This year our estate has undertaken a massive and brilliant community-driven project. The old, unused football pitch that used to score more deals than goals was ripped up, and replaced with raised beds, a bbq area and lawn. Katie’s mum and a few other members of the estate have worked tirelessly to orchestrate the project, and persuade the council to grant help and funding. And a few months ago there was celebration as the first seeds were sown. The finished garden looks fantastic, and it totally changes the atmosphere of the estate, bringing together a much stronger core of community. The residents have fully embraced it, and now into autumn the beds are heaving with the lush fruits of their labour. Oregano, rosemary and courgettes grow next to pumpkins, coriander and curry leaves. For a cooking enthusiast like me it is perfect, and I can wander outside in the evening with a pair of scissors, snipping here and there before returning with bunches of fresh herbs that transform simple suppers.
One of my favourite moments from this summer was sitting outside with Katie’s mum, sharing a plate of freshly-cut tuna flavoured with the herbs that she had planted. It was a scorching hot mid-summers day, and I had just returned home from work. As a fishmonger I am lucky that I have instant access to whatever is the pick of the slab, and on that day the tuna had really shone. Quite literally, it’s surface shimmering with ruby red, to the point where it would have been a scandal to expose it to any heat or frying pan. A few perfumed leaves and a glug of good extra virgin olive oil were all that was needed. Scooped up onto crisp bits of grilled focaccia and downed with icy, dry white wine it was a memorable afternoon.
Tuna is something that I try not to eat too often, but once in a while it can provide a real treat. The important thing is to try and get your hands on the freshest, highest-grade that you can. You don’t need a lot, and as with all raw protein, a little goes a long way. This is less of a recipe than an assembly of ingredients, all balanced and in harmony with one another. Tasting as you go is essential; the prize is the tuna, and you very much want it’s subtlety at the centre, just spiked here and there with the herby, tangy accompaniments.
Serves 2
Ingredients:
250g very fresh, sashimi-grade tuna
½ a garlic clove
1 tsp salted capers, rinsed
5-6 good green olives
1 tbsp finely diced shallot
½ a lemon, zest and juice
A sprinkle of dried chilli flakes
3-4 tbsp very good olive oil
To finish:
A handful of nasturtium leaves and flowers
A few sprigs of fresh oregano
Thinly sliced ciabatta or focaccia
First make the dressing for the tuna. Very finely dice the garlic, capers, olives and shallot and slide into a bowl. Season well and combine with the lemon zest and juice, chilli flakes and a generous pinch of seasoning.
Take the tuna out of the fridge 20 minutes before serving to allow it to come to room temperature. Trim away any sinew, then carefully slice into small dice. Tip into a large bowl.
Spoon half of the dressing into the tuna bowl and pour in a good glug of olive oil. Mix together until well combined, then taste. Add more of the flavourings as needed along with more seasoning.
Spread the raw tuna onto each plate. Dress the nasturtiums with a little oil and scatter on top, along with the freshly picked oregano leaves. Finally drizzle over another glug of extra virgin olive oil. Serve with the toasted bread on the side.
One of the great joys of working in a shop is the constant interaction with regular customers. I’ve made some good friends from this, and it’s always lovely to have a catch up and see what people have been up to that week. It makes the job so much more than providing a simple service and selling products, and a busy morning is always brightened up when a familiar face comes along. One day a few weeks ago, I was listening to someone describing how he planned to go shooting rabbits on his friend’s farm at the weekend. It sounded like fun, but I had completely forgotten by the time the following week when he arrived clutching a brace for me.
Food is always a wonderful and meaningful present, and I was determined to make something special with these rabbits, rather than simply and rather flippantly chucking them into a stew. I’ve also been cooking a lot of simpler recipes on this blog of late, so I wanted to push myself and see if I could come up with something a bit special. I’ve cooked with rabbit a few times previously, once when challenged by The Ginger Pig last year, and the time making a soft and comforting ragu with polenta. I love the gamey richness of the meat, delicate, deep and tender.
Choosing what to serve it with was the easy bit. I thought about the rabbit on the farm, and what I could imagine it having a little nibble on here and there. It seems like an almost cruel joke serving rabbit with carrots, but the flavours balance so well, and there are currently an abundance of beautiful multi-coloured bunches available. The other dominant flavours on the plate are thyme and green olives, both spiking with little bursts that contrast yet don’t interrupt the meat.
