The Greasy Spoon | Food & Culture

The Balham Mystery- Last Dinner at the Priory

 

 

 

Many years ago, in a futile attempt to get into publishing, I worked in various London bookshops, including Hatchard's in Piccadilly, and the old Foyle's in the Charing Cross Road. This was the Foyle's of the notoriously eccentric Christina Foyle (in other life, Mrs Ronald Batty)- and I may well write a post about her at a later date. But that's for another day.

Now, as any bookseller can tell you, there are two decidedly dodgy sections in which to lurk in a rancid mackintosh: Occult and True Crime. I must confess to having a passing adolescent curiosity in both. True Crime, despite those lurid paperback covers, is an especially fascinating subject- as much for its human- and often poignant- element, as for its macabre conundrums. George Orwell understood this only too well in his essay "The Decline of the English Murder", and for connoisseurs of extermination, us Londoners do exceedingly well. And oh what murders! For the English have elevated this to a high art form. Take your pick folks, we're spoilt for choice: Jack the Ripper and the Whitechapel Murders, the bizarre Whitehall Torso Mystery, the pathetic Dr Crippen (39, Hilldrop Crescent), Brides-in-the-Bath-Smith, the glamorous Mrs Rattenbury, The Croydon Poisoning (The Riddle of Bathurst Rise), the ghastly necrophilic Christie at number 10, Rillington Place; 'Group Captain' Neville Heath, the tragic Ruth Ellis; and John George Haigh, the seedy hotel lounge lizard, conman and seducer of lonely widows, also known as The Vampire of South Kensington.

I'm also currently enjoying a nerdy little obsession with the Balham Mystery (aka The Bravo Poisoning), which is a worthy companion to any of the above- partly because Mrs Aitch happens to be the great-great-great granddaughter of one of the suspects, and also because it gives a fascinating insight into the daily life of a well-to-do Victorian household drowning in a toxic sea of dubious tinctures and homeopathic remedies. My mother-in-law is obsessed with the case, and claims to have attended a 'Bravo Murder' dinner party in which none other than Dame Agatha Christie starred as a surprisingly unimpressive guest. It's a long story.

 

Florence Bravo

 

It's also a slightly complicated yarn, and I will do my best to explain what happened:

In 1876, a Mrs Ricardo (née Florence Campbell of Buscot Park, Berkshire), takes out a lease on The Priory, Balham. Mrs Ricardo is an attractive, voluptuous widow ('smart' in both the English and American sense); considered 'fast' by the standards of Victorian Society. She's also rich- which helps- following her marriage to the late Alexander Ricardo, an alcoholic Captain in the Coldstream Guards.

In those days, Balham was a bucolic semi-rural enclave on the far outskirts of London, surrounded by fields, market gardens and common land- an hour or two's carriage drive away from the luxurious delights of the Big Smoke, but with enough distance to create the illusion of a secluded pastoral idyll. The Priory still stands, a Regency Gothick wedding cake of a house in the Strawberry Hill style, now surrounded by the grime of the inner London suburbs, and divided up into sinfully luxurious flats for the aspirational classes.

Now for several years, Mrs Ricardo has been having a scandalous affair with the elderly Dr James Mamby Gully, a distinguished- if naive- Society physician (some might say quack), forty years her senior: this liaison involved a secret abortion, and the pair being caught in flagrante delicto on a sofa in Tooting Bec. Honestly, you couldn't make it up.

 

Dr Gully by Spy, from Vanity Fair, 1876

 

So a few months after she's moved into The Priory, Florence dumps poor old Dr Gully and decides to marry a young mercurial barrister with a weak chin called Charles Bravo. And before I forget, there's a rather sinister ladies' companion called Mrs Cox, the secretive heiress to a fortune in the West Indies. And a disgruntled coachmen, Griffiths, who was sacked a few weeks earlier for driving Mrs Bravo's carriage into a stationary milk cart in Bond Street. So we're all set up for a game of Real-Life Victorian Cluedo.

