made entirely from Indian or Ceylon teas, which didn't seem quite right to me, failing to capture the true spirit of Earl Grey, the very essence of the cult.

The search for the perfect Earl Grey continued for a few months, and then suddenly, yesterday, bingo!- I think I found it. It's "Anastasia" Earl Grey tea from Kusmi of Paris. It's horribly expensive. I paid ten pounds for a small cardboard pack of tea bags. Beautifully made, dinky little muslin bags, mind you- but tea bags.

Kusmi tea has a distinguished history. The company was founded by Pavel Michailovitch Kousmichoff in St Peterbsurg in 1867, relocating to Paris after the Russian Revolution in 1917. I'm a sucker for packaging, and by golly, the Kusmi tea company does this extremely well, evoking images of lost Tsars, displaced Russian aristos, samovars and night-time rides in troikas to remote dachas in the Russian steppes. The blurb says:

Since 1867, Kusmi Tea has been creating exclusive blends and classic teas in baroque and colourful packaging faithful to the original labels. Distributed all over the world, Kusmi Tea gives endless enjoyment and gustative treasures to connoisseurs and neophytes with its inimitable aromas and flavours.

And for once, the hype is true. Fabulous citrusy, floral smells hit you the moment you discard the wrapping. And Mein Gott, this tea is truly, deeply delicious. Utterly delicious. Clean and fresh with a decent hit, masses of marmalade, bergamot and floral flavours going on, with subtle and very slight caramalised sugary hints- and a delicious orangey after-taste that stays in the back of your mouth for several minutes. This tea would be marvellous on a hot English afternoon in late June, served with a a plate of properly made cucumber sandwiches. With milk.

 

 

Venus in the Kitchen

 

 

Mrs Aitch gave this to me this morning; as a present for Valentine's Day. Venus in the Kitchen or Love's Cookery Book was first published in 1952, edited by Norman Douglas (the subversive author of South Wind) and with an introduction by Graham Greene.

 

 

 

It's a collection of recipes with an aphrodisicial twist: Sturgeon Soup à la Chinoise, Black Risotto, Kidneys with Champagne, Oyster Cocktail, Artichoke Bottoms, Wild Boar. Many of the recipes have an Italian flavour, which is not surprising, as the author lived in exile on the island of Capri. The blurb on the front dust jacket reads:

The author explains that "after a succulent dinner with several bottles of red wine", some of the elder guests began to lament their declining vigour. Someone suggested that there must be certain dishes whose ingredients and spices would be likely to revive the fading ardours of middle age. The author then began to make a collection of these recipes.

 

 

I love old books like this: the slightly musty smell, the browning to the edge of the crisp, acidic paper, the decidedly old-fashioned pen-and-ink graphics ("decorations by Bruce Roberts"). And then there are those interesting bits of ephemera which fall out of books: old tickets, bookmarks, postcards, even letters. In this one some dreadful old goat had bookmarked the page opening at "Pie of Bull's Testicles" with a torn piece of old newspaper, leaving a tell-tale foxing mark behind on the page.

Here's Norman Douglas's recipe for Anchovy Toast:

Cut some slices of bread, toast nicely, trim to any shape required. Have ready a hot-water plate, on which put four ounces of butter; let it melt; add the yolks of four raw eggs, one tablespoon of anchovy sauce, Nepaul pepper to taste. Mix all well together, and dip the toast in, both sides; let it well soak into the mixture. Serve very hot, piled high on a dish, and garnished with parsley.

Anchovies have long been famed for their lust-provoking virtues.

 

Norman Douglas's last words were: "Get those f*****g nuns away from me".

 

 

The London Steak House

 

"Just a Beaujolais sir, but a good bottler..."  The Servant (1963)

 

One of my earliest restaurant memories is being taken by my grandfather to The London Steak House, somewhere near the old Roman Wall in the City of London. We were the only customers in an empty restaurant. I remember a few things. The head waiter falling over backwards to fawn over my grandfather (he looked distinguished- my grandfather, not the head waiter- not unlike David Niven with flamboyant Harvie & Hudson shirts, an Errol Flynn moustache and well-cut suits with narrow Edwardian cuffs and drainpipe trouser bottoms).

