Clang! Clang! Clang! The smell of burning hair is getting stronger and stronger. Clang! Clang! Clang! Sparks fly and fires roar. Big men hammer red hot irons rods into the shape of horseshoes. I am watching farriers work as they have for at least two thousand years.
Sights like this are what I have enjoyed most about the Bath and West. On your left a giant Shire horse pulls a huge log, on your right sits a simulator transporting you into Jenson Button’s car flying through a chicane. Two millennia of culture, ten feet apart.
The Bath and West keeps people, and most importantly children, excited with new and amazing things but shows them ancient ways of life at the same time. Important things that should never be forgotten. This is no bucolic idyll; this is not the re-enactment of an outdated pastoral scene. These ways of life have stood the test of time. To understand the world we live in we must understand the world that came before. Ancient traditions and ways of life allow us all to see how culture has developed, they help us figure out where it might go next.
I was at the farriers’ workshop, next to the BBC Somerset bus, to talk with the lovely Emma Britton on the Morning Show. Chatting about all the things I had done at the show I was reminded how lucky I am to live in Somerset and the South West. A region crammed with many of the best views and food and drink Britain has to offer.
The South West is something to be proud of, something to climb to the rafters and shout about. Here at the Bath and West this is what they are doing. They give a platform to a valuable array of craftsmen and women, food and drink producers and countless other exhibitors. Here, people share their knowledge of the things they make and do.
I grew up here, in Shepton Mallet, but yesterday outside the Dairy Cattle Shed I talked to a couple from Derby. They had been to the show as children and their memories were instrumental in their decision to bring up their children in Somerset.
They wanted them to see and be a part of the things they remembered so fondly from their own childhoods. This is how traditions are maintained, passed on from generation to generation. I look forward to my grandchildren thrilling at the Formula One car of the future Jenson Button and to witnessing the food and agricultural innovations that I am sure will make this great event a source of wonder for countless years to come.
Friday, 11 June 2010
Wednesday, 9 June 2010
Day Three From the Bath and West
Like Justin Timberlake, I went to the Bath and West yesterday with my mother as my guest. Having two chickens of her own, she has developed a slight obsession. Birthday cards frequently sport a nice plump hen. Gifts, though not poultry related, are likely to be wrapped in chicken themed paper. The real tragedy is Sunday lunch; roast chicken has dropped completely off the radar.
On finding out that I was a judge at the show, she phoned and summoned me over. “Think of all the chickens,” she said, “and I bet you’ve got badges.” As she had expected, the chickens were magnificent, and I did have some badges. Many of the birds were so beautiful Michelangelo could have painted them. And some, my predictable favourites, were enormous. The idea that these chickens lay eggs seems totally ridiculous; surely they lay six egg omelettes, already in a pan.
The chickens all seen, we headed for the Member’s Tent, my Mum proudly sporting her purple badge. The sun was hot enough to cook with and we were desperate for hydration. There was only one thing for it, and that thing, was Pimms. Ice cold drinks in hand we sat back in the sun, put our feet up and listened to the Calypso drifting over from the bandstand.
During a short break in the music a roar of applause came up from the Grandstand. We finished our drinks and nosily headed in. Roaming the field was a phenomenally well rehearsed marching band. “That’s the Gurkhas,” my Mum said. As they got right up to where we were, two huge blokes with knives ran out and pretended to kill each other, all in time with the music. “They’re good aren’t they.” My Mum said, “I’ve seen them before.” They were very good. They were like ballet dancers. SAS ballet dancers.
Not usually one for sentiment, a tear welled in my mother’s eye. Her father, who is no longer with us, was in the army you see. She travelled the world with him, and apparently, on army bases there were always marching bands. Here at the Bath and West Show, right at the front of the Grandstand, she was reminded of him and all the things he had seen and done.
