How to Eat

by Nigella Lawson

  Carefully cut the figs vertically into quarters, leaving them intact at the base. Arrange on a flat, heatproof dish and spoon the hot syrup over them. Set aside to cool, basting with the syrup occasionally. Serve at room temperature, with yogurt and pistachio crescents (below).

  PISTACHIO CRESCENTS

  These accompanying pistachio crescents, which resemble the hazelnut-smoky Middle-European kipferln, are rich and tender—almost soft and definitely friable. Their powdery texture is compounded by the blanket of confectioners’ sugar with which they are thickly, mufflingly coated; they have a one-thousand-and-one-nights feel, which is just right with the rosewater scent of the fig-basting syrup. And they’re not hard to do. The amount below makes about 12 aromatically gritty crescents.

  3 ounces shelled pistachios

  4 tablespoons (½ stick) unsalted butter, softened

  2 tablespoons confectioners’ sugar, plus more, for dusting

  ½ cup Italian 00 or all-purpose flour, sifted

  pinch salt

  Preheat the oven to 325°F. Grease 2–3 baking sheets or, better still, cover them with Cook-Eze (see page 462).

  Toast the pistachios in a heavy-bottomed frying pan with no fat for a few minutes so that their rich, waxy aroma is released. Pour into a food processor and pulse until pulverized.

  With a wooden spoon, beat the butter until creamy—you are getting it ready to absorb the sugar with hardly any additional beating—and then duly spoon the sugar into a tea strainer suspended over the bowl with the butter and push it through. Beat a while longer, until the butter and sugar are light and incorporated, almost liquid-soft, and then add the flour and salt. Keep stirring composedly and then add the ground pistachios, beating until just mixed. The dough will be sticky but firm enough to mold with your hands. If it feels too mushy, put it in the fridge for 10–20 minutes. To make the crescents, flour your hands lightly and then take out small lumps of the dough—about 1 scant tablespoon at a time if you were measuring it, but I don’t suggest you do—and roll them between your hands into sausages about 2 inches long. Slightly flatten the sausage as you curl it round to form a little bulging snake of a crescent and put on the prepared baking sheet. Carry on until all the dough mixture is used up. And, by the way, don’t be alarmed at how green these snakes look: cooked and dredged with confectioners’ sugar, the intense lichen-colored glow will fade.

  Bake for about 25 minutes, though start checking after 15, or until the tops are firm and beginning to go blondly brown; the crescents will be soft just below the surface. Let the cookies sit on their baking sheets out of the oven for a few minutes and then remove to a rack. Go carefully—they are, as I said earlier, intensely friable. Dredge them with confectioners’ sugar very thickly indeed (again, I use a teaspoon to push the sugar through a tea strainer) and leave to cool. You can do these ahead, and just dust over a little more icing sugar as you serve them.

  A Californian Zinfandel has the aromatic spicy quality to be ideal with this meal.

  MILDLY WINTRY DINNER FOR 8

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  ONION TART WITH BITTER LEAVES

  ROAST MONKFISH, PUMPKIN PURÉE, AND MIXED MUSHROOMS

  ALMOND AND ORANGE-BLOSSOM CAKE WITH RED FRUIT

  I think of this as a very calm menu; there’s enough food to warm but not so much that everyone will go staggering about afterwards vowing to turn macrobiotic. There aren’t potatoes with the monkfish—the pumpkin purée is starchy and filling—so you can comfortably accommodate the cream and the pastry in the tart. The cake for dessert is cooked in advance.

  ONION TART

  If you make and roll out the pastry the day before, along with caramelizing the onions, all you’ll have to do on the night itself is take it in and out of the oven a few times, and beat some eggs and cream together. In other words, it’s entirely manageable. Try to arrange things so that the tart comes out of the oven about 40 minutes before you want to eat it. This means that if you’re planning to sit down to dinner at 9 P.M. it should go in, fully assembled, at 7:40. You should get your blind-baking under way, then, as soon as after 7 P.M. as possible.

