It was 14 years ago that I opened my first restaurant in the small Durham
Dales town of Barnard Castle. After seven years I sold it to concentrate on
the developing restaurant I'd opened in Durham and a further restaurant in
Jesmond. It was a good move as it enabled me to grow the business and, at
last, pay myself a living wage.
But also, it removed my dependence on chefs who, by the extreme nature of
the job, often tend to be young and single and therefore have an aversion
to growing up in, what I'd learnt to be, a beautiful if rather quiet rural
idyll. Night clubs and potential girlfriends were rather thin on the ground
in Barney and after a while, despite my best efforts to promote the benefits
of the clean dales air and the gentle pace of life, the greener grass of the
pavements of the metropolis always beckoned seductively. I lived my life
like an ugly chap with a gorgeous girlfriend: always fearing that someone
more attractive would woo her away.
It was a problem not experienced in a larger restaurant in the big city. Far
from me continuously advertising for chefs or tapping up the employees of
other establishments, I found experienced professionals knocking on the
doors of our restaurants in Durham and Jesmond as they saw us as their own
path of green grass on the way to greater things.
Life continued to be ever-more exciting because business was good. And then
one day, while standing on the top of a cliff in drizzle-soaked Cornwall, I
received a call from a gentleman offering to buy our Jesmond restaurant from
us and, after a few weeks of negotiation, we shook on a deal. Thus we
started to plan our move into the city centre of Newcastle and found
fabulous premises down the bottom of Dean Street.
But this entrepreneurial road is a rocky one with unexpected bends and pot
holes and it's with regret that we closed our Newcastle restaurant the other
day. Despite having a loyal and enthusiastic customer base, along with those
visitors that Newcastle attracts, and some wonderful staff, I made the
difficult business decision to close because we weren't finding the business
there in the way that continues to be found in the Durham restaurant.
Of course, I've spent much time analysing the situation, asking myself what
we could do better but I'm sure that my impeccable timing had a lot to do
with things; opening the doors to trade just as the banks were announcing
that they might have to do the opposite.
Maybe there's also an irony here in that the recession could be persuading
more people to do what I've long argued in the press; that is cooking
their own meals at home. But somehow I doubt it. As a percentage of the
population, fewer people actually prepare their own meals in comparison with
times gone by and the situation doesn't appear to be changing.
However, despite it seeming to be a way of cutting off my nose to spite my
face, I'll continue trying to persuade more people to cook at home because
it's the only way we can actually understand what we're eating and thus
balance one of the most important and enjoyable things in our lives.
And there's the added benefit that understanding and enjoying how to cook
means that it's much easier to control the budget in these challenging
times. Maybe that might leave a little over to finance the occasional visit
to support the beleaguered restaurant industry. Eating out is a luxury
rather than a necessity and is bound to be one of those things to be
considered for the chop when you're looking at ways to reduce the budget.
But spare a thought for those young professionals who, along with teachers
and health professionals and others, need to progress their careers. Budget
carefully and leave a little aside for the occasional restaurant visit.
We've got to look after our budding Jamie Olivers.
A similar article appeared in the Journal.
Friday, 10 September 2010
Thursday, 3 June 2010
Venison Wellington
At Oldfields, we’re lucky enough to get venison from Raby Estates down in Teesdale. Traditionally kept on country estates for both food and sport, deer are now generally kept as part of the view and contribute much as a tourist attraction. However, they need managing and their numbers controlled by occasional culling. As a result, I picked up a couple of roe deer last week and our head chef, Anthony Taylor, decided to use the loins for a twist on Beef Wellington. And the results were a triumph. Just as tender as the normal beef fillet that’s traditionally used but with much more flavour.
You should always be able to get venison from good butchers as well as estate farm shops and some farmers’ markets. However, you could always make the dish with the equivalent weight of beef fillet.
