The Greasy Spoon | Food & Culture

If Looks Could Kill: Daniel Farson vs Fanny Cradock

 

Fear of Fanny: What are you going to eat? Live ones or dead ones? 

 

Television is dead. A generalisation, of course, but if recent viewing figures are anything to go by, this could be the end of the road for the big four British channels as we knew them. Younger people don't watch the BBC and ITV. They watch YouTube and Netflix, which means big box drama stuff, CGI thrills and spills, and home made films featuring psychotic kittens, and attractive young female doctors popping ginormous cysts. We've only just upgraded to a "smart" television set (I fear that here at the Greasy Spoon hovel, we're a little bit behind on these matters), and so far, it's provided hours of bonus entertainment- especially as I've discovered something called the BFi Player, which as I expect you already know, is a subscription service for British film buffs.

And buried deep within the BFi archives, is a fascinating car-crash television interview with Fanny Cradock from 1959. You can download it for a quid. I've written about Mr and Mrs Fanny Cradock before; the pair, for some reason, seem to crop up on the Greasy Spoon's pages at regular intervals, partly, I think because their cooking was "actually rather good", and because, of course, Fanny was such an extraordinary- if bizarre- character.

The set up goes something like this: investigative journalist, Daniel Farson, is invited to lunch by the Cradocks at their Louis the Something gilded South Kensington flat. So far so good. Farson- the official biographer of Francis Bacon- was another troubled, possibly damaged, television star of the period- whose education, following a stint at Wellington, was finished in the the drinking clubs of Soho: and in many ways the antithesis of the bourgeois Cradocks. It's a priceless clash of two journalistic styles: remember, this is commercial Associated-Rediffusion television, not the BBC.

 

Daniel Farson with Francis Bacon: his further education...finished in the drinking clubs of Soho

 

The lunch- sorry, luncheon- goes something like this. Almost Pinteresque dialogue: 

 

Fanny (presenting a huge silver dish piled high with crayfish, winkles and prawns, and garnished with shells, scalloped lemon wedges and champagne corks): In French this is called Assiette des Fruits des Mer. It's rather fun.

Dan Farson (clipped tones, pointing to a mollusc): They're moving!

Fanny (near collapse): Strangulated gurgle.

Dan Farson: No. It's true! One crawled off here a minute ago. Absolutely. It fell off!

Fanny: Give it to me. You're perfectly right it is moving. What are you going to eat? Live ones or Dead ones?

 

"They're alive! It's moving!"

 

Things then goes from bad to worse: 

 

Dan Farson: What is this?

Fanny: Butter. Even the gold dust is edible. It comes from Belgium.

Dan Farson: Quite honestly to my mind your whole approach to cooking seems to be the antithesis of good cooking- why even the butter needs to be dolled up with gold leaf and pink stuff, whatever that is. 

Fanny (jabbing her silver lobster pick in the air): This is an elaborate drawing room, Duckie, where I have a lot of Regency gilt, I like the butter to look the same.

Dan Farson: Do you have any sympathy with vegetarians?

Fanny: Yes. Profound sympathy. Think what they miss.

 

"Are you nervous cooking for your husband's boss? Want to impress that Mrs Jones next door?"

 

It's a masterclass in tact: Our Dan not only goes on to criticise Fanny's Filet de bœuf en feuilleté- beef wrapped in puff pastry, and a dish which she had kindly fed him in her kitchen a week before- and which he felt "ruined the fillet steak", but suggests that the pair's performance on stage is "like a circus act".

Curiously enough, I'm rather with the Cradocks on this one. Dan Farson is incredibly ill-mannered, and his comment on the Bœuf en feuilleté (not unlike our very own and much-loved Beef Wellington) verges on the crass. I detect too, alas, an element of tiresome snobbery going on here: Farson, whose family background happened to come from the American upper class, mocks the Cradock's perceived suburban pretensions, and thinking about it- in a recent documentary about British food in the post-war era, another well-heeled television cook, a recent convert to the zeal of the vegetarian cause, does exactly the same thing. It's all a bit sneery- but then what does one expect from the commercial channels? 

