The Greasy Spoon

Constance Spry's Original Coronation Chicken

 

 

With Her Majesty The Queen's Diamond Jubilee- and River Pageant- just around the corner, I thought it appropriate to turn our thoughts to Coronation Chicken. I admit that I like it. It's slightly bland, perhaps even a trifle naff, but the original Constance Spry recipe is, undoubtably, a classic; far better than the ubiquitous, bog-standard chicken, mayonnaise and curry powder versions you will have come across. It's going to be worth making that special effort:

 

Constance Spry's Original Coronation Chicken

Ingredients (Serves 8):

2.3kg (5lb) chicken

1 tbsp vegetable oil

1 small, finely chopped onion

1 tbsp curry paste

1 tbsp tomato purée

100ml red wine

1 bay leaf

1/2 lemon juice

4 finely chopped apricot halves

300ml (1/2 pint) Mayonnaise

100ml (4 fl oz) whipping cream

Salt and pepper

Watercress to garnish

 

Instructions:

1)  Skin the chicken and cut into small pieces and grill it until cooked.

2)  In a small saucepan, heat the oil, add the onion and cook for about three minutes, until softened.

3)  Add the curry paste, tomato purée, wine, bay leaf and lemon juice.

4)  Simmer, uncovered, for about 10 minutes until well reduced.

5)  Strain and leave to cool.

6)  Purée the chopped apricot halves in a blender or food processor or through a sieve.

7)  Beat the cooled sauce into the mayonnaise with the apricot purée.

8)  Whip the cream to stiff peaks and fold into the mixture.

9)  Season, adding a little extra lemon juice if necessary.

10)  Fold in the chicken pieces, garnish with watercress and serve.

 

I've got another bit of good news: I've started another blog. It's called The Education of a Gardener, a title nicked unashamedly from the great landscape architect, Russell Page. It's a sort of diary or scrapbook about my efforts to transform a tiny, dingy London backyard into a garden. It's going to be a very different blog from The Greasy Spoon. Simpler, less cluttered. I'm really not worried about how many people can be bothered to read it; it's going to be more of a personal diary, a chart of my progress; my struggle to turn a depressing, shady backyard into a something that I can call truly, a garden.

 

Omelette Baveuse

 

I've got a thing about omelettes at the moment. The "runny" variety, as made in France. I'm not sure if I'm a bona fide Francophile (I veer between a wild enthusiasm and an Anglican suspicion), but I do think that, apart from the Euro, there are many things that the French get right, and omelettes are most certainly one of them. 

This is classic, Sunday night food: you take a non-stick, lightly oiled heavy saucepan, and heat it on a medium flame. Three eggs are beaten up with a dollop of crème fraîche, a pinch of salt and a pinch of white pepper. Add a knob of butter to the hot pan, turning the heat down to low. Swirl the butter around the pan as it froths.

In goes the egg mixture. Shaking the pan as you work, draw the runny mixture into the centre of the pan with a spatula or a fork. As the omelette cooks, the liquid egg will fill in the empty spaces. Carry on shaking the pan to make sure the edges don't stick.

I like my omelette to be soft- and that is indeed the aim of the Baveuse. To serve, fold over the omelette from both sides towards the middle and turn out on to a plate.

That's how to make a classic omelette. The secret is to use a lowish heat, work with speed, and keep it runny. Once you've mastered the technique you can start experimenting with fillings- chopped tomatoes, bacon, herbs and of course, cheese.

Incidentally, I'm currently experimenting with grated cheese and a dash of cognac; both added to the egg mixture before the beating stage. I like the sophisticated combination of cognac and eggs, although I appreicate that this is not going to be everybody's cup of tea.

There's also the question of when to add the salt. In researching this post, I found a video on Youtube featuring a certain Mr Gordon Ramsay teaching Joan Collins how to make an omelette. There was a scary frisson between the two of them, the "bat's squeak of sexuality", as Evelyn Waugh put it so brilliantly in Brideshead. Gordon reckons that if you add salt to the egg mixture it will turn the omelette "a bit grey". I'm definitely not convinced by this- and bet my bottom dollar that in a blind tasting (or indeed viewing) he wouldn't be able to tell the difference.

 

 

If you're interested in classic recipes and how to get them just so, may I recommend to you Felicity Cloake's Perfect- 68 Recipes for Every Cook's Repertoire. Ms Cloake writes a column for "The Guardian". The book does exactly what it says on the tin. 

 

 

 

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.

 

The London Grill

 

 

Oh Crikey, who remembers Heinz's London Grill?  Baked Beans, Pork Sausage, Bacon and Nuggets of Kidney all bound up in the famous Tomato Sauce. In a green tin with the legendary Heinz label. And, apparently, there was "West End Grill" too; with mushrooms in it, rather than the kidneys. I'm assuming that Heinz suddenly woke up to the reality that many buyers out there weren't that keen on the noble kidney. Or maybe it was the other way round, and West End Grill came before the London Grill?

