by James Steen
It breeds in high northern latitudes, and the time of its appearance and disappearance in Sweden coincides exactly with that of its arrival in and return from Great Britain. On the coast of Suffolk its vernal and autumnal visits have been accurately observed. In the first week of October it makes its appearance in small numbers, but in November and December it appears in larger numbers, and always after sunset, and most gregariously. In the same manner as woodcocks take their leave of us, they quit France, Germany, and Italy, making the northern and colder climates their summer rendezvous …
In the latter part of October, writes the Victorian cook, woodcocks visit Burgundy but only for a few weeks, ‘the country being hard, and unable to supply them with such sustenance as they require’.
She continues:
In the winter, woodcocks are found as far south as Smyrna and Aleppo, and, during the same season, in Barbary, where the Africans name them ‘the ass of the partridge.’ It has been asserted that they have been seen as far south as Egypt, which is the most remote region to which they can be traced on that side of the eastern world; on the other side, they are common in Japan.
Beeton adds that the flesh of the woodcock ‘is held in high estimation; hence the bird is eagerly sought after by the sportsman … These are most delicious birds when well cooked, but they should not be kept too long: when the feathers drop, or easily come out, they are fit for table.’
The bird’s organs are an essential part of this feast. Or, as Beeton points out, the woodcocks ‘should not be drawn, as the trails are, by epicures, considered a great delicacy’.
Her recipe is as follows …
Pluck, and wipe them well outside; truss them with the legs close to the body, and the feet pressing upon the thighs; skin the neck and head, and bring the beak round under the wing. Place some slices of toast in the dripping-pan to catch the trails, allowing a piece of toast for each bird. Roast before a clear fire from 15 to 25 minutes; keep them well basted, and flour and froth them nicely. When done, dish the pieces of toast with the birds upon them, and pour round a very little gravy; send some more to table in a tureen.
On one occasion I had the pleasure of eating woodcock, cooked by Marco Pierre White (while working on Essentially Marco).
He smeared a couple of the birds with clarified butter and popped them onto a roasting tin and this onto the top shelf of an oven, preheated to 200˚C. There they stayed for about twelve or fifteen minutes before they were removed from the oven. The birds were left to ‘rest’ for five minutes, before Marco used a teaspoon to remove the intestines, hearts, livers and gizzards. The gizzards were discarded. The rest was chopped up to become a smooth paste which, in turn, was mixed with an equal amount of foie gras (chicken liver can be used instead) and very finely sliced shallot. ‘That,’ said Marco, ‘is the most amazing game paté you’ll ever taste,’ and he was not wrong.
Under a hot grill he flashed wild mushrooms – only for a minute or so – and then toasted the white bread, crusts removed. The toast was buttered, and then smothered with the paté. Again this went under the grill for just under a minute. With a kitchen knife, he split the birds’ heads down the middle and propped the roasted woodcocks, with their heads, on the toast. He served them in a large iron pan. The whole thing was cooked in about twenty minutes, start to finish, and certainly did not take long to be eaten.
VEGETARIAN
GAZPACHO
A cold, refreshing soup to cool down the Spanish on a hot day.
Nowadays this soup is made with tomatoes and, indeed, we tend to think of it as a chilled tomato soup. Gazpacho was conceived, however, before tomatoes were even known to the Spanish. In its earliest form, it was introduced by the Moors during their occupation of Spain in the 8th and 13th centuries.
The name of the soup derives from the Spanish caspicias, meaning remnants (because left-overs were the ingredients for this dish). Or it stems from the Mozarabic gazpelağo from Latin gazophylacium, meaning ‘treasure-chest in a church’ (like a pie, there are lots of interesting ingredients). What about the theory that the word stems from gazaz, a Hebrew word meaning ‘to break into pieces’?
Caspicias, gazpelağo or gazaz, the choice is yours. (Meanwhile gazpachuelo is a different soup, served in the city of Malaga, and made not primarily with vegetables but with seafood such as clams, and served hot in winter, with a dollop of mayonnaise on top.)
