How to Eat

by Nigella Lawson

  Restaurants need to be able to produce food in short order. But unless you want to stand in your kitchen handing hot plates out to your friends at the table, you need not and should not. Avoid small portions of tender-fleshed fish that have to be conjured up at the last minute and à point, and anything that will wilt, grow soggy, or lose character or hope as it sits, sideboard-bound and dished up. Don’t make life harder on yourself. I am working on banishing the starter from my dinner-partying life. (Truth to tell, I don’t have much of a dinner-partying life, but, in theory, I do invite friends for dinner.) This is not so much because cooking the starter is difficult—in fact it is the easiest course of any of them—but because clearing the table, timetabling the whole meal, keeping the main course warm, can all add to the general tension of the evening.

  Besides, our lives are so different now. Because working hours are longer, we eat dinner later. And if dinner doesn’t start till nine or nine-thirty, then it is going to be a very late evening if you sit down to three courses. And you don’t want to miss out on the general hanging around with a drink beforehand. I am more of an eater than a drinker and tend to get unbearably anxious if the drinking goes on for hours with no sign of the eating to come, so I try to amalgamate the two. I am, in effect, not really banishing the starter, but relocating it, refashioning it. Now, I can’t pretend that serving bits with drinks is an original idea, but I suggest that you think of them as the starter. There is no dinner party I would give where I couldn’t just make a plate of crostini to eat as a first course.

  Normally, I make a couple of different sorts. I don’t assemble the crostini in advance, but I often make the mixture with which they’re going to be spread days ahead and keep slices for toast, ready-carved from baguette or ficelle, bagged up in the freezer.

  CROSTINI

  * * *

  I figure on getting about 40 usable slices from a ficelle and maybe 50 from a baguette, which seems to be longer as well as thicker. A baguette is commonly used for crostini, but I prefer the ficelle. I like its relative spindliness; the smaller rounds it makes mean you can eat crostini in one bite; and the string loaf seems to have a less tooth-resistant crust. But whichever loaf you’re using, cut in straight-knifed rounds rather than diagonally, as usually advised, because it’s easier to keep the slices compact and easy to eat that way.

  To make the crusts for the crostini, cut the loaves into slices ¼–½ inch in width. Let your instinct guide you; you probably know yourself just how thick or thin you want them to be. The crostini are no more than slices of bread dabbed with oil and toasted in a hottish oven. Preheat the oven to 400°F and, using a pastry brush or just your fingers, dip in oil and lightly cover each side of each slice of bread. I find 40 slices use up about 8 tablespoons of oil. And, unless specified below, always assume that olive oil (extra virgin, the usual specifications) is indicated. Put the oil-brushed slices on a rack in the oven for 5–10 minutes. The length of time the bread takes to brown depends in part on how stale it was to start with (and stale is good here). Turn the bread over as it turns pale gold. Remove when cooked and leave the uncrowned crostini somewhere to get cool. You should toast them no more than 2 hours before you eat them. Don’t spread anything on them until wholly cold. And then you can put just about anything on top.

  All the quantities below make enough for 20 crostini. I would make at least 5 per person, and probably two different kinds.

  CHICKEN-LIVER CROSTINI

  This is your basic crostini, really, the Tuscan version of chopped liver. (Speaking of which, if you want to be rakishly cross-cultural, I suppose you could, as the malapropism of a friend’s Yiddish-speaking uncle has it, throw kasha to the winds and smear this stuff on toasted bagels instead.)

  Use whatever grapey alcohol you want: vin santo, Marsala, muscat, white wine, vermouth, or sherry. I’ve specified Marsala because it’s what I keep nearest to me by the stove; I suspect a Tuscan would stipulate vin santo. You could use some of this in the crostini and keep the rest for dinner; pour it into glasses and give people those almond-studded biscotti known as cantuccini to dunk.