The London Steak House, I seem to remember, was a (relatively upmarket?) chain- but to an eight or nine year old's way of thinking, achieved sophisticated heights. Here a waiter would advance, and in a hushed tone ask if Sir would prefer "English, French or German Mustard?" All Colman's of course. I seem to remember thick (burgundy?) carpets, padded banquette seating and linen tablecloths. The claret was served in a ducky wicker cradle. My grandfather kept them waiting for about a minute while he swirled the wine around his glass and sniffed. It was a terrific performance. I was terribly impressed.

 

The London Steak House, Old Brompton Road (1966)

 

"The past is a foreign country, they do things differently there". Back then (this was the early 1970's), people aspired to middle-aged sophistication, to becoming a grown up. Recently I've had fun flipping through old House & Gardens from the 1960's and 70's. Full of advertisements for cognac, expensive cigarettes, fine liqueurs and Martini. Libraries with chocolate lacquered walls, Chinese ancestor portraits and bookshelves lined with fine leather bindings seemed de rigeur. A place to relax at night with a balloon glass of armagnac, admire your collection of Marquis de Sade firsts and listen to the Bach 48 on the Bang & Olufsen.

 

Middle-aged aspiration, the true spirit of the 1970's, Dormeuil (1979)

 

I don't know why when somebody mentions the 1970's everyone starts thinking of Mr Travolta, white suits, hairy chests matted with sun oil, 100% polyester flares and Night on Disco Mountain. I remain unashamedly fond of Disco, for in truth, Studio 54 was a deadly sophisticated affair, a sybaritic rendezvous where Truman Capote, the Jacquelines Onassis and Bisset could intermingle with the likes of Andy Warhol, Disco Sally and the urbane haute monde. And for every tenth thousand turmeric-sprayed Austin Allegro (with square steering wheel and brown deckchair striped seats in static inducing draylon) there was one hand-made Rolls Royce Camargue, coachwork courtesy of Pininfarina, a car in which Lady Penelope herself might have cut a dash.

I found very little about The London Steak House on the net, apart from a stylish matchbook on Ebay, with black salt and pepper pot graphics set against a brown ground and the photograph shown above. Note the half-decent abstracts on the wall, and the serving trolley (Flambéed Steak au Poivre and Crêpes Suzettes?).

Retro diners are currently toute la rage in Old London Town at the moment (Soho is full of 'em), which is fine- good even; but wouldn't it be refreshing if some brave entrepreneur decided to look up for once, rather than down, ditched the 50's Americana Shack Look and aimed at something, well, just a little bit more sophisticated? These days everybody aspires to be a dungaree-wearing, Pepsi drinking, bearded 17 year old hick from the Deep South rather than a Bentley driving clubable chairman with an interest in rare books, antique furniture and Dry Martini cocktails.

So in memory of The London Steak House (long may it Rest In Peace), here's my recipe for a simple cognac infused Green Peppercorn Sauce. You have it with steak. The green peppercorns come in little jars full of brine.

 

The Greasy Spoon's Green Peppercorn Sauce

 

2 tablespoons peppercorns

Knob of unsalted butter

1 chopped shallot

Dash of Cognac

1 teaspoon of Flour

100ml Beef Stock

60ml Double Cream

 

Heat a small to medium sized saucepan and add the butter. Fry the chopped shallot and the green peppercorns very briefly. 

Add the dash of cognac, and stir. Add a teaspoon of flour and stir, making sure it cooks properly.

Now add the beef stock and bring the sauce to the boil. Turn down the heat and let it bubble away gently. After a few minutes, add the cream and let the sauce reduce gently. 

Season to taste, and serve with steak.

You may need to play around with the quantities of flour, stock and cream. The sauce needs to be just right. Not too thick (and floury) and not too thin (watery). I've found chef Michel Richard's similar recipe from The Washington Post which looks great. He adds a tablespoon of Soy Sauce, which, I think will help to bring out the beefy, meaty, umami flavours.

 

 

Terence Conran's Scotch Broth

 

 

 

I've got mixed feelings about old Sir Terence. I still can't make up my mind about the rather empty, sparse Design Museum; loathed Mezzo (a formulaic joint for raucous Essex Girls up for a Night on the Town) and Quaglino's, although back in 1993 an exciting place for a liaison dangereuse, became a shadow of its former self. Conran's take-over of Heals, the famous furniture shop in the Tottenham Court Road, was also iffy, I think. I seem to remember that half of the amazing Art Deco convex (or is it converse?) shop windows were ripped out, a commerical decision, I'm sure (difficult to display stock), but not exactly a reassuring move from one of Britain's leading design gurus. And a half-hearted act, too.

