Heaven’s ‘Grass Comes in Two Colours or Three

Posted on May 19, 2012 by Gareth

Asparagus – my goodness, where to begin? I’ve grown up with the stuff – I’m still amazed about how the spears appear overnight, how the beds must not be trodden on, how to cut it, how sprue can be enjoyed and more. I write this in a calm frenzy – we have only a few weeks left to indulge in asparagus. At least I’ve found a reliable supply of best German spärgel in London, with French violette not far behind – across the street in fact.

Correctly, the English asparagus season runs from May 1 (May Day) to June 20 (Mid-Summer’s Eve). Being a purist, cutting asparagus should ideally begin and end within this time frame – but the poly-tunnel changed all that, and for the worse too. Poly-tunnels have their place,  but well away from speciality foods like asparagus. They already done for the strawberry and that alone, say Blue Collar Gastronauts, should flag up need for caution.

Much like the erosion of treat status as a food, retailers have encouraged broadening of seasons, taste-challenged fast-growing plant varieties and driven prices downwards to often below, or at best on par with producer prices. English Asparagus could go this way – and join the miserable departure lounge of ‘once-were-luxuries’ like whole pure breed chickens, smoked and fresh wild salmon, river and sea trout, prawns, aged beef , apple and pear varieties, damsons, plums and so, so much more.

This always brings in its wake disaster – farmers and growers lose out and, like a puff of smoke on the breeze, taste narrows to one dimension. The next generation comes along never knowing the real taste and, bang, it’s lost forever if only for those of us determined to arrest this rush to the bottom.

In mainland Europe, asparagus – and much else too – is still a celebration every Spring, from the Loire between Tours and Blois in the west, across the Benelux to Germany and then north/south from Hamburg to the Mediterranean.

I discovered fresh white asparagus in the 70s and then things went really crazy. Previously for me, white asparagus came from cans or glass jars and figured on those revolving ’hors d’oeuvres’ trolleys in hotel restaurants of same vintage – and from which I suffered many a stunted, silent meal as a child out with the parents for a special occasion.

Compared to long, lazy lunchtimes in the Paris suburbs, Languedoc and the Aveyron where I spent time with a family at least twice a year, how I loathed eating out in England when I knew from experience that there was a simpler and better way.

I met Gero Puchstein in the 70s, an A&R man for a record company based in Hamburg. We’d become friendly via food business and music tastes, so we started spending long weekends in Hamburg maybe 4-6 times a year. Having begun my working life in 60s Liverpool, this was a coming home, but with style and without the whine. Bars and clubs had live musicians from Liverpool who come over in the wake of The Beatles and never returned home.

Gero was crazy for asparagus. He moonlighted for a restaurant in downtown Hamburg, getting them press, taking musicians there, etc. Being a correct German, he’d accept no money – but instead took his annual ‘fee’ in white asparagus. I was lucky to be invited there for one such meal – it started with a very large mixing bowl being brought to table filled to the brim with white asparagus soup, went onto white asparagus spears, with waxy, near yellow new potatoes and best local Schinken on the side. The rest is a blur. That’s real Hamburg.

For all I can recall we may have had white asparagus ice cream to follow – by this middle course I was away in Asparagus Heaven.

We remade this dish a few days ago because I’d fallen on the tiny German Deli in Borough Market (opposite Neal’s Yard’s HQ). They have flown in fresh cut Spärgel every Thursday night in season.

I asked about the German season for asparagus. He thought for a moment and relied, without breaking into a smile: “When the cherries are red, the asparagus is dead”.

It seems the German asparagus season is identical to the English – that is pre-poly tunnel English. What was – and is still in Germany – May 1 to June 20 (mid-summer’s eve), has now been stretched by greed – ‘new season’s’ asparagus comes into the shops here in late March. I don’t much care for when it ends because I’ll not be buying and ask you to do likewise.

Peruvian imports are another thing.  The potato might have been discovered in Peru, but they now become world leaders in asparagus. As I wrote last year, there are times when their asparagus is good for a price - and at £1 for 3 bunches in the market on a Saturday afternoon (it’ll  not keep until Monday/Tuesday when the traders are next there), you can can make a deluxe pan of soup for £3 – or more if you’re like Gero and me, crazy for asparagus. Last time I wrote that I had applause direct from the growers in Peru within 36 hours, so it shows how far away my words are read.

No more than 20 years ago traditional butchers would sell ‘Asparagus Chicken’. Nothing to do with the vegetable, but a way of distinguishing the chicks that hatched around Christmas that were ready for the table come May – 4-5 months on. No 30 days old ’Eggs on Legs’ back then. In late August, along came ‘Blackberry Chicken’ using the same rationale. Is that not romantic and a delight?

Visiting an asparagus grower we’ve rather adopted these past 6-7 years – Sevenscore Farm, on the outskirts of Ramsgate, below the eerie no-planes-landing Manston airport – we were again in asparagus heaven. We went out on the asparagus beds as the pickers were starting on the second field. They’d begun at 07h00 and by 9h00, four pickers had cut 15 crates of 8 kilo’s a piece. Back-breaking work as they stoop over the raised beds to cut the spears that have appeared overnight.

They now use a different knife to the one I know. Theirs is plastic handled and, we’re told,  they only cut the spears that are the same height (barring the tip) as the knife – they no longer cut an inch or two under the soil, but at earth level. I’m sure this is not universal. Their grading is (left to right) ‘Kitchen’, ‘Salad’ (sprue), ‘Select’ and ‘Jumbo’. ‘Kitchen’ is the bendy, mis-shapes – cheaper for this and excellent value for all but eating as spears, ie soups, sauces, risotto’s, salad and more. The prices per kilo on the farm ranges from£4.20 for mis-shapen ‘Kitchen, to £5.80 for ‘Salad’ and £6.80 for ‘Select’ or ‘Jumbo’  – one niggle, I’d prefer the Jumbo word was dropped – it’s a cartoon, not a food.

The grading takes out the slender new sprue - the thinnest spears which we bought for cooking with eggs. Eggs and asparagus are one of life’s natural pairings. The Spanish will cook wild asparagus - trigueros – with quick and roughly scrambled eggs a revuèltos so they eggs remain soft and runny. This is a perfect desayuno – the traditional mid-morning breakfast for the working man, most of them Blue Collar Gastronauts even though they don’t know it.

We’ll do the same with the sprue. We also thought of the Divine pairing of the thin sprue with spaghettini – as close to 50:50 as you can afford (£5.80 p/kg on the farm for the asparagus). Then dressing the dish simply in fresh lemon juice infused EV olive oil, a sprinkle of fresh grated Parmigiana and it’s job done and ready to eat.

The full sized ‘select’ spears we’ll side by side with the white asparagus from Germany. If we weren’t too late for blood oranges, we could recreate the Italian flag – a tri-colore of green, white and red by serving the ‘grass with classic Sauce Maltese (think Hollandaise with blood orange juice in place of the lemon).

Instead, we’ll go the grand route and make the very special risotto of white asparagus. Only the clearest, freshest chicken broth will do – this plus an aged Italian round grain Canaroli or Arborio rice – search for Acquarello or Ferron brands as specially good, but there are others. You get what you pay for so best avoid cheap own label.

The same risotto works for green asparagus, but unless it’s magnificent I suggest you add another element – eg chicken breast or pancetta dice, tiny fresh shrimp or baby scallops. With shellfish, remember it’s best to never add Parmigiana -  a strict Italian rule that is never wrong.

A few essentials in preparing perfect asparagus. If there’s any risk of sandy or gritty soil on green asparagus, always soak it first, rinsing through at least 3-4 times. Always peel white asparagus – with your best peeler because it’s the top skin and no more you want to take away. Green benefits from peeling too – although that’s personal taste.

Don’t try to cut away the woody end – just feel the spear towards the bottom and snap it – Nature has arranged for the spear to snap at precisely the right place. If you must store the asparagus, wrap it tightly in a dampened glass cloth and refridgerate for 24 hours maximum.

Steaming or boiling? Again, we prefer gently boiling white and steaming the green. Certainly no need for labouriously tying with bandage into bundles and steaming upright in an asparagus steamer – like the fish kettle, they’re a total waste of money as they’ll hardly ever be used. Rid your kitchen battèrie of the unnecessary and don’t be caught up with marketing hype. One of my early culinary mentors in Paris always would say as I was tempted by some tool or other in the market, “Gareth, if you can cook, then you can cook in a bucket!”.

