If someone ever asked me what the thing that I find the hardest when cooking is, my answer would without doubt be pastry. Specifically, shortcrust pastry. It always looks so effortless on the telly, when the beaming cook rolls out perfect, impossibly thin sheets, before casually lining their tin with the utmost precision. “Who needs to buy shortcrust pastry when it’s such a doddle?” they ask. They’ve clearly never experienced the crushing devastation of too-short pastry crumbling away at the merest suggestion of a rolling pin. The bottomless crevasses that appear from nowhere after blind baking. Or the brittle walls collapsing at the crucial moment of leaving the tin, spilling the filling to merge with the river of frustrated tears. Thankfully, practice (and a solid, reliable recipe) makes perfect, and after making pastry a few times recently, I decided it was time to cook something for this blog.
However, I deserve absolutely no credit for the pastry itself. The recipe that I used is broadly based on Felicty Cloake’s version that she used to make her Perfect Custard Tart with. I always find her column brilliant when approaching new recipes or needing inspiration, and so far the pastry has worked every time. It’s even got to the point where I no longer dread getting the rolling pin out.
Adding brown butter to puddings and desserts seems to be very popular in London restaurants at the moment. But unlike a lot of trends and fads, it well and truly lives up to the hype. By cooking the butter until it is almost maple syrup in colour, a deep, rich and mellow flavour is released, which works as wonderfully with sweet things as it does with a piece of turbot. I will definitely be experimenting further with this, as I love the sound of other desserts to which it has been added; custard tarts, ice cream, icing etc.
Although making pastry was largely stress-free this time, there still managed to be a kitchen cock-up whilst testing this recipe. I wanted to make a crème fraiche ice cream to accompany the tart, but midway through churning, with a foul smell, the machine abruptly decided to overheat and refused to play anymore. So good old crème fraiche, straight out of the tub, came to the rescue. And after all of that faff, I’m not sure that the frozen version was even missed.
Serves 8-10
Ingredients:
For the pastry:
225g plain flour
115g cold butter
85g caster sugar
3 egg yolks, plus 1 whole egg for brushing
For the filling:
300g unsalted butter
300g caster sugar
300g ground almonds
3 medium eggs
1 lemon, zest only
For the rhubarb:
4-5 sticks of rhubarb, trimmed and sliced into bite-sized pieces
2 tbsp of caster sugar
1 vanilla pod
To finish:
Crème fraiche
Start by making the pastry. Using your hands, rub the butter and flour together in a mixing bowl, until all of the butter has been incorporated and the mixture resembles coarse breadcrumbs. Stir in the sugar, then the egg yolks. Work everything lightly until a dough is formed, then flatten slightly and wrap with cling film. Refrigerate for 1 hour 30 minutes to rest.
Use greaseproof paper to line the base and sides of a deep 9” tin with a loose base. Roll out the rested pastry on a lightly floured surface, then transfer to the tin. Patch any cracks, and use a spare piece of pastry to carefully edge the pastry into the corners. Leave the pastry overhanging the top of the tin. Wrap loosely with cling film and chill in the freezer for a further hour.
Preheat the oven to 180⁰C (160⁰C Fan).
Prick the base of the tart with a fork, then cover with a sheet of greaseproof paper and fill with baking beans. Blind bake for 20 minutes, until golden brown around the sides. Remove the beans and paper, then return to the oven for a further 5 minutes. Crack the remaining egg into a bowl and beat with a fork. Brush the base and sides of the tart with some of the egg, then cook for a minute. Remove the shell from the oven and allow to cool slightly.
Lower the oven temperature to 150⁰C (130⁰C Fan).
Measure out the sugar and the almonds and combine in a mixing bowl. Tip the butter for the filling into a saucepan and melt at a medium-high temperature. When the butter bubbles away and turns nut brown in colour, take it off the heat and pour into the almond mixture, stirring well with a wooden spoon. Beat in the eggs one at a time, until emulsified. Spoon the mixture into the pastry shell, it should leave a gap of about 1.5cm at the top. Gently slide the tart onto the middle shelf of the oven and bake for 1 hour 15 minutes, or until the filling has just set. Allow to cool slightly before carefully removing from the tin and slicing.
