The Greasy Spoon

Happy Christmas!

 

 

Adam Buck (1759-1833), The Skating Lovers, colour aquatint, British Museum

 

To all readers of The Greasy Spoon, old and new: wishing you a very Happy Christmas!

There never was such a goose!

 

 

There never was such a goose. Bob said he didn't believe there ever was such a goose cooked. It's tenderness and flavour, size and cheapness were the themes of universal admiration. Eked out by apple sauce and mashed potatoes, it was a sufficient dinner for the whole family; indeed as Mrs Cratchit said with great delight (surveying one small atom of bone upon the dish), "they hadn't ate it all at last!"

 

This Christmas, as there's only going to be four of us, we've decided to have a shot at goose, rather than turkey. I'm looking forward to this immensely: there's just something terribly Dickensian and Christmasy about our old friend the goose, isn't there?

 

Up until the 1890's, most people in England didn't eat turkey because it was too expensive. That's why it's such a big deal when Ebeneezer Scrooge orders the massive prize turkey for the Cratchits, who normally would be huddled round their scrappy little goose come Christmas Day.

Coming to think of it, I've got a slight problem with all of this. Scrooge sends the prize turkey round to the Cratchits on Christmas morning. By the time it's been ordered, delivered to Camden Town from Clerkenwell, stuffed, and roasted at the local baker's shop, it's going to be way past the Cratchits' bedtime, and poor old Bob's got to be up the next day at the crack of dawn to toil away in Scrooge's counting house. Heigh ho.

But which one is better? The goose or the turkey? I like turkey, I do. But it has a tendency to become dry and stringy, and by Boxing Day most sane people are fed up with it; even when it's turned into our notorious Boxing Day Turkey Curry.

There's no doubt that a fresh turkey is preferable to a frozen one. If you do have a frozen one, for God's sake make sure that it's thawed properly, otherwise you could find yourself into serious trouble. If you can, try and get the gamey tasting English Black Norfolk, or the American Bronze variety. And some more advice if you'll allow me: stuff the bird at the last minute, rather than the night before.

The immediate problem with goose is that there just isn't going to be enough meat on the thing. If you've got lots of friends and family coming round, then some of them are going to go hungry. It tastes delicious, and has a rich and gamey flavour, but there's also going to be lots of fat. I'm fine with that, but there will inevitably be some poor souls out there who'll run for the hills. Paul Levy also reckons that the goose is really at its prime come Michaelmas (ie September) rather than December.

So my advice on this one: if there are just a few of you- go for goose, and sit back and enjoy the rich and subtle flavours; if you've got a horde coming round, go for turkey, but try and get a properly reared and decent variety, and cook it with care. I know this is expensive, but as it's only once a year, I think it's going to be a good investment.

 

Alastair Sim with The Ghost of Christmas Present, A Christmas Carol, 1951

 

Kallo Organic Chicken Stock Cubes

 

I tried these the other day and thought they were good. They're "Improved Recipe Original Organic Free Range Chicken Stock Cubes" by Kallo; gluten and lactose-free, too- whatever that means. No Monosodium Glutamate (boo hoo!), artificial colours, flavours or preservatives.

If you can't be bothered to brew up your own chicken stock (we do this on a regular basis, and freeze it), this could be your answer. They've got an intense chicken flavour and, in my opinion, are most certainly better than the good old Knorr's version- unbelievably championed by than none other than one Marco Pierre White of infamous Wheeler's fame.

I once had dinner with a pair of sophisticated Italian sisters in Milan. They had a thing about "Mr Knorr" (along with the American Campbell's soup) which they seemed to think was the height of retrospective British cuisine. What they didn't realise is that Knorr, in fact, is a German brand, now owned by the Anglo-Dutch corporation, Unilever. And, no- I haven't got shares in Kallo, or had temptation dangled in front of me by some eager PR girl. This is a genuine recommendation.

 

 

The Ivy's Hamburger

 

 

Rummaging through some old newspaper cuttings from the '90's, I found this old photograph of the famous Ivy restaurant (founded 1917), with a super-imposed photograph of Charles Laughton in the 1933 picture, "The Private Life of Henry VIII".

This is how The Ivy used to be- the favourite playground of the luvvies of the silver screen: Larry, Vivien, Noel, Ivor and Sexy Rexy. I love the wood panelling, the Tudorbeathen leaden lattice windows and the naff neo-classical statues. How I would give my teeth (what's left of 'em) to go back in time and enter those hallowed portals!

 

In 1990, Caprice Holdings "restored" and relaunched the restaurant; supposedly to its "former glory". I've got mixed feelings about the new Ivy. By then the restaurant, it is true, had become a shadow of its former self, semi-derelict, and in desperate need of a makeover; but the 1990's re-incarnation was, with hindsight, a bit Footballer's Wives, (to be fair, a reflection of the then fashionable age of one Mr Anthony Blair and the cringe-inducing Cool Britannia); service was impeccable, but the whole place lacked the elan and dash of its previous incarnation. 

 

Back in the 90's (as with Terence Conran's "Quaglino's"), it was extremely difficult to get a table; these days, I gather, it's an easier ticket, and reservations can be booked on a few weeks notice. 

If you're still interested, A.A. Gill's The Ivy, The Restaurant and its Recipes is the definitive guide. I've already covered The Ivy's Chicken Masala (which is included in A.A. Gill's book)- an excellent and delicious dish, which has the slightly unusual trait of being thickened with chopped aubergine.

Here's A.A. Gill's take on the Ivy's Hamburger. I've always had a slight problem with my own home-made hamburgers: I make a delicious mix, but then add too much liquid (or too much beaten egg), so that when it comes to the "pan-frying" bit, the meat crumbles, and doesn't hold together. This is the official Ivy version. Admittedly, it's pretty basic, but I think it's worth publishing online:

Mix up a good quality minced beef, and mould into balls or patties. Put the burgers into the 'fridge to set. Whisk together tomato ketchup with American mustard (French's mustard would be ideal) to make the sauce.

Lightly toast some baps, and keep them warm. Cook the burgers on a griddle or a smoking hot pan (not under a grlll, as this could boil the meat). 

Serve the burgers in the warm baps with slices of red onion, gherkin, beef tomato and the Ivy hambuger sauce.

 

 

Take Me To Sank Roo Doe Noo!

 

 

 

Harry's Bar, Paris, the legendary haunt of Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald, George Gershwin, Marlene Dietrich, Jean-Paul Sartre, Coco Chanel and Noel Coward is one hundred years old today. Many Happy Returns! Harry's New York Bar opened on November 24th 1911 at no. 5, Rue Daunou; and the decor has changed little since that day: it's currently lined with manly dark wooden panelling, painted shields displaying the coats of arms of famous English public schools, and American Ivy League pennants; all under a nicotine-stained embossed ceiling. It's still worth a visit if you happen to be in Paris, even if the style-gurus of the previous century have been replaced with American tourists.

 

Smoking, alas, is no longer allowed in Paris, and that particular 20th century ambiance has vanished presumably forever; however Harry's still serves its famous Bloody Marys- which is especially apt, as the cocktail was invented there in 1920 by Ferdinand Petiot, a barman from Ohio.

The "Bloody" apparently, comes from The Bucket of Blood Club in Chicago, and "Mary" after Petiot's daughter. The original drink was a simple mix of tomato juice and vodka, but Petiot expanded the recipe when he moved to the St Regis Hotel, New York. Here's the famous Greasy Spoon version:

 

 

Put some ice into a cocktail shaker. Pour in a decent slug of Stolichnaya vodka, and top the shaker up with a good quality tomato juice. Add a dash of Tio Pepe or otherwise dry sherry, a squeeze of lemon or lime juice, a pinch of cayenne pepper, celery salt, a few shakes of my favourite Tabasco and Lea & Perrin's Worcestershire Sauce. 

Do the Hokey Cokey and shake it all about. Strain it off into a glass and add, if you must, a stick of celery. You'll find that the lemon juice smooths it out, and the sherry gives it an added kick.

Remember, as with so many other things in life, keep it simple, don't try and doll it up with extra ingredients (I'm not convinced by the addition of creamed horseradish, or chunky black pepper, although steeping a peeled horseradish root in your bottle of vodka, or subsituting Tabasco with a Horseradish flavoured Hot Pepper Sauce sounds like a good idea) and stay away from the gimmicks. 

I don't like lumps of ice floating around in my Bloody Mary, and think it's much better if strained off. The cocktail's at its best if served very cold, so keep the vodka buried away in the 'fridge, as the Russians do. You'll find the vodka goes thick-  and that, if I may make so bold Master Copperfield, is the way to keep vodka if you're going to drink it neat as an accompaniment to blinis and caviar.

Ham Hock

 

 

 

The new Greasy Spoon forum/page on Facebook seems to be going well, with readers beginning to post up their own stuff on it: ideas, comments and food photographs. You can join in the fun at: The Greasy Spoon on Facebook. 

I've posted up a link on the Facebook page to a delicious and gutsy sounding recipe by Helen Graves: "Ham Hock and White Bean Soup with a Green Sauce". I'm going to try it out on The Girl tomorrow evening.

Ham Hock, also known as Pork Knuckle, is the joint or shank where the Pig's leg meets the foot. Ham comes from the back part of the pig. As you might expect, there's quite a bit of tendon, fat, and skin going on down there, and the hock needs to be stewed for a long period of time to cope with it all. Despite that, if properly cooked, a flavoursome pork knuckle is a noble old thing indeed, and a worthy champion of German, East European and American Southern Cooking. It also makes a fabulous terrine.

 

 

Have a look at the two charts I've posted up. I like the slightly retro graphics; the sort of thing you see posted up in old-fashioned butcher shops. The top chart shows British cuts, the chart at the bottom, American cuts. If you look closely, you will see that they are slightly different.

 

 

Restaurants in Art

 

 

The New Yorker

 

I've been a massive fan of the iconic New Yorker covers since as long as I can remember. The dry, urbane humour of the magazine's cartoon art is marvellous, too. This one's "Turkey Dinner" by Wayne Thiebaud, published tomorrow (November 21st, 2011).  

The style reminds me of David Hockney's 1978 menu cover for the Ma Maison restaurant:

 

 

Hockney also designed the menu covers for Odin's, Langan's Brasserie and the Neal Street Restaurant. I love his menu design for the Salts Diner:

 

 

The Greasy Spoon on Facebook

 

I've finally got around to creating a Greasy Spoon page on Facebook. If you click this link: The Greasy Spoon on Facebook it will take you automatically to the Facebook page.

It's intended to be an intelligent forum for foodies on the net: as much about you as about me; so please do feel free to post your own stuff up on it. Actually, I really can't think of anything better than sitting back with a cocktail after work, and reading what you all have to say. A new world of serendipity awaits!

