Spring may be on its way but we still need warming winter dishes, whether eating at home or in restaurants. The following recipe is reminiscent of school dinners or, at least, how they should have been if prepared and served well and is a popular dish at the moment at Oldfields. And it’s interesting to note that there’s no powdered stock cube to lift, add to or mask the flavours. Just making sure you use good quality beef and sweat the vegetables properly allows the ingredients to speak for themselves.
If you’re not sure how good the minced beef might be in those plastic-wrapped polystyrene trays, try buying a little rump steak, chopping it into cubes and dropping a few at a time into a food processor until minced, being careful not to over-process.
Serves two
200g best beef mince
One carrot – peeled and roughly chopped
One onion – peeled and roughly chopped
One medium swede – peeled and roughly chopped
One sprig of fresh thyme
A little vegetable oil
One tablespoon of plain flour
One leek – split down the middle, washed and thinly sliced
100g self-raising flour
50g suet
Butter for the swede
Salt and freshly-ground black pepper
White pepper – freshly-ground if possible
Pre-heat the oven to 180°C (gas mark 4)
Place the carrot, onion and a quarter of the swede into a food processor and blend until finely chopped. Heat a little vegetable oil into a large saucepan (oven-proof if possible) and gently sweat the blended vegetables for five to ten minutes, being careful not to let them brown.
Meanwhile, in a bowl, mix the self-raising flour, suet, sliced leeks and a pinch of salt and add enough water to make a firm but pliable dough – it’ll be four or five tablespoonfuls. Using your hands, mould into dumplings.
Turn up the heat a little under the pan, add the minced beef and brown. Add the plain flour and stir to cook it off for a couple of minutes. Then add the thyme, a little salt and pepper and about half a cup of water; enough to keep it wet. Place the dumplings on top of the mixture and place in the oven for 20 minutes or so, transferring the mixture to a casserole dish if the if the pan’s not oven-proof.
While that’s cooking, boil the remaining swede in salted water for 20 minutes or until tender. Drain, add a good knob of butter, a generous amount of white pepper to taste and then mash until smooth.
Saturday, 20 March 2010
How're feeling?
Out of the blue I received a call from the Jeremy Vine Radio 2 programme last week. For some reason they wanted to ask how the news of the Corus steel works closing was going to effect business. I’m not clear why they picked on me but it might have been because they also rang us up when they heard about one of our staff walking 14 miles to work through the snow, realised I lived and worked in the North East and that I could talk without taking a breath.
After initial conversations with a researcher and while I was waiting for them to phone back, I wondered what I was going to say. “We’re all doomed” came to mind or “Someone’s got to do something” which always seems to be the cry of the drowning man. Maybe I could rant about the government, the opposition or all self-serving politicians in general. Then there’s always the refuge of the independantalists and I could blame it all on Europe or possibly, even, the rest of the world (I’m not paranoid but they are all out to get us).
Bolstered by caffeine and raring to go, the phone rang on cue and I was asked a question by Jeremy who then, to my surprise, just seemed to shut up and let me talk. And all my well-rehearsed stuff just disappeared. It wasn’t that I’d forgotten it. I just changed my mind. I felt I just had to “talk up” the North East. Here I was, in front of a national audience, with the opportunity to tell everyone what a great place our region is in which to live, work and visit. And maybe get a few extra restaurant bookings as a bonus.
Because in reality, steel jobs in Teesside don’t have a direct impact on the level of trade in businesses such as ours. We will have some customers who work there, or are related to someone who works there, or who work for someone who supplies them. But the thing that effects us the most, as I learnt during the foot and mouth outbreak, is that when things go wrong in one sector of the community, everybody’s made to feel down. Bad news is a good news story and spreads a bad mood like wildfire. You can’t blame the media because we’re all to blame. Hands up anybody who hasn’t had the urge, at least once in their life, to be the bearer of some major bad news they’ve just heard. We all like a bit of drama and good news just doesn’t seem to have as much as bad.
And the problem with restaurants is that no one actually absolutely has to go out for a meal. We have to get fuel for our cars. We have to buy food to eat to keep alive but eating out in restaurants is not a total necessity – more’s the pity.
But when we feel good, that’s when we book that extra little luxury in our lives. We start planning for our holidays, maybe buying a few extra clothes and, if I’m lucky, deciding to go out for meals. If only the region’s football teams were always at the top of their respective leagues, I’d be able to retire in a few years, such is the effect their results have on our mood and thus collective economic activity.
So it’s important that, despite the bad stories – and there will always be bad stories – we remember the other side: spring is coming, Newcastle United have won quite a few matches and we don’t live in the South East.
