As it was my mum’s birthday, I really wanted to spoil her with this lunch. So after the squid was devoured, I chucked the grill on and set about on a speedy main course. There were only the three of us eating, so the evening before I had excitedly rushed home with a trio of lovely Cornish Dover sole. Having only cooked and eaten these prized fish on less than a handful of occasions, I was determined to cook them carefully and treat them simply. A bag of mushrooms, a slab of butter and few bits picked from the allotment were all that was needed.
My mistake was in bringing the fish down to Brighton unprepared. I thought that my parents would want to be hands on and take interest in learning how to skin the fish. They were, although I wasn’t quite ready for the total mess that it would cause. At work, any mess is barely noticeable as it gets quickly slooshed away with a bucket of water. There was no such solution this time as scales sprayed across the kitchen, attaching themselves to the floorboards, fridge, clothing and hair. I felt so bad!
But once the fish was prepared and that total lead balloon had worn off a little, the rest of the dish came together in a flash. Simply grilled fish is always a pleasure to eat, especially when it emerges golden brown and sizzling from the oven and is swiftly doused in hot melted butter. Mushrooms and sage might seem a strange combination, but they provided a lovely contrast to the rich and meaty flesh.
We were all stuffed to bursting after two plates of food, but of course there was cake. And cream. And clotted cream. And ice cream. Oh heavens! Dad had followed a particularly lovely Nigel Slater recipe for lemon cake, all sticky and dense, and with tangy candied sliced burnished on top. After half an hour of eating grace to try and find some extra stomach space, it was happily forked up to complete a memorable afternoon celebration.
Serves 4
Ingredients:
4 Dover sole, each about 400g in weight, skinned and trimmed
2 large handfuls of girolle mushrooms, brushed clean
1 clove of garlic, crushed
A few sprigs of sage, leaves picked
4 tbsp of butter
1 lemon
Heat the grill to high. Line a large oven tray with greaseproof paper and rub with 1 tsp of olive oil and a good pinch of seasoning. Place the Dover sole on top and rub with a little more oil and seasoning. Slide under the hot grill for 8 minutes.
Slice or tear the mushrooms into bite-size pieces if necessary.
Bring a large frying pan to a medium heat. Add the butter and melt, then toss in the mushrooms, crushed garlic clove and a pinch of seasoning. Fry for 4-5 minutes, tossing frequently, until caramelised on all sides. Add the sage leaves about halfway through, and allow them to slightly crisp in the hot butter.
Carefully transfer the cooked fish to each plate. Squeeze half of the lemon juice into the butter and mushrooms and stir to combine, then spoon generously over the fish. Serve with the remaining lemon on the side.
I spent the weekend just passed on a whistle-stop visit to Brighton to celebrate my mum’s 68th birthday. And as is now tradition, I arrived clutching a bag of provisions to make lunch on the Sunday. Wherever they have lived, the kitchen has always been the central point of the house, and it was a total pleasure preparing food and catching up as they sat around the table with a glass of wine. As usual, I wanted to keep things simple and quick, just a few seasonal and tested ingredients together on a plate.
In the morning mum and I had driven to their lovely allotment on the hills overlooking the city, shrouded in the morning mist and spitting rain. There we collected beautiful courgette flowers, herbs, salad leaves and bulbs of garlic. They are always so humble about it, but I know how hard they work planning, digging, planting and watering, and I’m always blown away by the produce that flourishes in the neat beds and winds around geometric canes. It was exciting to collect food knowing that it would be on the plate within a few small hours.
First course out of my bag was a paper-wrapped package bulging with squid. Dad gasped. The man loves his squid, and some of my fondest childhood memories involve visits to fishmongers with him. Without fail, dad would always be drawn to squid, and we would rush home to fry them in a thin, crispy batter. On this occasion they were seared quick and fast, until charring at the edges, before being drenched in lemon juice.
I can’t get enough of samphire at the moment, so a few handfuls were also thrown into the mix. Combined with the incredibly tender young courgettes and a tangy dressing, they sat perfectly alongside the squid. This whole dish took about 15 minutes to casually put together, perfect for maximising time sat down eating together.
