The Greasy Spoon | Food & Culture

Penny Pinching Tarka Dhal

 

 

 

I’m suddenly interested in cheap food. Not that I’ve succumbed to the oily and addictive horrors of Chicken Valley in the South Lambeth Road. No. What I’ve woken up to is how well you can eat on a modest budget, and by “modest”, I really mean modest. And by “well” I really mean well. Forget the dreaded pasta bake, we’re thinking serious food.

The late- and great- Jocasta Innes led the field with The Pauper’s Cookbook, first published back in 1971. I’m the proud owner of a well-thumbed penguin. It’s a classic, although perhaps now slightly limited by the constraints of the period it was written in. The Cordon Bleu Cookery Course meets the WI. 

 

 

I’ve got two other books on the subject: Great Value Gourmet, Meals and Menus for £1 by Paul Gayler and David Chater’s Impoverished Gastronome. The first was published in 1996, so taking inflation into account, we can forgive the optimistic title. The second book is a collection of cheffy recipes from various trendy restaurants, which is fun; but I’m not convinced that the recipes are that cheap. One of the problems is that you’ll need a well-stocked larder to cook them. That chicken thigh from Lidl might be great value it’s true, but the overall cost of the spices, bayleaves, lemon grass, jar of honey, tub of yoghurt, whipping cream, Thai paste, chilli and ginger required to cook the recipe is going to leave a whopping hole in your modest supermarket budget if you haven’t got these ingredients in the first place. 

No, I’m thinking seriously cheap food. And to do this properly, you need to broaden your horizons. Take tarka dhal for example. In England most people come across this as a side-dish to eat with their curry. If you go to one of the better chains (Masala Zone or Dishoom immediately spring to mind) this will be served to you in a small bowl.

Of course, in India dhal is a staple food and often served as a course by itself with rice or bread. We’ve started to have it as a supper dish on a regular basis (served with steamed basmati rice) and I’m really beginning to appreciate it’s silky, buttery, subtle, savoury, comforting taste. Personally, I prefer it to be quite thin in consistency- almost like a soup- and I’m glad to hear that’s how the Indians like it too.

Get into dhal and you will find there’s a whole sub-culture out there; one region likes it this way, another region prefers it with this or that spice- there’s room for experimentation. This recipe comes from the excellent Anjum Anand, and I’ve now made it on numerous occasions with great success. All the ingredients can be found in the Indian section of a standard British supermarket:

 

 

Take 100 g of chana dhal lentils and mix them in a bowl with 50 g of dried red lentils. Cover with water and wash them through several times, until the water becomes reasonably clear. There’s no need to soak either lentil beforehand. Put the washed lentils into a large pan and cover with 1 litre of cold water. Bring the pan to the boil and skim off the white foamy scum that will start to collect on the surface of the water. 

While this is going on, chop up the flavourings. Peel four cloves of garlic and chop and smash them up with a large pinch of sea salt to form a juicy paste. I use the back of a knife. Grate a large knob of peeled ginger and again, chop and smash it up with a knife to form a smooth paste. Add a teaspoon of turmeric, then the salt, garlic and ginger to the pan and simmer on a low heat, with the pan covered for forty minutes. 

Now it’s time to make the tarka, which involves frying spices in oil. Heat a combination of oil and butter in a small frying pan. Add three dried red chillies and a teaspoon or so of cumin seeds to the pan and cook them until they are slightly browned. Be careful not to burn the cumin. Add a small onion, finely chopped and cook until well browned. 

Next, add two chopped tomatoes, a decent pinch of garam masala and another pinch of sea salt and cook until the masala releases the oils. Anjum says ten minutes but I find this can happen sooner. 

After the lentils have cooked for half and hour pour the finished spicy tarka into the pan with the lentils. Take off the lid and raise the heat and cook on a highish heat for another ten minutes or so. I like to add more water at this stage, so that it’s a bit like a soup. Check the seasoning and serve in a bowl with crisply fried onions and some chopped coriander.

I find that red onions for some reason are much easier to shallow fry than white or yellow onions and don’t seem to burn to the same extent. I’ve also tried adding more tomatoes- nice flavour, but shame about the colour, as I think for this classic dish you want more of a yellow colour which you’ll get (surprisingly) from the red lentils, once they’re cooked, as well of course, as from the turmeric.