Who’s for dinner anyone?
After initial conversations with a researcher and while I was waiting for them to phone back, I wondered what I was going to say. “We’re all doomed” came to mind or “Someone’s got to do something” which always seems to be the cry of the drowning man. Maybe I could rant about the government, the opposition or all self-serving politicians in general. Then there’s always the refuge of the independantalists and I could blame it all on Europe or possibly, even, the rest of the world (I’m not paranoid but they are all out to get us).
Bolstered by caffeine and raring to go, the phone rang on cue and I was asked a question by Jeremy who then, to my surprise, just seemed to shut up and let me talk. And all my well-rehearsed stuff just disappeared. It wasn’t that I’d forgotten it. I just changed my mind. I felt I just had to “talk up” the North East. Here I was, in front of a national audience, with the opportunity to tell everyone what a great place our region is in which to live, work and visit. And maybe get a few extra restaurant bookings as a bonus.
Because in reality, steel jobs in Teesside don’t have a direct impact on the level of trade in businesses such as ours. We will have some customers who work there, or are related to someone who works there, or who work for someone who supplies them. But the thing that effects us the most, as I learnt during the foot and mouth outbreak, is that when things go wrong in one sector of the community, everybody’s made to feel down. Bad news is a good news story and spreads a bad mood like wildfire. You can’t blame the media because we’re all to blame. Hands up anybody who hasn’t had the urge, at least once in their life, to be the bearer of some major bad news they’ve just heard. We all like a bit of drama and good news just doesn’t seem to have as much as bad.
And the problem with restaurants is that no one actually absolutely has to go out for a meal. We have to get fuel for our cars. We have to buy food to eat to keep alive but eating out in restaurants is not a total necessity – more’s the pity.
But when we feel good, that’s when we book that extra little luxury in our lives. We start planning for our holidays, maybe buying a few extra clothes and, if I’m lucky, deciding to go out for meals. If only the region’s football teams were always at the top of their respective leagues, I’d be able to retire in a few years, such is the effect their results have on our mood and thus collective economic activity.
So it’s important that, despite the bad stories – and there will always be bad stories – we remember the other side: spring is coming, Newcastle United have won quite a few matches and we don’t live in the South East.
Who’s for dinner anyone?
Yoghurt cake
This is one of the lightest and freshest desserts you can think of. And somehow just making and eating it reminds me that spring is just around the corner. The recipe calls for a vanilla pod. You could use a little vanilla extract or essence but don’t be tempted to use anything called vanilla flavouring; it’ll make the cake taste of chemicals.
The caramelised walnuts are a nice contrast from the fluffiness of the cake but you could use other nuts such as hazelnuts or pecans. Or you could even use mixed dried fruits with the nuts. The method’s exactly the same.
To serve four or five
Three eggs - separated
70g caster sugar
One vanilla pod
350g natural yoghurt
Zest of an orange
Juice and zest of a lemon
20g plain flour
A further two tablespoons of caster sugar
A handful of walnut halves
Pre-heat the oven to 180°C, gas mark 4
First, the nuts. Place the two tablespoons of caster sugar in a small heavy-bottomed saucepan over a medium heat. After a few minutes, the sugar will start to melt and, after a few minutes more, will start to colour. Give it a gentle stir once or twice to evenly colour and then remove from the heat. Break up the walnut halves a little and stir them into the caramel before spooning the mixture out onto greaseproof paper. Allow to cool before breaking into pieces.
To make the cake, in a bowl, and using a wooden spoon, cream the egg yokes with the castor sugar until the mix goes pale. Split the vanilla pod lengthwise and, with the point of a knife, scrape the sticky seeds out and add them to the egg and sugar mixture along with the orange and lemon juice, the lemon zest, flour and yoghurt. Mix well.
In a scrupulously clean large bowl, whisk the egg whites until forming soft peaks and, using a metal spoon, fold them into the yoghurt mix.
Spoon the mixture into a small casserole dish, loaf tin or flan dish with a solid bottom. Place that dish into a roasting tin and add enough water to come 1” up the outside of the cake’s container. Place in the oven and bake for 30 minutes or so until the top has browned a little and the cake resembles a light sponge with wet custard.
To serve, spoon a portion of the cake onto a plate and place broken pieces of caramelised nuts on top.
The caramelised walnuts are a nice contrast from the fluffiness of the cake but you could use other nuts such as hazelnuts or pecans. Or you could even use mixed dried fruits with the nuts. The method’s exactly the same.