Serves 4
Ingredients:
4 medium squid, cleaned
4 small handfuls of samphire
4-6 baby courgettes, with flowers if possible
2 sprigs of marjoram
1 lemon
1 clove of garlic
1 good pinch of dried chilli flakes
Extra virgin olive oil
Fill a saucepan with water, and bring to the boil. Fill a large bowl with cold water and add a good handful of ice cubes. When the water in the pan is hot, tip in the samphire and blanche for 20 seconds. Drain and transfer straight into the iced water to cool quickly. When cold, drain and shake dry, then add to a large bowl.
Tear up the courgette flowers (discarding the stamen). Slice the courgettes into long, thin batons. Add both to the samphire, along with the chilli flakes, the lemon zest and half of the juice, the marjoram leaves and the finely grated garlic. Pour in 2-3 tbsp of olive oil and a good pinch of seasoning and toss to combine.
Using a sharp knife, open up the cleaned squid bodies to create a flat sheet. Carefully score one side in a crisscross, and repeat with the wings. Slice the tentacles into a few pieces.
Bring a large, heavy frying pan to a high heat and add 2 tbsp of olive oil. When smoking hot, add the squid and a pinch of seasoning. Cook the squid, in batches if necessary, for one minute on each side, or until golden brown and caramelised.
To serve, layer the squid and the samphire and courgette salad onto each plate. Finish with an extra squeeze of lemon juice and a crack of black pepper.
It’s summer supposedly, but despite the thunder, rain and perpetual state of mugginess, people are still eager to dust off the barbecue. Only barbeques in Britain require additional equipment of multiple umbrellas, raincoats and windshields. Due to this every-reliable method of cooking, everyone is all mackerel, bream, prawns and tuna. Despite being in prime season and wonderful condition, suddenly the humble soles, flounders and other flatfish become seemingly invisible. So here’s a summer recipe that takes full advantage of these delicious fish that can be whipped up in no time.
Turbot, lemon sole, plaice or halibut would all work perfectly with this recipe, but in this instance I opted for brill. Poor brill. Brill is like a child named Butch who turned out to be a bit of a weed. Nobody seems to want to hang out with brill. Its dull brown appearance and large size don’t do it any favours. It gets enough attention mind; “OH that’s a brill” they say, pointing, before finishing with “I’ll have two slices of salmon please”. Brill needs a break. Because underneath that dull exterior is beautifully textured, pure white flesh that on its day gives the prized turbot a run for its money.
Last year I splashed out and bought a whopper. I poached chunky fillets in butter and they were to die for. I fried the roes with anchovies and chanterelles. I even cured a bit. This time I wanted to go back to basics and simply fry a tranche with a few tried and tested companions. Cooking flat fish on the bone results in extra succulence and flavour, and it’s really not that fiddly at all when it comes to eating. A few technicoloured, ripe tomatoes, some wonderful baby fennel and a pile of finely grated bottarga and you’re pretty much there.
Serves 2
Ingredients:
For the brill:
2 tranches of brill, about 200g each
1 large knob of butter
For the tomatoes:
4-5 assorted ripe heritage tomatoes
1 small clove of garlic, grated
A pinch of dried chillies
To finish:
6 baby fennel and fronds
A generous grating of bottarga
A few fresh oregano leaves
Slice the tomatoes into randomly-shaped pieces and slide into a bowl. Grate over the garlic and sprinkle over the chilli flakes to taste. Season generously and combine with about a tablespoon of olive oil. Leave to sit while the rest of the preparation is completed.
Fill a small saucepan with water and bring to the boil. Cut the fronds from the fennel and blanche in the hot water for about 30 seconds, then immediately drain and shock in cold water. Set aside.
Set the grill to medium-high. Place the baby fennel bulbs onto an oven tray and toss with a little olive oil and seasoning. Slide under the heat and cook for 2-3 minutes on each side, until lightly caramelised and al dente.
Pour a glug of olive oil into a non-stick frying pan and bring to a medium-high heat. Season the tranches of brill all over. When the pan is hot, add the brill and fry for three minutes on each side. For the final 2 minutes, add the knob of butter to the pan and baste the fish continuously.
Remove the fish from the pan and set aside briefly. Pour in the tomatoes and add the fennel and fronds. Warm through for about a minute, tossing in the oil and butter.
To serve, add a piece of brill to each plate and surround with the tomatoes, fennel and fronds. Spoon over some of the buttery pan sauce, and grate a generous amount of bottarga on top. Finish with a few fresh oregano leaves.
