Roast Pork & Apple Snow

Classic Combination: French Onion Tart

2009-04-13T23:11:00.003+01:00

This is an absolute winner. The ingredients are so cheap it's ridiculous, and takes no more technical skill than drinking a beer. It's a basic dish but easily sophisticated enough for a dinner party. The secret is in two things - firstly, make your pastry very short, and allow it to chill overnight. Secondly, when sweating down your onions, really do take the time to ensure they have softened fully, and just started to caramalise. This recipe uses Gruyere, but you could easily substitute for a mature Cheddar. Alternatively, you could use a blue cheese and add some rosemary to the onion mixture for something a little different. Serve with a warm potato salad and some salad leaves. Brilliant for lunch!

French Onion Tart
For a 12 inch tart tin

Ingredients:
300g Plain Flour
150g Cold Butter, cubed
A pinch of Salt
Ice-cold water

1kg sliced Onions
Two good pinches of grated Nutmeg
2 egg yolks
150ml Creme Fraiche
125g Gruyere, grated

Method:
1. Add flour, butter and salt to a food processor. Blitz until you reach what looks like bread-crumbs. Now add just enough cold water to bring the mixture together. It should be firm, not sticky. If it is, add more flour and repeat. Remove, wrap in cling film and leave in a fridge overnight.
2. The next day, remove the chilled pastry and line your tin. Roll the pastry to a thickness of roughly 5mm. Now transfer the pastry by wrapping it around the pin, and unroll (is that a word???) it over the tin. Tuck in the edges and trim off any excess. Return to the fridge to cool again.
3. Meanwhile, add your sliced onions to a pan with 50g butter and some olive oil. Sweat, but do not brown. You want them to reduce to an oozing, oniony, sweet, gorgeous pulp. This will take a while, be patient.
4. After 20 minutes of waiting, "blind bake" your pastry by lining it with greaseproof paper and weighting that down with some dried beans. Place in a preheated oven at 180 degrees. This is very important - you need to look for the pastry seeming "cooked" - thereby ensuring crunchy pastry later. Remove and cool.
5. By now the onions should be finished. Add nutmeg, cheese, egg yolks and creme-fraiche. Mix thoroughly, taste and correct seasoning. Add to the cooled pastry case.
6. Now put the whole thing into an oven at 180 degrees until the top is browned and the mixture has set.

A pub in the countryside...

2009-03-24T11:32:00.005Z

Leafy Broughton, a wealthy hamlet north of Huntingdon, is a throwback to old England. Tucked away on a single-track road off the A141, the grand country houses are focused around a fine sixteenth century church and the inviting looking Crown Inn - a typical focal point-type pub first built in the seventeenth century and used as a saddlers shop. Indeed, it's so important to the locals that five years ago forty-four of them bought it when it was faced with closure.

More recently it has been passed back into private hands, the interior has been renovated to reflect the contemporary feel of the menu and the dining area has been transformed into a cool, clean, modern space for up to thirty-six. Tastefully, the bar area retains its rural charm with space to linger for a pint with the newspaper. The resulting atmosphere is relaxed, casual, family-friendly, and free from the faux affability of equivalent city centre establishments. Basing its dishes around seasonality and locality, the food reflects this modern approach to dining. Even the wine menu changes with the seasons - showing a real understanding of the importance in pairing drinks with food. For non-wine drinkers the Crown prides itself on its real ale selection and continental beers.

The menu has an unapologetically British emphasis, with French and Italian influences. Consisting of a good range of starters, main courses and desserts, plus a specials board, chef-patron David focuses on classic dishes like the perfectly cooked pigeon breast with puy lentils or coarse chicken liver pate and piquant red-onion jam we ate for our first courses.
A charming and attentive waitress, armed with freshly baked bread and full of smiles, had seated us next to some impressive French windows that led into an inviting beer garden, perfect for a summer family lunch. After our starters, a hearty roast Cornish leg of lamb with pancetta, mashed potato, baby onions and finished with a thyme jus was enjoyed, along with some super-fresh mackerel, zesty lemon-dill potatoes, earthy roasted beetroot and a watercress salad, perfectly dressed in a light salsa verde. The two dishes summed up the new Crown Inn - the modern, light touch of the mackerel, with the bucolic lamb doffing its cap to the past.

Although the emphasis was clearly on quantity as well as quality (no silly tiny portions here), we still managed to find space for pudding. Not desserts mind you, but pudding. One of the most pleasing elements of the Crown Inn's menu was the return of proper puddings, including a steamed treacle sponge with real egg custard, a selection of homemade ice creams, and a vanilla panna cotta with shortbread. We opted for a deep, luxurious, rich chocolate tart with vanilla ice cream. It was a perfect end to the meal that could be summarised as real food, done properly. It was one of those chocolate moments that see you scraping the plate for every last morsel of the dark gold.

The young, dynamic duo of chef-David and general manager-Paul have succeeded in creating a casual, brassiere-style pub that has no stuffy dress code or formality, just an emphasis on relaxation. You can bring your own bottle for a small corkage fee, you can park your car outside and leave it there all day, you can lollop around in the garden, you can eat a meal indoors and your dog can sit with you in the bar area. In short, you can do what you want. If you do want to eat, booking is advisable, especially at weekends. At a time when many rural pubs are closing, or being enveloped by bland brewery-backed chains, independent jewels like the Crown Inn offer real hope for the future of eating out in Britain - support it if you can.

NB: this is not in my usual 'style' . I haven't gone nuts, it's a copy of a review I wrote for www.localsecrets.com - a review website covering Cambridgeshire.

Bacon and Eggs: Gastronomy?

2009-03-17T10:46:00.003Z

I was watching the BBC programme 'Top Gear' last night. James May, Jeremy Clarkson and that little rat Richard Hammond, were engaged in a contest to see who could get from Italy to central London fastest - Clarkson in a custom made, limited edition Buchatti, or James and rodent Richard in a single engine bi-plane. Clarkson won. It took him almost thirteen hours, but he beat the Wright brothers by just a few minutes. It was, I suppose, mildly entertaining but on the whole I don't understand the link between (small) men and cars. The moment some bore in the pub starts talking about horse breaks, gibbering about engine power or waffling about where the speed cameras are on the A14 I'm completely lost. There was a time when I used to fret about this. Now I just console myself that I might not be able to change a tire, but I can sharpen a knife in double quick time. Apparently, there's something of the 'animal' about driving ludicrously fast. The sense of danger releases endorphins and can give you a primeval rush, which is admittedly difficult to achieve in my Grandfather's (g.b.h.s) Renault Clio. Automatic. But I do get the same feeling when under real pressure in the kitchen. Your pace quickens, your concentration narrows in, and before you know it, three hours have passed in the blink of an eye.

Last week, having dragged myself out of bed stupidly early for a job interview in London (which I secured- hurrah!) and chewed the fat with the representative of an American based client, I was in need of feeding. There were two options - a very classy looking coffee shop with lovely glass doors, fancy looking cakes and lots of young, wealthy types; or alternatively the River Cafe nestled below a just underneath a gloriously grey, wet and drizzly Putney Bridge tube station - a fairly shabby looking greasy spoon that seemed to be staffed by age concern and frequented exclusively by council workmen. In the event, there was no contest. The decor was immense, like walking into a time warp. Perfectly placed bottles of condiments, coupled with those little glass salt and pepper shakers you used to see at primary school. Faded posters of 1980's Italian football sides drooped off the walls. I wanted to move in.

This was never going to be high-class food - the tables were plastic, the chairs wobbled and the menu board looked like it hadn't changed since 1975, but the locals were clearly knew what they wanted and whilst it wasn't rammed there was certainly a brisk trade going on. The workers were busy - driving their cars quickly. "Tea or Coffee?" barked the guy behind the counter at me - to which my order of "Tea no sugar" was relayed to an elderly woman who replied with an affirmative, in a bizarre half-cockney/half-Italian accent. "Two rounds, bacon, egg and fresh tomatoes" was then screamed into the kitchen - and five minutes later, it arrived, I read the paper, and I ate. Without realising it, it was gastronomy. Taste - texture - smell - colour - flavour.

Bacon = coarse, light colour, salty.
Egg = neutral white, smooth and a rich yolk exploding onto the plate.
Tomato = sweet, soft, juicy, bright red.

The elements of this most simple of platters both complimented and contradicted one another all at once. Genius. I was having a moment, and all for £2.50. In these times of limited credit and economic nervousness people will surely revert to basic feeding habits. Real people, eating within their means. Granted, enough to give a cardiologist a heart attack (which would be hilarious) but really, who cares? It's been a timely reminder of how much I enjoy food and the very basic pleasure it can give me.

Rice and Peas, Curry Goat, Plantains

2009-03-06T16:37:00.006Z

Location: Hammersmith, London

Sometimes you discover food that reminds you why you fell in love with eating. I've long wondered why black-Britain has not succeeded in bringing its food to the high street, in the same way that Indian-Britain has. Go down any thoroughfare in most towns and cities, and you'll find at least one curry house, but how often have you seen a restaurant serving traditional fare from the Caribbean? I'm sure sociologists may have all sorts of theories about this - if you believe the statistics then black-Britain performs badly on many social indicators including education, social mobility and the rest. Perhaps Indian-Britain is simply more ambitious, more "go-getting", or just more sure of itself. A few restaurants won't change that, but at the very least, food has the potential to foster curiosity about other cultures, and the way "they" do things. It can wipe away that initial hesitancy, those thoughts of "this isn't for me". It's much better than being lectured about tolerance by some bloke from the council. Taste the food, and you are having the same experience as thousands of Jamaicans or Indians before you. It gives you direct - not sanitised political correct nonsense - access to the people. You can be, for a brief moment, one of "them" and then choose to explore that feeling further, or to withdraw.

I have no experience of Caribbean food. This is absolutely my fault - for someone who professes to want to try everything there is on offer, I made the cardinal mistake of assuming that I wouldn't be impressed. Sure, I know some of the composite parts, those ingredients that crop up continually - scotch bonnet peppers, plantains, coconut, rice - but the reality is that this unique cuisine is an amalgamation of a wide variety of cultural influences from the west coast of Africa, to the asian sub continent via the major imperial powers of Europe. Yesterday I was researching a marinade for jerk chicken that included orange juice, soy sauce and olive oil - now that was confusing, and as I have mentioned a thousand times if there's one thing I'm wary of its fusion food. I'm still learning, I know very little, but as I mentioned above I've become completely obsessed with finding out more.

The reason for all this is Hammersmith market, held on a Thursday of each week. Now, I hate going to London. To do so is something of a chore, but I was there for a job interview so I couldn't complain. I felt rather like a downtrodden husband visting his in-laws, times one-thousand. Having an hour to kill, and spotting the market I wandered over, in search of a nibble for lunch. There was an impressive array of options including some delightful smelling north African food, a falafel stall with a queue that was at least thirty people deep (complete with furious looking office workers glancing at their watches every thirty seconds), the obligatory home made burgers and sausages, and gloriously, a very simple, slightly scruffy looking stall with two ramshackle signs reading "curry goat" and "jerk chicken". It was manned by two large, jolly, perma-smiled Jamaican ladies, with whom I was immediately charmed. They were cheeky, and were mercilessly mocking customers who were staring and clearly considering if it was worth a visit to the hospital. I've noticed that at a food market, certain stalls have the equivalent of pub-reconnaissance, that phenomenon of walking up and down the street from different angles, past the pub you're debating wether to go in, trying to catch a glimpse of the interior and/or clientele before opting for the soulless neon-clad bar at the end of the road. But the two ladies had those types sussed. "Give us a try!" one would say, to shrieks of laughter from the other, complete with thigh slap. "Come on over, we don't think it will kill you too bad!". Cue high-fiving and spoon waving. They were great.

