Good Things

Introduction

Introduction

This is not a manual of cookery, but a book about enjoying food. Few of the recipes in it will contribute much to the repertoire of those who like to produce dinner for 6 in 30 minutes flat. I think food, its quality, its origins, its preparation, is something to be studied and thought about in the same way as any other aspect of human existence.

Anyone who likes to eat, can soon learn to cook well. Such a range of cookery books can now be bought for a few shillings in paperback, from the basic Penguin Cookery Book by Bee Nilson, to the best and most stimulating of them all, French Provincial Cooking by Elizabeth David, that there’s no reason for not eating deliciously—and simply—all the time. So why don’t we? After all, in the eighteenth century our food was the envy of Europe. Why isn’t it now?

There are many reasons for this, social and historical as well as agricultural and psychological. For a start we’re so used to eating, why take trouble? There are enough frozen and packaged foods about for even the worst cook to keep her family alive without them noticing how little skill she really has. Intelligent housewives feel they’ve a duty to be bored by domesticity. A fair reaction to dusting and bedmaking perhaps, but not, I think, to cooking. The great chef Carême had the right idea when he wrote, ‘From behind my ovens I regard the cooking of India, China, of Germany and Switzerland, I feel the ugly edifice of routine crumbling beneath my hands.’

This is not to say that I resist deep frozen and canned and packaged food. I think we should be thankful for being relieved of the famines and inconvenience that the seasons used to bring to so many communities. I have no patience with food puritanism of that kind (though I do wonder why the run of frozen food is not better—why so many tasteless sliced beans, when one could have haricots verts?).

Having said this, and being always grateful for the background of an unfailing larder, I feel that delight lies in the seasons and what they bring us. One does not remember the grilled hamburgers and frozen peas, but the strawberries that come in May and June straight from the fields, the asparagus of a special occasion, kippers from Craster in July and August, the first lamb of the year from Wales, in October the fresh walnuts from France where they are eaten with new cloudy wine. This is good food. The sad thing is that, unless we fight, and demand, and complain, and reject, and generally make ourselves thoroughly unpopular, these delights may be unknown to our great-grandchildren. Perhaps even to our grandchildren. It is certainly more convenient with growing populations, to freeze the asparagus and strawberries straight from the ground, to dye and wrap the kippers in plastic, to import hard, red frozen lamb from New Zealand, and to push the walnuts straight into drying kilns. It is easier to put no seasoning to speak of into a sausage—it offends nobody, everybody buys it. This is the theory. We’re back to the primitive idea of eating to keep alive.

When one thinks of the civilization implied in the development of peaches from the wild fruit, or of apricots, grapes, pears, plums, when one thinks of those millions of gardeners from ancient China right across Asia and the Middle East to Rome, then across the Alps north to France, Holland and England of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, how can we so crassly, so brutishly, reduce the exquisite results of their labour to cans full of syrup and cardboard-wrapped blocks of ice. These gardeners were concerned to grow a better-tasting fruit or vegetable, a larger and more beautiful one too, but mainly a better-tasting one. Would they believe us if we told them that now tomatoes are produced to regular size and regular shape, that only two or three kinds of potato are regularly on sale, that peas taste like mealy bullets? It’s odd that we should have clung on to traditions that hardly matter—beefeaters, Swiss guards, monarchies, the paraphenalia of the past—and forgotten the true worth of the past, the long labouring struggle to learn to survive as well and as gracefully as possible.

I do get the impression, though, that people begin to see the problem. The encouragement of fine food is not greed or gourmandise; it can be seen as an aspect of the anti-pollution movement in that it indicates concern for the quality of environment. This is not the limited concern of a few cranks. Small and medium-sized firms, feeling unable to compete with the cheap products of the giants, turn to producing better food. A courageous pig-breeder in Suffolk starts a cooked pork shop in the high charcuterie style. People in many parts of the country run restaurants specializing in locally produced food, salmon from the Tamar, laver and sewin from the Welsh sea, snails from the Mendips, venison from the moors of Inverness. I notice in the grocers’ shops in our small town, the increasing appearance of bags of strong flour, wholemeal and scofa meal, and the prominence given to eggs direct from the farm.

