When I look back on the food that I have cooked and eaten this year, one ingredient jumps out more than any other. Chickpeas. A strange discovery really, as previously I haven’t had all that much time for the poor pulse. Houmous aside, I’ve always found them a little bland and boring, always terribly under-seasoned with a strange, soft-yet-crunchy texture. The dusty 3-year old tin in the cupboard was never in any danger of being opened. But something changed, the world tipped upside-down, and suddenly they are an integral part of my cooking.
I feel like most food disliked as a child goes through this process. It will always be avoided and ardently hated until that revelation moment, when tasted in adulthood, and it dawns that it really isn’t all that bad, and sometimes, just perhaps, it might even be nice. I went through the same with avocados, and Katie still holds the fact that I now really like them as one of her greatest victories. With chickpeas, the revelation happened around January time. I’d been reading a lot of Ottolenghi recipes, and had noted how he advised cooking them very gently, for long periods of time (sometimes 5 hours), to achieve a brilliant taste and texture. I then cooked a recipe where I experimented with slowly warming chickpeas in oil, almost like a confit, and the results were truly delicious. My mind was blown open to this new ingredient. I nearly ate about 3 tin’s worth.
From that point, I have used and enjoyed chickpeas a huge amount. Cooked and flavoured properly, they add a joyful comfort to pretty much any savoury dish; from bulking out warming stews to garnishing delicate cured fish. One of my favourite restaurant dishes this year was charred, smokey duck hearts balanced across a dollop of pureed chickpeas at the excellent Brawn. It was such a simple, yet complete plate of food, all brought together with, well you’ve guessed it…
Ok, enough of this chickpea love-in.
I do love a good kitchen tip, some small thing learned or discovered that makes a lot of difference. Most recently, this has been the brief salting of white fish prior to cooking. I was always brought up taught to season my fish only at the very last minute, for fear of dry results and a ruined meal. However, after seeing a chef doing it on the telly a few months ago, I gave it a go, and it really works a treat. Thick fillets of fish like cod, haddock or pollock are sometimes prone to holding huge amounts of moisture, giving the flesh a very mushy, flavourless texture. By lightly salting the fillets all over for just 10 minutes, this moisture is released before cooking; the flesh is firmer and deeper in flavour.
Despite looking a little complicated, the dish below is surprisingly simple. The cod and chickpeas are light and refreshing, perfect at this time of year when every other meal seems to include chocolate or cheese.
Serves 2
Ingredients:
For the cod:
2 cod fillets
1 good knob of butter
For the chickpeas
400g soaked or tinned chickpeas
2 garlic cloves, crushed
1 sprig of rosemary
1 lemon, zest and juice
Olive oil
For the razor clams:
10 live razor clams
A splash of dry white wine
For the herb oil:
1 small bunch of parsley
2 sprigs of rosemary, leaves picked
200ml extra virgin olive oil
The cooking liquid from the razor clams
1 lemon, juice only
For the sprout flowers:
6 sprout flowers, trimmed
4 slices of coppa
Start making the herb oil the day before serving. Put the parsley and rosemary leaves into a food processor with a pinch of seasoning and the olive oil. Blitz until the herbs are really finely chopped and everything is well combined. Tip the green mixture into a bowl, cover with cling film and refrigerate overnight. The next day, strain the oil through a fine sieve into a clean bowl; the resulting liquid should be a vibrant green.
To cook the chickpeas, drain them well and tip into a saucepan, Add the garlic, rosemary and lemon zest and cover with olive oil. Cook very gently, without allowing to simmer, for about 40 minutes, until the chickpeas are extremely tender. Season well with salt and pepper. Using a slotted spoon, transfer about two-thirds of the chickpeas to a food processor. Add a couple of tablespoons of the cooking oil and the juice from the lemon, then blend well, adding more oil if necessary to achieve a smooth puree. Taste and season if necessary. Keep both whole and pureed chickpeas warm white you finish the dish.
Pour a little olive oil into a frying pan and bring to a medium temperature. Fry the coppa and the sprout flowers together for about 5-6 minutes, until the meat is crispy and the sprout flowers are al-dente. Drain the coppa on some kitchen roll and tear into small pieces.
Take the cod fillets out of the fridge and sprinkle a little salt on all sides. Allow to stand on a plate for 10-15 minutes, then pat dry with kitchen paper.
Heat up a large saucepan until very hot. Tip in the razor clams and pour over the white wine. Cover the pan with a tightly-fitting lid and cook for about 2 minutes, until the razor clams have just opened. Remove the razor clams from the pan and shell the meat, then slice thinly on an angle. Allow the cooking liquid to cool slightly, then add 1-2 tbsp of it to the herb oil, along with a squeeze of lemon juice. Taste and season if needed.