And once I had some, so was the food. Goat curry is by far the best thing I have eaten this year. It was unbelievably tender, and a deep rich colour. Flavour-wise it was similar to a mature lamb, and cooked on the bone was literally melt in the mouth. It had been marinaded - and the tastes I could distinguish were cumin, some heat (scotch bonnet pepper), a slight saltiness and ginger. Served with the classic staples, rice and peas plus some sweet sweet SWEET fried plantain, which counteracted the heat of the curry wonderfully well. It was served in polystyrene tray, eaten with a plastic spoon whilst sitting on the pavement. It fired the curiosity in me - what exactly goes into the marinade? How long is it marinaded for? Do you need to use a certain type of bean for the rice and peas? Lots of questions and new things to explore - which is the incredible thing about food, you never run out of things to learn. Obviously, I'm not going to write a recipe for Curry Goat - the trouble is, I've no idea what is authentic. But I have come across this video, which seems promising, if only for the way the girl says "Jamaican Curry Goat" - absolute classic.

More than cockles and lava bread...

2009-03-01T15:05:00.009Z

One of the most memorable St David's Day hilarity moments occurred in 1987 at Ysgol Y Ddwylan, where I spent my formative years in education. We were all sitting on our backsides in the gym hall, legs crossed and hands clasped on shoes, and dressed in traditional Welsh costume - miners outfits with clogs for the boys, red cloaks, petticoats and tall black hats for the girls. We were also encouraged to wear either a leek or a daffodil on our breasts, as these are both traditional symbols of the nation. We were in the gym hall to learn of St David's many miracles. The most famous occurred in mid-Wales. David was preaching to a crowd who were all airs and graces until those on the back couldn't see anything. As you can imagine, this was intolerable. To avert a riot, David simply gestured to them, (I understand in an annoyingly nonchalant manner) the ground rose up under their feet, and the ruffians now had a grandstand view. Following that, they then saw a white dove come and land on his shoulder - a sign of God's blessing at this action. Other interesting "facts" included that David was born on a cliff during a storm (a sure sign of foreboding) and his diet refrained from meat or beer. Anyhow, back to the primary school gym. Some girl at the front who was only four and had red hair obviously got hungry during the lesson, and decided to eat her daffodil. This was swiftly followed by some screeching and screaming as she was rushed to the boys toilets and forced to throw it up by a teacher. I can only think that as some people were eating their leeks, she thought it was fine. Obviously, rather than showing some concern, we all fell about laughing and tried to storm the toilets to have a pee, thereby embarrassing to the poor girl further. Completely hilarious, God we were cruel at times.

We didn't particularly eat anything on St David's Day, but often people would eat Welsh Cakes, or some Bara Brith with some tea. If you were after something savoury, you might eat some Cawl [kow-ul], which is a half-way house between a soup and a stew, traditionally made from lamb, perhaps some bacon, potatoes, carrots and stock. All of this is very hearty stuff, and whilst fantastic for the home, full of history and love, it hasn't exactly created shock-waves through the culinary world. Thankfully, there are now some great chefs taking the undoubtedly great produce we have and refining them into delicious meals. Matt Tebbutt, owner of The Foxhunter in Natygarry, is a really good example of this. One of his signature dishes is Lamb with Saffron Leeks and Cockles - a delicious marriage of sea, earth and animal. You can find the recipe here, where there is also a video talking you through it.

So there, the obligatory St David's Day post quickly finished. To friends at home, enjoy yourselves, and make sure you only drink Felinfoel Ale. All day long. And if you really do want to cook something Welsh today, here you go:

Hwyl!

Welsh Cakes
Makes 20-odd

I first cooked these as a nine-year old in primary school.

God I felt impressive.

Ingredients:
8oz self-raising flour
4oz butter
3oz sultanas
3oz caster sugar
1 level tsp mixed-spice
1 egg

Method:
1. Sift all the dry ingredients, then add the butter as if you were making pastry. Try to get that nice 'bread crumb' consistency.
2. Mix through the sultanas.
3. Beat the egg, add it to the mixture, to make a dough. If the mixture seems to dry you can add a little water or milk to bring it together.
4. Now roll the mixture onto a floured surface, you need it to be a quarter of an inch thick.
5. Cut out circles, about two and a half inches wide.
6. Cook on a heavy bottomed frying pan, lightly greased with some butter. They should be browned well, but not burned, so don't cook on too high a heat. I like eating them with more butter and/or some Welsh Honey.

Classic Combination: Brandade

2009-02-28T14:25:00.003Z

A few weeks ago I ate some salt cod croquettes at a Pizza place in Washington, and on the back of this had a few enquiries about how to make 'Brandade' - a classic Provencal dish which is also based around salt cod. I've only eaten it twice, once in France and once at home after I found this great recipe in one of Hugh Fearnley Whittingstall's books. As he says, it "hit many oral pleasure spots" (!). However, it is a cheat version, as it utilises either smoked cod or smoked haddock - far more appropriate for the home cook. Sometimes you shouldn't be too sanctimonious, I mean, how many of us have got 48 hours to soak their salt cod? It's indulgent - save it for a cold evening in front of the fire with a bottle of white and a loved one.

Smoky Cheaty Brandade by Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall
Serves 4 as a main course, 8 as a starter

Ingredients:
500g smoked cod or haddock, poached for five mins in whole milk then left to cool
500g peeled, boiled potatoes, mashed
Olive Oil
2 garlic cloves, crushed
Double Cream
Sea Salt & Cracked Black Pepper

Method:
1. Pick over the poached fish, discard any bones.
2. Sweat your garlic in the olive oil, don't let it colour.
3. Pound the fish with the oil and garlic in a pestle and mortar. Or gently blitz in a food processor.
4. Add 2 tablespoons double cream, and the same amount in olive oil. Repeat blitzing/pounding.
5. Transfer to a bowl and combine with the mashed potatoes.
6. Spread into an ovenproof dish, bake for 15 mins at 190 degrees centigrade, or until piping hot.
7. Serve with good, thin toast and a green salad.

Childhood: Steamed Suet Pudding with Bacon and Leeks

2009-02-22T11:23:00.006Z

Returning home to see the folks is always daunting. The memories of youth are most precious, a captive of years spent doing nothing more than climbing trees, spearing hedges with sharpened sticks, fingers in bowls of cake mix, robinson's lemon barley, rugby in the park and jumpers for goalposts. They are kept safe by the prison bars of adulthood, accessed fleetingly and only when the dark days come calling for a sense of grounding. It's important to keep them intact, for when we are old and grey these will be the memories that inform who, or what we are.

I suppose that your grown-up ambitions are derived from your experience as a child. It can't be a coincidence that very often, people follow their parents into their fields of employment. If you are surrounded by music whilst growing up, it's almost impossible to not develop an aptitude for music yourself. For me, I was (am) lucky to have two parents who could both cook very well. It's a great tragedy that so many children are raised without an understanding of how wonderful food can be - if they did, I'm sure that the current trend toward obesity in the UK would be nullified.

So when I return home, in the back of my mind, I am aware that the childhood memory box is about to be re-opened. There are certain dishes that my parents cook which carry with them a sense of place, a smell, a look and of course, a taste. Steamed puddings are one of those quintessentially British foods, that most other cultures don't understand. It's fairly unique in culinary circles: an dish that is truly British. It utilises a very different ingredient - Suet - and to quote Simon Hopkinson:

"...there is one particular ingredient that will forever be part of traditional British cooking, and that is suet. Apart from being one of the most original forms of lubrication in cooking, this crumbly, white animal fat is also extremely easy to work with......when asked about British cooking, I am often stumped as to what nit really is these days; that tiresome moniker "Modern British" seems to refer to nothing more than something in a sticky jus......[but] freshly grated or chopped suet is the Super League stuff."

A steamed suet pudding, cooked correctly, is a delicious, light, filling dish that can be filled with either sweet or savoury fillings. For dessert, I can think of nothing better than a steamed Apple & Blackberry Pudding with real custard. As a main course, my parents and I would fill the pudding with Bacon trimmings and sauteed leeks. This would then be served with the most delicious onion white sauce with nutmeg, and some green vegetables. When it would arrive at the dinner table, I would watch with awe as the pudding would be carved, like a joint of meat, steaming, juicy. Frankly, fairly sexy but also cheap and honest. And nowadays a direct link to my core, aged seven. A time before any sort of responsibility or awareness of the world. If there is such a thing, it was at time of perfection.

A Day at Cooks Illustrated

2009-02-12T22:51:00.005Z

Location: Boston, MA

The other day I visited the offices of Cooks Illustrated magazine, easily the best, most comprehensive journal about food on the market. It's difficult to get hold of the in the UK, but in the US has a circulation of around a million copies. I was introduced to Cooks Illustrated by my friend Orlando, owner of Le Manoir de Raynaudes, and formerly editor of BBC Good Food. So, even though I'm ideologically opposed to nepotism (though not naive enough to believe that in practice, it's not how the world works) Orlando managed to help me get a visit to the holy shrine of food experimentation, 'America's Test Kitchen'.

The kitchen is located on the premises where Cooks Illustrated and its sister publication 'Cooks Country" is produced. The unassuming, first floor premises is also the hub for the production of books as well as a TV programme that airs on the American networks. It's America's most watched cookery show on public television, which is impressive, so altogether the place is a hive of activity and the volume of literature produced quite astounding. With a million loyal followers, it's safe to say that Cooks Illustrated is doing something right, and when over lunch I quizzed the executive editor, he was candid about the whole thing. "Look" he said "it's revolutionary. We don't take adverts, we only talk about food, and we make sure the recipes always work." He had the look of a man who couldn't believe how stupid the competition was. True, I thought, the recipes do always work, and how many times have you tried to follow a recipe from a so called food magazine that makes little sense, that is inaccurate in its measurements, or falls apart the moment you don't have the requisite baking tin?

The reliability of the recipes is down to the rigour with which they test them. It's an exhaustive process, that I can't really go into here (arrogantly I assume competitors might be reading, ha!) but lets just say it takes forever. No stone is left unturned and no creme brulee left unburned by a variety of grills and blow-torches - that's the other thing, not only are recipes tested, but a variety of equipment with which to cook the recipe is also tested. The quest is utterly infectious, but it's not necessarily for perfection, as that ridiculous Heston Blumenthal undertook on his recent TV show, but a perfect recipe for home cooks. Test cooks buzz around, and like ants are always purposeful. In fact, if you try to imagine a large colony of ants wearing chef whites (bear with me) and waving tiny little knives that their legs could hold, you have an idea of the intensity of activity that I walked into. And they're not any old Tom who can hold a ladel: these are all trained chefs, many of whom have worked at fine restaurants. They're like zealots, ruthlessly purging any inaccuracies in their recipes, before writing the whole lot down in Cooks Illustrated style. When you read the articles, it seems so serene - "I've occasionally wondered why this happens to that, and so I decided to try and find out." - but believe me the effort that goes into getting answers belies the calm cool exterior of the publication.

I left feeling utterly galvanised. If you were to work somewhere like Cooks Illustrated, not only would you develop technically, as a cook, but your writing would also become tighter and you'd develop a masochistic desire for answers. It would be an experience like little else and would teach you to think outside the box, perhaps even develop new techniques that haven't been tried before. Buy Cooks Illustrated - they ship overseas and you can sign up on-line. You won't be disappointed.