Touring the food halls yesterday, I came across a man selling duck burgers. These were firm favourites with my sister and I as children. With sentimentality running wild I took my Mum there and bought us both some. It is surely a very good sign when even back at home, the show still goes on. As I sit and write, the barbie is being lit, the sun is still shining, and the burgers will soon be on
On finding out that I was a judge at the show, she phoned and summoned me over. “Think of all the chickens,” she said, “and I bet you’ve got badges.” As she had expected, the chickens were magnificent, and I did have some badges. Many of the birds were so beautiful Michelangelo could have painted them. And some, my predictable favourites, were enormous. The idea that these chickens lay eggs seems totally ridiculous; surely they lay six egg omelettes, already in a pan.
The chickens all seen, we headed for the Member’s Tent, my Mum proudly sporting her purple badge. The sun was hot enough to cook with and we were desperate for hydration. There was only one thing for it, and that thing, was Pimms. Ice cold drinks in hand we sat back in the sun, put our feet up and listened to the Calypso drifting over from the bandstand.
During a short break in the music a roar of applause came up from the Grandstand. We finished our drinks and nosily headed in. Roaming the field was a phenomenally well rehearsed marching band. “That’s the Gurkhas,” my Mum said. As they got right up to where we were, two huge blokes with knives ran out and pretended to kill each other, all in time with the music. “They’re good aren’t they.” My Mum said, “I’ve seen them before.” They were very good. They were like ballet dancers. SAS ballet dancers.
Not usually one for sentiment, a tear welled in my mother’s eye. Her father, who is no longer with us, was in the army you see. She travelled the world with him, and apparently, on army bases there were always marching bands. Here at the Bath and West Show, right at the front of the Grandstand, she was reminded of him and all the things he had seen and done.
Touring the food halls yesterday, I came across a man selling duck burgers. These were firm favourites with my sister and I as children. With sentimentality running wild I took my Mum there and bought us both some. It is surely a very good sign when even back at home, the show still goes on. As I sit and write, the barbie is being lit, the sun is still shining, and the burgers will soon be on
Tuesday, 8 June 2010
Tuesday, 1 June 2010
Monday, 10 May 2010
Ham Hock Terrine
Ignore the chicken tits in the background, they were for something else.
Proper recipe for this is imminent. I swear.
Mackerel Stuffed with Gremolata
...Gremolata shouldn't have chilli in it really but who cares it's good like this. As a nation we do not eat enough mackerel, it is healthy, delicious and cheap as chips.
Gremolata Ingredients:
Made gremolata:
Gremolataed (?) Mackerel:
Recipe:
Per Person:
Mackerel:
1x Fresh as a Daisy, Bright Eyed Mackerel - Ask the fishmonger to Butterfly it. This means taking the bones out but leaving the fillets attached at the top. The fishmonger I went to said he couldn't do that so I just told him to fillet them.
Sea Salt, freshly ground black pepper, tiny bit of olive oil.
Big bit of cling film.
Gremolata:
Large handful flat leaf parsley - Quite finely chopped
1/2 a red chilli, even less if it's a Birdseye THIS IS NOT A SPICY DISH - Finely chopped
1 tsp capers - In vinegar or salted, soaked in water for five minutes if salted - Chunkily chopped
1 clove garlic nice and fresh, green centre taken out if there - Grated on the same grater you will use for the lemon zest
Zest and juice of half a lemon
1 Tsp olive oil
A generous, unhealthy seeming pinch of Sea Salt and some freshly ground black pepper
Method:
Combine gremolata ingredients, in a bowl and leave to sit for ten minutes at room temperature. See image.
If your yummy mackerel is butterflied put a big fat line of gremolata down the middle, if filleted, smear it all over the flesh side of one of the fillets. See image.
Now for the only tricky bit. Wrapping them in clingfilm.
Put the gremolataed (?) fillet or butterflied fish, skin side down near the edge of a bit of cling film.
If butterflied, fold the two fillets together, making the fish whole again. If filleted bang the second fillet on top and give it a gentle squish.
If you've ever smoked rollies, imagine you are making one. Roll-up the edge of the clingfilm nearest you over the fish and tuck it underneath, gently pulling towards yourself once tucked under the fish. Roll the fish up a few times keeping it really tight.
Twist the two end of the cling film to hug everything tightly to the fish, put it on a plate and leave it in the fridge for at least four hours. Ideally, do all this after breakfast, and cook the fish for your supper.