Serves two
One pack of frozen puff pastry – defrosted
300g venison loin in one piece
100g button mushrooms
One clove of garlic - peeled
½ a medium onion – peeled and roughly-chopped
The leaves of a sprig of thyme picked from the stalk
Two egg yokes - beaten
A knob of butter
Oil for cooking
Salt and freshly-ground black pepper
Place the mushrooms, garlic, thyme and mushrooms in a blender or food processor and blend to a course paste. Spoon into a dry pan and, stirring occasionally, place over a low heat; gently cooking until all the resulting liquid has reduced and evaporated and you’re left with a thick, black paté. Season with salt and pepper then allow to cool before placing in the fridge to chill.
Heat a frying pan, add a tablespoon of oil and then the venison, followed by the butter. Cook the meat for no more than 90 seconds on either side and the finished dish will be medium rare. Remove from the pan and place in the fridge to chill.
To cook, pre-heat the oven to 200°C, gas mark 6. Roll the pastry into a large square and spread with the cold mushroom paté, leaving a 3cm gap around the edge. Place the venison in the middle and wrap the meat up in the pastry; trimming as necessary. Brush all over with the egg yokes, place on a baking tray and cook in the oven for 15 minutes before removing and allowing to rest for five minutes.
To serve, cut into two portions through the diagonal and serve with spring vegetables.
You should always be able to get venison from good butchers as well as estate farm shops and some farmers’ markets. However, you could always make the dish with the equivalent weight of beef fillet.
Serves two
One pack of frozen puff pastry – defrosted
300g venison loin in one piece
100g button mushrooms
One clove of garlic - peeled
½ a medium onion – peeled and roughly-chopped
The leaves of a sprig of thyme picked from the stalk
Two egg yokes - beaten
A knob of butter
Oil for cooking
Salt and freshly-ground black pepper
Place the mushrooms, garlic, thyme and mushrooms in a blender or food processor and blend to a course paste. Spoon into a dry pan and, stirring occasionally, place over a low heat; gently cooking until all the resulting liquid has reduced and evaporated and you’re left with a thick, black paté. Season with salt and pepper then allow to cool before placing in the fridge to chill.
Heat a frying pan, add a tablespoon of oil and then the venison, followed by the butter. Cook the meat for no more than 90 seconds on either side and the finished dish will be medium rare. Remove from the pan and place in the fridge to chill.
To cook, pre-heat the oven to 200°C, gas mark 6. Roll the pastry into a large square and spread with the cold mushroom paté, leaving a 3cm gap around the edge. Place the venison in the middle and wrap the meat up in the pastry; trimming as necessary. Brush all over with the egg yokes, place on a baking tray and cook in the oven for 15 minutes before removing and allowing to rest for five minutes.
To serve, cut into two portions through the diagonal and serve with spring vegetables.
Ethical meat
It’s only a suggestion; but I reckon, if you’re a vegetarian, look away now. Because not only is this diatribe about meat, it’s also about the killing of animals. It’s not a subject most people like talking about and, as a result, is seldom given thought by the vast majority of us. Because . . . well, we don’t like to, do we? But maybe we should.
Now, if you watch the telly a bit, and most of us do, you’ll have seen much talk in recent times about how animals that are bred and reared to be eaten, are treated during their growing time on this planet. Chefs Hugh, Jamie and Gordon have all done their bit by daring to enlighten the meat-consuming public of their responsibilities. And, despite having concurrent motives involving the successful amassing of wealth, they really should be applauded for their efforts because the intensive rearing of animals for food is something most of us have known little about.
It’s something I feel very strongly about. It’s why we, at Oldfields as a restaurant company, try to source as much of our meat as we can from non-intensive producers. It’s why I, as an individual, decided to rear some of my own pigs and sheep in a non-intensive way so that I could begin to understand the issues and problems and costs associated with the whole thing. It also enabled me to understand some of the foreign language that I thought farmers talked. It’s why now, I’m bilingual.
But that’s the breeding and rearing bit. Because then comes the part that few talk or know about. And, due to government legislation driving our local practitioners out of the market, most abattoirs are large, factory affairs where the public glean even less knowledge than they would from the small slaughterhouse around the back of the local butchers. Gone are the days that the chap selling you the Sunday joint could tell you about it’s entire history from birth to counter display.