To serve four or five
Three eggs - separated
70g caster sugar
One vanilla pod
350g natural yoghurt
Zest of an orange
Juice and zest of a lemon
20g plain flour
A further two tablespoons of caster sugar
A handful of walnut halves
Pre-heat the oven to 180°C, gas mark 4
First, the nuts. Place the two tablespoons of caster sugar in a small heavy-bottomed saucepan over a medium heat. After a few minutes, the sugar will start to melt and, after a few minutes more, will start to colour. Give it a gentle stir once or twice to evenly colour and then remove from the heat. Break up the walnut halves a little and stir them into the caramel before spooning the mixture out onto greaseproof paper. Allow to cool before breaking into pieces.
To make the cake, in a bowl, and using a wooden spoon, cream the egg yokes with the castor sugar until the mix goes pale. Split the vanilla pod lengthwise and, with the point of a knife, scrape the sticky seeds out and add them to the egg and sugar mixture along with the orange and lemon juice, the lemon zest, flour and yoghurt. Mix well.
In a scrupulously clean large bowl, whisk the egg whites until forming soft peaks and, using a metal spoon, fold them into the yoghurt mix.
Spoon the mixture into a small casserole dish, loaf tin or flan dish with a solid bottom. Place that dish into a roasting tin and add enough water to come 1” up the outside of the cake’s container. Place in the oven and bake for 30 minutes or so until the top has browned a little and the cake resembles a light sponge with wet custard.
To serve, spoon a portion of the cake onto a plate and place broken pieces of caramelised nuts on top.
Taste
Of course, it almost goes without saying that I’ve got impeccable taste. Well I would think that, wouldn’t I? Just as you probably think you have too. In fact it’s unlikely that I’ve ever met anyone who declares that their own taste to be appalling – even if it obviously is. And what is taste? An understanding of what looks good to wear, or possibly how one’s house is decorated? All in the best possible taste.
But taste, as far as I’m concerned, is something you experience when you stick something in your mouth. And, when it comes to that, I’ve definitely got impeccable taste. If I like it, so should you. But you don’t always, do you?
So, why is it that we like different things? You know what I mean: he likes Marmite and she hates it and so on. I remember being surprised when I first went to school to find that other children didn’t like the things I did. I guessed this was for a couple of reasons: first, we were born naturally different and second, we were brought up in different ways. And it’s that latter thought that interests me because, if it’s correct, it means we can blame the parents. And we can change ourselves.
I know that I’ve deliberately made myself like something that I’ve previously hated. Not just forcing myself, over a period of a year or two, like I did with whisky - after getting myself so drunk on it as a teenager that merely the smell of it could make me retch. I’m so pleased I succeeded.
No, it was rather seeing other people get a kick out of certain foods that I wouldn’t touch that got me thinking I wanted the same kick as them because I was obviously missing something. And as a result, these days I’ll eat virtually anything that you’ll eat; with the caveat that it helps if it’s cooked well and made from reasonable ingredients.
You frequently hear that it’s difficult to get children to eat their vegetables but it occurs to me that if they’re made to experience them as a natural part of life, not give them any choice or prejudices, then life’s so much easier. When I had my own children, I made the conscious decision that, once they were old enough, whenever they wanted a snack or a treat, they received fruit or vegetables. And so it was that you’d see them sitting in their pushchairs sucking on orange segments, bananas and carrots. They thoughts sweets were something only grandparents produced.
As a result they didn’t actually get into sweet things until they were quite a bit older than their contemporaries and while, once they’d experienced it, they loved chocolate as much as anyone, they loved fruit and vegetables too. After all, if they hadn’t eaten the healthy stuff, they probably feared I’d starve them.
I’m sure this conditioning effects us all and the way we’re brought up from day one determines to a large extent what we’re prepared to eat in later life. This isn’t some scientific study but I reckon the theory’s got legs.
So, next time I see you in one of our restaurants, I’ll be able to listen to what you say when you read the menu, hear what you like and dislike and know exactly how you were brought up.
But, of course, you’ve got such good taste. It’s just that mine’s better than yours.
But taste, as far as I’m concerned, is something you experience when you stick something in your mouth. And, when it comes to that, I’ve definitely got impeccable taste. If I like it, so should you. But you don’t always, do you?
So, why is it that we like different things? You know what I mean: he likes Marmite and she hates it and so on. I remember being surprised when I first went to school to find that other children didn’t like the things I did. I guessed this was for a couple of reasons: first, we were born naturally different and second, we were brought up in different ways. And it’s that latter thought that interests me because, if it’s correct, it means we can blame the parents. And we can change ourselves.
I know that I’ve deliberately made myself like something that I’ve previously hated. Not just forcing myself, over a period of a year or two, like I did with whisky - after getting myself so drunk on it as a teenager that merely the smell of it could make me retch. I’m so pleased I succeeded.