On the night of Tuesday, April 18th, 1876- four months into their marriage- Charles Bravo retires to bed, following a tetchy dinner with Florence and Mrs Cox. This includes a fish first course (whiting), roast lamb and an anchovy and egg savoury, washed down with more than several glasses of Charles's favourite Burgundy. Within minutes, he's desperately ill- fighting for his life, fatally poisoned- it's discovered later- by four grains of tartic antimony (a dangerous emetic, used by the Victorians to cure worms in horses) slipped into his bedside water bottle. 

 

 

The Bravo Household; The Priory, Balham. The sinister Mrs Cox (presumably) to the left; Charles in the centre, Florence (presumably) to the right.

 

No less than five doctors are summoned, including the distinguished physician, Sir William Gull, Bt.- later, in the subsequent century, to be the conspiracy theorist's favourite- if wonderfully nutty- suspect for Jack the Ripper. Poor Charles lingers on for a few days- writhing- sporadically- in agony- and dies on Friday, 21st April 1876.

Yet, one hundred and forty years later, we still don't know what happened. One theory has it that Charles committed suicide: certainly at the subsequent inquest Mrs Cox claimed that he had told her exactly that. And there's an intriguing idea that Charles had been feeding small doses of antimony to Florence to stop her drinking habit (unsurprisingly, it makes you feel nauseous), and had then, accidentally- and slightly implausibly- taken it himself to counter the effects of swallowing laudanum. Another theory has Mrs Cox slipping the antimony into the water jug (it's invisible and tasteless when mixed with water, apparently), and then creeping back to Florence's bedroom unnoticed.

 

Mr. Charles Bravo (né Charles Delauney Turner) 1845-1876, National Portrait Gallery

 

And what about dear old Dr Gully? If anybody had a reason to murder Charles Bravo, surely it had to be the Good Doctor? Agatha Christie certainly thought so. He had the motive, and as a physician he certainly had the means. But did he have an alibi? Could he have crept into the Priory, mixed a sachet of tartic antimony into the water, and departed from the house unobserved?  And then we come to Florence. Several writers over the years have pointed their ink-stained fingers at her. Both Mrs Cox and Florence claimed that Charles had treated her brutally, and was threatening to cull members of the household, including Mrs Cox, in an attempt to curb Florence's extravagance. Following the inquests, she moved to the South Coast, changed her name to Turner, and continued to drink heavily, finally dying of alcoholic poisoning in 1878. She was 33 years old.

And there you have it. "In a nutshell, my dear Milo", as Andrew Wyke says in Anthony Shaffer's Sleuth. Of course, the story's far, far more complicated than I have indicated; but I hope, at least, armchair detectives, come the next rainy and stormy night, I may have whetted your appetite for more. There are several books to add to your amazon wish list: Death at the Priory by James Ruddick, Suddenly at the Priory by John Williams, Dr Gully by Elizabeth Jenkins, How Charles Bravo Died by Yseult Bridges, and my favourite of them all, Murder at the Priory by Bernard Taylor and Kate Clarke.

I've trawled my crowded bookshelves for some appropriate recipes, which are reproduced below; so that if the inclination suddenly takes hold- you too can recreate that infamous last dinner at the Priory. Chemical properties of antimony included:

 

Eliza Acton's Baked Whiting à la Française (From Modern Cookery for Private Families, 1845)

Proceed with these exactly as with soles au plat of this chapter. or pour a little clarified butter into a deep dish and strew it rather thickly with finely-minced mushrooms mixed with a teaspoonful of parsley, and (When the flavour is liked, and considered appropriate) with an eschalot or two, or the white part of a few green onions, also chopped very small. On these place the fish after then been scaled, emptied, thoroughly washed, and wiped dry: season them well with salt and white pepper, or cayenne; sprinkle more of the herbs upon them; pour gently from one or two glasses of light white wine into the dish, cover the whitings, with a thick layers of fine crumbs of bread, sprinkle these plentifully with clarified butter, and bake the fish from fifteen to twenty minutes. Send a cut lemon only to table with them. When the wine is not liked, a few spoonsful of pale veal gravy can be used instead: or a larger quantity of clarified butter, with a tablespoonful of water, a teaspoonful of lemon-pickle and of mushroom catsup, and a few drops of soy.

