by Ken Hom
The producers did not want people to misunderstand me. Or rather, they were keen to ensure that the viewers could understand me. They also wanted me to retain my accent, made not in China but in Chicago, or even Chicago’s Chinatown. Funnily enough, when the series aired, many viewers thought I was from Hong Kong. Of course, people from Hong Kong don’t have British accents unless, perhaps, they lived or went to school in Britain.
On the production team, Jenny Lo was well acquainted with Chinese food and cooking and, more importantly, knew what to say and what not to say, and she was a constant prompt should I happen to veer into Americanisms. ‘Remember, Ken, the British say “spring onions”, not “scallions” … Ken, over here we say “mangetout” – we don’t call them “snow peas” … Aubergine, Ken. Not eggplant.’
Then there were my clothes. I felt that if I wore my chef’s jacket it would discourage the viewers. They’d think, well, obviously he’s a chef so he knows what he’s doing. I wanted viewers to feel at ease and to see that the cooking was easy. There should be a sharing, casual tone; something to entice the viewers and illustrate that cooking is a relaxing pleasure rather than a chore.
My suitcases were packed with lots of different clothes. When I had money in those days, I loved shopping for clothes. Even though the phrase shopaholic was unknown, I had been one in the stores of Hong Kong and France. I felt that the atmosphere should be casual and relaxed – look how easy this food is to make – and my clothes should reflect the undisturbed comfort.
Madhur had told me that when she filmed her series she wore her hair in a bun. This, she was informed, made her look ‘too Indian’. So she was told to wear a wig. This would make her look ‘less Indian’. In astonishment, I said, ‘Madhur, why did you agree to that?’
‘I’m an actress, Ken,’ she replied. ‘I’m an actress.’ Luckily, I still had my hair so I wouldn’t need a wig to look less Chinese.
AS the viewer, you would see only me. My view was different. In front of me, and behind the cameras, there were thirty-six people. The costs were considerable, therefore, which meant there was no chance of running over by even a few minutes. We had to stick to the schedule.
These thirty-six people all had their eyes trained on my every movement. Three of them were large, burly men who were wearing blue uniforms, bordering on military, and on the floor at their side were a couple of fire extinguishers. I asked a producer, ‘I was just wondering … Who are the men beside the fire extinguishers?’
‘They’re the fire officers.’
‘The fire officers?’ I asked, unsure I’d heard correctly.
‘Yup. Just in case there’s a fire.’
‘Why? Are we expecting a fire?’
And the response was: ‘Well, you know. What with the wok and stuff.’
When I made a mistake – and yes, I made a few – the team in front of me would roll their eyes and some of them would tut or sigh. The producer Jenny Stevens watched the different camera angles from television monitors in the gallery, a small room that was above the studio and accessible by a flight of iron stairs.
When there was a problem, when Jenny did not approve of what I had said or done, or if I had fluffed a line, the crew and I could hear her high heels clickety-clacking on the metal steps as she came down the stairs. She moved briskly, and that sound always meant trouble. Members of the crew, grown men, quaked in their Hush Puppies and cursed in whispers. They were not alone. I would tremble and then freeze at the clanking of high heel on iron, petrified by the prospect of the rollicking that was to come.
My timidity and fear were not justified. I was overreacting. Jenny may have had the demeanour of a headmistress but, boy, was she smart. Also, Jenny had a lot riding on this. She was working her way upwards, progressing through the ranks, having previously been Madhur’s assistant producer. If this was a success, then Jenny was made.
When I presented her with a list of dishes to cook for the first episode, she said firmly, ‘Scrap that. We’ll do those later. For the first episode you’re going to cook Peking duck. That will blow them away.’ In retrospect, she was right – or ‘spot on’, as the British might say – and it did blow them away. In fact, we did not film in sequence as it was felt I would be more at ease as we progressed.
Also, Jenny instilled in me a sense of urgency and efficiency. I learnt to understand what makes interesting viewing. It was during this period of filming the first series that I learnt the skill of a cookery demonstration, which I have followed ever since: if you want to keep it interesting, then keep it fast and keep it moving.