It might be a chicken and egg situation here. There's something slightly rakish about the word(s) "The West End", conjuring up images of The Stork Club, Dancing Girls, the neon lights of Piccadilly Circus, languid lunches in Charlotte Street, pea-souper fogs, Stephen Ward's cream Jaguar XK120, green-painted coffee stalls in the early hours of the morning: After The Ball is Over. I suppose Heinz were hoping that some of this sophisticated imagery would rub off on to their creations.

But as Sir John Betjeman once wrote (with apologies to Slough):

"Come, bombs and blow to smithereens
Those air-conditioned, bright canteens, 
Tinned fruit, tinned meat, tinned milk, tinned beans, 
Tinned minds, tinned breath...

But spare the bald young clerks who add
The profits of the stinking cad;
It's not their fault that they are mad, 
They've tasted Hell.

It's not their fault they do not know 
The birdsong from the radio, 
It's not their fault they often go 
To Maidenhead

And talk of sport and makes of cars
In various bogus-Tudor bars 
And daren't look up and see the stars
But belch instead..."

 

Last Dinner on The Titanic

 

 

Like so many others with slightly macabre sensibilities, I have a near obsession with The Titanic. And I've had this for as long as I can remember, long before all the recent media hype and the James Cameron blockbuster of 1997.

I've got a very real problem with the latter: am I alone in thinking that this film is an example of the worst possible taste?  A very tragic real-life disaster, in which over a thousand people died, is reduced to a simplistic, anachronistic teen romance, fermented by a trite, retarded script; the Titanic's passenger list reduced to "them" and "us": "them" being the 'orrible upper classes- all cruel snobs with phoney Oxford accents and twirling waxed moustaches, and "us" being the brave, true, noble, kind, hard-working, down-trodden working class, on their way to create a Brave New America- except that they don't, 'cos they all drown at the expense of the cowardly toffs who dress up in drag to get to the life-boats before the women and children.

An interesting historical fact by the way- before we all get too revolutionary here- is that around double the amount of men in Third Class survived when compared to the poor old burghers in Second Class who suffered, I think, the worst survival rate of all, a terrifying 8.33 per cent.

And then there's all that bizarre cruciform spread-eagled arm waving stuff going on in the film, Leonardo and Kate at the bows of the great ship, offset by corny Irish folksy flutey music (why does modern day Hollywood have a thing about this? Although I'll grudgingly admit that the Titanic was made in Belfast) and the wailings- nay, shrieking- courtesy of the Franco-Canadian diva, Ms. Celine Dion.

 

 

Nope, I don't like "Titanic". Instead, have a look at William McQuitty's excellent A Night to Remember, directed by the late Roy Ward Baker and starring Kenneth More and a very young Honor Blackman (aka Mrs Gale). Yup, it's in black and white, yup, it was made in 1958. Yup, it requires a bit of effort to watch. Yup, it's got Kenneth More with a plummy accent, and it's all very Stiff Upper Lip. These are good things.

The Times today ran an article entitled "The other last supper". The byline said: "...inspired by the final Titanic meal, chefs around the world are serving variations of its first-class menu". Again, although fascinating, isn't this just a little dubious?  Not the Times article, which was interesting, but the idea that restaurants all around the world are staging "Last Dinner on The Titanic" banquets?

In the spirit of all this fun, one of my more recent second-hand buys has been, yes, you guessed it Last Dinner on The Titanic...Menus and Recipes from the Great Liner, by Rick Archbold and Diana McCauley, with a forward by Walter Lord. Walter Lord, by the way, wrote the book on the Titanic disaster, which I would recommend without hesitation.

 

So why not amuse and entertain your boss and his lady wife by inviting them to a Titanic dinner party?  If they're first class guests you could serve them eleven courses, consisting at a glance of: Oysters à la Russe, Poached Salmon with Mousseline sauce, Vegetable Marrow Farci, Chậteau potatoes, Asparagus Salad with Champagne-Saffron vinagrette (I like the sound of this one), and Waldorf pudding. If your guests warrant the second class menu, there's a choice of Baked Haddock with Sharp Sauce, Curried Chicken and Rice, Turnip Purée, Wine Jelly and American Ice Cream. Steerage gets, amongst other things, Roasted Pork with Sage, Vegetable Soup, Green Peas and Plum Pudding with Sweet Sauce.

Here's the recipe for the Asparagus Salad with Champagne-Saffron vinagrette (courtesy of "Last Dinner on The Titanic"):

Snap off the woody ends of the fresh asparagus stalks, and chuck them away. Plunge the asparagus into salted boiling water and cook them for 3 to 5 minutes until tender. Drain them under cold water- which will help to set the colour and will stop them cooking.

