“There a pig’s head in our kitchen?!” she said down the phone, in a way that even without seeing her came with raised eyebrows and scepticism. “Are you sure that you don’t just want to go to the pub instead?” and “please can it not be staring out of the fridge when I get home” (this was not a question) followed. I couldn’t help but grin wryly. There was a huge temptation to divulge that I was in the process of ridding her supper of impressive facial hair and ear wax. There was a vague temptation to decorate my clothing with the ears, tongue and teeth for when she walked through the door. This was quickly discarded, but I revelled in the challenge of making her a lunch that she had already squeamishly written off. This was going to be fun.
I love a good project, and this one had been long in the making. For months I looked at trendy menus that contained pig’s head this way and that, and it just always remained one of those things that I would get around to doing at some point. I had never tackled anything of the sort; apart from eating the cheeks and spying ears on the odd bar menu I had no idea what else was there. This seemed the best way to find out, and before I knew it I was sitting on the bus home next to a large bag, hoping dearly that a child didn’t peek inside.
It was surprisingly easy to tackle once home, and before long most of the meat was in manageable portions. Although I could have got the butcher to do most of this, and he probably would have made the whole process look so much neater, I felt rewarded in learning a small skill.
I only needed the ears and the small, dark nuggets of cheek meat (plus a couple of extra) for this recipe, so against my dear lady’s wishes a few largish bits of pig ended up finding their way into the fridge. But they were certainly not wasted, and in the next couple of blog posts I’ll be writing about the recipes that followed. For such a cheap, unglamorous cut of meat it really went far. I’ll certainly be getting another before too long, to roast whole until crisp or make stunning rillettes out of if nothing else.
In terms of flavours used in this recipe, I’ve stayed fairly safe and traditional. Pork loves sweetness, and this comes through in the beetroot and the leeks. For me this needs to be balanced though, and I often avoid pork dishes when eating out as it tends to come with a sugar overload. The addition of earthy black pudding and savoury sauce achieve this equilibrium, and the tarragon gives an additional fresh tanginess that rounds everything off.
Serves 2
Ingredients:
For the braised cheeks:
4 pork cheeks, sinew removed
2 carrots, roughly chopped
1 leek, roughly chopped
1 onion, roughly chopped
5 garlic cloves, crushed
10 sprigs of thyme
2 bay leaves
2 star anise
30g butter
500ml good quality dry cider
1.5ltrs good chicken stock
Olive oil
Salt and pepper
For the crispy ears:
1 pig’s ear, any hair and wax removed
Oil for frying, approx. 1ltr
Salt
For the burnt leeks:
6 baby leeks
Olive oil
½ lemon, juice only
Salt and pepper
For the black pudding:
2 slices of black pudding, cut into 1cm cubes
Olive oil
For the beetroot puree:
2 beetroots
8 sprigs of thyme
2 garlic cloves
Olive oil
Salt and pepper
20g butter
Splash of hot water
For the tarragon mayonnaise:
250ml rapeseed oil
1 large bunch of tarragon, leaves picked
1 egg yolk
½ a garlic clove, finely chopped
Splash of white wine vinegar
½ lemon, juice only
Salt and pepper
For the sauce:
Approx. 200g of trimmings from the pig’s head, excess fat removed
1 shallot, finely chopped
¼ leek, finely chopped
2 garlic cloves, finely sliced
5 sprigs of thyme
1 star anise
1 tsp fennel seeds
1 tsp sugar
2 bay leaves
150ml good dry sherry
500ml of the braising stock
20g butter
Salt and pepper
First braise the cheeks and ear. Heat a large stockpot with a little oil to a high temperature. Season the cheeks and brown very well on all sides, then remove to a plate. Add the onion, leek, carrot, garlic, herbs, spices and seasoning to the pan and sauté for a couple of minutes. Pour in the cider and bring to the boil, then add the cheeks and ear and cover with the stock. Return to the boil and then reduce to a low simmer, cover and cook for 3 hours. Once the meat is tender and cooked, remove from the heat and allow to cool. Carefully remove the cheeks and ear from the liquid to a plate and set aside or refrigerate until needed. Strain the stock, discard the vegetables and reserve the liquid to make the sauce.
Preheat the oven to 200⁰C (fan).