Pour a generous glug of olive oil into a non-stick frying pan and bring to a medium-high heat. Season the cod on all sides, then place skin-side down into the pan. Cook for 4-6 minutes through the skin depending on the thickness of the piece, then carefully turn over. Add the butter to the pan and use a spoon to baste the fish well. Cook on the flesh-side for 1-2 minutes then remove from the pan.
To serve, arrange the cod to one side of the plate and spoon or pipe a good dollop of the chickpea puree alongside. Scatter a couple of tablespoons of the chickpeas and the sprout flowers around. Arrange the razor clam and coppa slices into one half of a razor clam shell and position opposite the cod. Finally finish with a good amount of the herb and razor clam dressing.
I had wanted to visit The River Café for years. As a child, before I had any idea of what The River Café looked like or even really what it was, I was familiar with the iconic blue and yellow books, with the block-print fronts and frustrating lack of food photos inside. Growing up in the midlands, the thought of even beginning to look for coppa or trompettes de mort was preposterous. Why you would ever want to boil meat in milk was beyond me. But as I started to cook for myself and learn about ingredients it all started to make sense. The first recipes to gain the accolade of splashed pages and thumb-prints were the mushroom risotto and the lemon tart. Even now, as a reasonably competent cook and some 20 years after publication, they remain one of my first stops for inspiration.
When I moved to London 5 years ago I looked into making a visit. By then my own cooking had taken a more Italian direction, and I had just met the woman who would become my wife. Her and her father had a long working history with King’s Wharf and Richard Rogers architects, and throughout the nineties The River Café was their canteen. “Oh we must all go” they would say. Even as a plucky twenty-something looking to impress my date, I shat-myself when I saw the prices. I resigned myself that it was out of reach, and instead set about discovering the excellent Italian restaurants emerging a little closer to home. Five years on, and suddenly the now wife receives a tax rebate. “Let’s just book it and go!” she said. That’s my girl.
Booking made, the excitement of the visit, still a couple of months in advance, started to turn into fear. What if it all didn’t turn out as good as imagined in my head. Googling the see what others thought was a bad idea. “Shockingly overpriced” and “not what it used to be” were common. Was it worth risking spending enough money to pay for a holiday on a few hours of choking disappointment? But I had to go. This place had turned into my cooking mecca, and I just had to see for myself.
Hype is a brilliant thing for a restaurant. In the modern era, social media means that real buzz can be created in an avalanche of recommendations and filtered photographs, instantly turning the venue into a ‘must go’ location. But this also leads to make-believe expectations, and it is unfair to expect a restaurant to live up to this. From reading some previous reviews of The River Café, it seemed like people imagined that they would be hand-greeted by Lady Rogers, before being sat at gilded chairs, with a personal waiter who was able to pull themaway away at the merest thought about going to the loo. And those who visited expecting technical food full of squiggles and foams were truly missing the point.
Despite this negative feedback that had stirred my own apprehensions, I am relieved to say that I could not have wanted more from the whole experience. The simplicity of the room itself was a marvellous thing, peppered with those little architectural details that lifted everything else; that big red wood oven filled with iron pans holding grouse, veal and bass, the looming, projected clock, serving kitchen and diners alike, and those ‘hand written’ iconic menus. And I loved the references to it still being a working canteen at heart. The paper tablecloths may have looked a little out of place at first, but then Katie told me stories of how her father would have meetings there, and upon leaving the paper grids would be covered with scribbled building plans and notes. Brilliant. The room was a heaving bustle, full of smiling and laughter, yet right in the throngs of it, our table still had enough personal space that allowed us to engage without competing.
But it was ultimately the food that I was most worried about. Could such unashamedly simple food be somehow taken to another level? Well in short, yes. Every plate was a brilliant reminder that amazing ingredients, treated with respect and served simply, can be incredible. I love technical cooking and fancy presentation, but this was a total eye-opener, proving that sometimes the fancy frills aren’t necessary. My antipasti of raw veal with truffle was a prime example of this. I’d be surprised if there were more than five ingredients on the plate, yet that was absolutely all that was needed.
The dishes that followed carried the same hallmarks; wonderfully crafted pasta with soft, rich ragu, and perfectly cooked chunks of turbot and lamb that left us swooning. Contrary to what I had read previously, portions were mostly massive, and I was fit to bursting by the end of the main course. But I couldn’t come all of that way in freezing November without squeezing in that lemon tart, and I’m so glad that I did. Having made the recipe successfully many times, I assumed that this would just be a pleasant formality, a familiar ending to an outstanding meal. Wrong again. I now fully understand why that tart is the benchmark that all others follow. Quite how they achieve such a light, flavourful texture inside such delicate pastry is beyond me. I thought that I could recreate that recipe well, but this made my attempts purely amateur.