  FOR THE PASTRY

  1 cup Italian 00 or all-purpose flour

  4 tablespoons (½ stick) unsalted cold butter or 2 tablespoons each lard and butter, diced

  1 egg yolk beaten with a pinch of salt and 1 teaspoon of crème fraîche

  FOR THE FILLING

  2 tablespoons unsalted butter

  drop oil

  1 pound onions, sliced very thinly

  salt

  1 teaspoon sugar

  4 tablespoons Marsala

  freshly milled black pepper

  2 eggs

  1 egg yolk

  1¼ cups crème fraîche

  whole nutmeg

  Prepare the pastry using the listed ingredients and following the foolproof recipe on page 37. For the filling, melt the butter with the drop of oil in a heavy-bottomed frying pan, add the onions and sprinkle over with the salt, and sauté over medium to low heat for 12 minutes, until soft and transparent; then stir in the sugar, reduce the heat further, cover the onions tightly with foil, and cook for another 20 minutes on the lowest heat, until tender (almost mush) and golden brown. Remove the foil, turn up the heat, add the Marsala, and let cook, on a moderate heat, stirring every now and again to make sure nothing sticks or burns, for another 8 or so minutes. By this time the onions should be a well-stewed, darkish brown tangle. Taste and season with salt and pepper, and then remove to a bowl to cool a little.

  While all this is going on, roll out the pastry to line a deep, 8-inch tart pan or 9-inch shallower one, and leave in the fridge to rest for 15–20 minutes. Preheat the oven, to 400°F, making sure there’s a rack in there for the tart to sit on later. Line the pastry shell with foil, fill with beans, and bake blind for 15 minutes. Remove the beans and paper, wrap foil over the edges, and give the naked shell another 12 minutes. Remove and let it cool a little. Turn the oven down to 350°F.

  Combine and beat the eggs, egg yolk, crème fraîche, and ½ teaspoon of salt. Add a good grinding of black pepper and even more of nutmeg. Line the pastry with the soggy, caramelized onions and then pour over the egg mixture. Leave it rather insufficiently filled until you’ve staggered over to the oven and put the pan on the rack; then you can spoon or pour in as much of the remaining egg mixture as you dare without it spilling over and down the sides and ruining the pastry. Give another grating of nutmeg on top and bake in the oven for 30–40 minutes, or until set but not firm.

  I make a variation on this, replacing the ordinary onions with red onions, the Marsala with red wine, and the crème fraîche with yogurt.

  BITTER LEAVES

  To go with the onion tart, make a bitter salad out of Belgian endive and treviso, that elongated raddicho, or, if you’re lucky enough to find it, those young greens called cicorie by the Italians. Make the anchovy dressing the easy way by adding 1–2 drops anchovy essence to fillets, mashed into an emulsion of olive oil and lemon juice; add a pinprick of honey (very Apicius) if you think the balance needs adjusting. You can dispense with the onion tart altogether and make the salad the focal point, and sole constituent, of the starter. If so, make a dressing by mashing some anchovies to a paste with some thyme, adding a spritz of lemon juice and then as much oil as you need, gradually.

  ROAST MONKFISH

  Ask your fish seller for four approximately 1-pound pieces of monkfish tail; these are going to be easier to get than a couple of great, walloping ones. Have them trimmed and skinned, but with the bone in if possible, for flavor (it’s such a big bone, you can just lift it out of the fillets as you serve).

  You hardly do anything to them, and what you do you do at the last minute—just before you sit down to the starter.

  Preheat the oven to 375°F and, on the stove, sauté the fish a couple of minutes each side in about 3 tablespoons, more if you feel you need it, of butter and a drop or so of olive oil. I use a nonstick frying pan that will go in the
oven later. If you’ve got any pan that you can use on the stove and in the oven and will fit all the fish, then use it; otherwise, use an ordinary or nonstick pan and transfer it to a baking dish, making sure to pour the frying juices over before baking.

  When you’ve sautéed your fish, sprinkle over some sea salt and a bit of lemon zest, transfer to the oven, and bake for 20 minutes or until just cooked through and the flesh has lost its glassiness. Arrange the monkfish on a large plate, removing each fillet’s central bone as you do so. Put the pan or baking dish with its lemony, salty juices on the stove for a moment, stir in some boiling water and grate over some pepper, and then dribble a mere tablespoon or so over the pale firm fish on the plate. But taste and adjust to suit before doing anything. If you want to strew watercress or big and flat-leafed parsley around the edges of the dish, do.

  PUMPKIN PURÉE

  If you can, get three small (i.e., about 2 pounds each) pumpkins rather than one huge tough, more watery, less flavorsome one. For each 2 pounds of pumpkin, you need about 4 tablespoons of butter.