Make the beetroot puree by putting the beetroot, garlic, half the thyme, seasoning and a little olive oil into a small oven dish. Tightly cover with foil and bake in the preheated oven for 1 – 1 ½ hours, or until very tender. When cooked, remove from the oven and carefully peel the beets and garlic. Transfer to a small food processor along with the butter, the rest of the fresh thyme leaves, seasoning and a small splash of water. Blitz very well until you get a fine puree texture. Taste and adjust the seasoning, then pass through a sieve. Set aside for reheating later.
While the beetroot is cooking make the tarragon mayonnaise. Pour the rapeseed oil into a food processor with the tarragon leaves and blitz well until the oil is a vibrant green colour. Pour into a jug and clean the processor bowl. Put the egg yolk, salt, garlic and vinegar into the clean mixer and blend well. With the blade still running pour in the tarragon oil very slowly, until the mixture thickens and emulsifies. When all the oil has been mixed add the lemon juice and taste for seasoning. Let the mayonnaise down with a little water if too thick. Transfer to a sauce bottle and refrigerate until needed.
For the sauce, heat a large skillet or saucepan to high and add a little oil. Brown the trimmings well on all sides before adding the leek, shallot, garlic, fennel seeds and herbs and frying until coloured. Carefully add the sherry and burn off the alcohol and then top up with the stock. Reduce right down until left with a thick sauce, about 15-20 minutes. Strain into a small saucepan.
Heat the frying oil for the ears in a saucepan to 180⁰C. Dry the ear with kitchen roll and slice into thin strips. When the oil is hot carefully lower in the strips and cook for a minute or two until crispy and golden brown. Remove with a slotted spoon and drain. Sprinkle with salt and set aside.
Fill a saucepan with salted water and bring to the boil. When hot blanch the baby leeks for a minute, then transfer to a large bowl of cold water. When cool, remove and pat dry. Put aside for grilling later.
Heat the oven to 180⁰C.
When the oven is hot, arrange the black pudding onto a baking tray and drizzle over a little olive oil. Bake in the oven for 4-5 minutes.
While the black pudding is cooking finish off the other elements of the dish:
Heat a frying pan to a medium-high temperature and add a little olive oil. When hot add the braised cheeks and cook for 2 minutes on each side until browned. Halfway through cooking add the butter and a good tablespoon of the reduced sauce and baste well.
Heat a heavy griddle pan to a high temperature. Toss the blanched leeks in a little olive oil. When the griddle is hot sear the leeks for a couple of minutes until the outsides start to blacken. Remove to a plate, season well and squeeze over the lemon juice.
Reheat the sauce and stir in the butter thoroughly just before serving.
Gently reheat the beetroot puree.
To plate up, arrange two pig cheeks onto each plate and three baby leeks around and on top. Spoon a quenelle of the beetroot puree to one side and squeeze some of the mayonnaise around the plate. Scatter on some of the black pudding and crispy ear. Finally spoon over a little of the thick sauce.
As with most cooks and food enthusiasts, most of my inspiration comes from my experiences and memories. I was quite a fussy eater growing up and would demand dry, plain pasta or breaded chicken. I hated marmite, mushrooms or anything with even the slightest hint of a sauce. I even refused to eat burgers until well into my teens, and when I finally allowed poor dad to cook me some they had to be cremated to within an inch of their lives. Oh how times have changed. But even with such rigid tastes, for some reason I took an early liking to fish and would be the first to snaffle a stray mussel or order a seafood pizza (something that I definitely wouldn’t nowadays!). I guess my dad was the driving force behind this, as his love for all things fishy almost matches mine.
My memories of eating lemon sole are deep rooted and happy. As kids we would often holiday driving through France or Spain, singing songs or deep in sleep in the back of a huge estate car. We would stop off camping along the way, spending the evenings fishing with bamboo rods and the days (much to our displeasure) looking at local castles or art. Sorry mum! For dinner we would often drive to the local harbour towns and pitch up at a restaurant along the front, the sort laid with baskets of bread and concentrated garlic butter and heady with sangria and sweaty mosquito repellent fumes. Despite many holidays I only remember ordering one thing; whole baked flatfish with garlic and herb butter. And I would order it again and again. Despite my adventurous ordering you must remember I was still very much fixed in my tastes! It would be back to a bowl of rice with the accompanying pile of picked out mushrooms upon my return…
Funnily enough I have barely eaten it since. It’s just been one of those meals that seems so obvious when at home but flies from your mind when it comes round to doing the shopping. So I was very happy when I left Jonathan Norris with a couple of superb lemon sole the other day. Although less fashionable than the dover sole, for my money they are just as tasty and a whole lot cheaper. Now is the perfect time of the year to eat them too; they are large and plump, and just starting to take on a little bit of roe. Although I have added a few accompaniments in this recipe, it all comes back to the wonderful taste of the freshly cooked, moist fish. After one mouthful I could have been back on holiday again.