Even if we are unsure of the name, we do know that the first recipes contained heaps of garlic and olive oil, of course, along with salt and water, and bread. Vinegar was an essential addition, bringing extra depth of refreshment to the palate (the Romans used vinegar in their soups). The ingredients were pounded together in a mortar to produce the soup. Perhaps more water was then added, depending on the consistency. Farmers and labourers, who were not in the kitchen but out in the fields, could make the soup in un dornillo, a large, wooden bowl.
Some cooks still favour the mortar as the utensil in which to make this dish. The tomatoes should be ripe and sweet, and sieved to remove the seeds. The bread is best when hard, say a week old. Sherry or Jerez vinegar is the vinegar to use, and it is not uncommon to add just a splash of sherry too. Why not?
Before the Arabian arrival, the Spanish had for centuries enjoyed bowls of sopa de ajo (garlic soup) which, again, was pounded in the mortar, and sopa de alamendras (almond soup) made in the same way and eagerly adopted by the British as an ‘allowable’ dish to eat when fasting and avoiding meat. Sometimes the two are united: almonds, along with garlic, are used in ajo blanco, which can be adorned with grapes or watermelon.
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Christopher Columbus, it is said, came across the tomato in 1493, during his voyage of the Americas. The Spanish conquistador Hernán Cortés, it is also said, discovered the tomato in the Aztec city of Tenochtítlan, before taking tomato seeds back to Europe. Once in Spain, it was certainly grown there, but not necessarily eaten by many people. As in Italy and Britain, the tomato was deemed to be poisonous. The Italians preferred it as a table decoration, and so a craze began in other parts of Europe.
New foods were often considered poisonous until they became fashionable, at which point they were hailed as an aphrodisiac. Hence the passionate embrace of the tomato as an apple of love: the French called it pomme d’amour, the Italians christened it pomodoro. It is likely that most of the tomatoes were orange rather than red, so could have also been apples of gold. The British, meanwhile, stayed close to the Spanish tomate which, in turn, comes from tomatl, the Aztec’s word for ‘the plump fruit’ or ‘the swelling fruit’. Although often treated as a vegetable for culinary purposes, the tomato is, by scientific definition, a fruit as its seeds are to be found within its skin.
The tomato was being grown in Britain in 1554 by Patrick Bellow, but possibly not to eat. Queen Elizabeth I was one of many who thought that the tomato, because of its vibrant colour, was poisonous. John Gerrard, in The Herball or Generall Historie of Plantes (1597) decreed with authority that the plant was ‘of ranke and stinking savour’, and when, in the 1660s, the British horticulturalist John Ray visited Italy he was alarmed to see Italians eating a tomato sauce, which included marrows, salt and oil. He concluded with confidence that tomatoes, when cooked in oil, could be a cure for scabies – they should not be consumed, of course, but rubbed on the irritated skin.
The earliest known printed recipe with tomatoes came in the Italian cookbook, Lo scalca alla moderna (The Modern Steward), written by Antonio Latini, an extravagantly-bewigged Neapolitan who was skilled in cookery and stewardship, was good with a sword and had also been a wardrobe attendant.
His book was published in two volumes (1692 and 1694) and gives a recipe for ‘salsa di pomodoro alla spagnuola’ – tomato sauce, Spanish style. Interestingly, the sauce is what now we might not consider to be Spanish, but rather a typical Italian tomato sauce, or Napoli sauce; the type we would serve on pasta.
Take half a dozen ripe tomatoes and roast them in embers, and when they
are charred, carefully remove the skin, and mince them finely with a knife; add as many onions, finely minced, as desired; chillies, also finely minced; and a little quantity of thyme. After mixing everything together, add a bit of salt, oil and vinegar, and it will be a very tasty sauce, for boiled dishes or anything else.
Lest there be any doubt about the origin of tomato sauce (and a spicy one at that), the award should probably go to the Aztecs, whose diet included a sauce of tomatoes and pumpkins, with chilli peppers added.
By the 1750s a few Italian chefs were championing the tomato, although still advising their quivering audience that the poisonous skin and seeds should be removed before cooking. Brave monks in monasteries and courageous nuns in convents grew tomatoes, and were starting to realise the fruit could be eaten. Ever so slowly, the tomato was moving in the plant listings from ‘ornament’ to … ‘vegetable’.