There you are. A delicious, filling classic. Incredibly good for you too. And Mein Gott, it’s cheap. This recipe is enough for two people- and with small second helpings to spare. You can buy a 500 g packet of chana dhal lentil on the net for £1.05. A 500 g packet of red lentils from the same source costs £1.25. That works out as 21 p for the chana dhal and 12½ p for the red lentils. For two people.

Obviously you’ve also got to factor in the other ingredients, and if I’ve got time later on this afternoon, I might get my maths into action and work out the exact cost. I’ll report back with an update. But I think you will all agree, this recipe is amazing value for money. And it tastes fantastic, which is half the battle won.

 

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.

 

Chinese Chicken in a Black Bean Sauce

 

Last night I dreamt again of Chicken in a Black Bean Sauce. Nothing special, just the ordinary, slighty tacky dish you get delivered from a Chinese takeaway, the sort of thing you might eat with chopsticks in front of the television, straight from the tin-foil carton. Strips of chicken, bound in a starchy, slightly piquant, peppery black sauce, stir fried with crunchy green peppers. Always crunchy green peppers.

As with Indian food in this country, I expect that Chicken in a Black Bean Sauce is about as authentic as a pizza cooked with pineapple; not of course that I am recommending you add pineapple to your pizza; that would be a heresy. But just sometimes, there's something comforting about re-creating simple, bastardised dishes: I think they've become modern classics in their own right.

Researching the recipe, I found all sorts of versions on the net. Some were spicier than others; one even used grated orange and ginger. I've come up with a simple, relatively authentic recipe you can easily make at home, although I admit that I have no idea if this is exactly how your local Chinese take-away makes it. Please feel free to add your own twists. You'll see that I have deliberately avoided using that pre-made black bean sauce you can buy in a tin. You can buy packets of fermented black beans (soy beans which have been dried and fermented in salt and spices) and from Chinese grocery shops. We're lucky enough to live relatively close to London's China Town. If you don't, I think you can buy these on the net. Incidentally, they're a different thing from the black beans used in Mexican or Caribbean cooking, which you can buy tinned from supermarkets. Here's how you make Chicken in a Black Bean Sauce:

First, you will need to make up your own black bean sauce mixture. In a bowl, combine the following ingredients: two heaped tablespoons of Chinese fermented black beans (rinsed and mashed), two cloves of minced garlic, one tablespoon of dark soy sauce, one teaspoon of Chinese oyster sauce (from the bottle), one teaspoon of sugar, two teaspoons of cornstarch, 1/2 cup of chicken stock, and a dash of rice wine or sherry. Put to one side.

Heat up your wok over a medium heat, and add a dash of toasted sesame oil. Warm for about thirty seconds. Add a teaspoon or so of minced garlic and your home-made black bean sauce. Cook, stirring for thirty seconds.

Add some chicken (which you've previously cut into thin strips) and cook through. If the sauce gets too thick (or there's not enough of it) add some more chicken stock or water. Cook, stirring occasionally so that the sauce doesn't stick to the wok.

When the chicken's almost cooked, add diced onion, sliced spring onions, green pepper (cut up into chunks), a further generous dash of soy sauce (this will help to turn the sauce a darker colour) and lots of fresh black pepper. Cook quickly (so that the vegetables are still crunchy) and serve. Steamed rice would be just the ticket.

 

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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.

Zucchini Fritters

 

 

 

I like the word "Zucchini". It rolls off the tongue. Here in England we call them "courgettes". Anyway. If you've got the time and inclination, zucchini fritters are the perfect thing to serve with drinks, and especially with a Dry Martini.

I'm currently keen on the idea of tiny fritters; the size of a small coin: slice up some baby courgettes very thinly, put the slices into a colander, and sprinkle them with sea salt. The salt will draw out enormous quantities of water. Your friends will be thrilled and amazed.

Next, beat an egg white until frothy, and dip the courgette slices into the egg white. Shake off the excess, and then dip them again into strong flour which you've previously seasoned with salt and white pepper.

In a deep-fat fryer, heat some peanut oil to about 375 F (190 C). If you don't have a fryer, use a wok. As nut oil burns at a higher temperature, it's an excellent choice for this sort of operation. Drop the courgettes into the oil, a few at a time, and fry them until they are crisp. Watch them like a hawk, and make sure they don't burn.