Serves 2
Ingredients:
For the lemon sole:
2 large lemon sole, gutted and outer skirt trimmed
20g butter
Half a lemon, juice only
Olive oil
Salt and pepper
For the crispy mussels:
6 live mussels, de-bearded
Splash of white wine
1 egg, beaten
4 tbsp plain flour
4 tbsp panko breadcrumbs
Sunflower oil for deep frying
Salt and pepper
For the pickled cucumber:
Quarter of a cucumber, quartered lengthways, de-seeded and cut into thin slices
4 tbsp white wine vinegar
4 tbsp caster sugar
1 bay leaf
6 black peppercorns
For the hollandaise:
4 tbsp white wine vinegar
1 bay leaf
6 black peppercorns
200g butter, melted
2 egg yolks
1 lemon, juice to taste
Salt and pepper
To finish:
Chervil leaves
To pickle the cucumber, heat the vinegar, sugar, bay leaf and peppercorns in a small saucepan until combined and just boiling. Put the sliced cucumber into a small bowl and cover with the strained hot liquid. Set aside to cool down.
Put a dry saucepan onto a high heat. When hot add the mussels and the white wine, which will bubble straight away. Seal with a tight fitting lid and shake well. Cook until the shells only just open, about one minute then remove from the heat. Carefully remove the plump flesh, discarding the shells. Scatter the flour onto one plate, the panko onto another and beat the egg in a small bowl, seasoning each. Roll the mussels in the flour, then dip in the egg before finally covering in the breadcrumbs. Set aside until needed.
For the hollandaise sauce, melt the butter in a saucepan then transfer to a jug and allow to cool slightly. Reduce the vinegar, bay leaf and peppercorns in a separate small saucepan until only one tablespoon of liquid is left. Put the two egg yolks into a small food processor and combine well with the cooled vinegar reduction, a little salt and pepper and a splash of warm water. With the machine running pour in the butter very slowly, adding more water if the mixture looks too thick. When all of the butter has been emulsified, squeeze in a little lemon juice and taste for seasoning. Keep warm while you cook the fish.
Pre-heat the grill to medium-hot.
Pour 2 inches of sunflower oil into a saucepan and heat to 170⁰C.
Drizzle a little oil onto the bottom of a non-stick oven tray and season well. Rub oil all over the lemon soles and place on top, then add seasoning to the top. Cook under the grill for about 11-13 minutes, until the flesh just comes away from the bone. Baste every couple of minutes, adding the butter half way through cooking.
When the sole is a couple of minutes away from being cooked, lower the mussels into the hot oil. Fry for 1-2 minutes, until lightly golden and crisp. Remove to drain on greaseproof paper.
When the soles are cooked squeeze over the lemon juice and transfer carefully to plates. Top with the chervil leaves, drained pickled cucumber, crispy mussels and a few dollops of the hollandaise sauce. Eat straight away.
Over Christmas and New Year I spent some time in Scotland with Katie’s family. They live in beautiful rolling farmland in Perthshire, where you can spend days living on nothing but endless tea and pound cake sat by a roaring fire. Going on walks you can hear yourself think, and nights are lit by blinding stars. Her family are the closest imaginable, and as cousins instantly inseparable after months or years apart. A very lucky thing.
During my stay an ambition was achieved. A shoot was organised on their land and I was asked to be involved. Katie was terrified. These things are bound with tweed-wrapped tradition, where the men and hounds leave at dawn to bloody the land while the wives whip up the perfect meringues and pies, and decant the whisky for their return. The thought of unleashing her naïve city-dwelling boy onto all of this without her protection caused a chill. But she shouldn’t have been worried. In a forest of plus-fours and tartan socks I stuck out with my old anorak and skinny jeans but they were all very kind, and a storming day was had. Although my role as one of the beaters was far from the business end of the shoot, I was thrilled to be part of it and I left with an unexpected case of gun envy. I must go shoot some clays soon…
Although in that case the pheasants were accounted for, it inspired me to try and cook some for myself before the season ends. I love the connection between the land and the table, and it wouldn’t have felt complete without making a dish out of the experience. Happily I was able to return from Borough Market with a plump and extremely reasonably priced brace under my arm.
