by Ken Hom
The Blairs had flown in to Toulouse, where they were greeted by a few dozen photographers. In Catus there were more. When we emerged from the town hall, to walk a few hundred metres to my house, we were surrounded by about sixty photographers, clicking away. From the air, we must have looked odd. What am I talking about? From the ground, we looked odd.
For lunch, I made crispy spring rolls, with duck confit and truffles. It’s really good, though the kids did not like the addition of truffle. Of course, I also served a platter of aromatic, crispy Peking duck, which is Tony’s favourite Chinese dish. He is a good eater, and he and Cherie both enjoy Chinese food. Over lunch, I dipped into my clarets, and opened a bottle of Château Latour 1953, a premier grand cru Pauillac from the year that Tony was born. It was the only one I had, and I recall that it was rich and velvety, and its sweetness coated the tongue. It was entirely appropriate for the British Prime Minister and a pleasure to share it with the Blairs. That was the day Latour met Labour, though only one bottle meant only a small taste for each of us, alas.
I really warmed to Cherie. She is a remarkable woman. Since that first meeting in Catus, we have sat often, talking of life, its triumphs and its struggles. I say struggles, though we both see them as episodes that make us the people we are today. Nevertheless, Cherie endured a difficult childhood and, like my own upbringing, much of hers was without a father.
In fact, Cherie’s father was the actor Tony Booth. He walked out of the family home when Cherie was aged eight, leaving her mother to pick up the pieces. Mr Booth went to London to make a name for himself, notably playing the young radical son-in-law in the BBC sitcom Till Death Us Do Part. Mrs Booth, meanwhile, and her family were engulfed in the acrid stench of scandal. They lived in a Catholic community in a suburb north of Liverpool; marriage vows were to be obeyed, and separation and divorce were unusual at that time.
Cherie and her younger sister, Lyndsey, were raised by their mother and grandmother. From their story there is much to be learnt about the strength of women (and perhaps the weakness of men).
Often Cherie and I would talk about food, of course, and she told me about the role it played in those early years of her life. ‘My grandmother was always the cook in our house,’ she said, ‘as Mum went to work. You see, my grandmother’s father was a barber. But he was the renegade in his family because he came from a family of cooks – they had eating houses in Harrogate. So Grandma obviously had some kind of innate ability, and was a great pastry cook. She had a repertoire and she stuck to it. She didn’t like going out to restaurants because she felt that was just a waste of money. “You can buy things and cook it just as well at home,” she’d say.’
Cherie’s grandmother kept to a weekly routine of meals. ‘On the Sunday, we would have shoulder of lamb roasted. On Monday, we’d have leftovers. Tuesday meant stew and dumplings, or Scouse. That’s Liverpool stew with potatoes in, as opposed to stew and dumplings, which would have potatoes separately. On Wednesdays, Grandma always baked. So we would have steak and kidney pie followed by apple pie. She often made scones or rock cakes, and I’d help with the baking.
‘Thursday, we would have lamb chops. Come Friday, it was fish and chips because we were a Catholic family. Saturday was a slightly more moveable feast, possibly shepherd’s pie. And then we would start again.’ Oh, it made me hungry just listening to her, though she said, ‘The portions were quite small. A little would have to go a long way.’
As little girls at primary school, she and Lyndsey walked home during the dinner hour and their grandmother cooked them lunch. ‘We might have fried eggs and chips, cold tripe and chips, pig’s trotters, spare ribs. It was very working class.
‘When I went to grammar school,’ said Cherie, ‘I didn’t like to eat anyone else’s cooking, so I didn’t actually eat my lunches. By January I had fallen ill and they decided I was malnourished. So at that point they arranged for me to go be with my aunt, who lived nearer the school. And all because I just couldn’t stand the school food. Eventually, by the time I was in the sixth form, I’d eat the school food … but didn’t particularly like it.’
At the London School of Economics she stayed in halls of residence for the first year, and was therefore committed to the halls’ food. Finally, at the age of nineteen or twenty, she moved into a flat and that’s when she could start cooking for herself. Cherie and Tony were married in 1980, and used to watch my TV series when it was broadcast four years later.