Classic Combination: Spaghetti Bolognese

2009-02-09T23:20:00.003Z

As I mentioned the other day, regular(ish), short, recipe bulletins on classic dishes. At the moment I'm all over the pasta, so here is another classic Italian dish that done properly can't be beaten. How often though, is it done badly?

This is taken from Marcella Hazan, the doyenne of Italian cookery. Enjoy. And yes, it really does say simmer for three hours. Trust me, it's worth it. And if you're concerned about the time remember, it's time, but it's not your time. You don't actually have to stand there for three hours!!! I'm not going to insult you by telling you how to cook pasta. One other thing - my apologies (to British readers) - but this recipe is in American measurements.

Spaghetti Bolognese Ragu
Serves 4

Ingredients:
1 tbs Vegetable Oil
4 tbs Butter
1/2 cup Onion, diced
2/3 cup Carrot, diced
2/3 cup Celery, diced
3/4 lbs Beef Mince
1 cup whole milk
1 cup white wine
1 - 2 cups tinned tomatoes, good quality
Nutmeg
Sea Salt and Cracked Black Pepper

Method:
1. Add oil and 3 tbs butter to a deep pan on a medium heat. Add onion, soften. Now add the celery and carrot, soften.
2. Add beef mince. Season well, and break up with a fork. Brown.
3. Add a pinch of nutmeg plus your milk. Let this evaporate.
4. Now add your wine. Let that evaporate too.
5. Once that has happened, add your tomatoes. At this point, simmer on the gentlest of heats - so that you literally only get a bubble ever ten seconds or so - for about three hours. At the end of cooking almost all the liquid should have evaporated. You will now have the most delicious, rich and tender ragu.

Ray's Hell Burger

2009-02-03T21:21:00.009Z

Location: 1713 Wilson Bvd, Arlington, VA

I have eaten yet another incredible burger, this time at Ray's Hell Burger, located in Arlington, just across the historic Potomac River. It was along this river that many settlements were founded by the British when America was the 'New World' waiting to be explored. Or exploited, depending on which way you look at it. Little evidence of history here now though - just the drone-numbing hum-drum of office workers, ties and briefcases and the same shops that you find decimating any developed city in the world. Very high on efficiency, but exceedingly low on charm. Thank God the workers have some relief at lunch time. Rather than going for the "low-carb, low-fat, low-taste" option, when I visited Ray's there was a pleasingly long queue of customers clutching minutes from meetings, spreadsheets, statistics and a Ray's burger menu printed on a single side of A4. Guess which was getting more attention. That was charming, as was the six year old boy to my left who was trying to get his chops around a burger that, I kid you not, was bigger than his head. I christened the contest "Child vs Burger", Round One: Pickles. He provided me with much entertainment.

Then my burger arrived and I became decidedly un-smug. It was absolutely ridiculous. It was immense, and the contest took a nasty turn in which "Child vs Burger" became "Edward vs the Behemoth", a challenge in which I faced odds as insurmountable as a man facing a Himalayan trek equipped with only a pair of flip-flops and a ham sandwich. The six year old was now pointing and giggling, as was his mother - creasing over with laughter whilst trying to stop her cognac sauteed mushrooms from disappearing down her cleavage. Then as I tried to pick up the burger Sean, my eating companion, did that thing where you laugh and drink at the same time, resulting in liquid hurtling out of your nostrils. I dropped the meat and the size of it caused the tables to wobble, the pictures to rattle on the walls and the lights to flicker in an alarming 'end of the world' fashion.

And to think that I'd ordered the seemingly harmless "Soul Burger Number One" which is comprised of ten ounce beef pattie, smoked bacon, Swiss cheese, cognac sauteed mushrooms (not the ones down the cleavage) and grilled red onions, all encased in a toasted brioche bun. I started to think that perhaps I'd asked for something else entirely (this seems to happen frequently in America - divided by a common language), but all the requisite parts suggested it was indeed a "Soul Burger". It could have been worse, I thought as I slipped on the first step of the Himalayas in my flip-flops - I could have ordered the "Burger of Seville" that included seared Foie Gras, cognac sauteed mushrooms, Bordelaise sauce and truffle oil.

Thankfully, the first bite cured all. I'm not sure how they do it, but burgers in America are almost universally juicy and flavoursome. This was seasoned perfectly to bring out the taste of the beef, and amazingly, I just kept on eating. Somehow, and this is all the more bizarre considering that there was a Brioche bun involved, the whole thing was actually light, in that, I could have eaten another one. Then, and this is something I've never experienced before, I got burger drunk - Sean and I simply ate and ate without saying a word to one another. I actually felt giddy, and memories of drinking cheap cider in the park circa 1995 came flooding back to me. Six year old boy had his chin on his chest for the duration to which I triumphantly grinned at him. So as you can gather, Ray's is certainly worth visiting, if only to try and get burger drunk as I managed to. There are a myriad of options available, from plain old cheese and ketchup to roasted bone marrow with persillade. But make sure you take a friend. You may need him to carry you home. Staggering. Shouting "I luuuuurve you...", like a good friday night at the local.

Classic Combination: Spaghetti alla Carbonara

2009-01-29T20:02:00.007Z

It's already been documented that I'm extremely sceptical of fusion food: it seems confused, as if the person behind it is trying to re-invent the wheel, which may well be down to insecurity and an attempt to satisfy that most destructive element of the Human condition, ego. I remember a time when I was forced to endure a lunch at a "traditional British pub" in Somerset which boasted an 'eclectic' menu. This is usually code for 'desperately attempting to stand out because I have no idea what I am doing here'. The food was like a United Nations of cuisine - plenty of hot air but little action - and included among other things a 'Thai inspired Cottage Pie', 'Chinese Spring Rolls with Caesar Dressing' and the now commonplace (but lost on me) 'Tempura Battered Fish and Chips'. Where is the love in that? Where are the stories, the history behind the food? Over the last few years there have been numerous movements hung around food. Some have been inspired, such as Jamie Oliver's School Meals, and have really hit a nerve with people outside foodie circles. I've therefore decided to work on a one man campaign for simple food done properly that will involve short(ish,) regular(ish) postings of classic dishes, that are stupidly hard to find cooked correctly.

Today, the absolutely fantastic Spaghetti alla Carbonara, and read my lips: you do not use cream, and you do not use Parmesan. No cream. Do not use cream.

Spaghetti alla Carbonra
Serves 2

Ingredients:
2 slices Pancetta, cut into lardons
1/2 clove Garlic, crushed
150g Pecorino, finely grated
A handful of parsley, finely chopped
1 egg, beaten
2 large handfuls of Spaghetti

Method:
1. Get a large pot of salted water up to a rolling boil. Add spaghetti.
2. In a heated pan, add some olive oil, followed by the pancetta. Brown.
3. Now add your garlic, sautee quickly, do not let burn. Remove from the heat.
4. Once the spaghetti is cooked, add to the pan with the pancetta and garlic. Also add a small ladel of the cooking liquid.
5. Toss and add the pecorino, parsley, egg. Toss until pasta is incorporated. The heat from the pasta will 'cook' the egg.
6. Serve immediately with more pecorino and a giant glass of white wine.

2 Amys Neapolitan Pizzeria

2009-01-22T16:10:00.005Z

Location: 3715 Macomb St NW, Washington, DC

I know that I appear to be doing more eating out than cooking out, and I am. Yesterday I spent much of the day perched on the edge of the sofa, my fingertips massaging my temples and rocking back and forth. If I was to be objectified I would become one of those little desk pendulums, banging back and forth but going no-where. Every time I tried to think of something other than the precariousness of my overdraft limit, or asking Mr Google "if my bank collapses does that mean my loan disappears into the cosmos?" I developed a cold sweat. As sure as eggs are eggs, yesterday was a bad day.

Now what would've been sensible would be to write a plan of action. But seeing as I can't even plan what clothes to wear in the morning, this obviously didn't occur. Instead I buried my head in the sand and went out for a meal at 2 Amys, allegedly the best place in all of DC to get a pizza. Now I have to admit that I am a fan of a real pizza. When I was younger, pizza came out of a box frozen and had strangely multi-coloured cheese nestling on top of some peroxide-bright-tomato sauce. Then later on when I discovered the joys of hand-made dough, wood burning ovens and the "Denominazione di Origine Controllata" (D.O.C) I became a pizza lover. I'd waltz around the kitchen shouting "beee-sa, beee-sa" in a ridiculous Italian accent. If there was a woman around I'd schmooze her by whistling and whispering "bella" everythime she'd walk by.

The D.O.C apply to all sorts of foods - in this case Neapolitan pizza - and are a set of guidelines laid out by the Italian government. All Neapoloitan pizza must be cooked in a wood burning oven, for example. Now I'm not going to sit here and pretend that I've never eaten one of those frozen pizzas out of a box when I've been blind drunk at 2 a.m (ironically this happened at Ballymaloe) - but if I'm going to actually sit down and eat one in a restaurant, I really am rather picky. If I find out that it's not really Buffalo Mozzarella on my crust, I throw my hands in the air, cross my arms furiously and tap my fingers one by one on the table rather like a five year old who didn't get the christmas present they were expecting.

2Amys abide by the D.O.C, and I was happy. Which is just as well because the "host" was more unfriendly than a lion whose wife you had stolen, house you'd moved into and told that he was adopted. She was an awful, gum-chewing, ashen-faced, jumble-sale clothed, ice cube of a woman. Bearing in mind that I had already been having a bad day, I was not exactly my usual placatory self. Her sarcastic smiles were met by my sarcastic smiles and pose that I imagine teenage girls use when they are taunting each other. When we were moved to a different table (at my request) I responded with the loudest most sarcastic "Oh thank you SO much you are SO kind." Horrible lady. So when the friendly little (she really was petite) waitress bounced up to our table, all smiles and enthusiasm, I was instantly charmed and ordered the largest beer known to mankind, followed by a Parsnip and Prosciutto crostini, some Salt Cod Croquettes and a Vongole pizza.

I absolutely adore Salt Cod, that wonderful ingredient used in so much of the Mediterranean, a throwback to the days when mariners had to preserve their catch in sea salt. Bound with potato, parsley and deep fried in breadcrumbs, they are a perfect snack with a chunk of lemon. 2Amys did a great job. There is always a danger that deep fried food can be awful, but in this case the oil they used was obviously clean (no nasty bitter taste) and the end product had probably been dried in a warming oven. The Crostini was a nice surprise when it arrived - a creamy Parsnip puree with a wafer thin shaving of Prosciutto. Wonderful, so it was. The following pizza was also fantastic. A wafer thin, light pizza crust topped with juicy sweet Cockles, sweet roasted Garlic, zingy Capers, fresh Parsley, a little Chili pepper and some Grana Padano. Needless to say I finished the lot with ease, unlike the lady sitting on the table adjacent to us who had obviously just given birth. (Or so I deduced - she was wearing a hospital bracelet and her husband was reading a book of baby names.) Poor woman obviously just wanted to be at home resting, not enduring one of the three witches of Eastwick at the door...

Obama and the Cheese Fries

2009-01-13T04:04:00.007Z

Location: 1213 U Street NW, Washington, DC

There were a few reasons why I wanted to visit Ben's Chili Bowl, but when I saw that the president-elect had been there, I had to go along. If only I'd gone on the day I intended to, I could have clearly helped Mr. Obama with his inaugural speech. I'm sure he would have rushed home, sacked his speech writer and immediately offered me a job. Alas, as is the way of the world, I simply joined the lunchtime rush in ordering a "half smoke with cheese fries" cursing my lack of foresight - America's first black president was obviously going to pay a visit to a Washington DC institution that for decades has served the city's large black population with comfort food. I should have been camping outside, waiting for special branch to arrive and check me out. Ho hum.

