Salted hake with brandade, crispy skin, charred asparagus, wild rocket and brown shrimp

I was recently lucky enough to spend a glorious week in Barcelona and it inspired me no end. It’s probably about twenty years since I last visited Spain, and where that time I could mostly be found shovelling salty chips by a swimming pool, this occasion was a totally different ball game. As a child I would have been so bored traipsing through busy, smelly food markets but here I was in my absolute element. Endless stalls sold every ingredient imaginable, and Katie and I had many memorable evenings feasting on our bartered treasures. 

One of the things that appeared on practically every menu in town was salt cod in various forms, and I was desperate to recreate it's wonderful flavour into my own cooking as soon as I returned home. Instead of using cod however, I wanted to put a spin on the classic and replace it with a different white fish. Hake was absolutely everywhere in Barcelona, and I couldn’t see any reason why it wouldn’t work as well. The results were just as comforting, with an amazing intensity and addictiveness. Once I had a first taste of the brandade, I couldn’t help popping back to the bowl every couple of minutes for a sneaky bit more. 

My cooking always tends to rotate in circles of habit, and certainly at the moment I am really into cooking spring vegetables at a really high heat until charred and blackened. This works particularly well with asparagus, baby leeks and spring onions, achieving a barbeque-like taste combined with glorious al-dente texture and moisture. There isn’t much that doesn’t benefit from a few of these scattered on the side, and here it cuts through the saltiness of the fish to balance things just right.

Although not quite as vibrant as La Boqueria, my local greengrocers near Newington Green also keeps stocked up with fresh seasonal produce, making recipe development a doddle. I was looking for a final element to round the dish off, and the wild rocket was an impulse purchase that fitted in perfectly. Rocket is almost a clichéd ingredient these days, but this was very different to the bagged stuff that was made famous by Jamie Oliver a decade ago; these big leaves had substance and a proper peppery hit. 

It’s hard to make the main elements of this dish in small quantities, so you may find yourself with a bit leftover here. But fear not, the preserved fish keeps well and is a great accomplice to so many other things, from pasta to crudité. If all this effort seems like too much, you can easily buy good quality salted cod from your fishmonger and use it in exactly the same way. 

Serves 4

Ingredients:

For the salted hake: 

600g hake fillet, bones removed and cut into two pieces 
1kg coarse sea salt 
1 lemon, zest only 

For the brandade: 

1 of the salted hake fillets, soaked and with the skin removed and reserved 
500ml milk 
4 tbsp double cream 
1 large potato, such as a maris piper 
1-2 lemons, juice only 
5 peppercorns 
1 bay leaf 
1 garlic clove 

For the poached hake: 

1 of the salted hake fillets, soaked and with the skin removed and reserved 
250g butter 

For the brown shrimp: 

100g brown shrimp, peeled 
1 tbsp butter 
½ a lemon, juice only 
Pinch of cayenne 

For the charred asparagus: 

12 asparagus spears, trimmed 
Olive oil 
Lemon juice 

For the crispy skin: 

The skin from the hake 
Olive oil 
Salt 

To finish: 

1 handful of wild rocket leaves, washed 
Extra virgin olive oil 
A few sprigs of fennel herb 


To make the salted hake, mix the salt and lemon zest together. Pour a quarter of the salt into a large, deep dish and place the hake fillets on top. Cover with the rest of the salt mixture, making sure that the fish is well covered with no gaps. Cover with cling film and place in the fridge for three days. Once the curing process is over, remove from the fridge and rinse all of the salt from the fillets. Soak in water for 12 hours, changing frequently. 

Pre-heat the oven to 200⁰C. 

For the brandade, sprinkle a little water over the potato and roll in a bit of salt. Bake in the oven for about an hour, or until the inside is very soft. When the potato is nearly cooked, pour the milk into a saucepan with the garlic, bay and peppercorns and heat until almost boiling. When the milk is up to temperature, cut the hake into manageable pieces and poach for a couple of minutes until soft and cooked. Using a slotted spoon, transfer the hake into a food processor and mix into a puree. Take the cooked potato and scoop out the middle with a spoon. Pass this through a fine sieve and then add to the hake. Add the juice of one lemon, half of the cream, 3 tablespoons of the cooking liquid and a good crack of pepper and quickly blitz together. Taste for seasoning and texture, adding more lemon, pepper and cream as necessary. Transfer to a piping bag and set aside until needed. 