We went through a grilling phase – for this simply peel and brush the spears with lemon infused EV olive oil and cook high up under a hot grill for a 2-4 minutes depending on size and heat of your grill. Boiling and steaming also always take less time than you imagine – reckon on 4 minutes, again depending on size. Better under-cooked than over, given the best asparagus is equally good raw. Always please heat your best butter gently and serve separately at the table – no solid pieces tossed over the hot spears TV-ad style. Soft boiled eggs, roughly chopped as an accompaniment, make your spears ‘Liègoise-style’.

On balance, which is best, the white or the green? Not forgetting there’s also violet tipped too. The answer is ’each to their own’, or ‘chaque à son gout’. For me the complexity of white and white/violette tipped will always be my No 1′s; but enjoy green too. Just rise up against the forced poly-tunnel spears.

Remember too this ‘grass is perfectly legal, although the US food columns are suggesting ‘cannabis cuisine’ may be with us soon with some high end restaurants on the West Coast already featuring cannabis dishes on their menu’s (not to be confused with corned beef hash). But remind me, how much stuff from California do we really take seriously once the early hype has faded? Remember, California was first with sommeliers for mineral water – another lasting notion.

Be quick now, we’ve just a pinch over four weeks to go before they stop cutting fresh asparagus. One closing thought too – like truffles, one can never have enough – and unlike truffles, what’s left uneaten will be as splendid tomorrow as your anti-pasti.

 

 

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Feta that’ll not Make you Feta’r

Posted on May 12, 2012 by Gareth

You all know the expression in English ‘as different as chalk and cheese’ – I’d reckon it must have been dreamed up to describe Feta cheese. Most Feta on sale is one-dimensional, chalky, overly saline and utterly pointless. The original barrel-aged Feta, hailing from Crete in the Ancient World, is ‘cheese’ – rich, creamy, textured and complex like an artisan’s cheese should be.

En-passent, I recall how I helped to  introduce Barrel-aged Feta to the British-only cheese sellers, Neal’s Yard Dairy, back in the late 90s. I did this as a favour for one Sotiris Kitrilakis, a food historian and sourcer from Thesaloniki who we’d befriended at the Oxford Food Symposium through an introduction by Greek specialist and food writer, Rosie Barron. Rosie came to food through her first love, archaeology, realising how much food remains in digs can tell us about our ancient ancestors.

Not one penny, drachma nor dime changed hands and Neal’s Yard told me only a few weeks back how, +12 years on, they are still making good trade with their Barrel-aged Feta from the Peloponnese. Other stockists of this very special cheese are Turkish, Cypriot, Lebanese and Middle Eastern food stores like one of my real favourites, Green Valley, off the Edgware Road and 2 minutes on foot from Marble Arch. Their butchers smile and joke a lot and sell every part of the animal – I mean every part too.

Feta is an ancient food. Made with either sheep or goat’s milk, or a mix of both – really whatever the cheese-makers can access on the island of Crete. Cow’s milk would unlikely ever be available as there is insufficient grazing for such larger, cud-chewing beasts.

When you hear people refer to the Mediterranean Diet, they should actually be saying Cretan Diet – and they’d still be wrong, because neither would  be a diet.  They are a lifestyle that encourages good health and long life. Beware of any food brand selling you a product with Mediterranean Diet overtones - there’s no silver bullet to this Avalon. 

The cheese, as I remember from Sotiris, is made from freshly gathered milk heated to no more than 36ºC – the curds are drained and cut. I simplify here. Then the young ‘cheese’ is placed in barrels topped up with brine. the barrels are sealed and left in a cool place – caves mostly – for a full 100 days.

There’s no looking into the barrels as they’re sealed completely tight and shut. Sometimes they break open the barrel at term and it’s full of mush – useless dairy waste, too salty for even their hungriest pigs and chickens. This makes it risky and is reflected in the price.

Barrel-aged Feta should be kept in the brine until you come along and buy a piece. Ask for a taste first to be certain this one’s to your liking. Buying from the barrel is best, but a Feta that claims barrel-ageing and carries the official PDOyellow/red EU roundel on the pack should also be a good no 2 option (just not as good as the former). 

Feta is best eaten as part of a dish. We recently made a salad, inspired by Elizabeth Minchilli, a food writer based in Rome (http://wwwelizabethminchilliinrome.com/).

Farro, fresh mint leaves, fresh and unwaxed lemons and EV olive oil, stirred through with sweet, new season tiny tomatoes from Sicily and lastly strewn with broken morsels of the special Feta.

Farro, as I’ve already covered, was the grain that fed the marching Roman army – grains have been found on digs amidst Roman remains as far north as the Scottish borders. It’s an ancient wheat variety much like, but different to, spelt. Best to source yours in an Italian salumeria or fine food shop. Only ever buy Italian, unless someone convinces you otherwise. You’ll find bags of Farro alongside Fregola, Orzo and dried pulses on the bottom shelf - as if to make the point that this food is healthy, so bending down to take a bag is never a problem regardless of Date of Birth.

Faro is best washed through and left to soak for 3-4 hours – some say overnight, but for me that’s far too long. The soaked grains are then cooked in plain water – into cold, brought up to boil, then ‘frightened’ three times with just enough cold water to take it off the boil – then left to simmer gently for around 20 minutes.  Check as you go to make certain it’s to your taste – al-dente takes 15 minutes, cooked through needs 20-25 – more minutes means mush. If in doubt, opt for al-dente everytime is my advice.

Drain and rinse in cold water to arrest a second’s more cooking. Drain again and leave to cool, dressed with a good splash of EV olive oil.

Next peel the skin (not pith) of the lemon – 4-5 pieces – slice and dice to the size of a Farro grain. Stir through. Squeeze the lemon – please buy the best you can find – Sicilian are around now , more expensive, but the prettier, better and tastier for that. Shiny, thick skinned supermarket lemons are as useful as chocolate teapot in the kitchen of the real cook.

Keep up the pace now, so next take the top leaves off the mint – again, best always to buy this from a Middle Eastern shop or street market and avoid the mint in a sealed plastic bag as found in the supermarket. Chop coarsely and stir through the Farro. Taste – adding more oil or lemon juice to taste. You’ll be unlikely to want salt.

Half or quarter fresh tomatoes depending on size and stir them through the salad.

Finally the best bit, that’s when you crumble the Feta in mouth sized, rough edged pieces – resist any temptation to even think of using a knife for that will quite ruin for ever the mouth feel of the cheese and the salad. Another tip is to always buy a third more than you think you need. Good barrel-aged Feta is a treat to be celebrated and it can take some hunting down.

A  last minute drizzle of the EV olive oil and off to table – freshly ground pepper at the very last moment.

Fresh, ancient and special – you feel it’s doing you good as you savour each mouthful. That’s the Minchilli Farro, Mint & Feta Salad. I found Elizabeth via friends on Facebook and like her approach to real food of her adopted country. I also learned in writing this, from an other friend-in-food I know in Rome, that Elizabeth had much to do with ‘Eat, Pray, Love’ which is partly set in Italy as we know.

Farro keeps for a good few days in the ‘fridge and is good added to just about any salad preparation. If it’s your first time with Farro, you’re sure to find its nutty taste pleasantly haunting – you might even dream about Ancient Rome tonight. Like I said, served like this, the full cream Feta won’t ever make you fatter – when did you ever see a corpulent Legionnaire or original Cretan islander?

 

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Posted in Archaeology and Food, Blue Collar Gastronomy, Citrus Fruit, DOP, Food of the Ancients, IGP, Ingredients, Origins of our food, Real Italy, Salad, Salad and Digestion, Seasoning, Simple Food, Southern Italy | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Exotic Eggs off Les Falaises and Welsh Plough

Posted on May 7, 2012 by Gareth

This was the time of year I’d hoped to be filming in France – among other locations, in Étretat and on the creamy coloured Falaises (Côtes Albatre). I’d set up the exclusive contact to involve one of the very few Englishmen with a licence to take gull’s eggs.  We’d fly the guy into Le Havre’s tiny airfield about 12 kms away. Amazingly, the French aren’t onto this most special of specialities. Ortolan, thrushes, frog’s legs, etc – but no gull’s eggs as yet. I have a plan to change that and Étretat is my campaign HQ.

Sea gulls, which I have an unexplainable affection for, are hardly an endangered species. Gastronomically, their eggs are at the top of the Ovum Tree – only plovers’ (peewits) eggs would rival them – and these are now protected, although maybe they’re not – perhaps someone can put me straight.