Meanwhile, soak some saffron strands in a few teaspoons of boiling water, and let it stand for a few minutes, until the saffron softens (you'll find that the water turns yellow). Stir in about a tablespoon or so of champagne vinegar, half a teaspoon of smooth Dijon mustard and a good pinch of white sugar. Whisk until smooth, and drizzle in three tablespoons of olive oil, until it forms an emulsion. Season with salt and white pepper. Toss with the asparagus and red and/or yellow peppers, finely diced. Arrange on a plate with a selection of designer lettuce leaves- those things in plastic bags you can buy from the supermarkets.

 

The Savoy's Cream Cheese and Marmite Sandwiches

 

 

 

 

I'm currently reading Matthew Sweet's The West End Front, The Wartime Secrets of London's Grand Hotels. It's a terrific book: the blurb on the back reads: "A Lost World of Scandal, Intrigue and Fortitude...The Ritz, The Savoy, Dorchester and Claridge's- during the Second World War, each was a kind of Casablanca. Their bedrooms, hallways and grillrooms teemed with Spies, Con-Artists, Deposed Royals and the exiled governments of Europe..."

This is all very Patrick Hamilton:

 

 

In 1941, the Food (Restrictions on Meals in Establishments) order came into force. All restaurants were required to offer a three course dinner or lunch for no more than five shillings a head, although luxury foods (such as lobster, caviar and oysters) could still be supplied with a surcharge. Young officers, home on leave, could take their girls to The Ritz, Dorchester or Savoy for a very reasonable sum; and as a result, these hotel restaurants became extremely buzzy places indeed.

I've always been fond of The Savoy, ever since my father took me there at the age of eighteen (or was it twenty one?) to savour my first Dry Martini at the American Bar, as mixed by the legendary Peter Dorelli. Remember that back in the 60's and early 70's my father used to handle the advertising for the Booth's Gin account, so he was rather up on this sort of thing.

The Savoy Hotel, incidentally, has very recently been completely re-vamped in a multi-million pound make-over by the Canadian group, Fairmont. I've no time for this: the reproduction paintings are truly dreadful- an insult to your intelligence; it probably never occured to the re-vampers that actually, this or that painting is really rather famous, and as it's currently in the so-and-so museum or gallery, the Savoy Hotel version is obviously not going to be the real-thing. And anyone with an eye is going to realise immediately that the textures and colours are all wrong, wrong, wrong.

Let's move on, before I start shouting at my computer screen (this seems to be happening more and more as I get older, it's a horribly unattractive trait, I do realise). So I've pulled out of my bookcase Anton Edelmann's The Savoy Cookbook, a worthy thing published by Pavilion. I like the sound of their "Marmite and Cream Cheese Sandwiches":

You take four slices of thin white bread (Waitrose stock this), and then spread two slices with Marmite very sparsley. You spread the cream cheese (ie Philadelphia) on the other two slices of bread, and then combine the two pieces of bread. The crusts are cut off, and each sandwich cut into three equal fingers.

Note the curious fact that The Savoy cut their sandwiches into fingers, not triangles. I've rabbited on about this before- it's one of the Great Truths of Life.

 

In praise of Lindsey Bareham

 

Followers of this blog will know that I'm a fan of Simon Hopkinson; "Roast Chicken and Other Stories" and "The Prawn Cocktail Years" are particular favourites. But if Simon Hopkinson's a culinary Batman, Lindsey Bareham has to be Robin: she was the co-writer on both books. Or maybe it should be the other way round, as Ms Bareham, in her understated way, has produced a large number of extraordinarily good cookery books over the years, as well as writing an inspirational column for the Evening Standard, read by thousands on their way back from work on The Tube.

Rummaging around in a cardboard box of discarded books, I came across Just One Pot, published by Cassell in 2004. The rather boring cover doesn't do the book justice- this has suddenly become one of my all-time favourite reads. I'm currently working through the recipes one-by-one. It's aimed at busy people who like to cook, but come back from work knackered and hungry. Everything can be made in one pot, in less than an hour. Ingredients are readily available from supermarkets.

Lindsey's food is gutsy, I detect the influence (of course) of Elizabeth David; she likes North African, Italian and Spanish flavours. So lots of chorizo, tomato, saffron, beans, the generous use of sea salt and herbs. I've noticed that she doesn't seem to use much stock; instead often adding salt and spices to onion and garlic at the frying stage. Her flavour combinations are imaginative and fabulous. She seems to be very keen on saffron, egg and almonds as a combination; this works beautifully.

So far we've had (in no particular order): Moroccan Chicken, Egg and Almond Tagine, Chicken Pilaf (this one was especially delicious, again with that saffron, almond and egg combination), Chorozio and White Bean Stew, Chicken with Bacon and Lentils, Lamb with Cumin and Aubergine.

It's a wild world

 

 

It's wild garlic time. We get ours from the Pimlico Road Farmer's Market on Pimlico Green. £1.50 a bunch. I like this time of the year; when the boredom and horror of steely grey Feburary suddenly turns into the promise of a raw Spring. The Boat Race...The Grand National...Easter...Daffodils...Chocolate Eggs...Hot Cross Buns. And the whiff of raw garlic in the hedgerows. A few years ago, I was driving along a lane in South Oxfordshire and suddenly, there it was- a distinctive whiff of garlic coming from the grassy verge.