‘I had your early books,’ she said, ‘I loved cooking and did a lot in the ’80s. In fact, right up until Downing Street. I loved to experiment. God knows what I cooked. In those days just the idea of stir-frying vegetables was quite a big thing.’ She had also eaten food cooked by her Chinese sister-in-law. In the constituency home in Sedgefield, Cherie inherited an Aga ‘and that opened up a whole range of dishes’.
I was curious: had there been times when Tony donned the apron? ‘Tony once tried to cook something, I can’t remember what it was,’ Cherie told me. ‘But he was following the recipe, and ended up putting in sugar instead of salt. That wasn’t a great success.’ She said, ‘He can cook breakfast and carve chicken, but that’s about it. Actually, he’s always said he would like to learn to cook but hasn’t got around to it.’
Cherie and I became very good friends (after that first visit I gave her a wok, which she still has to this day), and I am so fond of her. Sometimes I feel that people don’t realise how actively involved she is with charities, and she has made an immense contribution to women’s issues on an international scale. She cares deeply about others and, apart from being a highly successful QC with her own law firm, she also works hard to promote and fundraise for the Cherie Blair Foundation for Women, which supports entrepreneurial women around the world.
Subsequently, I have always been delighted to help her with charity events, be it breast cancer awareness or Save the Children or her Foundation for Women. When I was a consultant chef for a group of restaurants in the City of London, we would host lots of events there. She supports many of my charities and she came to Oxford Brookes University to deliver the Ken Hom lecture. Cherie and I have what I would describe as a nice, equal relationship.
THE Blairs came to Catus two or three more times. One year they were due to visit on their way to a holiday in Tuscany. We would be joined for lunch by an eclectic group of friends. There was Pierre-Jean Pébeyre, the truffle farmer, Jancis Robinson, the wine writer, and Angus Deayton, then host of Have I Got News for You, as well as friends who lived locally.
I had recently filmed my Foolproof series, which was produced by Kate Kinninmont, and I invited Kate along. ‘I’ve had such a great experience working with you,’ I said to her, ‘so I’m going to sit you beside Tony.’
Kate was nervy. ‘Oh gosh, I feel I don’t know enough about politics,’ she said. ‘Put me anywhere else at the table.’
They arrived, Tony walking into the kitchen, past the shepherdess’s table, holding their baby, Leo, in one arm. Someone attempted to give Tony a glass of champagne as the Prime Minister tried simultaneously to shake everybody’s hands. He put my other guests at ease by saying, ‘Hello, I’m Tony.’ First-name terms.
Kate said, ‘Should I take Leo?’ As she put the baby over her shoulder he started to cry. Tony said, ‘Thanks very much, but can you turn him to face out? He likes to see everybody.’
I disregarded Kate’s nerves and put her right beside the Prime Minister at the table. They could discuss Scotland, Kate’s homeland. Tony was a student at Fettes College in Edinburgh, and he was chatting away, ‘Oh, I still miss Edinburgh.’ They talked about student jobs he’d had in the East End of London. Once he worked for somebody who did not pay him and, as a young man, he did not know what to do, but had never quite forgotten the uncomfortable experience. The table came alive with hard-luck tales and funny stories.
Meanwhile, I set about decanting the final bottle of Château Lafite Rothschild. There was, as you can imagine, a sort of religious r
ite associated with the opening of the wine. That is because it is rare. You can’t just open such a magnificent bottle and pour without an introduction. There must be an acknowledgement of what is about to be drunk. I talked about the wine to anyone who would listen, and then turned to my right at the table. ‘Jancis, would you mind pouring, please?’
Jancis started to pour, working her way around the glasses on the table, beginning with Kate. As she poured, she talked about the wine. My guests started to taste, while she continued to pour, and there were cheerful slurps and sounds of approval as the wine went down. Having poured this glass after that glass, Jancis then reached Tony. There was not a drop left in the decanter.
