The Greasy Spoon | Food & Culture

How to Make Haggis and Influence People

 

 

 

Mrs Maciver’s Good Scotch Haggis (From The Cook’s Oracle by Dr William Kitchiner (1817)

 

Make the haggis bag perfectly clean. Parboil the draught. Boil the liver very well so as it will grate. Dry the meal before the fire. Mince the draught and a pretty large piece of beef very small. Grate about half of the liver. Mince plenty of the suet and some onions small. Mix all these well together with a handful or two of the dried meal.

Spread them on the table and season them with salt and mixed spices. Take any of the scraps of beef and some of the water that boiled the draught and make about a choppin (sic.) a quart of good stock of it. Then put all the haggis meat into the bag and that broth in it.

Sew up the bag, but be sure to put out all the wind before you sew it quite close. If you think the bag is thin, you may put it in a cloth. A large one will take two hours boiling. 

 

The British Country House Breakfast

 

 

Manderley: Hollywood’s evocation of the English Country House, Rebecca, 1940

 

Possibly one of our most significant contributions to civilisation is the idea of a proper breakfast. Personally, as much as I am a fan of all things Franco-Italian, the so-called ‘Continental’ breakfast, as served in numerous hotels across Europe leaves me cold. The little packets of plastic apricot jam, the stale croissant, the bowl of coffee, the slightly acidic curdled hot milk. Awkward bleary-eyed guests bumping into each other over the orange juice machine. And in the worst cases, muzak.

No, given half a chance, I would much rather be sitting at a shiny mahogany dining room table, the Spring light beaming through latticed windows on a raw morning in March or April, slightly naff coaching or hunting table mats, red-hot silvered chafing dishes on a rosewood George IV sideboard; haddock kedgeree, sausage, kippers, porridge (traditionally eaten standing up) and all the trappings that come with this vanishing ideal.

I included ‘British’ rather than ‘English” in the title deliberately, as Scotland has contributed enormously to the Country House Breakfast, and in recent years, a little bit of America has crept in with the cornflakes too; historically, like the Gordon Keeble, the Bristol or Jensen, the British breakfast is a hybrid, in this case, English, Scottish and American.

The Victorians and Edwardians had huge appetites (quite possibly, I suspect, a) because of the lack of central heating and b) because of the nineteenth century’s colder weather patterns) and in 1861 Isabella Beeton lists, as a matter of course and with a nonchalant insouciance: cold joints, potted fish, cold game, veal and ham pie, game and rump steak pie, cold ham, tongue, mutton chops, rump steak, broiled sheep’s kidneys and kidneys à la mâitre d’hôtel: all as suitable dishes for the breakfast sideboard, to be ‘nicely garnished and placed on the buffet’.  

 

“Her Majesty Queen Victoria at Breakfast with Princess Beatrice and Princess Victoria in the 60th year of her reign...”

 

I thought it would be fun to compile the ultimate Country House Breakfast list, which I suppose is a recreation of a breakfast from the 1930s. I’m a big fan of lists. So in no particular order (with links to previous posts on The Greasy Spoon) here it is. 

 

Kippers                   

Porridge

Black Pudding

Kedgeree

Finian Haddie

Sausages

Toast & Marmalade

Haggis

Herrings in Oatmeal

Oat Cakes

Devilled Kidneys

Bacon & Eggs

Scrambled Eggs

Poached Eggs

Boiled Eggs

Orange Juice

Tea & Coffee

 

'But who on earth’s got the time for all this!  I hear you shout, and of course, I must put up my hand and accept the charge as read; for my breakfast list is a romanticised relic from a previous age- these days, you’re as likely to be gulping down a hurried mug of black coffee on a rainy Monday morning (along with a few spoonfuls of organic bran and those bizarre yoghurt drink thingys Mrs Aitch likes), as tucking into a slice of Lea & Perrinsed kidney or savouring the smoky, curried delights of haddock kedgeree. But if you can squeeze in the time to cook one or two of these dishes on a Saturday morning, and serve them to your friends and family sitting down at a table, the world, I think, would be a better place.

Let me know if I’ve left anything off the list. I couldn’t, incidentally, bring myself to include baked beans. Can’t quite put the finger on why exactly, even though I’m still a fan of Heinz and it’s 57 varieties. And should I have included hash browns? Coming to think of it, what are hash browns? 

 

How to Make Haggis and Influence People

 

 

 

Mrs Maciver’s Good Scotch Haggis (From The Cook’s Oracle by Dr William Kitchiner (1817)

 

Make the haggis bag perfectly clean. Parboil the draught. Boil the liver very well so as it will grate. Dry the meal before the fire. Mince the draught and a pretty large piece of beef very small. Grate about half of the liver. Mince plenty of the suet and some onions small. Mix all these well together with a handful or two of the dried meal.

Spread them on the table and season them with salt and mixed spices. Take any of the scraps of beef and some of the water that boiled the draught and make about a choppin (sic.) a quart of good stock of it. Then put all the haggis meat into the bag and that broth in it.