I'm very keen on a simple risotto made from English wild garlic. You'll find that the taste of wild garlic is much more subtle than the standard stuff, so dismiss any worries about any overpowering garlicky tastes. By the way, the look of wild garlic is a bit different too: it comes in the form of slightly limp, green leaves (not entirely unlike spinach) and you use these chopped leaves, rather than the bulb. You'll find that the wild garlic will keep if you stick it into a vase of water. I've just posted two helpful videos on The Greasy Spoon page on Facebook: they'll tell you all about wild garlic; how to find it and how to use it.

Here's how I make a delicious wild garlic risotto: I chop up a small onion and sauté it in hot butter, before adding Carnaroli rice (allowing the rice to soak up the hot butter). Ladle in a small quantity of hot, steaming vegetable stock and stir like mad, until the rice has absorbed the stock.

Carry on ladelling in the hot stock until the Carnaroli rice is ready: this is the art of risotto making. You want the rice grains to remain firm (with a "bite") yet, at the same time, to be bound up in a creamy, starchy, slightly soupy liquid. It might take about half an hour to make it properly. I find that it always takes longer to make than recipe books suggest.

And do beat the rice like mad- as this releases the starch from the grains. I'm currently in favour of Carnaroli rice: I find that this makes a slightly creamier risotto, although of course, arborio rice would be fine too. 

 

Anyway, back to the recipe. About ten minutes from the end, I add the chopped up wild garlic. Wild garlic has a very subtle taste, so I would recommend that you add quite a bit of the stuff: the risotto can certainly take it. I was also keen on the idea of turning the risotto a green colour- this will happen if you add enough. Check the seasoning and when you reckon the risotto's ready, add a small dash of white wine. This will stop the risotto from cooking.

Finish it off with a small helping of grated Parmesan- or indeed, a British cheese. This is Anglo-Italian food at its best.

And last, and certainly not least, I have started writing for The Dabbler. Some of you may know this site- it's an excellent (and slightly quirky) Culture Blog, well worth subscribing too. I was amazed to discover that I had won a Dabbler prize- a bottle of Ten Year Old Single Malt Glengoyne Whisky...

Civet Coffee: The Taste of Money

 

Computer angst: about a week or so ago my trusty four year old Mac gave up the ghost. It's called "The Blue Screen of Death". After booting up, there was nothing more than an empty screen, albeit a fetching shade of Azure blue. It was like the time I almost managed to delete my entire itunes library; that awful pit in the stomach feeling as you try to stay calm and carry on, despite the truly appalling realisation that you may well have sent four thousand odd itunes tracks (lovingly collected over several years in Nick Hornby fashion) to that record shop in the sky. Anyway. I'm back in action, and writing from a brand new Mac laptop which has cost me an arm and a leg, but promises great things. The "genius" in the Apple Mac store laughed in amazement when he discovered- shock horror- that my iphone was two years old. In the Brave New World of mobile phones that's "really old". Apparently.

One of the amusing little perks of the food blogger's existence are the numerous unsolicited emails you get from pushy PR companies desperate to flog you their wares. Not the emails as such, but the free things they want to send you, or the events they want you to take part in. Over the years we've had organic chickens dumped on our doorstep, invitations to "exclusive" Creole cook-ins, unlimited supplies of newly launched breakfast cereals, an opportunity to join a van load of "kids" to pick wild garlic in a meadow in Dorset, and the chance to appear as a studio guest on one Mr Gordon Ramsay's "F Word" television programme. I wasn't sure about the last invitation. I had several prolonged chats with a hyped-up production assistant who required me to be at their television studio in Camden Town the next day, dressed in black tie; at eleven o' clock in the morning. As I've got a job of sorts to hold down at the Blacking Factory, and I didn't really fancy the idea of being mistaken for a worshipful brother, I turned this golden opportunity down.  

One of the better offers was from some upmarket coffee company, which volunteered, very generously, to send us a free batch of coffee beans. "You can have whatever coffee you like" they said. "Okay then" I said, "Send me some Blue Mountain!". As you know, Jamaican Blue Mountain is one of the most famous coffees money can buy (as championed by that arbiter of elegance, Mister Bond) and it also happens to be one of the most expensive. The Blue Mountains are found between Kingston to the south of the island, and Port Antonio to the north. They rise to over seven thousand feet high. I read somewhere that the Jamaican pickers have to scale rocky outcrops to harvest the coffee, although, in truth, the coffee is grown on the misty lower slopes at about three to five thousand feet above sea level. 