THE duck for the Peking duck was due to come courtesy of Mary Cadogan, the home economist on the series.
I was very fond of Mary, though unaware of how she had landed the job under false pretences. When the producers were hunting around for a home economist, they asked the established food photographer Robert Golden if he could recommend someone for the job. Robert had worked frequently with Mary and, being a kind soul, he suggested Mary would be ideal. The producers had said, ‘We need someone who’s an expert in Chinese cooking.’
Without the slightest hesitation, Robert had replied, ‘Oh, that’s Mary. She’s an expert.’ Reassured, they signed her up.
Mary had experience of food styling for magazines and on advertising assignments, and a three-year tenure as deputy food editor of Family Circle magazine, but she did not know very much about Chinese cooking. In Britain, who did?
This meant that she would need to bluff her way through our time together. We would rehearse dishes in the kitchen of a college and one day I saw Mary making wontons, folding them in a way someone who had never made wontons might fold wontons. That is to say, incorrectly. ‘Mary, they look good,’ I said, though they didn’t. ‘But why not try them like this?’ and then showed her how to fold them.
However, as we worked together she developed a love of Chinese food, and our bond was strengthened by a mutual acceptance that food is the central part of life. Mary came from a large family: eight brothers and sisters. Her father was one of ten; her mother, one of seven. Her parents were Irish and had left Co. Wexford to build a new life in the English county of Kent, where Mary was born. ‘The heart of our home was a big kitchen table,’ she told me as we cooked together. ‘Mum was a good, plain cook, who made fantastic apple tarts and lovely puddings and roasts. She cooked everything from scratch.’ Once she said, ‘I was jealous of friends who had Kellogg’s corn flakes for breakfast because we always had porridge.’
At college, where she did a three-year diploma in Home Economics, she was known for her sartorial style: female students were not allowed to wear trousers, but Mary would arrive for class in clothes bought from jumble sales, and skirts made out of old drapes. Her career began in the textile industry before she veered into food.
Before filming the Peking duck segment, she had visited her local butcher in Dorking, Surrey, and ordered eight ducks, the finest the butcher could lay his hands on. After collecting them the day before filming, she took them home, where she had a walk-in larder. She assembled a metal clothes rail, and hung from it the eight ducks on meat hooks. This would allow their skins to dry out. The following morning, she left early for the studio, accompanied by her eight well-hung (stop sniggering) ducks.
I would arrive routinely at the studio at 10 a.m., while others were in well ahead of me, preparing for the day. Once there, I would rehearse the dreaded links. Now, Peking duck must have a crispy skin. And by the time I arrived Mary had already put one of the ducks into the hot oven, but its skin had not turned crispy. She was one duck down and not quite sure what the problem was when I spotted her putting the second duck into the oven. This was, by the way, how Mary was spending her birthday, although she had not mentioned to any of us that it was a special day for her.
I said, ‘Mary, is that a Cherry Valley duck?’
‘No. It’s from my butcher.’
‘It’s the wrong breed. It will never crisp.’
Poor Mar
y burst into tears when I pointed this out. I was horrified. I loved Mary. I like to think I’m good in a crisis, I don’t rant and rave – what good does it accomplish? ‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘We’ll fix this.’ We all hit the phones, ringing around to find the right duck. We sent a taxi to Safeway – or was it Chinatown? – to get the real thing. Peace and calm was restored. A kind member of the crew took Mary to the pub at lunchtime, but she continued to cry. It was a birthday she has never forgotten.
In China, the preparation and cooking of Peking duck is an art form. There, the ducklings are raised on a six-week diet of soya beans, barley, sorghum and maize. Then they are ready for the table. They are despatched, cleaned and air is pumped through the windpipe. This process slightly removes the skin from the flesh and means the skin will roast separately and the fat will melt and keep the meat moist. Pouring hot water over the skin will close the pores, and the bird is then hung up to dry. As it dries, a solution of malt sugar is brushed over the duck. Then it is time to cook it in a wood-burning oven.