Since my visit to Voodoo Doughnut in Portland, OR, I've been thinking hard about "cult food places". In a west Wales context we're talking the Central Cafe in Newcastle Emlyn, or in an Edinburgh context we could be talking about La Favorita - those places that are a microcosm of the community that they serve. They are evidence that a food 'experience' is as much about context as the food itself. When I'm in Sicily, I want the freshest seafood cooked simply with garlic, parsley, lemon and olive oil. When I'm in Germany I want a bratwurst.

And when I'm at Ben's, I want soul food.

Opened in 1958, and having served the same mix of greasy fries, bowls of smoking chili and hot dogs ever since, what really excites me about Ben's is that you get a piece of the past when you visit. Much of the furniture is still from the 1950's, and as Washington was officially a segregated city when Ben's first opened it's doors, you're also getting a feel (and nothing more than) of how this particular community on the U-street corridor (affectionately known as 'Black Broadway') maintained their essence. It survived violent riots following the assassination of Martin Luther King and the economic depression of the 1980's, when the area was a hot-bed of drug use and completely off limit to the middle, chattering, classes who schmooze the place nowadays. But the locals still came. They were dining on memories, transported to their youth and the core of who they are.

I loved the fact that as I plopped my bottom on a rickety, swivel-crazy, plastic leather stool, a large, African-American lady bounced up looked me straight in the eye and said "Hey baby, what you want?". (Admittedly I was a little startled and only just managed to say 'a half smoke please' without sounding too ridiculous.) Just imagine how the magic would have been lost if she had said "What could I get you, my fine looking fellow?".

The food itself wasn't brilliant: dirty, greasy and altogether bad for you. But at the same time utterly wonderful and that is the question that needs to be answered. How can something so average, inspire so many? After all, Ben's has a loyal following of celebrities including Bill Cosby (he never has to pay), Denzel Washington and Bono. My sense is that it's a meeting place in the same way that the church once was, or the post office is for the elderly - a place where the true locals can catch up on the news. The food just happens: it's an ice breaker for the secret gossiping of teenage girls, the frustrations of middle-aged women and the resigned shrugs of elderly men. There will, no doubt, be massive amounts of hope as well. America has unearthed something special, and there will be no-where sweeter than Ben's come its inauguration.

Kaz Sushi Bistro

2009-01-11T05:51:00.007Z

Location: 1915 I Street NW, Washington, DC

Ahhh, Sushi. If you want to look at exquisite knife skills, consummate calm, poise and all around serenity, then you go to a Sushi bar. I was a late starter to eating Sushi. Like so many people I thought it simply referred to raw fish and couldn't fathom why there were so many folk willing to pay through the nose for something that required (so I thought) little culinary skill at all. It was later that I learned that the term 'Sushi' actually refers to the type of rice used, hence the different styles of roll you get. The speed and accuracy with which they create these rolls is breathtaking. From my limited knowledge, 'Sashimi' is raw fish. 'Maki' are the little rolls, 'Nigiri' are the blocks of rice generally topped with raw fish and 'Temaki' are the cone-like shaped rolls. After that, I'm still at a bit of a loss. It takes me absolutely ages to order in a Sushi bar, which is why places with those little train-tracks full of food are such a good idea - not only can you gawp at the technique, but you can eat what you want, and no more. I really should go to Japan one day and learn more.

The other day I ate at Kaz Sushi Bistro in Washington, DC and it started with the same feeling I always have when going into a Sushi place: a sense that I am about to be underwhelmed. It's really not fair of me. I never feel that way if I'm about to eat tapas - but I assume my lack of knowledge is such that I have no idea if I'll feel fed or not. Kaz's has won numerous local awards recently for the innovation of its food. You can see this in the menu. The classic Nigiri, Sashimi and Rolls are all there, but so too are Kaz's signature sushi, including tuna with fore gras-miso, sake-poached scallop with lemon and coriander or salmon with mango puree. This was looking very much like "fusion-food", something else I'm a little sceptical of and I therefore opted for the more normal sounding tempura clams with green tea salt and lime, some seared octopus heads with lime, and a range of maki plus a seaweed salad.

Very tasty indeed: undoubtedly fresh ingredients, cooked well. The clams were beautifully sweet and the tempura feather light. I wasn't entirely sure what the 'green-tea salt' contributed: I could only taste salt and no green tea. But very tasty none the less. As for the octopus, my partner and I almost lost it when an eye-ball popped out at one point, but beyond the squeamishness, the texture was amazing: silky smooth without a hint of that awful rubbery feeling you get when eating badly cooked Calamari. I could be wrong, but I was sure I detected a taste of Sake: I wonder if the little tentacles had been flambéed?

Business: Cooking for Vegans

2009-01-02T21:20:00.007Z

One of the more difficult things when cooking for a group of people is that in general, you're going to have differing palettes sitting around the table. This is part of my rationale for being extremely suspicious of any sort of eating fad, such as that ridiculous thing the "Atkins Diet" that so many women were following just a few short years ago: people seem to buy into them and become difficult. Whenever I'm asked to cook a meal for a dinner party, it's always a good idea to find out as much as possible about the guests: age, sex, dietary requirements, absolute pet hates in terms of food. That way you can plan a menu to suit everyone. There's nothing more awkward than having a vegetarian feeling left-out because the cook couldn't be more imaginative than the dreaded 'vegetable lasagna': so when I have the information I require, I liaise with the organizer and decide if we need a special menu for someone, or if everyone can eat the same fare. I always prefer the latter option - it's much more warm, cosy and inclusive.

On New Year's Eve I was asked to cook for a group of eight friends in Oregon. Nothing too fancy, a simple two course meal that they could sit around and munch on whilst seeing in 2009. I asked the usual questions and unearthed a woman, 27 years old, vegan, non-drinker. A few phone calls later and I was charged with making a vegan meal that everyone would enjoy. I used to be of the opinion that carnivores will never feel truly satisfied without meat (ridiculous) until I ate at David Bann, a vegetarian restaurant in Edinburgh, Scotland. The food was so wonderful, so satisfying that I didn't once think of having a kebab on the way home. I remembered that there were some serious use of root vegetables, and pulses. You felt full. You felt fed.

So I tried to recreate something similar and after some recipe searches came up with a simple two course meal, and the recipes (that were well received) are below. If anyone out there has more experience of feeding vegans, please e-mail me. I need to build up a good database of options! These recipes are inspired by, recipes from Moro, a great restaurant in London, England.

Roast Butternut Squash Steaks with a warm Chick Pea Salad, Stuffed Bell Pepper and Tahini Dressing
Serves 4

Ingredients:
1 medium size butternut squash, sliced into chunks lengthways and de-seeded
1 dessert spoon all-spice
A handful of sage leaves, shallow fried, to garnish

1 tin of Chick Peas (Garbanzo Beans), drained
1 small red onion, finely diced
2 teaspoons cumin seeds, toasted
A handful of coriander (cilantro)

2 Red Bell Peppers, halved and de-seeded
2 oven-roasted Tomatoes, quartered (you'll need to make these in advance)
1 head fennel, sliced thinly

For the dressing:
3 parts Tahini
2 parts Olive Oil
2 parts Water
3 parts Lemon Juice
1 clove Garlic, crushed
Sea Salt and Cracked Black Pepper

Method:
1. First make the dressing. Put all the ingredients into a blender and whizz until smooth. Add more water if required, the consistency should be quite liquid. Taste and season, set aside.
2. Pre-heat your oven to 200 degrees centigrade.
3. Place your chunks of squash into a bowl, drizzle with olive oil, all spice and some sea salt. Toss until well covered. Place on a baking tray. Bake for 30 mins or until tender and brown. Set aside in a warming oven.
4. While the squash is cooking start the peppers. Place them in the oven with the squash until they start to soften. Now stuff with the tomatoes and top with a layer of fennel. Bake until almost collapsing. Remove and set aside in a warming oven.
5. While that is all happening, make your chick pea salad. Simply toss the chick peas, diced onion, cumin and coriander with a little of the tahini dressing.
6. Assemble as follows: a few (three) slices of squash, pepper to the side with chick peas to the side also. Drizzle more dressing across squash and salad, garnish with shallow fried sage leaves and coriander.

Medjool Date and Orange Salad with Cinnamon and Mint
Serves 4

Ingredients:
4 Oranges, segmented
8 Medjool Dates, stoned and roughly chopped
1 dessert spoon icing sugar
2 teaspoons ground cinnamon
A handful of Mint, roughly chopped

Method:
1. Easy: just mix everything in a bowl and serve. But do taste and correct the amount of sugar or cinnamon.

Voodoo Doughnut, or life in the hole

2008-12-30T20:34:00.011Z

There are two locations -

Voodoo Doughnut: 22nd SW Third Ave, Portland, OR
Voodoo Doughnut Too: 1501 NE Davis, Portland, OR

They say at Voodoo Doughnut the magic is in the hole, but what they don't tell you is that the area around the hole should be treated with love too. So don't go rushing in. Enjoy what you are about to be given. Every city has its places with a cult following - the pig out joints, the family favourites, the eateries that have been there since time began, and the drunken stumble that satisfies those food urges that you can only have at three o'clock in the morning after many, many drinks.

I've no doubt that 'Cat Daddy' (a.k.a. Kenneth) wouldn't thank me for describing Voodoo as a drunk hangout, but his two outposts are open twenty-four and twenty-one hours respectively so at certain times of the day, it's inevitable! I met the Cat at his newest venture, Voodoo Doughnut Too, which is out of downtown Portland in the residential north-east quadrant of the city. Opened at the start of this year on the fifth anniversary of trading, by a thousand person parade, you can't miss it, even if you wanted to. It's hot pink - always an eye catcher - and the interior is a kooky mix of schoolroom tables, coffin shaped sofas, pinball machines and blazing techno music. At certain times of the year, weather permitting, the Cat has held rock concerts, drive in cinemas and lets not forget that you can also be legally married there. That's right. Marriage vows and doughnuts. With a raised eyebrow and flaring nose I thought - after all, why not? Then came the stories of various doughnut related contests - a classic eating contest as well as a 'how many doughnuts can you stack on your penis' contest. "The official record is four", Cat told me "but one guy had five. He was disqualified for having a pierced appendage."

You should be able to discern that this is a very 'different' place. At times it feels as though the owners (the other being an unmet Trase Shannon) go out of their way to be deviant (before deciding upon doughnuts they considered, among other things, a vintage car tour of Portland, or a mother-in-law babysitting service). If you want to open a business, why be boring? Yet as fun and exciting as all the paraphernalia is, there's no point in titillation without the end product. This was a major concern to the Cat. "I had a background in bars, hotel management and the service industry" he said "but had never done any full scale culinary work. So the first thing we had to do was find out how to make doughnuts." Seems fair, I thought. They set out for Los Angeles, California where they learned how to handle a rolling pin and when to throw the flour, before returning to Portland. Here they refined, adapted, created and spun their own designs to create the signature Voodoo collection. They also tried a myriad of oils to be more 'healthy' but eventually Cat simply though "Sod it, it's a doughnut. It's supposed to be bad for you." Amen to that, brother. The rest, as they say, is history.