For a moment – it was just a split second or two – there was tension at the table. Something was not quite right. The British Prime Minister was missing out on a gastronomic experience. Then we all burst into laughter and settled on communion: each of us poured a splash of our wine into Tony’s glass. Equality was restored.
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Warm Mango Compote with Basil and Vanilla Ice Cream
This is the simple dessert that I served to the world leaders at the Asia–Europe Meeting in London, back in 1998. Often I made it for promotions at The Oriental in Bangkok. Mangoes are popular and abundant in Thailand, and their rich, fleshly and satin-like texture transforms this recipe into an exquisite finale. Shop-bought vanilla ice cream is of a high quality these days, and so convenient. The combination of the cold ice cream and warm fruit is unbeatable.
Serves 4
1 vanilla bean, split in half
110g (4 oz) sugar
150 ml (5 fl oz) water
750g (1½ lb) (2 medium) mangoes
tiny pinch of salt
2 tablespoons unsalted butter
6 basil leaves, coarsely chopped
a tub of your favourite vanilla ice cream, to serve 4
Scrape the inside seeds of the vanilla bean into the sugar and mix well. Using a non-stick wok or pan, bring the sugar and water to a boil, add the vanilla bean halves and simmer for 10 minutes.
Remove the vanilla bean, dry it thoroughly and save for future use by storing it in sugar. Peel the mangoes and cut the fruit into ¼-inch-thick slices.
Add the mangoes and salt and simmer for 2 minutes, just enough to warm and not to cook through. Remove from the heat, stir in the butter and the basil, stir gently and serve at once with scoops of vanilla ice cream.
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28
Meals, Ready or Not
ASK LEE WILLIAMS about his childhood and he will tell you that he was useless at school, but he will steer the subject towards his grandmother, on his father’s side. She was Burmese. ‘When I was a kid she used to cook traditional Burmese food,’ says Lee. ‘So, some people go round to their gran’s and eat cake and scones. I used to go in there and was met by the smell of freshly steamed basmati rice, ginger, garlic. I remember walking to her house and getting really excited about that Sunday lunch experience.
‘For me it was phenomenal, all the little snacks she used to do, traditional Burmese food – curries, stir-fries, fantastic fish. That was the sensory experience of food – the smell, the taste, the excitement around meal times.’ There began his affection for Asian and Indian food.
So he went through school, and ‘I’m not gonna lie,’ he says, ‘I was a numpty. I just had no interest in anything. It wasn’t until I dabbled with cooking that I found a place in life.’
His parents had separated when he was young, and Lee’s father had a pub in Oxfordshire. ‘I used to go and see him at the weekends. When he was working I sort of dipped into the kitchen to help out and earn a bit of pocket money, you know, doing kitchen portering. Then I got into cooking a little bit. I started off as a commis.’
The pub food was popular, and soon Lee realised his vocation. He knew he could never be ‘one of those guys who’s in a shirt and tie and an office every day’. He was absorbed into the environment and energy of the kitchen. ‘I flunked out of school, went into catering college and that’s where I really thrived.’
His career began at a restaurant in Wimbledon, followed by gastro pubs in the Channel Islands, and helping to open a restaurant called Broomes (‘We got a Michelin star within the first nine months, which was fantastic’). Stars come and go. It has since changed hands and is now the Salty Dog. He travelled around on a chef’s tour and found himself in Asia. Inspired by Chinese and Asian food, he went to Australia for a year and a half and then came back to Britain, but not before stopping in South Africa.
By the year 2000, he was at Monkey Island Hotel, a romantic spot on the Thames in Bray, Berkshire. From there, he went to Cookham, in the same county, and spent four years at the Odney Club, a hotel owned by John Lewis. Lee and his wife lived on site, but when their two children came along, Lee wanted the sort of work–life balance that is often unobtainable for chefs in professional kitchens.
In 2007, he saw an ad for a development chef at Kerry Foods in Burton on Trent. He went for a job interview. A development chef works on and develops recipes. These days, many great chef-proprietors employ development chefs. They perfect dishes for restaurants and work on recipes that will eventually appear in books. In the case of Kerry, they wanted a chef to develop ready meals.
