SALMON BAKED IN FOIL
TABBOULEH AND FENNEL SALAD, OR PEAS, AVOCADO, AND MINT
ALMOND SPONGE WITH ORANGE SYRUP
This is the perfect menu for a sprightly April; the salmon makes you feel summer’s on the way, and the fragrant and tender sponge offers comfort because it isn’t.
SALMON BAKED IN FOIL
My grandmother swears that the way to cook a whole salmon is to cover it with cold water, bring it to the boil, let it simmer for 10 minutes, then turn it off. When it’s cold, she says, it will, whatever its weight, be perfectly à point.
If you don’t own a fish poacher (as I don’t), then baking salmon in the oven, wrapped in foil, is the best and simplest way to cook it. Everyone has their own way, and I notice that cooking at high temperatures is gaining fashionable ground, but this is the basic method. Heat the oven to 300°F. Get a piece of foil large enough to wrap the fish loosely—for 8 you should have a salmon of 5½ pounds or so, which is probably as big as you’ll be able to get in your oven. Butter the fish if you are going to eat it hot; oil it if you’re going to eat it cold. Lay the fish on top of the greased foil, season with salt and pepper, squeeze over the juice of ½ lemon, then twist the edges of the foil together lightly. The foil envelope should be well sealed but baggy.
Put the parcel into the oven; I always put the foil parcel directly on the rack, not having a pan big enough. I rely on my aunt Fel’s way, which is to cook the fish at this fairly low heat for 12 minutes per pound. If you like your salmon fashionably orange in the middle, rather than flaky peachy pink, cut the overall cooking time by about 15 minutes. I also pass on a tip from fish seller Steve Hatt, who reminds me to make the join of the foil on the back of the fish so that you can quickly unwrap a bit and poke a knife in to see if the fish is coming away from the bone and is therefore ready.
When the salmon’s had its time, remove from oven, unwrap the foil, and leave it to cool in the opened parcel if it’s to be eaten cold. If you’re going to eat it hot, let it stand like that for 15 minutes, then finish unwrapping and put it on its plate. Either way, surround the salmon with lemon quarters together with watercress if you’re going in for a traditional look; otherwise, you could supplement the lemon wedges (which are necessary, though of course don’t need to be on the same plate as the fish) with arugula, mizuna, or flat-leaf parsley. I am not much of a garnish queen, but there is something about an unadorned fish on its platter that makes it look beached.
TABBOULEH
PEAS, AVOCADO, MINT, FENNEL, OIL, LEMON
If the salmon is to be eaten cold, which I do prefer, I might have it with tabbouleh (see page 236)—not just to work against culinary expectations but because they are wonderful together. But old pairings do work and I think of peas as going with salmon as much as I think of them partnering ham. My great-aunt Myra, who was a wonderful cook, used to make a summer salad of peas, avocado, and mint (very British seventies); turn to page 343 if you’re interested. To go with the tabbouleh, though, just slice some fennel bulbs very, very thinly, drizzle over oil, and squeeze over lemon. Add salt, pepper, and the finely chopped aniseedy fronds that you removed before slicing. I love this almost medicinally pure taste against the oily denseness of the fish.
I normally avoid too much same-color food. However much I resist emphasis on the look, rather than the taste, of what you’re eating, appearances do count for something. But all rules, all generalizations, culinary or otherwise, are to be challenged. Here I evince the culinary proof: the dessert I suggest, the almond sponge drenched in orange syrup, is exactly what you want, despite being a tonal echo of the course before; the recipe for it is on page 115.
I know how to observe the proprieties, mutter damply about the cold, exclaim with joy at the prospect of warmth and sun and dusty summer heat, but the truth is I love winter food, winter cooking, best. I welcome it, and in January particularly, when I make first sightings of early hothouse rhubarb, almost bubblegum pink.
WELCOMING JANUARY LUNCH FOR 6
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BRAISED PHEASANT WITH MUSHROOM AND BACON
PIG’S BUM
This is such a wonderful winter lunch; in January, the memory of all those slabs and plates of meat from Christmas is near enough to make one weepily grateful for a sweetly steamy bowl of stew. The dessert afterwards—as glorious as its name—is the result of a conversation I once had with British chef and restaurateur Antony Worrall Thompson. I’d been, I think, recounting the gastronomic glories of rhubarb; he’d countered by telling me of a steamed pudding he’d had at prep school they always called pig’s bum, because of the peculiar form and coloration of this stodgy rhubarb steamed sponge. I, understandably, was entranced. I have no idea how my version of this pudding measures up to his remembered original, my inspiration, but I have grown as fond of it as I could never become of any of the puddings I remember from the school lunches of my past. Note that if the pudding is prepared with later-season rhubarb, it won’t be as piggy-pink.