Incidentally, when frying, it's always best never to overcrowd the pan; if you do, you run the risk that your food may steam or boil, which, of course, is a different technique all together.

Drain the fritters on kitchen paper, and sprinkle them with more salt and pepper. Okay, this means that your fritters are going to pretty salty, but I think that in this case, it provides a perfect balance with the dry oiliness (is that a word?) of a classic Martini cocktail.

I also quite like the idea of cutting up the courgettes into wider slices, and serving them in that simple way, as a side dish. Baby yellow courgettes could be an interesting concept, too. Lots of ideas.

The Great Pine Nut Mystery- Almost a Mystery No More

 

 

 

A year or two ago, I wrote a post about my unpleasant experience with a packet of pine nuts. To cut a very long story short, the nuts were responsible for an utterly revolting taste which developed at the back of my mouth and lasted for a very long two weeks.  At the time, I had no idea that I had inadvertently tapped into the zeitgeist, and was unprepared for the deluge of hits, comments and feedback that that particular post received. It has even been used as a reference for various learned articles in medical journals. You can read the original post here: The Great Pine Nut Mystery  

Most comments were from fellow sufferers worried that they had developed some sort of fatal disease (such as brain cancer), and just relieved to hear that it had been the humble pine nut which had caused it, though there was also anger that food companies (such as Trader Joe's) were still openly selling the nuts.  

One rather silly commentator accused me of "China Bashing"- utterly unfair, of course, as I have a burgeoning interest in the ceramics of the Sung Yuan dynasties, not to mention a deep respect for Chinese culture and food, and bashing China is currently the last thing on my mind. And there were a few who thought that us "pine mouth" sufferers were a bunch of neurotic hypochondriacs. To them, I say try imagining having a mouthful of iron fillings sitting on your tongue for two weeks, and you will get my drift.

I had an interesting email from Grace Tan, who is a food scientist in the Netherlands and is conducting research into causes of the problem.  If you're a recent sufferer, please get in touch with her. You can read her blog here: The Great Pine Nut Mystery: probing into the puzzling syndrome of pine mouth

I gather that researchers may be near to an answer. China may have been exporting a different variety of the nut (acutally pine nuts are really seeds), and this cheaper variety is known to cause taste disturbances. I think the Chinese have now clamped down and banned the rogue nut, but there may still be some out there in stocks worldwide.  This is a simple explanation, and if I had to make an educated guess, seems entirely plausible. I've never been convinced by the allergy theories. We shall see. In the meantime, log into Grace's blog for further updates: in the best scientific traditions, she reports that she has decided to experiment on herself: "I gave in to curiosity and decided to taste the pine nut samples that I have received".  Grace! Don't do it!

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Scotch Eggs

 

 

There was a brilliant little feature on the Robert Elms radio programme yesterday (click here to listen again). It was about Scotch Eggs. Now, I haven't had a Scotch Egg for ages. If truth is to be told, I had almost forgotten about them. And I rather like them. Maybe it's a boy thing? I mentioned it to Mrs Aitch, and she pulled a face and pretended to puke. And I have to admit, now thinking about it, who can forget those dubious Scotch Eggs of past memory?  School-outing Scotch Eggs rolling around in clouded tupperware containers, with dry, blackish egg yolks and soggy breadcrumbs eminating sulphurous lingering odours.

What is a Scotch Egg?  It's a shelled hard-boiled egg, wrapped in a sausage meat mixture, coated in breadcrumbs and then deep-fried. I have no idea if it is genuinely Scottish or not, alhough I hear that the Scots like to dip Mars Bars into batter and then drop them into a deep fat fryer- which could explain many of the strange things that go on north of the border. According to wikipedia (so it must be true), Scotch Eggs were actually invented by the very English Fortnum & Mason in 1851. This has the ring of actualité about it.

Anyway, on the programme, Mr Elms and his guest blind tasted all sorts of tantalising Scotch Eggs from The Hand-made Scotch Egg Company.  This noble organisation will deliver beautifully made Scotch Eggs to your door, individually placed in those pâpier-maché egg trays. And what a choice!

"Colonel" is made from British Saddleback Pork with Shropshire Lad Beer Mustard and fresh watercress. "Pippin" comes with free-range pork, smoked bacon and apples. Or how about "Aztec" ?- that's made from free-range pork, Moroccan harissa, smoked paprika, red chili and dark chocolate. If that strikes you as a trifle over-the-top, they also sell the "Classic Mac"; cooked in the traditional way, with free-range pork, lightly spiced with a blend of seasonings.