I look forward to seeing your urbane posts, witty comments and arty photographs. 

It's Christmas Pudding Time...

 

 

Believe it or not, it's time to make your Christmas Pudding. Here in London, Christmas seems to start earlier and earlier. The television advertising spree has begun, and suddenly our screens are full of earnest, eager types wrapped up in noddy hats and woolly scarves, grinning kiddywinks, and beaming Old Dears. Teflon snowflakes are having a field day. The lights have gone up in Sloane Square too, yet the leaves are still on the trees. Look, I love Christmas, please don't get me wrong: I'm no Scrooge; but often the expectation is, truthfully, more enjoyable than the actual event itself. But London is particularly pretty in those two weeks leading up to Christmas, and I can't think of a better place in the world to be at this time.

Right now is the time to start making your Christmas Pudding; and if anything it may even be a bit on the late side. Traditionally, the Christmas Pudding was made on "Stir-Up Sunday", which was the last Sunday before Advent, (about four to five weeks before Christmas Day), but in our family we used to make it as early as late October. I love Christmas Pudding. The way your spoon plunges into the moist (you hope!), rich, fruity mass; and the contrast with the smooth, rich, alchohol infused brandy butter.

Here is my tried and tested recipe for Christmas Pudding. It's based on our age-old family recipe (which I suspect was nicked from Cordon Bleu), but I've "improved" it with the addition of Guinness and Black Treacle. It went down extremely well with my brother-in-law, who gobbled down the lot, and apparently, declared it "one of the best Christmas Puddings he had ever tasted"; in fact- "never was there such a pudding". Incidentally, as an experiment last year, I added Scotch Whisky instead of the traditional brandy- and it sort of worked, although the resulting smoky taste was not really that appropriate. So back to good old Cognac it is.

 

 

Here's the recipe:

Stir up all the following ingredients in a pudding basin:

350g Mixed fruit and peel (this means crystallised peel, dried apricots, currants, saltanas, raisins, grated lemon rind, and grated orange rind)

50g Chopped glacé cherries

25g Flaked almonds  

50g Dried suet (you can't get the proper stuff anymore- the EU has made it illegal)

35g White breadcrumbs 

35g Plain flour 

70g Moist dark brown sugar 

50g Grated apple 

A dash of mixed spice and grated nutmeg. Some weirdos add carrot- but very sensibly, I leave this one out.

Once you've stirred all the ingredients together, mix in the following ingredients:

Two beaten eggs

The juice of half a lemon and half an orange

Two tablespoons of a dark stout (ie Guinness)

A tablespoon of black treacle 

A dash of decent Cognac (ie Brandy or Armagnac)

Stir it up like mad. Now's the time to add the mixture to a basin. Recently, I've had this thing about those old-fashioned ball-shaped puddings- the ones you see in the Victorian illustrations of Phiz and in Walt Disney. A few years ago, I managed to track down a ball-shaped pudding mould from Divertimenti in the Fulham Road, and used that- but a traditional ceramic pudding basin is just dandy.

Smear the inside of the basin with butter. This will stop the pudding sticking to the side. Pour in the mixture. Top off with a piece of buttered greaseproof paper, ideally cut down to fit. Finally, place a cloth over the basin, and tie it off at the top with a bit of string.

Steam it for five to six hours. This means getting hold of a large pan, filling it about a quarter full with water and bringing it to the boil. Place the pudding in the middle of the pan, and put the lid on. The steam will rise up within the pan, and cook the pudding. Once it's cooked, leave it in a cool place with a piece of tin foil on top. It will mature in the run-up to Christmas. On the great day itself, you will need to steam it for a further three hours.

Beef Stroganoff

 

 

 

Remember Beef Stroganoff?  Many moons ago, my mother had a fledgling enterprise selling pre-cooked dinner party food to local housewives who couldn't be bothered to cook. Dishes were rustled up ahead of time, frozen, and then delivered to her clients in our rusting Lancia. I suspect there was quite a bit of fibbing going on, and the naughty dinner party hostesses would pretend that they had cooked it themselves. It was all very Stepford. From memory, Beef Stroganoff was one of the best-sellers on her menu. Strips of filet beef, cooked briefly, and bound in a mustardy sauce.

What exactly is Beef Stroganoff?  That's a very good question. In the authoritative The Prawn Cocktail Years, Simon Hopkinson and Lindsey Bareham reckon that the origins of the dish are suspect, and about as Russian as I am Chinese. My own guess was that it might have had something to do with that fascinating post-Revolutionary period in America, when Hollywood was awash with dubious Russian counts and every exile worth their salt was cousin to the Tsar. Wikipedia, however, is a mine of information on the subject, pin-pointing the birth of the dish to Elena Molokhovet's classic Russian cookbook of 1861: "Beef à la Stroganov with mustard, a simple concoction of fried beef cubes in a mustard and sour cream sauce". Stroganoff also appears in the 1938 edition of Larousse Gastronomique, but with the addition of onions and the option of tomato paste.

Here's my recipe for a classic Beef Stroganoff. I'm of the opinion that you need to cook the beef very quickly; the steak needs to be tender, rather than chewey. It's not really a stew. This should make enough for about four people.

You take 600g or so of filet steak, and cut it into slivers. The meat is seasoned and fried very quickly in a hot frying pan, until it's browned, but still relatively rare. Don't crowd the pan, otherwise the beef will stew, rather than fry; for the best results it could be a good idea to fry the meat a few pieces at a time. Take out the browned meat, and set aside on a plate.

Add a knob of butter to the pan, and cook some finely sliced onions until golden. Take them out of the pan and set them aside. Add a further knob of butter to the pan and add 350g of sliced button or baby mushrooms. Once cooked through, remove and add to the onions.

Turn down the heat, and carefully spoon 400ml of soured cream into the pan. Mix in a generous dollop of French mustard, and a small spoonful of tomato paste for colouring. Simon Hopkinson and Lindsey Bareham add paprika at the mushroom stage (cooking the spice in the hot butter for a minute or so), and there's nothing wrong with that. But The Greasy Spoon version is, perhaps, the more authentic and I don't think the dish should be too spicy. Is it possible to make a virtue of the bland?

Warm the sauce through, and combine the cooked mushrooms and onions back into the pan. Simmer the Stroganoff very gently for around ten minutes. I really do prefer the beef to be rare- but I understand that this is very much a matter of personal taste.

To finish off the dish, check the seasoning, and stir in generous amounts of freshly chopped dill and a squeeze of lemon juice. You serve it with plain rice.

 

From left to right: Maria, Alexandra, Alexei, Tatiana, Nicholas II, Olga, Anastasia, 1911

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.

Céleri rémoulade

 

 

 

You may have had céleri rémoulade in France- it's that ubiquitous (but delicious) salad dish you'll find in charcuteries up and down the land; frankly, not dissimilar to the American coleslaw. The "celeri" bit is shredded celery root. The "remoulade" is a mustard-flavoured mayonnaise or dressing.

Celery root is also called celeriac. They're those knobbly, bulbous, earthy things which look a bit like large turnips. Making céleri rémoulade is straightforward enough:

Take a large, sharp knife and slice off the brown, knobbly skin. You'll find that the celeriac turns yellow with exposure to air, so you will need to work relatively quickly. Cut the celeriac into large chunks and then shred it in your food processor. I've finally mastered the art of working mine, and like to shred things very thinly, so that you end up with delicate, tiny strands. It's very satisfying for some reason.

Dump the shredded celeriac into a bowl, and immediately mix in some fresh lemon juice and sea salt. This will stop the celeriac from turning yellow, in effect, keeping it white in colour.

Now for a bit of conjecture. How to make the rémoulade dressing? Some recipes call for a simple mayonnaise, seasoned with salt and pepper, and flavoured with a large dollop of Dijon mustard. And that's what I used the last time I made céleri rémoulade (adding a tablespoon of boiling water to the mayonnaise to lighten the colour and give it a lift). But to be completely honest, even then I found my home-made mayonnaise to be too rich, too thick, even slightly cloying in taste, swamping the subtle taste of the celeriac.

In his excellent blog, Living the life in Saint-Aignan, Ken Broadhurst suggests that to achieve that genuinely authentic charcuterie taste, half the dressing should be made from the mustard-mayonnaise and the other half from crème fraiche. This might well be the solution.

I've also noted that Julia Child used an eggless mayonnaise, by slowly dripping boiling water into a dollop of warm mustard (so that it forms an emulsion), and then adding the oil (in the usual way) bit by bit, finishing it off with a tablespoon or so of white vinegar, and a seasoning of white pepper and salt. This eggless "mayonnaise" is then mixed in with the shredded celeriac, with chopped parsley and sour cream added to taste. I like the idea of this version.

By the way, I found that the céleri rémoulade improves if left over-night to marinate in the 'fridge. The lemon, salt, and mustard helps to "cook" the celeriac and removes that raw taste.

Innis & Gunn Beer

 

 

 

This has been a recent discovery: it's Innis & Gunn beer from East Lothian, Scotland. It's got an especially scrumptious taste- butterscotch, toffee, hints of vanilla, caramel. Despite the Victorian style label, the brand was only established as recently as 2003, and the "unique" brewing process was discovered by accident.

The beer is brewed at Dunbar, East Lothian, before being matured in American White Oak Bourbon barrels for thirty days, and then for a further forty seven days in a marrying tun. There's also a limited edition beer, matured in Navy Rum barrels.

Rum Butter Shrimp

 

 

Oh Jiminy Cricket, this is truly delicious! You get hold of some raw, peeled shrimp (as it's a Southern dish, I'm not going to call them prawns), season them with salt and pepper, and fry them briefly in butter, until they turn pink. Personally, I like mine slightly underdone, and the moment they turn, I call it a day. Using a slotted spoon, you take the cooked shrimp out of the pan, leaving the butter behind.

Next, you add a further dollop of butter to the hot pan, let it bubble and in the meantime chop up some fresh tarragon leaves (picked off the stalk) with some spring onions (otherwise known as scallions). Cook these very briefly in the butter.

Deglaze the pan with a slosh of rum (I used Mount Gay- alas, recently re-branded into some awful corporate bottle, but the rum's still the same), flambé to burn off the alcohol, and toss the shrimp back into the pan with the sauce. Bubble for a minute or so, check the seasoning and serve.

The interesting combination of shrimp, butter, rum and tarragon is fabulous.

 

 

White Pepper

 

 

In Simon Hopkinson's recent television programme, "The Good Cook", I noticed that he seems to be pretty keen on white pepper, championing its use as a flavour combination with onions. This made me think. I have to admit that I've shunned white pepper in the past as the lesser cousin of the gutsier ground black variety. But is this the right approach?