No, it was rather seeing other people get a kick out of certain foods that I wouldn’t touch that got me thinking I wanted the same kick as them because I was obviously missing something. And as a result, these days I’ll eat virtually anything that you’ll eat; with the caveat that it helps if it’s cooked well and made from reasonable ingredients.
You frequently hear that it’s difficult to get children to eat their vegetables but it occurs to me that if they’re made to experience them as a natural part of life, not give them any choice or prejudices, then life’s so much easier. When I had my own children, I made the conscious decision that, once they were old enough, whenever they wanted a snack or a treat, they received fruit or vegetables. And so it was that you’d see them sitting in their pushchairs sucking on orange segments, bananas and carrots. They thoughts sweets were something only grandparents produced.
As a result they didn’t actually get into sweet things until they were quite a bit older than their contemporaries and while, once they’d experienced it, they loved chocolate as much as anyone, they loved fruit and vegetables too. After all, if they hadn’t eaten the healthy stuff, they probably feared I’d starve them.
I’m sure this conditioning effects us all and the way we’re brought up from day one determines to a large extent what we’re prepared to eat in later life. This isn’t some scientific study but I reckon the theory’s got legs.
So, next time I see you in one of our restaurants, I’ll be able to listen to what you say when you read the menu, hear what you like and dislike and know exactly how you were brought up.
But, of course, you’ve got such good taste. It’s just that mine’s better than yours.
Friday, 5 February 2010
Putting the pride back into great British food!
The French. Don’t you just love ‘em? Well they love themselves and aren’t shy about it. To have some sort of official body that keeps an eye on the language says something for a start.
If we had such a quango, the opposition, no matter who they were, would be continuously up in arms – a bit like we used to be with the French.
But while, due to modern global pressures, cracks may occasionally appear in their patriotism, they do generally tend to defend their food, their produce and their style of cooking. While we, the Brits on the other hand, have spent decades trying to pretend that we’re French; and occasionally Chinese and Indian.
I’ve nothing against the food of foreigners. I love it. But one of the main reasons we know anything about it is the pride of those born into it.
Somehow I can’t imagine some housewife in a middle-class suburb in Vietnam scouring her local markets for that elusive ingredient to make a British hotpot.
The French influence in Britain stands to reason. They’re our nearest foreign neighbours, the first place we hit when we go to the Continent and their army successfully invaded us some centuries ago.
But the main cause is a guy called Escoffier who, some years ago, taught us to cook; or, at least, how to cook his way. As is the case with most fashions, we leapt on his methods like a drowning man, such that they became received opinion.
It’s not only that we embraced Escoffier’s dishes but also his revolution in kitchen operation that, along the way, helped elevate cooking to a profession with status. But the legacy is such that we eschewed much of our tradition.Along with changing the titles of our chefs on their career ladder - sous, chef de partie and so on – we threw out much of our respect for our indigenous dishes.
At Oldfields, in order to champion British food over the years, we’ve had to go to war with the French influence so that we may serve such things as chunky carrots rather than “julienned”.
And not that long ago, I even employed a head chef who, once he got his feet under the table, threatened to walk out if he ever heard the words “gravy” or “custard” used in “his” kitchen. Unsurprisingly, I allowed him to walk but his reaction to such terms wasn’t, and isn’t, unique. Which makes this British Food Fortnight, which we’re in the middle of now, as important as ever.
No matter which style of food you cook, its success is dependent on the quality of the ingredients. But none more so than traditional British cooking where the basic components are messed about with to a minimum and are allowed to speak for themselves.
It’s because of such a principle that our cooking became derided. What hope a quality dish if war-time austerity enforced the use of old, tough or poorly-prepared ingredients?
But the modern emergence of farmers’ markets and farm shops, along with the drive for recognition of local produce, means that there’s an abundance of quality ingredients for us to use in our British dishes. It’s time we took another leaf out of the French book, and promoted our pride in our British food.
If we had such a quango, the opposition, no matter who they were, would be continuously up in arms – a bit like we used to be with the French.
But while, due to modern global pressures, cracks may occasionally appear in their patriotism, they do generally tend to defend their food, their produce and their style of cooking. While we, the Brits on the other hand, have spent decades trying to pretend that we’re French; and occasionally Chinese and Indian.
I’ve nothing against the food of foreigners. I love it. But one of the main reasons we know anything about it is the pride of those born into it.
Somehow I can’t imagine some housewife in a middle-class suburb in Vietnam scouring her local markets for that elusive ingredient to make a British hotpot.