I think I'm going to order some for Easter.  Their "wee ones" (smaller Scotch Eggs made from quail's eggs) might work well as some sort of first course?  We shall see.

Cajun Duck Gumbo with Smoked Sausage and Shrimps

 

 

Yesterday an old friend came over to our new house for dinner. I decided to make a Cajun duck gumbo. Or at least, I thought I did, as the resulting effort, although relatively appetising, tasted nothing like the genuine dish. So I did some research:

Gumbo is a stew or soup popular in Louisiana and the Southern States of America. It's probably got okra in it, and most importantly, the "holy trinity" of diced onions, green peppers and celery. It's also thickened at the beginning by a roux. Now, this is not just any old roux. There's a whole sub-culture of check-shirted, bearded roux experts out there, ready to tell you at a drop of a hat that your roux isn't dark enough, and that you should have stirred it one hundred and one times anti-clockwise, and in slow-motion.

Forget your namby-pamby Cordon Bleu type rouxs made with a bit of butter and a genteel sprinkling of flour, these Cajun rouxs are macho affairs, made by heating cups of oil to a high temperature in old tin pans, and then stirring in cups of flour, until the liquid roux turns a mahogany colour, or even in some cases almost black. If you've got time, have a look at this excellent website, the Southern Gumbo Trail- which will tell you how to make authentic "Cajun Napalm".

Here's my recipe for Cajun Duck Gumbo:

Heat a heavy pan until it's smokin' hot. Pour in a cup of oil. Let it get hot, then turn down the heat to a low flame. Gradually whisk in a cup and a half of white flour, whisking it the whole time to make sure it doesn't burn. If you cook the roux on too high a heat, not only might it burn, but the oil might separate from the flour. Keep on whisking. I think it's important to have more flour than oil: you want the roux to be slightly sloppy, but you don't want an oil-slick.

You will see that as the flour cooks, the colour will start to turn brown. Keep on stirring. Your goal is to end up with a dark brown, nutty flavoured roux with the consistency of a thick chocolate sauce. Which hasn't burnt. This might take up to half and hour to achieve, but you will end up with an extremely worthy base for your gumbo. Oh and by the way, it's not called "Cajun Napalm" for nothing. Be extremely careful: if you splash a bit of the roux on your skin, it's going to hurt. As I write this, I'm suffering from some darn nasty burns on my fingers, which I wouldn't wish on anyone.

Now it's time to add the "holy trinity" of diced green peppers, onions and celery. Stir it in, and sauté for around five minutes. Add some chopped garlic. Stir. Throw in some chopped up okra. Turn the heat up, and stir the okra in until it's cooked properly, and become less "stringy" and gelatinous. The okra will thicken up the mixture almost immediately. You will see tiny "strings", looking a bit like miniscule white optic fibres. You need to cook the okra until these strings disappear.

Next, add shrimps (prawns), sliced smoked sausage and small chunks of duck. Keep on stirring as it cooks. After about another ten minutes or so, pour in some stock. I used a lovely clear duck stock which I had made by using a very low heat, and then skimming off the scum as it rose to the surface.

Simmer gently for about twenty minutes until the gumbo thickens up. Season to taste and add a generous slug of Tabasco and a teaspoon or so of Cayenne Pepper. Finish off the dish with some chopped parsley, and serve it on a bowl of steamed rice. The gumbo should be a dark brown colour, and that agonising half hour or so of roux stirring will give a complex, deep hickory flavour to the dish.

The Greasy Spoon visits...Rasa Sayang

 

 

Photograph: Kake Pugh 

Rasa Sayang does exactly what it says on the tin. It's a small crowded room in Chinatown, just off Shaftesbury Avenue; painted white, with wood-effect tables and cheery laminate menus full of colourful photographs of Malaysian and Singaporean street food. I like this: being able to point at something and saying "I'll have this one, this one and this one". If you're a lazy or frustrated communicator (and I'm often feeling like that in London these days) it makes life one hell of a lot easier. No hanging around for the idle.