Many families, not just the housewife, now do the cooking between them, and enjoy a protracted sociable meal as an opportunity for talking and discussing with an enthusiasm that was not encouraged at dinner parties thirty years ago. Cooking something delicious is really much more satisfactory than painting pictures or throwing pots. At least for most of us. Food has the tact to disappear, leaving room and opportunity for masterpieces to come. The mistakes don’t hang on the walls or stand on the shelves to reproach you for ever. It follows from this that kitchens should be thought of as the centre of the house. They need above all space for talking, playing, bringing up children, sewing, having a meal, reading, sitting and thinking. One may have to walk about a bit, but where’s the harm in that? Everything will not be shipshape, galley-fashion, but it’s in this kind of place that good food has flourished. It’s from this secure retreat that the exploration of man’s curious and close relationship with food, beyond the point of nourishment, can start.

I should like to thank Elizabeth David, and John Thompson, until recently editor of the Observer Colour Magazine: they first gave me the opportunity of writing the chapters which follow. Then I should like to thank the many friends and readers who have sent me recipes and information, in particular Mrs Farida Abu-Haidar of Highgate; Mrs Bobby Freeman who ran the Compton House Hotel at Fishguard; Mr Paul Leyton who runs the Miner’s Arms at Priddy in Somerset; Mrs Mary Norwak of the Farmer’s Weekly; Mrs B. M. Round of Lardy in the Essonne; Mrs Charlotte Sawyer of Woodsville, New Hampshire; Mrs Ann Irving of Littleton, Massachusetts; Mrs Tao Tao Sanders of Oxford who has given me the Chinese recipes in this book. Signor Adragna of the Italian Institute for Foreign Trade; Mr Jack of Preston-next-Wingham in Kent; Mr Paske of Kentford in Suffolk; Mr D. Ritchie of Rothesay, Bute; and Mr K. L. Robson of Craster in Northumberland, have all replied patiently to my requests for information. Mr Hopkins of Macfisheries in the Parade at Swindon, and Mr Erland of Baxter’s (Butchers) Ltd, of Wootton Basseti, have continually and amiably produced special orders at short notice.

My thanks are also due to the following publishers and authors who have allowed me to quote from their works: Thomas Nelson & Sons Limited, for a quotation from A Book Of Middle Eastern Food by Claudia Roden; Hamish Hamilton Limited, for a quotation from Gourmet’s Basic French Cook Book by Louis Diat; Martin, Secker & Warburg Limited, for a quotation from Earthly Paradise by Colette; Oxford University Press, for a quotation from The Pillow Book of Sei Shonagon translated and edited by Ivan Morris, and to the author’s Literary Estate and Chatto & Windus Limited, for a quotation from Anatomy of Dessert by Edward Bunyard.

Last and most important of all, I should like to say thank you to my family and friends. They have endured carrots and sweetbreads or whatever it might be, for twelve and fifteen meals at a stretch; they have sometimes been confronted with three or four versions of a dish at one meal. Their comments have always been interested, and usually polite. Of my friends, I owe most to Mrs Marjorie White; without her help, adaptability and kindness, I should never have had the time to write a word of this book.

Fish

Kippers and other Cured Fish

Over the centuries we have developed various ways of curing and keeping the herring, that splendid northern fish which Shakespeare’s contemporary Thomas Nashe—loyal to his East Anglia—grandly and comically called the ‘Semper Augustus of the sea’s finny freholders’. Our best and longest known forms are the red herring, the bloater, and the kipper—in that order of seniority.

Yarmouth, the great herring centre since the Middle Ages, founded its wealth first of all on the long-keeping, long-cured red herring. Smoked after days in brine, until very red and fairly dry, this was the ultra-strong-flavoured herring which we used to eat especially in Lent. Red herring is worth trying as an hors d’œuvre. The trouble is to get hold of one—even in Yarmouth, which has produced red herrings for centuries, but now sends all or most of them abroad to the Mediterranean, Africa, the West Indies and South America.