Another coffee of choice is Kopi Luwak or Civet Coffee. This is quite possibly the most expensive coffee in the world, with prices reaching $160 a pound. It's produced in the most revolting and extraordinary way. Someone in Mrs Aitch's office heard that I wrote a food blog, and offered, very kindly, to give us a sample from his private supply. It duly arrived in a jam jar- enough to make about two small petit cafés. I gave our lucky, albeit suspicious, guests the chance to sniff it at a recent dinner party. "Fruity", "Chocolaty", "Rich" we all agreed. Some bright spark pointed out that it looked a bit like rabbit droppings. She was more right about this than she realised. It is droppings. But it ain't rabbit. It's from a civet. Or more accurately the Asian Palm Civet (Paradoxurus hermaphroditus). I have to confess to you that I'm not exactly sure what a civet is: the furry critter looks a bit like a rodent-weasel cross; it may even have something to do with cats. It has a tail. Anyway, the civet munches away on coffee berries, which then pass through the digestive tract, before being "defecated" (as Wikipedia rather coyly puts it) into clumps. The droppings are collected, washed, dried in the sun and given a light roasting.

 

And what does it taste like? I hear you ask. Very rich in taste, utterly smooth, almost like drinking a cup of dark chocolate, surprisingly fruity, (as Her Majesty might have said), hints of strawberry. All that chemical stuff churning around in the civet's stomach seems to have a beneficial effect on the taste of the bean, eliminating all traces of bitterness. Aesthetically, the coffee is pleasing too; thick and deeply black in colour. It was truly divine, the nectar of the gods. Recycling's finest hour.

Lazy Spinach and Prawn Biryani

 

 

I'm going to deviate from the path with this one. Normally on The Greasy Spoon, I try to cover classic food and get to the bottom of authentic recipes. Hand up, I admit that the recipe I'm about to give you ain't a proper biryani- it's undoubtably a bastardised version, but so juicy, quick and delicious, I couldn't resist posting it. It's based on a recipe from allrecipes.co.uk, but I've unashamedly changed it in various ways.

What is a biryani?  I'm afraid many people in Britain just assume it's "Indian"- whatever that means. The story of the biryani, however, is far more complex. It originated in Persia, the name coming from the Persian word beryā(n) (بریان) which means "fried" or "roasted" and was brought to South East Asia by spice traders. It's a popular dish in India (many different versions), Pakistan, Burma, Thailand, Sri Lanka, The Middle East (including Iran and Iraq), Singapore, Malaysia, and Indonesia.

It's a combination of rice, spices, vegetables, fish eggs and meat. For an authentic biryani, the rice and curried sauce should be cooked separately, and then combined together at the end in layers, forming a contrast between the lightly spiced rice, and the intense flavours of the sauce, meat or vegetables. It's similar in a way to our very own kedgeree- which, of course, has its roots in the British Raj.

My "after-work" version is more of an Anglicised pilaf, I suppose. You could of course tweak it to become a proper biryani- by steaming basmati rice (with the lid on) and cooking this separately, creating some sort of a spicy sauce, and then combining it all together before serving. Fried crunchy, sliced onions would be an authentic and delicious garnish.

 

His Highness The Maharaja Bhupinder Singh, GCSI, GCIE, GCVO, GBE

 

Heat up a saucepan and add a dash of cooking oil. Add a thinly sliced onion, a sliced red chilli, and a knob of fresh ginger, (peeled and chopped). Cook on a medium heat for a few minutes until soft.

Now it' time for the spices. You're going to use cumin, coriander, turmeric and nutmeg. I would suggest that you buy the cumin and coriander as seeds, and then grind them up in a pestle and mortar until they become a fine powder. A tablespoon or so should be fine. I'm afraid that the turmeric came from the jar (about a teaspoon). The nutmeg was grated directly into the saucepan: I've got a little nutmeg grater which my mother-in-law (Gawd bless 'er) gave me for Christmas. Cook on a lowish heat for a few more minutes, so that the spices are cooked properly. The aim is to cook the spices, but not to burn them.

Stir in 225g of Uncle Ben's Long Grain Rice. This cheat's rice has had the starch removed, and so won't go mushy in the cooking. It's excellent for pilafs, in my opinion. If you were planning to use Basmati rice, you would need to rinse it first, and then "steam" on a low heat for about ten minutes with the lid on.

Stir in a tin of chopped tomatoes, and top up with hot fish stock. Add a pinch of sugar, and a pinch of salt. By the way, further cheating at this stage, as I added a dollop of Umami paste, the mysterious "fifth taste sensation" (a sort of cross between anchovies and tomatoes in flavour). Simmer the biryani on a low to medium heat, until the rice has cooked. If you think it needs it, top it up with boiling water now and again.

When the rice is cooked, stir in two packets of plebby prawns (these are those pre-cooked tiny, shrimp-like pink things you can buy in the supermarket). Take the birayni off the heat, and stir in a packet of spinach. You'll find that it wilts easily in the heat. Finish the dish off with a generous helpings of chopped fresh coriander.

If you want to research biraynis further, have a look at this video in which master chef Padma Lakshmi cooks a Royal Biryani for two hundred children in Hyderabad.