The recipe for the pheasant stew is on page 101, and with it I’d have the bulghur mentioned there, too; but as the steamed pudding that follows is actually rather light, you could wallow in a pile of buttery mashed potatoes first if you—quite understandably—wanted.
The pudding needs 2½ hours to cook, but you need do nothing to it while it’s cooking, except to make sure there’s enough water in your steamer to keep the pudding cooking at full heat, so don’t regard the time as a major problem. Besides, the pheasant stew can be made in advance, so you’re hardly giving yourself a terrible morning in the kitchen.
PIG’S BUM
¼ pound rhubarb, trimmed and chopped into 1½-inch pieces
½ cup plus 1 tablespoon sugar
1 cup all-purpose flour
1½ teaspoons baking powder
pinch salt
8 tablespoons (1 stick) unsalted butter, very soft
2 eggs
1½ teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
1–2 tablespoons milk, if needed
Butter a 4-cup pudding basin (preferably one with a lid) or deep bowl, remembering to butter the inside of the lid too; if it hasn’t got a lid, you will just have to wrap it in foil later.
Put the rhubarb in a saucepan with the tablespoon of sugar and ½ cup of water; bring to the boil, reduce the heat, and simmer, covered, over medium heat till it’s cooked to a pulp, about 5 minutes. Drain and let cool. Put a full kettle on to heat up the water for steaming later.
Put all the remaining ingredients except the milk into the food processor and mix till smoothly combined; you must see no lumps of butter, or indeed of anything. Then add the rhubarb purée—you should have 4–5 tablespoons—and pulse quickly so that that, too, is combined in the sponge batter, though it doesn’t matter if what you have is a pale yellow mixture shot through with strings of pink. If it’s still a little stiff, add the milk, a tablespoonful at a time, until smooth and soft. Now dip a spoon in and lick—not because I think you need to add anything, but because the taste of this is better than almost anything; it reminds me of the boiled sweets I used to buy as a child, two-tone affairs called rhubarb and custard, that left the inside of my cheek rough with sugar-shock.
Anyway, pour the boiling water from the kettle into the bottom half of a steamer or just any big pot (in which case you need the water to come about halfway up the pudding basin), put it on the heat, and pour the mixture into the prepared basin. Put the lid on or cover with foil, then wrap all over with foil again—and really wrap, so no water can come in. When the water’s boiling, lower the basin in or set it above on the steamer. Cook for 2½ hours, making sure the water never runs dry or stops bubbling. Remove the foil and unmold the pudding onto a plate.
You do really need custard with this. How could you think otherwise? I normally like hot custard, but cold is right here. This makes life easier, as you don’t even have to think of fiddling about with it at the last minute. Turn to pages 31–33 for re
cipes.
MUSTARD AND MUSCOVADO GLAZE
From pig’s bum to ham: it’s an obvious step. I love ham poached in water or cider and then its rind stripped off, the glutinous fatty wrapping underneath pressed with mustard and sugar, scored with a sharp knife and studded with cloves, and then glazed in a hot oven. That was my mother’s way. To poach the ham, see the recipe on page 212. When the ham’s cooked, either way, strip it, score it (and I have only just worked out how to do this without burning my fingers—leave it to cool, the obvious and right thing to do), and then smear it with glaze before poking in cloves at the interstices of the criss-crossing diagonal slashes. My mother’s glaze was simply a stiff paste made of English mustard powder, muscovado sugar, and a drop or two of orange juice. Marguerite Patten, the venerable British cookbook writer, suggests (in Classic British Dishes) a wonderfully malevolent-sounding glaze of black treacle—use molasses—blended with a little crushed pineapple (from a can, presumably) and sugar, which should keep the Hawaiian pizza brigade—and those who sneer at it—happy.