They were schooled well. I opted to try the classics: a simple glazed doughnut and an iced chocolate doughnut. If these were not right, I thought, what hope was there for the 'triple chocolate penetration', the 'butter fingering' or the 'cock and balls'? Of course, they were right. Slightly chewy but as soft as a baby's behind. Not too sweet, but sweet enough. I could have done three more, put it that way. I felt a little staid but well over fifty percent of doughnuts sold at Voodoo are the classics. Yet MORE evidence that people want simple food, done well. And in any case I was given a 'maple bar with bacon' for my travels and a more adventurous frame of mind.

All in all, a thoroughly enjoyable hour. The man had a dream and he's realised it. But a warning: even the seemingly timeless doughnut is not immune from global economic fluctuations. "Last year, the price of a sack of flour tripled." Cat mentioned, looking uncharacteristically serious. "If we can get Voodoo Too through the next six months, we'll be fine." Cue much gulping and difficulty on my part. Not sure what to say. I suddenly saw bank managers making aggressive phone calls and the Cat losing his innate cool. But then, the product is so good, the reputation so strong and the trail to the door so well trodden that there will always be people who want an old-school, fun, cheap date. I'll be taking the woman. And if you ever come to Portland, make sure you do too!

Unless you are a woman, in which case take your man, obviously!

Snow at Simpatica

2008-12-23T18:29:00.012Z

You know things are hairy when your plane lands and everyone starts clapping. As we touched down into Portland, Oregon for Christmas at the in-laws, the visibility was so poor that we didn't know we were on the ground......until we were on the ground. Oregon is currently experiencing the biggest snowfall in forty years, which as far as I'm concerned is utterly wonderful and beautiful. It's re-igniting childhood fantasies of sleds on powder-soft snow, or giant snowmen with coal for belly-buttons.

I've eaten some great food since I've been here. Getting to Sel Gris was in itself a mission - cars in the Pacific Northwest are not designed for freezing rain and fifteen inches of cold snap - but once there it was well worth it. Being one of only five tables that had braved the weather to meet their reservations, the kitchen had plenty of time to produce excellent food for us. The place describes itself as 'bistro-style' which I would query - the waiting staff were far too formal to be 'bistro' and the food, although interesting, was much more contemporary than I would expect of a bistro affair. My Lyonnaise Salad was deconstructed to the extent that the wonderful braised, smoked bacon was placed on the side, and poached duck egg was served on top of some warmed Frisee. The signature French salt was a fantastic touch on the egg. Don't get me wrong - it was delicious - but to my mind, not bistro. The place borders on becoming pretentious, and I've no doubt that head chef Daniel Mondok has deliberately kept a leash on his creative instincts as he is aware that great food is ultimately very simple. Technically, the food was brilliant. The flavours were great. But for me - and I must stress that everyone else at the table loved the place - it didn't feel entirely whole.

At the other end of the scale is Simpatica. This was a dining experience that I enjoyed thoroughly. Christmas Eve brunch - a rare hanger steak, eggs over easy and a celeriac gratin - was utterly fantastic. The beef had a beautiful flavour and was tender although very bloody and the gratin was an inspired variation on the classic gratin dauphinoise. But the real clincher about Simpatica was the setting: the basement of an industrial warehouse, kitchen completely open, cooks in jeans and t-shirts, waitresses with big hearts and relaxed smiles. It felt somehow more real - and less forced. It felt as if someone was cooking purely for the love of cooking and letting the ingredients, many of them smoked and cured on the site of Simpatica's sister enterprise Viande Meats & Sausage, speak for themselves. It could have been the early morning bloody mary, but I felt utterly at home.

This is a key concept about good food. You must feel at home. If you're cooking for friends, cook what you crave, not what you think is expected. Don't go overboard - or do, if that's what you want. Take it easy. Relax.

A good book that puts this idea far more succinctly than I was given to me yesterday as a gift. It's called Roast Chicken and Other Stories. Give it a go if you get a chance.

Save Iceland, buy Skyr

2008-12-18T18:15:00.008Z

As we all know the country of Iceland is going through some rather wobbly economic times at the moment. When I flew back from København I visited the currency exchange to get my hands on some US dollars and as I looked gingerly at the exchange rate - never a good idea in Denmark - I noticed that next to the Icelandic flag there was a line. Their currency has devalued so much that you can't actually buy or sell it! Their banks have collapsed, unemployment is rocketing and Britain even tried to use anti-terrorist laws to get it's money back. I've had a fascination for the place for many years but so far, no visit. As a child I would think: why on earth did people land there? It couldn't have been very promising could it? Furthermore, what did they find to eat, aside from fish? What could they grow? According to the Icelandic government website, traditional foods - thorramatur - include cured shark, singed sheep heads and "other delicacies".

But like many windswept people, heavily dependent on their cattle for survival, Iceland produces many excellent dairy products. One of the most common is Skyr, a type of thick yoghurt that has been strained from pasteurized, skimmed milk that has had rennet added. I came across Skyr for the first time yesterday and am now frantically trying to find out anything I can about it. The most information I could find is here. It is supremely high in protein, but tastes very 'clean' and ever so slightly sour. The usual rich, rounded flavour that you get from a typical yoghurt gives way to a milky, smooth texture that doesn't coat your mouth. It can be used in conjunction with both sweet and savoury flavours: last night I simply added some Acacia honey, this morning I made an open sandwich, the recipe is below.

Does anyone else know anything about Skyr? Perhaps there are some Icelanders out there who can give us some more details?

Open-Faced Chicken Sandwich with Skyr 'Mayonnaise'
Serves 2

Ingredients:
1 organic, free-range Chicken breast
1/2 Pink Lady Apple, sliced
Skyr, 1 dessert spoon
Horseradish, 1 teaspoon, grated
Wholegrain mustard, 1 teaspoon
A good handful Thyme leaves
Sour Dough bread, sliced
Maldon Sea Salt

Method:
1. Season your chicken breast and roast in a pre-heated oven at 180 degrees centigrade for 15 minutes, or until cooked through.
2. Meanwhile, mix the Skyr, mustard and horseradish together. Add a pinch of salt.
3. Once your chicken is cooked, remove the skin. Return the skin to the oven and render it until beautifully crisp.
4. Spread generously on a slice of Sour Dough.
5. Lay your sliced apple on top.
6. Slice your chicken breast on an angle, and lay on top of the apple.
7. Sprinkle with Thyme leaves and garnish with the crisp skin.

Five Guys = Burger Heaven

2008-12-16T14:30:00.010Z

When one tries to define American cuisine, it's really impossible to do so. The Earth's most famous melting pot takes it's culinary influences from literally all over the world, and from almost every culture. Coupled with this being a relatively young country, a tangible American type of food really hasn't developed. If you had to choose one thing that America is famous for, it's probably going to be the burger, but even that has it's origins elsewhere with nineteenth century German immigrants bringing the "hamburger" along for their trip via the major port of, you guessed it, Hamburg. Since then, there have been numerous claims to who actually served the first hamburger, but for me the idea of the huddled masses clutching their cured beef between two slices of bread whilst braving the open waves of the Atlantic Ocean, destined for the 'new world' and who-knows-what is far, far more romantic. Although I'm sure they didn't think that at the time.

So from humble beginnings the hamburger - now known generically as the burger - has spread like wildfire all over the planet and is enjoyed daily by millions. As a consequence it seems to me that it has unwittingly developed a bad name. It's become a symbol for the globalized world, fast food and obesity. But the composite parts of a burger are actually perfectly healthy. Bread, fine. Salad, good. Ground beef, fine, and especially once it's cooked and the fat has been rendered out. Even Marco Pierre-White eats at McDonalds. So I think it's time to rise in defence of the burger, and stop assuming that it's a cardiac disaster. Now I'm not advocating that you eat a burger every day, as that ridiculous film 'Super Size Me' attests that people do. But as part of a balanced diet, then why not?

I occasionally eat at McDonalds. But by far the best burger I have eaten from a fast food joint was last night. Five Guys is a DC based burger franchise that over the last ten years has won numerous awards for the quality of what it serves, and you can see why. Good prices, delicious, never frozen hand made burgers, as many condiments as you want for free, and potato chips (from Idaho) that are cut daily and fried in peanut oil, giving them the most wonderful nutty brown colour and taste and then presented in these little cups. There was something honest about the food, and the people working there that instantly makes you relax. You just KNOW you're going to be fed well and as if to complete the picture, as I pulled apart my foil wrapped burger, the classic tones of Foreigner's "waiting for a girl like you" rang around the white-tiled walls. Perfection.

My Burger Recipe
Makes 2

Ingredients:
500g Minced Rump Steak, about 15% fat - add more if required.
2 Shallots, finely diced
A good handful of Thyme leaves
A good handful of Marjoram leaves
1 clove Garlic, crushed
A small squeeze of roasted Tomato puree
1 Egg, beaten
Maldon Sea Salt and Cracked Black Pepper

Method:
1. Pretty simple really. Place all the ingredients into a bowl and mix well. Get your hands in there. Then cover and chill in a fridge for about an hour. This is very important, it'll help the patties keep their shape.
2. Form into two patties. Brush them with olive oil, then fry on a lightly oiled non-stick pan for 4 minutes, either side. This should give you a medium finish.
3. Serve with whatever you like, but personally I eat mine with red onion marmalade and a soft blue cheese such as Dolcelatte.

Grits and Gingkos

2008-12-11T19:03:00.005Z

There is a major crisis currently playing out on the streets of Washington DC. It is something that none of us, citizens or visitors alike are immune from. I caught my first whiff that there was a problem a few days when walking through the very cool neighbourhood of Adams-Morgan. No matter where I went, I could smell dog pooh. Needless to say I was getting completely paranoid. There were no traces of anything on my shoe, so was it me that was smelling? This went on every time I left the flat until eventually, this morning, over grits and a western omlette, I picked up the Washington Post. I was not alone. There have been record reports this year of the effect of the fruit from a Gingko tree that when dropped and crushed by passers by, smells like rancid butter. The district government even tried injecting the trees with 'massive hyperdermic needles' (imagine the scene) to prevent this - but it seems to have had the opposite effect. The trees have been bearing record levels of fruit. So we've got a few more weeks of flaring nostrils and quizzical looks at the soles of our shoes to endure yet.

As I said, I was eating brunch at the time when I was able to breath a huge sigh of relief. I didn't need to change my shower gel. Anyway, why can't people cook omlettes properly? This one wasn't bad, per say, in fact it was quite tasty. The smoked ham - cheddar cheese - green peppers - onions combination was quite satisfying. But it wasn't cooked properly. And by properly I mean slightly under-set in the centre. While I was at Ballymaloe, we learned that an omlette should take less than a minute to make once it hits the pan. Any longer and you know it's probably going to be too set, as was this. The grits however, were a revelation. A strange texture, somewhere between polenta and cous-cous, served very wet. They need seasoning and I can quite imagine serving them with shedloads of Parmesan stirred through, but these ones were plain. Somehow though, they were delicious piled on some toasted rye bread. I'll post a recipe once I find one.

Advanced warning of some upcoming posts: look out for reviews of Ben's Chilli Bowl, Julia's Empanandas and Five Guys - all legendary DC food joints!

Kobenhavn, city chic

2008-12-06T12:40:00.006Z

This is my second visit to Kobenhavn, the first occurred twelve months ago. It was a three day visit as part of a 'grand tour of Scandinavian capitals' that only got as far as Denmark and Sweden, due to a lack of money. But although short on time, it left a lingering impression of an opportunity missed, like watching a film and faling asleep for the last twenty minutes. It's an incredibly 'cool' place - there are hundreds of tall Aryan looking boys and girls strutting around with an almost innate sense of style and grace, the reputation for design is not a myth with the clean lines of mimimalism occasionnally giving way to eighteenth century granduer. The pace of life is sunny afternoon on a beach and so it should be, with Denmark consistenly being ranked as one of the happiest places to live on this little planet of ours.

