Kedgeree, or belated Anglophilia

From a gastronomic perspective, I've left England without much of a glance behind me. True, I've imported a few dry goods, including my favourite sea salt, vegetable stock and coffee. And I have the occasional craving for artisanal cheddar or a good jar of marmalade. Yet even on a soggy, solitary evening such as this, it's difficult to conjure up authentic nostalgia for most traditionally British ingredients or dishes. My years in Oxford and London were a period of enormous discovery when it came to food. But the food that I fell in love with, while frequently dependent on local (English) vegetables, fish and meat, was a mix of Mediterranean cuisine and what Elisabeth Luard calls European peasant cookery. I aspired to shop like a French woman, cook with Italian abundance and eat the simple, seasonal food favoured across so much of the Continent.

But for every vociferous claim, there are at least a few exceptions. For me, it may well be kedgeree, an Anglo-Indian classic which has remained largely unchanged since the Victorian period. The dish emerged in the kitchens of the Raj, where a spartan rice and lentil dish, khichri, lost its homely legumes and had a luxury makeover: fish (first fresh, later smoked), curry powder, yellow raisins and a side-dish of mango chutney. Back in Blighty, it transitioned from the breakfast table to the supper one, picking up hard-boiling eggs and, quite frequently, a lashing of cream along the way. After World War II, kedgeree, like the Empire, went out of fashion, though both have enjoyed a somewhat revived reputation of late.

I'm sure one of the reasons kedgeree became evening food is that it goes so well with alcohol. What to drink? Gewurtraminner or Pinot Gris would be my personal picks, cheap fizz and chardonnay also work well. Come to think of it, an English I.P.A. wouldn't be half-bad either.

For culinary history fans, there is a delightful book which traces the evolution of kedgeree and other hybrids of the imperial kitchen. Exactly the kind of thing I wish I had been writing instead of my own doctoral dissertation. (Though I did have a lovely bit about the 1924 Empire Exhibition and the Canadians' life-size butter carving of the Prince of Wales). C'est la vie.

Kedgeree
Active time 25 minutes
Total time 45-50 minutes
Serves 2 hungry people
Adapted from one of Jamie Oliver's early cookbooks

250-300 grams undyed smoked haddock (no day-glo yellow stuff)
1 coffee mug basmati rice (between 8 and 10 oz)
1 medium sized onion
1/2 tablespoon medium curry powder, preferably Madras*
1 clove garlic
2 eggs
1 heaping cup frozen peas
handful cilantro (optional)
2 bay leaves (dried are fine)
a few peppercorns
lemon
butter or neutral oil
To serve: mango chutney

The following steps can be done in conjunction or separate stages, depending on how much time you have/pans you want to get dirty. Just make sure you have cooked your fish, rice and egg before you proceed to the 2nd half of the recipe.

Before you start, take the peas out of the freezer. In a large, deep-sided frying pan, bring water to a simmer. Add bay, peppercorns and smoked haddock and simmer until the fish flakes easily, about 10 minutes. In the meantime, begin cooking the rice in a separate pot of boiling, salted water. Drain fish and put on plate to cool. Check on the rice; it should take 10-15 minutes. While the rice finishes, clean frying pan and heat enough oil or butter to just coat the bottom. Finely chop onion and add, frying until soft and lightly browned. As these cook, hard-boil 2 eggs by your chosen method. Just before the onions are done, chop and add the clove of garlic.

If the peas are not yet fully defrosted, run some hot water over them for 30 seconds. Return the frying pan with onions to a low heat. Add the curry powder and mix thoroughly to combine. Now add the cooked rice and haddock, flaking it off its skin. Follow with a good squeeze of lemon juice. As the mixture warms, peel and slice the eggs and chop the coriander. Leave aside. Add peas and continue to mix until just warmed through. Test for acidity and salt, then divide onto individual plates and top with egg and coriander. Serve with mango chutney.

*I like the mellow, aromatic Madras blend made by Bolst's, a commercial brand from India. Use whatever is fresh and not too hot; this is really not meant to be a spicy dish.

Good, Ugly Supper

Consider yourself lucky that I don't have a camera handy. Piperade, a garlicky Basque speciality of stewed peppers, onions and tomatoes, into which eggs are lightly scrambled, is homely at best. Poaching or baking the eggs might limit the unattractive colour bleed, and a generous hand with the parsley could distract the eye, but piperade's sheer ugliness is hard to disguise.

No matter. This might not be dress-up and go-out food, or even set-the-table-for-dinner food, but it makes an undeniably moreish supper. The traditional accompaniment is salty, silky Bayonne ham, France's answer to the more famous Spanish serrano and Italian parma. But I had my fill of jamon with a bowl of this soup, so I added a bit of extra salt and proceeded without.