It is well worth getting more than just the two rabbits, and bumping up the amount that you braise. Not only will this lead to an intense sauce, but you will be rewarded with a pile of wonderfully succulent, almost pulled rabbit. The next night I added dried oregano, fennel seed and sage, and stirred in more butter than I probably should to create a deeply satisfying ragu served with thick homemade pappardelle. Heavenly.
Serves 4
Ingredients:
2 wild rabbits, portioned into legs, racks and loins. Livers and bones kept.
For the braised rabbit:
The legs, bones and trimming from the rabbit
3 shallots, finely chopped
2 carrots, chopped
2 cloves of garlic, sliced
5 sprigs of thyme
1 bay leaf
1 large glass of dry white wine
2 litres of good chicken stock
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The livers from the rabbit, finely chopped
1 shallot, finely chopped
75g smoked bacon or pancetta, finely chopped
2 knobs of butter
12 rashers of lardo
For the racks and loins:
4 small pieces of rabbit loin, trimmed of sinew
4 small rabbit racks, trimmed
1 large knob of butter
5 sprigs of thyme
1 garlic clove
For the sauce:
1.5 litres of the strained rabbit braising stock
1 knob of butter
½ a lemon, juice only
For the faro:
1 cup of faro wheat or pearl barley
500ml of the rabbit braising stock
For the carrot puree:
4 carrots, peeled and roughly chopped
500ml chicken stock
½ a lemon, juice only
1 large knob of butter
2 tbsp olive oil
For the roasted carrots:
1 large bunch of heritage carrots, scrubbed and trimmed
5 sprigs of thyme
To finish:
A few of the carrot tops, washed
A handful of good green olives, stoned and sliced
A bunch of radishes, thinly sliced
Thyme flowers
First get the rabbit legs on to braise. Heat a generous amount of olive oil in a large, heavy saucepan to a medium-high temperature. Season the rabbit legs and bones well, then brown quickly and transfer to a side plate. Add the shallot, carrots, garlic and herbs to the pan and fry until lightly caramelised, then pour in the wine. Reduce by two-thirds, and use a wooden spoon to scrape up any crust from the bottom of the pan. Return the rabbit to the saucepan and top up with the stock. Bring to the boil, then cover and gently simmer for 1 ½ hours, or until the rabbit is very tender.
When the rabbit is cooked, remove the legs from the liquid and shred well with two forks. Transfer to a bowl and set aside. Strain the rest of the stock into a clean saucepan, reserving a quarter separately. Bring the main quantity of stock to the boil, and reduce until only about 200ml of thickened sauce remains. Whisk in the lemon juice and butter, check for seasoning, then remove from the heat and cover until needed.
Pour 1 tbsp of oil into a frying pan and bring to a medium heat. Fry the rabbit livers, pancetta and shallot for a couple of minutes, until tender. Stir in the butter until melted, then tip into the bowl containing the shredded rabbit leg. Combine well, checking that there is enough seasoning. Once the mixture has cooled, lay 3 slices of lardo on a board, so they are slightly overlapping. Spoon some of the braised rabbit mixture on top, then roll the lardo around the filling, tucking in the ends. Repeat with the remaining lardo until you have 4 little parcels. Place onto a lined baking tray and set aside.
For the faro, pour the reserved stock into a small saucepan and add the grains. Bring to the boil, then simmer gently for 25-30 minutes, or until just tender. Add a little more water if it starts to dry out.
To make the carrot puree, bring the stock to the boil in a small saucepan. Add the carrots, then simmer for 15-20 minutes, until very tender. Pour the contents of the saucepan into a food processor and add the lemon juice and butter, along with a little seasoning. Blend to a smooth puree. With the engine still running, slowly drizzle in the olive oil, until completely emulsified.
Preheat the oven to 190⁰C. Scrub and trim the heritage carrots and then scatter onto a baking tray. Add the thyme sprigs and coat with a little olive oil and seasoning. Roast in the oven for 15-20 minutes, until just tender and caramelised on the outside.
Slide the baking tray with the lardo-wrapped rabbit into the oven and allow to heat up for 6-8 minutes.