Lower the oven temperature to 160⁰C. 

Take the reserved skin from both hake fillets and scrape away any excess flesh. Pat dry with some kitchen towel and place on a lined baking sheet. Top with another piece of baking parchment and another baking tray to keep it flat. Cook in the oven for about 20 minutes, or until very crisp. Break the skin into large shards and set aside. 

Put a heavy griddle pan onto a high heat, melt the butter for the poached hake in a small saucepan and melt the butter for the shrimps in a small frying pan. 

When the griddle is very hot, roll the asparagus in a little olive oil and seasoning. Cook for 2-3 minutes, turning occasionally, until the outsides start to blacken, then transfer to a plate and squeeze over the lemon juice. 

Fry the shrimps in the butter over a gentle heat for a couple of minutes. Finish with the lemon juice, seasoning and a pinch of cayenne. 

For the poached hake, cut the fillet into bite-size pieces and lower into the butter. Cook over a medium heat for 2-3 minutes until just cooked through. 

Toss the wild rocket leaves with the asparagus at the last minute so they pick up some of the lemony, oily dressing. 

To plate up, pipe a few generous dollops of the brandade onto each warmed plate. Place on the asparagus spears and arrange some of the poached hake and crispy skin around and on top. Add a few of the wild rocket leaves and fennel sprigs and scatter over some of the shrimps. Finally drizzle over a little of the extra virgin olive oil.

Restaurant review: Mayfields, London Fields

Perhaps more than anywhere in London, Hackney seems to be full of evolving small spaces. A wasteland becomes a garage which becomes a studio, boutique shop or café. Small greens have become community growing spaces and bike shops are squeezed into every nook and cranny. Suddenly small strips of shops down quiet roads have been transformed into interesting hubs of passionate small-traders. Wilton Way is one of them. A few months ago I was supping a much needed coffee at the lovely Wilton Way Café when I noticed that one of the tiny units opposite now held a cluster of tables. It was all very understated, some pine here and grey there, a bit like a smart restaurant had put all of its tastefully-dressed tables into storage. But the sparkling glasses housed wine and the seats sat casual lunchers chattering and clattering crockery. I was intrigued, and the best bit was the chalk board outside, charmingly handwritten with what looked like a masterclass of seasonal produce. 

Research soon followed this discovery, which of course wasn’t a discovery at all. High praise came from all directions and it seemed like Mayfields was already the darling of both the food blogger and the newspaper critic. Photos of the food appeared to justify this, achieving that tricky thing of making choreographed food look like a natural assembly of beauty. I was overjoyed when on a random Friday, my mother-in-law suggested that the three of us try to sneak a late table. It was about time too, and by the time we visited it seemed like an itch that I had been waiting to scratch for weeks.

And it is why with such anticipation that I am sad to say that I just didn’t really get it. It had started so well. The staff had managed to squeeze us in on a busy evening, and the throbbing room drummed up that kinetic feeling of excitement. The menu backed this up with yet another selection of dishes that sounded slightly unusual, but had always been made for one another. Katie rolled her eyes as we ordered the duck hearts, but stuck out for the ‘brill’, which is so often just that. 

The asparagus with lardo and egg yolk looked smart and tasted better, creating an amazing amount of comfort for such small contents. Those pesky hearts followed, and Katie squealed as I marvelled the satisfying simplicity of plump, pink hearts cut with tangy herb. So far so good, and a slight betrayal of my earlier statement. But the scallops that came next just couldn’t fight through the citrus dressing and peppery radishes. It was all very subtle, too subtle for me and I lusted for that wonderful sweet caramelisation that occurs when the molluscs meet a hot pan. At this point it also started to become clear that each plate came as its own independent ‘course’. A strange discovery given that I had asked the staff about ordering before we started and this hadn’t been mentioned at all.

The presentation of all dishes remained consistently staggering throughout, and the next dish to hit our table was a piece of perfectly cooked lemon sole cleverly hiding under scales of fine daikon. The liquorice provided a different and challenging twist to the more normal aniseed pairings of fennel or perhaps pernod, but as interesting as it was I don’t think I’ll ever wake up in the night craving it. The initially comforting warmth crept and crept, and the mellowness was a bit much by the last forkful. It was all very clever and showy, something that continued into the brill that followed. As we had misguidedly ordered two, this was the first proper time to get stuck in, but what should be championed as royalty of the sea turned out tough, and swamped by a merge of other things flying around on the plate. Again simplicity sprung to mind and a beautiful moist tranche hanging out with some lemon and artichokes, far away from a tasteless powder and random onion.