I thank my Maker that I’m of an age to have hunted down plover’s eggs by the dozen, season after season, with my grandfather as a child growing up in Wales. He taught me to understand, ‘feel’ and ‘read’ the country. He was also a natural born hunter – or chasseur which seems to better explain the term. To chase – probably from the Medieval days of hunting down deer – is more thrilling than the sedentary ‘hunt’. On his shoots, he would even sometimes take me along to load the workaday 20 bore he carried later in his life as it was so much lighter than the classic 12 bore. Back then, 20 bores were referred to as ‘ladies’ guns’ – hardly sexist, because sassy country ladies would take their pegs alongside the men.

Walking the ploughed fields on top of the hills above Llangollen and Glyn Ceiriog, he’d show me how to not be fooled by the plover mother calling excitedly overhead. He’d ask if I could see the nest. I’d say no. He’d then point to my feet and there they would be – 4-5 eggs in a scruffy, make-do, excuse for a nest. The mother bird would be at the other end of the field trying to outsmart us.

We only ever took 1-2 from each nest, but a long hour of hunting and we’d be home with a dozen or more. We’d eat these rich eggs – with their almost transluscent blue-hued whites and rich orange yolks - at the kitchen table, two men together, and he’d pour me a small glass of Port. No celery salt, clipped cress and sourdough toasts here – just Grandma’s fresh baked white bread with a thick spread of the near white, salty farmhouse butter from the farm along the valley. I would be 10 years old, no older.

So to gull’s eggs. On May 4, I celebrated, maybe strangely, my ‘other’ birthday. This was the day I left the children’s home and was legally adopted – that day I was no longer Thomas Andrew, but became Gareth Spencer Owen. The ‘Spencer’ I explained in ‘Art and The Gimlet’ – a family tradition was for grandparents to choose middle names. Owen was my hero grandfather’s middle name. My only wish was it had been spelt ‘Owain’ – from my other hero who saw off the English invaders, finally with help from a French fleet arriving in the Bristol Channel - Owain Glyndwr (should have a circumflex over the ‘w’ in Glyndwr, but it’s not on WordPress). The man disappeared and was never seen again so nobody knows his resting place.

Once more, to gull’s eggs. To celebrate, my partner Joy came home from Mount Street (Mayfair, London) with fresh, uncooked gull’s eggs. Times past we used to buy them by the tray – wholesale from the traders. Now at an eye watering £4.50 an egg, they are probably more expensive than cloves, gold and saffron. The season is short and last year there were so few, we missed the celebration altogether. Whilst considering the price, best to also consider the hunting of these delicacies. Gull’s don’t conveniently lay in nest boxes in a hen coop in your backyard – the hunters have to climb steep cliffs and be spat on by the males gull’s as they bag their eggs. They also know how to avoid eggs where the chick is beginning to form. All things considered, they earn their £4.50 an egg. Cliffs are steep too.

In Étretat I have planned to cook and present a menu at ‘Les Roches Blanches’ – the bar, not the restaurant (in the last building before the cliff above) - centered around gull’s eggs. The ‘dressed down’ BC/BG Parisian weekenders would love it and I still planned tables for my local friends to share in the feasting. On my menu were gull’s eggs, soft boiled with their traditional celery salt and cress, but ‘bag’ permitting, I’d be making plates of gull’s eggs richly cooked à revuèltos with the tips of local white asparagus, baby peas and other primeurs (new season produce). To follow, quick roasted pale pink Spring lamb from the Normandy pré-salé – and the most special of ice-cream they make in town.

So far in Étretat the only gull’s eggs – les oeufs des mouettes – are the near identical sugar coated, rich chocolate truffle versions from the Confisèrie Georges V.

For the third time,to  the gull’s eggs. In years’ past they were mostly sold ready boiled – and clumsily too, so over-cooked with their shells often cracked. We’d deal with the Smithfield Market game dealers to buy them by the tray and raw. Now the rules are relaxed and they are available raw for those who prefer the heavenly ritual of cooking these gems at home.

Into boiling water they go, for 5′ and not a second more - and then straightway into iced water to arrest the cooking. Let them cool for a good 10′ – like most foods, gull’s eggs are at their best enjoyed tiède (lukewarm). Make certain they are at room temperature before you begin the cooking.

Best too is eating them from the half shell and standing up in the kitchen. Two each was the affordable treat. A third would have been a thrill, but a fourth downright gluttony. Celery salt does flatter these eggs – but it must be top end, made from celeriac, not celery, or worse, industrial ‘celery flavouring’. Mayonnaise is, for us, too cloying and cress quite unnecessary.

No Port these days – better a glass of Blanquette or Crèmant from a good source. No Champagne as the money’s gone on the eggs.

Quickly in closing, we went on to serve long, slow cooked lamb shoulder (8 hours at 85ºC -first too, please have your butcher, or you yourself remove the blade bone), with bowls of Italian peas and tiny broad beans cooked for a minute or three with tiny dice of pancetta.  On such special occasions we like to bring joints, like the lamb shoulder, to table for each to slice their own however they wish - much like those Medieval chasseurs would likely have done. Sometimes we leave out the forks, using just knives and bread instead. Blue Collar Gastronomy says, every meal is a celebration.

Note Bene: the gull’s egg celebration at No 19 was actually two-fold – Joy had just been invited to run one of her, open to all, day long ‘Too Busy to Live Your Life’ sessions at Mount Street Jesuit Centre on October 27 (2012) www.mountstreet.info - based on her daily blog: www.walkwithjoy.com - the eggs come from Allen’s, almost next door, which also stocks genuine DOP San Marzano tomatoes.

Bravo Allen’s, bravo Joy et bravo ces mouettes.

 

 

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Posted in Alcohol, Blue Collar Gastronomy, DOP, Food travel, Foraging, Gull's Eggs, Memories, Perfect Eggs, Wild Food | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Art and The Gimlet

Posted on May 3, 2012 by Gareth

Film Noir, the thrilling, chilling genre of the 40s, was one of Art Siemering’s loves. He spoke engagingly about how Film Noir and food inter-acted at the 1999 Oxford Food Symposium (look it up on Google). Art was a very special food writer and trend spotter as you’ll find in your searches.

He was a like an old-style newspaper man living 20+ years after the newsroom type had disappeared. Writing this piece I Googled him too – one site says there’s just one Art Siemering in all the USA. I believe that because I knew him.

In the Spring of ’99, Art and I  – plus 1000+ others - were in Phoenix (Arizona) for a 4-5 day long IACP food conference. He, like me, shared a distaste for the identikit chain hotels, so we and a very few friends, stayed at the elegant downtown Hotel San Carlos (www.hotelsancarlos.com) just minutes walk from the leviathan conference centre.

These last 10 years we’ve termed hotels like the San Carlos ’boutique’ – truth be told, the San Carlos was already genuinely boutique in the 40s/50s when it was the hang-out and low key escape hole for big Hollywood names like Jean Harlow, Mae West, Clark Gable & Carole Lombard as an item,  Bogart, Grant, Bergman, Marilyn Monroe (filming Bus Stop in ’56)  and a good many more. Spencer Tracy was among them from whom I proudly take my middle name ‘Spencer’ – my Welsh grandmother’s choice as she admitted to having a crush on him.

Sitting at the San Carlos cocktail bar one afternoon in ’99 to review some difficult conference papers, in sidles Art Siemering in one of his trademark tweed jackets – even in April, Phoenix is warm. I’d ordered a Martini and it was short of the mark – this is America for goodness sake I’d have said. Art quietly reminded me we were in Arizona – that means the Margarita reigns. Tequila not being my first choice spirit, he introduced me to what I later learned was a most English of drinks – the Gimlet – a favourite of his when he sought out a ‘softer’ cocktail.

He ordered a Gimlet in Simpson’s-in-the-Strand (London) where we took him to the most traditional of English roast beef lunches – the bartender was genuinely thrilled with Art’s request having not served one in a good decade or more, he said.

I remember that first chilled Gimlet at the San Carlos like it was yesterday.  Researching this piece and seeing old footage of the San Carlos gave me a pleasingly ‘Temps Perdu’ Moment. It was also one of those ‘urgent to get back there’ moments too. I hadn’t realised the thrilling impression the San Carlos had made on me until this week.