What is the difference between black and white pepper? They're both obtained from the peppercorn- a small, dried berry which grow on the pepper vine (Piper nigrum). For White Pepper, the berry is picked when fully ripe; the outer layer of skin is removed, leaving the dried, whitish-grey kernel. A black peppercorn is picked when still green, and dried in the sun until it turns black.

And white pepper does have a different taste. It's slightly milder, with a different aroma- even, I think, slightly sweeter in taste? And there are times when it would be a mistake to use black pepper, often when you're cooking lighter coloured stuff. A classic white sauce immediately springs to mind.

 

Waldorf Salad

 

 

 

"You're the Top! You're a Waldorf Salad!"

Hands up who doesn't love a Waldorf Salad? Named after the Waldorf Hotel in New York, it's supposed to have been invented in the 1890's. By the maitre d'hotel, Oscar Tschirky- who also laid claim to that tantalising breakfast dish, Eggs Benedict. The original Waldorf Hotel was on the site of what is now the Empire State Building, and demolished in 1929.

 

Anyway, it's a simple old thing, and easily made from a combination of sliced celery, diced apples (I leave the skin on), walnuts, and raisins.

You bind the salad with mayonnaise (or just possibly a simple dressing) and serve it on a bed of peppery lettuce leaves, as the whim takes you. Nothing more, nothing less.

 

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.

Avocado and Tomato Ice with Horseradish

 

 

Cordon Bleu Cookery Course, 1970

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

The Greasy Spoon visits...The Fox and Hounds, Hunsdon, Hertfordshire

 

 

 

Photograph: Local_man

 

I like Hertfordshire. If you don't know England, this is an understated county of meagre size, found to the north of the London suburbs. Here the urban sprawl gives way to a rolling landscape: golden wheatfields, red-brick shuttered cottage ornées, church spires and tarred clapboard barns. Very Biedermeier. It reminds me in a way of the Belgian countryside around Waterloo; of Benjamin Pollock's re-imagining of the battlefield for the tuppence coloured sheets of the Victorian Toy Theatre. Or so I so imagine, conveniently forgetting the brave new world of Stevenage and Welwyn Garden City, where the post-war architects reinvented the English market town for the nuclear age, and bowler hatted bureaucrats dabbled in the dark art of social engineering.

It was at Hatfield, sitting beneath the branches of an oak tree in the autumn of 1558, that Elizabeth Tudor first learnt she was Queen of England; the famous oak now felled, a victim of the all-pervasive tyranny of Health and Safety.

 

Attributed to William Scrotes (fl. 1537-1554), The Princess Elizabeth, circa 1546, Royal Collection, Windsor Castle

 

We had a relaxed Sunday to kill in Hertfordshire, and decided to try the Fox and Hounds at Hunsdon for a light and late lunch. It's about an hour's drive from the Big Smoke. The Fox and Hounds describes itself on its website as "one of the most romantic restaurants in the South East". Well.

As a gastropub, The Fox and Hounds is pleasant enough: it's been Farrow and Balled, with a ubiquitous, slightly anti-septic, re-jigged saloon, now de rigueur of the Home Counties canteen: box framed modern prints, open brickwork, scrubbed tables and a separate "dining room", leading off a corridor framed with photo-copied reviews by the likes of city sophisticates such as Tom Parker Bowles.

Personally, I miss the days when pubs were pubs; when public bars sported cracked daguerreotypes, worn brasses, dart boards, Landseer engravings, nicotine stained ceilings, dusty oak settles and a sleeping tortoiseshell cat, accompanied with nothing more than the tick-tock of a longcase clock. Where a steak and kidney pie would be served in a ceramic pudding basin.

The Fox and Hounds was more or less empty apart from two pink-skinned, bald headed gentlemen in tight England t-shirts who gave us filthy looks as we dithered over where to sit. Actually, I tell a lie. They weren't dressed like that, but they could have been, so I trust you'll get the picture. But this is all beside the point. The food was excellent. Really, utterly lip smackingly good, and the service was charming. Which helps.

I had the "Lamb's Sweetbreads in a Curried Sauce". The sweetbreads were perfectly cooked: crisp and caramelised on the outside, soft inside, and served in a piping hot black iron skillet with fresh, slightly undercooked green peas and a creamy, aromatic curry sauce. Mrs Aitch's "Calf’s Liver Persillade & Duck Fat Potato Cake" was a briliant choice on her part, the liver beautifully cooked, with the parsley and garlic "melting" (her words) over the generous helping of offal beneath.

My plaice was a trifle undercooked for my liking (maybe that's a personal choice?) but served with lovely crunchy salty samphire. Bread was, presumably, home-made and genuinely delicious. The bar was stocked with interesting local ales from Adnam's and the Red Squrirrel brewery at Hertford. Service was friendly, welcoming and efficient.

  

Witchfinder General (1968), Tigon British Film Productions, directed by Michael Reeves

Architecturally, Hunsdon village is slightly enigmatic. I hadn't realised that the East Anglian vernacular extended so far to the west. The white-painted clapboard cottages, lattice windows, and timber framed houses are more typical of the flat counties of Suffolk and Essex; reminiscent of the locations used in Michael Reeve's "Witchfinder General". There's even a painted village sign over-looking the immaculate Green; the only thing missing was the village pillory.

 

The Fox and Hounds, Hunsdon, Ware, Hertfordshire, SG12 8NH (01279 843999)

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".

The English Marrow

 

 

When was the last time you enjoyed a helping of marrow?  That's exactly what I'm talking about- the ever so 'umble, green-skinned English marrow, and it's currently in season. Right now. As a vegetable it's more or less disappeared from our plates; usurped by the courgette- the once trendy, now ubiquitous "zucchini" (the darling of the gastropub and aspirational bistro) and the various squashes and pumpkins of the American East Coast: the autumnal butternut squash (now beloved of the British supermarkets) immediately springs to mind.

But there's something attractively nostalgic, and unpretentious about the common marrow isn't there? The whiff of Dad's allotment, the village fete, garden potting, vintage Dandelion Wine '53, musty pigeon-racing sheds, home-made piccalilli, and crushing up the laburnum pods to get rid of the nagging missus. I'm sure my grandmother used to serve it up in an early Victorian Mason's Ironstone tureen. The marrow- you understand- not crushed laburnum. It's all so incredibly English.

I love marrow, its subtle watery taste and all the summery assocations that go with it. I heard Allegra McEvedy (of Leon fame) singing its praises on the radio a few days ago; and she's absolutely right. Not only is it nutritious, it's also extremely cheap, and, amazingly, still available at the dreaded Sainsbury's- although you'll find that Waitrose doesn't stock it. Far too upmarket.

 

In my last post I wrote about an excellent marrow dish I enjoyed at the Canton Arms. I went back there a day or so ago and had it yet again. This time round I've now worked out more or less exactly how it was made. I'm calling it "Gratin of English Marrow with Cannellini Beans and Rocket Pesto". An Italian take on an English classic.

First, you need to make a simple Tuscan style white bean stew. Chop up some shallots and sweat them in olive oil and butter until soft. Crush a clove of garlic and cook for a few mintues. Add the cannellini beans (I admit to using tinned) and vegetable stock, and simmer gently for an hour or so (or until the stew is reasonably thick and starchy) with a bayleaf and a few chopped up small tomatoes. If you're using uncooked beans, you'll need to soak them overnight in cold water, and then cook them for a longer time; quite possibly for up to two hours.

When the time's up remove a few spoonfuls of the beans, and purée them into a paste along with a tablespoon or so of the cooking liquid. Add this purée back into the pot: this will help to thicken up the stew. Check the seasoning and remove the bayleaf.

In the meantime, cut the marrow into large chunks, keeping the green skin on, but spooning out all the seeds and stuff you'll find in the middle bit of the vegetable. Steam the marrow until tender. 

To assemble the dish: take an oven-proof gratin dish and ladle in the cooked bean stew. Add the cooked marrow to the dish, making sure that it's well covered by the stew. Sprinkle the top with white breadcrumbs, and dot with rocket pesto. This might be a combination of rocket leaves (sans the stalks), garlic, parmesan, walnuts, olive oil, sea salt and black pepper, which you've previously whizzed up in your Magimix or food processor.

Check the seasoning and flash the gratin under a very hot grill. Serve it piping hot straight from the dish. I'm not a vegetarian by any means, but sometimes it makes an enjoyable change to ditch the meat and eat something like this. It's an excellent dish.

The Old Original Bookbinder's Restaurant Cookbook

 

 

I've just bought this book for the princely sum of £4.50. From a little bookshop in the quaint Cotswold town of Chipping Camden, of all places. It's the 1961 edition of the official "Old Original Bookbinder's Restaurant Cookbook", by Charlotte Adams.

Bookbinder's was a distinguished American restaurant, first founded as a Philadelphia oyster saloon back in 1893. It's wikipedia entry describes its 1950s' heydey as ''a hot spot where red-jacketed waiters scurried through dark-panelled rooms festooned with photographs of VIPS; redolent of cigar smoke tinged with shellfish." This sounds very much my sort of place. I gather that the restaurant fell on hard times, lost its exclusive allure, became a tourist trap, and is now quite probably defunct. A pity, because I miss this sort of joint: the type of restaurant where a fawning mess-jacketed waiter might flamb-ay something jaw-droppingly expensive at M'sieur's very own table.

 

I've picked out two recipes at random, which I haven't tried yet, but, I think, with a bit of tweaking, could be good. The first one's for the obscene sounding "Crab Balls". I would suggest that you make these very small in size, and serve them as canapés- perhaps with some sort of a dipping sauce to go with them:

In a bowl mix together: one tablespoon of chopped green pepper, one tablespoon of finely chopped onion, one tablespoon of finely chopped celery, one tablespoon of minced pimento (ie sweet red pepper), and a teaspoon of fresh thyme leaves. Season with salt, black pepper and a dash of Worcestershire Sauce. Sweat in butter over a lowish heat for about ten minutes.

Sprinkle in four tablespoons of flour (this sounds like quite a bit, even too much; so I would suggest that you go easy on this) and stir in to the vegetable mix. Cook for a further five minutes. Next pour in a cup of milk, and stir until thickened (in effect you've made an old-fashioned white sauce). Then add a pound of crabmeat. Take off the heat, mix in well and chill the mixture in the 'fridge.

When it's cold enough, you take out the crab mixture and roll it into small balls. The balls are then dipped into beaten egg, coated with breadcrumbs- or even more authentically Yankee- crushed up cream crackers, and fried in deep fat until golden brown.