While the tart is cooking, add the rhubarb to a large frying pan along with the halved vanilla pod, the sugar and a splash of water. Bring up to a medium-low temperature, then cook for 10-15 minutes, stirring occasionally, until the rhubarb has softened. Allow to cool.
Serve slices of the tart with some of the stewed rhubarb and juices. Finish with a generous dollop of crème fraiche.
Between December-February, cod are fully gearing up for spawning and are heavy with roe. As a result, during those months the markets flood with these giant, slightly alien-looking lobes. I have to admit that I’m not a massive fan, but for a certain fragment of our customer base, there ain’t no party like fresh cod’s roe party. They start asking over availability towards the end of every summer, getting progressively more excited as the weeks get closer. For the ninety five percent of other customers, these weird and wonderful objects provoke pointing and squirmy, scared faces. But those patient few, their eyes light up and they dance home with a heavy bag of fish eggs to boil up and eat on toast. Maybe next winter…
Despite my clear scepticism of fresh cod’s roe, this changes completely upon the introduction of smoke. After some gentle curing, the roe is preserved and cooked over hot smoke. A total transformation occurs; the flavour becomes rich and intense, with a soft, smooth texture. Sliced and fried in butter it is magical, but whipped into a puree and used as a taramasalata-esque condiment is really where it’s at.
The sweetness of carrots make them the perfect companion for the strong, salty dip. Although the humble carrot is often used as a base ingredient in many recipes, here I wanted to showcase its flavour and versatility by preparing it a few separate ways. Of course if you’re strapped for time of simply want to shorten the cooking time, a few roasted or even raw carrots will still be delicious dunked into the roe.
A little pangrattato and a few wild garlic leaves finish everything off. Pangrattato is one of the great cooking words, like spanakopita and, well, taramasalata. It also adds that wonderfully addictive crunch, which is very welcome to contrast the other soft elements of the dish. And as wild garlic is seemingly everywhere at the moment, it seems rude not to include it here.
Serves 2
Ingredients:
8 small-medium carrots, peeled and trimmed
For the carrot puree:
3 large carrots, thinly sliced
3 tbsp olive oil
1 lemon, juice only
For the smoked cod’s roe:
150g smoked cod’s roe
2 thick slices of white bread, crusts removed
1 lemon, zest and juice
1 garlic clove, grated
3 tbsp water
100ml olive oil
For the pickled carrots:
1 carrot
1 lemon, juice only
For the pangrattato:
1 thick slice of white bread
1 tsp fennel seeds
1 tsp onion seeds
½ a lemon, zest only
To finish:
6-8 wild garlic leaves
Start by whipping the smoked cod’s roe. Chop the smoked roe roughly, then tip into a food processor with the grated garlic, lemon zest and juice, seasoning and the torn up bread. Blitz until well combined. Pour in the water to loosen mixture up. With the motor still running, slowly pour in the oil, until the puree is thick and emulsified. Taste and adjust the seasoning and lemon, then spoon into a plastic squeezy bottle. Set aside.
To make the pickled carrots, use a vegetable peeler to slice the carrots into thin ribbons. Arrange in a small bowl, add a little salt, and squeeze over the lemon juice. Toss to coat. Set aside for at least 20 minutes to lightly pickle.
Toast the bread for the pangrattato really well, then transfer to a food processor and blitz to create coarse breadcrumbs. Pour 1 tbsp of olive oil into a frying pan and bring to a medium-high heat. Tip in the breadcrumbs along with the fennel seeds, onion seeds and lemon zest. Fry for a couple of minutes, tossing frequently, until the crumbs are golden brown. Pour into a bowl.
Preheat the oven to 200⁰C.
Thinly slice the carrots for the puree and transfer to a small saucepan. Cover with boiling water and season well with salt. Bring back to the boil and then simmer for 5-6 minutes, or until cooked all the way through. Drain the liquid and add the carrots to a food processor. Squeeze in the lemon juice and a little seasoning, and blend until smooth. With the engine still running, slowly pour in the olive oil, until it has been fully emulsified.
Arrange the remaining carrots on a roasting tray and season with salt and pepper. Toss with 1 tablespoon of olive oil, then slide into the oven for 20-30 minutes, or until lightly coloured on the outside and tender in the middle.
Serve by arranging 3-4 carrots onto each dish. Spoon on some of the puree and add a generous blob of the smoked roe puree. Top with some of the pickled carrots and pangrattato. Finish with a few wild garlic leaves and a drizzle of olive oil.
Four years ago today, I dusted off the saucepans and started Sam Cooks Food. Back then, as I rolled out that pasta sheet on the one serviceable clear worktop in my tiny North London kitchen, little did I know how much a little writing project would spiral to become a massive part of my life. I originally intended the blog to be somewhere where I could document my experiments with new ingredients, and more advanced cooking techniques; something that I’d found frustratingly little of elsewhere. After four years I can’t believe how much my cooking has developed and evolved, and more importantly, how much I’ve learned. And happily, I still get the same kick out of messing about in my kitchen as I did on day one. I always see cooking as a continuous learning cycle, and I’m definitely still just scratching the surface. That’s not to say that this blogging lark hasn’t royally pissed me off on occasions. On many occasions I’ve struggled to find the time or motivation to start typing. But it’s always a massive weight off my shoulders when I do.
Aside from all that self-indulgent cooking philosophy nonsense above, I was basically just dead chuffed with everything today and wanted to celebrate a little. This week has been truly knackering, but with inspiration from a heaving fish slab at work and the seduction that comes from a sunny springtime evening, I dashed home to cook myself a feast before the light faded.
At 5pm I turned the ‘Open’ sign on the door around was away, armed with three astonishingly lively Scottish langoustines in my bag. On the twenty minutes it took me to walk home, I managed to work out a quick recipe and source a few key ingredients. I always take for granted the excellent produce available so close to home. To accompany my langoustines from the West Coast of Scotland, I bought some Wye Valley asparagus, unwaxed lemons and a couple of bushy bunches of fresh herbs. That was me set, and within thirty seconds of getting in, the stoves were on.
I’ve certainly cooked more refined and prettier plates of food, but today the celebration was in the eating rather than the amount of elements needed to get there. So here’s to another four years and beyond!
Serves 4
Ingredients:
6 live langoustines
12 asparagus spears, halved vertically
For the smashed cannellini beans:
400g cooked cannellini beans, drained
A handful of wild garlic leaves
Zest of 2 lemons and the juice of 1
1 bunch of mint
3 tablespoons of extra virgin olive oil
For the chilli oil:
2 red chillies
5 tablespoons of extra virgin olive oil
For the crispy mint leaves:
2-3 springs of mint, leaves picked
500ml of vegetable or olive oil, for frying
To finish:
½ a lemon
A few grinds of black pepper
To make the chilli oil, roughly chop the red chilli and tip into a small food processor. Pour in the olive oil and add a sprinkle of salt. Turn the engine on and mix until very well combined. Pour into a bowl and set aside for at least 20 minutes. Once the oil has had a chance to infuse, strain through muslin into a clean bowl. Set aside while you prepare the rest of the dish.
Clean the food processor bowl and tip in the drained cannellini beans, the wild garlic, mint and lemon zest and juice. Blitz together until everything is smooth. With the motor still running, slowly drizzle in the olive oil. Taste for seasoning, and add more lemon, salt and pepper as required.
Pour the vegetable or olive oil for frying into a saucepan, and set onto a medium-high heat. When the oil is very hot, carefully fry the mint leaves in small batches. After 15-20 seconds, transfer them to a plate lined with kitchen roll to drain.
Heat a heavy griddle pan until smoking hot.
Quickly and carefully kill the langoustines by cutting vertically through their heads with a sharp, heavy knife. Make a second cut through the tail to split them in two. Remove the dark intestinal tract, and the small stomach sac from the head.
When the griddle is up to temperature, add a splash of oil. Cook the asparagus first, for 1-2 minutes on each side, until slightly charred. Remove to a side plate and keep warm.
Season the langoustines and coat all over with a little more oil. Griddle them (in batches if necessary) split-side down for a minute and a half. Turn them over for an additional minute, then use tongs to transfer them to the same plate as the asparagus. Squeeze the lemon half over the top.
To plate up, spoon a generous amount of the smashed cannellini beans onto each plate, and scatter some charred asparagus on top. Add three langoustine halves per plate. Finish with a few of the crispy mint leaves, a tablespoon of the chilli oil and a grind of black pepper.
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.