  ½ pound chicken livers

  milk, for covering the livers

  1/3 celery stalk

  1 garlic clove, peeled

  1 shallot or 1 scallion (white and green parts), chopped coarsely

  1 heaping tablespoon chopped parsley, plus more, for garnish

  2 tablespoons olive oil

  ½ tablespoon tomato purée

  4 tablespoons Marsala or other wine (see headnote)

  salt and freshly milled black pepper

  1 heaping teaspoon capers, rinsed, drained, and chopped

  2 anchovy fillets, wiped and chopped

  1 tablespoon unsalted butter

  Remove any bits of green or gristle you can see in the chicken livers, then put them in a dish and pour milk over to cover. Leave for about 10 minutes. Put the celery, garlic, shallot, and the tablespoon of parsley in the processor and chop finely. Heat the oil in a heavy-bottomed frying pan and add the vegetable mix. Cook at low to moderate heat, stirring regularly, for about 5 minutes, perhaps slightly longer, until soft but not colored. Drain the chicken livers, wipe them dry with a paper towel, and chop them using a knife or mezzaluna. Add them to the pan and cook, prodding, pushing, and stirring with your wooden spoon or spatula until that characteristic claret-stained rawness has disappeared; they should still, however, be pink and moussey within. Stir in the tomato purée and cook, stirring, for a minute or so, then add the Marsala. Let this bubble mostly away, then taste and add salt and a good few grindings of pepper as needed. Turn down the heat and let cook gently for another 10 minutes or so.

  Then decant the contents of the pan into a food processor, add the capers and anchovies, and give the merest pulse; you want this chopped but not puréed. (You could always use a knife.) Pour back into the pan with the butter and cook for a few final minutes at gentle heat while you stir. Remove from the heat and let cool before spreading. Sprinkle some more parsley over, once spread.

  DUCK LIVERS

  If you want to use duck livers, forgo the capers and anchovies, but add instead, at the beginning with the celery mixture, the very finely chopped zest of ½–1 orange. And I use Grand Marnier, either in place of the Marsala, or half-and-half, with a spritz of the orange’s juice.

  PEA AND GARLIC CROSTINI

  I warm to the Day-Glo vibrancy of this concoction; just like the future, so bright you gotta wear shades. But it is seriously good: the sweet pungency of the roasted garlic gives resonance and depth; the Parmesan supplies edge and the butter unctuousness. And it’s a doddle to make. This amount will give enough for a few extra crostini.

  1 head garlic

  1 teaspoon olive oil

  8 ounces frozen young peas

  1 tablespoon unsalted butter

  2 tablespoons freshly grated Parmesan

  salt and freshly milled black pepper

  1 tablespoon chopped mint

  Preheat the oven to 400°F. Lop the top off the head of garlic; you want to see the tops of the cloves just revealed in cross section. Cut a square of foil, large enough to make a baggy parcel around the garlic, sit the garlic in the middle of it, drizzle over the oil, and then make said parcel, twisting the ends slightly. Put in the oven for 50 minutes to an hour, until the garlic is soft.

  Cook the peas in boiling salted water as you would normally, only for a fraction longer. Drain and tip into a food processor. Squeeze out the soft, cooked cloves of garlic and add them, then the butter and Parmesan. Process to a nubbly but creamy purée. Season with the salt and pepper and cool before spreading. Sprinkle each crostini with a pinch of the mint.

  ROAST PEPPER WITH GREEN OLIVE PASTE CROSTINI

  If you find the charring and skinning of the peppers too labor-intensive for the effort-sparing strategy of the drinks-accompanying starter, buy them from a good Italian deli. I spread green olive paste on the toast first and top it with a soft tangle of peppers c
ut into strips, their skins already burnt off by someone else. If you do want to do your own, you’ll need 2 red and 2 yellow peppers; see page 86 for the method. In either case, sprinkle with chopped parsley.

  GORGONZOLA WITH MASCARPONE AND MARSALA CROSTINI

  Marsala with gorgonzola is a translation of the British tradition of mixing port with Stilton. The nutmeg and mascarpone sweeten and blunt the pungency of the gorgonzola; even those who think they don’t like blue cheese find this gratifyingly edible. If you’re fed up with Marsala, use white port—my mother always kept a decanter of this in the dining room, and so I have a peculiar nostalgia for it.

  This is the easiest crostini topping I can think of. When I make the little toasts, I sometimes anoint them with walnut rather than olive oil.