I used fresh tomatoes--a variety available here called Marmot, which look like little bean-bag chairs--and bell peppers; substituting good-quality tinned tomatoes and some jarred, roasted peppers would produce a deeper, rounder flavour. For a bit of heat and complexity in my version, I put in a pinch of Spanish smoked paprika; in southwest France, this would most likely be piment d'espelette, also known as ezpeletako biperra. Tabasco could even be used, though I'm generally of the opinion that it only belongs in Bloody Marys.

The ham might be optional, even some of the garlic, if you're sensitive about such things, but I wouldn't sit down without a big piece of crusty bread and a juice glass full of simple, robust wine. Oh, and finally, I've written this for Eat the Right Stuff's vegetarian blogging event. So check it out, for recipes that are far more inventive--and attractive--than mine.

I worked off a recipe from Marlena Spieler's Vegetarian Bistro, which differed in calling for red and green peppers (I forgot to buy the latter), marjoram and cayenne. Since her version made enough for six, I'm giving a scaled-down version with slightly different instructions.

Piperade
Serves 2
Total time 30-35 minutes Active time 15 minutes
2 smallish onions
2 bell peppers
vine-ripened tomatoes, equivalent to about 1 1/2 cups chopped*
1-2 cloves of garlic
3 medium eggs (adjust based on the number of people eating, and the desired ratio of egg to sauce), not fridge-cold
smoked paprika or an equivalent
olive oil

Thinly slice onions. In a medium-sized, deep frying pan or skillet, heat enough olive oil to just coat the surface and add the onions. Season and allow to soften for about 10 minutes on a moderate heat. Coarsely slice the peppers and chop the tomatoes. First add the peppers, allowing these to cook for at least 10 minutes, or until they become almost silky. Now add the chopped tomatoes, giving about 5 minutes for them to soften, meld and give up their juice. (Allow a bit more time for flavour blending if you are using tinned tomatoes.) Slice or chop the garlic and add, along with the paprika. Cook for a few more minutes, adjusting the heat if necesary, until you have a dryish but coherent sauce. Turn the heat down to low. In a bowl, crack the eggs and whisk lightly with a fork.** Spoon in a bit of the sauce, then add the egg mixture to the pan, stirring gently to combine. Continue to stir until the eggs are just cooked through, then remove immediately from both the heat and the pan.


* If the only fresh tomatoes you can find look pale or cotton-woolly, substitute a can of plum tomatoes with most of the juice drained.
** At this stage you could also poach the eggs, though I would advise that you look for advice on how to do this elsewhere.

Salon Saveurs

When it comes to food, at least, I'm reasonably good at self-control. Long past are the days when I'd decimate what were for a small person reasonably obscene quantities of chocolate doughnuts or Breyers mint chip ice cream--just because they were there. My sweet tooth has abated, for a start. And my seeming fate of living in homes with non-working ovens ensures that I'm rarely overloaded with excess baked goods. Yet even before I moved to Paris, the smug, sensible (and typically French) suggestion to balance pleasure with moderation generally worked for me.

Last Friday night, however, was a glorious exception.

Although I had been tipped off about the Salon's scale, I was unprepared for what I found: not one--but two--enormous exposition halls filled with cheese, wine, charcuterie, chocolate and every conceivable type of condiment. The vast majority of stalls, while offering packaged food for sale, had lavish free samples as well. Tired and hungry, I gorged indiscriminately for a while, mixing sweet with savoury, taking what was offered. I tasted caviar (unexceptional, I think, but still my first), lots of porky bits, and at least half a dozen goats cheeses.


Slowing down a bit, I began to find the prizes: a salty, wild-tasting boar salami from Corsica, intensely earthy marinated, grilled morels, a piece of cannele, the pleasantly bittersweet crust contrasting perfectly with the custardy interior. My confidence buoyed--no doubt in part to the wine I had imbibed earlier in the evening--I managed 10 minutes of (basic) conversation about the merits of several roses from Tavel, a highly-regarded appellation in Provence. And then there was the armagnac, first a bright, fiery, persistent 1976 Bas Armagnac, poured with a free hand and a big smile. (If the fair was any indication, in France it does still sometimes help to be young, female and not look like a toad.) My note-taking prompted a joking question about whether I worked for the CIA or the FBI, and an equally generous measure of the precious 1966. Mellower and sweeter than its Generation X counterpart, it was certainly the oldest thing I had ever drunk, and equally unquestionably amongst the best.


The fair was notable for its oddities as well. Utterly transfixed, I went back time and time again to a table of fromage ancien, where the specimens were so gnarled and desiccated as to be almost fossilized. I'm not sure which was more fascinating--encountering what must have been four year old goats cheese or watching the people who were buying it.



I was as restrained in my buying as I was unrestrained in my eating. The final takings? A bottle of one of the Tavel roses I tasted, another of brick-red fish soup from the Norman coast, Breton salted caramels, and 2 tiny saucissons, each smaller than my finger. Not enough to last me through to the next fair in November, but sufficient for some good eating all the same.

And did I mention that--with a smile (mine) and a wink (his)--I got in for free?