Make whatever you are having with the fish. Fire up the grill in time for it to be scorchingly hot by the time you are finished making your accompaniment.
I made pilaf rice (sepreate post coming), but you know whatever. Boiled Jersey Royals, any new potato really as long as you have buckets of butter? A nice bowl of rabbit food? Something else you happen to like or fancy on the day!
Take the fishies out of their cling film and rub them with a tiny bit of olive oil then season well with salt and pepper.
Pop them high up under the grill and leave them there until the skin begins to blacken and blister. Turn them over, same again. Even when filleted it won't be difficult to turn them over and keep the fillets on top of each other due to the long resting you'd bloody better have given them in the fridge all tightly wrapped up.
Serve with lemon wedge and your sexy accomapaniment. Scoff.
Dibble dibble. Over and out.
Gremolata Ingredients:
Made gremolata:
Gremolataed (?) Mackerel:
Recipe:
Per Person:
Mackerel:
1x Fresh as a Daisy, Bright Eyed Mackerel - Ask the fishmonger to Butterfly it. This means taking the bones out but leaving the fillets attached at the top. The fishmonger I went to said he couldn't do that so I just told him to fillet them.
Sea Salt, freshly ground black pepper, tiny bit of olive oil.
Big bit of cling film.
Gremolata:
Large handful flat leaf parsley - Quite finely chopped
1/2 a red chilli, even less if it's a Birdseye THIS IS NOT A SPICY DISH - Finely chopped
1 tsp capers - In vinegar or salted, soaked in water for five minutes if salted - Chunkily chopped
1 clove garlic nice and fresh, green centre taken out if there - Grated on the same grater you will use for the lemon zest
Zest and juice of half a lemon
1 Tsp olive oil
A generous, unhealthy seeming pinch of Sea Salt and some freshly ground black pepper
Method:
Combine gremolata ingredients, in a bowl and leave to sit for ten minutes at room temperature. See image.
If your yummy mackerel is butterflied put a big fat line of gremolata down the middle, if filleted, smear it all over the flesh side of one of the fillets. See image.
Now for the only tricky bit. Wrapping them in clingfilm.
Put the gremolataed (?) fillet or butterflied fish, skin side down near the edge of a bit of cling film.
If butterflied, fold the two fillets together, making the fish whole again. If filleted bang the second fillet on top and give it a gentle squish.
If you've ever smoked rollies, imagine you are making one. Roll-up the edge of the clingfilm nearest you over the fish and tuck it underneath, gently pulling towards yourself once tucked under the fish. Roll the fish up a few times keeping it really tight.
Twist the two end of the cling film to hug everything tightly to the fish, put it on a plate and leave it in the fridge for at least four hours. Ideally, do all this after breakfast, and cook the fish for your supper.
Make whatever you are having with the fish. Fire up the grill in time for it to be scorchingly hot by the time you are finished making your accompaniment.
I made pilaf rice (sepreate post coming), but you know whatever. Boiled Jersey Royals, any new potato really as long as you have buckets of butter? A nice bowl of rabbit food? Something else you happen to like or fancy on the day!
Take the fishies out of their cling film and rub them with a tiny bit of olive oil then season well with salt and pepper.
Pop them high up under the grill and leave them there until the skin begins to blacken and blister. Turn them over, same again. Even when filleted it won't be difficult to turn them over and keep the fillets on top of each other due to the long resting you'd bloody better have given them in the fridge all tightly wrapped up.
Serve with lemon wedge and your sexy accomapaniment. Scoff.
Dibble dibble. Over and out.
Friday, 7 May 2010
Sunshine on a Cloudy Day
Ingredients, and what was done with them. Banging! Sunshine on a cloudy day.
Sunday, 2 May 2010
Absolute Disgrace
Enough said.
I mean come on. And then a year and a half later you're advertising Waitrose?
AAAAAaaaarrrrrggggghhhhhhhhhhhh.
I mean come on. And then a year and a half later you're advertising Waitrose?
AAAAAaaaarrrrrggggghhhhhhhhhhhh.