Once cooked perfectly, the duck’s skin is brown, shiny and crisp. The meat should be meltingly moist; no fat. Here is my recipe, which I have adapted over the years since cooking it on that first episode of Ken Hom’s Chinese Cookery.
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Peking Duck
Serves 4–6
1x1.6–1.8 kg (3½–4 lb) duck, fresh or frozen, preferably Cherry Valley
For the honey syrup:
1 lemon
1.2 litres (2 pints) water
3 tablespoons honey
3 tablespoons dark soy sauce
150 ml (5 fl oz) Shaoxing rice wine or dry sherry
To serve:
Chinese pancakes
Spring onion brushes (see page 45)
6 tablespoons hoisin sauce or sweet bean sauce
If the duck is frozen, thaw it thoroughly. Rinse the duck well and blot it completely dry with kitchen paper. Insert a meat hook near the neck.
Using a sharp knife, cut the lemon into 5 mm (¼ inch) slices, leaving the rind on. Place the slices in a large pan with the rest of the honey syrup ingredients and bring the mixture to the boil. Turn the heat to low and simmer for about 20 minutes. Using a large ladle or spoon, pour this mixture over the duck several times, as if to bathe it, until the skin of the duck is completely coated.
Hang the duck over a tray or roasting pan and leave in a cool, well-ventilated place to dry for 4–5 hours, longer if possible. (If you wish to speed up the process, place it in front of a fan for several hours.) When the duck has dried, the skin should feel like parchment paper.
Preheat the oven to 240°C (475°F, gas mark 9).
Meanwhile, place the duck on a roasting rack in a roasting tin, breast side up. Pour 150 ml (5 fl oz) of water into the roasting tin. (This will prevent the fat from splattering.) Put the duck into the oven and roast it for 15 minutes. Turn down the heat to 180°C (350°F, gas mark 4) and continue to roast for 1 hour and 10 minutes.
Remove the duck from the oven and let it rest for at least 10 minutes before carving it. Using a cleaver or a sharp knife, cut the skin and meat into pieces and arrange them on a warm serving platter. Serve at once with Chinese pancakes, spring onion brushes and a bowl of hoisin sauce or sweet bean sauce.
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21
Cooking and the Books
THE SUCCESS OF my Chinese Cookery series was due, in part, to the speed of the cooking. Most dishes were cooked before the viewers’ eyes, in real time. Indian food can be fast, but often it involves making elements of a dish in advance. Chinese food tends to be quick and simple, as well as healthy. Usually we did not have to depend on tricks such as ‘Here’s one I made earlier’ or ‘This is what it looks like half an hour later.’
The production team was overwhelmed by the simplicity of it all, thank God. ‘Fantastic’ and ‘Wow’ were the frequent verdicts as they stormed in to try the food once filming had finished and Jenny Lo said, ‘OK’ – the cue for the vultures to descend. One of the burly fire officers, who was there to ensure the studio did not burst into flames, went up to Mary Cadogan and asked her, ‘Where can I buy a wok?’ A sure sign that we were doing something right.
At rehearsals, the controller of BBC Two came to watch, and afterwards told Jenny that we would have a 7.30 p.m. timeslot. Peak-time viewing. We celebrated the wrap with a Chinese meal on a boat on the River Thames. There was a feeling of great excitement, that we had created something new.
My stint in London also gave me the chance to enjoy British food. I love fish and chips with tartare sauce, though am not a fan of malt vinegar. I have had fish and chips in other countries around the world, but it only ever succeeds when cooked and eaten in Britain. The owner of the flat in which I stayed during filming made the most delicious steak and kidney pie, the smell of which wafted through the building. He was German. I like British savoury puddings, but can only manage a mouthful of sticky toffee pudding.
Scotch eggs are a bit heavy for me, but Lancashire hotpot is a classic and bacon butties are moreish, preferably made with streaky bacon. When travelling, I always have a bacon butty in the British Airways lounge. Strange though you may find this, I think I would prefer pork pie hot rather than cold, but confess that I have never tested it. When I first visited London in the early 1970s, I believed that Indian food was part of British cooking as it was so popular.