And I've never been entirely convinced by the conranisation of his classic redbrick Georgian house in Berkshire either, as featured in the Sunday colour supplements and the old House and Gardens lying around at the bottom of my wardrobe. Not that I don't like it, it's all very lovely, but...but... it's as if the history of the house- the very essence of what the house is all about- no longer exists.

And then along comes the marvellous Boundary, a grown-up, civilised restaurant of the old school serving Anglo-French food with mâitre d's in pin-stripe trousers; a recent-ish enterprise located in the modish East End, a stone's throw from the former haunt of Jack the Ripper. It's all very confusing.

  

 

But then maybe I am missing the point. How exciting Conran must have seemed in the late 50's and early 60's! The man has had a huge and massive influence on post-war British culture. And for the better. If you wind back in time to the late 50's and 60's, Conran's sophisticated designs must have seemed like a breath of fresh air in a world of smog, lukewarm Brown Windsor Soup and grimy flock wallpaper.

For the young, aspirational couple, strapped for cash, newly in love with the colour supplement lifestyle as championed by Elizabeth David, Arabella Boxer and Robert Carrier; and attempting to convert a shabby tenement block back into an elegant and fashionable town house, the affordable but stylish Habitat catalogue must have come as a godsend. Especially as everything was paid for by the newly launched Barclaycard. It's bizarre now to think of a society where credit cards didn't exist, but until 1966 that was exactly the state of the union.

And the middle classes were travelling for the first time on a regular basis, to civilised places like France, Spain and Italy. Habitat led the charge, re-creating (successfully, I think) the imagined ambiance of a French ironmongers, with kitchen utensils piled high on scrubbed pine tables, white painted brick walls, terracotta chicken bricks, Cornishware, red enamel oil lamps, Victorian scales in iron, and colourful posters of Toulouse-Lautrec and the Belle Epoque. Classless too. Conran was more interested in the Quaker simplicity of the downstairs scullery than in the Great Exhibition fripperies of the upstairs Drawing Room.

 

 

And I had forgotten about Terence and Vicki Conran's recent cookbook, Classic Conran. This is a fantastic book, very much along the lines of our he-who-can-do-no-wrong-foodie-god, Simon Hopkinson, but with a practical edge, more suited to domestic cooks with less time to spare.

There's an emphasis on the classics of Anglo-French cookery, simple dishes made with good ingredients and cooked properly: kedgeree (they use the preferable curried pilaf Grigson method); Jambon Persillée, Eton Mess, Soup à l' Oignon, Poached Chicken with Tarragon Sauce, Chocolate Mousse, Steak and Kidney Pudding, Entrecôte Béarnaise, Roast Grouse, Toulouse Sausages with Lentils, Braised Oxtail, Leeks Viniagrette, Irish Soda Bread. This is Greasy Spoon food. This is what The Greasy Spoon is all about. The book's so darned good it's currently got pride of place in my top ten "cookbooks of all time" list.

I came across the Conran recipe for that old classic, Scotch Broth. I don't know what the weather's like where you are, but here in London it's cold and wet with that English dampness that chills you to the bone. The Greasy Spoon herb garden is sodden. My tarragon plant seems to have vanished and I've lost hope. And this weather is making me hungry, very hungry. Ravenous in fact.

I've got a craving for Scotch Broth. It's a British Classic. I used to hoard this in my tuck box at school. Tins of Baxter's "Scotch Broth". Or was it "Cock-a-Leekie"? There are numerous recipes on the net, many seem to be similar, some are identical. All seem to agree on the following ingredients: carrots, a turnip or two, onions, celery, leek, pre-soaked dried peas, cabbage (or kale) and pearl barley.

In the Conran version you simmer a neck of lamb for an hour or two until tender, leave overnight, skim off the fat, breaking up the meat into small pieces and then cook gently with the vegetables and lamb stock for a further hour, adding the cabbage towards the end. The soup is finished off with a garnish of chopped parsley. The BBC version is very similar but leaves out the lamb. Marguerite Patten's version in her Classic British Dishes, is almost identical in method to the Conran's except she refines it by blanching the barley in boiling water, which, apparently 'whitens' the barley and 'gives it a better texture'.

I'll leave you to experiment. Bon Courage.

