Mum looked concerned. “What is in that box Sam?”. “OH GOD, is it alive?”. Dad had a wry smile on his face, and looked like a boy scout who had discovered a new project. Mum inched back into the doorway as dad opened the lid to reveal a pair of glistening and energetic lobsters. Lunch. This was only the second time in my life that I have bought live lobsters. The first was the day after I proposed to my wife. They are and will always be a proper treat, a symbol of celebration. The native lobster season was only a week or two old, and as soon as the first delivery came into work, I just knew I had to cook with them. Mottled, and in places electric blue in colour, they are truly beautiful creatures; a world apart from the budget ‘lollipop’ lobsters that have been all over the press recently. Although this visit wasn’t a birthday or event, on the rare occasions when I get to cook for my parents, I like to go to town.
As with everything else that I cooked for this meal, simplicity was key. After being carefully and respectfully dispatched, we sat around the kitchen table preparing the meat. Mum came around to the idea and got stuck in too. We kept on sneaking little nuggets into our mouths, “just to check” dad would say. It’s a miracle that any was left for lunch. Pasta was the only option I even considered when planning the meal; I wanted to maximise the focus and flavour of the lobster, faffing about with them as little as possible.
This dish is broadly based on Angela Hartnett’s lovely recipe. Although I really get a lot out of making pasta myself, I took her advice and stuck to dried pasta for a greater contrast in texture. Funnily enough she was right, and what could have been a laborious process was ready in minutes. The other main element for this recipe is the tomatoes. I’m spoilt in London by the easy availability of beautifully ripe, sweet tomatoes, and it really is worth seeking out the best you can get.
From the burrata, to the asparagus, and finally the lobster spaghetti, it was a lunch that I will remember with a smile for years to come. A precious morning of cooking, chatting and catching up. Of course after the plates were cleaned, mum still managed to force feed me a slice of delicious and rich chocolate cake, and cheese was offered from the fridge. Then within the hour I was back on the road, plodding around the M25 planning what I will make next time. I can’t wait.
Serves 4
Ingredients:
2 large live native lobsters, approx. 800g-1kg in weight
For the pasta sauce:
2 good handfuls of small, ripe cherry or plum tomatoes
1 clove of garlic, finely chopped
6 spring onions, finely sliced
1 red chilli, finely chopped
1 glass of dry white wine
For the pasta:
400g good quality, dried spaghetti
To finish:
½ a lemon, juice only
A handful of fresh basil leaves
First prepare the lobsters. Put them in a freezer for about 30 minutes prior to cooking. Fill a large saucepan with water, salt really well and bring to the boil. When the water is a rolling boil, drop the lobsters straight in (or poach one at a time if the saucepan is not large enough for both) and cook for 8-10 minutes, or until the shells turn a bright red colour. Transfer the cooked lobsters to a plate and allow to cool. To strip the meat, split the lobsters in half using a heavy chef’s knife and discard the small stomach in the head and the dark intestinal tract. Pull the tail meat away from the shell and cut into chunky pieces. Crack the claws and excavate all of the flesh. Transfer the chopped meat into a bowl along with any of the soft brown meat from the head. Keep the shells to make soup, stock or oil for another recipe.
Fill a large saucepan with water for the pasta and salt well. Bring to the boil. Add the spaghetti and cook as directed on the packet.
While the pasta is cooking, drizzle a good glug of olive oil into a separate large frying pan or saucepan and set on a medium heat. When hot, add the garlic, spring onion and chilli and fry for 2 minutes until softened. Raise the heat slightly and add the wine, allowing it to boil and reduce by half. Finally add the lobster meat, tomatoes and a good bit of seasoning, stirring to combine and heating through for a final minute or two.
When the pasta is cooked, use tongs to transfer it to the pan containing the sauce. Toss together really well, until each strand of pasta is coated with sauce. Add a spoonful or two of the pasta water to the pan if the sauce needs loosening up.
Pile the spaghetti onto each plate and scatter over the basil leaves. Finish with a drizzle of extra virgin olive oil and a squeeze of lemon juice.
Following on from the burrata mentioned in my last post, my second course of lunch was all about the asparagus. Every year I wait with excitement for the first British asparagus to hit the shelves of my local greengrocer. To me, the beautiful, soldier-like prongs are always confirmation that Spring proper has arrived. Of course, demand has ensured that it is available year-round in the supermarkets from Central America and the Middle-East, but I try to only eat it for the few short months that it is harvested over here. The freshness and taste is so distinct from those that have travelled thousands of miles, and it is something to be truly cherished.