And in any event, aren't they all missing the point?  Fanny was a brilliant television presenter- one of the first television cookery stars, and years ahead of her time. And the woman could cook too: the endless Cradock books are even now, still "rather good" in their way- and eminently usable. Pulling one of them- at random- off my crowded shelves, I find recipes for: onion soup, hunter's pot, cabbage casserole, risotto Piemontese, fried sprats, gazpacho, and homemade bread. No sign of gilded butter in sight. Even from Belgium.

 

 

Food in the Sixties: The Enigma of Mr and Mrs Fanny Cradock

 

Here’s a piece I originally wrote for The Dabbler, but I don’t think it appeared on The Greasy Spoon. Subscribers may have to log directly onto The Greasy Spoon website to view the videos: 

 
There was so much to admire about Fanny Cradock. And then it all went wrong, horribly wrong...

 

I can’t quite make up my mind about Fanny Cradock. I’m on the fence about this one. There are many things to admire: the innovative cookery programmes, the slick, ball-gowned cookery demonstrations presented to packed audiences at the Albert Hall (ground-breaking stuff at the time), her grasp of the complexities of French gastronomy- oh she knew her stuff all right. Utterly professional, in those scary days of one-take television she could talk directly to the camera in a continuous stream without fluffing her lines, an extraordinary task for a cookery presenter. And she was one of the very first.

And then in the latter days, it all went wrong. Very wrong. The world moved on, leaving Fanny behind. I’m watching an old YouTube clip as I type. Fanny lampooning dear old A J P Taylor on the Parkinson show; pancaked make-up, grimacing Dan Leno eyebrows, all the glamour and snobbery of caustic coffee mornings and gin-sodden bridge parties at The Club. Strange. Aggressive. An excruciating performance:

  

 

Fanny on Parkinson: An excruciating performance...

 

But that may be part of the fascination. In those days, the servant-less middle classes aspired to sophisticated gluttony- to black-tie dinner parties held in honour of The Boss, graced by the food of Escoffier, as re-packaged and regurgitated by the Cradocks in their numerous books. Today, aspiration is dead, unless you count the current vogue for both the manners and diet of the Mediterranean peasantry. Fanny would flounder in the brave new world of dancing Hairy Bikers and guitar strumming, long-haired River Cottagers. Or would she have done battle?

 

 Johnnie Cradock, Major of Artillery...

 

Johnnie strikes me as an enigma. He left his wife and four children to shack up with Fanny, and if you believe The Independent, apparently never saw them again. Fanny was the star, Johnnie the claret quaffing, henpecked stooge. Does he not seem like a minor character from a Dornford Yates thriller or one of those badged blazer-wearing characters propping up the bar at the local Rotary Club? Patrick Hamilton or Murder at the Vicarage? An Old Harrovian and Major of Artillery- the Cradocks liked to remind you of both facts, often. Funny that. But then ‘bi-lingual’ Fanny was supposed to have been born in the Channel Islands, wasn’t she? When, in truth, her birth was formally registered in West Ham.

There’s a blurry black and white photograph of the couple: Fanny’s in an early 70s Liz Taylor trouser suit, (slightly plump, helmet hair); Johnnie’s sporting a monocle and a Conan Doyle tweed cape. Slightly shell-shocked. Unaware of his predicament. Planet Nine.

I’ve got some inside info. My mother once spent a day with the Cradocks. Back in 1967, my mother wrote to Bon Viveur declaring (their words) her ‘ever-lasting gratitude to The Daily Telegraph and Bon Viveur if they could teach her how to bake cakes’.  She won the competition but was forced to make bread instead- which, as a Cordon Bleu graduate,  she knew how to do perfectly well as it was. The event took place at the Cradock’s Georgian dower house, near Watford. Johnnie – I quote- was a ‘sweet old boy’, but the silly sausage forgot to turn on the oven and Fanny gave it to him: all two barrels of her scorn. It makes you wonder if this was all part of the act. Or was this the reality behind their marriage? But then, they weren’t actually married, were they?

I turned to Time to Remember, a year in the life of- a monthly account of their Continental excursions. There’s a bizarre moment when Johnnie, at the wheel of  “the Duchess” (their Bentley Flying Spur) is attacked by a huge flock of enraged owls. It’s also a catalogue of outrageous name-dropping:

“We brooded over what to give to Somerset Maugham when he came to luncheon…we unearth a dinner we gave for Mrs Douglas Fairbanks…a dish of very fine asparagus set Nubar Gulbenkian in a wilful humour, debating the perils of striving for a place in heaven….”