 

Seville Orange Gin

 

 

 

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

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

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

 

5 Seville oranges

a litre bottle of gin

4 oz caster sugar

2 cloves

 

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

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

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

 

How to Make Haggis and Influence People

 

 

 

Not that the readers of The Greasy Spoon need any reminding:

 

Lady Login's Traditional Haggis (1856)

 

1 cleaned sheep or lamb's paunch

2 lb (900g) dry oatmeal

1 lb (450g) Lamb's liver, boiled and minced

1 lamb's heart, boiled and minced

1 lamb's lights boiled and minced

1 large finely chopped onion

½ teaspoon each: cayenne pepper, ground allspice, salt and pepper

1 pint (600 ml) stock

See that the paunch is well cleaned, then soak it in salt and water for about two hours, take out and let it dry. Put the oatmeal on a baking tray in a low oven and let it dry out and crisp up a little.

Then cook the liver, heart (trimmed) and lights in salted water to cover and cook for about 1½ hours. Strain, but reserve the stock, and chop the meats up finely, or mince. Mix all ingredients (except the paunch) together and season well. Then add the stock. Put into the cleaned paunch (fill to about half) and sew up loosely, but securely.

Have ready a large pot of boiling water mixed with the rest of the liver stock, prick the haggis all over with a small knitting needle to prevent bursting, then cook in the water and stock, at a slow simmer uncovered, but keep up water level, for about three hours. Serves about sixteen.

Jack Kennedy's New England Fish Chowder

 

 

The John F Kennedy Archives recently released a recipe for JFK's favourite fish chowder. It's a rather touching story. In 1961 a disabled girl called Lynn Jennings wrote to the President asking 'what he liked to eat'. The president's special assistant wrote back, thanking Lynn for her 'nice letter' and enclosing the typed out recipe (below) and a photograph of the president. Kennedy, apparently, was terribly greedy and liked to wolf down this chowder in enormous quantities.

 

 

NEW ENGLAND FISH CHOWDER

 

2 pounds haddock                    

2 ounces salt pork, diced

2 onions, sliced

4 large potatoes, diced

1 cup chopped celery

1 bay leaf, crumbled

1 quart milk

2 tablespoons butter

1 teaspoon salt

Freshly ground black pepper

 

Simmer haddock in 2 cups water for 15 minutes. Drain. Reserve broth. Remove bones from fish. Saute diced pork until crisp, remove and set aside. Saute onions in pork fat until golden brown. Add fish, potatoes, celery, bay leaf, salt and pepper. Pour in fish broth plus enough boiling water to make 3 cups of liquid. Simmer for 30 minutes. Add milk and butter and simmer for 5 minutes. Serve chowder sprinked with pork dice. Serves 6. 

 

 

 

 

I like the way Jackie's reading a pristine copy of "Portrait of a President" in the famous LIFE photograph below. Nothing like a subtle plug, is there?

 

 

 

 

Mr and Mrs Croque Monsieur

 

 

 

I'm a great believer in doing simple things well. This is far better than doing complicated things badly. The Croque Monsieur is a case in point. I've very recently eaten one (or more accurately, a Croque Madame) at Boulestin, and my God, it was good: perfectly fried brioche, creamy Emmental (or Gruyère) cheese, Béchamel Sauce, salty juicy ham and a fried egg. It's a fabulous classic- very much the sort of thing The Greasy Spoon approves of- and champions.

 

 

Not that you've forgotten, the "Monsieur" is essentially a fried cheese and ham sandwich, and the "Madame" is more of the same, except it's topped with a fried egg. The egg is supposed to look like a fashionable woman's hat (knowing the French, isn't there a far more obvious explanation?), and according to Wikipedia (so it must be true) only dates back to around 1960. In Normandy the "Madame" is known as a croque-à-cheval. The strange thing is that experts think that the "Mister" only made its first appearance on a Parisian cafe menu in 1910. The earliest mention seems to have been in Marcel Proust's "A Remembrance of Things Past", published in 1918.

 

 

But how to make the perfect Croque Monsieur?  I turned to Dining with Proust, a luxurious coffee-table book published in 1992. Splendid book, but no recipe. There was another book, "Dining with Marcel Proust", but I haven't- as yet- got it and it's currently on my amazon wish list.

 

 

I had better luck with the New Larousse Gastronomique: 

Cut slices from a fresh or stale loaf. Spread with butter on one side, and lay a thin slice of Gruyère cheese on top, with a slice of lean ham on top of that. Close the sandwich and fry until golden in clarified butter.