When thinking about the produce that any new season brings, I always overthink and imagine tens of utterly complicated and ‘impressive’ ways that I can showcase a given ingredient. And although there will certainly be more intricate asparagus recipes coming to this blog in the near future, I wanted the first batch of the year to be a much simpler affair. The star of this dish is the asparagus, and nothing else.
As this came between other courses, I wanted it to be refreshing to eat and quick to prepare. On both fronts it was a winner. With two pans and ten minutes it was on the plates and ready to eat. Although anchovies and parmesan can be relatively heavy ingredients, neither dominated, instead providing a moreish, rich background to the lemony and minty asparagus. The proof of the pudding was the sight of my parents huddled around the butter pan, cleaning any leftovers with chunks of bread.
Serves 4
Ingredients:
20 large asparagus spears, trimmed and peeled
For the anchovy butter:
150g butter
6 anchovy fillets
1 lemon, zest only
1 garlic clove
A small handful of grated parmesan
To finish:
½ a lemon, juice only
20 or so mint leaves
20 or so thin parmesan shavings
To make the anchovy butter, drain the anchovies and chop finely. Grate the garlic clove and lemon zest and stir together in a bowl with a little salt and pepper. Add the chopped anchovies along with the butter and grated parmesan, and mix until everything is well combined. Cover with cling film and refrigerate until needed.
Bring a large saucepan of salted water to the boil. Heat a separate frying pan to a moderate-low temperature.
Spoon the butter into the frying pan and gently melt, stirring occasionally.
Drop the prepared asparagus into the boiling water and cook for 2-3 minutes, until al-dente in texture.
Arrange the cooked asparagus onto each plate and pour over a generous amount of the anchovy butter. Sprinkle over the mint leaves and parmesan shavings. Finish finally with a squeeze of lemon juice and a few cracks of black pepper.
Last week I drove down to Brighton on a whistle-stop trip to see my parents. I’ve reached a point in my life where visiting mum and dad is no longer a needy, adolescent excursion to get my laundry done and excavate every scrap of decent cheese out of the fridge. These days I bring my own shampoo and toothpaste, and I adore the hours spent sitting around the worn marble kitchen table of my childhood, chatting away about mum’s recent paintings or the current state of the allotment (always “a total mess”, which is a total lie). Somehow the time is slower and the air that bit fresher just an hour south of The Smoke, almost a mini-holiday with the doors to the garden flung open and the squarks from resident seagulls a gentle background.
My parents have always been wonderful hosts, and on all of these fleeting visits I get spoilt rotten. Upon arrival dad will brandish a perfectly-forked, golden cottage pie. You can bet the house that mum will have made crumble or cake. As I sit there stuffed like a pig, mum will plonk coffee and more wine on the table and remind me that “there’s cheese in the fridge”. Recently I have decided to reverse this trend and cook them lunch instead. Although always simple and quick to prepare, it’s lovely to now be the one making the fuss. Living in London also provides me with an almost endless larder of interesting and seasonal ingredients that are near impossible to source elsewhere. Over Easter we feasted on seared scallops with Sicilian lemons and castelfranco radicchio, followed by fall-apart mutton tossed through pici that we had rolled by hand that morning.
Last week I upped my lunch game. Spring was on the turn and with it emerged a glut of glorious new ingredients. The first asparagus started peeping through the earth, and a large box in my car boot contained a pair of lively, new season native lobsters. To start lunch though, I wanted something stripped-back and easy, that could be plonked down with minimal effort. Burrata has become somewhat of a darling in the modern London restaurant scene, and thankfully through such popularity it is reasonably easy to source these glorious, cream-filled globes. Yet I knew that my parents would never have tried it before, and after years of fridge-raiding, it felt apt to finally provide the cheese.
Over the last few weeks, Gwyneth Paltrow has taken a bit of a bashing in the food media for including a recipe for fried eggs in a recent cookbook. But in much the same way, to serve my burrata I did little more than scoop the soft cheese from their little baskets and popped them straight onto a plate. Although often served with pickles or vegetables, I drew inspiration from the newly-opened Padella restaurant, where it is served simply with a glug of good oil and some seasoning. And that, along with a few slices of good sourdough, was all that was needed.