And in a later television interview, Fanny lets slip:

“Mr Heath has a very discriminating palate…”

 

 

"Would you like to impress that Mrs Jones next door?” 

 

Despite all this- or again, because of it, Britain has to be a better place for the Cradocks. Anyone who reveals the Mirabelle’s over-complicated recipe for a bog-standard Irish Stew has to be a good egg. In Fanny Cradock Invites you to a Wine and Cheese Party, the camera lingers on the Cradock’s West Highland Terrier, Mademoiselle Lolita Saltena, lolling by their front door. As Fanny herself said (of her dog): ‘Not quite a lady, but we adore her.'

 

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) 

 

Simon Hopkinson Cooks

 

 

 

Good news, Greasy Spooners- Simon Hopkinson's presenting a new television series (Simon Hopkinson Cooks, More 4, Monday Evenings), and if the first episode is anything to go by, this one's actually rather good. You may remember that his previous series made me a trifle grumpy. That one was made by the BBC. Loud pop music, gimmicky camera angles, slow-motion offset by super-quick editing which made F for Fake look like Tess of the d'Urbervilles. Over Produced. This new series, however, is made for Commercial Television. That's a good thing.

My current theory is that the BBC is bogged down with political correctness: earnest acned producers (Oxbridge Fresh) desperately (and cynically) trying to appeal to a mythical yoof market that probably doesn't exist. Consequently, any germ of creativity is going to be found on the commercial networks. Look at the success of Downton Abbey for example. Admittedly it's trashy, but it's beautifully made, great fun and everyone loves it. I doubt very much that it would ever have passed through the hallowed pearly gates of the BBC. Too much of a risk. Not enough Kitchen Sink. Actors speaking Proper, Like. Put it this way, if Oliver Cromwell and his new Model Army crowd were still around, they would, without any doubt, be paid up supporters of The Beeb, not ITV.

Anyway. I really like the look of this series. In the first episode Mr Hopkinson explained how to make a classic Negroni (Neat Plymouth Gin, Campari and Sweet Red Vermouth, not that we need to be reminded), dropped by a few decent London restaurants (The River Café was one, where he had the most civilised exchange with Ruth Rogers; and the superb Fino in Charlotte Street where he chatted up the Spanish chef and learnt how to make an authentic paella, (along with an interesting green garlickey dressing), cooked a creme bruleé, anchovy toasties, a simple green bean salad à la Parisienne, and, to cap it all, a naked gnocchi. Next week he's going to make a Prawn Cocktail. Oh, I love it.

I gather that Simon Hopkinson was surprised when his production company agreed to 'allow' him to make Negroni cocktails. This really says it all, doesn't it?

 

Floyd Remembered

 

 

 

I've just put up some old clips from the television series "Floyd on France" on the new Greasy Spoon Facebook page. I loved this series when it was first shown on British television back in September 1987. Floyd had actually made three series before that ("Floyd on Fish", "Floyd on a Pub Run", and "Floyd on Food"), but it was "Floyd on France", produced by David Pritchard, that put him on the map. I think it may have been one of the first cookery programmes in which food was cooked in real restaurant kitchens, in real time. At the time it seemed fresh, original and amusing. I remember my mother tut-tutting with disapproval, but as she ain't that keen on France, alcoholics, or people who stick their fingers into the sauce, it was kind of understandable. The rest of us loved it.

I'm afraid that I'm a bit sniffy about the later Floyd programmes- they lacked the magic of "Floyd on France", and by the end ("Floyd's India" and "Floyd's Fjord Fiesta", both 2001) had degenerated into formulaic early evening programming which lacked the integrity and passion of the earlier serieses. I remember Floyd wearily admitting at the end of "Floyd's India' how much he disliked the country- can you imagine him saying that about his beloved France?

 

 

Of course, with hindsight, "Floyd on France" was very much a certain type of Englishman's take on France, the view of a Private Eye reading 80's Rabelasian seen through rose-coloured glasses: panama hats and paunches, the Garrick Club tie and the Citroen 2CV; affordable French farmhouses and never-ending supplies of the local red. Peter Mayle carried on the tradition in his "A Year in Provence" (1989).