 

 

Ginette Mathiot's I Know How To Cook says:

Cut the (stale) bread into thin, evenly shaped slices. Spread all the slices with some of the butter and sprinkle with the cheese. Put a piece of ham on half the bread slices. Cover each one with a buttered slice. Tie together with kitchen string. Melt the remaining butter in a frying pan over a moderate heat. Add the croque-monsieurs and brown for 4 minutes on each side. Remove the string and serve.

 

But how did Boulestin make theirs? The bread tasted very similar to a brioche and I suspect that this was fried in butter very carefully- to avoid burning. I'm not exactly sure what cheese they used, but it may well have been Emmental- which had been grated into a creamy Béchamel sauce. Personally, I'm keen on the "Mrs". I like the way you cut into the fried egg, and the soft, runny yolk oozes over the fried bread.

 

Collecting Books on Indian Cookery

 

 

 

One of the greatest pleasures of life, I think, is spending a happy Sunday afternoon, or so, re-arranging your books. It's a simple pleasure- as often the best pleasures are- and it gives you a chance to take stock, throw-out (or give away) those books you've lost interest in, and re-discover old friends. If our house ever burnt down (God Forbid!) it would be the books I would miss most- more, I think than the furniture, paintings, silver, Chinese porcelain, mezzotints, clocks, tin-plate clockwork toys, rocking horses, looking glasses, globes and all those other nick-nacks you've either inherited or accumulated over the years.

 

 

Anyway. I discovered that I'd built up an accidental collection of books on Indian Food, especially Anglo-Indian food as it was back in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. In recent years the British have adopted "curry" as a national dish. We're an odd lot (a difficult people, I think sometimes); it's strange that we've adopted curry considering we've been lampooned in the past for our bland culinery tastes. But then, historically, the British have always been adapatable; compromise is a fine art.

 

 

So I'm posting up their covers to inspire you. All these books should be available from amazon or second-hand from AbeBooks. Maybe you could start your own collection?  British cookery would be another great area to think about, as would the food of the American Deep South.

 

 

 

 

 

Twelfth Night

 

 

 

I'm glad Christmas is over. I can't believe I'm writing this, as in the past I've rather prided myself on being a Christmas type, identifying (bizarrely to those that know me) with Scrooge's jolly hearted, blind man's bluff-playing, back-slapping nephew in Charles Dickens's 'A Christmas Carol'. Quite out of character. A strange fantasy. But this year Christmas was, frankly, a bit of a nightmare.

First I enjoyed a dose of genuine, old-fashioned influenza. Of the 1918 variety. Or was it Victorian Scarlet Fever? This wasn't Man Flu, this was the real McCoy, with delerium, high temperatures, rapid weight-loss and other unpleasant and unmentionable side effects. Had me in bed for two weeks.

Then, the moment that one was over, our beloved, pesky little sixteen year old Burmese cat, Oskie, decided the time was right to fall seriously ill. Multiple organ failures, infections, you name it- she had it. On a drip, and in the Belgravia animal hospital, the poor beast had more medication than you and I've had hot dinners. You know its time to get worried when the nice vet starts talking in a low voice and throwing around euphanisms ("we need to make a 'decision' very soon".) The whole thing was utterly, completely traumatic. We were devasted- as only those who have animals will understand. And then Oskie developed further complications- cat 'flu possibly picked up in the animal hospital. A few days before the monstrous hordes descended en masse, to sample our bread sauce, christmas pudding and Turkey Surprise. Anyway, the family has now gone, The Cat has made a miraculous  recovery (O Hallelujah!) and the decorations have come down, as tradition dictates. Peace and Harmony reign. Almost.

 

 

I like January, especially if you've got a beautiful red amaryillus about to burst into flower. And then there's Twelfth Night, which sadly, these days, is barely recognised. It marks, of course, The Epiphany- the end of the Twelve Days of Christmas, the date when the Three Wise Men finally made it to the stable. But should Twelfth Night fall on the night of the 5th January or the 6th?  Historically, it was a time for merry-making and anarchy. A Twelfth Night Cake (containing a bean and a pea) was baked and a King and Queen of the Night's Festivities crowned. Shakespeare's 'Twelfth Night' was written to be performed as a Twelfth Night entertainment, though the first recorded performance was in front of Queen Elizabteth in the Middle Temple Hall at Candlemas, February 2nd, 1602.