The second recipe is for "Bookbinder's Shrimp Chowder":

Sweat chopped onions in butter until golden, and put to one side. Make a smooth white sauce in the usual way from butter, two tablespoons of flour and four cups of hot milk. The sauce is then placed over a bain-marie, seasoned with salt, pepper and a blade of mace. Pre-Cooked shrimps (large prawns in England) are added and the whole thing cooked gently for twenty minutes. The mace is removed, and the chowder finished off with an extra cup of hot cream and the onion flavoured butter which you've previously strained off. On second thoughts, I'm not exactly sure about this recipe. It could be a bit bland: it's certainly a heart attack in a bowl- not that I'm one of those Cromwellian types pulsating with disapproval at any symptom of a sybaritic lifestyle. I'm not even sure if it's a genuine chowder; I suspect that it isn't.

In complete contrast, I had the most divine thing at the Canton yesterday evening. It was a vegetarian marrow gratin, served piping hot in one of those dinky orange Le Creuset dishes. Half a marrow- cut in half, and scooped out. Covered in Italian Borlotti white beans, and flavoured with a stock, perhaps, and most certainly salt and black pepper. Persillade (ie garlic and parsley finely chopped and crushed together) dotted the top, and the dish was finished off with grated parmesan and butter, before being flashed under a hot grill. At least, I think that how it was made. There may have been tomatoes in there as well. C'etait formidable.

 

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.

Scallop Mousse with Butter and Chive Sauce

 

 

 

This is an excellent recipe, and it works. It's based on a Raymond Blanc dish from his book Cooking for Friends. I first made it for The Girl when we were steppin' out; now she's Mrs Aitch, so I obviously did something right. It's for four people.

First, you need to pre-heat your oven to 330F (160C), Gas mark 3.

Take 150 g of fresh scallops and remove the orangey coral bit. Put these to one side. Purée the scallops in a food processor for two minutes (that's quite a long time, but it's needed to make sure the mixture turns very, very smooth), and then add a single egg yolk, salt and cayenne pepper. Mix, until all the ingredients are incorporated. 

Next, take the bowl of your Magimix (with the purée inside) and stick it in the deep freeze for 15 minutes: this will help to stop the mixture separating when you add cream. When the time's up, take out the bowl and put it back onto the Magimix. Set the motor to medium speed, and slowly pour in 200ml of whipping cream- in a thin stream. Taste and season again, if you think it needs it. 

The mousse is going to be cooked in oven-proof porcelain ramekin dishes, and then turned out. I used a set of 80's Villeroy & Boch ramekins that I happened to have lying around in the cupboard. They were too deep, in my 'umble opinion, as the result was too much mousse on the plate. Maybe tastes have changed?  For a decent First Course, I think less is probably more, and I would recommend either using those shallow ramekins or reasonably small moulds instead: you're not cooking the main event.

Smear the insides of your ramekins with butter, and then fill 'em up with the mousse mixture. Place the ramekins inside a roasting tin, and pour in boiling water, so that it comes up to two-thirds of the ramekin dishes. Cover the tray loosely with some tin-foil and stick it in the pre-heated oven. It's going to take 15 minutes to cook.

In the meantime, you need to make your sauce. Melt 15g unsalted butter in a small pan and sweat a chopped up shallot or two, a few finely chopped button mushrooms and the coral from the scallops. After a few minutes, add a slug of Noilly Prat or Martini Extra Dry Vermouth. Turn up the heat and boil quickly, to reduce by half. Add a few tablespoons of water and two tablespoons of whipping cream. Push the mixture through a fine sieve, pressing down hard to extract as much as the fishy mushroomy juice as possible, into a clean pan.

Next, on a very low heat, gradually whisk 1/2 oz of diced butter into the sauce, so that it forms an emulsion. Taste, season with salt and white pepper, and whisk in a few drops of lemon juice.

Take the ramekins out of the oven. You'll find that the mousses will turn out very easily, as long as you run a knife around the edges of the ramekins. Place the mousse on the centre of the plate, and spoon over the butter sauce. You can either add chopped chives to the sauce at the end of the cooking stage, or when the sauce is on the plate.

A quick note about the chives: don't make the mistake I made of adding far too many chopped chives- it will turn your sauce a muddy green colour. You want your sauce to be a butter yellow. I would recommend that you add the finely chopped chives in small amounts, or even add the chives in tiny piles to the hot butter sauce when it's already on the plate. My other mistake was to swamp the delicate mousse with the rich butter sauce, so that it came up to the very edge of the plate. I would suggest that you go easy on the sauce, and just spoon it over the mousse in a modest way.

Once you've mastered the technique of mousse-making (and the Blanc method as described above is a good one), you can start thinking of other ingredients. I'm considering the idea of a Smoked Haddock Mousse with an Anchovy and Butter sauce. Obviously, you would need to add anchovy essence in very small quantities, otherwise the whole thing would be far too salty. There might be a cleverer way of adding the flavour of the anchovy? Maybe Smoked Haddock Mousse with a Butter and Parsley Sauce might be a better idea? Time to get my thinking cap on. Any suggestions? 

Campari and Soda

 

 

 

May I sing the praises of the Campari and Soda?  Now it's summer (sort of), we're knocking this back on a regular basis in the Greasy Spoon Household. It's a vastly under-rated drink (once popular amongst the fast Scimitar-driving Gin and Jag set); today, I really don't know anyone else who drinks it.

Campari was invented in 1860 by Gaspare Campari in Novara, Italy. The original recipe is still in use today, and it's kept a close secret; apparently there's only one person in the world knows the complete formula.

I like to serve it with fresh, fizzy soda, on the rocks and with a slice of orange. The soda tends to play down the bitterness of the Campari, and then, of course, there's that extraordinarily vivid pinky-orange colour going on in the glass.

Refreshing...relaxing...utterly civilised... I like the idea of lounging around in an easy chair, listening to a Bach prelude & fugue on the piano, and sipping a C & S after a difficult day at work. It's time for a Campari Revival!

 

 

The Penguin Great Food Series

 

 

 

"In this memoir-turned-cookbook, Alice B. Toklas describes her life with partner Gertrude Stein and their famed Paris salon, which entertained the great avant-garde and literary figures of their day. With dry wit and characteristic understatement Toklas ponders the ethics of killing a carp in her kitchen before stuffing it with chestnuts, decorating a fish to amuse Picasso at lunch and travelling across France during the First World War in an old delivery truck..."

 

Here's Alice B. Toklas's "Murder in the Kitchen" from the new Penguin Great Food Series, the cover designed by Coralie Bickford-Smith. Despite the threat from the sinister Kindle, I happen to think that this country is enjoying a "golden age of book design", and I often unashamedly buy new books as much for the design of their dust-jackets or typography, as for their contents. The pleasure book-collecting has given me over the last few years has been immense, and you'll find that paperbacks such as these are not only eminently collectable, but also affordable too.

 

But I have a major quibble- and Penguin Books, I hope you're reading. Why-oh-why did you decide to issue this potentially marvellous series in abridged form? They're slim little critters, priced at seven golden nuggs a piece- and remind me of those freebie books you're given now and again with "The Times" or "The Daily Telegraph". I loved Colonel Wyvern's "Notes from Madras", and am now desperate to read more of it. A slim 78 or so pages ain't enough! Is this a form of dumbing down?  Do Penguin think that buyers are incapable of reading the complete book?

Whiskey Sour

 

 

There's something very grown up about a Whiskey Sour. It reminds me of that amusing moment in Whit Stillman's "The Last Days of Disco" when Chloë Sevigny, trying to be sophisticated and avoiding the "preppy girl's cliché of the Vodka Tonic" orders a "Whiskey Sour" at a thinly disguised Studio 54.

Incidentally, for all you Scots out there, it is a Whiskey Sour with the e. The drink's based on Bourbon, rather than Scotch Whisky, so I'm going to keep to the authentic American spelling for now. But according to wipkipedia, the Whiskey Sour was invented by an Englishman, one Eliot Stubb, who opened a bar in the port of Iquique, Peru. He added lime juice and sugar to a glass of whisky and was pleasantly surprised by its refreshing taste.

There's another theory that the earliest mention of the Whiskey Sour can be traced to a newspaper recipe in Wisconsin in 1870. I've got a sneaky feeling that the authentic recipe is more likely to be American; it might even have the whiff of Prohibition about it. The slightly sweet taste of Bourbon balances out well with the acidity of lemon.

Like all the great and classic cocktails, a genuine Whiskey Sour is simplicity itself. No chunks of pineapple, no silly umbrellas or fussy ingredients. You fill up your cocktail shaker with ice, pour in 2 oz of Bourbon Whiskey, the strained juice of half a lemon and two and a half teaspoons or so of powdered sugar. The cocktail is shaken and then strained into a cold glass, and garnished with a slice of orange peel and a cherry. If you follow these proportions you will make just enough to fill up a Martini glass- and I think that would work well.

You could also serve it on the rocks, and some people also add a splash of soda. Personally, I prefer it straight up, but as ever, it's a matter of personal choice, isn't it?

 

The Last Days of Disco (1998), directed by Whit Stillman

Eggs Drumkilbo

 

 

Last week's Royal Wedding was terrific fun, and here in London we've all had a ball. Hats off to the Middleton family who handled the whole thing brilliantly. Can you imagine walking down that aisle in front of an estimated two billion people? Our Kate looked fantastic, and I have to admit to shedding a manly tear to Parry's beautiful anthem "I Was Glad"- it always gets to me for some reason. A good day for the country, I think.

I was interested in Anton Mosimann's unpretentious menu for the reception at Buck House afterwards. It struck just the right note- as with the wedding, showing just the right amount of understatement (not including, of course, poor Princess Beatrice's bizarre alien fascinator) and included: Cornish Crab Salad on Lemon Blini, pressed Duck Terrine with Fruit chutney, miniature watercress and asparagus tart, quails eggs with celery salt, Scottish langoustines with Lemon Mayonnaise, Bubble & Squeak with Confit Shoulder of Lamb, Smoked Haddock fishcake with Pea Guacmole, Rubarb Financier and Blood Orange Pâté de Fruit. The champagne was Pol Roger NV Brut Reserve. This is Modern British food at its best.

 

The Middletons stayed at the excellent and discreet Goring Hotel (not far from our hovel, I have to admit) and I was amused to see that they have the nerve to serve Eggs Drumkilbo on their menu. Eggs Drumkilbo was a favourite of the late Queen Elizabeth, the Queen Mother (Gawd bless 'er), and has recently been described by the food critic, Giles Coren, as "so awful it's almost good". It's a splendid old thing, with Lord knows how many flavours going on in there; completely over-the-top and utterly unfashionable. It was served at previous royal weddings. Here's how you make it: 

Eggs Drumkilbo

1 lobster
225 gm (8 oz raw prawns)
8 good tomatoes
8 hardboiled eggs
fresh mayonnaise
a little tomato purée
anchovy essence
Worcestershire sauce
Tabasco sauce
Salt and freshly ground black pepper
2 tablespoons aspic powder
white wine or water

Cook the lobster and prawns. When cooled and shelled, dice the flesh of both. Dip the tomatoes into boiling water for half a minute, then skin and de-seed them. Dice the flesh and add to the lobster and prawns. Remove the whites from two of the eggs and discard and discard. Dice all the yolks and the rest of the whites, and add to the mixture. Mix all the ingredients with sufficient mayonnaise, flavoured with tomato purée, anchovy essence, Worcestershire and Tabasco to taste, to produce a good, fairly stiffish consistency. Check the seasoning.