BLACK TREACLE AND PINEAPPLE
I am much taken with the American way of cooking a ham in Coca-Cola. In an age that solemnly tells you that cooking can produce food only as good as the ingredients that are provided (that’s the whole history of French cuisine dispatched then), there is something robustly cheering about this dish. I’d be tempted to stick to the same idiom with dessert, too. By that I don’t necessarily mean some sugary example of kitchen kitsch, but one of those unpretentious pies that Americans do so well.
WHITE-TRASH LUNCH FOR 6
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HAM IN COCA-COLA
PARSLEY POTATOES, SNOW PEAS, AND YOUNG PEAS
CHERRY PIE
HAM IN COCA-COLA
I cannot urge you to try this strongly enough. The first time I tried it, it was out of amused interest. I’d heard, and read, about this culinary tradition from the Deep South, but wasn’t expecting it, in all honesty, to be good. It is—I’m converted. I have to make myself cook ham otherwise now, though often I don’t bother with the glaze but just leave it for longer in the bubbling Coke instead. But, if you think about it, it’s not surprising it should work. The sweet, spiky drink just infuses the ham with spirit of barbecue. Don’t even think of using Diet Coke.
2 liters Coca-Cola
1 5-pound half bone-in ham, partially or fully cooked
1 medium onion, halved
1 cup freshly made bread crumbs
2 cups dark muscovado sugar or dark brown sugar
1 tablespoon mustard powder
2 tablespoons Dijon mustard
Remove and reserve 2 tablespoons of the Coke.
Put the ham in a large pot or Dutch oven, add the onion, then pour over the larger quantity of the Coke. Bring to the boil, reduce to a good simmer, put a lid on, though not tightly, and cook for about 1½ hours for a partially cooked ham, 1 hour if the ham is fully cooked. The ham is done at an internal temperature of 160°F for a partially cooked ham, 140°F for one that is fully cooked. Do take into account that if the ham’s been in the fridge right up to the moment you cook it, you will have to give a good 15 or so minutes’ extra cooking time so that the interior is properly cooked.
Meanwhile, preheat the oven to 425°F.
When the ham’s had its time, take it out of the pot (do not throw away the cooking liquid) and let it cool a little for ease of handling. (Indeed, you can let it cool completely, then finish off the cooking at some later stage if you want.) Remove any skin, leaving a thin layer of fat. Mix the bread crumbs, sugar, and the mustards to a thick, stiff paste with the reserved 2 tablespoons of Coke. Add a drop at a time because the one thing you don’t want is a runny mixture. Slap the mustardy crust on the ham and put it, crust-side up, on a rack in a roasting pan and cook in the hot oven for 10–15 minutes, until the crust is just set.
Or if you want to do the braising stage in advance and then let the ham cool, give it 30–40 minutes, from room temperature, in a 350°F oven.
With this I serve a large bowl of floury, large-chunked boiled potatoes, leafily covered with fresh chopped parsley—and I mean covered, not sprinkled. But mashed potatoes are wonderful with this, too, truly. For the peas, cook about 2½ cups frozen young peas in copious boiling water until almost tender, about 3 minutes. Add several handfuls of snow peas, any strings removed, and allow them to blanch and the young peas to finish cooking, about 1 minute. Drain the lot, stir in some butter, and season with salt and pepper.
This ham, not surprisingly, is sensational cold, in sandwiches, and the cooking liquid makes a quick, no less fabulous, version of the South Beach black bean soup. I throw a pound of dried black beans in the liquid, adding about a cup of water and the juice and zest of a lime. When cooked and puréed as usual, I eat it with some more lime squeezed in, or some drops of balsamic vinegar stirred in, a dollop of sour cream or somesuch, and a handful of earthily pungent, eye-searingly green, just-chopped coriander.
CHERRY PIE
My generation is, effectively, American-reared, so I suppose it’s not surprising if we British have a certain kitchen nostalgia for these foods we’ve never eaten, only seen in films or read in those exotically demotic stories and novels. And you don’t get much more evocatively down-home than a cherry pie. If you were serious about such matters you’d be stoning the fresh cherries yourself, but apart from a brief burst of enthusiasm when I got a friend to bring over a cherry stoner with her when she came to visit, I stick to good bottled ones. Morello cherries in glass jars are just dandy.
Serve à la mode or dollop on some far more grown-up crème fraîche instead.