 

Which brings me, in a roundabout way, to artichokes. Jerusalem artichokes. January's vegetable is without any shadow of doubt, this noble ingredient. They're nothing to with artichokes by the way: bizarrely, they're actually the tuber of a species of sunflower, Helianthus tuberosus; winter root vegetables. They look a bit like small, knobbly potatoes, with a pinkish coloured skin, and were grown by the Native American Indians long before the arrival of the European settlers. I love their subtle, slightly earthy, smokey, velvety taste. But why Jerusalem?  It's possible that it's an English corruption of the Italian word Girasola, meaning 'sunflower'. Gerard's 'Herball' of 1636 describes it as such.

 

 

And there's something else it's essential to know: Jerusalem artichokes make you "windy"- whatever that means. Every time some television chef mentions Jerusalem artichokes on screen, they suddenly "come over" all coy (the otherwise excellent Nigel Slater was a recent culprit), it's slightly bugging; my theory is that if you cook them well enough, you shouldn't have any problems.

Here's how I make an excellent Jersualem Artichoke Soup, which I would recommend without hesitation. Probably one of my all-time favourite soups. It's velvety smooth; and utterly delicious:  

Chop up an onion or two and fry gently in butter and oil with some chopped celery. In the meantime, take a decent amount of Jerusalem Artichokes and using a peeler, remove the skin. You might find it easier to cut off the knobbly bits first. Plunge the peeled artichokes into a bowl of cold water into which you've given a good squeeze of lemon. This will stop your artichokes turning grey. You'll find that they start changing colour very quickly if you don't.

Chop the artichokes into small pieces, and add them to the hot pan. Stew them gently with the onions and the celery for about fifteen minutes. When they're soft, pour in some stock (I used an excellent, slightly salty ham stock), and simmer for a further twenty or so minutes.

When the artichoke pieces are cooked (ie soft), transfer the contents of the pan (the artichokes and the hot liquid) to your magimix or blender, and puree the mixture until smooth. The soup will be a creamy-white colour.

Push through a sieve into a clean pan (this will help to make the soup velvety-smooth), check the seasoning (I used an oak-smoked salt from Waitrose which helps to bring out the slightly smokey flavours, lots of freshly grated nutmeg and some white pepper) adding a decent squeeze of lemon juice, and stir in several tablespoons of double cream to taste. Stir carefully and simmer gently for a few more minutes until hot enough.

Serve with crisp croutons and garnish with fresh dill.

 

Edward Bawden and Fortnum & Mason's Christmas Catalogues

 

 

 

Having grown up with the various shops dotted around St James's, I think I can afford to be grumpy when they close down, or get 'made-over', which seems to happen at an alarming rate these days.

 

 

Sullivan Powell (where I used to buy little boxes of unfiltered Turkish Sobranie Cigarettes rolled, apparently, on the thighs of hearty Balkan peasant girls). Gone. Maitland's the Chemist (until very recently, a corner shop at the top end of Piccadilly Arcade, where perfumed soap gathered dust and the clock stopped in 1914). Gone. Hawes & Curtis (once purveyors of fine shirts to King Edward VIII, Lord Mountbatten and Cary Grant). Completely, Utterly Ruined. Bates the Hatter (most famous resident Binks the Cat, stuffed and boxed, jaunty topper and cigar in his mouth). Demolished. That one really hurt. One of the last, original, authenticly preserved, genuine 1920's shop interiors, unnecessarily knocked down to make way for a parade of bland, slick 'international' units. Where Bates traded for almost a hundred years, can now be found Sunspel, the Y-Front shop, which looks, frankly, if it could be found in any city where rich people cluster: New York, Shanghai, Hong Kong or Geneva, or failing that Terminal 4 at Heathrow Airport.

And there are several others I could mention. I'm currently worried about D.R. Harris, chemist and perfumers, established 1790, which has recently closed for re-furbishment and re-development. I'm praying that this is going to be nothing more than a lick of paint and that the old atmosphere of the Victorian shop, with its apothecarist's bottles and mahogany shelving, will be preserved. Modernisation for Modernisation's Sake. The relentless creep of Internationalism. I don't like it.

But I'm not a complete curmudgeon. I do realise that times change, and if shops are gong to survive, they need to move with the times. The trick, I think, is balance; to keep somehow, the ethos of the old place: a daunting task for designers who may often have been raised on distant shores.

Budd, the shirt and pajama makers in Piccadilly Arcade, recently bought up by Huntsman, has re-fitted the shop brilliantly, improving things here and there, but keeping the atmosphere of the old, rather discreet shop, known to the lucky few. This is the antithesis of global brands such as Ralph Lauren, where cricket bats are displayed as props and portraits on the walls are still wet to the touch. Long may it thrive. Budd, not Ralph Lauren.