The Gimlet and Film Noir are linked - it was a cocktail of choice of Raymond Chandler and likely Dashiel Hammett. Film Noir, never big box office and the better for that, eased itself 10 or so years on into the cinema of suspense.  We’re agreed I hope that Hitchcock’s ‘Psycho’ (1960) would be at the pinnacle of that genre. The opening 2’40″ minute sequence is downtown Phoenix with the Hotel San Carlos in dead centre frame.

So the Gimlet was originally 50:50 gin and lime cordial on the rocks. That’s it – a twist of fresh lime zest looks good too, when we can find good limes. Some barmen like to serve their Gimlets ’up’, but somehow the rocks and the soft rattle are part of the recipe.

I’ve read it originated in 1928 – amazingly, the very same year the Hotel San Carlos was opened. The ‘Gimlet’ name being taken from that carpenter’s tool which is used to bore a hole – maybe the drink is meant to do likewise into one’s sub-conscious.

Some writers I’ve read reckon the drink recipe, but not the name, came about far earlier - soon after Rose’s Lime Cordial had been launched  in 1867 by the Scottish inventor, Lauchlan Rose, who immediately then sold it in bulk to the British Royal and Merchant Naval fleets. Crews would be served the lime cordial with gin to help ward off scurvy caused by vitamin C deficiency. The gin almost certainly be Plymouth as it’s a gin as liked by the Navy as were their daily tots of rum. The lime drink also gave the British their tag of ‘Limey’.

Nothing stays the same forever, so today I’d go for fresh squeezed limes and a splash of sugar syrup in place of the cordial, but now roughly with the 3:1 mix. I prefer Tanqueray for my gin and most premium brands for my vodka, from Ketel One to Grey Goose and Belvedere. Stay with the rocks and their rattle. I’ll ask Yves, the legendary head barman at Joe Allen what he thinks next time I call by – for me he’s quite one of London’s very best and has been at Joe Allen since the late 70s. He mixes without imposing, without show and with a quiet perfection, hence legendary (www.joeallen.co.uk – +20 7836 0651). Given its clientele over these years, Yves must have mixed drinks for 100′s upon 100′s of genuine celebrities – and he’ll not disclose a word, such is the man.

To Yves, a Gimlet is gin poured onto ice and lime cordial on top, with a squeeze of fresh lime too – then with an identical glass on top he gives it a Boston shake.

Asked when he last served a Gimlet, Yves replied last Sunday. But, he also is more frequently asked for a Gin and Lime – a Gimlet by another name.

I started out to write about the Gimlet and have covered a lot more ground. Art was the original ‘Food Futurist’ and invited me and others onto the flight-deck of his imaginary starship where he encouraged and urged us to look and consider the food we’d be eating 50 years ahead.

We shared ideas, did-you-know’s and I’ve-just-seen’s for 10-12+ years - we sometimes disagreed. I filed regular copy from Europe for the early print version of The Food Channel (founded and financed by one Bob Noble) and I was listed as their London editor – all very dandy and yet I did nothing with it over here. More important to me was Art’s coaching in crafting a piece. He had his style and I had mine, but I’m certain I learned more from him than he ever did from me.

Sad for me which makes me sad for you, my readers, is that I failed to track down any photograph of the man despite a good number of his and my friends trying for me. He’d been a restaurant reviewer for the Kansas City Star earlier in his life and the way of that job is you are always ingognito.  It seems he held onto this and let his words speak for him. You’ll have to paint your own mind picture of Art – one of my photo-scouts said she could hear his quiet, kind and considered voice tone the moment I mentioned his name.

Art and I were also in Portland (Oregon) together en-conference and both fell for the place. Art was Kansas City born and bred. He confided that he was going to up sticks from KC with the family and move full time to Portland directly he could.

That time we’d found the old Benson Hotel – another that’s since undergone a massive refit and expensive make-over – no pictures sadly as they didn’t respond. Sometime soon, as I’ve pleaded before, hotel owners might figure that there’s a market for ‘shabby-chic’.   London’s world famous Savoy Hotel, since the roof to cellars refit, is a shame of near criminal proportions – and I bet few will neither notice, nor care that the Savoy soul has been taken away in the builders’ skips.

Amazing to think Claude Monet painted the Thames from his bedroom window, John Wayne had the American Bar stock his special brand of Tequila and that Frank Sinatra would cross the road to the door in the wall RC church in Maiden Lane for early morning Mass, always leaving a £20 note in the plate as he left (Mary, my first office cleaner and a devout Catholic used to tell me that whenever ‘Mr’ Sinatra had been into ‘her’ church). Noel Coward holding court in the American Bar and just too many more to mention.

Art Siemering never realised his dream of a life in Portland and I’ve never forgotten mine which is why we’ve pitched my writing to The Oregonian, based in that old lumber town that today has more good food and gastronomy per capita than any other American city.

Memories are at the heart of food and drinks. Without what we see, eat and enjoy – that conviviality which good food around an exciting table provokes – the whole thing would be pointless and no more than fuel. Art, me and millions more would agree with that.

The vibrancy of the thought are at the root of Slow Food, just as they are to Blue Collar Gastronomy. I never got to share Blue Collar Gastronomy with Art – he would have loved it for sure.

Art Siemering -1941-2005 – RIP

Credits:

Photos of Hotel San Carlos (Phoenix, Arizona – phone: 001 602 253 4121) from the hotel’s archivist, Augustina’ Porter, who I gratefully thank here for adding the extra magic to this piece and having patience with my repeated requests .

All other photos by Joy Davies, as usual (www.walkwithjoy.com)

 

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Posted in Alcohol, American Dishes, Blue Collar Gastronomy, Cocktails, Food Influencers, Food travel, Margarita, The Gimlet, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

Love Apples, Fakery and Greed

Posted on April 24, 2012 by Gareth

When the tomato was first brought back from the New America’s to Spain – and nearly a century later diplomatically ‘gifted’ to Naples by the Spanish Court - it was thought to be highly decorative, but poisonous. It was a daring courtier who took the first bite – and you could say the Essential Italian Kitchen as we know it was born that day. Naples’ staple would be a sorrowful flatbread without the red topping.

I can think of few foods that oscillate quite so readily between the orgasmic and the ‘orrible. Most we ever eat in Britain fall into the second class. The BBC encouragingly carried a news report just days ago about how tomatoes should never be chilled – what have chefs, cooks, writers and gardeners been saying all these years and has anyone listened? Chilling destroys flavour development – the fruit will never recover.

Supermarkets are beset with their affection for their highly priced ’chill chain’ – some stores are almost too chilly to walk around – even the staff are provided with padded gilets. Just one UK supermarket avoids chilling its tomatoes – Morrison’s. The Co-operative Food contacted me after this post first went out to say they try sell their tomatoes ambient. The big question to both is what about variety and farming. I’ve heard nothing since then.

Let’s concentrate then on the best. First will be home grown – in your garden or on your tiny balcony of your city apartment, but planted and nurtured by you – even if they were 2nd best, you’d probably not admit it. You will have selected a good variety, avoided ‘tomato food’ and been blessed with a sunny summer. As you take the fruit from the vine you should be near overcome with  heady and delicious aroma of ‘tomato’.

You can also strike lucky in the market – around now we sometimes have shipments of bright red, ripe plum tomatoes the size of a large grape from Portugal and southern Spain. I buy 2-3 kilo’s a time – bring them to the boil, gently simmer for 3-4 minutes and then immediately into icy water. Next, I ‘pass’ them through the mouli-legumes -  on finest setting. That is fresh ‘sugo‘ – nothing added whatsoever – no salt, no garlic, no rosemary, nothing – just tomatoes stirred through the pasta, a really generous splash of good E/V olive oil and sprinkled at table with fresh grated Parmesan and black pepper. To be really chic I might pass them a 2nd time through a fine sieve to remove every single seed – Tom, our youngest, will accept no less and this is Supper Numero Uno for him.

So to preserved tomatoes. At the top, naturally enough, are San Marzano DOP tomatoes from Sarnese-Nocerino valleys (Campania), within sight of the still active Mount Vesuvius and a short ride from Pompeii. The fields are rich with volcanic soil. Pomodoro San Marzano DOP can only be sold canned to be certain of the real item. Top chefs across the world rate them as No 1. They’d be right.

A good Italian salumeria (grocer) will sell anything between 15-25 varieties of processed tomato – all will be good, some will be better. You must decide whether you want smooth (passata) or texture, regular or named variety, this region or that……………ask the boss if you’re not sure because each has its place in your kitchen.