 

Robin Mc Douall's Roast Lamb (from Clubland Cooking, 1974)

I don't know where to get mutton. It doesn't pay farmers to keep sheep until they become mutton: they are all slaughtered as lambs- sometimes rather elderly lambs- lamb dressed as mutton, to reverse the bitchy expression of Edwardian ladies about each other. Roasting a leg of lamb, I put a good deal of rosemary and some chopped garlic with it. I haven't bough a shoulder for years as I've never learnt to carve one. Carré d'agneau (American 'rack of lamb') I like very much but put no herbs with it. With a saddle I might put a few slices of onion. Times per pound are nonsense: you must learn by trial and error. I start a gigot in a very hot oven, turn it round, lower the heating and probably, for a small leg enough for six, cook it for not more than an hour.

Red currant jelly is nice, if you're not drinking a very grand wine. Mint sauce kills any wine. Pretend you've got mutton and have onion sauce. I like a little nutmeg grated into the gigot.

 

Mrs Beeton's Scrambled Eggs with Anchovies (Oeufs Brouillés aux Anchois) (from The Book of Household Management, 1861)

Ingredients—3 eggs, 3 anchovies, ¾ of an oz. of butter, 1 tablespoonful of cream or milk, a teaspoonful of essence of anchovy, toast, butter, capers, parsley, pepper and salt.

Method.—Skin and bone the anchovies, and cut them into fine strips. Cut the toast into pieces 3 inches long and 2 inches wide, and spread them thickly with butter. Beat the eggs slightly, then put them with the butter, cream, and anchovy essence into the stewpan, and season to taste. Stir by the side of the fire until the mixture thickens, put it on the toast, lay the strips of anchovy across, forming a lattice, and place a caper in each division. Re-heat in the oven, then serve garnished with parsley.

Time.—40 minutes. Average Cost, about 10d. Sufficient for 5 or 6 persons. Seasonable at any time.

 

Chemical Properties of Antimony- Sb

Atomic number: 51

Atomic mass: 121.75 g.mol 

^{Ionic Radius:0.245 nm (-3); 0.062 nm (+5); 0.076 nm (+3)}

Boiling Point: 1587˚C 

 

Antimony is a semimetallic chemical element which can exist in two forms: the metallic form is bright, silvery, hard and brittle; the non metallic form is a grey powder. Antimony is a poor conductor of heat and electricity, it is stable in dry air and is not attacked by dilute acids or alkalis. Antimony and some of its alloys expand on cooling.

Antimony has been known since ancient times. It is sometimes found free in nature, but is usually obtained from the ores stibnite (Sb₂S₃) and valentinite (Sb₂O₃). Nicolas Lémery, a French chemist, was the first person to scientifically study antimony and its compounds. He published his findings in 1707. Antimony makes up about 0.00002% of the earth's crust.

 

Make Your Own Gentleman’s Relish

 

F. E. Smith by Sir Leslie Ward “Spy”, for Vanity Fair, 1906

 

It’s probably never occurred to you that you can make your very own Gentlemans’ Relish (aka Patum Peperium), but indeed you can- or at least something that tastes pretty similar. Gentleman’s Relish was invented in 1828 by John Osborn. Not that you need reminding, but it’s a savoury anchovy paste with a strong, salty, slightly fishy taste. Bags of umami. Elsenham Foods still make the original version, which contains a secret ingredient, apparently known to only one employee. 

The Daily Telegraph gave a recipe last week: 400g butter, 200g anchovies, a heaped teaspoon of cayenne and thyme leaves are whizzed up in your magimix, and then spooned out into little kilner jars. Brilliant idea if you’re looking for a charming, inexpensive Christmas present. 

And here’s a recipe from Hawksmoor Restaurant: Whizz up: 125g tinned anchovies, 250g unsalted butter, pinch of cayenne, pinch ground nutmeg, pinch black pepper, pinch ground cinammon, 25ml fresh lemon juice, 25ml Worcestershire Sauce, 25ml water (optional). 