 

 

Fortnum's is another example. The recent re-fit has been a triumph. Every Christmas I make a quick trawl, primarily to buy presents on my way to Hatchards, but also as an excuse to breath in 'that' honeyed smell which hits you as you push your way through the swing doors: a mixture of rich wool carpet, glass, crystallised fruit, liquers and plastic. It's very hard to describe. They've managed to keep all the essential elements that make Fortnum's so special, the fitted carpets are still cerise, the woodwork is still painted in eau de nil, the staff still wear morning dress, often a size too small, or a size too big. It's a shame that the old St James's restaurant is now kaput, as for many Londoners, this place held special memories: the carving trolley (I can see my grandfather discreetly tipping the carver), the poe-faced waitresses in their 1920's starched linen headbands, the naff Montague Dawsons in their heavily gilded Impressionist frames. Full riggers in stormy seas. Still.

I love the new range of tea caddies that F & M have just brought out. Guard's Blend in particular. Brilliant, evocative packaging. They remind me of Edward Bawden's sumptious designs for Fortnum's Christmas catalogues.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Christmas Pudding

 

 

 

Every year I post my recipe for Christmas Pudding. It works. I hope you attempt to make it rather than buying one of those ready-made affairs from the shops. It's not especially difficult and for those who like this sort of thing, there's nothing like watching their eager little faces as you carry it through to the dining room, set well alight. Here's the post:

 

Believe it or not, it's time to make your Christmas Pudding. Here in London, Christmas seems to start earlier and earlier. The television advertising spree has begun, and suddenly our screens are full of earnest, eager types wrapped up in noddy hats and woolly scarves, grinning kiddywinks, and beaming Old Dears. Teflon snowflakes are having a field day. The lights have gone up in Sloane Square too, yet the leaves are still on the trees. Look, I love Christmas, please don't get me wrong: I'm no Scrooge; but often the expectation is, truthfully, more enjoyable than the actual event itself. But London is particularly pretty in those two weeks leading up to Christmas, and I can't think of a better place in the world to be at this time.

Right now is the time to start making your Christmas Pudding; and if anything it may even be a bit on the late side. Traditionally, the Christmas Pudding was made on "Stir-Up Sunday", which was the last Sunday before Advent, (about four to five weeks before Christmas Day), but in our family we used to make it as early as late October. I love Christmas Pudding. The way your spoon plunges into the moist (you hope!), rich, fruity mass; and the contrast with the smooth, rich, alchohol infusedbrandy butter.

Here is my tried and tested recipe for Christmas Pudding. It's based on our age-old family recipe (which I suspect was nicked from Cordon Bleu), but I've "improved" it with the addition of Guinness and Black Treacle. It went down extremely well with my brother-in-law, who gobbled down the lot, and apparently, declared it "one of the best Christmas Puddings he had ever tasted"; in fact- "never was there such a pudding". Incidentally, as an experiment last year, I added Scotch Whisky instead of the traditional brandy- and it sort of worked, although the resulting smoky taste was not really that appropriate. So back to good old Cognac it is.

 

 

 

Here's the recipe:

Stir up all the following ingredients in a pudding basin:

350g Mixed fruit and peel (this means crystallised peel, dried apricots, currants, saltanas, raisins, grated lemon rind, and grated orange rind)

50g Chopped glacé cherries

25g Flaked almonds  

50g Dried suet (you can't get the proper stuff anymore- the EU has made it illegal)

35g White breadcrumbs 

35g Plain flour 

70g Moist dark brown sugar 

50gGrated apple 

A dash of mixed spice and grated nutmeg. Some weirdos add carrot- but very sensibly, I leave this one out.

 

Once you've stirred all the ingredients together, mix in the following ingredients:

Two beaten eggs

The juice of half a lemon and half an orange

Two tablespoons of a dark stout (ie Guinness)

A tablespoon of black treacle 

A dash of decent Cognac (ie Brandy or Armagnac)

 

Stir it up like mad. Now's the time to add the mixture to a basin. Recently, I've had this thing about those old-fashioned ball-shaped puddings- the ones you see in the Victorian illustrations of Phiz and in Walt Disney. A few years ago, I managed to track down a ball-shaped pudding mould from Divertimenti in the Fulham Road, and used that- but a traditional ceramic pudding basin is just dandy.