Beware of San Marzano tomatoes sold fresh – they can be excellent and could be your own home grown, but most I’ve ever tasted here are thin, poor distant cousins to their meaty parents grown in Campania. Those grown hydroponically are about as bad as it gets.

Never forget, most canned tomatoes with Italian origin are better than any tomato you’ll find fresh in the UK – so make a habit of using them in your cooking.  They are harvested when fully ripe under the relentless, day long Mediterranean sun, sorted and canned within the day. That’s fresher than any ‘fresh’ tomato in the shop.

Tetrapak™ like these Pomí are good for their price; those in glass, like these from Abruzzo, are more expensive and far better. They are less processed due to the glass - Tetrapak sits in the middle and tin cans must be most processed of all. That’s why these smaller cans are always better than the large ‘industrial’ cans as the contents must be sufficiently cooked through to heat to centre of the can – bigger the diameter, the more they’re cooked. Simple really.

The San Marzano DOP tomato is something we must defend – Blue Collar Gastronauts take note – it’s not the first time I’ve mentioned it. Fakes are seized by the hundreds of tonnes by Italian Customs – one haul in late 2010 was valued at a staggering €1.2m. Unless the can carries the official red and yellow DOP roundel and is numbered like a good Italian wine, then you may be buying contraband – see below.

A typical can of DOP San Marzano carries more information on the label than I think I’ve ever, ever witnessed on a tin, from production lot number to an explanation of DOP – right down to the fact the fruits can only be grown in 41 municpalities in Campania – that all beats the dreadful catch-all ’Product of the EU’ does it not? Bravo San Marzano DOP.

The Italian authorities correctly react as fiercely with faked canned tomatoes as they do with the Prada, Louis Vuitton or Fendi handbags sold on their city streets. Remember the original and timeless Gucci snaffle loafer? My oldest pair still in perfect use are +30 years.  They were then made in two factories – one making the left shoe, the other making the right. The Italians know about fakery and contraband.

My food caring neighbours, Chris and Mark, returning from a trip to the north, recently buzzed our door to proudly hand across a can of San Marzano DOP tomatoes they’d found in Booth’s. They’d read my earlier pieces and taken the campaign to heart. How long must we wait for Waitrose to buy Booth’s – it’d be one of their smarter moves?

I’m keeping close to the campaigning against fake San Marzano tomatoes. It’s that important. I promise I’ll post, Facebook and Tweet every time I learn something new. We must care for gems like these – this is Nature that’s not for squandering.  Listen up all you hydroponic and glasshouse merchants, Nature never is to be given 2nd seat.

To learn more now, immediately click on: www.gustiamo.com/pages/truesanmarzano.shtml – and the San Marzano Consortio itself, www.consorziopomodorosanmarzanodop.it

The tomato – the love apple – is the cook’s gift. A can of San Marzano is that and more – a golden gift wrapped in golden paper. Even the cans have an ever so slightly golden sheen.

 

PS: I just learned Sarno – one of the San Marzano production centres that suffered those dreadful and fatal landslides in the late 90s – is twinned with Abergavenny (South Wales) - another good food town with a wonderful covered market. Maybe unimportant, but exciting nonetheless. 

 

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Posted in Basil, Best Pasta, Black Peppercorns, Blue Collar Gastronomy, DOP, French Markets, IGP, Ingredients, Nonna's Cooking, Real Italy, Simple Food, Southern Italy, supermarkets, The Food Business | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

Yesterday I had a Barmaid’s Kiss

Posted on April 21, 2012 by Gareth

As a Welshman with poetic aspiration and an ear for the richesse of language, I have a love of off-beat expression.  Dylan Thomas, my hero, made a lifetime study of listening in on hushed conversions – “as rare as hen’s teeth”, etc. I do same sitting on buses, trains and always having a wide open ear for the one off remark – “you’ll catch your death“, “layols for medlars in bags” and, when asking someone what they are doing, they reply ”painting my bike“.

Yesterday, stopping for a glass of Alsace in my favourite Soho bar (Dylan’s too in his day), the girl serving me poured my drink – then looked at the bottle and seeing barely an inch left, poured the rest into my glass, smiled and then whisphered ”Barmaid’s kiss!”.

This got me thinking. I remembered a note from the wonderful France 24 last autumn - most times many hours ahead of the BBC with their world news – when they published a short guide to French slang – argot – with food connections.

‘Avoir la pêche’ means to be happy or to smile. ‘Avoir un coeur d’artichaud’ means to fall in love easily.

Like the English, they’ll say ‘un vrai navet’ to mean something’s bust, a dud or just plain no good. We all remember The Sun’s front page with similar illustration.

In matters of the illicit affair we might say don’t do something unpleasant on your doorstep – the French say ‘crâcher dans le soupe’, translating literally as ‘spitting in the soup’. Different words, same sentiment.

If some pessimist says ‘fin des haricots’ – translating as ‘the end of the beans’ – he means it’s the end of the world.

In confrontational situations, a Frenchman will delight in ‘mettre de l’eau dans son vin’ because he’s saying someone is backing off a firmly held position in an argument.

A favourite of mine – and one I use at least once a month with some of the spivs I encounter in the food world – I mutter under my breath ‘BOF!’. This takes us back to WW2 and the black market – it references the profiteers, who would offer, at a very high price, ‘beurre, oeufs et fromages’ from outside rationing.

‘Bof’ has moved on – today it applies to those without culture. A French ‘Bof’ is an English ‘chav’. Although, to be fair, a ‘chav’ has very correct origins in Romany language where it means a youngster and is in no way critical.

The French call the British ‘Rosbif‘ – that’s not an insult as such. It simply refers to the traditional ruddy face of an Englishman – said to be from indulging in too much red meat and portwine. The guards at the Tower aren’t called Beefeaters for nothing – remember at least one of the towers is Norman.

In Genoa recently, I was asked if in England we had issue with ‘the mother of the mother’ – I laughed and said that was the basis of most stand-up comedians’ trade.

It’s not all been food, but these expressions are rich in their root. I love them and collect them. ‘Under Milk Wood’ is full of them - treat yourself to the version spoken by the young Richard Burton and you’ll hear the English language at the top, written and performed by Welshmen. The ‘piece for radio’, as Dylan called it, was set in the mythical seaside town of Llareggub – actually Laugharne in real life. Spell Llareggub backwards and you understand the plot.

Bringing it back to food – my mètier – Dylan’s favourite meal at the Boat House in Laugharne or at Brown’s Hotel - was cockles and bacon – and ‘bacon’ is reckoned to be a Welsh word dating back to the Middle Ages to describe cured pig meat – ‘bac-on’.

Another play on words Dylan might have enjoyed, again from Wales, is the toast “here’s to me and my wife’s husband”. I never liked that, nor the way it raised a smug cheer from the weak sorts who stood together at the cocktail parties of my childhood. As the night drew on, my sister and I would put water from the flower vases in their whiskies - and nobody ever noticed.

 

 

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‘Crudo’. The Word to Look For in the Market

Posted on April 16, 2012 by Gareth

March and April are a joy across mainland Europe. After the winter months of living off root vegetables and top crops imported from the Southern Hemisphere, here we go again with our own. Blue Collar Gastronauts wear a particularly broad smile around this time of year, specially when they skip the island and get across to the mainland for the pick of the crops.

In Italy you have only to walk the markets and seek out the tickets which label the produce ‘Crudo‘.  In France seek out ‘Primeurs‘, ‘Tourangelle‘ and anything else indicating what you’re looking at is new season and grown locally. Spain too celebrates almost fortnightly the coming into season of some vegetable, from baby artichokes to the new garlic or wild asparagus (trigueros). Never be afraid to ask where each item is grown – and if it’s been a ‘plane ride away, walk on.

Now is the time for ‘local’ in the genuine sense of the word. In Flanders, their speciality is the hop-shoot – exactly what it says, the shoots from the newly planted hop bines. Fine restaurants served just a tablespoonful at a price that waters the eyes as much as delighting the palate. I’ve bought them frozen from chefs and they stood up well – not as good as fresh, but with such a short season, worth the €20 for probably around 250g – that was a few years ago so I can’t be certain of the price per kilo.

What I’m saying is that mainland Europe is alive with Springtime foods. This island is not.