Dissolve the aspic in a little boiling white wine or water, but do not let it actually boil. Stir into the mayonnaise mixture, making sure it is evenly distributed. Pour into a rinsed mould, or a pretty glass dish if you don’t want to unmould. Chill until well set.

Unmould or not, and serve as a first course with brown bread and butter or fingers of mustard and cress sandwiches.

 

Wild Garlic Risotto

 

 

On Saturday I made a deliciously simple Wild Garlic Risotto. The Girl managed to track down some wild garlic (also known as Ramsons) from the Pimlico Green Farmer's Market. If you live in the country, you might be able to find some growing in woodlands. They're currently in season.

I'm very keen on "simple food done well"- it's becoming a mantra. This fitted the bill perfectly.

I chopped up a small onion and sautéed it in hot butter. Next, I added Carnaroli rice and let the rice soak up the hot butter. I ladelled in a small quantity of hot, steaming vegetable stock and stirred like mad, until the rice had absorbed the stock. Then, I carried on ladelling in the hot stock until the Carnaroli rice was "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. If you make it properly, this might take about half an hour. 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. 

We're off to Venice in a few days time, and no doubt we'll bring back some proper Italian risotto rice to add to the larder. I've got a theory that the Italians keep back the best rice for themselves, and fob off the rest of Europe with lesser brands.

 

 

 

Anyway, back to the Wild Garlic Risotto. About ten minutes from the end, add the chopped up Wild Garlic. It comes in the form of slightly limp, green leaves (not entirely unlike spinach) and you use these chopped leaves, rather than the bulb. Unlike the standard variety, 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.

I served the risotto with some fried shallots- for extra crunch, but The Girl pointed out that the dish didn't need it- and she was absolutely right, as I have to admit, she often is. I would recommend that you more or less leave the risotto as it is, but top it off with a small helping of grated Parmesan- or indeed, a British cheese. Why not?

 

 

 

Cauliflower

 

Recently the poor cauliflower seems to have come under quite a bit of bad press. First there was Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall announcing to the world that he doesn't like the stuff; and then there's the worrying fact that recent sales of the vegetable have slumped by 35%.

Well, I do like it. And I'm also a fan of the fascinating Romaine or Romanesco variety, as pictured above. Even if the rest of the world isn't- because it looks like a UFO, or a sinister organism from John Wyndham's "Day of The Triffids".

 

 

My dear old grandmother used to cook cauliflower in the traditional English way- and this is how I prefer to serve it:

The cauliflower is not broken up into florets, but steamed whole (for about 20 minutes, or so, until done), drained well and then served in a porcelain tureen (with a lid), and coated with a traditional white (or cheese) sauce, with a subtle seasoning of nutmeg and black pepper. I haven't seen cauliflower served like this for a long, long time.

The other, more popular way, is for the cooked cauliflower to be broken up into florets, and served in a dish, with a cheese sauce and breadcrumbs, and flashed under the grill for a minute or so, until brown.

Raw cauliflower's got a peppery, crunchy taste. It's not so great when it's over-cooked, so make sure, if anything, that you under- rather than over- cook it.

Tom Ripley's Venetian Lemon Chicken

 

 

I bought an amusing little book yesterday. It's called Recipe for Murder: Frightfully Good Food Inspired by Fiction by Estérelle Payany. The blurb on the back says: "Allow yourself to be lured into the kitchen by the great gourmet-villains of popular literature, from Lady Macbeth to Dr. Jekyll, to the Marquis de Sade and Hannibal Lecter". It's enormous fun, and there are lots of stylish illustrations by Jean-François Martin in the manner of Richard Hamilton.

I like the look of Count Dracula's "Paprika Hendl" and Fantomas' "Truffled Eggs without Truffles". But the recipe that immediately leapt out of the page was "Tom Ripley's Venetian Lemon Chicken". I'm a massive fan of Patricia Highsmith's "Ripliade"- the five crime novels published between 1955 and 1991, featuring the cultured and sophisticated Mr Ripley- the reluctant con-man, murderer and art fraudster.

 

I made this dish last night and the results were fabulous. A worthy candidate for "The Best of The Greasy Spoon" - when (and if) I ever publish it.

You take a chicken breast and beat it out flat to form an escallop. You fry the escallop in hot olive oil until it is cooked on each side, flipping it over in the process, which should take a minute or so on each side.

The fried chicken is then removed and put to one side. You chop up half a large red onion into dice and sweat it in the oil (with the heat turned down to low) until translucent. The juice of two large lemons, the zest of half a lemon, and a tablespoon or so of honey are added.

You return the fried chicken to the pan, and cook it gently in the tangy sauce for about five minutes. Finally, fresh thyme leaves are sprinkled over the sauce (making sure that the leaves are pulled off the woody stalks), and the dish is seasoned with salt and pepper, in the time honoured tradition.

It's a remarkably pretty dish: rose-pink in colour (from the red onions); studded with the fresh green of the thyme, and it has a deep citrusy taste; healthy too: just fresh lemon juice and honey. No stock, no cream; fast cooking. Ideal for a quick summer lunch al fresco.

Incidentally, I've got no idea if this is indeed a genuine Venetian recipe (I couldn't find anything similar in any of the books I've got on Venetian food), or actually features in any of the Ripley books; although I have a vague memory of Tom eating this in the last few pages of "The Talented Mr Ripley". An excuse to re-read the entire Ripley series over the coming summer.

 

Avocado Bering

 

I've had great fun re-discovering the Roux Brothers' old 1980's television series on youtube: Roux Brothers. For anyone wanting to learn the techniques of classic French cookery, this is the series for you: no background music, no trendy hand-held camera shots, or an emphasis on style over content; this is television aimed at viewers who have an attention span longer than three minutes, and just want to learn how to cook properly.

That's exactly right- it's just two middle aged chefs, both at the top of their game, Albert (he's the fat one from Le Gavroche) and Michel (he's the thin one from the Waterside Inn at Bray) standing in a badly lit (by today's standards) studio and talking directly to camera. And Mein Gott, in just a few minutes you can learn infinitely more from those two, than from any of the over-produced cheffy programmes I've seen on television recently.

 

 

 

I liked Albert's "Avocado Bering". You take an avocado pear (I think the hass variety with the knobbly skin tastes the best) and slice it in half. You brush the exposed flesh with lemon juice to stop it going black. You slice a small wedge off the bottom of the avocado, so that it stands up straight on the plate.

Next you mix up some fresh crab meat with a rose-marie sauce made from mayonnaise, tomato ketchup, Lea & Perrins, Tabasco, salt and pepper and a spoonful of cognac. You spoon the crabmeat and sauce into the cavity of the avocado, and then spoon further unadulterated rose-marie sauce over the crabmeat and sauce. More sauce on top of the crabmeat and sauce combination, if that makes sense.

Albert garnished it with half a black olive so that it ended up looking a bit like a nipple- but if you've read my previous post, you'll know all about my current feelings on garnishes, and I would recommend that you avoid this. Avocado Bering! Incredibly old-fashioned (even then; back in the 1980's), very simple, relatively unsophisticated- and strangely satisfying.

 

 

The Greasy Spoon's Swedish Style Dressing

 

 

Recently, I find that I'm looking for increased simplicity in food. I've said this before, and there's no guilt in saying it again. Classic dishes, cooked properly (using the correct techniques) and presented simply- and not too much of it, either. Less is more. The dreaded garnishes are out too: nothing worse than those two ridiculous chive snippets placed at jaunty right angles to each other on top of a dish, forming a cross- I'm sure you know what I'm getting at. The sort of thing you see in "gastro-pubs", where it's all about poncy presentation, rather than flavour and technique. In fact, I'm currently rather in favour of ditching garnishes all together. Nothing More, Nothing Less.

I'm keen on lighter dishes, too. It's interesting that Scandinavian food is currently all the rage. Mrs Aitch gave me a signed copy of the Noma cookbook for Christmas, which was a terrific present: it's all ligonberries and wild flowers served up on stone palettes. I like this a lot.

 

 

So I've come up with my own version of a light Swedish dressing. It's water based and there's no oil in it. I suppose it is fat-free, though as it's also packed with salt and sugar, I would have thought that one evil has been ruled out by another. Or vice versa. But it's definitely light and delicate in taste, and I think your guests will love it; especially the girls.

I tipped several tablespoons of white sugar into a small pan and then spashed a rather expensive balsamic white wine vinegar we happened to have in the cupboard over the sugar. You'll need to experiment here: I found that I needed to use quite a bit of sugar (and less of the vinegar) to end up with a balanced taste.

Warm the pan, so that the sugar dissolves in the vinegar and forms a syrup. You want to thicken it up, but you definitely don't want to caramelise it. Cook it very gently for a minute or so. As there's going to be no oil in the dressing, this syrup, in effect, replaces the oil and needs to have body. Remove the pan from the heat.

Add a few pinches of salt, and a generous squeeze of fresh lemon juice. Whisk in several tablespoons of water and serve cold. You could also steep the dressing in fresh dill for a few hours before serving, which I think would taste delicious.

Wild Garlic

 

 

 

We've just come back from an invigorating five day trip to South Cornwall. It was warm enough to enjoy a simple lunch al fresco at the ever-wonderful Tresanton Hotel in St Mawes. The slightly Agatha Christie-ish ambience of the upper terrace (with its ocean-liner metal railings, sea views and steamship loungers) remains unchanged: fans of "Peril at End House" (first published in 1932) will know what I'm talking about.

 

 

On Monday we dropped in at Rick Stein's Seafood Restaurant in Padstow and enjoyed an intensely flavoured bouillabaisse (Cornish style) with crutons, red pepper aioli and grated cheese; roasted Hake (served in a piping hot earthenware dish with puy lentils) and a pretty concoction of lobster and crab wrapped up in puff pastry and served with a pinkish lobster sauce.

The Seafood Restaurant at Padstow has to be one of my all-time favourite restaurants and, in my 'umble opinion Master Copperfield, remains consistently excellent. The discreet service is of the highest professional standard: raise your eyebrow and in an instant there will be a helpful waiter at your side; tables are spacious and the atmosphere is relaxed. The food is unpretentious and utterly delicious.  I can't recommend the place enough.

I've always had a thing about Cornwall- as a child, we used to spend our summer holidays at the charming sea-side town of St Mawes. It really is the most romantic destination: 

 

The mysterious St Michael's Mount.