It was not until 1745 that tomatoes truly triumphed in a cookery book, when Juan Altamiras gave as many as thirteen recipes with tomato as an ingredient.
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The gazpacho that we know today originated in the 1800s as ‘Andalusian gazpacho’. That is when the French emperor Napoleon III married Eugenia de Montijo of Granada. The emperor not only had a Spanish wife to love, but he also discovered the Spanish dishes that she loved, and could cook (or instruct her cooks to cook). One of these dishes was gazpacho, and now it would become known in France, even if it was still unknown in northern Spain.
And so the tomato worked its way into Spanish cuisine, and into the gazpacho of Andalusia. Along came accompaniments to the cold dish – sliced cucumber, perhaps because of its refreshing, cooling qualities, and red (bell) pepper. Garlic must be used, as it was in the Moor-ish original. And bread was and is still involved, either placed in the bowl before the soup is poured over it, or served on the side, or even as croutons or small squares of toast.
A recipe for gazpacho – ‘gaspacha Spanish’ – is given by the American Mary Randolph in her 1824 classic, The Virginia Housewife: or, Methodical Cook. Randolph’s sister had lived in Spain and was, therefore, a source of Spanish recipes, which included ropa vieja: ripened, skinned tomatoes fried with shreds of ‘cold meat of fowl’.
Here is Randolph’s recipe for the 19th-century gazpacho:
Put some soft biscuit or toasted bread in the bottom of a sallad bowl, put in a layer of sliced tomatos with the skin taken off, and one of sliced cucumbers, sprinkled with pepper, salt, and chopped onion; do this until the bowl is full, stew some tomatos quite soft, strain the juice, mix in some mustard and oil, and pour over it; make it two hours before it is eaten.
She was something of a culinary crusader, considering the bizarre events of 1820, just four years before the publication of her book. It was then that Colonel Robert Johnson, a horticulturalist and farmer from Salem, New Jersey, astonished townsfolk when, before a large crowd, he devoured an entire tomato to prove that it was not poisonous. He had announced that he would eat the fruit – also called the wolf peach, Jerusalem apple or love apple – on the steps of the county courthouse at noon. This is from The Story of Robert Gibbon Johnson and the Tomato, by The Salem County Historical Society:
That morning, in 1820, about 2,000 people were jammed into the town square … The spectators began to hoot and jeer. Then, 15 minutes later, Col. Johnson emerged from his mansion and headed up Market Street towards the Courthouse. The crowd cheered. The firemen’s band struck up a lively tune. He was a very impressive-looking man as he walked along the street. He was dressed in his usual black suit with white ruffles, black shoes and gloves, tricorn hat, and cane.
‘At the Court House steps he spoke to the crowd about the history of the tomato … He picked a choice one from a basket on the steps and held it up so that it glistened in the sun.’ At this point, he announced to the crowd: ‘To help dispel the tall tales, the fantastic fables that you have been hearing … And to prove to you that it is not poisonous I am going to eat one right now.’
The audience, jaws on the dusty ground, watched, and:
… There was not a sound as the Colonel dramatically brought the tomato to his lips and took a bite. A woman in the crowd screamed and fainted but no one paid her any attention; they were all watching Col. Johnson as he took one bite after another … He raised both his arms, and again bit into one and then another. The crowd cheered and the firemen’s band blared a song.
The crowd shouted: ‘He’s done it. He’s still alive.’
Johnson did indeed die, but 30 years later.
KÄSKNÖPFLE
Comfort dish extraordinaire to rival mac ‘n’ cheese. Miniature noodles coated in cheese, savoured beside a log fire while gazing at the snowy peaks of Liechtenstein.
Once a billionaires’ tax haven, the Principality of Liechtenstein is a German-speaking micro-state, and a land of fairy tale charm and alpine beauty. The country borders Switzerland to the south and west, and Austria to the east and north. Indeed, the entire western border is formed by the Rhine river. A landscape of forests is dotted with medieval castles and snow-draped mountains.