Time for the bill. I had noted earlier that Lord Rodgers had cleverly not included windows in the toilets, for petrified customers to make a dash out of. There’s no getting around the fact that the meal was hugely expensive. But with that I can in no way complain. It was no surprise; the restaurant made their prices clear and I chose to visit with that knowledge. Was it worth it? Absolutely. It was quite frankly the best Italian food I have ever eaten, with polite, unstuffy service in a lovely room. I would certainly return again given the chance, perhaps for a long, carefree lunch sat outside by the river on a hot summer’s day. In the meantime, I’ll have to go and dust off those blue and yellow cookbooks all over again…
I don’t often find myself in Chelsea. Especially at 8.30am on a Monday morning, having spent an hour lodged in horrid commuter-carriage across the capital, watching beards turn to briefcases turn to fur, stretched skin and vacant expressions. Sleep is normally far preferable on days off, but on that day I was on a very special vegetable hunt. The fresh porcini season comes and goes with the blink of an eye, and in East London largely stays invisible. Although the standard of greengrocer in Hackney is largely very good, wild mushrooms are still an elusive find. And so the ridiculous ingredient journey commenced. Mum thought I was bonkers when I told her, but I was sure happy walking back to Sloane Square clutching a paper bag of pungent, charming porcini.
The joy of such travels meant that my return journey spanned the pick of London’s other food retailers, and by the time I had reached the safer ground of Dalston Kingsland station, I had gathered some wonderful, thick short ribs and a clobbering wedge of parmesan. The only thing remaining was time, and plenty of it. There’s nothing speedy about cooking short ribs, and the reason for the early start was to allow as much gently stewing as possible. Think big chunks of tender, moist meat falling off the bone at the merest thought of a shake. Frankly, an optimistic prospect for lunch.
When the (late) lunch was finally ready for the plate, all that faffing about was forgotten. I find at this time of year, an amalgamation of soft, rich food is just the ticket. This isn’t clean eating, and it is damn tastier for all of the cheese and butter, for the layers of fat that have melted between the fibrous meat.
Always make more polenta. Spread the leftovers into a deep tray and set in the fridge, then slice into wedges and grill to crisp perfection. Top with more cheese and roasted beetroot or more mushrooms for a quick midweek treat.
Serves 4
Ingredients:
For the short ribs:
4 beef short ribs
2 onions, chopped
1 carrot, chopped
3 cloves of garlic, crushed
1 bay leaf
80g dried porcini mushrooms
10 sprigs of thyme
1 large glass of red wine
1-1.5 litres of good beef stock
1 large knob of butter
For the polenta:
1 mug of coarse polenta
5 mugs of water
1 handful of parmesan, grated
150g butter, cut into cubes
For the mushrooms:
4 large fresh porcini mushrooms, brushed clean and thickly sliced
2 handfuls of girolle mushrooms, brushed clean and trimmed
5 sprigs of fresh thyme
For the chard:
1 bunch of fresh chard, tough stalks removed and leaves roughly torn
To finish:
Finely grated parmesan
2 tbsp of thyme leaves
Start by getting the short ribs on. Bring a large saucepan to a medium-high heat and add a good splash of olive oil. Season the short ribs. When the pan is hot, patiently brown the meat on all sides, allowing about 15 minutes in total to really develop and good crust. Tip in the onions, carrots, garlic and bay in and stir well. Cook for a further few minutes, until starting to soften and caramelise. Pour in the red wine. Allow the liquid to sizzle and reduce by half, and use a wooden spoon to scrape up the caramelisation from the bottom of the pan. Add the thyme and porcini mushrooms, then cover with the beef stock. Bring to the boil, then turn the temperature down to a gentle simmer. Cover slightly and cook for 4-5 hours, or until the meat is extremely tender.
When the meat is cooked, allow to cool slightly in the pan, then carefully remove with some tongs to a plate or board. Strain the liquid into a smaller saucepan and set it back on a high heat. Reduce right down, until only about 300ml of thickened sauce remains. Remove from the heat and stir in the butter.
Pour the water for the polenta into a large saucepan. Sprinkle in some salt and bring to the boil. Stir the water with a wooden spoon, and whilst doing so, pour in the polenta in one slow steady stream. Continue to stir for about 5 minutes, or until the mixture has started to thicken and any lumps have been beaten out. Turn the heat down to low, partly cover with a lid and cook for 30-40 minutes, stirring often, until the grains have cooked and is of a thick pouring consistency. Remove from the heat and stir in the butter, parmesan and salt if required.
Bring a bbq or hot-smoker to a medium-low temperature. Gently re-heat the short ribs for 10-15 minutes, keeping the lid covered to maximise the smokiness.