Au Courant

It should come as no surprise that I've been eating lots of (French) cheese lately. In the last week or two, there have been soft, slightly oozy goats cheese buttons (sometimes with a jammy compote of white figs and myrtle) a slab of tomme du savoie, a rubbery, medium-soft cows milk cheese whose rind smells like a cave of dirty socks, and some montbriac, mellow, ash-coated and interlaced with blue-green veins. But today at the market, I headed directly to the Italian stall, purveyors of the all-important trio of pasta (De Cecco, bien sur), parmesan and pancetta. This time, though, I wanted some ricotta, preferably the extra-flavourful sheep's milk variety. Lunch was to be a simple cheese-accented tomato sauce and strawberries--perhaps with some more of the cheese.

While catching up on some blog and virtual newspaper reading over my aforementioned meal, I was amused to discover that the homely ricotta is getting some good press. Some days back, the Wednesday Chef capped off an ode to her Italian family with a NYT recipe for pasta with greens and sheep's milk ricotta. And in this weekend's NYT, no less, Amanda Hesser (who has previously married ricotta with pancakes, cheese balls, a bevy of toasts and zucchini) heralded ricotta as a worthy representative of the plain-food movement.

It's nice to be fashionable. Particularly considering that my wardrobe is oh-so 2002.

Bistro Chez Moi

Two months have passed in Paris, and I’ve hardly eaten in a restaurant. There have been the odd lunches with colleagues, usually in a creperie or sandwich bar, two casual midday meals during G’s first visit to Paris, the odd pho outings, and a late-night supper of onion soup, steak tartare and Beaujolais at a famous, if perhaps overrated, brasserie near Les Halles. But I’m yet to pass an evening in that most quintessential Parisian institution: the bistro.

The best of the genre are rightly fabled for serving diners three or four courses of well-executed standards, a proper baguette and a bit too much perfectly quaffable wine, all in an unfussy and convivial setting. Whether a resolutely traditional bastion of cuisine grand mere or, increasingly, updated with a sleeker, seasonal twist at the new gastro bistros, this kind of meal is what tens of thousands come to Paris to find.

So it may seem perverse that, despite an ample list of must-visit bistros—a few within easy walking distance from my apartment—I chose to cook this past Saturday night. The idea was not mine, I must admit. But our bistro-inspired meal turned out to be an intimate, smoke-free success. The wine was a light Loire red, slightly chilled, the bread from my favourite local bakery. There was soup to start, a simple pea and mint, and a fresh, peppery mesclun salad. For our main course, we adapted the classic rabbit in mustard, swapping lapin for chicken but retaining the voluptuous, winey sauce. Dessert came in three parts: a half-bottle of honeyed Sauternes drunk alongside its time-honoured partner, soft, salty Roquefort, and a tarte fine aux pommes from Montmarte’s best pastry maker, Arnaud Lahrer.

Dessert was a predictable knockout, but the chicken was the sleeper hit. Whether it was the shallots, reputed to be one of the secrets of French cooking, the judicious use of butter and cream, or the intensely flavoured meat itself, I do not know. But it provided exactly what the best bistro meals always do—a frisson of excitement, followed by intense pleasure. And that is certainly worth staying home for.

The technique for this dish came from the rabbit with mustard sauce recipe in the Gourmet cookbook. We left out the parsley and cornstarch, added a bit of cream and used only Dijon mustard. Below is the adapted version. Although we drank red, I imagine that a lightly oaked chardonnay, pinot gris or pinot blanc would also work well.

Chicken with mustard sauce (quantities serve 2)

Total time: 1 ½ hours
Active time: 30 minutes

2 chicken legs
2 banana shallots (the large, oblong ones)
½ mug (6-8 oz) dry vermouth or white wine (we used Noilly Prat)
½ mug good chicken or vegetable stock
1 heaping tbsp Dijon mustard
1 heaping tablespoon crème fraiche
a bit of butter or neutral oil

Warm the butter or oil in a deep, lidded skillet or a casserole pan large enough to hold both chicken legs.* Add the meat and brown thoroughly on a medium-high heat; this should take a full ten minutes. While you are waiting, chop the shallots very finely. Remove the chicken from the pan, turn down the heat and add the shallots, tossing to soften for a few minutes. Now add the vermouth or wine and bring to a boil. Boil hard until the liquid is reduced by half, about 5 minutes. Add the stock, return the chicken to the pan and cover. Cook on as low a heat as possible (using a diffuser or cast iron griddle if necessary) until chicken is very tender, approximately 1 hour.

When the meat is ready, remove from the pan and keep covered. Pour a ½ cup of the braising liquid into a small bowl, add the mustard and whisk to combine. Return this to the pan and mix through. Add the crème fraiche, season to taste and serve over the chicken.


* Although the ideal sizes for frying and braising are probably different, you should be able to do everything in one pan. For the first step, make sure that the chicken legs have enough space to sauté, not steam. When it comes to the casseroling, fill in the extra space at the top of the pan with a layer or two of foil. According to Molly Stevens, this helps to tighten the condensation cycle.