Thursday, 29 April 2010
Wong Kei Review
Wong Kei, 41-43 Wardour Street, London
With its tatty lanterns, grubby floors, ancient Formica tables and miserable, miserable waiters, Wong Kei is like a restaurant in the Bognor Regis of Beijing.
Even so, this is the best restaurant in London for dining alone.
What other restaurant has a whole area set aside for this strange, lonely beast? As an ex-waiter myself, I can guarantee you, everyone suspects the solo diner. They’ll be scuttling about back-of-house gossiping about the loner on table twelve. No food critic worth their salt dines alone, so who is this myopic mystery? Just a billy-no-mates? A travelling businessman? A billy-no-mates-travelling-businessman? Who cares? They’ve come to a restaurant; for dinner; on their own.
“Yes, hello sir, how’s the bisque? Oh excellent. Another glass of wine? Great. I’ll be right back.”
Quick skip back of house.
“Yeah Salif, guess what? The geezer on twelve’s having another glass of wine. I know. On his own! Hah ah ah ahha hha.”
Unfortunately this is how it goes for the lone diner. And with that in mind, I can’t even go to the cinema alone. All those friends and couples looking at me, wondering why I’m on my own. A social pariah.
But not at Wong Kei. Here the lone diner is welcomed. The lone diner is a friend, a regular, a person to be respected. A person to be given their own area. And not out the back next to the loos. The best area. Right in the main drag where you come in. In this Temple of Chinese Gastronomy, the lone diner eats at the altar.
Even the billy-no-mates-travelling-businessman.
Until recently I had lunch here three times a week, on my own, and did so for three years. 450 visits. And never a new waiter.
I walk in and sit down. They resist the temptation to shout at me, as they do to all the other customers. “How many? Three? Upstairs!” “But we wanted…” “Downstairs closed. Upstairs!” I love these guys.
The waiter comes over and slams a (free) pot of jasmine tea on the table in front of me. “Wha’ you want?” He knows what I want, I always have the same. I blink at him. He wants to defenestrate me. Ever heard that you can’t out stare a pig? Pigs and Wong Kei waiters. Don’t even try.
It’s busy, he has other things to do. More customers to bully. “Usual I suppose!” I nod. Don’t speak. “Thanks” when they bring the food. Otherwise, keep your mouth shut.
He casually slinks away. Throwing disapproving looks at my fellow diners. This is what made Wong Kei famous. Rude waiters. Unbelievably rude waiters. My trendy friends hate it here. They say it’s a dump. They hate the waiters being rude to them. But why should the waiters be nice? You’re not going to leave them a tip are you? And do you know what? They don’t want one. Then they’d have to suck-up like there was an ‘Optional’ 12.5% tacked on.
They enjoy themselves because it’s not in their job description to be obsequious. Exactly why some people hate it.
They take the order, bring out the food, reluctantly get more tea, then they walk away and leave you to it.
They don’t top up your drink.
They don’t ask if everything’s alright.
They don’t even care if you’re alive or dead.
And do you know what? I love it.
With its tatty lanterns, grubby floors, ancient Formica tables and miserable, miserable waiters, Wong Kei is like a restaurant in the Bognor Regis of Beijing.
Even so, this is the best restaurant in London for dining alone.
What other restaurant has a whole area set aside for this strange, lonely beast? As an ex-waiter myself, I can guarantee you, everyone suspects the solo diner. They’ll be scuttling about back-of-house gossiping about the loner on table twelve. No food critic worth their salt dines alone, so who is this myopic mystery? Just a billy-no-mates? A travelling businessman? A billy-no-mates-travelling-businessman? Who cares? They’ve come to a restaurant; for dinner; on their own.
“Yes, hello sir, how’s the bisque? Oh excellent. Another glass of wine? Great. I’ll be right back.”
Quick skip back of house.
“Yeah Salif, guess what? The geezer on twelve’s having another glass of wine. I know. On his own! Hah ah ah ahha hha.”
Unfortunately this is how it goes for the lone diner. And with that in mind, I can’t even go to the cinema alone. All those friends and couples looking at me, wondering why I’m on my own. A social pariah.