Smear the inside of the basin with butter. This will stop the pudding sticking to the side. Pour in the mixture. Top off with a piece of buttered greaseproof paper, ideally cut down to fit. Finally, place a cloth over the basin, and tie it off at the top with a bit of string.

Steam it for five to six hours. This means getting hold of a large pan, filling it about a quarter full with water and bringing it to the boil. Place the pudding in the middle of the pan, and put the lid on. The steam will rise up within the pan, and cook the pudding. Once it's cooked, leave it in a cool place with a piece of tin foil on top. It will mature in the run-up to Christmas. On the great day itself, you will need to steam it for a further three hours.

 

 

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.

 

The Greasy Spoon tastes...Martin Miller's Gin

 

Welcome to the first of a new series: "The Greasy Spoon tastes..."

 

 

I've always rather liked the idea of having your own brand of something or other. The suave actor, Sir Gerald du Maurier, had a brand of cigarettes named after him, as (almost unbelievably by today's standards) did Sotheby's- "Sotheby's Special Service": in a very smart green and gold embossed box. The late Mark Birley had his own cologne. And then that charmer, Patrick Lichfield, had his very own gin, called, you guessed it, "Lichfield Gin". 

And now there's Martin Miller's Gin. I've yet to meet Mr Miller, although our paths may well have crossed in the salerooms, in the Portobello Road or in the back of a lorry. Originally an antique dealer (and then married to the antiques expert, Judith Miller) he now owns a chain of off-beat hotels and restaurants. 

 

Anyway, to cut a long story short, following my recent post on Dodd's Gin, a PR company got in touch and very kindly offered to send me a free bottle of Martin Miller's Gin for review. It arrived with a promotional hardback book, priced slightly bizzarely at £10.50: Born of Love, Obsession and Some Degree of Madness...The story of Martin Miller's Gin.

Within there's a photograph of Mr Miller, looking in part like the hybrid child of Laurence Llewelyn Bowen and Lovejoy, surrounded by a bevy of models (in various stages of undress), pretty boys with waxed chests and eye-liner, a wolf-like creature and a huge poodle, coffiered, topiarised and dyed pink. 

The gin, apparently, is distilled here in England (in an Edwardian still, name of Angela, if you wondered), and then shipped all the way to Iceland, where it is mixed with pure Nordic water, filtered through volcanic rock.

I approve of this madness (in the best traditions of British Industry): it reminds me of the manufacture of the infamous Hillman Imp by the Rootes Group: you will remember that half the car was made in Glasgow, the other half in Coventry, then the whole thing reassembled, vice-versa- a round trip of some 600 miles; or the production of the glorious 1963 V8 American-Engined Gordon Keeble, in which the car cost more to screw together than the selling price. And they wondered why only 100 or so were ever made.

 

But back to the gin. First, the packaging. I like it. The glass bottle has clean, slick lines. There's a charming olde worlde map of the British Isles and Iceland, surmounted with crossed pennants and a silvery-coloured cap. It's all rather nautical in flavour, reminiscent of yacht clubs, Robert Louis Stevenson, and the 1930's- remember Old Spice?  I note that "since 1999" is printed in a tiny- almost unreadable- typeface.

Second, the all-important tasting. The gin is delicious. And that's an objective opinion. It's subtle on the nose, but the number one overwhelming sense is of smoothness and creaminess, with a hint of sweetness to balance the dry. I tried a blind tasting alongside good old Sainbury's own brand (distilled by the distinguished old firm of G. & J. Greenall). Martin Miller's Gin was so smooth that it could quite easily be consumed neat- almost as if it was a liqueur. It would be a perfect candidate for a Dry Martini. It's a buy.

Sainsbury's, in comparison, although a perfectly respectable and drinkable gin, was raw and unsophisticated when taken neat- definitely a candidate as a mixer for Schweppes tonic water. Millers is 40% Alc/Vol., Sainsbury's 37.5%. Miller's costs £25 for 70cl.e, Sainsbury's £15.50 for a litre bottle.

My current worry is the problem of tonic water. I'm not exactly having sleepless nights over this, but you should get the drift. Why buy a premium gin if you're going to mix it with a sweet, fizzy generic tonic water?  Fever Tree is a good brand, and might be the solution. Dunno. I'm also currently researching the possibility of making my own tonic water (from cinchona bark) but that's going to be for a subsequent post. Tomorrow is another day.