Yet again there has somehow been a gap of a few weeks since my last recipe. Recently I’ve been running around like a headless chicken working on various projects, and I just haven’t been able to sneak over to the computer and jot down a few words. Thankfully, I’ve got a window of free time ahead, so my posting can hopefully get back to the usual frequency. There are some cracking recipes in the pipeline; brill, summer stews, baby beetroot and more.
The best thing about this recipe is that it marks my annual love-in with peas. Any regular readers will know that I’m borderline obsessed with the little sweet green orbs of joy. Memory and food is an important connection, and peas take me right back to childhood dinners. Then they would be served to provide some nutrition alongside a breaded chicken escalope, or they would be jammed, hiding inside penne or pasta shells. As a supposedly responsible adult, I have tried on occasion to grow them. The idea of a plentiful and replenishing supply of peas at my fingertips is too good to resist. Alas, unfortunately I am constantly reminded that my gardening prowess leaves a lot to be desired. And any few miracle peas that made it were engulfed in seconds, without hope of even nearly making it into the kitchen.
So peas are wonderful, but very much in a safe kind of way. You know what you’re getting with peas. They’re Mr Reliable; sweet, with that satisfying pop. Yet at a recent dinner the excellent Pidgin, local to me in Hackney, my eyes were opened when whole pods of peas were served to me grilled. They proved a total revelation and made perfect sense, the charred exterior adding a wonderful smokiness. I just had to give that a go.
This dish is a celebration of the humble pea. But the soft and rich gnudi are certainly not the bridesmaids. These soft, hot, balls of melted cheese are total crowd pleasers, and something that I don’t nearly make often enough. The long preparation time is a bit of a commitment, but as is so often the way, when it’s actually time to cook they are ready in a flash.
Serves 2
Ingredients:
For the gnudi:
250g ricotta
25g parmesan, finely grated
500g semolina, for rolling
For the pea puree:
250g frozen peas
½ a lemon
A small bunch of mint, leaves picked
1 large knob of butter
For the grilled peas:
10 fresh peas in their pods
For the fresh peas and shoots:
2 handfuls of fresh peas
1 handful of pea shoots
To finish:
1 large knob of butter
A few mint leaves
A few gratings of parmesan
Start by making the gnudi. Tip the ricotta into a bowl and combine with the grated parmesan and a good pinch of seasoning. Carefully form the mixture into small balls. Line a large plate or tray with the semolina and roll each gnudi in it until coated all over. Space the gnudi out on the tray in one layer, and scatter a little more of the semolina over the top. Cover the tray with cling film and refrigerate for 24 hours.
Bring a large saucepan of water to the boil and salt the water well. Fill a large bowl with very cold water (iced ideally) and have it standing to the side ready. Blanche the shoots for 20 seconds before transferring to the cold water with a spotted spoon. Repeat with the two handfuls of fresh peas, blanching for 1 minute. Once cool, drain the water away and shell the peas, and set aside in a bowl with the shoots for finishing later.
Tip the frozen peas into the now empty pan of boiling water and cool for 2-3 minutes, until tender. Drain and shake dry, then pour into a food processor. Add the lemon juice, mint leaves and butter and blitz until a puree is formed. Pass through a sieve, then taste and adjust the seasoning and lemon content if necessary. Pour into a small saucepan and cover. Keep warm.
Set the grill to high. Rub the whole peas with a little oil and season well. Scatter onto an oven tray and slide under the grill for a couple of minutes on each side, until slightly charred.
Take the gnudi out of the fridge. The semolina will have formed a crust around the cheese. Gently brush off any excess grains.
Bring a large pan of water to the boil and salt the water well. Place a large frying pan over a medium-low heat and melt the butter. When the water is hot, drop in the gnudi and boil for a couple of minutes; they are ready as soon as they float to the surface. Transfer them to the butter pan with a slotted spoon and carefully roll around. Add the blanched peas and shoots and cook for a minute to warm through.
To plate up, spoon a good dollop of the puree onto each plate. Top with the gnudi, peas, shoots and a spoonful of the hot butter from the pan. Arrange some of the grilled peas in the gaps. Finish with a generous grating of parmesan and a scattering of mint leaves.