 

 

Vegetarian Seduction

 

French Egg Baskets

 

 

Traditional wire-work egg baskets are good looking and relatively affordable. I happen to think that they are an infinitely preferable way to keep your eggs- although, of course, there are some odd people out there who insist on keeping them in the 'fridge.

They were popular in France during the 19th century, and the style is still in production. "Antique" baskets are a good buy, but you need to be a bit careful. I suspect that many of the baskets advertised as "antique" are in fact of a relatively recent date, and in any event, how can one tell the difference between a basket made in the 1940s' and one made in the late 19th century?  How easy it would be to take a brand-new basket and bury it in the garden for a month or so!

The time-honoured definition of "antique" is anything made over one hundred years ago, and American customs still use it as a formal definition, even though there are many honest dealers in America who consistently use the term "antique" for stuff made in the 1960's. In England, we're a bit fussier, and I would expect any honest dealer selling me an "antique" to believe that his ware was made before 1912.

I'm very amused by the term "vintage" which, I reckon, has now been with us for about fifteen years or so. You see this at those awful celebrity premieres: so-and-so "in vintage". Frankly, it's meaningless, and a wonderful euphemism for "second-hand". Not that there's anything wrong with that, of course. Being in the antiques business, my whole raison d'être revolves around the second-hand, and there's nothing like a sudden cold snap to bring on new business.

By the way, salad baskets or saladiers are also very similar in design, though are more likely to have a narrower open space at the top. French ebay is going to be an excellent source for the older baskets- if you're prepared to pay the postage. If you're after a modern basket, this one (pictured above) is available from the worm that turned, priced at £15.25.

 

This one was recently sold on Etsy by the loosegoose. There's also another one up for sale at The French Country Home, priced at 38 Euros. The seller has very sensibly described it as "old" and left it at that.

 

This basket was sold by Curate & Love on Etsy for $42.00. Nice basket, but when do you think it was made?

An Apple a Day...

 

Lovely graphics from the William Tell Apple Co. of North Carolina. 1940's. As it's Burns Night this evening, I'm am also featuring one of my early posts on Haggis at the top of the page.

Salad Olivier

 

 

Remember this old favourite?  Otherwise known as the Russian Salad, it was invented by Lucian Olivier, a Belgian chef who ran the fashionable Hermitage restaurant in Moscow during the late nineteenth century. Olivier's salad, apparently, became quite a cause célèbre with le gratin; and enjoyed the patronage of the grand matrons of Muscovite Society. The Hermitage restaurant closed down in 1905, and Lucian Olivier died at the relatively young age of 45. If you're so inclined to pay your respects, he's buried in the Vvedenskoye Cemetry. And the closely guarded secret recipe for his famous salad went with him to the grave. Or did it?

What's in it, I hear you ask?  That's a very interesting question and much open to debate. There's quite a bit of stuff about it on the net; the subject's almost becoming a sub-culture in its own right. The original recipe included all sorts of exotic lovelies: grouse, veal tongue, caviar, crayfish tails, capers and even smoked duck- this was a fabled dish from Pre-Revolutionary Russia after all; nothing like that awful Heinz Russian Salad thing that came in a tin, and looked suspiciously like Oskie the Cat's sick.

 

Nicholas II and Alexandra, in 17th century fancy dress for the Winter Palace Ball, St Petersburg, 1903.

 

Anyway, a certain- and enterprising- Ivan Ivanov, a sous-chef at the Hermitage restaurant, plucked up enough courage to steal the recipe. Look upon his dastardly plan as a late nineteenth century pension pot. Now Olivier prepared the wretched salad himself- and only by himself. No other chef was allowed anywhere near him while he made it. Fortunately he was suddenly called away to deal with some emergency. While Oliver was gone, Ivan sneaked into the kitchen and managed to work out, at the very least, how the secret dressing was made.

Ivan left the Hermitage and went to work for Moskva, a local restaurant with an inferior clientele. A few weeks later, low-and-behold, a new salad appeared on the Moskva menu- the "Capital Salad" which, most suspiciously, looked and tasted very much like the original Olivier salad from the Hermitage restaurant. Naughty old Ivan.

The story goes that Ivan then sold the recipe to various publishing houses. One of the first printed recipes for Olivier salad, by Aleksandrova, appeared in 1894. It included grouse, potatoes, gherkins, lettuce leaves, crayfish tails, capers and aspic. All bound in a Provençal dressing.

Here's my take on Salad Olivier, based on a recipe from the fanastic Taste of Russia by Darra Goldstein. It will serve about eight people. "A Taste of Russia" is one of my favourite cookery books. It rediscovers the cuisine of Pre-Revolutionary Russia; the food from the days of the Romanov Tsars. It's a terrific book.

 

In a large bowl, mix: 225g cooked potatoes (cut into dice), a large cooked carrot (cut into dice), two apples (chopped into dice), one peeled orange (membranes removed, and cut into chunks), two spring onions (chopped), and 120g peas.