  4 ounces gorgonzola, crumbled

  1/3 cup mascarpone

  2 tablespoons Marsala

  whole nutmeg

  1 tablespoon chopped parsley

  Put the gorgonzola in a bowl with the mascarpone and the Marsala and mash together using a fork. Add a good grating or two of fresh nutmeg and stir again. Cover the bowl with plastic film and put in the fridge until you need it, but remember to take it out a good 30 minutes before you do, to make it easier to spread.

  Sprinkle each crostini with a pinch of the parsley before serving.

  LENTIL AND BLACK OLIVE CROSTINI

  This looks good on a plate with the paler gorgonzola crostini, above. The idea is adapted from the glorious recipe for black hummus in Recipes 1-2-3 by Rozanne Gold and is, in effect, just a purée of cooked puy lentils and bought tapenade with a spoonful of Cognac added. Remember that although it looks suitable for vegetarians, it isn’t—the tapenade contains anchovies.

  1/3 cup puy lentils

  large pinch sea salt, plus more, if needed

  6 black peppercorns

  3 tablespoons tapenade (black olive paste)

  1 teaspoon Cognac

  5 cherry tomatoes, blanched, peeled, and diced

  1 tablespoon chopped parsley or snipped chives

  To make the purée, put the lentils in a saucepan with the salt and the peppercorns. Pour over about 2 cups cold water and bring to the boil. When boiling, turn down the heat, cover, and simmer for 35 minutes, or until the lentils are soft. Drain the lentils, reserving 1⁄3 cup of the cooking liquid. Let cool for 15 minutes.

  Then all you do is put the lentils in a food processor with the tapenade and process until fairly smooth, adding 2 tablespoons to 1⁄3 cup of the reserved cooking liquid, as needed, to make a spreadable (but still nubbly) paste. Remove to a bowl, stir in the Cognac, and leave to cool. Cover and stick in the fridge—for days on end, if you like. You might need to add salt, or it might taste very salty, but don’t be alarmed; on the toasts it will all mellow and come together. Spread on the crostini, sprinkle with the tomatoes and parsley or chives, and serve.

  MUSHROOMS CROSTINI

  Get a mixture of wild and cultivated mushrooms from your local greengrocer or buy a packaged blend from the supermarket. If you want to save time, instead of chopping the garlic you can fry the mushrooms in garlic-infused oil.

  2 tablespoons olive oil

  1 fat garlic clove, minced

  leaves from 2 thyme sprigs, minced, or a pinch dried

  8 ounces mixed mushrooms, wild and cultivated, wiped and minced

  scant tablespoon freshly grated Parmesan

  salt and freshly milled black pepper

  1 teaspoon chopped parsley

  Pour the olive oil into a pan and, when still cold, add the garlic and thyme. On the heat, cook for about 1 minute, then add the mushrooms, stir and cook until soft and fragrant, and then stir in the Parmesan. Salt and pepper robustly to taste. Put the mixture in a processor to make a coarsely chopped mixture (easier to spread), if you like, but make sure you don’t make a purée. Spread while still just warm and sprinkle the crostini with the parsley.

  SHRIMP AND EGGPLANT CROSTINI

  This is not as fiddly as it might sound, as all you do to the eggplant is bake it (if you’re making the garlic and pea crostini, you can roast the garlic for that at the same time), and there aren’t enough shrimp to make peeling them a nightmare. The eggplant tempers the heat of the pepper-spiked shrimp and makes them more spreadable. I get the shrimp from the fish seller at my local supermarket.

  1 medium eggplant

  1 tablespoon olive oil

  1 fat garlic clove, minced or sliced finely

  1 dried red chili pepper

  6 ounces unpeeled shrimp

  1 teaspoon chopped coriander or Thai basil

  Preheat the oven to 400°F.

  Put the eggplant into the oven straight on the rack and bake for 1 hour, by which time it should be soft-fleshed and cooked. Remove and leave till cool enough to handle, which won’t be long. Put a strainer over a bowl and scrape the flesh of the eggplant into the strainer so that it drains. Let it stand there until it’s cool, by which time it should be dry and all the excess liquid should be in the bowl.