I would love to be able to see the complete series again. I've got the official video- but it's an edited version, and vast chunks of the original series have been cut. Even so, it's a rare old thing, and I gather might cost you £30 or so, to buy one second hand. The complete series doesn't seem to be available on DVD, no doubt because of the usual copyright problems.

Keith Floyd's first cookbook "Floyd's Food" (1981) has been re-printed and is now available brand new from amazon. I've got the original (albeit dog-eared and splattered) first edition: it's now extremely rare, and as I write, not one copy seems to be available for sale online. In any event, it's a terrific little book, full of simple but heart-felt ideas, and as the re-issued version's not very expensive, would make a lovely present for someone if you felt so inclined: I can almost guarantee they won't already have it.

 

 

 

 

Simon Hopkinson: The First Verdict

 

 

Various things I want- no, need to get off my hairy chest:

Did you watch the first episode of Simon Hopkinson's new television series "The Good Cook" (BBC1, Fridays, 7.30pm)?  The incidental music drove me nuts. 95% of the programme is accompanied with a loud, retro soundtrack: Stevie Wonder, Northern Soul; that sort of thing. Now, I love the music of Mr Marvyn Gaye and his friends; trust me, I really do. But not in this context. Not as a consistantly loud, in-your-face, soundtrack to a potentially decent food programme. It's along similar lines to that Sophie Dahl series: some hip, acned producer has fallen for the "let's go for the Jamie Oliver yoof culture" angle: it's all a huge shame. Simon Hopkinson is one of our best food writers, and he certainly doesn't need his new series dressed up with ersatz production values.

Because of the distracting music, I couldn't grasp anything he was saying. I'm not very good at multi-tasking, I have to admit. But am I alone in genuinely wanting to hear what Mr Hopkinson had to say for himself?  Am I one of that rare breed which actually watches a television programme for its own sake, rather than turning it on as some sort of background entertainment- as they all do in Los Angeles?  One of those saddos who buys the "Radio Times" at Christmas, and rings the programmes he wants to record in black felt-tip?  Am I turning into my parents?

And then there was all that ridiculous "freeze frame", macro close-up stuff going on- as, say, he poured flour into his Cornishware blue and white stiped sick bowl. I'm trying so hard not to turn into a grumpy old man. But in the modern world, this is becoming incredibly difficult. I'm swimming against the tide.

Having said that, my friend Miles pointed out that at least Hoppo was being introduced to a younger generation, and that surely, is a good thing. He could well be right. I had a quick look at the BBC website for the programme, and reckon that half the commentators liked the background music, and the other half couldn't stand it. I suspect that this later half is over 40 years in age. I need to move with the times.

On a completely different tack: has anyone out there attempted to make my "Gratin of Marrow with White Beans and Rocket Pesto"?  If you haven't yet, don't. I made it a few days ago; followed my own instructions to the letter- and the result was bloody awful. I steamed the marrow and then amalgamated it with the bean stew. The stew was fine: nice and thick. But the steamed marrow was stringy, and reminded me of the austere fare they served up at Dotheby's Hall. I need to go back to the drawing board with this one. As the great Eric Thompson (of Dougal and the Blue Cat Fame) one said: "If you can't fail, you can't do anything".

Simon Hopkinson: The Good Cook

 

 

 

I'm a massive fan of Simon Hopkinson and I was thrilled to learn that he's got a new book out; although I couldn't find any news about the publication date. It's a tie-in for his new television series. This is really good news: the current crop of so-called "celebrity" chefs are, in my opinion, dire (with the notable exception of one Nigel Slater). Can't wait.

Omelette Arnold Bennett

 

 

 

Hands up who saw that Sophie Dahl cookery television programme the other day?  Now, I'm an avid follower of Roald (who's Harry Potter?) and his extended family; and since the age of six I've been a huge fan of anything and everything Dahl-esque: transatlantic peaches, Gypsy caravans, Patricia Neal's cheekbones, chocolate factories, Quentin Blake's illustrations, and All Things Unexpected. 

