by James Steen
On that subject, to cook shop-bought couscous, pour the required amount of couscous into a Pyrex dish or saucepan. Sprinkle over a pinch of salt. Cover the couscous with boiling water (from the kettle) so that there is a centimetre of water above the couscous. Cover the dish or saucepan with cling film and let it steam for about five minutes.
The Tunisian tajine is unlike the Moroccan version, but similar to the Italian frittata; a stew with hard-boiled eggs and baked in a pie dish.
ROAST BEEF, YORKSHIRE PUDDING AND HORSERADISH
Crucial components of the hearty lunch enjoyed by millions of Britons on a Sunday. Pass the gravy, please.
The French term for the English – les rosbifs – can be regarded either as an insult or as a compliment.
As the former it suggests that, while the French are the gods of the kitchen, the British are unimaginative cooks, capable of producing nothing more complicated than roast beef. As a compliment, however, it is great praise indeed: that Frenchmen consider Britons to be masters in the culinary art of roasting, and that British beef is the finest in the world.
The British do indeed excel at roasting. This reputation long precedes the oven, taking us back to medieval times when the carcasses of huge beasts and birds – deer, swine, wild boar, sheep, capons, geese, swans and sometimes cows – were prepared for the spit.
There, in front of a blazing fire, the meat turned on the spit, cooking slowly and basted frequently to keep its succulence. The feasts of Henry VIII and his Tudor countrymen were incomplete without a roast, or ten. Venison, by the way, had to be cooked with extra skill. It could dry out easily and the meat would toughen, so a sort of jacket of pork fat was wrapped around the venison before it went on the spit.
And Queen Elizabeth, the reigning monarch, also relishes a roast lunch after church on Sundays – her beef comes from Sandringham and Balmoral. She likes the well done end-slice of the joint.
When Henri de Valbourg Misson visited Britain in the 1690s, accompanied by his journal, he was horrified by the English diet. ‘I always heard,’ he wrote,
that they were great flesh-eaters, and I found it true. I have known people in England that never eat any bread, and universally they eat very little; they nibble a few crumbs while they chew meat by the whole mouthfuls … Among the middling sort of people they had ten or twelve common meats which infallibly take their turns at the tables; and two dishes are their dinners: a pudding, for instance, and a piece of roast beef.
Interestingly, it was arrival of French cuisine in the 1700s which bothered some Englishmen. They feared that this new fancy and elaborately-crafted food would lead to the demise of what they had come to savour at the table. Would roast beef, for example, become a thing of the past, replaced by posh French nosh? The committed carnivore Henry Fielding was prompted to write a song, which was set to music by the composer Richard Leveridge, and featured in the opera ‘Grub Street’ before the Navy embraced it as their anthem:
When mighty roast beef was the Englishman’s food,
It ennobled our brains and enriched our blood.
Our soldiers were brave and our courtiers were good
Oh! the roast beef of old England,
And old English roast beef!
Our fathers of old were robust, stout, and strong,
And kept open house, with good cheer all day long,
Which made their plump tenants rejoice in this song –
Oh! the Roast Beef of old England,
And old English Roast Beef!
When good Queen Elizabeth sat on the throne,
Ere coffee, or tea, or such slip-slops were known,
The world was in terror if e’er she did frown.
Oh! The Roast Beef of old England,
And old English Roast Beef!
When the song was sung by the British Royal Navy on their ships, it was loud enough for the approaching French navy to hear les rosbifs.
Meanwhile, John Keats, one of the Romantic poets, wrote passionately of how he longed ‘for some famous beauty to get down from her palfry … and give me – a dozen or two capital roast-beef sandwiches’.
My foolproof recipe for roasting a rib of beef is unusual but recommended (if you have two ovens; one for the beef, the other for the vegetables and Yorkshire puddings):
Preheat the oven to 225˚C (440°F/Gas 7½)
Weigh the beef and rub salt and butter into it. Roast in the oven for six minutes per pound (450 grams).
When the required cooking time is reached, turn off the heat but leave the beef in the oven. Do not open the oven door. Leave it for two hours. Then you can open the door, because then it is done.