  Put the oil into a heavy-bottomed frying pan, add the garlic, and crumble in the chili. Sauté for 2 minutes, then throw in the shrimp and stir around the hot pan until the livid gray carapace turns holiday coral—2 minutes and they should be cooked but still tender. Remove from the heat and, as soon as you possibly can, peel the shrimp. Put everything—except the shells—into a processor and pulse to chop; you really need a mini one for such a small amount. Add the eggplant pulp and give another pulse. You need something spreadable but not smooth. Spread the shrimp mixture onto the crostini when you want to eat, and sprinkle with the coriander.

  BEANS WRAPPED IN PROSCIUTTO

  One doesn’t want to wade too deep into canapé land, but I would feel I was doing less than my duty if I didn’t faithfully report my other most-relied-upon starter-stand-in: beans wrapped in prosciutto. I saw these little bundles of green beans tied around the middle with Parma ham in an Italian delicatessen and went straight back home and made my own. Top and tail some green beans and cook them in boiling salted water. Remember that the beans need decent cooking, not mere dunking in hot water. Drain them, wait for them to cool, dip them in balsamic vinegar, then cut raggedy thin slices of Parma ham in strips and tie them round the bean-bundles.

  You may take it for granted that whatever starter I suggest, you can always whip it away and provide the crostini or the fascist beans—I refer to their bundling only, there’s no darker connotation here—in their place. I won’t say that again. The following menus and recipes are merely suggestions, ideas for you to work on, ignore, play around with as you like. There’s no right answer, nor one way only to organize a dinner, compose the food. But at least being shown one path gives you the freedom to study the terrain and choose another. That choice might often mean not cooking at all, or very little. No one, for example, ever has to make a dessert. I am more than happy to get some perfect creation from the pâtissier, to buy ice cream and good cookies. But the relatively low effort needed to make any sweet thing will be repaid in gratifying disproportion by the pleasure of your guests. I propose only—you dispose or not, as you wish.

  My menus, or sketches for menus, often give alternatives, an easier route, or different seasonal choice. The reasons are simple, but important. Sometimes we’ve got hours in which to cook, sometimes we haven’t; it’s as simple as that, and I wanted to show how speediness can be accommodated into a menu without ditching the whole thing. I wanted to show, too, why I thought one starter went with the particular main course, and how those principles or sensory judgments remain true even if their application is somewhat different. Thinking aloud seems to me the best way to offer direction, a sort of enthusiastic culinary companionship—without, I hope, being insufferably bossy. If I were in the kitchen with you, or you with me, these are the things we’d be talking about.

  I make a distinction between dinners and kitchen suppers, but it is a slim one. At no time will you find me fiddling about with table decoration
s or doing clever things with the lighting. But there is a difference between a structured plan to bring people together over food and just having the usual suspects round after work. I don’t get up at five in the morning to buy bucketloads of flowers from the market (and people do, you know), but I do want things to look beautiful. Cheaper than flowers, and more useful because it doesn’t interfere with people’s line of vision as they’re sitting at table trying to talk to each other, is to use food rather in the manner of a still life. A bowl heaped with lemons or limes will always look beautiful. Eggplants, either those skin-stretched vast glossy ones or the compact, purplish babies, look fabulous. As I’ve said, I don’t like bowls of mixed things, but sometimes I have on the table a plate or low bowl of pomegranates mixed with pale, bark-colored dried figs, their once-red interiors just showing through the split skin, like spiky-toothed gums Crayola-colored an orange-scarlet.

  As I am not a vegetarian, I don’t ever purposefully arrange a totally meatless and fish-free three-course dinner. And no vegetarian needs tips on meat-free cooking from a committed carnivore like me. But if you want to cater for vegetarians and suchlike, you need to make sure there is food they can eat without designing the dinner around them. I deal with it by having a vegetable starter (which I do often enough, anyway), soup or salad, say, and then I provide the vegetarian with a plate of wild mushrooms cooked with butter (olive oil for vegans) and garlic and thyme while everyone else eats their main course. The advantage is that a thick, dark stew of mushrooms is easy to do while you’re getting on with the starter, or before, and can sit in the pan to be reheated when it’s needed. And it goes well, without adaptation, with the potatoes and vegetables you’ll no doubt be doing anyway. The difficulty with doing vegetarian pasta of some sort is that it sets the eater entirely apart, but with the mushrooms she, or he, has just one different component.