How to Eat
Page 45
4 egg whites at room temperature
pinch salt
1¼ cups superfine sugar
2 teaspoons cornstarch
1 teaspoon white wine vinegar
few drops vanilla extract
1¼ cups heavy cream, whipped until firm
pulp of 10 passion fruits with pips
Preheat oven to 350°F. Line a baking sheet with baking parchment and draw a 8–9-inch circle on the paper. I often don’t, and just imagine what size the circle should be as I dollop the meringue on. This seems to work fine.
Beat the egg whites with the salt until satiny peaks form. Beat in the sugar, a third at a time, until the meringue is stiff and shiny. Sprinkle over the cornstarch, vinegar, and vanilla and fold in lightly. Mound on to the paper on the baking sheet within the circle; flatten the top and smooth the sides. Place in the oven. Immediately reduce the heat to 300°F and cook for 1 hour; the pavlova will color slightly. Turn off the oven and leave the pavlova in it to cool completely.
Invert the pavlova onto a big, flat-bottomed plate, pile on cream, and spoon over passion fruits scooped—pips and all—from their shells. Don’t be tempted to add other fruit.
A super Tuscan, such as Sassicaia or Oinellaia, made from the Cabernet Sauvignon grape, or a great California Cabernet Sauvignon, has wonderful, mineral flavors and will not be overpowered by the Gin and It.
SUMMER DINNER, WITH WINTER POSSIBILITIES, FOR 6
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GRILLED PEPPER SALAD
MARINATED, BUTTERFLIED LEG OF LAMB, WITH GARLIC POTATOES
WATERCRESS AND RAW MUSHROOM SALAD
POACHED PEACHES WITH SAUTERNES CUSTARD OR ICE CREAM, OR SAUTERNES AND LEMON BALM JELLY
In summer, I cook the lamb on the outdoor grill—in winter, in a hot oven. You might want to modify the menu otherwise—only you can tell exactly what mood the weather puts you in and how you want, culinarily, to respond. In winter, of course, you won’t get the peaches, or if you do they’ll be expensive and, worse, probably unsalvageable by poaching. You could, then, just make a Baked Sauternes Custard (page 217) and eat it without the fruit to accompany it, or soak and then poach some dried peaches or apricots, or a mixture of each. If you find some peaches you think you could do something with, then follow the recipe for sugar-sprinkled roast peaches (page 171). I couldn’t stop myself from adding the recipe for Sauternes and lemon balm jelly, too. The advantage of this—apart from the spectacular but delicate beauty of its taste—is that it is pathetically easy to make. And when it’s really hot, it’s not just that you don’t feel like eating excessive amounts of food, but that you don’t want to spend excessive amounts of time in the kitchen.
GRILLED PEPPER SALAD
I never, ever, no matter what I’m cooking, use green peppers. If you want to add those expensive Dutch orange ones to this mix of red and yellow pepper, do, but that’s as permissive as I’m going to get.
If you like, you can do this the traditional way and arrange the peppers in a dish, make up a plainish oil and vinegar dressing, and arrange anchovy fillets in a lattice on top (dotting between the crosses with halved or pitted whole black olives as you wish), but I prefer to make up a salty, khaki-stained anchovy dressing, which may spoil the glazed Chinese lacquer effect of the oil-slicked peppers but does something extraordinary to blend and transport the flavors—sweet, salty, oily, sharp—so that you have a glorious, explosive fusion.
4 yellow peppers
4 red peppers
5–6 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
2 garlic cloves, peeled and minced
3 anchovy fillets in olive oil, drained and minced
1 teaspoon lemon juice, plus more, if needed
2–3 tablespoons chopped parsley
Char and peel the peppers as directed on page 86. Whatever you do, don’t peel them under running water; you will lose all those sweet peppery juices. Peel them, rather, over a bowl to catch all those sweet drips. Don’t be neurotic about getting every last bit of skin off; most will come off easily enough, and the rest you can live with.
Cut the peppers into strips and pile into a shallow bowl. In a heavy-bottomed pan, combine the olive oil and garlic and heat, stirring once you see it’s got warm. After about 30 seconds, stir in the anchovies and keep stirring on low heat until they’ve melted into the oil. Then pour in the juices you caught from the peppers as you peeled them. Take off the heat. Add the lemon juice, taste, and add more if you like. Pour over the peppers, turn well to coat, then cover tightly with plastic film and leave to macerate for at least 3 hours, though 24 in the fridge would be even better. Sometimes I leave this for about half a week in the fridge and it is all the more silkily fabulous for it—as long as you remember to let it come to room temperature before you even think of eating it.