Sew up the bag, but be sure to put out all the wind before you sew it quite close. If you think the bag is thin, you may put it in a cloth. A large one will take two hours boiling. 

 

Twelfth Night Dundee Cake

 

 

 

You know, I rather like this time of year, as in-between and as weird as it feels. London’s empty; the streets are deserted- it’s like living in one of those old black and white episodes from The Avengers. The Christmas tree’s still up, just, and beginning to turn brown in places. The Sunday papers are full of self-help advice, which seems to get barmier by the year. This New Year’s award goes to The Sunday Times which explains “how to transform your body in 21 days”, and features exclusive extracts from The Pegan Plan (a Paleo diet combined with veganism, as recommended by Bill Clinton’s doctor). In a refreshing twist, this time round we’re encouraged to “eat more fat”. Jack Sprat eat your heart out.

Yup. It’s a short period of calm after the manic exhaustion of Christmas (love it that I do): a time to take stock, make plans and chuck out all the accumulated metaphorical rubbish stacked up over the previous year. That is, until the blues of deepest January take root. 

Twelfth Night is either the 5th or 6th of January, depending on your point of view. It marks the coming of the Epiphany, when the Three Wise Men finally make it to the crib. Historically, Christmas was celebrated over the Twelve Days, ending on Twelfth Night. None of this tiresome “Christmas Decorations in October” nonsense we suffer from today. Traditionally, a Twelfth Night Cake was baked and included a bean. The lucky soul who plucked out the bean was crowned The Lord of Misrule and presided over the revelries, carousing and merry making. Twelfth Night also happens to coincide with the Russian Orthodox Christmas.

And last week, for the first time ever in my life, I have actually- finally- made a cake. An old fashioned Dundee Cake. Soaked in J & B Rare Whisky to be exact. I’m not exactly sure why this has taken me so long. A contrarian aversion to the lemming-like mass worship of the Great British Bake-Off perhaps? A savoury tooth? Maybe. But I have to say it- my Dundee Cake is (was) exceedingly good. Masses of toasted almond and butterscotch flavours going on in there.

 

 

Here’s how I made it (courtesy of Dela Smith’s Christmas). Remember Her? 

 

I mixed up the following ingredients in a bowl: 

6 oz (175 g) currants
6 oz (175 g) sultanas
4 oz (110 g) glacé cherries, rinsed, dried and cut into halves
3 oz (75 g) mixed candied peel, finely chopped
grated rind 1 small orange
grated rind 1 small lemon

And then added three tablespoons of J & B Scotch Whisky, and left the thing to soak overnight.

The next day I preheated the oven to 325 °F (170 °C) and combined 150g butter with 150g soft brown sugar in a mixing bowl, using an electric beater to make it go light and fluffy. It’s really important to have the butter and sugar at the same room temperature, so don’t follow my example by taking out semi-cold butter straight from the ‘fridge, otherwise your mixture will curdle further down the line. 

The next stage was to add eggs. I whisked up three eggs separately (ie one by one), and then them beat them into the mixture bit by bit, scraping the sides as I went along. In a way it’s a bit like making a mayonnaise emulsion. If it does curdle, don’t panic. I kept calm, carried on and the cake still tasted pretty good. 

Then, using a large metal tablespoon, I very carefully (and lightly) folded in 225g sifted plain flour, and one level teaspoon of baking powder. Your mixture should now have a soft dropping consistency. In other words, it should drop off a spoon in a gloop. With hindsight, mine was a bit dry, and I should have added a dash of milk to soften everything up. 

Finally, I carefully folded in two tablespoons of ground almonds, and then the whisky soaked fruit, peel and zest. So that’s your mixture finished. 

Get hold of a cake baking tin and grease the bottom and edges. Next line with baking parchment (I cut a circle for the bottom, and then a long strip for the sides, which I ‘glued’ together with butter). Spoon in the mixture, level it off neatly and press whole blanched almonds lightly into the top in serried ranks, making a simple patterned design. Bake in the oven for 2 - 2½ hours. When it’s ready, leave it to cool in the tin for half an hour, before transferring it to a wire rack.  

That’s more or less it. You could also spike the cake with some extra J & B (fed through holes). Not a bad idea. I’m a fan of J & B in as much that it’s the current house whisky of choice. But it’s not only a slightly peppery blend, it’s pretty light too- first distilled, I gather, back in the 1920’s for the American cocktail market. A punchier single malt might be the way ahead.

 

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 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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DATE & TIME:
19:30 - 23:30
Fri, 27th Jun 2014 - Sun, 29th Jun 2014

ADDRESS:
Anchor Yard, 4 Durham Street, SE11 5JA
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NEAREST TUBE:
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Tickets: £40 
6 courses + 2 drinks

For six weeks starting only (23rd May-6th July) every Friday and Saturday come 7:30pm, plus Sundays at 2pm.

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