But if it’s important that our animals are reared responsibly, surely it’s just as important that they’re despatched just as thoughtfully? I think it’s important that it’s done right. The professionals in the bigger places might think I’m soft; that I don’t understand the bigger picture and the pressures on business, but I’m not so sure.
I know it may, nay does, ultimately cost more. I know that in these challenging times we need things to be as cheap as possible. But it’s that word “cheap” that sits so uncomfortably with me when considering the lives of other creatures; creatures over which we sit as arbiters of life and, inevitably, death.
There are many reasons as to why this process should be as thoughtful as possible; not least that the calmer and quicker an animal meets its demise, the better the resultant meat.
But surely the bigger issue is that we, the superior animal at the top of the food chain (at least until the aliens arrive), are able to decide how those other animals spend their time alive and have their lives ended at our behest. Because, don’t forget, we decide that they are going to exist in the first place. So it’s entirely down to us as to how they live, and ultimately die.
So that brings me to a conversation I had with a lovely lady called Sue at Simpson’s the butchers in Cockfield, County Durham. Sue has recently been involved with the reopening of the traditional yet very caring and professional abattoir behind this very traditional butcher’s shop. So passionate and caring is she about the whole operation that she said, without any forethought or planning that, if she were to need a major operation, she’d rather have it done at the back of Joe Simpson’s butcher’s shop than in a hospital!
And if you’re going to eat meat, and if you care about how it’s been treated before it’s reached your plate, could you ask for a better endorsement that that?
Now, if you watch the telly a bit, and most of us do, you’ll have seen much talk in recent times about how animals that are bred and reared to be eaten, are treated during their growing time on this planet. Chefs Hugh, Jamie and Gordon have all done their bit by daring to enlighten the meat-consuming public of their responsibilities. And, despite having concurrent motives involving the successful amassing of wealth, they really should be applauded for their efforts because the intensive rearing of animals for food is something most of us have known little about.
It’s something I feel very strongly about. It’s why we, at Oldfields as a restaurant company, try to source as much of our meat as we can from non-intensive producers. It’s why I, as an individual, decided to rear some of my own pigs and sheep in a non-intensive way so that I could begin to understand the issues and problems and costs associated with the whole thing. It also enabled me to understand some of the foreign language that I thought farmers talked. It’s why now, I’m bilingual.
But that’s the breeding and rearing bit. Because then comes the part that few talk or know about. And, due to government legislation driving our local practitioners out of the market, most abattoirs are large, factory affairs where the public glean even less knowledge than they would from the small slaughterhouse around the back of the local butchers. Gone are the days that the chap selling you the Sunday joint could tell you about it’s entire history from birth to counter display.
But if it’s important that our animals are reared responsibly, surely it’s just as important that they’re despatched just as thoughtfully? I think it’s important that it’s done right. The professionals in the bigger places might think I’m soft; that I don’t understand the bigger picture and the pressures on business, but I’m not so sure.
I know it may, nay does, ultimately cost more. I know that in these challenging times we need things to be as cheap as possible. But it’s that word “cheap” that sits so uncomfortably with me when considering the lives of other creatures; creatures over which we sit as arbiters of life and, inevitably, death.
There are many reasons as to why this process should be as thoughtful as possible; not least that the calmer and quicker an animal meets its demise, the better the resultant meat.
But surely the bigger issue is that we, the superior animal at the top of the food chain (at least until the aliens arrive), are able to decide how those other animals spend their time alive and have their lives ended at our behest. Because, don’t forget, we decide that they are going to exist in the first place. So it’s entirely down to us as to how they live, and ultimately die.
So that brings me to a conversation I had with a lovely lady called Sue at Simpson’s the butchers in Cockfield, County Durham. Sue has recently been involved with the reopening of the traditional yet very caring and professional abattoir behind this very traditional butcher’s shop. So passionate and caring is she about the whole operation that she said, without any forethought or planning that, if she were to need a major operation, she’d rather have it done at the back of Joe Simpson’s butcher’s shop than in a hospital!