Transfer to a large plate, preferably a white one, to serve, and cover with the parsley.
There are quite a lot of peppers for 6 people, but that’s for two reasons: the first is that I find people want them to stay on the table, within greedy arm’s reach, with the lamb; the second is that if you’re going to do some peeling, you may as well try for some leftovers later.
BUTTERFLIED LEG OF LAMB WITH GARLIC POTATOES
This is one of my most regular regulars. It is the flattened, boned leg that, opened up, makes a vaguely butterfly shape. In summer I cook it on the grill in the garden. This year I started doing it in winter, as well, in a 425°F oven for about 45 minutes, and it was wonderful. Regular lamb may not be as tender as baby or spring lamb, but the taste can be deeper and better, really, and the marinade sees off any potential toughness, despite the unforgiving heat of the oven. I don’t serve a sauce with this, except for the deglazed meat juices in the pan. In summer there aren’t even any meat juices, as they’ve disappeared into the flames, but no one seems to mind.
You must go to a butcher to get the lamb butterflied, unless you feel able to do it yourself. I’ve never tried but I keep meaning to learn. Because it takes so little time to cook, this is a very good way of accommodating a lamb roast into an after-work dinner-party schedule. And think of it more as a steak in that the cooking time is more to do with its thickness than its weight.
1 5-pound butterflied leg of lamb
1¼ cups extra-virgin olive oil
zest of 1 lemon
4 garlic cloves, crushed with the flat of knife
2 rosemary sprigs, minced
6 peppercorns
4½ pounds potatoes, cut into ½-inch dice
Put the lamb with all the rest of the ingredients in a big plastic bag, refrigerated, for up to 30 hours, if you can, turning once or twice. Take it out of the fridge when you get back from work (or midafternoon, if it’s the weekend and if the weather’s not too hot) to let the oil in the marinade loosen and warm.
Preheat the oven to 425°F. Take the lamb out of the bag and put in a roasting pan. Pour the marinade into 2 baking dishes; these are for the potatoes, which need to roast about 1 hour, or until golden. Turn the potatoes in the marinade in their pans, using your hands to make sure the potatoes are well slicked in the heady oil, and put them in the oven. Roast the lamb for about 45 minutes or to an internal temperature of 130°F for medium or pinkish. Because you need the lamb to rest 10–15 minutes before carving, put the potatoes in at the same time as the lamb—a squeeze in one oven, but not impossible. And you can always cook the lamb first and eat it lukewarm. Transfer the lamb to a carving board, reserving the oily juices it leaves behind; serve this as a sauce.
WATERCRESS, RAW MUSHROOM SALAD
For the salad, buy 2–3 bunches of watercress and slice about 6 ounces of ordinary button mushrooms thinly. For the dressing, I just mix some extra-virgin olive oil with lemon juice—basic and good.
POACHED PEACHES WITH SAUTERNES CUSTARD
The difficult thing about real custard is the tedium of the stirring and its necessity; the possibility of curdling is never far away. Difficult is perhaps not the right word, but certainly th
e prospect of making pouring (as opposed to baked) custard can feel too daunting, and I realized I went out of my way to avoid it. Then I hit upon an idea—why not make a runny custard in the oven? I thought I could do it in advance and strain it to make sure no skin got in and then reheat it in a bain-marie on the stove when I wanted it. I doubted it would work because it seemed to me that if it was such a good idea someone would have come up with it before. But it did work; evidently I am either lazier or more fearful than other food writers, or both.
SAUTERNES CUSTARD (OR ICE CREAM)
If you don’t want to use Sauternes, substitute any reliably honeyed dessert wine.
2 cups light cream
1 vanilla bean or ½ teaspoon pure vanilla extract, if not using vanilla sugar
1 cup Sauternes
7 egg yolks
1/3 cup vanilla sugar or superfine sugar, plus more, if needed
Preheat the oven to 325°F. Bring a kettle of water to a boil. Get out a roasting pan and put a wide, shallow bowl or an oval dish with a capacity of about 5 cups in it. Put the cream in a saucepan with the vanilla bean, if using, the wine in another, and bring both to the boil, but watch out that the cream never actually does boil. Remove them both from the heat.