In the programme, the delicious Miss Dahl (hang on, shouldn't she be the delicious Mrs Cullum?) rustled up a few bits and bobs in a retro-looking kitchen, and let us into a few charmingly girly secrets. And that was about it. Nothing more. Safe television, bland.

She looks great (amazingly like her grandmother) and her food looks good, but crikey o' reilly, I look back on the enthusiasm of the early Keith Floyd or the ravings of a certain Mrs Cradock with genuine nostalgia, and for the days when old pros like Anton Mosimann or Albert Roux stood in some boring, brightly-lit studio somewhere, with a set of sparkling saucepans and a brand new gas stove and just showed us how it was done properly.

The girl likes cooking, I have no doubt about that, but I don't detect a genuine obsession for food there- she's the star and the food is almost incidental. And I doubt it's her fault. I can just see it. Some thrusting young television exec takes her out to lunch at Sketch, or somewhere like that, and there's lots of exciting talk: "The New Nigella"..."You'll be huge, darling" (as if she already isn't- or wasn't)..."massive book sales", and so on, and so on. And who can blame her for taking the bait?  I would. You would. My Cat would.

The trouble is that, currently, the British Broadcasting Corporation is one gigantic yawn when it comes to food. And I have a solution: may I suggest that the BBC clears all its food programmes off the schedules for a year (bit of a problem there, I admit, as this accounts for nearly all their programming, and I can see a queue at the Shepherds Bush unemployment office of hairy bikers, voluptious Belgravia housewives, fat ladies, bald masterchefs, and pock-marked prima donnas), and then after, say, a year of food abstinence, commissions one new food programme of intelligence, content, integrity and dare I say it, quirkiness?  And one programme only.

There. I've had my little rant.  And I've gone off on a tangent too, as this post was supposed to be about Omelette Arnold Bennett, which the supermodel showed us how to cook. It was an inspired choice, as Omelette Arnold Bennett is delicious, and thinking about it, I'm amazed that I haven't covered it before. It's very much a Greasy Spoon type dish. Here's how I make it (this will make two omelettes) and you'll need to make up some Béchamel and Hollandaise sauce before hand.  If I haven't written about these two sauces before, by golly, I'm just about to over the next few posts.

Poach 150g skinned haddock fillets in a mixture of milk and water. I would recommend using undyed haddock, rather than the yellow dyed stuff.

A fool proof cooking method is as follows: put the fish into cold water, bring it to the boil, put on the saucepan lid, and then turn off the heat. The fish will sit in the hot water and cook slowly, to taste. When you're happy with it, take the haddock out of the pan, drain and flake up the fish. I like my fish to be very slightly under-done. 

Whisk up six eggs, add half the flaked haddock and season to taste. Heat an omelette pan, add a knob of butter and swirl it around. Add enough egg mixture to cover the pan, and stir immediately, tipping the pan quickly, to allow the runny egg mixture to fill the gaps. Work like a navvie, without pause. Knowing how to make an omelette is an art, something you will need to practise. Mrs Aitch is extremely good at it; I am not. Once the omelette has lightly set, slide it out on to a plate.

Mix a cup of Béchamel Sauce with three tablespoons of Hollandaise Sauce. Add the remaining smoked haddock flakes and fold in a largish tablespoon of whipped double cream. Cover the omelette with this mixture, sprinkle with some freshly grated Parmesan Cheese and bake under a hot grill until glazed.

And who was Arnold Bennett?  It's amusing how celebrity and transience go together like tea and biscuits or Jekyll and Hyde. Back in the 1920's Bennett was a famous man of letters, and a director of The Savoy Hotel to boot; where the famed omelette was invented for him.  As Andy Warhol said: "in the future, everyone will be world famous for fifteen minutes".

 

Floyd bows out...

 

Sad news about old Keith Floyd. If his more recent appearances seemed a bit contrived, world weary and lacking in genuine enthusiasm, his earlier programmes (such as Floyd on Fish and Floyd on France) were wonderful.

According to today's Evening Standard, Floyd's last lunch consisted of: Champagne, Pouilly Vinzelles 2006, oysters, potted shrimps, Nature Perrin and Fils Conte de Rhone 2007, Red-legged partridge with bread sauce, and pear cider "perry" jelly.

And who can forget Mimi of Biarritz and the correct way to cook piperade?