Whilst the meat is being heated, cook the mushrooms. Heat a large frying pan to a high temperature and pour in a couple of tablespoons of olive oil. When the pan is hot, add the porcini mushrooms and fry for 2-3 minutes, until golden brown and caramelised. Turn over for another couple of minutes, and add the girolles and thyme leaves. Toss the girolles every now and then the cook evenly on each side.
Pour some boiling water into a saucepan and add a little salt. Blanche the chard leaves for a couple of minutes, until just tender, then drain and squeeze out as much excess water as possible.
To serve, dollop a good amount of cheesy polenta onto each plate and top with a short rib. Scatter around the mushrooms and chard and spoon on a little sauce. Finish with more grated parmesan and thyme leaves.
Sitting on small communal tables, throughout our meal we had often shared brief conversations with the couple sitting next to us, mostly in the way of “oh I wish we’d ordered…”, “can we squeeze our plate in that gap” and “sorry, that’s our bottle of wine”. All spirited and well humoured excursions. Midway through our meal things changed. “Oh! What’s that dessert you’re eating? It looks great…” they asked. At that moment, I happened to be crunching on the remnants of a deep-fried seabass head. The crispy cheeks and gill covers had been devoured, and I was contemplating going in for the eye. I couldn’t help but smile a little as their faces dropped, horrified at this revelation. And that was that from them for the rest of the meal.
I wouldn't normally excuse such Hannibalistic dining habits, but it is exactly what Som Saa brings out in you. You want to dredge every single crumb of flavour from every single plate. With their year-long residency at Climpson’s Arch in London Fields within a hair of completion, Katie and I hopped across the park on a clear chilly evening last week for one final meal. Situated no more than a 5 minute jaunt from our front door, it has been the perfect option for that last-minute, spontaneous date night; the no-booking system often allowing us to slip in with little or no wait. On nights when heaving and faced with a flustered hostess and long list, we were able to soften our bad luck and simply try again another night. Thankfully last week we spied a couple of vacant seats in the glow of the warm yellow light and jumped.
The space is a magnificent example of Hackney-esque ingenuity, carving a working roastery for the excellent Climpson and Sons coffee during the day before stoking up the outdoor (literally a shipping container) kitchen for Andy Oliver and Mark Dobbie to work their magic in the evenings. As you sit there surrounded by coffee sacks, roasters and polished extractors you are interrupted mid-conversation every 10 minutes by the rumble of trains above. It’s creative and charming, especially considering that such a place exists hidden in an otherwise ramshackle, dark East London street. Yet somehow such a concept has sparked waves of talent; before Oliver and Dobbie it was Tomos Parry, who went on to run hugely celebrated Kitty Fishers in Mayfair. During their residency, Som Saa have found their own unbelievable success, and in their bid to open their first permanent site, managed to raise £700,000 through crowdfunding in just four days.
Our food last week was as good, if not better than on previous encounters. Crunchy school prawns started things off, before tender cuttlefish, a truly gorgeous off-menu curry of sweet, autumnal gourd, papaya salad and the dish that started the piece, the deep-fried seabass. Each dish came bathed in its own unique and fragrant flavourings, and each was utterly delicious. The philosophy behind all of the food was so refreshing; instead of falling back on tired and diluted Westernised classics, the menu is more of a reference point, an introduction to something new. I had never heard of any of the dishes before, and I have never eaten Thai food like that in London, or indeed outside of a few trips to Thailand. The whole balance of flavourings was judged to perfection, fireball hot yet tempered and addictive. It was sadistically satisfying to feel your lips burn and swell with heat whilst shovelling such brilliant food. Endless sticky rice was on hand for fire blanket duty, and for the new (and strangely wonderful) sensation of squeezing the warm grains out of each bag.
During the savoury courses your tastebuds were brought to such a peak of acute sensitivity, that it was almost a joke when desserts were handed out. Suddenly everything was flooded with soft, ever-comforting grilled banana, palm sugar ice cream and sesame. It was like that moment a fairground waltzer finally grinds to a halt. I could have almost melted off my chair (stool).
Food aside, the front of house, lead by Tom George, seemed to effortlessly run what must be a difficult room of randomly seated parties, and the throng of people waiting to jump on the next ledge, gap or corner. They all seemed genuinely excited about what was to come.
It will be sad to see Som Saa leave the Arch. From a purely selfish perspective, it sounds like I’ll have to travel a little further east in search of their food when they re-emerge next year. But also in the way that the food, venue and atmosphere fused together so well. I really hope that they adopt some of these stripped-back, communal surroundings in their next venture. It will be very interesting to see how Leandro Carreira gets on with his residency, he certainly has big shoes to fill. And with Portuguese food on the bill, Climpson’s Arch yet again revolves into an exciting new chapter.