But not at Wong Kei. Here the lone diner is welcomed. The lone diner is a friend, a regular, a person to be respected. A person to be given their own area. And not out the back next to the loos. The best area. Right in the main drag where you come in. In this Temple of Chinese Gastronomy, the lone diner eats at the altar.
Even the billy-no-mates-travelling-businessman.
Until recently I had lunch here three times a week, on my own, and did so for three years. 450 visits. And never a new waiter.
I walk in and sit down. They resist the temptation to shout at me, as they do to all the other customers. “How many? Three? Upstairs!” “But we wanted…” “Downstairs closed. Upstairs!” I love these guys.
The waiter comes over and slams a (free) pot of jasmine tea on the table in front of me. “Wha’ you want?” He knows what I want, I always have the same. I blink at him. He wants to defenestrate me. Ever heard that you can’t out stare a pig? Pigs and Wong Kei waiters. Don’t even try.
It’s busy, he has other things to do. More customers to bully. “Usual I suppose!” I nod. Don’t speak. “Thanks” when they bring the food. Otherwise, keep your mouth shut.
He casually slinks away. Throwing disapproving looks at my fellow diners. This is what made Wong Kei famous. Rude waiters. Unbelievably rude waiters. My trendy friends hate it here. They say it’s a dump. They hate the waiters being rude to them. But why should the waiters be nice? You’re not going to leave them a tip are you? And do you know what? They don’t want one. Then they’d have to suck-up like there was an ‘Optional’ 12.5% tacked on.
They enjoy themselves because it’s not in their job description to be obsequious. Exactly why some people hate it.
They take the order, bring out the food, reluctantly get more tea, then they walk away and leave you to it.
They don’t top up your drink.
They don’t ask if everything’s alright.
They don’t even care if you’re alive or dead.
And do you know what? I love it.
Tuesday, 27 April 2010
Today's Hero.......Daniel Humm
Oooooohhhh... Please open a London restaurant.
If anyone wants to fly me over to New York and send me here I am available for any kind of favour you would like. ANY KIND OF FAVOUR.
http://www.elevenmadisonpark.com/ AND GO TO THE BIT SAYING FILM.
These are videos showcasing the best uses for the vacuum machine.
People bitch and moan about sous vide, personally i think it's brilliant. But only when it's used to enhance the flavour and texture of an already wonderful product. Not in order to make undiscerning people think that something is better than it is. People are bowled over by tender meat to such an extent that they often don't realise it tastes of NOTHING AT ALL.
Yes, all you fucking morons our there with your fillet steak. LONG LIVE THE RIB. Eye or short. Both wonderful.
And you know who I mean. You who I used to work with. With your deeply suspect meat.
Enjoy the videos
Dibble dibble, over and out.
If anyone wants to fly me over to New York and send me here I am available for any kind of favour you would like. ANY KIND OF FAVOUR.
http://www.elevenmadisonpark.com/ AND GO TO THE BIT SAYING FILM.
These are videos showcasing the best uses for the vacuum machine.
People bitch and moan about sous vide, personally i think it's brilliant. But only when it's used to enhance the flavour and texture of an already wonderful product. Not in order to make undiscerning people think that something is better than it is. People are bowled over by tender meat to such an extent that they often don't realise it tastes of NOTHING AT ALL.
Yes, all you fucking morons our there with your fillet steak. LONG LIVE THE RIB. Eye or short. Both wonderful.
And you know who I mean. You who I used to work with. With your deeply suspect meat.
Enjoy the videos
Dibble dibble, over and out.
Monday, 19 April 2010
A massive, honking piece of meat boys.....
...is what the butcher at the farmer's market said to me yesterday. It was early and yes, I still had my trousers on.
Moments before I had been on the sofa in my friend Will's house, nursing my hangover and waiting patiently for breakfast.
We were all up late.
Cider late.
Sturggling for effective hangover cures, I suggested meat at the earliest available opportunity.
William said there was a farmer's market nearby and we could get breakfast there too.
Score. He thought.
A complete misunderstanding of what I needed.