The rest of the recipe planning was a formality, and also very traditional. Game is the perfect partner for strong, earthy flavours. Irony always has a way with these things, and like how rabbit and carrots go hand in hand, so do pheasants and grain. I’ve only really got into cooking with barley since meeting Katie, and a wonderfully versatile ingredient it is too. In this recipe it is almost made like a risotto, soaking up those deep mushroom flavours.
Baking the celeriac in salt certainly considerably lengthens this recipe, but if you have the time it is worth it. I hadn’t used this technique before, and was dubious about any dramatic changes in flavour compared to a traditional mash or puree. But the way that the salt seals the vegetable to cook in its own juices enhances the sweetness, and I love the theatre of cracking into the giant sphere. I will definitely be trying this out with other root vegetables.
Serves 2
Ingredients:
For the pheasant:
1 pheasant, legs removed and kept for confit, wishbone removed and all trimmings kept for sauce
50g butter
A few sprigs of thyme
Olive oil
Salt and pepper
For the sauce:
All of the trimmings and giblets from the pheasant
1 clove garlic, finely sliced
2 shallots, finely chopped
1 tsp fennel seeds
5 sprigs of thyme
100ml brandy
500ml good chicken or pheasant stock
20g butter
Olive oil
For the barley:
100g pearl barley
1 shallot, finely chopped
1 garlic clove, finely chopped
2 sprigs fresh thyme leaves, picked
3 tbsp dried porcini, soaked and finely chopped
Splash of white wine
Approx. 600ml good chicken stock
20g butter
For the salt-baked celeriac:
1 medium celeriac
4 egg whites
800g table salt
5 sprigs of thyme, leaves picked
A dash of double cream
10g butter
For the confit pheasant leg:
2 legs from the pheasant
3 garlic cloves
5 sprigs of thyme
6 peppercorns
4 tbsp coarse salt
500g duck fat
20g butter
For the chanterelles:
12 chanterelle mushrooms, trimmed and brushed clean
For the savoy cabbage:
A couple of big cabbage leaves, sliced thinly
1 clove of garlic, finely chopped
20g butter
Olive oil
Splash of water
Splash of white wine vinegar
Prepare and cure the pheasant legs the day before cooking. Carefully remove the thigh bones, leaving the flesh in one piece so that just the drumstick bones remain. Place in a bowl and rub with the salt, garlic, thyme and peppercorns, then cover and refrigerate overnight.
Soak the dried porcini mushrooms in boiling water for at least fifteen minutes. Drain, reserving the liquid; use this to boost the chicken stock for the sauce and pearl barley. Finely chop the mushrooms and set aside until you make the barley.
Pre-heat the oven to 200⁰C (fan).
To confit the pheasant legs, rinse the salt off and pat dry. Melt the duck fat in a small saucepan to 85⁰C then add the legs, garlic and thyme. Cook at that temperature for 1 ½ hours, making sure that the oil doesn’t boil. When cooked, drain and set aside for crisping up.
To make the salt crust for the celeriac, thoroughly mix the salt, egg whites and thyme leaves in a bowl until they form a dry paste. Place the celeriac on a baking dish and coat with a thick layer of the salt paste, making sure there are no gaps. Bake in the oven for 2 1/2 hours.
To make the pearl barley, heat half of the butter in a saucepan. Gently fry the shallot, garlic and thyme on a low heat until soft, then add the chopped porcini and continue to cook for another couple of minutes. Turn the heat up slightly and pour in the barley, stirring until the grains are coated. Add the wine and allow it to be absorbed before adding the first half ladle of stock. Stir frequently and only add more liquid when needed. Cook for about 20 minutes, or until the barley has increased in size and is just al dente. The liquid should be reduced and sticking to the grains. Set aside for finishing later.
For the sauce, heat up some oil in a frying pan or skillet to a high heat. Season the pheasant trimmings and giblets and fry quickly until well browned on all sides. Add the garlic, shallots, fennel seeds and thyme and colour. Add the brandy and carefully flambé until all of the alcohol has burned off. Pour in the stock and continue to cook until only about 150ml of thick liquid remains. Strain into a small saucepan and set aside.