I spent most of the last trip jaw-dropping with amazement that every person we ran into spoke English. And by 'speak' English I mean perfect fluency. This time I thought I'd be clever by trying to find someone who couldn't. Complete failure and major case of egg on face. My main tactic was to trawl the numerous Pølser Stands (popular with both Danes and tourists alike) and quiz the vagabonds running them. Not a hint of a difficulty and as a result, no need to reign in my near obsessive enthusiasm for the humble Pølser due to linguistic embarresment. For the uninitiated, the Pølser is a national variation on the common hot dog, but is so much more than those dodgy boiled Frankfurters we get in the UK. Pølser with bacon. Pølser with cheese. Pølser with pickled cucumber and little, teenee-weenee bits of onion. Pølser with mustard. Pølser with remoulade! Big ones, small ones. The list is endless. Yes they are mass-produced and yes, they're not organic or even local. But by God they're good and sometimes you have to hold your hands up and admit you're occasionally wrong. If you want, take a look at the website of the company that produces them - but it doesn't really do them justice. A slightly more refined lunchtime snack that the Danes enjoy is the more well-known Smørrebrød - an open sandwich with a rye bread base. You can enjoy these at any number of eateries throughout the city. They have a myriad of toppings including smoked salmon, roast beef, pickled herring, eel - the list is essentially endless. My personal favourite was 'Leverpostej' - warm liver pate serves with sauteed mushrooms.

Danish cuisine has a tradition akin to many northern European countries featuring products well suited to it's climate such as barley, potatoes, berries, mushrooms and locally produced dairy products. Although famously liberal in relation to social values, it seems the Danes are staunchly conservative in relation to their food. There appears a pleasing rejection of health fads. For example, a lack of refrigeration would have meant few fresh fruits and vegetables in main meals. Those things that could be preserved were either pickled or smoked, hence pickled cucumbers or fruits with fish dishes. Food is hearty in Denmark - such as the national dish 'Frikadeller' - a type of meatball with potatoes and brown sauce. Whatever that is. But of course there are now refrigeration processes in Denmark. Consequently, there has been a boom in 'top-end' restaurants in Kobenhavn that demand refinement and a light hand. Diners no longer want to be rolled out of the restaurant. Two of the most famous are Søren K which can be found in the 'Black Diamond' on the city's canals; and Noma whose head chef is Rene Redzepi, formerly of El Bulli. The picture above was taken at Pastis (no website). It can be found at Gothersgade 52. You can see a 'juledessert' that consisted of a rich fruit cake, rice pudding, clementine sorbet and vanilla syrup, garnished with hazelnuts and cherries.

It.

Was.

Deadly Good.

I can't reccommend Kobenhavn highly enough. When I'm there it feels like coming home. The Danes go all out to try and create 'hygge', what in Wales we would call 'cwtch' or in English we'd call cosy. But it's not something that just happens. It's an ideology, a lifestyle, a being.

And from what I've experienced of this great city, they succeed.

Århus, the city of smiles

2008-12-04T09:24:00.004Z

First off, apologies for not having posted in some time. I know regular readers will have been losing eons of sleep over this, but I have been slightly nomadic recently. Initially intending to re-locate to Scotland, I've found myself in Denmark - one of my most favourite countries - re-booting my relationship with the girl from the Hazelnut Tart post.

We've been based in København - a future post will come on that - but for now I'm in Denmark's second city, Århus. Known as the city of smiles and as the cultural capital of the country, the place has an energetic beat largely due to its student population of 40,000. Out of a total of 300,000. Bet the locals are happy! The atmospheric old town ("Den Gamle By") is a living museum of houses, shops, gardens and kitchens and well worth a visit for a feeling of Danish life in centuries past, and the pedestrianised centre nods a head to it's students with it's array of shops, bars and clubs. It feels like a city pulling in two seperate directions, with one half storming toward the future and another clinging to it's proud tradition as a major port and centre of artistic prowess, making the future all the more fascinating.

It's fair to say that Denmark is not renowned for it's culinary tradition, save Pork, Cabbage and Smoked Fish. However, as I happen to adore Roast Pork, Red Cabbage and Smoked Fish all is well in my stomach. Last night we ate at a lovely little French bistro called "Sct. Oluf" with only four things on the menu. I've often wondered about this as a concept - a no choice restaurant where you sit down and 'get what you're given' - perhaps the diner, abdicated of all control, would enjoy simply being fed. As an indicator the place was rammed, cheap and good. And you'll soon learn that cheap, good food in Denmark is like gold dust. I ate Potato Soup, a braised Veal stew (achingly tender) and some Christmas pudding that consisted of an Amaretti biscuit base, stewed apples and a vanilla cream. All for 149Kr or just under 20 pounds (no pound sign on this keyboard!). Bargin. Note that the ingredients involved in those three dishes are not expensive. Yet another example that simple food, cooked well is all most people really want. If you want to go there it's on Mejlgade, number 33. No website, of course.

I also managed to steal a recipe for Red Cabbage, Danish style and in my opinion, the best there is to be had. It's bang in season at the moment and very 'Christmassy':

Klassisk Rødkal - Classic Red Cabbage
Serves 6

Ingredients:

1 Red Cabbage
2 Oranges, Skin and Juice
1 Cinnamon Stick
3 Star Anise
4 Bay Leaves
2 Cardamom Pods
200g Soft Brown Sugar
300ml Pear Juice or Blackcurrant Juice
200ml Cherry Vinegar
400ml Red Wine
Sea Salt, to season

Method:
(NB: As this recipe is translated by me from the Danish, I'm giving you my method for cooking. I only just mananged to work out the ingredients! It's quite time intensive, but not labour intensive. You just need to keep an eye on it.)

1. Remove the core and slice the Cabbage into fine shreds. Set Aside.
2. Quarter your Oranges and then slice lengthways so you have little triangles. Set Aside.
3. Find a large, heavy dish with a lid. Add your Cabbage and Oranges and a splash of water. Place on a medium heat for ten minutes to get it started.
4. Now add all your other ingredients (except the salt) together. Stir well and return to the heat. Make sure the lid is well sealed - use a tin foil seal under the lid to help if necessary. It's really important to keep the heat in. Stir every now and again. If the liquids are boiling off too quickly, reduce the heat. We want the cabbage to braise. Pre-heat an oven to 200 degrees centigrade.
5. After 20 mins transfer to the oven for roughly an hour. Stir every 20 mins or so. The end product should be soft and juicy.

This is one of those dishes that tends to taste better the day after, so the longer you leave it after cooking the better: it allows the flavours to infuse further. If you're re-heating, do so on the hob on a gentle heat and keep it moving. Don't let it stick!

"Wood Fired Oven" Bread

2008-11-17T13:27:00.000Z

If anyone can help me answer this, I'd appreciate it. There was a cooking programme for kids on the BBC - must have been around 1989 - and it had a blonde lady presenting it. What was it? Anyway, she showed us all the wonder of toast, with butter - and that was my first ever solo cooking moment. Since then, I can safely say i have munched my way through more toast than anything else! Try it with Avocado and Marmite: sounds gross, tastes amazing!

There was a debate between Peter, Orlando and I regarding bread: was it the first foodstuff created by man? It was certainly one of the oldest - the ancient Egyptians used to buy a bread called 'ta' from stalls on dusty streets, and history even has a loaf of bread from the first century AD that survived the wrath of Mount Vesuvius. It looks a bit highly baked mind you.

All cultures have their own version of bread. The basic componants - water and grain flour - can be found in different forms all over the planet and these have given rise to Mexican Tortilla, Indian Chapati, Middle-Eastern Pita and Irish Soda Bread among others. It can be leavened or unleavened, toasted or eaten freshly baked, served with sweet or savoury and at any point during a meal. It's also a great leveller - all stratas of society enjoy bread be it a cheaper supermarket white slice job or an artisan, hand made sourdough. For what it's worth, my preference is for those achingly delicious Italian breads such as Foccacia and Ciabatta that are at their best (in my opinion) when stale and tossed through an amazng tomato salad.

Anyway, the reason for my ramblings is Orlando. He showed me a great technique where you bake a loaf of bread inside a casserole pot - giving it a wood fired oven finish. It really worked, and here is the (it's his not mine) recipe for you to try:

Raynaudes 'Wood-Fired Oven' Loaf
Makes 1 Loaf

Ingredients:

Walnut-sized piece of fresh yeast
300ml luke-warm water
450g strong flour
50g cornmeal
A heavy, oval casserole dish.

Method:

1. Dissolve the water in the yeast. Put the flour plus a touch of salt into a food processor, turn on. Gradually add your yeast mixture. Once it's all combined, mix for a minute or so, then stop. Remove and knead by hand for a minute.
2. Put the dough into a greased bowl, cover and let it rise until it has doubled in size.
3. Turn out onto a lightly floured surface, shape it into a rectangle. Roll up and fold under the edges - you should have a shape like a rugby ball.
4. Cut a piece of greaseproof paper about twice the size of the casserole pot, sprinkle with the cornmeal. Put your loaf onto it, then cover and leave to rise until it's one and a half times it's original size.
5. Put the empty casserole dish into an oven to heat - about 230 degrees centigrade.
6. Remove when the loaf has risen, quickly transfer the loaf, still on the paper, into the hot dish. Cover with the lid.
7. Bake for 30 mins, then remove the lid for a further 10 minutes.
8. Cool on a cooling rack. Do not eat until it's cold!

Grasshoppers and the Pyrenees (or Saturday at Raynaudes)

2008-11-12T10:11:00.000Z

Returned from Orlando and Peter's place the other day to an interrogation from friends and family. Simple, thoughtful questions like: "Well, did you get the job or what?". Nothing about the sweeping French countryside, the 12th century bridges, the picture postcard hamlets dotted around any high ground people could lay their hands on, the 20 degree sunshine, lunches with the Pyrenees or the tyre-slashing dog owned by the neighbours that attacked me on Peter's bike! And nothing about the wonderful food. No, just "When are you going to pay some rent, poor boy?"

Arrival in Toulouse went as well as could be expected. After managing to locate the taxi desk, and mumbling my name in French, I was escorted (briskly) to a waiting bus along with the driver, and four other travellers - three office workers from Paris and a dark-haired, cigarette smoking girl from Marseilles. Very Betty Blue she was. They were all dropped off in Albi at which point the driver then checked where I was going. This was swiftly followed by much "mon dieu-ing" and huffing and puffing and fiddling of Tom-Tom. No, I didn't want to be dropped in Monesties, I needed to go to Raynaudes. Yes, Raynaudes. RAYNAUDES.

Decades later I was greeted by Peter - tall, slim and understated. Orlando bounced in and fed me (I was STARVING by this point, so hungry I was shaking) a lovely pan-roasted chicken breast and wild mushrooms. Apparently in France, all pharmacists are trained in the art of mushroom foraging, so you can turn up with a bag you've picked yourself and they'll separate them into a 'Oui' and a 'Non' pile. How great is that???? There then followed a brief discussion about what I'd be doing over the weekend, but essentially this involved assisting wherever possible. Breakfast for the next three mornings, and the evening meal on Sunday, the last service of the season. And I'd be cooking lunch for them tomorrow.