And if you’re going to eat meat, and if you care about how it’s been treated before it’s reached your plate, could you ask for a better endorsement that that?
Salmon with tomato and wild garlic
It’s spring and there’s wild garlic, also known as ransoms, growing in woodland, along river banks and where the bluebells grow. Different from the bulb garlic we’re all used to, it’s the leaves that you use. They’re long and deep green and, when crushed in your hand, smell of fresh garlic. It’s easy enough to find, identify (by the smell if nothing else) and pick. However, it’s worth moving that little bit away from the path before gathering; particularly if there are plenty of dog walkers about. And if you can’t pick it yourself, you’ll sometimes find it at farm shops and farmers’ markets.
Serves two
Four salmon fillets, skin on and scaled
Four ripe tomatoes
One bunch of wild garlic
50ml rapeseed or olive oil plus a little more for frying
Sea salt
Freshly-ground black pepper
One bunch of watercress
Two inner sticks of celery with leaves still on
A little fresh parsley
Before starting, check the salmon fillets for pin bones by running your hand across the flesh and removing any small bones with tweezers or pointy pliers.
Then, with the point of a sharp knife, remove the eyes from the tomatoes and then cut them into rough lumps. Place in a bowl, season with a little salt and pepper and put to one side.
Place half the wild garlic and the 50ml of oil in a blender or food processor and whizz until you’ve a pungent green dressing.
Heat a frying pan, add a little oil and place the salmon fillets in, skin side down. Season with salt and pepper and don’t touch them for at least five, possibly seven, minutes, until the skin is nice and crisp. Gently turn them over and cook for another three to four minutes. Remove the pan from the heat and keep warm.
Wash the watercress and parsley and shake dry. Tear up the remainder of the wild garlic, roughly chop the celery including their leaves and toss them together with the tomatoes and a small amount of the green dressing.
Spoon the tomato and watercress salad onto a couple of plates, place the salmon alongside and dribble the rest of the dressing over and around.
Serves two
Four salmon fillets, skin on and scaled
Four ripe tomatoes
One bunch of wild garlic
50ml rapeseed or olive oil plus a little more for frying
Sea salt
Freshly-ground black pepper
One bunch of watercress
Two inner sticks of celery with leaves still on
A little fresh parsley
Before starting, check the salmon fillets for pin bones by running your hand across the flesh and removing any small bones with tweezers or pointy pliers.
Then, with the point of a sharp knife, remove the eyes from the tomatoes and then cut them into rough lumps. Place in a bowl, season with a little salt and pepper and put to one side.
Place half the wild garlic and the 50ml of oil in a blender or food processor and whizz until you’ve a pungent green dressing.
Heat a frying pan, add a little oil and place the salmon fillets in, skin side down. Season with salt and pepper and don’t touch them for at least five, possibly seven, minutes, until the skin is nice and crisp. Gently turn them over and cook for another three to four minutes. Remove the pan from the heat and keep warm.
Wash the watercress and parsley and shake dry. Tear up the remainder of the wild garlic, roughly chop the celery including their leaves and toss them together with the tomatoes and a small amount of the green dressing.
Spoon the tomato and watercress salad onto a couple of plates, place the salmon alongside and dribble the rest of the dressing over and around.
Let's bring a little balance
It’s good to be certain. Believing that you’re absolutely right about something a little contentious can give you that feeling of superiority; or a confidence in yourself that you might not otherwise have. Even if you’re wrong.
A good example is that Scottish police chief constable you may have read about who, in the 1930s, not only believed in the Loch Ness monster but was actively trying to provide it with police protection. "That there is some strange creature in Loch Ness seems now beyond doubt, but that the police have any power to protect it is very doubtful," he said.
But as time’s moved on and we’ve become more savvy and sceptical, I think most reasonable people accept that, despite wishing these things existed, there isn’t much chance of Nessie ever popping her head up and posing for the cameras. Because, like fairies at the bottom of the garden, she doesn’t actually exist. No, she doesn’t.