When it comes to food, there are a couple of things that Katie and I just don’t meet eye-to-eye on. Firstly, she thinks that anchovies are the food of the devil. This is a terrible shame, as they are potentially up their as one of my favourites. I love them in salads, stuffed into legs of lamb, dressed with lemon and herbs or simply straight out of the tin (that shirt goes in the wash swiftly afterwards). She has an incredible micro-sensitivity to them, to the point that if I melted one measly fillet into a vat of sauce, to add depth rather than flavour, she could tell in a heartbeat. Instant ticket to the doghouse right there. Another food-based conflict is her insistence that all pizzas should have tomato sauce on the base. This is pure craziness. A delicately-flavoured pizza bianca, full of herbs, cheese and green vegetables is a thing of pure beauty. Thinly-sliced, crispy potatoes, thyme, garlic and parmesan would be barged out of the way by a sloppy, tangy pomodoro sauce. Surely there is room in the world for both!
Last week I had one of those dreaded days spent waiting at home for a delivery. It could arrive at any time “between 9am-9pm” they said. Thanks for nothing. Scowl face. So I decided to make pizza, or more specifically pizzetta; dinkier versions perfect for a snack, or as a first course before a hunk of meat or fish. On a day previously written-off in my head, it was a total joy sitting in a bright and sunny living room, listening to Ruth Rodgers on Desert Island Discs (if you haven’t heard this, find it. It’s lovely) with a bowl of gently rising dough in the corner.
When it came to topping the pizzettas, of course bianca was the only way. Don’t get me wrong, I like pizza in every form. But with spring ingredients, fresh orange-yolked eggs and lovely fontina cheese, a heavy sauce just wasn’t needed. But the great thing about pizza though is that you can customise exactly to your wants and needs, so don’t take the below arrangements as gospel. Add mozzarella, parmesan, wild garlic and asparagus. Even add cheese, tomato, ham and pineapple. Just be safe in the knowledge that that last one is all yours.
Makes 6-8 pizzettas
Ingredients:
For the dough:
2 tsp dried yeast
185ml warm water
1 tablespoon milk
2 tablespoons olive oil
A good pinch of salt
250g Italian ‘00’ grade flour
75g polenta or semolina
For 6 pizzettas with purple sprouting broccoli and broad beans:
400g fontina cheese, torn into small rough pieces
3 cloves of garlic, finely chopped
8 sprigs of rosemary, leaves picked and finely chopped
A pinch of dried chilli
18 stems of purple sprouting broccoli
12 broad beans pods, beans podded and shelle
For 6 pizzettas with porcini, garlic and egg:
400g fontina cheese, torn into small, rough pieces
3 cloves of garlic, thinly sliced
6 medium eggs
3 small handfuls of dried porcini mushrooms
6 sprigs of fresh thyme, leaves picked
To make the dough, pour the flour, polenta and salt into a large mixing bowl. In a separate bowl or large jug, stir the yeast with the water, milk and olive oil together until well combined. Make a well in the flour and pour in the liquid. Use a wooden spoon to form the mixture into a dough, then use your hands and knead for 10-15 minutes. The dough will still be relatively wet at this point, but that’s ok. Coat a separate large bowl with olive oil and transfer the dough into it. Drizzle a little more oil over the top, then cover with cling film and allow to prove in a warm place for about 2 hours, until doubled in size.
When the dough has risen, quickly knead it a few times to knock most of the air out. Replace the cling film and allow to prove again for 45 minutes.
Lightly flour a large work surface. Take a tangerine-sized piece of the dough and quickly roll it into a thin base around 20cm in diameter. Transfer carefully to a lightly floured greaseproof sheet. The pizzeta is now ready for topping with your choice of ingredients. Repeat with the rest of the dough until you have the required amount.
Pre-heat the oven as high as it will go.
To make the broccoli and broad bean pizzettas, fill a saucepan will lightly salted water and bring to the boil. When the water is ready, blanche the purple sprouting broccoli for 2 minutes, then drain and shake dry.
Get a small bowl and add the chopped rosemary, garlic and dried chilli. Season well, and pour in enough extra virgin olive oil to create a loose, spoonable sauce.
Crumble the fontina onto the base of each pizzetta, to about a centimetre from the edge. Top with the blanched broccoli and a scattering of shelled broad beans. Spoon over a little of the rosemary and garlic oil and sprinkle some additional seasoning. Slide the pizzettas, in batches if necessary, on the greaseproof paper bases, onto the top shelf of the oven. Bake for 6-8 minutes, until the dough is cooked and starting to brown around the edges.
Top the cooked pizzettas with an additional spoonful of the rosemary and garlic oil and tuck in.