When the celeriac has been in the oven for 2 1/2 hours remove from the oven. Keep warm while you prepare the pheasant.
Heat a non-stick frying pan to a high heat and add a little olive oil. Season the pheasant crown well all over and cook for 2 minutes on each breast, until well browned. Transfer to a small oven dish and smother with the butter and thyme sprigs. Put in the oven for 15-17 minutes, so that the meat still remains a little pink. Baste the meat with the butter every 4-5 minutes. Remove from the oven and allow to rest for 10 minutes.
While the pheasant is in the oven prepare the celeriac. Crack open the salt crust and slice the top off. Pass the soft inside through a sieve into a bowl, then season and mix with the cream and butter. Keep warm until you plate up.
When the pheasant is resting, finish off the other elements of the dish:
Sautee the garlic for the cabbage in the butter over a medium heat until tender, then add the cabbage, seasoning and water and cook for 3-4 minutes. Stir in the white wine vinegar.
Re-heat the pan used to sear the pheasant and add the butter. Fry the confit legs over a high heat, basting frequently with the butter until crisp and golden. When the legs are nearly cooked add the chanterelle mushrooms and cook for a further minute.
Reheat the sauce and pearl barley, stirring a small knob of butter into each until emulsified.
Using a sharp knife, carefully cut the rested pheasant breasts from the bone and slice each one into three pieces.
To plate up, spoon a mound of the celeriac onto each plate and some of the pearl barley next to it. Position the pheasant leg and breast pieces on top. Arrange small piles of the cabbage and some chanterelles around the meat, then spoon over some of the sauce.
It’s been a while since my last post. Tragically, my twin brother died very suddenly just before Christmas after a very short battle with cancer. All thoughts of cooking flew out the window as my family came together to support each other through the most difficult time imaginable.
I’ve only been back in London a week or so, and it feels good to slowly get back into a normal routine, even though I’m not sure I know what normality feels like anymore. Like many other food centrics, cooking proves therapeutic and healing, and never more so than in the last couple of weeks. Luckily, I’ve had some spare time on my hands recently, so I’ve had afternoons to tuck my head into the butchers, and time to nosy about the green grocers again. I’m finally itching to get back in the kitchen, and with thoughts firmly on my wonderful brother, this was always going to be my first post…
The inspiration for this recipe is the pasta of my youth. It was one of the first things that I was confident in cooking, and would cook it at any given opportunity. When my parents went on holidays I was always in charge of the cooking, and invariably we would eat this dish two or three times over that period. This became my brother’s favourite, and we would gorge on it until we were fit to burst before laying on the sofa groaning in pain. When we stopped living in the same house, he would always phone me to be reminded of the recipe, complaining that he had tried to make it but it hadn’t been “quite right”.
Of course in those days I hadn’t even heard of things like ‘nduja, and it was a good few years until I would learn to make pasta. The sauce would be made with chorizo or bacon, mixed with a tin of chopped tomatoes and then poured over whatever dried pasta we had in the cupboard. This recipe is slightly more refined, but the taste still brings back warm happy memories.
‘Nduja seems to be a very trendy ingredient at the moment in restaurants and food blogs, but despite this it’s still relatively difficult to get hold of. It gave me a great excuse to head to Borough Market where I found a wonderful British made variety. The texture of the soft salami is similar to those I have tried before, but the taste is slightly less spicy and more fragrant with fennel seeds. Delicious. My brother always hated anchovies, but accepted them in this sauce as they just melt away and enhance all of the other flavours.
Although my reasoning for making farfalle in this recipe was in tribute to the random pasta shapes that we used to find at home, the shape is very suitable with the sauce. The large surface area grips the sauce meaning that you get a good taste with every mouthful.