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The meat had to wait a few centuries for Yorkshire pudding to join it on the plate. The pudding, which is made from a batter of milk, egg yolks and flour, seems to have been made in various parts of England. However, these puddings were cooked in a pan without fat.
In the 16th and 17th centuries, Yorkshire cooks at the spit gave the pudding a unique and individual twist with a novel technique: the batter was poured into very hot fat, causing it to rise, become crisp on the bottom and at the edges and quite light in texture. Beef dripping, arguably, provides the most flavoursome fat for this purpose and so the Yorkshire pudding seemed an ideal – but not essential – match for beef as opposed to, say, chicken or venison.
The batter was poured into the roasting tin which sat beneath the beef on the spit, therefore catching the drips as it cooked and swelled. While the meat continued to roast, the Yorkshire pudding was eaten, relished with a spoonful of jam or syrup.
In The Cook’s Oracle of 1829, author William Kitchiner gives a recipe for what he describes as ‘Yorkshire Pudding Under Roast Meat, the Gipsies’ Way’, and regards it as ‘an especially excellent accompaniment to a sir-loin of beef, loin of veal – or any fat or juicy joint’.
His ingredients were six tablespoons of flour, three eggs, a teaspoon of salt, and a pint of milk. This is beaten to a consistency slightly thicker than pancake batter. ‘Put a dish under the meat and let the drippings drop into it until it is quite hot and well-greased; then pour in the batter. When the upper side is brown and set, turn it that both sides may be brown alike; if you wish to cut firm and the pudding an inch thick, it will take two hours at a good fire.’ He adds that ‘the true Yorkshire pudding is about half an inch thick when done; but it is the fashion in London to make them full twice that thickness’.
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Should you consider roast beef and Yorkshires – as well as roast potatoes – an over indulgence, then horseradish is an accompaniment of reassurance.
Horseradish is remarkably good for the health and one of those ingredients which Mother Nature provided in order to keep us well in the correct season: horseradish appears in the autumn and winter months, just in time to help ward off the flu. Which it does. (Parsnip is another seasonal blessing said to prevent a nasty cold.) You can also find horseradish in the months of spring – keep in sand or soil, ready to deal with a summer cold.
The name itself is thought to derive from Old English, when horse was used to signify large size, strength or coarseness.
Our ancestors ate horse mushrooms, not so common these days but delicious nevertheless and still to be found in hedgerows and forests from the middle of summer to the first frost of autumn. They discovered and named the horse mussel, also large, and still plentiful on the Scottish shores where they also know it as clabby-doo, meaning big, black mouth.
Then there is horse mint (a variety of mint, an excellent digestive and a cure for flatulence) and horse parsley, which monks grew in the well-tended gardens of their monasteries.
An alternative theory is that horseradish’s name derives from the German meerrettich, meaning sea radish (as the Germans apparently grew it close to the sea), and that the British mispronounced it ‘mare radish’, which then became horseradish. But if that was the case, why not stick with ‘mare radish’? I merely present the two options; take your choice
. Radish is from radix, the Latin for root, of which there is no dispute.
In late Victorian times, horseradish cost two pennies a stick and was acknowledged as a stimulant, ‘exciting to the stomach’. For centuries it had been regarded as an aid for digestion, chronic rheumatism, palsy and dropsy. ‘Its principal use, however,’ wrote Isabella Beeton, ‘is as a condiment to promote appetite and excite the digestive organs.’
This radish, Beeton told her readers, ‘is one of the most powerful excitants and antiscorbutics we have, and forms the basis of several medical preparations, in the form of wines, tinctures, and syrups’.
Do you suffer from gall stones? If so, horseradish wine may be your (reluctant) choice of drink. The wine is said to dispel gall stones, and can be made easily: slice the horseradish into cubes, and leave it to stand for a day in half a litre of wine. Alternatively, grate the radish, leave it in the wine, and then strain before consumption. Hold your nose. Drink. In terms of alcoholic drinks, this radish is more suited to cocktails, offering a welcome ‘kick’ when grated into a Bloody Mary, for instance.
Grated and infused with tea it becomes a drink to tackle sore throats. One tablespoon, three times a day. Add sugar and it becomes a cough syrup. It is also believed to promote the menstrual cycle.