I’ve tried to get red herrings from leading food departments of London stores. They thought I was being funny, but you may be lucky in finding red herrings in a Cypriot delicatessen, or in a district where West Indians do their shopping. In the end you will probably have to write to the fountain head of supply, Henry Sutton’s of Great Yarmouth. The red herrings they export to the eastern Mediterranean are soaked and cut into strips and eaten as hors d’œuvre or appetiser. Sometimes they’re served on dry bread, as an accompaniment to Greek bean soup. Sutton’s still cure a black herring, the ultimate in hardness, almost brittle. It’s much in demand in very hot difficult climates such as the West Indies, Africa and South America, because it will keep almost indefinitely without refrigeration. Black and red herrings used to be slave fodder, they still tend to go to the poorer populations of these countries.

The bloater, unsplit, soft and plump (i.e. ‘bloated’—it used to be called the ‘bloat herring’) we seem to have been eating for some 400–500 years. It is lightly salted and lightly smoked for flavour rather than long keeping. This light style of curing has been developed in Holland; and in France, where one buys the most succulent harengs saurs or bouffis, which means precisely ‘bloaters’.

Then comes the kipper, first produced—or so it is said—on the Northumbrian coast early in the nineteenth century, split, soaked in brine, and smoked on tenterhooks for 10–20 hours.

Some ordinary kippers are passable, I would agree. But if you really want to know what a kipper should taste like, luscious and bland, the surest way is to order them from kipperers at Craster (L. Robson & Sons, Craster, Alnwick, Northumberland); on Loch Fyne (Ritchie Bros, 37 Watergate, Rothesay, Bute); or on the Isle of Man (T. Moore & Sons, Mill Road, Peel). Such small kippering establishments choose the best and fattest herring at their peak (from June to October), they smoke them properly over oak fires, and they do not colour them by adding dye to the brine. One kipperer of the splendid Lock Fyne herrings told me sadly and sarcastically that the big firms are ‘turning kippers all into painted ladies’.

A good kipper won’t be thin and skimpy or dyed (to the colour of an old mahogany commode). It will be silvery brown. It will still be in possession of its head, tail and backbone. And, full of its own fat, it won’t need to be sold with pats of butter.

The good kipper is one of this country’s worthy contributions to fine food. That indifferent kippers should now dominate the fish counter strikes me as a minor national disgrace. But then we so often lack piety towards our best things.

Kippers for breakfast

Everyone has a favourite way of cooking kippers, but it’s worth trying a new method sometimes, even if breakfast does not seem the right meal for experiments. There are only two rules to observe: don’t overcook them, and don’t add butter until they are served, as good kippers cook in their own juice.

Jugged kippers are my favourite for breakfast. Put them, head down, into a 2–3 pint stoneware jug. Pour boiling water on to them straight from the kettle (as if you were making tea), right up to their tails. Leave in a warm place for 5–10 minutes, drain well and serve. They can be laid in a roasting tin, instead of a jug, but this is dangerous as the boiling water slops about if one makes a careless, half-awake movement.

Baked kippers. Wrap them loosely in kitchen foil. Bake for 10–15 minutes in a moderately hot oven. This saves washing up.

Grilled kippers. (1) Place the kippers skin side up on a piece of foil on the grill rack. Grill gently for 5 minutes until the skin is deliciously crisp, not charred. (2) Jug the kippers for 2 minutes, then grill for 2 minutes on each side.

Fried kippers. Grease the frying pan lightly with butter, just enough to prevent the kippers sticking and no more (unnecessary with a nonstick pan). Fry gently for 2–3 minutes on each side.

Whether grilled, fried, baked or jugged, eat the kippers with plenty of bread and butter. Lemon quarters, pats of butter or parsley butter can be served as well.

Kippers with scrambled egg (for 4)

A good dish for late Sunday breakfasts that merge into lunch. Try it too as an hors d’œuvre, or in sandwiches. The kippers can be cooked or not, as you please. The main thing to notice is the use of garlic—Escoffier’s idea—which enhances the flavour of the eggs without stridency.

The best garlic to use is the fat, white, juicy kind imported from France.