Serves 2
Ingredients:
For the pasta:
200g ‘00’ grade flour
2 medium eggs
1 tbsp olive oil
Good pinch of salt
For the sauce:
1 shallot, finely chopped
2 garlic cloves, finely sliced
½ red chilli, finely chopped
1 tsp smoked sweet paprika
1 tsp fennel seeds
3 sprigs rosemary, finely chopped
4 anchovy fillets, roughly chopped
80g ‘nduja, skinned and chopped roughly
1 glass red wine
15-20 very small ripe cherry tomatoes, quartered
Olive oil
Salt and pepper
To finish:
Parmesan, finely grated
Basil leaves
Extra virgin olive oil
To make the pasta, put the flour, eggs, salt and oil into a food processor and pulse until the mixture resembles coarse breadcrumbs. Tip out onto a clean surface and knead well for about 10 minutes until the dough is smooth and elastic in texture. Wrap with clingfilm and allow to rest in the fridge for at least half an hour.
Remove the dough from the fridge and roll through the thickest setting 6-10 times, folding after each pass. Lightly dust the sheet with flour then pass once down through the settings until you reach the thinnest. Lay the long, thin pasta sheet onto a floured surface. To make the farfalle, cut small rectangles out of the sheet and shape them by gently pushing out the middle and folding in the narrow sides to form a bow tie. Put each one on a lightly floured sheet of greaseproof paper. They can be used straight away, but are best after allowed to dry for a few hours.
Fill a large saucepan with well salted water and bring to the boil.
To make the sauce, heat a little olive oil in a large non-stick frying pan. Cook the shallot, garlic, rosemary, fennel seeds, chilli and paprika over a medium heat for a few minutes until softened. Season a little. Add the ‘nduja and anchovy and continue to fry for another few minutes, stirring until they almost melt into the mixture. Turn the heat up slightly and pour in the red wine and allow to reduce by half. Stir in the quartered tomatoes until slightly softened.
Tip the farfalle into the boiling water and cook for 1-2 minutes. When cooked, use a slotted spoon and transfer the pasta to the frying pan with the sauce, along with 1 tbsp of the cooking water. Stir gently to combine the sauce and pasta and cook for a further minute. Taste and season if necessary.
Transfer the coated pasta to warmed plates and top with basil leaves, grated parmesan, cracked pepper and a drizzle of extra virgin olive oil.
After posting a lot of simple, quick recipes recently, it’s been nice to finally get around to cooking something with a few more processes. I really love having an occasion to cook for and devoting a proper chunk of time to come up with something a little more special.
Over the past few weeks I have spent a lot of time down in Brighton with my family. Although I love the bustle of London, a few days by the sea does the world of good, and I certainly appreciate it so much more than I did when I lived there. Dad is usually in full command of the cooking and we all get spoilt rotten by the amazing hearty dishes that he effortlessly rustles up for every meal. We also benefit from all of the fresh produce that my parents bring back from their allotment. Chard risottos and squash soups have been a plenty, and I think that they are secretly relieved that they have finally worked their way through the glut of tomatoes that have been piled high in their kitchen over the past few months. I am so lucky that my family have always been interested in food, and sharing it with everyone around.
With dad strictly territorial over his kitchen I don’t get to cook at home very often. Having all of the family about also makes it very dangerous to leave any bowls of prep lying around. But it was really nice to give something back over the weekend and make lunch for everyone. It also gave me the chance to make the most of the amazing produce that Brighton has to offer. In London you can buy absolutely any ingredients and the city is awash with farmers markets and specialist producers. You can come across multi-coloured carrots, purple cauliflowers, micro leaves, anything. But this comes at a hefty price. By the coast there simply isn’t the choice, however more reasonable rents and direct sourcing mean that prices can be staggeringly less. A walk up to the fishmongers at Shoreham harbour was a revelation. I was like a kid in a sweet shop. Huge wild bass, stacks of amazing brill and turbot and massive tanks of crabs and lobster. Everything was near enough half the price of the capital too. But what I was there for was the monkfish. I left with hefty bag of fish and a paranoid stance; there was no way I was going to let one of those thieving seagulls fly away with my loot.
Monkfish is a strictly special occasion fish for me. Its price and conservation status mean that it should be eaten sparingly, despite the fact that it is damn tasty. I first had it years ago, served up crisply battered and hot enough to steam up my glasses on that freezing Cornish afternoon. Every time I have eaten it since I have treasured it. That meaty yet succulent texture and robust taste really sets it apart from other fish. And on this rare occasion that I found myself in possession of a whole tail I was determined not to mess it up.