  Preheat the oven to 400°F. Quarter each little pumpkin. Remove the seeds (though leave the skin as is) and cut out squares of foil big enough to wrap the chunks in securely. Place each piece of pumpkin in the middle of its foil and dollop on 1 tablespoon unsalted butter, then some salt (this does taste better than just using salted butter, I promise you) and pepper in each quarter’s deseeded cavity. Wrap loosely in the foil, but twist the edges tightly to seal it absolutely. Place these packages on one or two baking sheets and bake for 45 minutes or until the flesh is soft.

  Remove, but leave the pumpkins in their packages on their baking sheet(s) till cool enough to touch, or—if you’re doing this in advance and then reheating, as I most often do—leave until completely cool. Then open the parcels into a bowl or pan (or, if you want your purée baby-food smooth, into a processor) so that all buttery juices are saved, and, using a spoon, scrape out the cooked flesh. Mash with a masher, whip with a wooden spoon, or purée in any other way you like; the pumpkin will be soft enough not to need more than pushing to turn it into purée. There is enough butter in this; you do not need to add anything, except salt to taste, later. Any leftovers make wonderful soup.

  MIXED MUSHROOMS

  If you can’t get a variety of fresh mushrooms, use about 2 pounds of those mixed sliced mushrooms you can pick up in ready-assembled packages in the supermarket.

  1 ounce dried porcini

  8 tablespoons (1 stick) unsalted butter

  2 tablespoons olive oil

  4 shallots, minced

  2 very fat garlic cloves, minced

  8 ounces cremini or portobello mushrooms, chopped into small dice

  8 ounces button mushrooms, sliced thinly

  8 ounces chanterelles or other wild mushrooms

  8 ounces shiitake mushrooms, stemmed and halved

  1 ounce trompettes de mort or other wild mushrooms

  2 tablespoons dry sherry

  2 tablespoons freshly grated Parmesan

  2 tablespoons chopped parsley or 1 tablespoon chopped chives

  Put the dried porcini in a large measuring cup and pour over hot but not boiling water from the kettle to come up to the 1¼-cups mark. Put half the butter and the olive oil into a large frying pan. Turn on the heat and then add the shallots and garlic and cook on a low to medium heat for about 15 minutes or until very soft indeed but not browned. A nonstick pan is good for this, as the shallots tend to stew in nonstick pans rather than fry, which is what you want here. After the dried mushrooms have soaked for 20 minutes, strain them, reserving the liquid, and finely chop. Add them to the softened shallot and garlic mixture and then, 2 minutes later, add the rest of the butter and all the mushrooms and cook, covered, for 7–10 minutes, stirring and turning often. You may need longer, but you’ll tell at a glance when they’ve cooked down. Uncover, turn up the heat, add the strained mushroom-soaking liquid and the sherry, and let it all bubble away until the liquid is syrupy. At this point I turn off the heat and leave the mushrooms to cool and be reheated later.

  At which point, warm them up and, when hot, add the cheese. Remove to a serving bowl and sprinkle with the parsley or chives.

  The three components of this course not only go well together, but the polished-panelling Murillo tones of the mushrooms, the smooth, unsubtle bright orangeness of the pumpkin, the plump, untroubled white of the fish, look wonderful next to one another on the table. And the tastes have the same rightness: the simplicity of the fish, the aromatic earthiness of the mushrooms, the sweetness of the purée—the perfect trio. Don’t introduce a salad or anything else—except bread, preferably a baguette, to soak up the copiously delicious juices.

  DESSERT

  Fruit and cake are just what you need here; you don’t want to interfere with the simplicity and clarity of what’s gone before. The almond and orange-blossom cake needs to be made a day or so in advance (the recipe for it is on page 115); serve any fruit you want with it, but with a damp cake like this fragrant one, no cream. Raspberries are my favorite, but they may be too expensive or too flavorless, or just nonexistent. Some stores stock European brands of bottled, not-too-sweet red cherries; drained, with some of the syrup reduced and spooned over them, they’d be just right. But never disparage the frozen package of mixed fruit; grate some orange zest over before thawing and dust them with confectioners’ sugar before serving.

  Try a Spanish red, ideally from the Ribeiro del Duero region, which has a fleshy, flinty quality and is harmonious and generous in character.