2 kippers

6 eggs

3 oz butter

large clove garlic

salt, pepper

buttered toast

Divide the cooked or uncooked kippers into large flakes, or strips. Beat the eggs for five minutes with a fork stuck firmly into the clove of garlic. Season with salt and pepper. Melt the butter in a thick pan over a low heat, pour in the eggs through a strainer and cook as slowly as possible, stirring from time to time. When the eggs are beginning to solidify, but are still fairly liquid, add the kipper pieces. Don’t overcook. Serve on buttered toast.

If this dish is to be served as a cold hors d’œuvre, it’s best to scramble the eggs on their own, and lay strips of kipper across them just before serving.

Craster Kippers (for 4)

Craster is a grey stone fishing village tucked down on the Northumbrian coast, half a mile below its handsome entry arch. In the small harbour are cobles used for lobster, crab and salmon fishing, brightly painted in stripes. To the north the ruins of Dunstanburgh Castle squat dramatically on a cliff; to the south lies the quiet beach of Howick with ochre rocks and grey sea buckthorn. In sheds above the harbour the Robson family cure some of the finest kippers in Great Britain. These plump, silvery brown, almost translucent fish are best eaten ungrilled, unbaked, unjugged, unfried—in other words, just as they are, like smoked salmon.

2–3 kippers

4 lemon quarters

granary or rye bread

unsalted butter

Slice the kippers horizontally and thinly, after removing the bones. Serve with lemon quarters, and thin slices of bread and butter.

Or:

2–3 kippers

4 egg yolks

4 slices granary or rye bread

unsalted butter

lemon slices and juice

Skin and bone the kippers. Cut them with scissors into strips. Butter the bread generously, right to the edges, and trim into a neat shape. Arrange the kipper pieces on each slice to build up a nest-like circle. Using a spoon, slip an egg yolk into the centre, sprinkle with a few drops of lemon juice and serve with half a slice of lemon arranged on each side of the kipper.

To eat, break the yolk with a fork and mix into the kipper pieces. Use the lemon slices for extra seasoning. This is delicious, providing the kippers are good and the eggs really fresh.

Kippers or bloaters with potato salad (for 4)

This favourite European dish is deceptively simple to prepare. Its success depends on using ingredients of the highest quality—the finest olive oil, the best-flavoured smoked herring (classy kippers, bloaters, harengs saurs, matjes herring), waxy potatoes, wine vinegar and a firm seasoning of an onion flavour.

6–8 fillets of kipper, soaked in olive oil 2 hours

1 lb waxy potatoes

dressing:

4 tablespoons olive oil

1 tablespoon red wine vinegar

good teaspoon French or German mustard

½ teaspoon sugar

salt, black pepper

heaped tablespoon chopped chives, shallot, mild onion, or spring onion

If salty herrings are used, soak them for several hours in milk and water, before drying and putting into olive oil. As oil acts as a preservative, the fillets can be submerged in it a day or two before they are eaten; it’s advisable to cover them over and store in a refrigerator.

Scrub and boil the potatoes. Mix oil, vinegar, mustard, and seasonings in a bowl. Peel and cube the cooked potatoes, adding them to the dressing while still warm. When cold add the chopped chives. Chill. Arrange on a serving dish with the kippers, which should be drained of all but a teaspoonful or so of their oil.

To fillet bloaters: Remove the skin, which peels off quite easily. Slit open along the belly, open out a little and put cut side down on to a board. Press firmly and steadily along the back of the fish. Turn it over and you will be able to remove the backbone quite easily, and small stray bones too. Separate the two fillets. See illustration on p. 20.

Kippers or salt herring fillets with dill salad (for 4)

Dill is an under-used herb in this country—which is a pity. It is easy to grow, and its subtle flavour of caraway goes well with fish, and all kinds of vegetable dishes. Dill weed, i.e. the leaves as opposed to the seeds, which are also used as flavouring, can be bought in the McCormick range of herbs and spices. An alternative is the stronger, slightly liquorice-flavoured fennel, which is grown as a garden herb and can also be found wild on many cliffs of England and Wales.