Mix in 225g of cooked chicken (which you have previously chopped up into bite-sized pieces.

Make a dressing: Press three hard-boiled egg yolks through a sieve into a small bowl. Mix in two dollops of olive oil and stir, to form a smooth emulsion. Add two tablespoons of cider or wine vinegar and eight tablespoons each of mayonnaise and soured cream. Season, and pour over the vegetables and the chicken, keeping some of the dressing back.

Let it chill in the 'fridge overnight. To serve, form the salad into a neat mold or mound, and pour over the remaining dressing. Garnish with fresh dill. You could of course, for a more piquant taste, ditch the orange and include diced gherkin. An authentic addition. I think it would work. 

The Graham Greene Cocktail

 

 

Graham Greene discusses a script with film director, Carol Reed: Life Magazine Archives

As a long time fan of Graham Greene, I was amused to discover that he had a cocktail named after him. There was always something slightly raffish about Greene: the crumpled Burberry, his Citroën Maserati SM (one of my all-time favourite dream machines and a self-indulgent excuse for a photograph, below, plus early Seventies dollybird), the apartment in Antibes, the French mistress, his collection of rare Victorian Crime Fiction, his adolescent games of Russian Roulette- all these things tempered by Catholic Guilt.

The Graham Greene Cocktail was invented at the Metropole Hotel, Hanoi, Vietnam in 1951. Greene was a correspondent for Paris Match. It's essentially a classic Dry Martini with a dash of Crème de Cassis. Being a Martini purist (and reared as a sproglet on John Doxat's instructive "Stirred not Shaken- the History of the Dry Martini") I had my doubts about this; it didn't sound that hot, to be frank; but I am sipping on one as I write, and it's surprisingly good- the blackberry flavours of the Cassis balancing the dryness of the gin and the vermouth rather well. Refreshing too. I would suggest that you serve it very cold- and very plain. No olives, no lemon peel. And use those tiny frosted tumblers, like the ones they use in Harry's Bar.

Shovel generous amounts of ice cubes into a glass Martini pitcher. Add a dash of Noilly Pratt (to rhyme with Cat), and a dash of Crème de Cassis. Swirl around the ice, and shake off the excess. Pour in a decent slug of Dry London Gin. Stir. Strain into iced tumblers and serve.

 

 

 

 

 

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.

 

 

 

 

Chicken Tagine with Preserved Lemons and Green Olives

 

 

As promised, here's a recipe for a classic Moroccan Chicken Tagine with Preserved Lemons and Green Olives. I've based it on a dish from the 280 year old Riad Enija- this was a mouth wateringly hip establishment in Marrakesh we were lucky enough to stay at for our honeymoon a year or so back, lovingly restored by a Swedish UNESCO architect, his slightly Gothic wife and their slinky Pharonic stray cats. 

My last post described how to make the Preserved Lemons. First, you will need to make a marinade. In your favourite mixing bowl combine: lemon juice, the pulp (ie interior flesh) from the Preserved Lemons, salted butter, chopped onions, minced garlic, saffron strands, pepper, chopped and peeled ginger, sea salt, chopped parsley and "ras-el-hanout".

 

 

"Ras-el-hanout" is a spice mix or paste, which you can easily grind up yourself in a pestle and mortar. There are no rules, per se, but it the mix could easily include cardamom, clove, cinnamon, ground chili pepper, coriander, cumin, nutmeg, peppercorn and turmeric, all according to your own taste or whim.

Marinate the jointed chicken for about half an hour. Next, heat the base of a tagine on your stove. A tagine (as I'm sure all you Sunday Times and Observer readers know only too well) is a decorative Moroccan clay cooking pot, which you should be able to buy easily enough online, or of course, from Morocco itself. It's a sort of cross between an earthenware cooking pot and a clay pan. Please bear in mind that it's essential to buy a metal "heat diffuser" to place underneath it, otherwise the tagine will almost certainly crack. The conical funnel bit (or lid) heats the food from all sides.

The tagine will get blisteringly hot: you bring the piping hot tagine to the table and your friends will be amazed and delighted as you whisk off the top to reveal the sizzling chicken tagine beneath. The tagine is then served directly from the pot. I'm also tempted to buy one of those rather chic, but pricey, Emile Henry tagines, which you can buy on amazon. Expensive, but much more convenient, as there's going to be no need for the diffuser.

Add a dash of sunflower oil to the base of the tagine and warm it through. Throw in the marinated chicken and brown. Rinse the Preserved Lemons, scrape off any remaining pulp from the inside and cut the skin into thin strips. Scatter over the chicken in the tagine.

Add a little water. Place the lid over the tagine and leave to simmer for an hour. Check from time to time that it has not dried up, and if it's in danger of doing so, add some more water. About fifteen minutes before the cooking time is up, add the de-stoned green olives. Check the seasoning and scatter with freshly chopped mint. Serve with cous cous. 

An extremely simple, but effective dish, courtesy of Azziz of the Riad Enija, Marrakesh.