The French influence in Britain stands to reason. They’re our nearest foreign neighbours, the first place we hit when we go to the Continent and their army successfully invaded us some centuries ago.
But the main cause is a guy called Escoffier who, some years ago, taught us to cook; or, at least, how to cook his way. As is the case with most fashions, we leapt on his methods like a drowning man, such that they became received opinion.
It’s not only that we embraced Escoffier’s dishes but also his revolution in kitchen operation that, along the way, helped elevate cooking to a profession with status. But the legacy is such that we eschewed much of our tradition.Along with changing the titles of our chefs on their career ladder - sous, chef de partie and so on – we threw out much of our respect for our indigenous dishes.
At Oldfields, in order to champion British food over the years, we’ve had to go to war with the French influence so that we may serve such things as chunky carrots rather than “julienned”.
And not that long ago, I even employed a head chef who, once he got his feet under the table, threatened to walk out if he ever heard the words “gravy” or “custard” used in “his” kitchen. Unsurprisingly, I allowed him to walk but his reaction to such terms wasn’t, and isn’t, unique. Which makes this British Food Fortnight, which we’re in the middle of now, as important as ever.
No matter which style of food you cook, its success is dependent on the quality of the ingredients. But none more so than traditional British cooking where the basic components are messed about with to a minimum and are allowed to speak for themselves.
It’s because of such a principle that our cooking became derided. What hope a quality dish if war-time austerity enforced the use of old, tough or poorly-prepared ingredients?
But the modern emergence of farmers’ markets and farm shops, along with the drive for recognition of local produce, means that there’s an abundance of quality ingredients for us to use in our British dishes. It’s time we took another leaf out of the French book, and promoted our pride in our British food.
Beetroot and Ox tongue with horseradish
Like ox heart described elsewhere on this page, ox tongue is one of the animal’s most-used muscles and is also one of the least-used cuts of meat. It really is worth a try and produces an inexpensive dish.
Also, this recipe uses whole, uncooked beetroot; in my opinion, one of the most under-rated vegetables available to us.
Beetroot should always be cooked whole. Don’t be tempted to top and tail it because, once you’ve broken the skin, the red leeches out into the cooking water which not only stains everything it touches, it impairs the flavour as well.
Serves four
One ox tongue
Two raw beetroot - washed
Sea salt
Freshly-ground black pepper
A couple of teaspoons of horseradish sauce
One white onion – peeled and thinly sliced
White wine vinegar
Rapeseed (or similar) oil
80g watercress – washed and drained
Place the tongue in a large pan of cold water and bring to the boil. Turn the heat down and allow to simmer for one and a half to two hours or until tender. Drain off the water and allow the tongue to cool before peeling off the outer skin and discarding.
Meanwhile, while the tongue’s simmering, place the unpeeled beetroot into a pan of cold water. Bring to the boil and simmer for 45 minutes before cooling in cold water. Drain, peel the beetroot and cut into equal-sized cubes. Place in a bowl, season with salt and pepper and a splash of white wine vinegar.
Once cool and peeled, cut the tongue into slices and season with salt and pepper. Mix the horseradish sauce with a little rapeseed to loosen it.
Place the tongue, beetroot, onion and horseradish mix in a large bowl and toss together before piling onto serving plates or into a single serving dish.
Also, this recipe uses whole, uncooked beetroot; in my opinion, one of the most under-rated vegetables available to us.
Beetroot should always be cooked whole. Don’t be tempted to top and tail it because, once you’ve broken the skin, the red leeches out into the cooking water which not only stains everything it touches, it impairs the flavour as well.
Serves four
One ox tongue
Two raw beetroot - washed
Sea salt
Freshly-ground black pepper
A couple of teaspoons of horseradish sauce
One white onion – peeled and thinly sliced
White wine vinegar
Rapeseed (or similar) oil
80g watercress – washed and drained
Place the tongue in a large pan of cold water and bring to the boil. Turn the heat down and allow to simmer for one and a half to two hours or until tender. Drain off the water and allow the tongue to cool before peeling off the outer skin and discarding.
Meanwhile, while the tongue’s simmering, place the unpeeled beetroot into a pan of cold water. Bring to the boil and simmer for 45 minutes before cooling in cold water. Drain, peel the beetroot and cut into equal-sized cubes. Place in a bowl, season with salt and pepper and a splash of white wine vinegar.
Once cool and peeled, cut the tongue into slices and season with salt and pepper. Mix the horseradish sauce with a little rapeseed to loosen it.
Place the tongue, beetroot, onion and horseradish mix in a large bowl and toss together before piling onto serving plates or into a single serving dish.
Wild Boar Bob
Wild Boar Bob and oldfields.
Real food heroes.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)