Or take St George and his dragon. Aside from the fact that the man himself makes a doubtful English patron saint, hailing from Turkey and never having visited our green and pleasant land; dragons are a touch contentious too. Admit it, when did you last see a genuine, fire-breathing dragon? Therefore, unless Turkish George was just too good at his job and wiped them all out, it seems they’re a bit of a myth too.
It was while reading about the quaint Scottish copper that, at the same time on the radio (yes, I can multitask), I heard a lady telling me about various superfoods. And she was very certain about everything and was probably convinced that because she lives on blueberries and doesn’t eat fat, she’ll live to be 150.
She was very enthusiastic and brimmed with confidence. There’s no doubt that she believed she knew something we didn’t and was desperate to share it. Just like those that used to tell us that a surfeit of carrots would mean that we’d never need a torch again. Or that wolfing down spinach would make us as strong as Popeye.
Sure, carrots are a good source of vitamin A and without it our eyesight would suffer. However, eating more of it has never been shown to improve sight. It seems (or is this another myth?) that a story was circulated to fool the Germans during the second world war saying that our gunners were being fed carrots so that they could shoot down more enemy aircraft. When in fact it was the newfangled radar that improved their sight.
And spinach may contain lots of strength-making iron but, due to other chemicals in the leaves, our bodies aren’t terribly good at absorbing it.
Then there are cholesterol-packed eggs that we were told would, sure as eggs is eggs, give you a heart attack if you ate more than one a year – until we were told otherwise and it’s now fine to eat an egg a day. Poor old prawns seemed to suffer from a similar myth.
So I can’t help but be sceptical when I hear that some new fruit smoothie made from yaks milk and gooseberry leaves will be more likely to keep me alive than the varied diet I currently enjoy. The enjoyment of food itself is such an important part of my life that it rather spoils it to examine each bit and question whether it’ll change the length of my life rather than its quality.
Let’s stop trying to eat what’s good for us and just learn to eat a bit of it all. Food itself isn’t mythical but the effects in can have on our lives can be magic – especially when cooked and consumed in the company of family and friends. However, there’s always the exception that proves the rule. So don’t go trying to tell me that half a dozen oysters won’t have an effect. Because if I believe they do, they do.
A good example is that Scottish police chief constable you may have read about who, in the 1930s, not only believed in the Loch Ness monster but was actively trying to provide it with police protection. "That there is some strange creature in Loch Ness seems now beyond doubt, but that the police have any power to protect it is very doubtful," he said.
But as time’s moved on and we’ve become more savvy and sceptical, I think most reasonable people accept that, despite wishing these things existed, there isn’t much chance of Nessie ever popping her head up and posing for the cameras. Because, like fairies at the bottom of the garden, she doesn’t actually exist. No, she doesn’t.
Or take St George and his dragon. Aside from the fact that the man himself makes a doubtful English patron saint, hailing from Turkey and never having visited our green and pleasant land; dragons are a touch contentious too. Admit it, when did you last see a genuine, fire-breathing dragon? Therefore, unless Turkish George was just too good at his job and wiped them all out, it seems they’re a bit of a myth too.
It was while reading about the quaint Scottish copper that, at the same time on the radio (yes, I can multitask), I heard a lady telling me about various superfoods. And she was very certain about everything and was probably convinced that because she lives on blueberries and doesn’t eat fat, she’ll live to be 150.
She was very enthusiastic and brimmed with confidence. There’s no doubt that she believed she knew something we didn’t and was desperate to share it. Just like those that used to tell us that a surfeit of carrots would mean that we’d never need a torch again. Or that wolfing down spinach would make us as strong as Popeye.
Sure, carrots are a good source of vitamin A and without it our eyesight would suffer. However, eating more of it has never been shown to improve sight. It seems (or is this another myth?) that a story was circulated to fool the Germans during the second world war saying that our gunners were being fed carrots so that they could shoot down more enemy aircraft. When in fact it was the newfangled radar that improved their sight.