For the porcini, garlic and egg pizzettas, fill up a kettle and switch on. Tip the dried porcini into a heatproof bowl and cover with the boiling water. Allow the mushrooms to soak for about 20 minutes, then drain and pat dry with kitchen paper (do not discard the soaking liquid, it is excellent used in risottos, soups and sauces).
Crumble the fontina onto each base, to about a centimetre from the edge. Carefully crack the egg and break in the centre, then scatter the porcini mushrooms all around. Top with a few slivers of garlic, a good pinch of fresh thyme leaves and seasoning. Transfer to the oven and bake for 6-8 minutes, until the dough and egg are cooked.
Hot on the heels of the scallop carpaccio ‘starter’ described in the last recipe on this blog, was a more traditional beef carpaccio ‘main’. It’s been that kind of day. When you get a deep craving for something, the best thing is to go big. Have it twice. As Gary Busey famously (!) cries in Point Break: “Give me two!”. I now feel satisfied with my carpaccio fill, and it will be a little while before it comes around again. In the meantime, I can go back to craving pasta. All of the time.
As with the last recipe, this one was inspired by the flurry of amazing springtime ingredients. Okay, so you can get a fillet of beef pretty much all year round, but as soon as I saw baby artichokes and broad beans available, I knew they would be best friends. Also served raw, both vegetables possess enough subtle flavour and crunchy texture to hold their own, whilst not clouding the all-important (and bloody expensive, thank goodness it’s only a sliver) piece of meat. Although I’m always a sucker for the dead trad carpaccio with parmesan, rocket and oil, I fancied something a touch different and thankfully it worked a treat. Anything with a pile of anchovies chucked in normally does.
Today I discovered how making carpaccio really showcases the sharpness of your knives. In my case, I could have done a better job with a teaspoon. Blimey, what a mess. I love my knives, and they’re treasured and essential in my kitchen, but my god they’ve taken a pounding over the years. Perhaps it is time to finally send them back to the wonderful I O Shen to bring them back up to shape. In my next blog post I’ll no doubt be telling you how I no longer have any fingertips.
But my inadequate kitchen equipment was saved by the good and trustworthy rolling pin. They never let you down. They have just the one job, and they always rise to it. They never need sending back to the supplier. Here’s to the rolling pin! Anyway, the rolling pin made short work of making my frankly shite slices of beef serviceable again. Despite such bodging and faffery, the texture of the beef just melted away. So in that sense, this is truly a recipe that caters for any skill level.
Serves 2
200g of excellent quality, dry-aged fillet steak. Trimmed of sinew.
2 baby artichokes
3 broad beans
1 Sicilian lemon, juice only
For the anchovy mayonnaise:
2 egg yolks
1 garlic clove, grated
½ tsp Dijon mustard
1 Sicilian lemon, juice along with zest of half
4 anchovies
200ml vegetable oil
To finish:
A few bruscandoli shoots (optional)
½ a Sicilian lemon, juice only
Extra virgin olive oil
Wrap the trimmed beef fillet tightly with a couple of layers of cling film and pop in the freezer for 1 hour to firm up.
While the beef is freezing make the mayonnaise. Put the yolks, garlic, anchovies, lemon juice and zest and mustard into a small food processor along with a good pinch of seasoning. Blitz well to combine. With the engine still running, start to slowly pour in the vegetable oil. Continue to add the oil until it has all been emulsified, and you are left with a thick mayonnaise. Taste and adjust the seasoning and lemon, then spoon into a squeezy bottle. Set aside until needed.
Make a dressing by combining the juice of half a lemon with 3 tbsp of extra virgin olive oil and a little salt and pepper. Pod and shell the broad beans and transfer to a bowl. Strip away the outside leaves from the artichokes and trim the top about 1 ½ cm down. Use a vegetable peeler to trim any hard bits away from the stem. Use a knife to thinly slice, then add to the same bowl as the broad beans. Immediately toss with the lemony dressing to stop the artichoke from discolouring.
After an hour, remove the beef from the freezer and use a very sharp, long knife to thinly slice. If you want the carpaccio to be wafer thin, put each slice between pieces of greaseproof paper and flatten with a rolling pin.
To serve, arrange the meat slices onto each plate and dot on the anchovy mayonnaise. Scatter the broad beans, artichoke slices and bruscandoli over the top. Finish with a good glug of olive oil, a squeeze of lemon juice and a good pinch of seasoning.