Eating 100 grams of horseradish provides 40 per cent of the recommended daily intake of vitamin C. Flitting back to the 16th century for a moment; to when sailors made lengthy voyages, ran out of fresh food, and suffered from scurvy because of vitamin C deficiency. It is well known that, once they had identified the cause of illness, they kept limes, oranges and lemons on board. But what is less known is that at times they were also smart enough to take – and grow and harvest on board – the life-saving horseradish. In sand or soil it could be preserved for months. Brush away the sand, give the radish a quick wash and then eat it raw.
Fleets which sailed to the Spice Isles in the late 1500s may have returned with pepper and nutmeg, but they were minus men who had succumbed to scurvy. Later on, captains became more aware of the illness and stowed limes and oranges, ‘scurvy cress’ and horseradish. Perhaps it was mariners who came up with the idea of ‘marrying’ horseradish with roast beef. Cows, you see, were also kept on board ship. Before the Battle of Trafalgar, Nelson and his crew found time to devour roast beef – was it with some horseradish?
Skip forward to 1814, and the end of the Peninsular War was celebrated in Yarmouth with this feast: ‘… Spread out on 58 tables along the South Quay, where no fewer than 8,023 persons made an excellent repast of roast beef, plum pudding and ale’.
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Horseradish crops up in 17th- and 18th-century recipes as an ingredient when making pickles, and in a nice buttery sauce to accompany boiled salmon or cod’s head.
Turning to its preparation, which won’t take long. Cut it, and note the pungent aroma: this is a root which contains glucosinolates. The same enzymes are also found in wasabi, cauliflower, cabbage and mustard seeds. This strong aroma is said to be the plant’s way of protecting itself from animals and predators, which do not like the pong and so vanish sharp-ish. Many humans, meanwhile, savour the smell that clears the nasal passages and induces appetite.
Beeton writes:
This root, scraped, is always served with hot roast beef, and is used for garnishing many kinds of boiled fish. Let the horseradish remain in cold water for an hour; wash it well, and with a sharp knife scrape it into very thin shreds, commencing from the thick end of the root. Arrange some of it lightly in a small glass dish, and the remainder use for garnishing the joint: it should be placed in tufts round the border of the dish, with 1 or 2 bunches on the meat.
Quite simply, wash it, peel it and incorporate it into whipped cream. Horseradish sauce is also a marvellous accompaniment to smoked fish and superb when spread, in moderation, on to the bread for smoked salmon sandwiches.
It was the French, I believe, who improved our horseradish sauce. Originally, we grated the root and mixed it with vinegar to create a pickled sauce. In Alsace and Lorraine, and a few parts of Burgundy, the horseradish is mixed with cream before it is eaten with smoked sausages or … roast beef.
JERK PORK
Sweet, sour, spicy, crispy and Jamaican. From the pit to the oil drum, the food of slaves has become the coolest feast for the modern-day king of the barbie.
The Jamaicans trace this dish back to the Maroons. They were African slaves who in the 1650s escaped their Spanish captors and the invading British army, and fled to the mountainous interior (named after the Spanish cimarrón, meaning ‘wild’). Deep in the Blue Mountains they had to find a way of feeding themselves. ‘Jerk’ was clever and sensible, a dish cooked by desperate men, women and children.
Once they had caught wild boar, they rubbed the meat in pimento (also called all-spice), which helped to preserve it. Using sharp sticks, they pierced holes in the flesh, and rubbed more pimento berries into the holes. Then the meat was wrapped in leaves. Cooking took place when the meat was buried between hot rocks, or roasted on a fire of pimento wood, but being careful to avoid too much smoke which might be spotted by the British army.
The ‘runaways’ developed a technique of cooking in ‘a pit’ in the ground. It could be easily and quickly extinguished if the smoke got out of control. The dry rub is authentic but in time it developed into a sauce – sweet, sour and spicy – that we know and love today.
Although the Maroons mastered jerk, they had learned a few tricks from the indigenous Taíno (or Arawak) tribesmen, some of whom had fled with the slaves.