I know what breakfast at a farmer's market means. Organic this and that crap and cooked like this and like that, in a fucking whatever bun and blah blah blah. In that condition on a Sunday morning I WANT A GREASY SPOON. Not the S&M cafe. I'm talking Withnail & I greasy spoon. The 'balsamic vinegar is for gays' kind of greasy spoon. People who don't look at you funny when you say you want four poached eggs and six sausages, in a fucking sandwich, with hash browns in it too please.
But it wasn't happening. In the end we had Jerk Chicken. For breakfast. I know. I hadn't even had a coffee. I sat, choking on tiny chicken bones, in a car park, in Bristol. For breakfast.
But oh...the massive, honking piece of meat.
From the winking butcher. Six week aged rib of beef on the bone. A walking bacterial hootenanny! My friend's housemate thought there was something off in the fridge. But like Annabel Chong, it wasn't the fridge that smelt, it was the massive honking bit of meat in it.
Oh it didn't smell that bad. Just very, ripely, deeply meaty. I would imagine, not disimilar to Henry VIII's tightest pants.
I seasoned the hell out of it and browned it all over in a pan. I then slammed on a bed of already roasting onions and carrots into the oven for 45mins. Roasties, savoy cabbage et al too. Homemade horseradish. Thank you.
Two of the eaters didn't like it. They said it was too gamey, too strong and my favourite: "A bit rough." I thought it was great. Truth be told, it was a little bit much. In the future, even if given the option, I might well not go for meat that had been hung for that long. That honking. The flavour was very rich, very base. Earthy. Perhaps it was just miles away from most of the meat that I have eaten. Like a first mutton over lamb experience I imagine. Maybe I didn't cook it right. Method-wise I mean. It was Medium-rare and cooked to perfection biatch! Maybe I was scared.
But who wouldn't be scared? I was confronted with a 'Massive honking piece of meat' and a winking butcher. I had to buy it. And all I really wanted was a sausage sandwich and a nice cup of tea.
Moments before I had been on the sofa in my friend Will's house, nursing my hangover and waiting patiently for breakfast.
We were all up late.
Cider late.
Sturggling for effective hangover cures, I suggested meat at the earliest available opportunity.
William said there was a farmer's market nearby and we could get breakfast there too.
Score. He thought.
A complete misunderstanding of what I needed.
I know what breakfast at a farmer's market means. Organic this and that crap and cooked like this and like that, in a fucking whatever bun and blah blah blah. In that condition on a Sunday morning I WANT A GREASY SPOON. Not the S&M cafe. I'm talking Withnail & I greasy spoon. The 'balsamic vinegar is for gays' kind of greasy spoon. People who don't look at you funny when you say you want four poached eggs and six sausages, in a fucking sandwich, with hash browns in it too please.
But it wasn't happening. In the end we had Jerk Chicken. For breakfast. I know. I hadn't even had a coffee. I sat, choking on tiny chicken bones, in a car park, in Bristol. For breakfast.
But oh...the massive, honking piece of meat.
From the winking butcher. Six week aged rib of beef on the bone. A walking bacterial hootenanny! My friend's housemate thought there was something off in the fridge. But like Annabel Chong, it wasn't the fridge that smelt, it was the massive honking bit of meat in it.
Oh it didn't smell that bad. Just very, ripely, deeply meaty. I would imagine, not disimilar to Henry VIII's tightest pants.
I seasoned the hell out of it and browned it all over in a pan. I then slammed on a bed of already roasting onions and carrots into the oven for 45mins. Roasties, savoy cabbage et al too. Homemade horseradish. Thank you.
Two of the eaters didn't like it. They said it was too gamey, too strong and my favourite: "A bit rough." I thought it was great. Truth be told, it was a little bit much. In the future, even if given the option, I might well not go for meat that had been hung for that long. That honking. The flavour was very rich, very base. Earthy. Perhaps it was just miles away from most of the meat that I have eaten. Like a first mutton over lamb experience I imagine. Maybe I didn't cook it right. Method-wise I mean. It was Medium-rare and cooked to perfection biatch! Maybe I was scared.
But who wouldn't be scared? I was confronted with a 'Massive honking piece of meat' and a winking butcher. I had to buy it. And all I really wanted was a sausage sandwich and a nice cup of tea.
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