  SIX IDEAS FOR KITCHEN SUPPERS

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  As all my meals are eaten in the kitchen, the demarcation between the recipes to follow and those you’ve just read is meaningless. But, interior design apart, we all know what we mean by a kitchen supper. I take it to be a meal without a procession of courses, just food on the table, and not necessarily much notice in which to plan or cook it (although do look at Cooking in Advance, page 75, as most of the recipes there are for just this sort of laid-back thing). As far as I’m concerned, if sausages and mash (with apple rings fried in butter, please, like my grandmother used to make for me) would be appropriate fare, a tub of good, bought ice cream an acceptable dessert, and it’s in the evening, it’s a kitchen supper.

  All recipes serve four abundantly, which is the way I like it.

  BLAKEAN FISH PIE

  So-called because the intense yellow of the saffron-tinted sauce reminds me of one of those beautiful Blakean sunbursts. The saffron itself adds more than just depth of color; it headily redeems the bland, cotton-woolly fish you buy in those plastic-wrapped polystyrene trays at the supermarket—useful when you can’t get to a fish seller.

  You can cook the potatoes first, mash, and set them aside while preparing the fish, or, if it suits you better, cook the fish and sauce first, set them aside, and do the potatoes after.

  1 medium carrot, peeled, halved lengthwise, and quartered

  ½ cup white wine

  large pinch salt

  1 bouquet garni (see page xx)

  2 pounds floury potatoes, cut into chunks

  8 tablespoons (1 stick) unsalted butter

  8 ounces cod fillets, skin removed

  8 ounces haddock fillets, skin removed

  8 ounces salmon fillets, skin removed

  about ½ cup light cream

  ¼ cup Italian 00 or all-purpose flour

  pinch mace

  ½ teaspoon powdered saffron or ground saffron threads

  5 ounces cooked, peeled shrimp

  whole nutmeg

  Put the carrot in a deep frying pan with ½ cup water, the wine, salt, and bouquet garni. Bring to the boil, turn off the heat, let cool, and reserve. Cook the potatoes in salted water and mash with 6 tablespoons of the butter. (The best instrument for this is a potato ricer. It’s cheap and you don’t need to peel the potatoes; the skins stay behind as you push the potato through.) Set aside.

  Put the white fi
sh in the reserved carroty water and wine, bring to simmering point, and poach for about 3 minutes. Remove to a plate, and add the salmon and poach for about 3 minutes. Add to this the white fish. Strain the liquid (keeping the bouquet garni) into a measuring cup, and make up to 2 cups with the cream.

  Melt the remaining 2 tablespoons butter in a saucepan and stir in the flour and mace. Cook, stirring, for a few minutes. Then, off the heat, stir in the cream mixture slowly, beating all the time to prevent lumps. When it’s all incorporated, put back on the heat and throw in the sodden bouquet garni. Keep cooking and stirring until thickened—about 5 minutes—then add the saffron powder or threads and cook, stirring, for another 5 minutes. Set aside for 10 minutes (or, if you’re doing this in advance, let it cool altogether).

  Butter a 5½-cup dish and put in the cooked fish and the shrimp. Pour over the saffron sauce (take out the bouquet garni) and mix in. Cover with the mashed potato. Make sure the potato completely covers the pie dish so that no sauce can bubble up and spill over. Grate over some nutmeg and cook in an oven, preheated to 375°F, for 20–40 minutes (depending on how cold the pie was when it went in) or until the potatoes are golden here and there and the filling is hot. Eat with peas. You must.

  THE IRISH CLUB’S IRISH STEW

  When I was a child I remember eating a distinctly nasty Irish stew: watery, greasy, and singularly unvoluptuous. I haven’t been particularly won round by eating it in Ireland, either. But I recently had a bowlful at the Irish Club in London’s Eaton Square, and it was velvety in its unctuousness, the meat and its gravy both infused with that sweet, tender viscosity. I don’t think I have ever been so bowled over by something I’ve ordered. Actually, I didn’t order it, or not initially. I had played safe and asked for the Irish smoked salmon with soda bread. But then I tasted the stew and felt pierced with envy. I am happy to eat from other people’s plates; indeed, I don’t feel there’s any point going out if I can’t do that. But this was different: I wanted my own, and lots of it. The Irish Club’s Irish Stew, with its inclusion of veal stock (and chicken stock, for that matter), and whole lamb chops, which diners gnaw on, may offend purists, but experiences as voluptuous and pleasurable as this are always going to offend them anyway. Don’t worry about making your own veal stock—there are good commercial versions available—but it’s important not to leave it out, as that’s what produces, or helps produce, the requisite seductive stickiness.