The food is good: a substantial cut above many of the dubious restaurants in the area. And there's lots of it, too. I ordered "Seafood hor fun" (that's stir-fried flat rice noodles with seafood, mixed vegetables and "velvety" egg) and liked it, though The Girl thought it a trifle bland: much better were the deliciously crunchy stir-fried "Sambal cluster beans" and the intensely savoury "Nasi goreng istimeura" (rice with shrimp paste, soy sauce and chili). The Girl seemed pleased with her "Nasi Lemak" (chicken curry with coconut scented rice, sliced boiled egg and crunchy anchovies), and my "Curry chee cheong fun" (rice noodle rolls in a hot and rich curry sauce) were the cat's whiskers.

There seemed to be quite a few Malaysian people there- which is always a good sign, although I've just read a few negative Malaysian reviews on the internet, and I suspect they know much more about their own food than London bloggers who pretend to know what they're talking about. It's a bit like the time I ate a soggy fish and chips in Hong Kong- but that's another story for another time. 

Anyway, service was reasonably friendly at first, but then degenerated into slightly brusque, anti-social behaviour- I had my plate snatched from under my nose as I was still gobbling down the Sambal cluster beans with chili (dearie me, what Mrs Aitch has to put up with). I'm not too fussed about this: to survive, a small restaurant like Rasa Sayang needs a brisk turnover, and the bright lighting and hard seats à la "Chicken Land" are- er- not exactly there to make you linger are they now?

A destination for a romantic diner à deux it is not (am I writing the obvious?) but for students of a gourmet persuasion, those on a lunch break with a precious three quarters of an hour to spare, or just the plain greedy, this new restaurant comes out top of the form. Well, almost.

Rasa Sayang, 5 Macclesfield Street, London, W1D 6AY (020 7734 1382)

 

Jellied Eels Revisited

 

 

I first wrote about jellied eels back in 2007, when we had a look at Tubby Isaac's famous East End eel stall. I've still got mixed feelings about jellied eels. I want to like 'em, and I'm almost at the point of becoming an aficinado, but if the truth be told, given half the chance I would sooner plump for a decent oyster on the shell, or a lovely cut of smoked eel with horseradish sauce.

Back in the good old days of muffin men and dancing chimney sweeps, eels were the staple diet of the London poor. The Thames Estuary is full of the critters, and as the Thames is now so much cleaner than it was say, forty years ago, eels are coming back in force.

 

I suspect the best way to enjoy jellied eels is to cook them yourself. A few months ago, I had a bowl of jellied eels as a first course (from memory, I think it was at Jack's Place in Battersea); and I don't remember them being especially good (not that I want to denigrate Jack's in any way; a splendid institution and long may it thrive!).

I've trawled through several very old-fashioned Mrs Beeton type cook-books on your behalf, and come up with a definitive recipe:

First, catch some eels. Chop them into 2 inch thick pieces, and plunge them into a large pan of boiling water with a generous dash of sea salt. Take them off the boil, and let them stand for five minutes.

Next, take a pan or dish, and throw in the eels. Pour in a pint of water (so that the eels are covered), and add three tablespoons of malt vinegar, a squeeze of lemon juice, some thinly sliced onions, carrots and celery, a bayleaf, a few peppercorns, sea salt, chopped parsley, and nutmeg.

Bring to the boil, reduce and simmer for twenty minutes, until the eels are tender. Remove the cooked eels and place them in a deep serving dish or bowl. Strain the 'liquor' over the eels, and when cool, bung it into the 'fridge. Eels are naturally gelatinous, so the liquid should set. If it doesn't, be prepared to add some liquid gelatine to the mix. According to one book, the chopped parsley gives "the jelly the traditional hint of green, like the sea". What a nice idea.

Serve the jellied eels with chili vinegar.

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Chestnuts

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

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

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

Moroccan Lamb Koftas in Tomato Sauce

 

 

One of the most interesting things about Morocco, apart from its fascinating culture and beautiful Islamic architecture, is the food. As Morocco used to be a former French colony, it enjoys a subtle and sophisticated cuisine, which is part North African, part French in influence.

I love Marrakesh, with it's Foreign Legion style ramparts set against the stunning backdrop of the snow-capped Atlas Mountains. I've cooked this dish often, and it goes down especially well at buffets. You should be able to buy a tajine (which is a clay cooking pot) reasonably easy; otherwise it would be a good excuse to get on that Marrakesh Express- and buy one there in the Souk.