Thankfully the desserts were much more successful, although after the seemingly structured ‘one plate at a time’ routine with the savoury courses, it was a little odd to have both puddings and cheese plonked down in front of us all at once. Where things before might have been taken a step or two too far in places, technique was set aside for joyful marriages in flavour. The almond cake with lemon curd and strawberries hit those comforting nostalgic baking memories, whilst the chocolate mousse and lime leaf ice cream gave the deep satisfaction that the evening had long been craving.

                                                                                 

I could have eaten all of those final dishes to myself. And I think that this was fundamentally what was lacking in the evening. There is a wonderful satisfaction in eating a delicious plate of food, savouring every last mouthful at your own pace while your friends and family do the same. Here each plate was isolated, instantly attracting analysis as three forks dove in for the same piece of lardo. That relaxing dynamic was removed. As such I only felt like I experienced a fragment of much of the food that I ate at Mayfields, that I was missing the key part that bound some of the dishes together. Clearly the food is skilfully made, for almost unrivalled value for money in a brilliantly inventive location. But sitting in that small space it seemed like a parade of showy techniques and daring ingredients pairings, without fully getting to grips with what the diner really wanted.  

Seared onglet with slow-braised oxtail, white sprouting broccoli, Jersey Royals and wild garlic and tarragon emulsion

In Britain we have been blinkered with what cuts of meat we buy and cook. When it comes to beef, the only steaks that you’ll find lining most supermarket aisles are the same old sirloins, rib-eyes, rumps and fillets. It’s only fairly recently that cuts such as the bavette and onglet have had some much deserved publicity. They pack such an amazing amount of flavour and are only a fraction of the price. Traditionally these unfashionable cuts were butcher’s favourites and would be kept back for them to take home, but more and more they are replacing the usual suspects on pub and restaurant menus. And about time too; this is all old news for bistros on the continent. 

I was amazed at quite how far the onglet that I bought went. For less than the price of two decent rib-eye steaks I got a whole kilo, which serves Katie and I for a good 4-5 meals. After I made this dish the meat ended up in a curry, a Vietnamese soup and a salad. This versatility continues in the cooking, and you can either flash fry for very rare and tender or stew it slowly for a few hours until soft and sticky. As you might guess, I cannot recommend it enough. Onglet is slightly less forgiving than the prime cuts though, which is fine if like me you like your steak still mooing, but it can quickly become very tough as it gets towards medium. 

Unlike onglet, oxtail has been around for donkeys years and has never really been that fashionable, especially with the younger generations. That’s fine by me though as the prices have stayed low and it always makes for a satisfying and hearty supper. In this dish it adds another texture and reinforces the savoury, beefy flavour. The cooking stock is also reduced down into a thick rich sauce. It is pretty impractical to cook small amounts of oxtail, so I have made a bit more here. The leftovers are great in anything from a sandwich to soups, stews and pies, so it is sure not to go to waste. 

The rest of this dish is another celebration of seasonal vegetables. But these play as big a part as the meat in balancing the richness and flavour. And they’re downright delicious to boot. Wild garlic is still about and it is so tempting to include it in absolutely everything. Spring is well and truly in the air now and Jersey Royals are back in the shops. These stunning potatoes are best without too much interference, so I have simply parboiled them before quickly sautéing in the steak juices. Finally the beautiful sprouting broccoli adds some much needed iron to freshen everything up. 