Excellent spread on hot toast, mixed into scrambled eggs or topping off a steak. It will keep for a few days in your ‘fridge and freezes well. If you roll it up, sausage-like, before freezing, you’ll be able to slice off a round to have with your steak.

 

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."

 

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".

 

 

Devil Sauce

 

 

 

Devil- a culinary term which... first appeared as a noun in the 18th century, and then in the early 19th century as a verb meaning to cook something with fiery hot spices or condiments...The term was presumably adopted because of the connection between the devil and the excessive heat in Hell...Boswell, Dr Johnson's biographer, frequently refers to partaking of a dish of "devilled bones" for supper, which suggests an earlier use...

 Oxford Companion to Food

 

There's something extremely satisfying about "devilled" food. As you know, "to devil" a dish means to add some form of spice, often something like Worcester Sauce or a hot mustard. These days "devilling' is slightly old-fashioned; it has a hint of the 19th century about it, a whiff of a St James's Street club. I happen to love the tangy, slightly sweet, piquant taste of Lea & Perrins (first produced in the English town of Worcester in 1837), and, like the Victorians, will quite happily devil just about anything, including ham, eggs, kidneys and mutton chops.

Here's a recipe for "Gravy à la Diable" from Cassell's New Universal Cookery Book, Lizzie Heritage [Cassell and Company:London] 1894: 

Required: half a pint of clear brown stock...half an ounce of arrowroot, a tablespoonful of claret, a teaspoonful of French mustard, a dessertspoonful of Worcester sauce, and a little soluble cayenne, with salt to taste, and a few drops of soy. Mix the thickening with the claret, and the rest of the ingredients, and boil for a few minutes. Serve with kidneys, steaks, & etc., or with grilled fish. For a hotter sauce, increase the Worcester sauce, or boil a few capsicum seeds in the gravy."

Arabella Boxer also has a recipe for Devil Sauce from her book of English Food (recently re-published by Penguin in a sumptious new edition), which I've adapted for The Greasy Spoon: 

You melt 30g butter, and stir in 1½ tablespoons of flour, ½ teaspoon of English Mustard, and ½ teaspoon of Curry Powder. Cook this, stirring, for one minute. 275ml of milk is added, and 150 ml of double cream (both of which you've previously heated up together), and the sauce is stirred constantly on the heat until it starts to bubble. The sauce is then simmered gently for about eight minutes, until slightly reduced- and the remaining flavourings stirred in: ½ teaspoon of salt, a pinch of cayenne, ½ tablespoons of Worcestershire Sauce, ½ tablespoon of Mushroom Ketchup and, last but not least, a dash of our old friend, Tabasco.

This will make a basic sauce, which can then be poured over an ingredient of your choice: grilled or fried chicken, boiled eggs, and game. I think it would also work well with slices of fresh, juicy ham.

 

Devilled Kidney Canapés

 

 

With Hallowe'en today, and Guy Fawkes Night and the Mexican Day of the Dead just around the corner; this time of year calls for a certain type of food: it needs to be warming, probably spicy too (with a nod to Mexico and all things "devilled"); I also like the idea of small, easily made tapas-style dishes and canapés. Perfect to serve up to any friends who drop by for Bonfire Night drinks.

About three years ago, I covered Devilled Kidneys on The Greasy Spoon. I cannot stress how surprisingly delicious these are- utterly wicked. I had the bright idea this morning of serving them as canapés; although bear in mind that you'll need to cut up the kidneys into small, bite-sized pieces and cook them extremely briefly.

First you heat up a bit of oil in a hot pan. Cut your lamb's kidney's into quarters, first trimming away the whitish core, and any white stringy bits. Chop the quarters up into smallish dice. Drop the chopped kidneys into the pan, and sauté them very briefly. Add a dash of dry sherry, bubble it away, and then add a further dash of cider vinegar.

Stir in a spoonful of redcurrant jelly, and allow it to melt. Add a generous slug of Worcestershire sauce, a dollop of yellow English mustard (Colman's is ideal), and ground black pepper. 