Italy’s market tickets which state ’Crudo’ means the broad beans, peas or artichokes are so young and tender, they are best eaten raw. Just as in summer it’s normal to see an immaculately dressed middle aged man walking across the piazza with an ice cream in a cone, in Spring the same person can be found walking along with a friend or two opening and eating broad beans or peas ‘crudo’ in the street.

At home these delicacies need no more than a simple dressing of the freshest lemon juice and E/V olive oil finished with a sprinkle of sea salt – fleur de sel when you can find it. Bread is almost too heavy, so go for the best grissini (bread sticks) you can find, using the stick to help push the produce onto your fork. Master this and you’re on your way to bella figura – the elegant Italian way with everything.

White asparagus has now been with us for nearly a month in Europe. Pure white, or violet tipped, these spears work their way across Europe from the market gardens of the Loire (‘Tourangelle), through Belgium, German, Italy and Switzerland. As they can coincide with the last of the Sicilian blood oranges, serve them with a red/orange Sauce Maltaise – a kind of Hollandaise let down with the juices of freshly squeezed blood oranges – classic, old fashioned and wonderful for that. We like our asparagus brushed with a 50:50 mix of lemon juice and E/V olive oil and set under a hot grill for a few minutes a side.

Most asparagus benefits from being peeled, but that’s just my personal view. Beware of forced varieties – English green has been around since March – their season is traditionally end-April to June 21st.

Another favourite preparation is the Belgian kitchen’s ’Liègeoise-style’ – meaning dousing the cooked asparagus in sieved warm sweetcream (Doux) butter, then sprinkling liberally with soft cooked and chopped boiled eggs – more elegant still as a mimosa (the much finer chopped egg white and yolks which resemble the mimosa which is in bloom across the South of France around now). Warm butter and running yolks of best eggs makes for a Heavenly construct. Blue Collar Gastronauts stand to attention at this point.

One tip (no pun intended) with asparagus is to hold the cut end and snap away the larger upper end – the spear will break at just the point where it becomes woody. Clever that. If you’ve a lot of spears, then use the trimmings for a stock – being careful not to over-cook (40-50 minutes should do it – drain immediately). This is then your base for soup, risotto or a sauce. Both fish and poultry are classmates with asparagus.

Steamed is good too; and poached, but here beware of going a second too long or you will loose the texture and end up with a perfect replica of canned white asparagus. All fresh asparagus, white, violet or English green, benefits from being served al-dente.

In Northern Italy, specially the Veneto, they go one further with their artichokes – they search out the ‘castraure’ – there is just one per plant and the term means, literally, ‘taken out from’. It doesn’t take a linguistic genius to see the root of the word either – trebles all round as they say.

Without removing this single tiny head, the plant won’t flourish, but by their exclusivity, their price is accordingly high.  For me they are the baby artichoke of the restaurant, not the stuff of home cooking. An anti-pasti plate of 5/6 castraure will cost any up to and beyond 20-25 Euros a plate, so you know you are dining on something very fine and special here.

In Spain, they are sought after as a tapa, finely sliced and quickly flash fried ‘alla plancha’ – or they make up the Valenciana’s Springtime arroz – the Paella Verde – a splendid rice flavoured with all the new green vegetables you can find – even young spinach is fried off and formed into rounds the size of a plum and set to cook around the edge of the paella. The white rice becomes oddly coloured to a dark, murky green, but the flavour sings out – it would be one of my favourite arroces.

Tapas bars make much too of rations of broad beans with new garlic, peas with panchetta (pronounced in Spain as if the middle ‘ch’ was a ‘th’) and more.

The best of minestrone’s come around now too – made only with a fine dice of fresh vegetables and water – no chicken or meat stock added. A spoon of Pesto alla Genovese just gilds our lily to make certain everyone knows Springtime is here. Across the frontier from Liguria and into Provence, they have a very similar ‘golden moment’ called pistou.

So where are all these delights in this country? They were in Boulogne Market last week, so why can’t they make the short trip across the 21 miles of Channel to shops and markets here?

Instead there are shelled peas and haricot beans flown in year round from Kenya. When peas and broad beans arrive most are already floury because they’ve stayed in the distribution system too long, or the producer has waited unduly so as to get heavier weight for his crop. The result every way is a floury pea or bean.

One British retailer who is proud to have become one of this country’s largest pea growers, has developed a pea that when freshly podded tastes almost identical to a frozen pea – I’d swear they’ve been bathed in sugar syrup before sale. Worse is they are swanky about their achievement. Sugar sweet is not the flavour of peas – and never, ever accept recipes which tell you frozen peas and beans are ‘just as good – indeed ‘fresher’ – than the genuine article. No, no and no again – an un-truth if ever there was.

Best buy your fresh peans and beans from someone you trust – and don’t be shy to ask to taste before you buy. Walk past pre-podded plastic bags – these vegetables are at their peak when podded and eaten either raw – ‘crudo’ – or simply prepared, as in a classic Venetian ‘Risi e Bisi’. You’ll find the technique in a piece I wrote around this time in 2011.

‘Risi e Bisi’ is somewhere between a risotto and a soup – so much so it is often served in a soup plate with a spoon, rather than on a dinner plate with fork as for a risotto. The more peas, the better the dish. The technique is essentially a lazy risotto – that is, you don’t need to work the rice as hard.

We are told there is no stomach for white asparagus over here, so we must wait until the green varieties appear next month – one food writer in the UK even wrote that white asparagus was no more than bleached green – not true I’m afraid, not true.  Seems crazy to me – both have their place as one is as different to the other as an apple from a pear. When the genuine, unforced green ‘grass does arrive next month, seek out farms who sell direct – they will grade their spears, so you’ll be able to find the immature ‘sprue’ which are really special which quickly shown the sauté pan and stirred into beaten eggs for a revueltos. They also match spaghetti, so break each stem into a bite sized piece and cook in the pasta water for the last 2 minutes – drain and serve with either E/V olive oil or good butter.  Fresh ground black pepper is not an option here.

Buying off the farm means you’ll pay a more realistic price, they’ll be fresh cut that morning and you can be more adventurous in the kitchen. A soup of asparagus becomes an affordable luxury because you’ll need a good 2 kilo’s to feed 6 people. Most farms sell ‘mis-shapen’ spears which are manna to the home cook.

I love this time.  Hope is in the air. New season’s produce gives the diner a sense of pure well-being – and we have only more to look forward to. If you are travelling to mainland Europe anytime soon, leave space in your suitcase to visit the local market the morning you return home. Nobody there will prevent you tasting – indeed you’ll be encouraged to do so. Rarely there will any trader serve you dud goods off the back of their stall either. Smile, show interest, ask questions and engage. You’ll come home with bounty.

Londoners have one route out here. Find your way to a good Lebanese grocer – there are plenty around the capital. These people care for ‘crudo’ and so sell fine new season produce too.

I promise to give green asparagus a good airing when it genuinely arrives, even though my ‘grass of choice would always be white and violet-tipped when we can find it – across the Channel I’m afraid unless I’m asked a ridiculous premium for my right to enjoy the season’s best. Goodness, it makes me mad.

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Chicken News. ‘Eggs on Legs’ and More

Posted on April 13, 2012 by Gareth

‘Could try harder’ was a repeating phrase in my school reports.  It applies to the +£1 billion pa British chicken business too. Where some are trying specially hard, others patently are lagging behind. At risk of appearing to over-simplify, let me explain the bigger picture.

This centres on biosecurity – a term that came to the fore with repeated problems with salmonella in the 80s. Bird ‘Flu – avian influenza – sharpened the role and created plenty new jobs and heaps of work for testing laboratories, technologists and their ilk. More hype and expense as bird ‘flu never arrived – and never would - because it’s tranferred to us humans only when we breathe in the breath of a diseased chicken – in other words cock-fighting (popular in the Far East), or having chickens as pets for the children to play with at close quarters, also popular in villages in Thailand, Vietnam, etc.

I’m not saying there’s no need to ensure food is safe – it’s a fundamental right of the person buying it at the end of the food chain.  But if they pay pennies, they can only expect what they get. There is no such thing as cheap food – I’ll explain why another day.

Most times – you read right, most times – opting for the cheapest on the shelf buys you one of the millions of Eggs on Legs sold weekly in this country. These are hybrids, genetically manipulated (not ‘modified’) over decades to convert feed into meat ever faster – see the damp and flabby speicimen on the right above – the bird on the right is a Poulet Noir breed, commonplace in French supermarkets and no more costly than a free range hybrid over here.