FOR THE PASTRY
2 cups all-purpose flour
1½ teaspoons baking powder
pinch salt
8 tablespoons (1 stick) unsalted butter, diced
2 egg yolks beaten with ¼ teaspoon pure vanilla extract, pinch of salt, and 2 tablespoons of ice water
FOR THE FILLING
1 tablespoon unsweetened butter, melted
½ cup plus 1–2 tablespoons sugar
1 tablespoon Italian 00 or all-purpose flour
1 24-ounce jar morello cherries in syrup, syrup drained and 2 tablespoons reserved
1–2 tablespoons superfine sugar
Preheat the oven to 400°F. Put in a baking sheet to heat up.
Using the pastry ingredients, make the pastry according to instructions on page 38 and then divide it into two discs. Roll out one disc and use it to line an 8-inch shallowish pie plate. For the filling, make a paste with the melted butter, the sugar, flour, and the reserved cherry syrup. It will be stiff, not runny; the cherries will leak out more as they bake and you don’t want soggy pastry.
Roll out the other disc, and then add the cherries and the paste to the pie dish. Moisten the edges of the pastry and top with the remaining pastry. Cut off the overhang, crimp the edges, and, if you’re up to it, cut out some little cherries to decorate. Make a few slashes in the top with a sharp knife for the steam to escape and then put on the hot baking sheet in the preheated oven.
After 15 minutes, cover loosely with foil, turn down the oven to 350°F, and bake for another 18 minutes, or until the crust is golden and thick juices bubble through the slashes.
Remove, sprinkle with the superfine sugar, and let cool for about 40 minutes before eating.
I am aware that the culinary spirit of the age is not ferociously carnivorous and that my blood-oozing joints of well-hung beef and fat-girdled pork risk offending modern quasi-vegetarian sensibilities. But I have wanted to concentrate on this sort of meat cookery simply because it seems to hold such unnecessary terrors for people now. There’s enough written on pan-Asian stir-fries and Italo-Thai noodle dishes and you’re unlikely to need any more, at least for the time being.
Of course I don’t expect anyone to eat this sort of food every weekend without fail—no one’s telling you you can’t have pasta, for God’s sake—but the particular focus it offers is worth exploitin
g. For food like this, more than any other sort, is what cooking at home rather than eating in a restaurant is all about.
Dinner
I’m not sure I like the connotations of the term dinner party, but I think we’re stuck with it. Kitchen suppers—which is perhaps what this chapter should be called—sounds altogether too quaint, even if it evokes more accurately the culinary environment most of us now inhabit. So let’s just call it dinner, which is what it is. The modern dinner party was, in Great Britain, the invention of the post-war, post–Elizabeth David brigade of socially aware operators, and in the United States was ushered in by the great Julia Child. In both cases, this dining was about Entertaining-with-a-capital-E. Not only was the food distinctly not home food, it wasn’t even restaurant food; what was evoked was the great ambassadorial dinner. But autres temps, autres moeurs; most of us don’t even have dining rooms any more. Yet people often still think they should be following the old culinary agenda; they feel it is incumbent on them not so much to cook as to slave, to strive, to sweat, to perform. Life doesn’t have to be like that. As far as I’m concerned, moreover, it shouldn’t be like that. I find formality constraining. I don’t like fancy, arranged napkins and I don’t like fancy, arranged foods.
That’s not to say that I feel everything should be artfully casual; the this-is-just-something-I’ve-thrown-together school of cookery can be just as pretentious. What I feel passionately is that home food is home food, even when you invite other people to eat it with you. It shouldn’t be laboriously executed, daintily arranged, individually portioned. It’s relaxed, expansive, authentic—it should reflect your personality, not your aspirations. Professional chefs have to innovate, to elaborate, to impress the paying customer. But the home cook is under no such constraints. (Indeed, you don’t have to cook much at all if you are prepared to shop well.) I once went to a dinner party a good friend of mine gave, and she was so anxious, she’d been up till three in the morning the night before making stocks. She said scarcely a word to any of us after opening the door, as she was in the middle of the first of about five courses. The food was spectacular, but she spent most of the evening ever more hysterical in the kitchen. At one point we could, as we stiltedly made conversation between ourselves, hear her crying. The fault wasn’t her competence, but her conception: she felt that her dinner party must be a showcase for her culinary talents and that we must all be judging her. Some cooks, indeed, seem to resent their guests for interrupting the cooking, rather as doctors and nurses resent patients for interrupting the nice, efficient running of their hospitals.
How to Eat Page 39