Serves 2 

Ingredients: 

For the onglet: 

200g onglet steak, trimmed 
Olive oil 

For the braised oxtail: 

800g of oxtail pieces, on the bone 
2 carrots, peeled and roughly chopped 
1 onion, roughly chopped 
1 leek, roughly chopped 
4 cloves of garlic, halved 
5 sprigs of thyme 
2 bay leaves 
2 glasses of red wine 
1.5-2 litres of good beef stock 

For the white sprouting broccoli: 

6 stems of white sprouting broccoli 
1 small knob of butter 

For the Jersey Royals: 

3-4 Jersey Royal potatoes, washed 
1 knob of butter 
5 sprigs of thyme 

For the baby shallots: 

3 baby shallots, peeled and kept whole 

For the wild garlic and tarragon emulsion: 

1 bunch of wild garlic 
1 bunch of tarragon, leaves picked 
200g butter 
2 egg yolks 
1 shallot, finely sliced 
1 garlic clove, peeled 
5 peppercorns 
2 bay leaves 
3 tbsp white wine vinegar 
½ a lemon, juice only 

To finish the sauce: 

The reserved cooking liquid from the oxtail 
1 tbsp caster sugar (optional) 
1 knob of butter 


Start by cooking down the oxtail. Bring the meat to room temperature then coat with a little oil and season well. Heat a large saucepan to a high temperature and quickly brown the oxtail all over and then remove to a plate. Add the chopped vegetables and herbs and lightly colour before pouring in the red wine. Bring to the boil, then return the oxtail to the pan and cover with the stock. Turn the heat down to a simmer, partly cover and cook for 4-5 hours, or until the oxtail falls off the bone. When cooked, strain the liquid into a saucepan and reserve. Discard the vegetables and shred the meat into a bowl. Set aside for finishing later. 

While the oxtail is cooking, prepare the other elements of the dish. 

Put the Jersey Royals into a small saucepan and cover with cold, well-salted water. Bring to the boil and simmer until just cooked, about 10-15 minutes depending on the size. Drain and rinse well under cold water to stop them cooking, then cut into quarters and set aside. 

Heat a small saucepan to a medium-low temperature. Pour in a little oil and slowly cook the baby shallots with a bit of seasoning until golden and tender. Remove from the pan, slice in half and allow to cool. 

To make the emulsion, fill a saucepan with water and bring to the boil. Blanche the wild garlic and tarragon leaves for 20 seconds and then transfer to a bowl of cold water. Drain the herbs and pat dry. Make the vinegar reduction by putting the white wine vinegar into a small saucepan with the sliced shallot, garlic, peppercorns and bay and reduce over a moderate heat until only a tablespoon of liquid remains. Strain the liquid and allow to cool. Melt the butter in a separate saucepan, then also cool slightly. Put the egg yolks into a food processor with the cold reduction, a little seasoning and a splash of warm water and blitz well to combine. With the motor still running, very slowly pour in the melted butter until all of it is incorporated and the sauce is thick. Finally add the dried herbs and a squeeze of lemon and blend again until they are well chopped. Pass the sauce through a fine sieve and set aside. 

When the oxtail is cooked, use the cooking liquid to make a sauce. Transfer the strained stock into a large frying pan or skillet and reduce right down until thick and sticky; about 15-20 minutes.

When you are ready to finish everything off, heat a heavy frying pan over a high temperature and boil up some salted water in a saucepan. 

Season the onglet steak all over and rub with some oil. When the pan is smoking hot add the meat and cook for 2-3 minutes on each side for rare, a touch longer for medium. When cooked, remove to a board to rest for 5-6 minutes. 

While the meat is resting finish the other elements of the dish off. 

Reheat the sauce and whisk in the butter and sugar (if needed). Put the shredded oxtail into a separate small saucepan and add 2-3 tbsp of the finished sauce and warm through, making sure all of the meat has a nice coating to it. 

Add a knob of butter and a little oil to the pan with the steak juices and add the boiled Jersey Royals, thyme sprigs and baby shallots. Season well and cook on a medium heat for a couple of minutes.

Finally boil the sprouting broccoli in the water for a couple of minutes until just tender, then drain and transfer to a bowl. Season and toss with the butter. 

To plate up, spoon some of the oxtail meat, potatoes and onions onto the plate. Dollop some of the emulsion on top and then place on some of the sliced onglet. Arrange the broccoli around the meat and spoon over a little of the reduced sauce.

Allotment ribollita with borlotti beans, rosemary, rainbow chard, leeks, bread and olive oil

Every time I talk to my parents on the phone, invariably at some point the conversation turns to what they have eaten recently. This is normally met with a modest ‘oh just some odd bits of veg from the allotment’, but I know that that is a damn lie. They talk about their plot like some barren land with a few brown leaves poking out here and there, but the reality couldn’t be more different. They put so much work into it and I’m always so impressed whenever I see it. They took me up there at the end of last summer and I was gobsmacked. Disciplined rows of proud, vibrant vegetables stood in architecturally framed raised beds, all village fete standard and all crying out to be picked. I was like a child in a sweet shop. Commuters must have raised a few eyebrows at the muddy-kneed man laden with earthy bags and smug grin on the way home. So when they offered to return there right at the end of a recent visit I bit their arm off. 