Liechtenstein is small. It has one hospital (in Vaduz, the capital) and no airport (should you wish to visit by air, take a flight to Zurich). The police force comprises 125 officers. The army was disbanded in 1868, following the Austro-Prussian War, during which 80 soldiers went off to fight. None of them ended up fighting and so, thankfully, there were no national fatalities on the fields of conflict. The country has a population of 37,000, less than half the capacity of Wembley Stadium.
Time, it seems, has stood still in Liechtenstein, which is just the way they like it. They will never run out of booze. There are a couple of breweries, as well as the Telsington whisky distillery, and wine producers include The Prince of Liechtenstein Winery which has the four-hectare Herawingert vineyards in Vaduz and is open to visitors. It has south-west facing slopes, good soil and the grapes are helped along by the warm föhn wind. The pinot noir and chardonnay grapes grow exceptionally well here.
Food slips its way neatly into the country’s fables. There is, for instance, the legend of the three sisters who, on the Feast of the Assumption, left their village and set off to pick berries. As they walked along the path they heard the peal of church bells, announcing the holy feast and calling worshippers to church. One of the sisters suggested they should head back, but the other two replied that the baskets had to be full of berries. They continued to pick, and filled their baskets. On their way home they met a beautiful woman who asked them for some berries. The sisters were reluctant to give her any: ‘If you want berries pick them yourself.’
Suddenly, a halo appeared above the woman’s head. ‘You have dishonoured my holy day,’ she told the terrified children, ‘by not giving me what I asked for. Your hearts are made of stone. So you shall be turned to stone and remain here forever.’ In a flash the sisters were transformed into huge rocks. There they remain to this day: the Drei Schwestern (Three Sisters) is a trio of rugged peaks on a mountain chain high above the village of Planken.
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You can easily imagine what they like to eat in Liechtenstein. Hearty, nutritious, warming, filling food, with neighbourly influences from Austria and Switzerland. Deer is plentiful, and favourite dishes include jugged venison. Smoked pork and sausages are part of the daily diet, and rösti, the Swiss dish of fried, grated potatoes is prominent too, as is the ham-and-dumpling broth, hafalaab.
Then there is a sort of porridge, traditionally a peasant’s breakfast (lunch and dinner), called ribel or rebl. For this, cornmeal is simmered in milk and water, before the thickened mixture is fried gently in butter on a low heat. It is eaten with compotes of apple or cherry, or both.
No Liechtenstein feast is complete, however, without käsknöpfle, cheesy noodles. This is by far the most cherished national dish, similar to spätzle with cheese, which is enjoyed in nearby Bavaria, Switzerland and Hungary.
Käs is cheese and knöpfle means (small) buttons which, in this c
ase, are made from dough. The dough is pushed through a device called a knöpflehobel (or spätzlehobel): a button planer. This device has small holes and, as the dough passes through them, little ‘buttons’ of noodles are created. A colander can be used if the holes are large, but is messier than the knöpflehobel. Pushing the dough through the dull side of a cheese grater also works.
The dough-pushing takes place over a big pot of boiling water, so that the buttons fall into the bubbling hot liquid. First, they sink. Second, they rise, at which point they are cooked and can be lifted from the water with a skimmer or slotted spoon. The knöpfle are covered in grated cheese, given a stir, and then served with onions, which have been sliced and fried in butter to a crisp. A pot of apple compote and a glass of chilled chardonnay are pleasant accompaniments.
The recipe follows:
Serves 4
Ingredients
For the dough:
300 grams flour
4 eggs
250 millilitres fresh water
a pinch or two each of pepper, nutmeg and salt
For the cheese:
200 grams Appenzeller or Gruyère or Emmental (also known as Emmentalier)
100 grams Fontina
Fry some onion rings in butter until they are golden, and put to one side.
In a large bowl, mix the dough ingredients. Cover with a tea towel, and leave for 30 minutes.
In a large saucepan, bring well-salted water to a rapid boil.
Pass the dough through the knöpflehobel (or dull side of a cheese grater) into the water. As the ‘buttons’ rise to the water’s surface, remove them and place them in a bowl. Quickly add the cheese. Toss and stir.