Roasting fish whole seems so underrated these days. I am a big fan of pan frying individual fillets, but for flavour and moisture retention baking fish on the bone wins hands down. The minimal bone structure of monkfish makes it perfect for cooking in this way; they are easier to carve than a chicken when ready. The combination of fish, cauliflower and something salty and tangy is a classic. The cider vinegar dressing contains many of the flavours of tartar sauce, but lightened using just oil instead of a mayonnaise to carry it. The artichoke crisps, roasted vegetables and chicken skin add a much needed crunch to the dish.
Serves 4
Ingredients:
For the monkfish:
1 x monkish tail, approx. 1kg, skinned but kept on the bone
70g butter
Olive oil
Salt and pepper
½ lemon, juice only
For the roasted cauliflower:
12 large cauliflower florets
Olive oil
Salt and pepper
For the cauliflower puree:
½ a small cauliflower, cut into even sized chunks
30g butter
A splash of milk
¼ lemon, juice only
Salt and pepper
For the Jerusalem artichoke crisps:
2 jerusalem artichokes
Vegetable oil for frying, approx 500ml
For the crispy chicken skin:
The skin from 2 chicken thighs
Salt
For the cider vinegar dressing:
½ a shallot, very finely chopped
½ a clove of garlic, very finely chopped
½ tsp Dijon mustard
½ tsp capers, very finely chopped
¼ lemon, juice only
1 large pinch of chives, finely chopped
1 large pinch of parsley, finely chopped
Splash of cider vinegar
Approx. 3tbsp extra virgin olive oil
To finish:
A few rocket leaves
A twist of cracked black pepper
Preheat the oven to 200⁰C.
To make the crispy chicken skin, line a baking sheet with greaseproof paper and spread on the chicken skin in a thin, even layer. Place another piece of greaseproof paper on top and then another baking sheet. Put into the hot oven for about 10 minutes, until brown and crispy. Transfer to a piece of kitchen paper to drain. Once cool, shred up into small pieces and set aside.
Heat the frying oil in a medium-sized, heavy saucepan until it reaches about 170⁰C. Using a vegetable peeler, create long, thin strips of the Jerusalem artichoke, then fry in batches in the hot oil. When they turn a light golden colour, transfer carefully to some kitchen paper to drain. Sprinkle with salt and allow to cool.
To make the puree, bring a large saucepan of water to the boil. Add the cauliflower florets and a good pinch of salt and boil for about 5 minutes, or until very tender. Drain well and tip the cauliflower into a food processor along with the butter, milk, lemon juice and some salt and pepper. Blitz well, adding a little more milk if necessary to achieve a smooth, light texture. Pass the mixture through a fine sieve into a small saucepan then cover and set aside to be gently reheated later.
Preheat the oven to 200⁰C. Remove the monkfish from the fridge about half an hour before cooking to allow it to come to room temperature.
Put the cauliflower florets onto a baking tray and coat with olive oil and salt and pepper. Roast in the hot oven for about 20 minutes, tossing occasionally.
For the monkfish, line a large roasting dish with greaseproof paper and drizzle with olive oil and sprinkle over a good amount of seasoning. Roll the monkfish in the tray so that all sides are covered. Dot over knobs of the butter and roast in the hot oven for approx. 15 minutes, basting frequently.
While the fish and cauliflower are roasting make the dressing. Add the garlic, shallot, mustard, vinegar, lemon juice, capers and herbs to a bowl and mix well with a whisk. Slowly drizzle in the oil whilst still whisking until the oil has been emulsified. Taste and season if needed, you want the dressing to be quite sharp.
When the monkfish is cooked remove from the oven, squeeze over the lemon and allow to rest for 5 minutes. While it does, gently reheat the cauliflower puree.
To plate up, carve the monkfish into two fillets then cut into chunky medallions. Spoon three blobs of the puree onto each plate. Top with a piece of the fish and a little of the dressing. Arrange three of the cauliflower florets around the plate, then scatter the artichoke crisps, chicken skin, rocket and pepper on top.
“Shit. There’s no one here yet. Lets walk around the block.”
This was our first supper club experience. It was 7pm and we had accidentally arrived bang on time. We were the dreaded first guests. The bright, and more crucially, empty space was suddenly intimidating, as was the prospect of an intimate dinner with complete strangers. Why weren’t we headed to one of the trendy restaurants nearby? We could get a table at any time and have a meal all by ourselves. None of this awkward tension would be flying through our heads.