7:30am, Saturday. Breakfasts were relatively straight-forward. Freshly baked croissants alongside a fruit salad and home made yogurts, cereals etc. Once again I was reminded that simplicity doesn't mean boring. Just make it the BEST fruit salad you possibly can - make sure the fruit is at room temperature, the grapefruit segmented properly, the pears ripe - and people will remember it. Just think of all the times you've stayed at a B&B and been given that grim, pappy excuse for bread. That's boring, not bread itself!

Lunch was a relaxed affair and deliberately so. I chose to concentrate on flavour combinations and a well planned menu, rather than anything technically NASA-esque in it's difficulty rating:

Spaghetti with Tomatoes, Capers and Mint
Lamb Cutlets with a Sherry Vinegar sauce and Wilted Greens
Warm Orange Salad with a Honey, Rosemary and Chilli Dressing

One major issue was the cooker. Orlando has a fancy hob with no discernible 'knobs' to twiddle or 'buttons' to press. Just a Star-Trek style panel that you apparently need to glide your finger over to achieve the desired effect. Needless to say I was prodding, fiddling, poking (swearing), and starting to look a bit frantic before Orlando showed me the way. Lesson 1: ensure you understand technology before trying to use it. All in all though, the food came out as I expected and I was happy with the end result. The weather was fantastic, the Pyrenees were standing proud representing the physical barrier with Spain, there were Grasshoppers jumping onto bone dry leaves, making a little 'thud' noise as they landed. Silence allows you to hear so much more. Maybe that's why we Brits love and hate France so much. We may mock their 35-hour weeks and general laziness, but how many of us wouldn't die for such a lifestyle?

Here is the pasta I cooked - fast, easy and utterly brilliant.

Spaghetti with Capers and Mint
Serves 4

Ingredients:
500g Dried Spaghetti
400g Fresh Tomatoes, skinned and de-seeded
200g Shallots, finely chopped
Olive Oil
Garlic Glove, lightly crushed
A small Handfull of Capers
A large handfull of Mint, shredded
Sea Salt, Cracked Black Pepper and Sugar

Method:
1. First skin your tomatoes. Put a little cross on the bottom of each one. Place them in a bowl of boiling water, leave for a minute or so and then remove. The skin should now rub off easily. The remove the eye and seeds. Roughly chop and set aside.
2. Heat your oil. Then add your garlic clove. Once it starts to brown, remove and discard. You'll now have a lovely Garlic Oil.
3. Add your shallots, soften. Then add your tomatoes. Taste and season. Don't be scared of adding sugar, it'll bring out the flavour of the tomatoes.
4. Let this simmer gently for 15-20 minutes. This will intensify the flavour.
5. When it's ready, cook your spaghetti, in a large pot of boiling, salted water.
6. As soon as the pasta is cooked, add the capers and mint to the sauce.
7. Drain your pasta and add to the sauce.
8. Eat straight away, serve with Parmesan or some other hard cheese such as Pecorino.

Le Manoir de Raynaudes

2008-11-08T15:18:00.000Z

Yesterday, the journey began properly. I'm off for three days to visit my good friend Orlando at his wonderful and award-winning Manoir de Raynaudes in the wild, spartan region of south west France about an hour north-east of Toulouse. Ostensibly I'm there for a job interview - Orlando needs a cook for six months next summer - but I'm also looking forward to spending more time with him and to meet his partner, Peter, of whom he spoke whilst we were tucked away in Devon recently on a food writing course. Orlando was undoubtedly one of the stars of the show. As a tutor he gave us concrete, sometimes brutal ("...you may find at the end of this course you really DON'T want to be a writer!") feedback and he otherwise entertained us with his pianistic expertise and stories of his time as editor of the BBC Good Food magazine.

But the main reason I'm going there is to try and work with him next year. It would be a huge honour. Orlando has transformed himself from an amateur cook to passionate professional and in the Manoir has created a table widely considered one of the best in the south of France. He sources many of his ingredients from the fruit, vegetable and herb gardens he has established in the grounds of the Manoir and cooks them with love and attention. His intention, always, is to give people the "best meal of their lives." Not much to emulate then. Gulp.

I sit on a packed train from west Wales to Bristol, where I'll transfer onto a plane that'll whisk me to Toulouse. I feel very jet-set, if a little disorganised. I wonder if this is the future? An endless meandering from kitchen to kitchen, and if I will eventually settle on my own version of a gastronomic getaway? Or I am living a pipe-dream? I know I can cook, and cook well. I know I have a good palette and that I can season. But I can also get carried away, and probably need to learn a little control! I've been reading huge amounts of Skye Gyngell's work recently. She exemplifies what I see as a complete cook: respect for her ingredients, seasonal where possible, taste above presentation and simplicity over complication. She appears, at least, the embodiment of confidence, but I also wonder if all cooks are fundamentally insecure? They have an innate desire to please, to titillate and to satisfy, but do they ever really indulge in self-congratulation? After all, the day you stand still as a cook is the day you lose your edge. You can't hang around and marvel at your achievements. This is their adrenaline rush - that you are only as good as your last service, and that one bad meal can destroy a reputation.

So it's an exciting but terrifying world I am entering. First things first though, get myself to Toulouse, then scramble my way onto a bus that'll whisk me to the middle of nowhere, France. And all with no French. Did I tell you I only speak Welsh and English? No? Then let the adventure begin.

Hazelnut Tarts (and the French)

2008-11-01T13:24:00.000Z

As usual, there's a story attached to this. A few years ago, in the early days of meeting an amazing woman, she presented a Hazelnut Tart for us to munch on as a mid-afternoon snack on a freaky October afternoon in Edinburgh. It was the "most wonderful" Hazelnut tart she had EVER TASTED, she said. Even though it was a pre-packaged job, I have to admit that the pastry was great, the filling moist and the result sumptuous. And then the killer. The tart had been acquired whilst on a trip to see a Frenchman. Pathetic, I know, but then the distance between food and sex, as far as I can see, is about the width of my little toe. I was most perturbed.

Since then, I've been on a mission to bake the ultimate Hazelnut Tart so that I may no longer be defeated by some suspicious, foreign effort. I would parade my creation down the Champs-Elysees shouting "la vie longue la tarte Galloise" in triumph. This would then go down in the annuls of history as the most important victory over the French since the Duke of Wellington spanked Napoleon at the Battle of Waterloo in 1815.

If only it were that simple, however. Baking, I would admit, is not my first love. I'm certainly a highly competent pastry chef, but it doesn't come naturally to me in the way that say, a brothel is natural to a Parisian. But my time at Ballymaloe certainly provided me with some excellent ground rules, like ensuring all of your ingredients are chilled before making pastry, or the importance of blind baking. Baking, and dessert-making in general, is much more technically challenging than putting a stew or soup together. When a bread recipe calls for half a teaspoon of baking soda - that's what you use - any more and you'll end up with soapy yellow blotches through your end product. Such precision can feel stifling but it's further evidence that cooking is not all about "passion" or an innate "feel" for what flavour combinations work well. You must also have a level of technical skill to be a complete cook.

It's also important to be humble. You can't re-invent the wheel. And it seems to me that a confident cook will do very little to the ingredients that he is given, and let the ingredients speak for themselves. One such cook, whom I hugely admire is Skye Gyngell, head chef at Petersham Nurseries and this is her recipe (re-written by me) for a lovely Hazelnut Tart.

Hazlenut Tart
Serves 8-10

Ingredients (for the pastry):

250g Plain Flour
125g Unsalted Butter, grated
30g Caster Sugar
1 free-range Egg
1 free-range Egg Yolk
Zest of a Lemon
1/2 tsp Vanilla Extract

Ingredients (for the filling):

300g Shelled Hazelnuts
300g Caster Sugar
3 Whole Eggs
Zest of a Lemon
300g Unsalted Butter

Method (NB: this is my method):

1. Pre-heat the oven to 190 degrees centigrade, then toast your hazelnuts.
2. While they're toasting, make your pastry. Put all the WELL CHILLED ingredients into a food processor. Pulse, and eventually everything will come together to form a ball. If not add some ice-cold water, very sparingly. Wrap in cling film and chill in the fridge.
3. Meanwhile, make the filling. Put the nuts in a blender and pulse - keep them coarse, you want your end result to have some texture. Then add all your other ingredients and pulse until combined.
4. Now remove your pastry and roll on a lightly floured surface. Look for a thickness of about 3-4 mm.
5. Roll onto your pin and drape it over a ten-inch tin. Gently press into the sides. I leave pastry draping over the edge as it will shrink during cooking and you can trim it up afterwards.
6. Blind-bake for 15 minutes, or until almost cooked through. Remove and cool.
7. Finally, add your hazelnut filling, spreading it evenly. Bake for about 35 minutes, until golden and just firm to the touch.
8. Allow to cool and serve with fresh cream and raspberries.

Run Rabbit Run Rabbit....

2008-10-24T18:34:00.000+01:00

....run, run, run. Here comes the farmer with his gun, gun, gun. And struggling to keep up, here comes Edward cheering on the farmer and keeping him supplied with pork pies, cheese sandwiches, and anything else he may need to sustain his bloodlust. For me, hunting is the purest form of food provision. Not only are there no welfare issues with sourcing meat this way (obviously) but also, be it fishing, shooting or trapping, there's little doubt that the taste of a wild animal is infinitely superior to that of a farmed equivalent and as I've said previously, taste is the number one consideration. I remember fondly the first time I ate wild salmon, having previously only encountered the regular, pale pink supermarket variety. I was dumb-founded that the flesh was a beautiful deep red, rather like that of a blood orange, and once I'd pan-roasted the fillet, gently seasoned it and taken my first bite, I was hooked. The flesh was sweet and complex no doubt due to the variety of foods the salmon had eaten during it's lifetime. You know that slightly devious look many women develop when they're munching on some chocolate - well that was me with the salmon. Since that moment I always try to eat wild produce where possible but there's no doubt that some products are more easily sourced than others. Regrettably many fish stocks are perilously low, and I would encourage anyone to try and buy with a consideration for what's sustainable where possible - more on this in future posts. However, it's not all doom and gloom. One can still enjoy parts of nature's bounty without feeling too guilty, without giving the bank manager a heart attack and without a huge knowledge of what game is in season (more on this in later posts too). Available almost all year is the (drum-roll!!) European Wild Rabbit.

Wild rabbit is an extremely lean meat and has a subtle, gamey flavour. Perhaps it's greatest strength is it's versatility. It works well with a myriad of different ingredients. The Italians use tomatoes and herbs, the south americans use chilli and the French use mustard and cream. But in Britain, although there are thousands of the critters all over the country, and despite the fact they're regarded as a pest by many farmers, we eat relatively little. It seems to me there are three reasons for this.

Firstly, during the Second World War, households were encouraged to keep rabbits for meat in an effort to feed the family during the dark days of rationing. No doubt there were many botched attempts at casseroles and pies, as the meat can go incredibly tough without a sufficient addition of fat. Cue a lifelong dislike of rabbit for the children subjected to that. Secondly, there was a highly successful attempt to cull the rabbit population during the 1950's through the introduction of Myxomatosis. This seems to have affected many - even my father recently admitted that he was "scarred by frothing mouths and convulsing bodies" in the fields he walked. And thirdly, there is the slightly contemptible "fluffy bunny brigade" for whom the idea of eating such a "cute" animal cannot be reconciled. It's also fairly hard to get your hands on some. Regrettably, most food is purchased in the supermarket, but when was the last time you actually saw Rabbit in the refrigeration cabinet?