 

Caerhays Castle: "Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again..."

 

The Cornish lanes and hedgerows are full of wild flowers, (including violet coloured wild orchids) and at this time of the year, daffodils. A thought occured to me on our drive home over Salisbury Plain and past Stonehenge: the verges of Wiltshire's main roads are barren; and in the case of South Buckinghamshire, I regret to report, littered. Does an enlightened Cornish county council have an active policy to encourage wild flowers?  Or is it that in counties such as Wiltshire and Oxfordshire, with large-scale and mechanised farming, wild flowers are killed by the spillover from intensive crop spraying?

It's the time of year to pick and use wild garlic (Allium ursinum). It can be found in damp woodlands and hedgerows, and gives off an evocative, garlicky smell which can't be missed. I love its subtle taste. Funnily enough, unlike the standard variety in which you use the bulb, with wild garlic you eat the green leaves. In London we have to buy it from specialist shops, the superior supermarkets (such as Wholefoods) or your local farmer's market.

I'm going to make a creamy and simple risotto, flavoured with my favourite wild garlic. If I chop up the leaves small enough, I'm hoping that this will make the risotto turn a pale light green colour.

The Great Kitchen at The Brighton Pavilion

 

 

 

One of my favourite rooms is The Great Kitchen at The Royal Pavilion, Brighton. If you've never been to the Royal Pavilion- or indeed, Brighton, I urge you to go.

The Pavilion was The Prince Regent's (later King George IV) saucy sea-side retreat; originally a relatively humble farmhouse, which the architect, John Nash, re-built as an extravagent "Hindoo" architectural fantasy between 1815 and 1822.

The Banqueting Room there is an extraordinarily grand dining room in the fashionable Chinoiserie taste, and unusually for time, the kitchen was built alongside so that dishes could be served without getting cold.

It's a tall room, taking its ight from skylights in the roof, and supported by four cast-iron and painted copper palm trees. The kitchen was designed to be innovative and modern for its day; gadgets included the latest steam heating technology and a a constant supply of water pumped from a nearby well into the Royal Pavilion’s own water tower.

 

The King loved entertaining and hosted many elaborate banquets, often involving up to thirty five courses. In 1816 he employed Marie Antonin Carême (a fashionable French chef at the top of his game) to work for him at his London residence, Carlton House, and also at the Royal Pavilion.

 

Carême created magnificent culinary works of art that would have amused George’s guests and stimulated conversation. Particularly impressive were his elaborate confectionery pieces that sometimes stood up to four feet high and up to two feet across.

In 1817 Carême made eight confectionery centrepieces for a banquet honouring the Grand Duke Nicholas of Russia. The menu also included thirty-six main dishes and thirty-two side dishes. It's not difficult to imagine the kitchen as it then was: a working kitchen full of life; chefs and kitchen hands springing into action as Carême barked out his orders.

It's slightly spooky to think that the kitchen was used as an operating theatre during the First World War. The Pavilion was commandered as a military hospital; most appropriately for Indian troops from the British Empire.

 

Chefs in Art

 

 

Sir William Orpen (1878-1931) "The chef of l’Hotel Chatham", shown at the Royal Academy in 1921.

 

 

Rex Whistler (1905-1944) "The Master Cook", Sergeant Isaacs of the Welsh Guards, 1940 or 1941.

 

 

David Hockney (bn. 1937) "Peter Langan in his kitchen at Odin's", ink on paper, 1969, sold at Christie's for £19,120 (inc. buyer's premium) in 2004.

 

 

Chaim Soutine (1893-1943) "The Pastry Chef", 1927.

 

 

Francis Edwin Hodge (1883-1949) "The Arts Club's Woman Chef", 1935, The Arts Club, London.

The Sainsbury Classic Cookbook Series

 

Stocking problems at our local Sainsbury's continue: on a very recent visit I was unable to buy fresh leeks, tinned artichoke, tinned asparagus or Clamato juice, yet fennel bulbs and fresh mint could be found in abundance- two ingredients they seem to run out of on a regular basis. Their stocking policies seem bizarre. If you want to buy fresh dill there, forget it- but yet, just now and again, you will find it there: masses of it, heaped up untidily on the otherwise near-empty shelves. It's like a store from the bad old days of the Soviet controlled Eastern Bloc. Very hit or miss. And sad too, as there was a time back in the '80's when Sainsbury's had a reputation for quality, value and service.

Why do you bother going there then, I hear you ask? It's a fair comment. The answer's not especially one I'm proud of: out of sheer laziness. The supermarket's about a five minute drive away. But I'm on the verge of ditching Sainsbury's completely and switching one hundred percent to the excellent and wonderful Waitrose. Incidentally, The Girl introduced me to the equally excellent John Lewis Food Hall, which can be found in Cavendish Square. As with the superb Wholefoods, whoever manages its stocking deserves some sort of award.

 

Anyway, back to Sainsbury's. About twenty years ago, they produced a charming series of cook-books, edited by one of the most famous editors in the food business, Jill Norman, and published by the excellent Walker Books (better known for their beautifully illustrated children's books). It's hard to believe now these lovely books were associated with the very same supermarket we're discussing, as frankly, the original "Sainsbury Classic Cookbook" series could have come from another planet.

 

So far, I've bought three of them, for a few pounds each: "Simple Fare" by Nathalie Hambro (with illustrations by Sally Davies),  "Classic French Cooking" by Ann Willan (with illustrations by Susan Alcantarilla) and my latest find, "Fish and Shellfish" by George Lassalle, with illustrations by Alan Cracknell.

 

Alan Cracknell's work reminds me of Kit Williams and his "Masquerade". In case you've forgotten, he's that bearded artist chap (similar in his style of painting to David Inshaw and the Brotherhood of Ruralists) who fashioned a hare made from beaten gold, buried it in a field near Tewksbury and then published a book with all manner of esoteric clues to the golden hare's whereabouts hidden within the illustrations.

Perfect Madeleines, Time and Time Again...

 

 

I've suddenly got a craze for Madeleines- those delicious French tea-time treats; similar to little cakes, but shaped into scallop shells: fans of Proust will I'm sure, agree. I made a batch yesterday afternoon, and I think I've got the recipe almost exactly right. Here's how to do it:

First, heat up your oven to 200∘C. Crack three eggs into a bowl, and add 150g of white sugar. Using an electric beater, whisk until the eggs and sugar form a white, creamy and reasonably stiff "cream".

 

In a small pan, melt half a pack of butter, and then set aside to cool down. Sift 150g of white flour into the beaten eggs and sugar, and pour in the melted, liquid butter. Using a spoon, very slowly and gently fold in the sifted flour and butter to form a batter.

Now's the time for the flavouring. Last week I used a teaspoon of vanilla extract and that worked reasonably well. You could also use lemon juice. However, yesterday I decided to give my Madeleines an orangey tang- and this seemed to work best of all. So, mix in the finely grated zest and juice of half a small orange.

Next, you'll need a Madeleine baking tray.  I managed to find mine without any problem- and any decent, reasonably upmarket kitchen shop should sell one. It's a tin baking tray with twelve scallop or shell shaped molds. Brush the molds with melted butter (I dipped my brush into the butter I had previously warmed up). Pour the batter into each mold. Surprisingly, you will find that the Madeleines don't expand that much during baking, so I would level off the batter in each mold, making sure that the "scallops" are properly filled.

 

Bake in the hot oven for about nine minutes- until the Madeleines are a light brown and golden colour. Take the molds out of the oven and let them cool down slightly, before turning out the Madeleines onto a plate. Sprinkle them with sifted icing sugar. I found that as the Madeleines cooled down, the outside bit became crunchy and slightly caramelised, while the insides remained soft and slightly moist.

Boodles British Gin: Over There, But Not Over Here

 

 

I'm currently in the mood for a good old rant. And Jiminy Cricket you're about to get it, big time. It all started like this: on Wednesday we were having some friends over to dinner, and I had the bright idea of serving them my raw herring, keta salmon "caviar" (roe) and dill canapés beforehand.

Waitrose Belgravia stocked bog-standard mock "caviar". It would have done the job, but I had a very real craving for the keta stuff. For some bizarre reason (which escapes me now) I seemed to recall dimly that none other than Sainsbury's Nine Elms stocked keta "caviar" (that's the delicious orange coloured salmon roe, often used by the Japanese and usually priced at about £6.50 for a small jar) in their deli or "Foods of the World" section.

So off I went, happily hopping and skipping down the South Lambeth Road, my naive optimism glowing with a capital "O". And how wrong I was to be.

I spent a frustrating ten to fifteen minutes trawling the aisles, and walking round in circles: couldn't find anything remotely caviar or roe-related, let alone of the keta or even mock varieties. Finally found a member of staff. Could barely speak English: didn't know what "caviar" was, couldn't give a toss, to be frank. His friend behind the fish counter had to explain that the mysterious ingredient I was searching for was, in fact "fish eggs". Titters all round. It was a bit like the time (same branch) when I asked for White Spirit, and was taken over to the Gin section.

Eventually another member of staff waddled up, and shaking his head sadly, explained that he hadn't seen that sort of thing for some time now. Wasn't entirely sure, was he? Didn't think they stocked it.

And in case you think I'm being horribly unfair (or even dare-I-say it, snooty), this isn't some small out-of-the way branch. I'm talking about a big "flag-ship" store, located about a mile south of the Houses of Parliament, in an area which is about to go through a massive urban re-generation. It's the general apathy, lack of enthusiasm, and sloppy standards that I find so depressing. Utterly wet. Mealy mouthed. You could push them over.

One of the things I like about America is the generosity of spirit. Go into any small newsagent, and you will find virtually every and any magazine currently available and in publication laid out for sale; in serried rows, on wooden racks. It's all about choice and range: if that's what sir wants, we'll get it for you, no problem!

The American-owned Wholefoods in Kensington High Street has this excellent philosophy in abundance. The range of foods for sale there is superb. If you want that horseradish root, they'll stock it. If you suddenly feel like buying a Jersualem artichoke or an unusual Mexican chocolate, they'll have it. In American supermarkets, there are smiling and eager members of staff- in uniforms- God Forbid- to pack up your groceries in large brown paper bags, and wait for this- to carry your bags out to your car!

A great friend of mine, currently living in Bangkok, thinks that people here get an appalling deal when it comes to choice, price and service. Rip-off Britain. I'm beginning to understand what he's getting at. Keep reading.

 

Ever heard of Boodle's British Gin?  If you live in Perfidious Albion, chances are that you haven't. Founded in 1845 apparently, named after the famous Gentleman's Club in St James's Street, and by repute, the tipple of choice of none other than a certain Sir Winston Spencer Churchill, KG, and Mister James Bond himself.