6–8 kipper fillets, or soaked salt herring fillets

½ lb waxy potatoes, boiled and diced

6 oz beetroot, boiled and diced

½ lb eating apples, diced

1 small mild onion, chopped

dressing:

6 tablespoons olive oil

1½ tablespoons wine vinegar

good teaspoon French or German mustard

scant teaspoon sugar

salt, black pepper

heaped tablespoon chopped dill weed

Cut the fish fillets into strips two or three hours before the meal prepare the dressing and mix it into each of the main ingredients, in separate bowls. Before serving, arrange the drained ingredients on a serving dish (or on pieces of bread and butter as open sandwiches), and chill.

Alternative dressings are sour cream beaten with a little lemon juice to taste, or mayonnaise. Plus dill.

Kipper paste

Some people object to the restaurateur’s habit of describing our native potted fish pastes as ‘pâtés’. I agree. We lack a proper pride in the good food we can produce in this country. It would be better if dishes like this one were given their proper names and starred as specialities. We might even begin to acquire a gastronomic reputation.

The interesting thing about potted fish—and meat—pastes is that they are becoming popular again, after half a century of neglect. When elbow-power in the kitchen was cheap, they were easy to produce. Now liquidizers can replace the poor slaves of the past.

1 fat kipper

8 oz unsalted butter

salt, cayenne pepper, lemon juice

Jug the kipper for 5 minutes. Drain and remove skin and bones. Melt the butter, cut in pieces, over a low heat. Put kipper pieces and butter into the liquidizer goblet. Whirl at top speed until they are smooth and perfectly blended. Season and put into two or three small pots. When cold and set, cover with a layer of clarified butter (butter boiled for a few seconds, then strained carefully through muslin). This will keep in the refrigerator for a few weeks, if covered well with kitchen foil so that the clarified butter does not dry away from the sides of the pot.

Bloaters can be used for this paste too. About 8–9 oz of filletted fish is required.

Kipper flan (for 6–8)

This useful dish can be served as a first course at dinner, or as a main course at midday or for a picnic. Eat it warm for the best flavour, but it is still good when cold. When I first made the flan, I did not expect the smoky flavour of kipper to blend well with the cream and egg custard. I thought it would taste oily, particularly when cold. In fact, it’s delicious.

short pastry, made with 6 oz flour

1 fat kipper (9 oz)

8 oz double cream, or 4 oz each double and single

3 eggs

good tablespoon French or German mustard

lemon juice

salt and pepper

Line an 8½ inch tart tin with a removable base with the pastry. Prick all over and bake blind for 5 minutes, until set but not browned. Meanwhile jug the kipper (p. 17). Remove bones and skin and arrange pieces on the pastry case. Beat together the cream and eggs, add the mustard gradually to your taste. Season. Pour over the kippers and bake at Mark 4, 350°F, for 30–40 minutes, until the filling is golden brown and puffed up. Now quickly squeeze half a lemon over the flan.

Red herrings

Need soaking, indubitably, The best way to do this is to bring some pale ale, or water, to the boil and pour it immediately over the fish. You will discover by tasting, and by experience, how long the fish need to be soaked. Start by soaking them overnight.

To cook red herrings, drain them and dry them well. Brush them over with melted butter, and grill lightly at a gentle heat (they need to be warmed through, rather than cooked).

Serve them with hot boiled potatoes and butter. Or with melted butter flavoured with mustard. Or with plenty of bread and butter. In the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, buttery scrambled eggs and mashed potatoes were sent up with the red herrings.

Once soaked, the herrings need not be cooked. Dry them and store in olive oil in the refrigerator, as they do in Italy. Serve them as part of an hors d’œuvre, with the fillets cut into small slices. Try them, too, with Napoleon’s haricot bean salad (p. 155) instead of the usual potato salad.

Salted and spiced herrings

Preserving herrings is not at all difficult. Gut and scale them, but leave the heads on. Soak them in vinegar overnight, then drain them well. Pack tightly together in a large pot, between layers of salt and spices:

for 50 herrings

1 lb sea salt

½ lb sugar

handful bay leaves

½ oz each black peppercorns and allspice, slightly crushed

Cover and weight the herrings, until the salt turns to brine. Make sure that the herrings are always submerged. Store in a cool, dry place.