If using the vanilla bean, allow the bean to steep in the cream for 20 minutes, then remove it. If using vanilla extract, add it to the cream now. With a fork, beat the yolks and sugar together and pour in first the wine and then the cream, beating all the while. Remember, though, you’re beating to combine the ingredients, not whisking to get air in. Taste and add more sugar if needed. Strain the custard into the dish and pour water from the kettle into the roasting pan to come up about halfway. Cover the pan with foil; the idea is to make for a steamy atmosphere that will prevent a skin from forming. Put in the oven and cook for 1–1¼ hours or until set (or cook in a saucepan on the stove as usual).
Take out of the oven and out of the pan of water and let cool for about 20 minutes. Then strain into the top of a double boiler; this is presuming you will want to eat it warm. In fact, you can do three things with this: leave it as it is and let people spoon it over the peaches cold; reheat it till it’s warm, not hot, when you’re about to serve dessert; or put it when cold into an ice cream maker and follow the manufacturer’s instructions. All three options are ambrosial.
POACHED PEACHES
I never think of myself as someone who likes cooked fruit—it’s hard to believe that anything could improve on its natural and fresh state—but these peaches are a revelation. I wouldn’t poach peaches with flesh as green and hard as young almonds, but ones that are slightly resistant, slightly lacking in that fragrant juiciness that is owing to the peachy estate, take on a plump but well-toned fleshiness and an aromatic roundedness that you couldn’t believe could be brought about by just a pan of water and a mound of sugar. It’s true that the vanilla you flavor the sugar with, the wine you scent the water with, each do their bit—but even with the plainest syrup, a dull and reticent peach can be transformed.
White peaches are my favorite here. Leave the skins on before immersing them in the softly bubbling syrup, and peel them later; you’re left with a plate of perfect, pale mounds splodged pink, like the cheeks of a painted mummer. They look like something out of a children’s fairy tale. You feel you should be drinking mead out of a jewel-studded goblet and wearing a wimple with a fetching organza veil.
The procedure is simple.
½ cup Sauternes, or the same wine used for the custard, above
3½ cups vanilla sugar or superfine sugar
1 vanilla bean or 1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract, if not using vanilla sugar
8 peaches, preferably white, halved and stoned
Put 3 cups of water, the wine, sugar, and the vanilla bean, if using, in a big saucepan, give a good stir so that the sugar begins to dissolve into the water, and bring to the boil. Let boil for 5 minutes and add the vanilla extract, if using. Lower to a firm but not exuberant simmer.
Lower the peaches a few halves at a time—I fit 4 in one go—cut-side down into the simmering syrup. Poach for about 5 minutes or until the peaches feel tender but not flabby. If you know they’re in prime condition, then figure on 3 minutes, but you could need to poach them, gently, for 10. I use a fork to test for doneness, prodding into the underside so the fork marks won’t ruin the beauteous display later. With a slotted flat spoon, delicately remove the peaches to a nearby large plate and cook the remaining ones in the same way. Strain the syrup into a container, remove a ladleful, put it back in the saucepan (freeze the containerful for the next time you make this), and reduce. You want to end up with a syrup that will cling tightly to the peach cheeks when you pour it over them, but not so much that it sticks. Anyway, let both the syrup and the peaches cool for now, and when they’re cool, remove the skins, arrange the peaches on the serving plate, and pour the scant amount of syrup over them. They’ll be fine for a good few hours like this.
SAUTERNES AND LEMON BALM JELLY
Charlotte Brand, friend and cook, put me on to this recipe. I’ve got masses of lemon balm in my garden, but you can substitute an equal amount of lemon grass.
I use a 5-cup ring mold and pile pale fruit—golden raspberries and white currants if I can get them—dusted with confectioners’ sugar to fill the hole in the unmolded jelly. Of course you don’t have to choose Château Yquem, but do select wine good enough to give to friends without making wry-mouthed apologies for it. You don’t need a full bottle for the jelly, but as you want some dessert wine to drink with the dessert, there’s no point buying a half bottle.