Lee was told that, as part of the interview process, he would be required to cook three dishes. Although he had considerable experience, he was struggling for inspiration. What would he cook? He looked through his bookcase and came across my Hot Wok cookbook. He was inspired. His charm and confidence – and, of course, my dishes – won him the job!
Remember, he had that affection for Asian and Indian food. Working at Kerry would give him the opportunity to develop ranges of Indian and Chinese food. After a couple of years in the job, Lee was well established, and then a new brief came along. What he did not know was that Kerry Foods had approached me about doing a range of ready meals. They wanted it to be authentic, with fantastic oriental flavours. When I agreed, Lee was told about the project. He would be the development chef.
We met at Noon, which was not the time but the name of Kerry’s site in London. Lee would later say it was like a meeting with the Chinese Mafia – I arrived wearing a long black overcoat and a black trilby. We spent the day in the kitchen, cooking, testing, tasting. This was the beginning of a process that would continue, on and off, for about fourteen months.
People often ask me about ready meals, so perhaps this is the point to explain how the process works. Kerry had bought the Chinese ingredients that I had recommended, and I would cook up a meal for all of us.
The first four dishes were beef and black beans, sweet and sour chicken, chicken with cashew nuts and chicken with mushrooms. Once I had cooked these dishes, it was a matter of replicating the taste for the ready meals. That was the challenge, and flavour enhancers were not allowed. Stir-frying must be done quickly. If, for instance, you stir-fry a sliced onion, as you might do at home, then it is a fast process and pretty easy. Try stir-frying tons of onions and it is not fast, and the onion does not colour well. The sauces took a long time to perfect, and every few months I would visit to taste and, if happy, sign off. And I couldn’t simply say, ‘Add a bit more salt.’ There are salt restrictions, of course. The dishes were first made in two- or three-kilo vats. Once we were happy with the flavours, they were made in 500-kilo vats, or as a tonne.
Lee and his team worked on the range, developing as they do. Then we would reconvene again, to taste some more, cook and test. Lee was sourcing ingredients and flavours that were new to Kerry; I was keen to make it as authentic as possible. Once my changes were made, Tesco would taste. Between us, we came up with the ideal range of flavours and the correct production method. Following the go-ahead from Tesco, the meals were launched and went onto the shelves. Do not underestimate the time and energy that goes into ready meals. There are the lead times to think about, the authentic ingredients to source, and then the testing and more testing.
The hard work paid off. The range was a huge success, went on to win awards, and became one of the longest-running ready meal ranges in Tesco or any of the other retailers supplied by Kerry Foods.
One day, Lee and his team of chefs came to London to give a presentation. My schedule was hectic and we arranged to meet at the Dorchester, where I was staying. On this occasion I had been given quite a small room. To confuse the issue, Lee believed that his company had booked another room which would have been large enough for us all to gather and do a tasting. There was no record of the booking.
Anyway, I suggested to Lee that he and his team prepare the food in the hotel’s kitchens. There were about fifteen snacks, including prawn crackers, dim sum, spring rolls, wontons and Chinese toast, as well as sweet and sour dipping sauces. When the dishes were prepared, Lee and his team could come up to my room, and the Dorchester’s brilliant waiting staff could bring the food up to us. There, we would have a tasting session.
Usually, tasting ‘panels’ take place in a professional kitchen. Everyone has space and can stand around, dipping into this or that dish. This was the most unusual tasting panel. Six of us crowded into my extremely small room. I perched on a chaise longue. Two members of the team plonked themselves on my bed. Someone else was on a stool, or was it a suitcase? Lee was trying to present fifteen dishes on the trolley.
He turned around to see me on the chaise longue and, in that split second, there was an almighty crash. Somehow he had managed to knock the entire trolley and fifteen dishes of Chinese snacks onto the floor and all over my bed. The room was like Tracey Emin’s hymn to a Chinese banquet – sheets splattered with red chilli sauce, pillows dotted with wontons, a carpet of crunchy prawn crackers and crispy spring rolls. We spent ages trying to clean it up and, thankfully, my friends at the Dorchester were very sweet about it.