And spinach may contain lots of strength-making iron but, due to other chemicals in the leaves, our bodies aren’t terribly good at absorbing it.
Then there are cholesterol-packed eggs that we were told would, sure as eggs is eggs, give you a heart attack if you ate more than one a year – until we were told otherwise and it’s now fine to eat an egg a day. Poor old prawns seemed to suffer from a similar myth.
So I can’t help but be sceptical when I hear that some new fruit smoothie made from yaks milk and gooseberry leaves will be more likely to keep me alive than the varied diet I currently enjoy. The enjoyment of food itself is such an important part of my life that it rather spoils it to examine each bit and question whether it’ll change the length of my life rather than its quality.
Let’s stop trying to eat what’s good for us and just learn to eat a bit of it all. Food itself isn’t mythical but the effects in can have on our lives can be magic – especially when cooked and consumed in the company of family and friends. However, there’s always the exception that proves the rule. So don’t go trying to tell me that half a dozen oysters won’t have an effect. Because if I believe they do, they do.
Rhubarb trifle
Used as a fruit but actually a vegetable, it means I nearly always go to the wrong part of the wholesale market to try and get rhubarb. You may have a rhubarb plant and not be convinced that it’s the season yet. Well, after the recent cold winter, you may be right. But we’ve a tradition in this country of forcing rhubarb; that is, covering it to make it come early. And it’s the resulting pale and interesting stems that can give us one of the first fruity tastes of summer – even though it’s still not a fruit.
Unless you have a palate for things very tart, it’ll always need at least a little sweetening. Used here in our trifle, that’s done with the sugar and lemonade. The recipe calls for a homemade custard but, if you were short of time, there’s no reason why you couldn’t use a tin of readymade custard with a little vanilla essence added.
400g rhubarb
140g castor sugar
One vanilla pod
150ml lemonade
550ml double cream
275ml milk
Three leafs of gelatine
Eight egg yolks
One pack of sponge fingers
One trifle bowl
Chop the rhubarb into 1 inch pieces, put into a non-aluminium pan with the lemonade and 100g of the castor sugar and cook gently until the rhubarb has broken down.
Meanwhile, soak the gelatine leaves in cold water and, when soft, remove from the water and squeeze out the excess before mixing it into the cooked rhubarb until dissolved.
Cover the base of the trifle bowl with the sponge fingers, breaking them if necessary, and then spoon the rhubarb mixture over the top. Refrigerate for an hour or two until set.
Meanwhile, make the custard by putting half the cream and all the milk into a pan and gently bring to the boil. While it’s heating, place a pan containing an inch or so of water on to heat to come to a simmer. Split the vanilla pod lengthways and scrape out the seeds. Place them into a bowl along with the egg yolks and 30g of the remaining sugar. Whisk them together a little and, when the cream and milk comes to the boil, pour over the egg yolk mix, whisking all the time. Place the bowl on top of the pan of simmering water and stir continuously until the custard starts to thicken and coat the back of the spoon. Remove the bowl from the pan, allow the custard to cool and then spoon over the rhubarb jelly before returning it to the fridge to set.
To serve, whisk the remainder of the cream and sugar until it forms soft peaks and spoon this over the custard. Then maybe sprinkle over some grated chocolate or almonds or both or anything you can think of.
Unless you have a palate for things very tart, it’ll always need at least a little sweetening. Used here in our trifle, that’s done with the sugar and lemonade. The recipe calls for a homemade custard but, if you were short of time, there’s no reason why you couldn’t use a tin of readymade custard with a little vanilla essence added.
400g rhubarb
140g castor sugar
One vanilla pod
150ml lemonade
550ml double cream
275ml milk
Three leafs of gelatine
Eight egg yolks
One pack of sponge fingers
One trifle bowl
Chop the rhubarb into 1 inch pieces, put into a non-aluminium pan with the lemonade and 100g of the castor sugar and cook gently until the rhubarb has broken down.