Turn to the recipe for Scented Panna Cotta with Gooseberry Compote (page 45) for comments about gelatin. Make this a day ahead, if you’re concerned about its having enough time to set.
8 leaves gelatin or 2 envelopes granulated gelatin
juice from 1½ lemons
1 2/3 cups superfine sugar, plus more, if needed
1 ounce (1 cup tightly packed) lemon balm leaves
about 1½ cups Sauternes or other wine that can accompany dessert
If using granulated gelatin, soften it in the lemon juice, about 5 minutes, then heat it in the top of a double boiler over simmering water until the gelatin has dissolved, about 1 minute. Reserve. Bring the sugar and 3 cups of water to the boil and boil for 5 minutes. Remove from the heat and pour off ½ cup. Infuse the lemon balm in the remaining syrup until cold.
Strain the syrup, measure it, and add enough Sauternes to make 33⁄4 cups, and set aside. Soak the gelatin leaves, if using, in cold water for about 5 minutes, until they’re soft. Warm 1⁄3 cup additional Sauternes, squeeze out the gelatin leaves, if using, then dissolve them in the Sauternes. Combine the syrup, gelatin mix and (reserved) lemon juice, which should bring the liquid up to 5¼ cups; check the sweetness and add more sugar if needed.
Dab a paper towel with vegetable oil and smear the inside of the ring mold with it. This will make it easier to unmold later. Pour the jelly mixture in and put it in the fridge to chill for 4–6 hours or until set.
To unmold, you might need to place the mold quickly in a sink slightly filled with hot water. But make sure it is only quickly. It’s better to keep putting it back in if it doesn’t come out cleanly and easily rather than leave it in and have it start to melt.
A rich white Burgundy or Californian Chardonnay are rich enough to complement the lamb, the garlic, and the mushrooms.
MIDSUMMER DINNER FOR 8
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PEA, MINT, AND AVOCADO SALAD
BEEF FILLET WITH RED WINE, ANCHOVIES, GARLIC, AND THYME, OR TAGLIATA
NEW POTATOES AND WARM SPINACH WITH LEMON
STRAWBERRIES IN DARK SYRUP WITH PROUST’S MADELEINES
This, to me, is the perfect dinner: simple, impeccable, beautiful. Of course, it doesn’t have to be a June dinner, or even eaten in summer—I cook the beef all through the year and I’m such a fan of the frozen pea that I’ve got no reason to ration the unfashionable but deeply plea
surable salad, either. But when all the food comes together like this, it works at its best. I’ve given two choices for the beef simply because fillet for 8 is not always going to be a practical suggestion. If you want to make this a more formal dinner, then try the wine- and anchovy-braised fillet. The tagliata variation, a fat slab of meat cut from all along the rump, marinated, cooked briefly, then carved in squat, juicy slices on the diagonal, is the best thing you can do with your outside grill, pace, perhaps, the butterflied lamb of the menu preceding this. But if you’re kitchen-bound, a 425°F oven is absolutely fine for roasting the meat.
The tagliata needs marinating for a day, and the strawberries need macerating for 3 hours. If you wanted to strike a more voluptuously grand note, you could end instead with the white tiramisu; see page 111.
PEA, MINT, AND AVOCADO SALAD
This is one of my great-aunt Myra’s recipes. Of course, you can use frozen peas, but it’s a pity at midsummer, and feels odd somehow, like having a light bulb on in brightest daylight. Alternatively—and this is probably the genuine compromise position—you can shell and cook the peas in advance and leave them steeped in the dressing. Nothing beats freshly shelled, just-cooked new peas, but we must be prepared to bend a little for our sanity’s sake.
9 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil, plus more, if needed
1½ tablespoon good white wine vinegar
fat pinch superfine sugar
bunch of mint, chopped
1 pound shelled peas (about 3 1/3 pounds unshelled)
1 package (10 ounces) mixed salad greens
2 heads Belgian endive, separated into leaves
3 ripe avocados, cut into bite-size chunks
First make the dressing: put the oil, vinegar, and sugar into a large bowl and then put in a decent handful of the chopped mint. Stir well so all is amalgamated. Cook the peas for 2 minutes or so in salted boiling water, just so that they’re ready, but not soft. Taste after 2 minutes and then keep tasting. Drain the peas in a colander, put them straightaway into the bowl of dressing, and let steep for an hour or up to a day.