First, dry roast some cumin and coriander seeds in a frying pan. This is simplicity itself: just cook the seeds in a hot frying pan (without any oil), until they turn slightly brown, and start to jump around the pan. Next, grind the cooked seeds up in a pestle and mortar, to form a powder.

In the Magimix, whizz up some minced lamb, three small chopped onions, some chopped mint, chopped coriander leaves, salt and pepper, and the ground cumin and coriander. Spoon out the lamb mixture into a bowl, and form small meat balls (or Koftas) with your hands. Next, fry the Koftas in olive oil, until they are brown on all sides.

To make the sauce, fry some chopped onions and garlic in olive oil. When they are soft, add a tin of chopped tomatoes, a stick of cinnamon, and salt and black pepper. Cook the sauce down on a medium heat to thicken it up. All that's left do to now, is to shove the dish into the oven at a medium to high heat.

Ideally, you would use a tajine- as the clay pot creates an even heat, and cooks the Koftas and Tomato Sauce from all sides; though of course you could always use an ordinary casserole dish. Finish the Lamb Koftas off with a squeeze of lemon juice.

Mexican Prawn Ceviche

 

 

The 1st and 2nd of November are celebrated in Mexico as the Festival of the Day of the Dead. It does, of course, co-incide with our Hallowe'en, but the emphasis is on joy and celebration, rather than the macabre. The Mexicans believe that death is not the end, but instead the beginning of a new stage of life, and celebrate the lives of former loved ones with colourful parades, papier-mache skeletons, bright pink sugar skulls and anarchic carnival. I haven't been yet, but one day I would love to fly over there and join in the fun.

Well, it had to be a Mexican recipe today, didn't it? As it's The Greasy Spoon, I've adapted a Mexican version of Prawn Cocktail, although I think it originally came from Peru. It's called Ceviche. The raw prawns are "cooked" in lime juice. It's delicious. For my American readers, we say "prawn", you say "shrimp". So let's call the whole thing off.

In a mixing bowl combine fresh prawns, lime juice, salt and pepper. Your prawns will need to be extremely fresh.  Mix it all together. Cover and stick in the 'fridge for twelve hours. The acid in the lime juice will "cook" the protein in the fish. You will know when the mixture is ready, when the prawns have turned pink. In case you were wondering, they start off a grey colour in their natural state. Now it's time to add the other ingredients.

 

In the meantime, you've cut up red peppers, red onions, plum tomatoes, and yellow peppers into julienne (which is a cheffy term for thin strips). Add these to the bowl. Next add a finely chopped jalapeno chili, a teaspoon of sugar, and a dash of wine vinegar.

Finish the whole thing off, by garnishing with a thinly sliced or diced avocado, and roughly chopped coriander. You could get away with serving this as a first course in a wine glass, though in the photograph above, it's presented on a serving plate. Very retro, and slightly different. I like it.

Venison Chili

 

 

When I'm in Manhatten, nothing's better than hailing a cab and heading straight for P. J. Clarke's at 55th and 3rd, where you can order a bowl of chili with saltine crackers. I've been hesitant to write about chili, because I know how seriously Americans take it, and that battle reigns between the Texas Red version (meat-rich and without beans), and other recipes from other States. Some have tomatoes; others don't. Some have black beans, some kidney beans, and the Texan cowboy version quite definitely doesn't.

In Britain, chili con carne is often nothing more than stewed mince with kidney beans plus a pinch of chili powder. Here's my idea for a richer more authentic venison chili.

Saute some chopped onions, garlic and chopped red chilis in some oil and butter. Stir in chili powder, oregano, cumin, and paprika. Now add the venison. You can either chop the meat into chunks, or put it through a mincer (if you've got one). Cook for a bit until the meat is sealed and coloured. Now add some stock, beer (the Mexican beer, Corona, is excellent), and a splash of Tabasco. Let the chili simmer at a low heat, until the meat is cooked. You want the sauce to be reasonably thick. When the meat is nearly done, add some tomato puree, or even better, sun-dried tomato paste, and grate in some bitter dark chocolate- the sort of quality chocolate (high in cocoa solids) you can buy in delis and specialist shops. Season with salt and black pepper to taste.

Finally, stir in some cooked beans (Kidney, Haricot, or Black Beans are fine, it doesn't really matter). Serve with grated cheese on top, sour cream, and saltine crackers.