What’s shocking is that the 35 day old chicken in this base category is becoming a rarity – most are around or close to 30 days – in old money, that’s but a month from an egg hatching to a chicken on the table.

Enormous strides have been made to limit the spread of salmonella.  The Which? sample found only 1.5% in their recent sample of 192 birds. Listeria was a more worrying 4.0% because listeria a far more serious issue, particularly if contracted by the very young, old, sick or poorly.

One very smart food scientist I know once told me if you can’t find trace of listeria in a food plant, kitchen or any other premises where food is prepared, then you are not looking hard enough. It’s there whatever you try to do.

Testing like this costs enormous sums of money and ultimately we pay the bill. Campylobacter has reared its head because £millions have been spent on a research and eradication programme these last 8-10 years.  The Food Standards Agency has made it one of their missions in their current term. The FSA is never slow in crowing about its achievements, so that too needs viewing with both our eyes wide shut.

The big issue with chicken, unlike any other meat, is we only eat it under-cooked by accident. Even fashionable sushi bars have steered clear of chicken sashimi.

One of Belgium’s finest Grand Mâitres, Chef Rudi de Volder, of the acclaimed T’convent restaurant in West Flanders (00 32 57 40 07 71), reared his own birds for a few years. He’s a culinary adventurer, because he also has succeeded in growing the precious melanosporum black truffle on his land adjoining the restaurant. He fed his pure breed birds on a 7 cereal diet – and so confident was Rudi that his birds were clear of any of the usual diseases encouraged by industrial food production, he made  Carpaccio of Chicken Breast a highlight on his daily menu.  He never, ever had a problem – my partner, stopping by on her way through to meet me in Brussels, had the famous T’convent chicken carpaccio when she was several months pregnant.

Rudi was right because these diseases are about numbers. Large scale livestock production is rarely, if ever, without disease. That we always eat chicken cooked through, so rarely are cases of poisoning reported.  When they are, they are inevitably down to slovenly kitchen practices.

The best is always the best – and Bresse is up at the top. Breeder, Thierry Desmaris, seen here with a roulé Bresse AOC chicken at the recent Paris Salon – these birds were prepared specially for the show – normally they are only ever presented en-roulé for Christmas. Aiming for the top has always driven me more than the race to the bottom so loved by cut throats in the food business.

So my readers, don’t be caught in the hype surrounding these dreadful and fearfully sounding conditions. Just make sure you cook your chicken well – not over-cooked please, just well enough so the juices run clear and not pink.

More important is to walk away from cheap chicken – the Eggs on Legs. Vow to never buy one again. Instead buy something else and wait until you can afford the few pounds more for a free range chicken with at least 70 days life before arriving in your kitchen.

I am confident we will have Poulet Fermier birds in this country in the not too far off future – these will be a minimum of 84 days, pure breeds and reared outdoors on a guaranteed non-GMO diet – almost certainly Label Rouge certified too (see label above). I’m close to my favourite poultry co-operative – Loué in Normandy – and working to this end.

Spend more and you get more. Always look for pure breeds, they are the ones with the long legs and raised breast bone – a shape more like a Guinea fowl than a Grade A British chicken, complete with its sad little Red Tractor and all the rest of the ‘campaign decorations’ – or ‘bullcorn’ as Dell Gribble would rightly say.

I am passionate about speciality poultry so ask me any questions you wish and I’ll get you straightforward answers – not the weasel responses from those with an interest in being sparing with their words. Push me and I’ll name names.

Like I said before, if you feel lured by price to buy an Egg on Legs – I can’t imagine why – then take the fresh route and enjoy an omelette made with genuine free range eggs and some fine butter, preferably churned (en baratte) from unpasteurised full cream milk – what the French call Beurre Cru.

As Blue Collar Gastronauts we have to nail this downwards drift to Egg on Legs. No cooking method, nor sauce has been created that can transform these miserable short legged, blousy breasted birds into anything approaching a feast – and to Blue Collar Gastronauts, every meal is a feast for which we are thankful.

And don’t try Rudi de Volder’s Chicken Carpaccio at home either. He wouldn’t be pleased to hear you’d done that.

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L’Aubrac – The Steack to now Seek and Eat

Posted on April 7, 2012 by Gareth

Aveyron is an inland department in south central France.  When I first went there to stay with a family in Decazeville, it was one of the very poorest of the French regions, along with the Ardeche and l’Herault, but they’ve all three caught up these past 30-40 years.  It was also the adopted home of thousands of Spanish families who fled their Civil War in the 30s.

Now it’s Hail l’Averyron because, Blue Collar Gastronauts, we’ve found some rather special beef that’s already making its name in Paris and other major cities in France.  There’s a lively breed society in the south of Ireland, who I’ve spoken with, but this delicious meat is yet to land in London as far as I can find out. The French retailers are most keen we understand and appreciate the breed of beef that’s being sold, hence this new logo.

Take note please, I’m forecasting the L’Aubrac breed will become the beef of choice for anyone who chooses to eat red meat no more than once a week – and probably less – so it follows they want a steak or joint that’s truly special. I’d go as far as to label L’Aubrac as feasting meat.

Relatively speaking, the L’Aubrac is a new comer for its meat. The first herdbook was opened in 1893 and the breed was then a dairy animal, with the young male calves going for veal. The cows produced the first choice milk to make cheeses like Laguiole and Tomme d’Auvergne for this is also the region for the beautiful Laguiole (pronounced ‘Lay-ol’) knives.

In the past these knives were the everyday workman’s blade carried by the shepherds and farmers who would use the tiny cross on the handle (see below) for their daily prayers when they were away from home for weeks at a time tending their animals on the high summer pasture.

The region being poor and work hard to find, many of the young men migrated to Paris to seek employment, specially after WW2.  Being short of skills, their metier was to work in bars and restaurants.  This in turn led to the makers of the Laguiole knives to add a corkscrew. Not only did the young Aveyronnais barmen and waiters have a useful, beautifully crafted tool, but as they used it every day it was a reminder of their homeland.

Today Laguiole products are faked in China by the million, so beware if you are wanting the real thing. I’ve already warned on this last year. Even stores that should know better are selling boxes of 6 steak knives with contemporary garishly coloured handles.

Being hardy, meaning being able to stay outdoors the year round, is the mark of a good beef breed and the ‘L’Aubrac certainly is just that.  Good pasture is the root of good beef – it’s as simple as that. This is why they move the cattle to graze their summers on the high pasture – this grass is rich in flowers and other herbage which give the milk a floral note. The Italians call it burro d’Alpi.  They, like the French and Swiss, revere the milk from these pastures for any number of cheeses.

Good husbandry, with plentiful great pasture coupled with the breed makes for good eating beef. The L’Aubrac didn’t take off as a beef breed until the 1950s.  Since then, the farmers have carefully bred the animals for their carcase conformation – often crossing a L’Aubrac female with a Charolais bull (seen here in all its magnificence). When these prized beasts are allowed to grow to full term – around 30 months, the become known as the Fleur de l’Aubrac. Sadly the authorities in England won’t permit this as they are yet to withdraw the ruling brought in with the BSE scare (yet again pressing the panic button before finding evidence and facts).

With all good farming regimes in place, we must then have careful ageing – that means hanging the whole half carcase from the back leg in a chill room for a minimum of 28 days, but another 7-14  days won’t go amiss either.

Genuine ageing does not mean sweating boned-out muscles in a heavy duty, industrial plastic vac-pack – please note.  Ask your butcher how long and by what method his beef is aged – remembering that sub-standard beef in a bag won’t improve any too much, however long they keep it. Best they keep it for ever – and don’t sell it.

You’ll find many wholesalers unsurprisingly reluctant to answer your question whilst looking you straight in the eye. The man at the supermarket butchery counter just won’t know what you are talking about – I know only one British supermarket that genuinely know their meat – shocking really.

In Paris a week or two ago,  I noted a clear trend emerging with L’Aubrac listed by breed on menu’s in medium to higher priced restaurants. Over a dinner in Genoa when I was there last month, one of the other guests was 50:50 Aveyronnais/Hungarian – she enthused about the breed and urged me to visit the restaurant Chardenoux des Prés where Cyril Lignac cooks to Michelin standards. He makes much of L’Aubrac as he hails from Rodez where the French breed society is based. Check him on www.cyrillignac.com.

The herdbook might of only begun in the late 1800s, but the breed traces itself back  another 100 years or more to the 17th century where the animals were raised and selectively bred by Benedictine monks in the Aveyron – they would take in and feed the pilgrims on their way to Santiago di Compostela with the famous Laguiole cheese made from L’Aubrac milk.