Season with a decent pinch of sea salt, and mix in a spoonful of so of double cream. Bubble away quickly until glossy.

To serve: take a slice of bread and cut into bite-size crutons or squares (I like them to be reasonably small). Fry in a shallow pan with groundnut oil until golden brown. Spoon the devilled kidneys onto each cruton. Arrange on a plate, season with cayenne pepper and sprinkle over chopped parsley or chives.

Go on, be a devil- you'll love 'em.

Incidentally, the rather haunting photograph at the top of the page is taken from Ossian Clark's "Haunted Air- a collection of anonymous Hallowe'en Photographs from America, c.1875 - 1955", published by Jonathan Cape in 2010. Ossian Clark has collected hundreds of vintage snaps found in flea-markets, car boot sales, junk shops and the like. I haven't bought this book yet, but I'm intrigued. What I've seen so far seems strangely moving (the lives of ordinary suburban and working class American families- now forgotten but captured in time), surreal, weird, and genuinely frightening.

Avocado and Tomato Ice with Horseradish

 

 

Cordon Bleu Cookery Course, 1970

I've always had a thing about late summer. It's fun to try and pin-point the exact time summer changes into autumn. Often, it's around September 10th or so; marked by a whiff of bonfire smoke, a sudden chill in the air, or the blustery gales of the September equinox. Mind you, here in London, it feels like autumn started in June, and I'm writing this looking out onto a grey, damp and slightly foggy street.  

It's also the last chance saloon for summer food, or at least, food with summery pretensions. Here's my recipe for a delicious Tomato Ice. If you think that it reeks of 1970's dinner party food, you would be utterly correct, as I've based it on a recipe from No. 69 of the Cordon Blue Cookery Course, published by Purnell as a part-work in 1970; but with the addition of grated horseradish which I think would work well with it, and the hot flavour of horseradish can be an excellent combination with the intense, sweet taste of the tomato. It's a pretty dish, and I like the colour of the tomato ice. Canadian, apparently.

You tip two tins of plum tomatoes into a pan, and then add two teaspoons of salt, a generous pinch of white pepper, four tablespoons of golden caster sugar, the zest and juice of two lemons, and a generous helping of freshly grated horseradish, and stir until the mixture comes to the boiling point, pushing the tomato pulp against the side of the pan with a wooden spoon to help it break down. Add three sprigs of fresh mint, cover the pan and allow to simmer for five to ten minutes. Rub the contents of the pan through a sieve, making sure that you extract all the juices. Add a few drops of Tabasco to taste. You should now be looking at a bowl full of a lovely red-coloured, very thin juice.

Chill this mixture in a deep freeze, and mash it up with a fork just before it starts to set. Return to the deep freeze, and repeat the process, and again, until you have formed a smooth ice in the sorbet manner. You could, of course, acheive the same effect in an ice-cream machine.

To serve, cut an avocado in half (I like the hass variety with the knobbly green skin; slightly nutty in taste), rub the exposed flesh with lemon juice (to stop it turning brown) and fill the cavity with a generous scoop of the Tomato Ice. To make the avocado stand upright on the plate, turn over the half, and slice off a thin wedge, so that it makes a base.

The important thing to remember is to flavour the tomato ice reasonably well, as the freezing process can often kill off the stronger tastes. Some out there might garnish it with mint, but I'm currently bored of garnishes, and think simplicity is often the best way forward. I like the idea of updating these classic, unfashionable recipes to more modern tastes; simplifying them if necessary, and presenting them cleanly, discarding those outrageous garnishes of yesteryear. That, at least, is the goal.

By the way, a tip: when you're grating a fresh horseradish root, make sure you grate it across the grain (rather than downwards). We keep a horseradish root in the deep freeze, and find that it keeps for ages; providing us with "fresh" horseradish whenever the mood takes us.

 

Devilled Kidneys

 

 

I don't think I've written about Devilled Kidneys before. Very English, very clubby; not to everyone's taste, but certainly to mine. This recipe is similar to the one in Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall's book The River Cottage Meat Book, but frankly, as this dish is an absolute classic- it could have come from anywhere.