If someone ever asked me what the thing that I find the hardest when cooking is, my answer would without doubt be pastry. Specifically, shortcrust pastry. It always looks so effortless on the telly, when the beaming cook rolls out perfect, impossibly thin sheets, before casually lining their tin with the utmost precision. “Who needs to buy shortcrust pastry when it’s such a doddle?” they ask. They’ve clearly never experienced the crushing devastation of too-short pastry crumbling away at the merest suggestion of a rolling pin. The bottomless crevasses that appear from nowhere after blind baking. Or the brittle walls collapsing at the crucial moment of leaving the tin, spilling the filling to merge with the river of frustrated tears. Thankfully, practice (and a solid, reliable recipe) makes perfect, and after making pastry a few times recently, I decided it was time to cook something for this blog.
However, I deserve absolutely no credit for the pastry itself. The recipe that I used is broadly based on Felicty Cloake’s version that she used to make her Perfect Custard Tart with. I always find her column brilliant when approaching new recipes or needing inspiration, and so far the pastry has worked every time. It’s even got to the point where I no longer dread getting the rolling pin out.
Adding brown butter to puddings and desserts seems to be very popular in London restaurants at the moment. But unlike a lot of trends and fads, it well and truly lives up to the hype. By cooking the butter until it is almost maple syrup in colour, a deep, rich and mellow flavour is released, which works as wonderfully with sweet things as it does with a piece of turbot. I will definitely be experimenting further with this, as I love the sound of other desserts to which it has been added; custard tarts, ice cream, icing etc.
Although making pastry was largely stress-free this time, there still managed to be a kitchen cock-up whilst testing this recipe. I wanted to make a crème fraiche ice cream to accompany the tart, but midway through churning, with a foul smell, the machine abruptly decided to overheat and refused to play anymore. So good old crème fraiche, straight out of the tub, came to the rescue. And after all of that faff, I’m not sure that the frozen version was even missed.
Serves 8-10
Ingredients:
For the pastry:
225g plain flour
115g cold butter
85g caster sugar
3 egg yolks, plus 1 whole egg for brushing
For the filling:
300g unsalted butter
300g caster sugar
300g ground almonds
3 medium eggs
1 lemon, zest only
For the rhubarb:
4-5 sticks of rhubarb, trimmed and sliced into bite-sized pieces
2 tbsp of caster sugar
1 vanilla pod
To finish:
Crème fraiche
Start by making the pastry. Using your hands, rub the butter and flour together in a mixing bowl, until all of the butter has been incorporated and the mixture resembles coarse breadcrumbs. Stir in the sugar, then the egg yolks. Work everything lightly until a dough is formed, then flatten slightly and wrap with cling film. Refrigerate for 1 hour 30 minutes to rest.
Use greaseproof paper to line the base and sides of a deep 9” tin with a loose base. Roll out the rested pastry on a lightly floured surface, then transfer to the tin. Patch any cracks, and use a spare piece of pastry to carefully edge the pastry into the corners. Leave the pastry overhanging the top of the tin. Wrap loosely with cling film and chill in the freezer for a further hour.
Preheat the oven to 180⁰C (160⁰C Fan).
Prick the base of the tart with a fork, then cover with a sheet of greaseproof paper and fill with baking beans. Blind bake for 20 minutes, until golden brown around the sides. Remove the beans and paper, then return to the oven for a further 5 minutes. Crack the remaining egg into a bowl and beat with a fork. Brush the base and sides of the tart with some of the egg, then cook for a minute. Remove the shell from the oven and allow to cool slightly.
Lower the oven temperature to 150⁰C (130⁰C Fan).
Measure out the sugar and the almonds and combine in a mixing bowl. Tip the butter for the filling into a saucepan and melt at a medium-high temperature. When the butter bubbles away and turns nut brown in colour, take it off the heat and pour into the almond mixture, stirring well with a wooden spoon. Beat in the eggs one at a time, until emulsified. Spoon the mixture into the pastry shell, it should leave a gap of about 1.5cm at the top. Gently slide the tart onto the middle shelf of the oven and bake for 1 hour 15 minutes, or until the filling has just set. Allow to cool slightly before carefully removing from the tin and slicing.
While the tart is cooking, add the rhubarb to a large frying pan along with the halved vanilla pod, the sugar and a splash of water. Bring up to a medium-low temperature, then cook for 10-15 minutes, stirring occasionally, until the rhubarb has softened. Allow to cool.
Serve slices of the tart with some of the stewed rhubarb and juices. Finish with a generous dollop of crème fraiche.