Before using salted herrings, they need to be soaked. Length of time depends on the length of time they’ve been in salt. It’s a good idea to fillet the herrings before soaking them (see p. 20).

Danish sweet-sour herrings: soak fillets in milk-and-water, half and half. Meanwhile bring to the boil 8 oz granulated sugar, 5 oz wine vinegar, 6 peppercorns and 1 teaspoon pickling spice. Remove from the heat after 3 minutes boiling. Cool. Cut the fillets into inch strips and arrange in a plastic box or screw-top jar in layers with slices of raw onion. Pour over the marinade, cover and leave for 5 days in the refrigerator before eating.

Scottish tatties an’ herrin’: put a layer of evenly-sized potatoes in a large pot. Lay some salt herrings, which have been soaked, on top. Put enough water in to come ¾ of the way up the potatoes. Cover and simmer for an hour. A homely dish, requiring butter (drain off the cooking liquid before serving).

Scandinavian pickled salmon (or mackerel or trout)

Cheaper Canadian salmon may be used for this delicious preparation. It’s easy, and it makes a much cheaper start to a meal than smoked salmon. Everyone enjoys its fresh, unfamiliar flavour:

1½–2 lbs tailpiece salmon

1 large tablespoon sea salt

1 rounded tablespoon sugar

1 teaspoon coarsely ground black pepper plenty of dill weed

1 tablespoon brandy (optional)

Slice the piece of salmon in half, carefully, and remove the backbone and any little bones, but leave the skin. Rinse very quickly, dry well and put the first piece, skin side up, in a dish. Mix salt, sugar, pepper and brandy together. Rub about a quarter of this into the skin of the first piece, turn it filletted side up and rub in half the mixture; sprinkle liberally with dill weed (sold in the McCormick range of herbs) and put the second piece on top, filletted side down. Rub the rest of the mixture into the skin, and sprinkle with more dill weed. Put a piece of foil on top, then a couple of tins as weights. Leave for at least 12 hours, and at most 4 days, in the refrigerator or in a very cool place.

To serve, drain the pieces and slice them diagonally or horizontally starting at the tail end. Serve with thinly cut wholemeal or rye bread, and butter, with lemon quarters. In Scandinavia this mustard sauce usually accompanies pickled salmon—and very good it is:

1 heaped tablespoon French or German mustard

½ tablespoon sugar

1 tablespoon wine vinegar

4 tablespoons olive or salad oil

dill weed to taste

Mix all the ingredients together to a thick, smooth yellow sauce. A crushed clove of garlic, a small one, may also be added.

Mackerel (or herrings) in white wine

This popular French hors d’œuvre tastes even better one or two days after its preparation. Muscadet is the traditional wine to use, but an ordinary dry white wine is quite satisfactory. Clean four fat mackerel (or herring) removing the soft roes for another dish.

Simmer together for 30 minutes:

¾ pint dry white wine

¼ pint water

medium sized carrot and onion, sliced

8 peppercorns, slightly crushed

1 teaspoon pickling spices, including a red chilli

½ teaspoon salt

Leave this court-bouillon to cool, then strain the liquid over the fish which should be placed in a single layer in a saucepan or casserole. Pick the chilli and 3 slices of the carrot out of the debris from the court-bouillon, throwing the rest away. Bring the pan of fish slowly to the boil, bubble for 1 minute, then cover and leave to cool.

Divide the fish into fillets, by removing skin, heads and bones. Lay them in an oval serving dish, and put the chilli and carrot slices on top, plus 2 or 3 small sliced gherkins and a sliver of lemon peel. Reduce the court-bouillon by boiling hard, until it has a good concentrated flavour. Pour a little of it over the fish as a dressing, and keep the rest as a basis for fish soup or a sauce to go with fish.

To store for a few days, put the fish with its garnish into a jar or refrigerator box. Reduce the bouillon and pour over the fish to cover it. Put the lid on the jar or box and keep in the refrigerator.

Note: there are many British recipes of a similar kind for herrings They make use of vinegar, malt vinegar at that, instead of wine. The result can be very aggressive.

Lobster

The lobster has never, it seems, been a democratic food. I mean in the way that