But none of that was really the point. The tickets for the evening were a gift, and it was exciting to be doing something different and out of our comfort zones. We had researched the event and read the menus; surely a six course Japanese and French inspired menu would have people queuing through the door rather than taking the slow walk. Supper clubs are something that I’ve wanted to attend for some time, having read about those hosted by the likes of Kerstin Rodgers and Selina Periampillai. They look amazing, both in terms of food and the crowd of likeminded foodies they seem to attract. They are the perfect opportunity to try something new, their very nature being that you have little choice in what you are served. I’m normally a stickler for what I like and looked forward to sampling a menu where I recognised only about half of the ingredients. But none of this was close while we were touring the backstreets of Clapton.
Some fifteen minutes passed and we were still the first there, but this time we pushed the door and stepped into the light. The term supper club often brings images of sitting in a random person’s grubby flat like unacquainted sardines. The come dine with me experience. Not in this case. This was more like an exclusive pop-up at first glance, multiple tables and a scurry of ‘staff’ behind the counter. There was a homeliness behind the professional exterior though; the warm French lady who greeted us was the mother of one of the cooks, and peering round you could see a minimal set up of a couple of portable hobs and the odd soup heater. Even in such surroundings the DIY element was still there.
We were ushered to a table set for four and offered a sugar-rimmed cocktail to start. This is where the internal panic began. There were two empty spaces on this table. They must have made a simple mathematical mistake and doubled our number. Slowly the nervous energy of sharing a compact table with two unknown others loomed. Perhaps it was the perfect time to be supping a beautiful, and dangerously drinkable, rhubarb and vodka aperitif. We joyed at the details. Each place had spindly, minutely crafted chopsticks balanced delicately on what appeared to be tiny ceramic éclairs. You could not ask for a more apt summary of the fusion of the evening. Large water jugs sparkled with citrus and mint. Most impressive was the silent synchronisation happening on the counter, where our hosts intricately positioned minute ingredients onto a raft of black slate.
People – real normal looking people – filtered in and our nerves started to dumb. Starters were delivered. A sense of triumph and disappointment washed over. We had got away with it. The ominous places beside us would stay vacant and it would just be another dinner date. Just Katie and I. But the failure and guilt was almost worse. The whole point of supper clubs is to bring new people together. A social experiment. A networking opportunity. However you want to describe it. And we had fallen at the first hurdle. Five minutes later and the door opened and the chair beside me was whipped back.
After some rushed introductions they discussed their wine options to themselves. “Yes. Fuck! What do we do now?” all sprung into my head at once. A few minutes in and the awkwardness hit hard. The table had split. In this situation though, food provided the link. We cautiously joked about how to eat larger-than-bitesize objects with chopsticks and quizzed ingredients. We spent 20 minutes discussing the labyrinth of ways that they could have travelled through central London. God that must have been boring. If bleating about weather is the most popular piece of meaningless small talk we do, then whining about transport must run a close second. But it did the job and soon we knew my neighbour’s obsession with Freecycle, and that his food vice was a packet of chocolate biscuits and a large glass of milk. The girls sneered. Man after my own heart.
The food came and came, and as a table we intrigued and marveled. Each course drew breath; the crackers that were too beautiful to break, the ingenious pipette of juice that changed the colour of the ceviche. I smiled as I pulled shot from a triumphant plump pigeon breast. Again the details shone. You hoped they had help transporting the mountain of assorted crockery that changed with every offering. Some things our taste buds weren’t quite prepared for. The delicate fishy custard that accompanied the dumplings, and the rice broth that ended the savoury courses were both challenging. But it is good to be challenged by new food sometimes, and each thing was unique to anything I have eaten before.
It’s also hard to pick holes in any event where the hosting is so fantastic. The small team took pride in what they did and were friendly and welcoming throughout. They did a great job of settling us nervous first-timers, and were always on hand to give just the right amount of information on the food in front of us. Their experience showed; it was a smooth operation and everyone looked controlled and happy for the duration.
We left with a sense of relief and contentment. We had survived. Not only had we survived but we had had a genuinely fun and memorable time. In somewhere like London where even talking on public transport is frowned upon, it was refreshing to share an evening with complete strangers. There was no number swapping or such, but it made me believe in supper clubs as a dynamic and I would definitely be up for more. And that I wouldn’t have believed at 7pm whilst walking up the Lower Clapton Road.