Pour 1 tbsp of oil into a heavy frying pan and bring to a high heat. Season the racks and loins of rabbit and add to the pan along with the butter, thyme and garlic. Cook for 1-2 minutes on each side, basting continuously with the butter.
To serve, place a piece of the lardo-wrapped rabbit to one side of each plate, and a dollop of the carrot puree on the other. Arrange the roasted carrots, rack and loin, and scatter on some of the faro. Finish with the sliced olives, radishes, carrot tops and thyme flowers.
Custard tart. Two words which so perfectly sum up the new wave of ingredient-led yet wholesome food that has emerged out of new openings of late. Home cooking, but done better. Plates of food minus smears and quenelles, in relaxed environments minus stiff waiting staff, quaveringly-poised behind your chair whenever they predict that you might require the toilet. Places like Lyles in Shoreditch and Primeur in Highbury have nailed it, somewhere you could take the parents for a celebration meal, or just as easily pop in for a glass of wine and snack. And championed in the middle of all this is the humble custard tart, that familiar staple, elevated with a bit of careful, clever cooking into something dominating column inches and Instagram likes.
And this is what my eyes quickly focussed on upon first glance of the Sabel pop-up menu. A dreamy list of rissoles (a word that I can only associate with childhood dinners when it was clear that what my mum meant was ‘meatballs’), slow cooked meat, and the current dairy darling, ticklemore cheese. All so refreshing; there were no games in this menu. On second thoughts this wave might not be so modern, and perhaps this is just the norm of what the St John revolutionised all those years ago. But whatever the case, I just wanted to eat it all. And there was a custard tart.
And what a space for it. The Lower Clapton Road is now on the fringes of the relative wild west it used to be, and in that damned name of ‘gentrification’, there are now some rather interesting ventures cropping up. And I would certainly not have imagined for one second that that beautifully restored first floor of the Palm 2 building would exist, all wooden floors, fans of flowers and glorious evening light pouring though large industrial windows. At the end was a shiny fitted professional kitchen, chefs basking in that false pre-service window of ease. Although technically a pop-up, this was certainly no flapping amateur pulling questionable casseroles out of the oven and charging £35 for the pleasure. Sabel meant business.
But the good nature of the conventional pop-up were carefully maintained. The host and the chef were lovers soon to be wed. The waiters were roped in friends and family, all gunning for the cause and effortlessly friendly. There was a charm similar to childhood stories read from Happy Families books. And the 60-odd covers, about twice that of many permanent openings, were kept compact on trestle tables and everyone encouraged to interweave.
Then there was the food, and this is what mostly set it apart from anything else sharing the pop-up label. Casual, homely food is one thing. Homemade food covers for sloppiness and execution, “here’s something I just rustled up”. Or at the other end of the scale, a load of sterile, disjointed restaurant dishes that feel lonely in such surroundings. But all of the food at Sabel was made and presented with a clever cunning, banquet style food that still wowed and wowed course after course. Early highlights included whipped brown butter on good sourdough and a clever take on a tomato salad; crunchy with seeds with tangy hits of that crumbled ticklemore. And to round off the starters was a platter of beautifully plump and sweet queenie scallops, perfectly accompanied with vibrant pureed avocado and gazpacho dressing.
The starters were a strong indication of what was to come, and the main certainly didn’t disappoint. China dishes piled high with smoked wheat (a total revelation), peas and lettuce were topped with meltingly flavourful chunks of lamb neck. A few bits of slow cooked meat on a risotto-style base, something simple in theory that could feasibly appear on any home-cooked menu. But this was seriously accomplished cooking, with each ingredient maximised and balanced in total harmony with the next.
As well as the quality, the amounts of food on offer were nailed. As one of the younger children of a large family, there is always a slight panic when sharing food is laid out on a big table that you’re going to receive your fair share. But there was just enough of everything, even allowing for that extra spoon or two of that bit that you particularly liked. Which was all of it.
And then there was the custard tart. By this point we had been truly bowled over, and were drunk in praise of everything. Had an unboxed supermarket tart been plonked onto the middle of the table, we would have probably fought with excuses as to why this was the right thing. But of course this wasn’t the case, and perhaps this was the course that stole the show. Firm-set but smooth and light as you like, the accompanying berries almost weren’t needed. We had two slices each.