The Taíno and Arawak peoples were the pioneers of the barbecue. They would tie sticks together to create a frame that was waist height. They stored meat on it – it was high enough off the ground to stop rodents getting it. They called this frame barabicu. At some point, a fire must have been lit beside the frame and amid the sizzle and crackle of animal flesh, the barbie was born, even if the frame died.
The Taíno people had also developed a technique of drying and preserving meat. Charqui, an old Spanish word (stemming from Peruvian) means ‘dried strips of meat’. From ‘charqui’ comes jerky, the dried meat, and jerk, the barbecuing of spice-rubbed meat. With their preserving technique, the Maroons would also inspire ‘the rub’, a term used widely by 21st-century barbecue cooks to describe the seasoning they use for meats (which tend not to be cooked in a pit but on wood or coals in barbecues made from old, split oil drums).
A large piece of meat is best for jerk pork, say four kilograms of pork loin. Pierce holes in the meat and through the fat. The dry ingredients for the sauce are sliced onions, garlic, Scotch bonnet pepper (careful, not too much), thyme, pimento (all-spice), ginger, black pepper, salt and sugar. These are mixed with white wine vinegar, orange juice, lime juice and sunflower oil. Soy sauce, or ‘soya’ sauce as the Jamaicans call it, is also added. It has been a popular condiment and ingredient in Jamaica ever since it was introduced by Chinese labourers who arrived on the island to build the railways. The whole lot is blitzed in a food processor or with a hand-held blender.
The sauce (which can also be used to coat chicken, lamb or goat) is then massaged into the meat, and it is left to marinate overnight in the fridge. The pork is grilled on the barbecue, ideally over charcoal of pimento wood. In an oven, roast it for two hours at 180˚C. Once out of the oven, the meat should rest, loosely covered in tinfoil, for at least an hour. Pork, just like the pig it once was, likes to rest. There is also something to be said about the ‘rest’ before cooking: if you can bear it, marinate the pork for three days in the fridge. Many Jamaicans like to cook the pork when it is tightly wrapped in tinfoil, which is delicious but the meat will not brown or become very crispy.
GREEN CURRY
Chicken in a silky coconut sauce, hot with chilli and fragranced by lime and lemongrass. Thai cuisine epitomised.
Thailand’s green curry, gaeng khieo wan, is not like the Indian curry. It should have the zing of fresh, cooling flavours. There must be the hea
t which the Thais adore. This comes courtesy of chillies, green in the case of this particular curry, which gives the sauce its vibrant colour. A spicy flavour comes from white or red peppercorns.
The curry must be sensuously aromatic, exotically perfumed by the enticing scents of South-east Asian herbs and spices. A pestle and mortar is the handy ‘gadget’ for grinding and combining these flavours. Fun, too.
In order to achieve the above criteria, the ingredients for the curry paste should include lemongrass, ginger, galangal (known as Thai ginger, but sweeter), kaffir lime leaves, white pepper and palm sugar. These are turned into a paste, ground by pestle and mortar, one ingredient after the other. Kaffir lime juice is incorporated, and a little water.
The curry’s silky finish is provided by coconut milk and coconut cream. The result must deliver sour, salty and sweet flavours to the palate, so the cook is wise to taste frequently while cooking.
It is so simple to make. In a large, deep frying or sauté pan, and on a medium heat, sauté finely sliced onion or shallot in clarified butter until they are nicely browned. Add the green chillies, finely sliced, and do not worry about removing the seeds. Stir and sauté for a minute on the same heat. Pour in the coconut milk and coconut cream, and slowly bring to the boil so that it reduces as it evaporates. Now the paste is added and stirred in.
Next, add pieces of chicken and allow them to cook on a low-medium heat. Add palm sugar and fish sauce, which is salty, both to your taste. Add whole lime leaves, whole sweet basil leaves and very finely sliced lemongrass.
At this point taste and taste again – it should be perfectly balanced. Adjust the seasoning and, if necessary, add more palm sugar or fish paste, and lime juice to adjust the acidity.
Stir in the fragrant zest of lime, again to your taste. Take a green chilli and very finely slice it, matchstick thin, lengthways; use as a garnish. Serve with white rice.