If you'd like to secure some rabbits, ask a good local butcher. They'll be able to remove the head (fluffy bunny brigade), skin the animal and gut it for you. I would certainly recommend this. The first time I prepared a rabbit for use, the animal evacuated it's bowels all over my forearm, resulting in much sniggering amongst the boys and loud screams from the girls. Joking aside, it wasn't an overly pleasant experience, so save yourself the bother. I then cooked the whole lot up in a vague "coq au vin-esque" manner. Needless to say it was tough and inedible. Thankfully I've developed since then, and my take on a classic warming autumnal rabbit stew is below. Try some rabbit today - it's cheap, different, tasty and extremely good for you.

Cider Braised Rabbit & Apple
Serves 6

I like to eat this very simply with a hunk of crusty bread, but I've also served it with Polenta. Use a good quality dry cider, as opposed to a sweet mass-produced one. It's one drawback is a lack of colour, so make sure you sprinkle some chopped parsley over it before serving.

Ingredients:

Olive Oil
4 Large Shallots, Sliced
400g Pork Belly, Diced
2 Wild Rabbits, Skinned & Jointed
100g Plain Flour, Seasoned
450 mls Cider
200 mls Double Cream
4 Bay Leaves
4 Eating Apples, Halved, Cored & Sliced
A handful of Flat Leaf Parsley, Finely chopped
Sea Salt & Cracked Black Pepper

1. Find a good quality heavy casserole dish. Add a glug of olive oil and add your shallots. Soften and remove.
2. In the same pan, add the diced pork belly. Brown and remove.
3. Take your seasoned flour and put it in a plastic bag. Add the rabbit joints and shake until covered. Remove the rabbit and shake off the excess. Then brown in the oil and rendered pork fat. You will probably need to do this in batches. Once the rabbit is well browned, return the shallots and pork belly to the pan.
4. Now add your cider, cream and bay leaves. Stir, and bring to a simmer.
5. Finally add your apples. Keep the stew ticking over on a simmer for a good hour. You'll know it's ready when the sauce has reduced and the meat is tender.
6. Season to taste.

October Leaves Falling

2008-10-22T11:59:00.000+01:00

One of the most pleasing things about autumn is the aesthetic pleasure it gives the eye. Leaves turn from greens to browns, reds and oranges before falling to the ground and making the underfoot squelchy and slippy. Nature then stands before you, naked but not vulnerable - and re-invents itself in a few months time looking fresher and more youthful than ever. We, being top of the food chain, reap the reward of the seasons but will only gain true pleasure by working with them, not grating against them.

Think about Strawberries in May. They pack much more flavour, are cheaper because there's a glut of them and you can get them locally. Now compare that with buying them during the winter months. Bland, strangely watery, an anaemic interior and only palatable with huge quantities of sugar and/or Cointreau. That was NOT a suggestion -wait for the food to come to you. I guarantee the anticipation of food in season will make it taste all the better.

Thinking of the falling leaves, some that you get your hands on right now are the Nasturtium - or Tropaeolum to give them their official name - and they can be used in a variety of ways, the most common being mixing through salads. They have a distinctive peppery, slightly mustard-like taste and their flowers, whilst lacking on taste are incredibly decorative. You can also make soups from them, or toss them through a stir-fry for added nutrition. This is how I like to use them.

Tempura Nasturtium Salad with Goats Cheese
Serves 2

This salad can be served as a snack-lunch or a starter for a dinner party. It utilises all parts of the perennial Nasturtium plant. When picking, remove the flower heads and soak in water for ten minutes before using. Check them well for Earwigs, who seem to love hiding around the stamen. Once you're happy that they are clear, drain them on some kitchen paper. When serving, choose a light dressing as the goats cheese is quite rich. Finally, don't go mad on the seasoning, the leaves are peppery enough as it is!

Ingredients:

9 Nasturtium Flower Heads
200g Soft Goat's Cheese
4 Small Anchovy Fillets
A Good Handful of Thyme Leaves, Chopped
10-12 Nasturtium Leaves, Shredded
3 Good Handfuls of Watercress
100g Plain Flour
200 mls Ice-Cold Carbonated Water
1 Medium Egg
Sunflower Oil

Method:

1. Wash the Nasturtium flowers as directed above.
2. While they are soaking, cream the cheese, anchovy and thyme leaves together to make a paste.
3. Using either a teaspoon or piping bag, fill six of the flowers with the mixture. Do not overfill. Place in fridge to chill.
4. Pre-heat a fryer to 180 degrees centigrade. Use a flavourless oil like Sunflower Oil.
5. Make the batter. Whisk the egg and add the ice-cold water. Then gradually add the flour. Don't over do the whisking and don't worry if there are a few lumps.
6. Toss the leaves in your dressing of choice. Pick the colouful leaves from the remaining Nasturtium flowers and mix through. Season and arrange in the centre of a plate. Try to get some height involved here.
7. Remove the flower heads from the fridge and dip in the batter, coating lightly. Then fry until they are golden and bobbing on the oil like a boat on the ocean. Remove and drain.
8. Serve with the salad leaves.

"Grow Your Own": Broad Beans

2008-10-20T14:43:00.000+01:00

As a cook I consistently try to use top quality ingredients. A rather famous TV chef once said to me - "You're only as good as your ingredients, Ed. I can't make a joyous meal out of tinned spaghetti and frozen prawns..." - and that simply confirmed to me what I already felt. Growing up in Carmarthenshire, I was lucky to be surrounded by fantastic local produce. The area is historically associated with livestock, and in particular lamb, but we also have the most amazing pork products, some award winning cheeses, access to the Irish Sea as well as inland rivers that are (relatively) brimming with Salmon and Trout. You could easily eat for the rest of your life out of one small part of west Wales. So why we're importing lamb from New Zealand, I have no idea.

Of course there are certain things we don't produce in abundance, but that's where the green fingers come out and you start to grow your own. I'm not going to get completely sanctimonious and pretend I'm an environmentalist - I'm not. I'm interested in taste first. I'm afraid the rising waters of the oceans are a secondary concern to "what the hell am I going to do with all these apples falling everywhere? I've already made pies, crumbles, compotes, jellies and apple juice." But it does stand to reason that if you grow vegetables in your garden, or on your windowsill, or on a shared allotment, they will taste infinitely better than if they have been sitting around on a supermarket shelf for a week, and will have helped reduce your carbon footprint too.

October is a bleak time in the garden. The weather is closing in and there is very little to plant for next year. You harvest apples all day long, you dig up the last of the carrots and potatoes. The thrill of new life is in short supply. But you can keep yourself going by planting one of my favourite vegetables - the Broad Bean. There can be surely no more comfortable bean, than the broad bean. By the time spring is upon us, they will be dangling thick, heavy and proud whilst nestled in a soft white jacket. They look so cosy in there! But I digress. Right now, you need to plant them about 5cm deep, roughly 10cm apart, in parallel rows that are themselves 25cm apart.

I planted mine (Bunyards Exhibition and Red Epicure) two weeks ago, and the little beggars are already sprouting. Broad beans are renowned for being a hardy plant, but if a frost is on the cards over the winter you must cover them, just to be on the safe side. Other than that you just give them a stake to cling onto once they become seedlings, and all should be well. Give them a try!

Whole Roast Onions with Marjoram
Serves 4

October is also the time of year when one has an abundance of onions. Try this as a yummy lunchtime snack, with some crusty bread and a glass of crisp white wine.

Ingredients:

4 Large White Onions
100g Butter
A Handful of Marjoram, Chopped
Sea Salt and Cracked Black Pepper

Method:

1. Pre-heat your oven to 220 degrees centigrade.
2. Place the onions in a baking tray, transfer to oven. Cook until very soft and juicy.
3. Meanwhile, soften your butter and add your chopped Marjoram.
4. Once the onions are cooked, remove and gently peel the first few outer layers of the skin. You must leave some behind though, so the onion will hold it's shape. Slice the top of each onion away, as if you were scalping a boiled egg, and then lather the onion with the Marjoram butter.
5. Once the butter has melted, season well and enjoy!

The Ubiquitous Chip

2008-10-19T14:02:00.000+01:00

When starting on a new adventure, it's important to remember who you are, where you came from and the composition of your food genes.

As a child I was incredibly lucky, food wise. I didn't realise it at the time, but a distinct lack of funds during the early years of the 80's meant my parents were always scrimping and saving, using and re-using and generally being inventive in the kitchen. It was here that I watched them unwittingly create the building blocks of my culinary knowledge and for these I am eternally grateful. I remember gazing wide-eyed at the pots and being told that it was important to brown meat before making a stew "otherwise we'll be eating leather". I'm not sure if it was the sizzle of lamb on fat, or the golden brown it turned, but that memory is now imprinted in my nut-store for good.

Another memory etched into my skull is my first ever job, at the local chip shop. My parents had decided that it was time to learn "the value of money" and that "nothing comes for free". So I was marched down to the chippy (wailing) to beg, borrow or steal a job and was amazingly taken on peeling spuds at the back of the shop - for £2.00 a bucket. And by bucket I mean a barrel, full of ice cold water, containing a couple of hundred potatoes each. It was hellish. But when I'd filled three barrels and earned my £6.00 for the evening, I skipped home planning what I could buy if I saved up enough money. Much hard work later, I was promoted to serving customers alongside my friend, Michael the ladies man. Even at the age of 14 he had a way with women. A classic wing-man.

And it was here that I had my first moment of true food satisfaction. I simply loved the ritualistic questions - "Beth wy't ti moen?" (What would you like?) followed by "Halen a vinegar?" (Salt and Vinegar?). I loved the precise nature of wrapping up fish and chips in a couple of sheets of paper and handing them over, warming like a hot water bottle, to eager punters. The smells I adored - gently sizzling chips and crisp battered Cod. And the speed, the efficiency - for someone who went on to work in a professional kitchen, it was the ultimate education.

Twelve years later and I'm sitting outside on a rickety, slightly damp park bench, in the soothing mist with chips and mushy peas, reflecting on the utter timelessness of the place. The youngsters who served me had the same crazed look that Michael and I used to have as the queue grew ever longer, eventually stretching out the door, with hungry stomachs. The layout of the place was identical and the bowls of raw, part-fried and fried chips were all lined up like dominos. And the glee! The sheer glee on the faces of the diners as they munched on a humble fried potato brought me careering back to the satisfaction I felt as mothers and fathers walked out of the door with the family meal.

And it's appropriate that it's here, at the chip shop, that I start on my new food journey which will hopefully take me places I haven't seen and gift me people whom I'll carry with me forever. Having thrown in the old career and invested in a culinary education at the Ballymaloe Cookery School, I'll be plying my trade as a roaming cook, learning as I go. But it all started here, with the simple, modest chip, and in honour of it, this is how you make your own:

Chip Shop Chips

I find that using 'old' potatoes such as Golden Wonder works well. Eat them straight away while they are crisp, and dip them in good quality mayonnaise.

Ingredients:

8 'Golden Wonder' Potatoes
Good Quality Olive Oil

Method:

1. Pre-heat your fryer to 160 degrees centigrade.
2. Clean potatoes well and leave unpeeled.
3. Cut into chips about half an inch thick and 2.5 inches long.
4. Rinse and pat dry to remove excess starch.
5. Fry until just soft. This should take about 5 minutes.
6. Remove the chips. Bring the heat of the oil up to 200 degrees centigrade.
7. Re-fry chips until golden and crisp. Remove, drain on kitchen paper and sprinkle with salt.