All good meals have you infectiously analysing each bit as soon as it’s over. And as we spilled out onto the Lower Clapton Road, we couldn’t help reliving that smoked wheat, that tomato salad or indeed that custard tart. I can’t tell you how much I recommend Sabel Feasts. For pure enjoyment, quality food and value they would run most restaurants for their money. Which for a pop-up is simply mindblowing.
When at the fishmongers, it is always best to try and buy something as big as possible. Not only does this dodge the ethical issue of eating unsustainable, baby fish, but often it will result in a better finished dish. This is particularly the case with whole fish such as sole, turbot, bass, bream and salmon. A larger fish will yield a thicker fillet, which will cook more evenly and be much more succulent and satisfying to eat than little bits and pieces scraped from the bones.
Of course, buying large fish is often expensive and impractical if you’re not feeding many. But there are a few ways around this problem. Many types of fish when handled correctly will freeze in individual fillet portions really well, creating a few easy dinners in the month to come. Alternatively, you can try curing or preserving the remaining fish. I’ve been particularly enjoying this in the last few months, and see it as an opportunity to create something completely different out of what would be leftovers. It takes minutes of effort and once cured will keep in the fridge for a good few days. Most fresh fish can be prepared in this way; this year alone I’ve had great results with gurnard, brill, salmon and mackerel.
To turn my cured fish into a finished dish, I always consider the final balance of flavour. Oiliness, saltiness, sweetness, sharpness and texture all needs to be judged properly to get the best out of the fish. For this recipe, I’ve used some of the wonderful sweet summer peas and baby courgettes that are right in season at the moment. It really is worth making the effort to shell each little pea properly, as this will remove any bitterness. To counter the sweetness, I’ve made a punchy lemon puree. This stuff is strong, and you certainly don’t need much of it on the finished plate.
As with the last recipe, the seatrout season has now finished (boo!). But good quality salmon will work perfectly in its place, as would a firm white fish such as monkfish, john dory or brill. Just increase or shorten the curing time depending on the thickness and density of the fillet.
Serves 2
Ingredients:
For the cured seatrout:
1 thick top end of a seatrout fillet, about 400g, pin-boned
150g sugar
150g salt
A few sprigs of mint
A few sprigs of tarragon
1 lemon, zest only
For the lemon puree:
2 Sicilian lemons, peeled
130g caster sugar
½ a lemon, juice only
5 tbsp extra virgin olive oil
For the vegetables:
2 large handfuls of fresh British peas
3 baby courgettes
To finish:
Extra virgin olive oil
A few sprigs of mint
A handful of peashoots
First get the seatrout on to cure. Put the sugar and salt in a food processor with the tarragon, mint and lemon zest and blend well until everything is finely chopped. Tip half of it into a dish large enough to snugly fit the seatrout in. Pop the fish on top, then cover with the remaining half of the cure mixture, making sure all sides are covered. Seal the top with clingfilm and refrigerate for 4-6 hours, until the seatrout has firmed up. Rinse the fish well and pat dry with kitchen roll. Remove the skin, then carefully slice into thin ‘D’ cuts.
While the fish is curing, make the lemon puree. Put the lemons into a saucepan and cover with water. Sprinkle in about 10g of sugar and bring to the boil. Drain the water away, then repeat this process another 7 times, until the lemons are very soft. Transfer the lemons to a food processor and blend into a puree with the lemon juice, some salt and pepper and a teaspoon of the caster sugar. With the motor still running, drizzle in the olive oil until emulsified. Have a taste and adjust if needed, you want it to be quite sharp. Pass through a fine sieve and pour into a plastic bottle. Set aside for plating.
Fill up a saucepan and bring to the boil. While you’re waiting for the water to heat up, pod the peas. Add a little salt to the water and blanche the peas for two minutes, then refresh in a big bowl of cold water. Drain well, then squeeze the shells away from the sweet inner-peas. Dress the peas with a good glug of olive oil and a pinch of seasoning. Trim the baby courgettes and slice into thin rounds, then add to the peas.
To plate up, arrange some slices of the seatrout onto each plate. Dot a little of the lemon puree around the plate, and scatter over the peas and courgette. Finish with some peashoots, mint leaves and a final drizzle of extra virgin olive oil.