We drove up at dusk, and the view standing on the hillside looking down at Brighton and the sea bathed in sunset reds and burnished golds will stay with me for a long time. But I couldn’t linger for long, there was digging to do and the light was fading fast. I couldn’t see much of what dad was doing under torchlight and only responded to hasty ‘quick Sam, put these in the bag’, and it wasn’t until I got back to my kitchen in London that I could marvel at what goodies lurked inside. Last summer it was all nasturtiums, new potatoes, broad beans and courgette flowers, but this time stunning rainbow chard, flowering rosemary, leeks and purple sprouting broccoli. Not a bad yield for the half a dozen trips my parents had made over the winter. My mind was racing as to what to make, and with the lingering late winter chill still in the air a soup it was to be. This would also be the best way to cram in as much of the newly-picked produce into one bowl as possible. 

When I was young, despite not having such a keen interest in what I was eating, I always remember that in the kitchens of my cooler friends were the same blue, yellow and green books. Although I didn’t identify or read The River Café cookbooks for years afterwards it feels like they’ve always been there, and they’re always my first port of call when looking for inspiration. I love the simplicity and focus on quality ingredients, which often provide the starting point even when attempting something much more complicated. Proper food that you want to eat, not just look at. Although my ingredients and flavourings are far from those of the authentic cavolo nero packed ribollita described within those dog-eared pages, the principal of showing off simple fresh greens is the same. 

Talking of beans, the borlotti beans used here also came from the folks; dad proudly presented me with a jar of the mottled beauties that he had dried and stored from last summer’s harvest. Although I have previously made this with standard tinned beans, it really makes a difference taking the time to prepare them yourself. At this point I added even more garlic, rosemary and bay and was left with about a litre and a half of lovely stock to form the base of the soup. It’s just such a shame that they lose all of their individual markings in the process. 

This recipe makes a lot of hearty, revitalising soup, but the good news is that the leftovers just get better and better. And it’s easy to tweak everything to just how you want it, with a squeeze of lemon, some more chilli or with some crispy prosciutto broken over the top.

Serves 6 generous portions.

Ingredients: 

Olive oil 
1 onion, finely chopped 
1 carrot, finely chopped 
3 medium leeks, finely chopped 
3 cloves of garlic, finely chopped 
1 tbsp fennel seeds 
2 small dried chillies, finely chopped 
2 large sprigs of rosemary, finely chopped 
4 slices of prosciutto, finely chopped 
2 tomatoes, skinned and finely chopped 
2 large handfuls of cooked borlotti beans, drained but retaining the cooking water 
2 large bunches of chard, stalks chopped and leaves sliced finely 
2 handfuls of stale bread, crusts removed and torn into small pieces 
1 small bunch of wild garlic leaves, torn 

To finish: 

Parmesan cheese, finely grated 
Flowers from the rosemary 
Good quality extra virgin olive oil


Heat a large saucepan to a medium-low temperature and add a splash of olive oil. Add the onion, carrot, leeks, garlic, prosciutto, rosemary, dried chilli and fennel along with some seasoning and cook slowly for about half an hour, until everything has softened. Tip in the chopped tomatoes and cook for another ten minutes. Stir in the chard stalks and half of the cannellini beans, topping up with the reserved cooking water until covered, about 750ml-1ltr. Bring to the boil and then reduce to a simmer for 20-30 minutes. 

Transfer the remaining cannellini beans to a food processor and blitz until very fine. Add to the saucepan with the torn bread and the chard leaves and stir will to combine. Pour in more of the bean liquid if needed and break up some of the bread with the spoon to achieve a thick yet pourable consistency. Cook for another couple of minutes until the chard leaves are tender and then finally add the wild garlic leaves at the last minute. Taste, and season if necessary.

To serve, spoon into shallow bowls and drizzle over a good amount of extra virgin olive oil. Sprinkle over parmesan and some rosemary flowers and a good crack of black pepper.