Meanwhile, soak the gelatine leaves in cold water and, when soft, remove from the water and squeeze out the excess before mixing it into the cooked rhubarb until dissolved.
Cover the base of the trifle bowl with the sponge fingers, breaking them if necessary, and then spoon the rhubarb mixture over the top. Refrigerate for an hour or two until set.
Meanwhile, make the custard by putting half the cream and all the milk into a pan and gently bring to the boil. While it’s heating, place a pan containing an inch or so of water on to heat to come to a simmer. Split the vanilla pod lengthways and scrape out the seeds. Place them into a bowl along with the egg yolks and 30g of the remaining sugar. Whisk them together a little and, when the cream and milk comes to the boil, pour over the egg yolk mix, whisking all the time. Place the bowl on top of the pan of simmering water and stir continuously until the custard starts to thicken and coat the back of the spoon. Remove the bowl from the pan, allow the custard to cool and then spoon over the rhubarb jelly before returning it to the fridge to set.
To serve, whisk the remainder of the cream and sugar until it forms soft peaks and spoon this over the custard. Then maybe sprinkle over some grated chocolate or almonds or both or anything you can think of.
Ham shank and peas pudding
My love of the North East started with a girl but quickly embraced peas pudding. However, some years ago, if you’d seen it on a restaurant menu you’d have done a pretty quick body swerve.
Now though, we serve it in Oldfields at lunch as a starter and it flies out of the kitchen. And while it takes a little time on the cooker, there’s little effort involved. It’s well worth the wait.
Serves four as a light lunch, starter or supper
One ham shank
250g yellow split peas
One onion – peeled and chopped
One sprig of thyme
Two bay leaves
One carrot – peeled
Two sticks of celery – roughly chopped
Salt and freshly-ground black pepper
A little chopped parsley or a few chopped chives to finish
Place the ham shank in a large pan along with the carrot, celery, bay leaves and thyme. Cover with cold water, bring to the boil and simmer gently for around a couple of hours or until the meat is falling from the bone.
When cooked, remove the meat and bone from the liquid and allow to cool on a plate. Strain the liquid through a sieve into a clean pan and add the chopped onion and split peas. Bring to the boil and simmer gently for 60 to 90 minutes or until the peas are completely broken down. Pour the lot into a food processor or similar and blend until smooth; adjusting the seasoning with salt and pepper as necessary. Allow to cool.
Remove and discard the fat from the now cool ham shank and tear the meat from the bone into coarse pieces.
To serve, place a dollop of peas pudding on a plate with a handful of ham alongside. Give a couple of twists of pepper, sprinkle chopped parsley or chives over the top and serve with buttered crusty bread.
Now though, we serve it in Oldfields at lunch as a starter and it flies out of the kitchen. And while it takes a little time on the cooker, there’s little effort involved. It’s well worth the wait.
Serves four as a light lunch, starter or supper
One ham shank
250g yellow split peas
One onion – peeled and chopped
One sprig of thyme
Two bay leaves
One carrot – peeled
Two sticks of celery – roughly chopped
Salt and freshly-ground black pepper
A little chopped parsley or a few chopped chives to finish
Place the ham shank in a large pan along with the carrot, celery, bay leaves and thyme. Cover with cold water, bring to the boil and simmer gently for around a couple of hours or until the meat is falling from the bone.
When cooked, remove the meat and bone from the liquid and allow to cool on a plate. Strain the liquid through a sieve into a clean pan and add the chopped onion and split peas. Bring to the boil and simmer gently for 60 to 90 minutes or until the peas are completely broken down. Pour the lot into a food processor or similar and blend until smooth; adjusting the seasoning with salt and pepper as necessary. Allow to cool.
Remove and discard the fat from the now cool ham shank and tear the meat from the bone into coarse pieces.
To serve, place a dollop of peas pudding on a plate with a handful of ham alongside. Give a couple of twists of pepper, sprinkle chopped parsley or chives over the top and serve with buttered crusty bread.
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