First you heat up some oil in a pan.  Next you cut some lamb's kidneys into quarters, first trimming away the whitish core. Drop the kidneys into the pan, and sauté them very briefly. Add a dash of sherry, bubble it away, and add a further dash of cider vinegar.

Next, add a spoonful of redcurrant jelly, and allow it to melt. Now it's time for a generous dash of Worcestershire Sauce, a good pinch of Cayenne Pepper, a dollop of English Mustard (it's got to be Colman's), and ground Black Pepper.

Season with a pinch of sea salt, and mix in a spoonful or two of double cream. Bubble it away until the sauce is glossy. Serve on fried bread, and garnish with freshly chopped parsley.

It's important not to overcook the kidneys: you want them rare s'il vous plait.

Soufflé Heaven

 

 

I'm amused by soufflés. There's just something terribly camp about them, isn't there?  I'm not exactly sure what it is: the acute accent on the e? Or the high drama of 'The Rise", perhaps? The fact that the Table has to wait for the Soufflé, rather than the Soufflé having to wait for the Table- giving you the chance to fuss dramatically around the kitchen, and then to have queeny hysterics when your soufflé collapses. 

Control Freaks love them, too. There's all that stuff about the right temperature, the correct way to beat the egg whites, the proper way to do this, the proper way to do that. So I was quite happy to leave this one to The Girl, who came up with a fabulous aromatic soufflé, flavoured with tarragon.

I will go as far as saying that I think her soufflé was the best one I've ever had.  Tarragon, as you will remember, has an intense aniseedy, licoriquey, Pernod-y taste, and is considered by le gratin to go extremely well with poultry. It worked well with the cheese in the soufflé, and gave the dish a punchy, herbal flavour. If you like tarragon, you're going to love it. Not that I want to patronise you in any way; I am aware that most subscribers to The Greasy Spoon have probably made more soufflés, than I've had hot dinners:

First you need to turn on you oven. It's really important that you get your oven really hot (200C) as this sudden heat is what makes ths soufflé rise. Get hold of a soufflé dish, and smear the inside with the greasy bit of a butter wrapper. 

Next, it's time to make a roux. You'll remember how to do this. Flour cooked in a large knob of butter, stirred until smooth, and then turned into a sloppy kind of sauce with the addition of milk. Keep the pan on a gentle heat and stir or whisk like crazy, until all the lumps have been removed.

Remove from the heat, and let the white sauce cool down a bit (you don't want the eggs to cook as yet). Whisk in three egg yolks, add a dollop of mustard, grate in some Gruyère cheese, and throw in a good handful of tarragon leaves. Season with salt, pepper and lots of grated nutmeg.

Whisk up three egg whites until they're stiff. It's very important not to get any fat in the mixing bowl (ie egg yolk) as this will prevent the egg whites thickening up. The mixing bowl needs to be extremely clean. Finally, mix the egg white into the cheesy, herby, white sauce, using gentle hand movements. Use a metal spoon.

That's about it. The soufflé mixture, not surprisingly, goes into the soufflé dish, and the dish goes into the hot oven. Half an hour later it should be ready. If it hasn't risen properly, you can blame me, this blog, the cat's mother, and the world in general. Nothing like throwing a tantrum to clear the air, is there?

Russian Blinis

 

 

 

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

 

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

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

Savouries

 

 

 

I'd like to shout the cause for Savouries from the rooftops of Olde London! Not really being a pudding sort of person, I'm a huge fan. Savouries are a peculiarly English sort of thing, rarely served here anymore (apart from at crusty old-fashioned London clubs), and, I doubt very much, anywhere else in the world.

What are they? They were (or are) a popular- and rather masculine- substitute for the pudding course, and usually involved some form of toast, mushroom, egg or smoked fish, and then flavoured with spicy stuff like Lea & Perrins, and Cayenne Pepper.

I've taken two recipes from Arabella Boxer's "Book of English Food". This gem of a book is all about English food from the 1920's and 1930's. For some reason, it's almost impossible to find (was the print run miniscule?), and I had to pay a crazy amount on the internet for a copy- and it took me about six months to track one down.