A promotional tour was planned for the broadcast of Chinese Cookery and publication of the book. The PR people sent me here and there, to do interviews with the press and on television and radio. One day I went for a chat on a show on London radio station LBC.
I arrived early at the station’s HQ and was told that I would be joined on air by a few other people. I didn’t catch all the names, but one of them was the actor Michael York and another was Divine, the drag queen and actor. I had come across Michael at a charity event in San Francisco. I knew of Divine, but had not met or seen him.
Michael York was the next to arrive. He shook my hand and gave me a friendly greeting. ‘Hi. We’ve met before.’ I guess if you meet a Chinese guy you remember who he is. We were chatting away when the next person arrived. She had spiky, reddish-pink hair. I studied the face, the make-up and said to myself, ‘That must be Divine. That’s pretty damn good – looks like a real woman.’
At that instant, Michael left my side and dashed over to Divine and kissed him right on the lips. As I stood there, trying to unravel the scene before me, another guest arrived. He was wearing a robe and had a perfectly bald head. By now, I was totally confused. My view was of an English movie heart-throb kissing a drag queen, with a bald man in a dress standing next to them.
Only once we were in the studio, when the presenter introduced us on air, was I able to solve the mystery. Divine was the bald man in the robe. The intriguing woman with reddish-pink hair was, I discovered, the fashion designer Zandra Rhodes.
I tell this story because my mother used to say to me, ‘If you keep your mouth shut, no one will think you are a mute.’ The moral, therefore, is that it is better to be quiet and dumb, than to speak and say, ‘Hello Divine, nice to meet you,’ when you are meeting someone called Zandra.
THE book, Chinese Cookery, had been printed so that its publication tied in with the series. Unbeknown to me, the demand from the booksellers was so great that the publishers of BBC Books concluded they would break the £5 tag.
Until then the highest price for a cookery book was £4.95. I know; it’s the price of a pint these days. Zilch. They put my book at a new record of £5.25. They were not acting on impulse, necessarily. Orders were so immense that the first print run was 350,000 copies. At that time, this was the largest initial print run of a non-fiction book in British publishing history.
I was in California, but from London Jenny Stevens had kindly kept me up to date with reports about the success of the series. My parting words to Jenny had been, ‘I think some people will like the series, but I’m not sure it will be massively pop
ular.’ Now she was telling me about something called an AP index. This is the Appreciation Index, a research tool which enables broadcasters to assess the popularity of someone who has appeared on television. It is a range from 0 to 100. Jenny said, ‘Anything above 60 is good and yours has been 78 and sometimes 80. That’s unheard of. People just really love the series.’ I’m sitting here smugly smiling as I tell you.
I was in an extremely odd situation. I was becoming famous in Britain, but did not live there and did not know the country very well, even though I had fallen in love with London. I guess I was watching from a distance, rather than being caught up in it. Soon afterwards I visited Britain and went with Jenny to the theatre in the West End. A stranger sidled up to me and said, ‘I must say, I loved your series.’
I said, ‘Really?’ I was being recognised, and soon would find myself in a slightly confused state of wonderment.
Authors speak of a fear of book signings. A fear that no one will ask to have a book signed. The room will be virtually empty – just the author sitting at a table with three pens and a mountain of books waiting to be signed, but no one to say, ‘Please will you sign it?’
The PR people at BBC Books asked if I would be happy to do book signings, and I told them, ‘No, I don’t think it would be good idea because nobody knows who I am.’
‘Oh, don’t worry about that,’ they said. ‘Even if it’s ten people it will be well worth doing.’ I agreed. The first signing, I seem to recall, took place at a bookshop in London. I went with Roger, the BBC Books marketing man. We took a taxi through the rain and pulled up at the shop where the signing would take place. Along the pavement there was a queue of at least 600 people, I am not kidding. Bewildered, I said to Roger, ‘Look at all those people. What are they waiting for?’