 

 

Patrick Lichfield (1939-2005)

Paul and Talitha Getty, Marrakech, Morocco, January 1969, for American Vogue, from an edition of 50.

Preserved Lemons

 

 

Preserved lemons are an essential ingredient in an authentic Moroccan tagine. You can't really use ordinary lemons, as the taste of preserved lemons is different: sour, fragrant and salty. They would make a fantastic present for someone; I can't think of anything more cheerful than a jar of home-made preserved lemons.

Making them is easy enough, and fun; wash the lemons thoroughly, then take a lemon and slice it downwards, in quarters, but leaving the bottom intact (ie finishing the cut an inch or so from the stem), so that your cut forms an X shape.

Open up the cut lemons and pack them with generous amounts of coarse sea salt. Pack the lemons into a clean glass kilner jar. Pack them tightly, so that the juices from the lemon fill the jar. If you're in the mood, you can add some dried spices to taste: bayleaves and coriander seeds would be good; a dried chili is another possibility. I tried adding thyme once, but it didn't really work. The brine turned the fresh herb a bit brown and it didn't look as aesthetically appealing as it should have done.

Store away in the larder for a few days. Take it out and have a look at the jar. Ideally, the juice should cover the lemons. If not, pour in some fresh lemon juice so that the lemons are covered. 

The preserved lemons will be ready to use in a month's time, and should keep for a further six months if stored in a cool place.

To use them, wash the salt of the preserved lemons, scrape out the pulp and pith and cut up the skin into strips. 

For my next post, I'll put up a recipe for a genuine Moroccan Tagine with Preserved Lemons.

 

The Santa Fe Dining Car

 

 

Here's an early 60's menu from the Santa Fe Super Chief Express Dining Car, courtesy of Vincent and Mary Price's "Treasury of Great Recipes", first published in 1965. The Super Chief was the flagship passenger train of the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe Railway. It was often called "The Train of the Stars" because of the many Hollywood stars who travelled on the streamliner between Chigaco and Los Angeles. The last train ran in 1974.

 

According to Wikipedia (so it must be true): 

"The Continental cuisine offered aboard the Super Chief went beyond the typical American fare found on other trains, and often rivaled that served in many five-star restaurants, befitting the train's upscale clientele. A "Wake-Up Cup" of coffee was brought to one's private bedroom each morning, on request, a service exclusive to the Super Chief. Breakfast and lunch were served à la carte, while dinner could be ordered either à la carte or table d'hôte.

The elaborate dinner offerings generally included caviar and other delicacies, cold salads, grilled and sauteéd fish, sirloin steaks and filet mignon, lamb chops, and the like. For discerning palates, elegant champagne dinners were an option. Ironically, one of the Super Chief's most popular signature dishes was the A T & SF version of pain perdu, simply and appropriately named Santa Fe French Toast."

 

 

The original recipe (from Vincent and Mary Price's "Treasury of Great Recipes"):

1. Preheat oven to hot (400∘F).

2. Use bread that is a little dry- 2 or 3 days old.

3. Cut 3 slices of bread, ¾ inch thick. Trim custs and cut across diagonally to make 6 triangles.

4. In a bowl beat: 2 eggs until light and frothy. Add ½ cup cream, a pinch of salt and a dash of nutmeg.

5. Soak bread, a few pieces at a time, so that they absorb the egg-cream mixture thoroughly.

6. In a skillet heat: ¼ cup cooking oil.

7. Fry bread on both sides to a golden colour.

8. Remove the bread from the pan and drain on a paper towel to absorb any excess grease.

9. Place on baking sheet and allow to puff up in the hot oven for 3 to 5 minutes.

Presentation: 

On heated plates put 3 triangles of French toast per portion. Sprinkle with confectioner's sugar and serve with Maple Syrup. For variations you can also serve it with applesauce, currant jelly, honey, jam or cinammon sugar.

 

Greenall's Gin

 

 

 

 

Currently the routine gin of choice in The Greasy Spoon Residence. It's a classic no-nonsense gin in the London Dry manner: crisp and clean, with juniper and citrusy tastes. I've discovered that it makes a fabulous G & T when mixed with Fever Tree Naturally Light Tonic. A subtle, light and deliciously clean drink, especially when mixed with a slice of lime.

Founded in 1761, G & J Greenall is one of the older distilleries, which also happens to make the perfectably drinkable and reasonably priced Sainsbury's own brand gin. They also distill Bombay Sapphire. Personally, I find Bombay Sapphire a bit too sickly and floral for my taste; originally aimed at the 80's cocktail crowd- the sort of people who added cherries to their drinks, wore Hawaiian Shirts with Ray-Ban wayfarers and approved of cocktail umbrellas.

Greenall's have very recently redesigned their packaging, presumably aiming the brand at a younger market. Gin's suddenly hip again! But of course!  Gin never went away, did it?  This time round, I like the clean lines of their new look, and the rather Forties looking- and very British- typeface.