Given my first experiences of good food and cooking were in the Aveyron as a young teenager, I have an interest that’s lingered for that region’s produce – charcuterie, cheeses, chestnuts, game, meat, charcuterie and more. If you’ve not tasted l’aligot – a local mix of potato purée (replacing the original staled bread soaked in milk), garlic and fresh tomme cheese, then time’s come to go hunting some out (check out www.jeune-montagne-aubrac.fr) .

L’Aubrac cattle are large without being huge +6′ beasts like a Charolais or a Hereford – more the size of a Black Angus, but with a better defined back muscle conformation. They have curly dark brown coats, straight horns (no hideous de-horning here) and a rugged, kind looking white face. The eyes are soulful.  I know that’s all a bit romantic when I am talking up their meat, but in France, animals are loved and cherished,  but nobody forgets their end is to delight a diner. Breeds succeed when people eat the meat – whether it’s a chicken or a steer.

Lent though it was when I was last in Paris, after my Tête de Veau moment in LIPP, I strayed a step further for a fine Steack Tartare made from L’Aubrac filet. Let’s say then I’ve tasted it raw and never cooked. If it’s as good cooked as it was cru then I’m all for the L’Aubrac’s arrival.

Tasting beef raw is your best guide to quality – colour only misleads, as surfaces naturally oxidise when cut and within 20 minutes they can turn from cherry red to a darker hue. Beware of supermarkets who continue to use pink lamps in their chiller cabinets to flatter the red meat.

My friend Albert, the son of a traditional Cheshire butcher, recently told me you knew when a carcase was ready to sell when you could put your forefinger into the sirloin. Don’t try that in your local shop, be it butcher or supermarket.

Farmers at SIA (Paris) told me that there’s also a healthy and increasing demand for the best conformed L’Aubrac bulls for export. In the Irish Republic they already have a lively Aubrac Breed Society – they really appreciate the special characteristics of the breed. Ireland has been rearing the L’Aubrac since 2007 – the full story can be found by contacting info@aubrac.ie. I’m told that the Aubrac breed is now exported to 15 countries worldwide.

Why not ask for L’Aubrac when you’re next out to eat a steak – encourage the restaurant to look into serving this beef. Likewise any independent butchers you visit. London’s Smithfield Market is well connected with Rungis (Paris) and trucks roll between the two on a near daily trip, so we could be enjoying L’Aubrac here sometime soon.

If you’re passing by the Aveyron in May, make a date to visit the transhumance festival. This is when they move the milk cows on to the higher pasture for the summer.  It’s a big celebration locally and all are invited to taste, feast, dance and sing. On Sunday, May 27 in the Village d’Aubrac, at the Dejeuner Montagnard you’ll be served local charcuterie, L’Aubrac (cooked over an open wood fire) with Aligot, special artisan cheeses, tarte et café - with AOC Marcillac wine – all for an affordable 24 Euro p/person. Details: www.traditionsenaubrac.com

I bet my last Euro that there’ll be few there other than Aveyronnais so you’ll be sure of a very special experience of real France. I might even be lucky to get there myself – watch this space.

Vive l’Aveyron et vive Les Fleurs de l’Aubrac. It’s not true you must have a genuine Laguiole steak knife to cut the meat – but it sure adds to the enjoyment, specially if it has a polished horn handle.  As we know, life is a circle. Salut.

 

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Cruel Chocolate

Posted on April 3, 2012 by Gareth

It’s not the chocolate that’s cruel, it’s me, your writer.  This being chocolate’s big week for sales and I am writing about two extraordinary chocolate varieties which you’ll not be able to find unless a) you’re amidst the excitement that is Marseille, or b) passing through elegant Angers.

For those of you who are in neither place, opt for Lindt (& Sprungli’s) chocolate. Available just about everywhere and the best in class for the price. Their milk chocolate reigns supreme due to their unique ‘conching’ process which gives Lindt milk chocolate its finesse of taste because the cocoa is gently milled down to the ‘N’ thousandth’s of microns. Many of their moulds are original and date back to the 30s.

Google Lindt and read their history – I promise there’s nothing cheap or murky about Lindt.  They hold high values at great height, like the giant mountains that surround them. The Swiss, in their characteristic attention to absolute detail, insist in law that for chocolate to be labelled ‘Swiss Milk’ it can only be made from full cream milk from Swiss cows grazing in Switzerland. There are no fakes possible.

My two artisanal chocolate makers – chocolatiers - are also splendid – one being quite my all time favourite since I fell on them in a food fair in Paris about six years ago.

This is L’Espérantine de Marseille – makers of a 72% pure cocoa chocolate made with Extra Virgin olive oil – and unique for this alone. Their range is tightly controlled – only the essential and nothing frivolous or wasteful. This is a core brand value for ‘Espérantine’ from the French verb espérer meaning to hope.

Stop for a moment and we remember that olive oil was a natural partner to cocoa since it was first discovered  in the America’s by the Spanish – sauces based on, or finished with, butter were only possible in dairy rich regions. It seems to me only right then that the Espérantine marriage of olive oil and cocoa should come about in another of the world’s greatest port cities, Marseille.

This they manifest with a range based on the olive branch, leaf and fruit – in green and black.

At risk of telling my readers what they already know – for the few that don’t – a ripe olive is black and one that’s not quite ready is green – regardless of variety.  There are as many varieties of olive as there are grapes – and aside from the horrid hoja blanca from southern Spain, that country’s ‘industrial’ olive,  most as far as I know are pure strains even to this day.

L’Espérantine still sell only through selected food stores, food fairs and by mail - no supermarkets, no petrol stations, indeed nowhere that would lessen the magic of their brand. L’Espérantine is pure chic without even a hint of pretence.

They showed me their newest idea at the Salon d’Agricole in Paris recently.  It was a tiny cellophane bag containing a green olive leaf and a few green and black ’olives’ – these have a clever little tag to affix a name. They sell in lots of 50, 100, 200 and more for weddings in France – a world famous symbol of peace and hope for the new couple. Truly delightful and very much the style of the company.

They arrived on the scene in 1999, and were awarded France’s renowned ‘Cordon Bleu’ the following year, 2000, for the ‘best confectionery of the year’.  Theirs is a 72% cocoa chocolate, made with Provençal E/V olive oil – and then filled with almonds, candied orange peel and mint.Each ingredient has meaning – each speaks of the Mediterannean.

The original L’Espérantine Boutique is to be found at no 15 rue des Vignerons, 13006 Marseille – all this and more, including mail order, on www.esperantine-de-marseille.com.

If I get to Marseille as I’ve been promised later this year – to taste the up-coming chefs new takes on the Bouillabaisse – be sure I’ll be into the Espérantine boutique to visit this wonderful, always smiley team led for me by Melissa Ingretolli.

Next back north to Angers (Loire) - a first time discovery at this year’s Salon in Paris. Blue chocolate that’s entirely natural with the indigo blue colour coming from the edible indigo flower – said to be one of the world’s most expensive natural dyes. These are Les Quernons d’Ardoise – blue chocolate, nougatine filled (caramelised praline of almonds and hazelnuts) croquants which resemble the original blue slates on the old roofs of Angers and the surrounding towns. Le Quernon d’Ardoise began its life in 1966.

‘Sur le toit de la gourmandise’ is their claim – translating poorly into ‘rooftop temptations’ making it sound more like a down market box of 80s English ’veggelates’, than the fine, gastronomic item that is Le Quernon d’Ardoise.

I could say it too should become the symbol of Blue Collar Gastronomy – we’ll certainly source them and L’Espérantine when we start holding dinners to spread the word. They too will sell off the internet – www.quernon.com. They are also award winning, taking the Ruban Bleu International in 1990.

Both these chocolatiers have a common calm and are confident in their shoes – Lindt is the same. What’s gone wrong with so many of the others, many of whom had wonderful Quaker roots? I think we know the answer – the founders pass on and greed coupled with not a care for quality takes over. That’s the industrial food business all over.

Stay where you feel excellence reigns.  That’s Blue Collar Gastronomy to a ‘T’.

Bonne Fête – Joyeuse Pacques. The coming Easter Feast on Sunday is still a long way off.

 

 

 

 

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Posted in Archaeology and Food, Blue Collar Gastronomy, Citrus Fruit, French Regional Foods | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment