It’s summer supposedly, but despite the thunder, rain and perpetual state of mugginess, people are still eager to dust off the barbecue. Only barbeques in Britain require additional equipment of multiple umbrellas, raincoats and windshields. Due to this every-reliable method of cooking, everyone is all mackerel, bream, prawns and tuna. Despite being in prime season and wonderful condition, suddenly the humble soles, flounders and other flatfish become seemingly invisible. So here’s a summer recipe that takes full advantage of these delicious fish that can be whipped up in no time.
Turbot, lemon sole, plaice or halibut would all work perfectly with this recipe, but in this instance I opted for brill. Poor brill. Brill is like a child named Butch who turned out to be a bit of a weed. Nobody seems to want to hang out with brill. Its dull brown appearance and large size don’t do it any favours. It gets enough attention mind; “OH that’s a brill” they say, pointing, before finishing with “I’ll have two slices of salmon please”. Brill needs a break. Because underneath that dull exterior is beautifully textured, pure white flesh that on its day gives the prized turbot a run for its money.
Last year I splashed out and bought a whopper. I poached chunky fillets in butter and they were to die for. I fried the roes with anchovies and chanterelles. I even cured a bit. This time I wanted to go back to basics and simply fry a tranche with a few tried and tested companions. Cooking flat fish on the bone results in extra succulence and flavour, and it’s really not that fiddly at all when it comes to eating. A few technicoloured, ripe tomatoes, some wonderful baby fennel and a pile of finely grated bottarga and you’re pretty much there.
Serves 2
Ingredients:
For the brill:
2 tranches of brill, about 200g each
1 large knob of butter
For the tomatoes:
4-5 assorted ripe heritage tomatoes
1 small clove of garlic, grated
A pinch of dried chillies
To finish:
6 baby fennel and fronds
A generous grating of bottarga
A few fresh oregano leaves
Slice the tomatoes into randomly-shaped pieces and slide into a bowl. Grate over the garlic and sprinkle over the chilli flakes to taste. Season generously and combine with about a tablespoon of olive oil. Leave to sit while the rest of the preparation is completed.
Fill a small saucepan with water and bring to the boil. Cut the fronds from the fennel and blanche in the hot water for about 30 seconds, then immediately drain and shock in cold water. Set aside.
Set the grill to medium-high. Place the baby fennel bulbs onto an oven tray and toss with a little olive oil and seasoning. Slide under the heat and cook for 2-3 minutes on each side, until lightly caramelised and al dente.
Pour a glug of olive oil into a non-stick frying pan and bring to a medium-high heat. Season the tranches of brill all over. When the pan is hot, add the brill and fry for three minutes on each side. For the final 2 minutes, add the knob of butter to the pan and baste the fish continuously.
Remove the fish from the pan and set aside briefly. Pour in the tomatoes and add the fennel and fronds. Warm through for about a minute, tossing in the oil and butter.
To serve, add a piece of brill to each plate and surround with the tomatoes, fennel and fronds. Spoon over some of the buttery pan sauce, and grate a generous amount of bottarga on top. Finish with a few fresh oregano leaves.
Yet again there has somehow been a gap of a few weeks since my last recipe. Recently I’ve been running around like a headless chicken working on various projects, and I just haven’t been able to sneak over to the computer and jot down a few words. Thankfully, I’ve got a window of free time ahead, so my posting can hopefully get back to the usual frequency. There are some cracking recipes in the pipeline; brill, summer stews, baby beetroot and more.
The best thing about this recipe is that it marks my annual love-in with peas. Any regular readers will know that I’m borderline obsessed with the little sweet green orbs of joy. Memory and food is an important connection, and peas take me right back to childhood dinners. Then they would be served to provide some nutrition alongside a breaded chicken escalope, or they would be jammed, hiding inside penne or pasta shells. As a supposedly responsible adult, I have tried on occasion to grow them. The idea of a plentiful and replenishing supply of peas at my fingertips is too good to resist. Alas, unfortunately I am constantly reminded that my gardening prowess leaves a lot to be desired. And any few miracle peas that made it were engulfed in seconds, without hope of even nearly making it into the kitchen.
So peas are wonderful, but very much in a safe kind of way. You know what you’re getting with peas. They’re Mr Reliable; sweet, with that satisfying pop. Yet at a recent dinner the excellent Pidgin, local to me in Hackney, my eyes were opened when whole pods of peas were served to me grilled. They proved a total revelation and made perfect sense, the charred exterior adding a wonderful smokiness. I just had to give that a go.
This dish is a celebration of the humble pea. But the soft and rich gnudi are certainly not the bridesmaids. These soft, hot, balls of melted cheese are total crowd pleasers, and something that I don’t nearly make often enough. The long preparation time is a bit of a commitment, but as is so often the way, when it’s actually time to cook they are ready in a flash.
Serves 2
Ingredients:
For the gnudi:
250g ricotta
25g parmesan, finely grated
500g semolina, for rolling
For the pea puree:
250g frozen peas
½ a lemon
A small bunch of mint, leaves picked
1 large knob of butter
For the grilled peas:
10 fresh peas in their pods
For the fresh peas and shoots:
2 handfuls of fresh peas
1 handful of pea shoots
To finish:
1 large knob of butter
A few mint leaves
A few gratings of parmesan
Start by making the gnudi. Tip the ricotta into a bowl and combine with the grated parmesan and a good pinch of seasoning. Carefully form the mixture into small balls. Line a large plate or tray with the semolina and roll each gnudi in it until coated all over. Space the gnudi out on the tray in one layer, and scatter a little more of the semolina over the top. Cover the tray with cling film and refrigerate for 24 hours.
Bring a large saucepan of water to the boil and salt the water well. Fill a large bowl with very cold water (iced ideally) and have it standing to the side ready. Blanche the shoots for 20 seconds before transferring to the cold water with a spotted spoon. Repeat with the two handfuls of fresh peas, blanching for 1 minute. Once cool, drain the water away and shell the peas, and set aside in a bowl with the shoots for finishing later.
Tip the frozen peas into the now empty pan of boiling water and cool for 2-3 minutes, until tender. Drain and shake dry, then pour into a food processor. Add the lemon juice, mint leaves and butter and blitz until a puree is formed. Pass through a sieve, then taste and adjust the seasoning and lemon content if necessary. Pour into a small saucepan and cover. Keep warm.
Set the grill to high. Rub the whole peas with a little oil and season well. Scatter onto an oven tray and slide under the grill for a couple of minutes on each side, until slightly charred.
Take the gnudi out of the fridge. The semolina will have formed a crust around the cheese. Gently brush off any excess grains.
Bring a large pan of water to the boil and salt the water well. Place a large frying pan over a medium-low heat and melt the butter. When the water is hot, drop in the gnudi and boil for a couple of minutes; they are ready as soon as they float to the surface. Transfer them to the butter pan with a slotted spoon and carefully roll around. Add the blanched peas and shoots and cook for a minute to warm through.
To plate up, spoon a good dollop of the puree onto each plate. Top with the gnudi, peas, shoots and a spoonful of the hot butter from the pan. Arrange some of the grilled peas in the gaps. Finish with a generous grating of parmesan and a scattering of mint leaves.
This is a true late spring dish that these warm, sunny evenings have been screaming out for. After many months of waiting, I was excited to see the first of the newly picked samphire arrive at the shop, but I certainly wasn’t the only one. This marsh grass has a crazy effect on people, and soon I was scraping the bottom of the box, desperate to salvage just one last handful. Samphire, samphierre, sampher, salicorne, seaweed, that green stuff, the names are endless, and I hear new ones every summer. But call it what you will, it does magical things when cooked with fish. And lamb for that matter.
Following the seasons makes dreaming up new ideas a total doddle, and this recipe is a prime example. In the same few weeks that the samphire emerged, we also started receiving the first of the wild black bream that visit Cornwall and the south coast every spring. These deep, darkly-scaled fish are true beauties, with flesh firm with freshness flashing blue and silver in the light. Closely related to seabass, they cook in a similar way, and are best filleted and pan-fried until crisp, or roasted whole in a hot oven. Even if you do decide to go with fillets, make sure that you take the bones as well. It’s always nice to use the whole of an ingredient, and the carcass of the bream will provide a lovely stock.
Unlike the samphire and the black bream, the mussel season only has a few weeks remaining. As the weather and seas warm for the summer, their quality really does decline, and it’s best to hold on until September before you plan your next mariniere. But if you’re quick, you will still be able to sneak a bowl or two before this exodus. Although clams tend to get all of the glory with their pretty shells and classy spaghetti alle vongole, I adore the rich flavour of the humble, cheap mussel. In this dish they are cooked and then blitzed into a silky, buttery sauce, that really brings the fish and greens and potatoes together as one. But made in a larger quantity, the same method would make a fantastic soup. Just add a wedge of bread.
Serves 2
Ingredients:
1 black bream, approx. 1kg in weight. Scaled, filleted and pin-boned
1 large knob of butter
For the fish stock:
The cleaned bones from the black bream
1 carrot, roughly chopped
2 shallots, halved with the skins left on
The trimmings from the fennel bulb
1 clove of garlic, crushed
A handful of fresh parsley
1 tsp fennel seeds
1 bay leaf
For the mussel sauce:
500g mussels, cleaned and de-bearded
1 fennel bulb, finely chopped
1 clove of garlic, grated
½ tsp chilli flakes
1 large glass of white wine
A squeeze of lemon juice
The reduced fish stock
1 large knob of butter
For the Jersey Royals:
6-8 small Jersey Royal potatoes, washed
To finish:
6 stems of purple sprouting broccoli
A generous handful of samphire
To begin with make the stock. Place all of the ingredients and a good pinch of seasoning into a large saucepan and cover with water. Bring to the boil, then simmer for 20 minutes. Strain the liquid through a sieve into a smaller saucepan, then set on a high heat and return to the boil. Reduce the liquid by three quarters.
Put the washed Jersey Royals into a small saucepan and cover with well-salted, cold water. Bring to the boil, then simmer until tender, about 20 minutes. Drain and rinse well with cold water to halt the cooking process. Using a butter knife, scrape off the skins and discard. Set the potatoes aside to reheat later.
Fill a saucepan with water and stir in a good pinch of salt. Bring to the boil, then blanch the trimmed broccoli stems for 2-3 minutes, or until just tender. While the broccoli is cooking, fill a large bowl up with very cold water. Transfer the al-dente broccoli to the cold water to shock. Repeat this process with the samphire, boiling for 30 seconds to soften slightly.
Bring a large saucepan to a medium-low heat. Add a good glug of olive oil and add the fennel, garlic and chilli flakes, and sweat until soft. Turn the heat of the pan up and tip in the mussels and the wine. Cover with a lid and allow the mussels to steamfor 3-4 minutes, or until all of the mussels have opened. Allow to cool slightly, the remove the meat from the shells with a spoon, discarding the shells. Reserve 6-8 mussels aside to decorate the dish when plating. Transfer the remaining mussels and vegetables to a food processor and blend well. While the motor is still running, pour in enough of the stock reduction to loosen into a smooth sauce. Squeeze in the lemon juice and season to taste. Strain the sauce through a sieve into a small saucepan.
Set a non-stick frying pan to a high heat. Pour in a generous amount of olive oil and season the bream fillets all over with salt and pepper. When the pan is hot, place them skin-side down into the pan and fry for 3 minutes. As the fish is cooking, carefully use a spoon to baste the flesh side of the fish with the hot oil. Add a knob of butter to the pan fry for a further minute, continuing the basting process. Remove the fish from the pan to a warm side plate.
Turn the heat of the pan down slightly and add the potatoes, samphire, broccoli and reserved mussels. Cook for 1-2 minutes to warm through, adding seasoning to taste.
Reheat the mussel sauce, then finish by beating in the knob of butter until fully emulsified.
Lay half of the sprouting broccoli onto each plate and top with a piece of fish. Arrange the potatoes, samphire and mussels around the sides. Finish with a generous amount of the mussel sauce.
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.