If you look it up on the internet, you'll find testament after testament from gin affinados; waxing lyrical about Boodle's subtle taste, its smoothness, its wonderful properties as used in the Perfect Martini, for the making of.

According to the net, it's made here in Britain and distributed in the United Kingdom by the firm of James Burrough for Pernod Ricard. I've read this over and over again. Except that it's not. I've done my research and I can tell you now that Boodle's British Gin seems only to be available in America. So if you want to drink it in Britain, I've got some bad news for you- you can't. Many gin drinkers seem to think that it's possibly one of the best tasting British gins of all time; an absolute classic. Lovely packaging, too.

It's just not fair! I want to join the club and taste Boodle's British Gin!

The Greasy Spoon visits...Le Petit Poisson, Herne Bay

 

 

We've just discovered a little gem of a fish restaurant, or rather our old friend, Mr Nicholas Good, did- as we were recently invited there to celebrate his birthday. It's a tiny place in Herne Bay. It's called Le Petit Poisson.

Herne Bay is a windswept, kiss-me-quick seaside resort on the North Kent coast; about an hour and a half's drive down from London. It faces North- looking out over the bit where the English Channel intersects with the Thames Estuary, before it hits the North Sea. The sea is grey, as you can imagine. And cold. And wet.

Whitstable lies just along the coast, and has recently become fashionable, the one-time haunt of the Hammer Horror star Peter Cushing, but now providing weekend entertainment for the likes of Robert Elms and the fashionistas of London's East End.

 

Herne Bay! Fashionable it ain't. There's a bingo parlour and an amusing entertainment arcade; an Edwardian pavilion and a 1930's tea-rooms and gelateria. The Front boasts a few Regency houses with bow fronts in peeling stucco; any pretensions to genteel grandeur long-gone, and now re-inventing themselves as slightly sinister bed and breakfasts: where back in the early 1950's, one can imagine Wing-Commander Neville Heath entertaining his "lady friends", or where indeed, "Brides-in-the-Bath Smith" took rented accommodation with his "lady wife".

 

In 1978, the larger part of the original 3,700 foot long pier was swept away during a terrible storm and only the landing stage section remains, now isolated at sea and winking at you spookily through the mist, like a haunted cell from an old Scooby-Doo cartoon. To the front lies "The Pier Pavilion", a brutalist job (known locally as "The Cowshed") and seemingly constructed from brushed stainless steel; reminiscent of a vast agricultural silo and opened by the Rt. Hon. Edward Heath MP in 1976.

Anyway. You will find Le Petit Poisson in a hut just to the side of the Pier Pavilion. It doesn't look that promising from the outside, to be frank. Could be some sort of pizza joint catering for the local old biddies or a rotary club favourite.

Inside, it's a bit better. There's a small room with exposed brick walls, which in turn, leads down an open wooden staircase to a second room with an open view of the orderly looking kitchens: Bristol Fashion. No bad thing, that. When you can see the chefs at work. Proves that a restaurant has nothing to hide.  

And right from the start, service was on the nail. The young chap who served us could have put many a pretentious London restaurant to shame. I've currently got a thing about professional service in the French manner- something we don't often see in this country outside the big cities, or in the top restaurants; and it's a difficult thing to get right: the art of being welcoming without becoming irritatingly over-familiar; affecting the right degree of formality without looking stuffy; acting relaxed, yet at the same time avoiding the sloppy; making sure that the knives and forks are placed just so.

And My God! The food was lovely. A simple menu: delicious nutty bread, served with decent olives. A first course of native oysters (£1 each) beautifully presented on ice, with a further choice of oysters deep-fried in tempura batter, and served with lemon mayonnaise (£1.15 each) and Oysters Rockefeller, grilled with garlic, parsley and grated parmesan (£1.25 each) and served piping hot.  

The Moules Marinière (cooked with cream) (£9.95 large with frites) looked fine, and was served in the traditional deep pan with lid. My Dover Sole with an Anchovy Butter sauce (£14.25) was simple and utterly excellent, the fish beautifully cooked and falling off the bone, the sauce exactly right with just the right amount of saltiness.

A selection of British cheeses was served on a wooden board, (for a very reasonable £5.75) and came with a thoughtful written sheet on the history and taste of each particular cheese.

The excellent Chapel Down Non Vintage Brut was £25.95 a bottle.

It was a terrific find, and well-worth the drive. I'm assuming that it survives as a destination restaurant, and I wish the managers well. It's still rare in this country to find an excellent local restaurant with a simple menu, beautifully cooked food, superbly presented at very reasonable prices. And enviable service. Lucky old Herne Bay.

 

Le Petit Poisson, Central Parade, Herne Bay, Kent, CT6 5JN (01227 361199)

The Flavour Thesaurus

 

 

 

This was a brilliant Christmas present from The Girl. A signed copy, too. One of the most satisfying things in life is coming up with the idea for a brand new recipe- which you've completely invented yourself; no cookery books used ('onest Guv'), and then discovering that it works; or at least that your guests clamour for a second helping.

If you're in the mood for invention, simplicity is the way forward. If you then log on to the internet and find out that others out there have come up with the same idea, not to worry; there's a good chance that the flavours you've come up with well, work- and that's why someone's been there before you.

And that's why Niki Segnit's "The Flavour Thesaurus" is such an inspiring book. It lists various foods in an alphabetical order, and then suggests suitable flavour combinations. This is creative stuff.

I looked up "chicken": I had a very boring packet of mass-produced chicken thighs (which said "Sainsbury's" all over) and wanted to do something different with it.  

The Thesaurus suggested "pear" as an interesting combination. So I chopped up an onion and sautéed it until soft, added some smoked bacon lardons, and fried the chicken thighs (sprinkled with seasoned white flour) until golden brown. I poured in some decent stock and a generous slug of a dryish white wine: bubbled off the alcohol, and then added the pears, which had I had previously peeled and sliced. The dish was finished off with fresh thyme (with the leaves pulled off the stalk).

The flavours worked well: chicken, bacon, pear and aromatic thyme. But The Girl thought that there was something missing, and I think she was probably spot on. Although I''m not exactly sure what?  The dish, I have to confess, was slightly anemic to look at. A trifle bland; at least visually, though perhaps not in taste? Maybe it needed more colour? Tomatoes?  Not sure about that one. What do you reckon? Any ideas?

Mrs Kennedy's Green Risotto

 

 

I bought an entertaining second-hand book the other day. For a few pounds on abebooks.co.uk. It's called (hilariously) "Cooking for Madam". Marta Scubin was Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis's private cook, and her book tells the story of her career with Mrs Onassis, and shares the secrets of their Fifth Avenue kitchen.

Now I've currently got a thing about simplicity in food. Classic dishes cooked properly, with attention to detail and using the correct techniques. Arranged artistically on the plate. The right size of helping too; veering on the belt-tightening side of restraint, and avoiding the vulgarity of excess. Mrs Onassis appears to have been very keen on this sort of food. Simple dishes such as "Roast Lion of Veal with Morel Mousse", "Pear Sorbet", "Tarragon Chicken", "Mousseline Sauce" and "Mussel Salad". I like the sound of the last one. It's a plain green salad, with mussels removed from the shell, and served with a saffron flavoured creamy viniagrette and an empty mussel shell or two for decoration.

 

 

I'm also enjoying her "Green Risotto". It's a simple risotto flavoured with puréed spinach. The latter turns it a lovely, vivid green colour.

You heat some olive oil in heavy saucepan and sauté some chopped onions. Next, you add about 1½ cups of arborio rice and let the rice grains coat themselves in the hot oil. I'm sure you all know how to make proper risotto: add a splash of white wine to the rice and let it evaporate. Ladle in the steaming hot stock bit by bit, until the rice absorbs the liquid; stirring and beating away at it like mad, so that the starch is released from the rice. Carry on stirring until the rice is cooked.

The trick is to get the rice al dente (ie slightly firm) yet bound in a starchy, creamy sauce. It will take about twenty five minutes. Then it's time to add the spinach. 

In her book, Marta puts ten fresh wet spinach leaves into a blender and whizzes them up into a paste. Having tried it myself, I'm not sure about this method. What you end up with is thousands of very tiny uncooked spinach particles suspended in water, and your risotto will end up flecked with green. Instead, try steaming your spinach leaves briefly before-hand, and then when you come to whizz them up, they should make a much smoother purée. If neccessary, add a bit of water to the mix.

Stir the green spinach purée into the risotto, and serve with shavings of parmesan cheese.

 

Nutmeg

 

 

 

I've suddenly got a thing about nutmeg, and very recently have been using it quite a bit in my cooking. It's hard to define its flavour: aromatic, yes. Musky? Perhaps. Slightly sweet? 

As I was driving to the Blacking Factory this morning, a thought occurred to me: we go to the supermarket, and out of a) laziness and b) a genuine lack of time, buy our spices in those little jars on the supermarket shelf without having any idea whatsoever where these spices actually come from. Do we know anything about their history?  The answer is quite probably no, we don't.

Take nutmeg for example. You buy a few nuts in a little jar, which you then grate in the over-complicated nutmeg grater your mother gave you for Christmas; it's all very convenient. But how many of you out there in cyberspace know that nutmeg comes from the evergreen nutmeg tree, indigenous to the Banda or "Spice" Islands of Indonesia? Or that "nutmeg" is actually a seed, and that the growers have to wait a staggering seven to nine years before the first nutmeg is harvested?

Nutmeg oil is also used in toothpaste. Yup, that's right. Toothpaste. And taken in large doses, nutmeg can have a similar effect to marijuana, though for health reasons, this is not especially to be recommended. It's also supposed to be an aphrodisiac for men if mixed with avocado.

In the superlative The Flavour Thesaurus, Niki Segnit lists a collection of interesting pairings for nutmeg, some of which are more obvious than others: nutmeg and apple, nutmeg and aubergine, nutmeg and butternut squash, nutmeg and cabbage, nutmeg and cauliflower, nutmeg and celery, nutmeg and chocolate, nutmeg and lamb, nutmeg and shellfish, and last but certainly not least, nutmeg and oysters.

I love the idea of this, and it's given me the inspiration for a new dish. Maybe something with smoked oysters?  A terrine, perhaps?  Terrine of Smoked Oyster with Nutmeg. It's got a certain je ne sais quois about it, hasn't it? Simplicity is often the way forward. I need to get my thinking cap on and report back. Over and Out.

Jerusalem Artichoke Soup

 

 

We served this soup to our lucky guests on New Year's Eve. Jersualem Artichokes are currently in season. They're nothing to with artichokes by the way: bizarrely, they're actually the tuber of a species of sunflower, Helianthus tuberosus; Winter root vegetables. They look a bit like small, knobbly potatoes, with a pinkish coloured skin, and were grown by the Native American Indians long before the arrival of the European settlers. I love their subtle, slightly earthy taste.