Anyway, if you're tempted to make a savoury; here's how you do it: First Mushrooms on Toast (or "Champignons en Croute", as they rather cheekily used to call it at The Gasworks Restaurant, Chelsea, circa 1985):

Take some slices of white bread, remove the crusts, and then cut them into small to medium sized squares. Spread both sides very thinly with butter, and then bake them for 10-15 minutes on your oven rack at 400 F (200 C), until they are golden and crisp. Frankly, it might be easier to just fry them in olive oil in a pan. Chop up some decent brown mushrooms and fry them in butter for several minutes until they are soft. Lots of water should come out- you want to drain that off.

Next, make a classic white sauce. You should remember this from other posts: a knob of butter in the pan, flour- to make a roux, then milk and a bit of stock, salt and pepper. You want the white sauce to have a creamy consistency. Mix it in with the mushrooms, and add chopped parsley, and a splash of Lea & Perrins. Pour the mushroom mixture onto the fried bread squares, and then top off the dish with a grilled mushroom. You can serve them on a plate with a watercress garnish.

The other recipe is for Scotch Woodcock. This has nothing to do with Woodcock, game, or birds of the feathered variety. You take some anchovy fillets, and soak them in milk for about ten minutes. Make some fried bread squares (as before). Next, mix up some scrambled eggs the classic way- remember, just butter and eggs on a very low heat, and definitely no milk. But stir in some cream, salt and pepper when they are almost done. Pile the creamy scrambled eggs onto the fried bread, top them with two anchovy fillets in a cross pattern, and garnish with capers and a bit of watercress.

 

 

Welsh Rabbit

 

 

You know, here in Britain we eat strange things: Haggis, Spotted Dick, Deep Fried Mars Bars in Batter, Stargazey Pie, Bread and Butter Pudding, and Welsh Rabbit. Before all you animal lovers out there in cyberspace bombard me with protest emails, I have to stress that Welsh Rabbit is actually a toast and cheese dish. No-one is exactly sure why it's called this. Some people call it Welsh Rarebit. If you want to make it, it's easy; and perfect as a late night supper snack or TV Dinner.

Here's how I do it: Melt some butter in a small pan. Grate in some cheese. A strong, mature Cheddar is perfect. (Incidentally, in case you didn't know, Cheddar is a town in Somerset, England; and Cheddar is probably our most famous cheese; and cheese is the one thing we probably do as well as, if not better than the French). Next add a dollop of mustard (has to be tangy Colman's, doesn't it?); a dash of Lea & Perrins, and a slug of Guinness.

Meanwhile toast some brown bread, and pour the melted cheese mixture over it. Season with salt and pepper, and then cut the bread into fingers. Finish the dish off by flashing it under the grill for a minute or so. Perfect if you're about to slob out in front of Saturday Night television.

You either love it or your hate it...

 

 

 

 

What can be more British than Marmite? To my American readers, Marmite is a thick, dark, tangy, rich and glutinous mess that you spread on your toast, typically at breakfast or perhaps as a late night supper snack. For years I assumed, wrongly, that it was some sort of meat derivative, but Marmite makes the stuff from brewer's yeast, and so in theory, it's suitable for vegetarians.

The Marmite Food Extract Company was founded in 1902. Some clever spark realised that you could manufacture an edible savoury paste out of the waste yeast used in beer making. The Edwardians were heavily into these yeast extracts ( Bovril being another example, but with the addition, shock horror, of beef ); one reason being that you could make up a cheap but nourishing bouillon with the simple addition of boiling water.  As you gourmands all know, the word Marmite means a pot or casserole in French, and that's why the cultish jar is shaped, er- like a marmite.

And now ( trumpet fanfare, gasps of amazement ) there's new limited edition Guinness Marmite. It's got Guinness in it! I am dying to try it, but it seems to have sold out across the nation, and the supermarket shelves are bare. There seems to be a dubious trade in the stuff on eBay, but I have yet to bring myself to fork out the obligatory ten quid or so required to get hold of a jar.