And there's something else about Jerusalem Artichokes you need to know: apparently they make you "windy", whatever that means. Every time some television chef mentions Jerusalem artichokes on screen, they suddenly "come over" all coy (the otherwise excellent Nigel Slater was a recent culprit), it's slightly bugging; my theory is that if you cook them well enough, you shouldn't have any problems.

Here's how I made the soup. It was velvety smooth; and utterly delicious:  Chop up some an onion or two and fry gently in butter and oil with some chopped celery. In the meantime, take your Jerusalem Artichokes and using a peeler, remove the skin. You might find it easier to cut off the knobbly bits first. Plunge the peeled artichokes into a bowl of cold water into which you've given a good squeeze of lemon. This will stop your artichokes turning grey. You'll find that they start changing colour very quickly if you don't.

Chop the artichokes into small pieces, and add them to the hot pan. Stew them gently with the onions and the celery for about fifteen minutes. When they're soft, pour in some stock (I used an excellent, slightly salty ham stock), and simmer for a further twenty or so minutes.

When the artichoke pieces are cooked (ie soft), transfer the contents of the pan (the artichokes and the hot liquid) to your magimix or blender, and puree the mixture until smooth. The soup will be a creamy-white colour. Push through a sieve into a clean pan (this will help to make the soup velvety-smooth), check the seasoning (I used an oak-smoked salt from Waitrose to give the soup a slightly smokey flavour, lots of freshly grated nutmeg and some white pepper) adding a decent squeeze of lemon juice, and stir in several tablespoons of double cream to taste. Stir carefully and simmer gently for a few more minutes until hot enough.

Serve with crisp croutons and garnish with fresh dill.

Miniature Blini Canapés with Herring, Keta Caviar and Dill

 

 

 

I came up with this idea for canapés on New Year's Eve, and they went down a treat.  I expect someone's thought of them before, but they were utterly delicious, and I would, without any hesitation, serve them again.  

First, you need to get hold of some miniature blinis. Mine came in a packet from Sainsbury's, but they were fine. You'll find that they have been pre-cooked, so you will need to heat them up in the oven for about five to ten minutes.  Grate some fresh horseradish into several spoonfuls of sour cream (making sure you grate across the base of the root) and add a squeeze of lemon juice.  

Spread the blinis with the sour cream, horseradish and lemon juice. Cut up some cured herring (ie marinated roll-mops) and place a small "square" of the herring onto the blinis. Top up with a teaspoon of keta caviar (that's that wonderful juicy orange stuff from H. Forman & Sons) and arrange the blinis on a serving plate.  Finish the canapés off by sprinkling freshly chopped dill over the canapés and the plate.  Happy New Year!

Chestnut Stuffing

 

 

 

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 sea 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.

Paul Levy's "The Feast of Christmas"

 

 

Of the numerous "Christmas" cook books, Paul Levy's The Feast of Christmas is without doubt my favourite, combining as it does, a literate and erudite examination of Christmas customs and folklore, and some excellent recipes from the likes of Ken Hom, Claudia Roden, Frances Bissell, Raymond Blanc and M.F.K Fisher.  Apparently, on Christmas Day they all gather around Paul's scrubbed kitchen table, and take turns to cook.  Can you imagine?

The "Feast of Christmas" was published by Channel 4 to co-incide with his Channel 4 television series, made back in 1992;  when Channel 4 was a challenging and intelligent television channel, rather than what it has become now.  In the good old days, before they churned out cheaply-made dross.  Before Big Brother. You should be able to buy a second-hand copy of "The Feast of Christmas" through either amazon.co.uk or abebooks.co.uk for a very affordable price.  I've currently got a paperback copy, and need to upgrade to the hardback.

There are other Christmas books on the market: Nigella Christmas: Food, Family, Friends, Festivities, and that old chestnut, Delia Smith's Christmas. They are both still on the bestseller lists. I've got mixed feeling about both of those two. Delia's recipes are often good (I detect the influence of Simon Hopkinson), but there is just something too perfectionist and goody-goody (butter's a sin!) about her style.

 

Nigella's the opposite: she looks fab (a lip smackin' mid-life fantasy), but I'm disturbed by all the late night 'fridge raiding "finger in the taramasalata" stuff going on- and I hate to say it, I'm not sure that her slightly mucky recipes are up to the ticket, either. Dunno.

Elizabeth David's Christmas is another good 'un. Published after her death, and edited by Jill Norman, Elizabeth David's Christmas includes 150 Christmas recipes from her private papers. These include Marcel Boulestin's  "Turkey, Roast Capon with Tomatoes and Rice and Walnut Stuffing", "Fish Consommé", and "Lemon and Celery Sauce".

Chicken Véronique

 

 

 

Last week I managed to save a complete set of the 1968 Cordon Bleu Cookery Course, all 72 of 'em in a near mint condition.  A friend at work was about to chuck them away into the skip.  They make fascinating reading: a time-warp into a familiar, but very different age.

I'm amused by the photograph from the very first issue, which I've posted above.  A youngish couple are having the in-laws to dinner.  For the first time at the new flat?  There's bound to be a bay tree and carriage lamp outside the glossy front door.  Daddy's very much the silver-haired roué, the clubbable chairman (something in plastics?)  Bet you anything he drives a Jag, and keeps a mistress holed up in a tiny flat in Dolphin Square.  He's holding forth while his long-suffering wife (Jackie Kennedy shift-dress and pearls), sits patiently "Yes, Dear, No, Dear, Three Bags Full, Dear". 

Youngish Hubbie looks like an International Man of Mystery; probably a thrusting young exec.  If he plays his cards right, Daddy might get him a directorship at the family firm.  Our heroine's a secretary at some fashionable advertising agency somewhere.  J Walter Thompson?  Though God Knows how she finds the time to cook: the Cordon Bleu Cookery Course is quite clearly aimed at women who don't go out to work; the draconian instructions include a precise timetable for operations: 8.43am  Light the Oven,  9.59am  Truss the Chicken.  That sort of thing.  The couple's London pad is slightly trendy- the Victorianesque French Horn print is very Conran.  And what is she gazing at so proudly?   It's none other than our old friend, Chicken Véronique!

 

 

Here's how to make the dish, with precise instructions from the Cordon Bleu Cookery School, 1968.

First, you need to season the inside of a trussed chicken, but are not allowed to season the outside, as the salt will "draw out the juices, and prevent browning".  (Hang on!  Is this really true?  Simon Hopkinson does. Not sure about that one).  The trussed bird will keep its shape, and be easier to carve. (Yup, that sounds right).

Next, you rub the chicken with butter, and put 3-4 sprigs of tarragon inside, along with a further nut of butter.  The chicken is placed in a roasting tin, with ¼ pint of chicken stock, covered with buttered paper, and roasted for an hour at 400 F.  After the first 15 to 20 minutes, the chicken should be removed from the oven and basted; and then basted again after another 15-20 minutes, turning the chicken around, each time.  The buttered paper should be removed a few minutes before the end of the cooking, to brown the bird. 

The hot chicken is then removed to a wooden board, jointed and carved.  The remaining juices in the roasting tin are reduced over a steady heat until "brown and sticky".  Another ¼ of a pint of chicken stock is added to the pan to make a gravy, which is then strained into a small saucepan and thickened with ½ teaspoon of arrowroot mixed with a tiny bit of water.  (Add the arrowroot mixture away from the heat, and then stir until boiling).  Two tablespoons of double cream are stirred into the gravy.

Peel and pip some white or muscat grapes (you can blanche them in boiling water to help the process), and drop them into the gravy.  The chicken pieces are arranged on a silver-plated oval-shaped serving dish, the gravy is spooned all over it, and the grapes arranged all over the chicken.  The remaining gravy and grapes (not sure about keeping the grapes in the gravy, very odd) are served separately in a sauceboat.  

Hmmm.  Chicken with Gravy.  Served with Grapes.

What do you think?  The way forward, or a definite step backwards?

 

Potatoes Dauphinoise

 

 

 

There's a knack to getting this old classic right, as the acid in the potatoes tends to make the cream curdle. To avoid this, you need to blanche the potatoes in milk, and make sure that the oven doesn't get too hot. You can also add a tiny bit of flour to the mix, and if you use waxy potatoes, the starch content will help to stop further curdling.

Incidentally, the Dauphiné area in the French Alps is known for its rich dairy pastures- and that's why the dish is called Dauphinoise. Nothing to do with the French Monarchy or the Revolution.

Pre-heat the oven to 160C. Line a baking tin with greaseproof paper, and butter the paper.  Slice a raw garlic clove in two, and rub it over the paper.

Peel and slice your potatoes. For this dish, I infinitely prefer the waxy varieties, and if possible, I would avoid floury varieties at all cost. Slice them very thinly. I use a Magimix for this.

Boil some milk in a saucepan, whisking to stop it burning. "Blanche" the sliced potatoes in the milk for five minutes; this will help to remove the acid from the potatoes. In another pan, pour 150ml of full-fat milk and a 142ml carton of double cream and add a sprig of thyme. Blend two teaspoons of flour with a splash of  milk, and mix thoroughly, so that there are no lumps. Mix this into the creamy milk. Bring to a near boil, and put to one side.

Layer the baking tin with the potato slices- so that they look a bit like fish scales. Season with sea-salt, black pepper and nutmeg. Arrange another layer on top, but with the shapes facing in the other direction. Season. Five or six layers should be about right. Pour over the milky cream mixture (first removing the thyme sprig) and then grate fresh parmesan all over the top.

Bake for about an hour, or until the potatoes are properly cooked, and the top is golden. Take out of the oven, leave to stand for a few minutes, and then cut into squares.

Vodka Bullshot

 

 

Snow in November! Here in London. It's seriously cold. The Blacking Factory is currently unheated, and I'm praying that this year my Christmas stocking will include a pair of those fingerless woollen gloves. Those Bob Cratchitty things; I can't remember what they're called: mittens?

On Sunday afternoon we made steaming glasses of Vodka Bullshot- and I couldn't get them down fast enough. It's a great cocktail. Not the sort of thing you would want to drink everyday of course, or even at a party, but for a raw winter's evening it's just the ticket. It's very similar to a Bloody Mary, except you substitute the tomato or clamato juice with beef bouillon.

Here's how we made it.  Into a heatproof mixing jug, pour: a decent slug of vodka (Stolichnaya is the current brand of choice), a few shakes of green Tabasco, Lea & Perrins' Worcestershire Sauce, a good pinch of celery salt, freshly ground pepper, a squeeze of lemon juice and a few tablespoons of a decent dry sherry.  Mix, and top up with hot beef boullion (we used tinned beef consommé).

 

 

 

You don't want to boil the drink, as this will evaporate the alcohol and may even shatter the glass.  Warm to steaming hot is the goal. Surpisingly good. Try it.