La Reine du Potage

Although my diet of late would be appropriate for a toothless crone (or a prison inmate not allowed sharp objects), my soup obsession shows no sign of abating. Today I made two batches destined for the freezer: a orange-infused tomato broth full of chickpeas and carmelized fennel, and a roasted pumpkin soup laced with cinnamon and smoked paprika. And I've lined up the ingredients for a mid-week fix: a recently rediscovered classic of coconutty sweet potato lifted out of saccharine sweetness by a lashing of curry paste and lime.

For a solo supper, a brimming cafe au lait bowl full of hearty soup, accompanied by a good quantity of bread and cheese--and, most nights, a glass or two of wine, feels like the right choice more often than not. It can be eaten while reading, incurs limited mess, but is sufficiently homespun to feel simultaneously comforted and virtuous. It helps--and I would hesitate to say to make a similar claim about any other area of my cooking--that I make damn good soup.

From time to time--usually after I've eaten yet another mediocre bowl from a cafe or deli--I cultivate a little fantasy of opening a small-scale soup business of my own. With little more than a giant soup pot or two and my handy £10 stick blender, I imagine, I could supply a few local venues and begin to make a name for myself as "La Reine du Potage"--the Queen of Soup.

For now, though, the business plan hasn't progressed further than napkin scribblings of the weekly choices I would offer my customers: carrot and fennel, mushroom and barley, chickpea and chorizo, borscht, and, in warmer seasons, chilled courgette and basil soup. But the combination of chilly weather, my barely functional oven, and the unfortunate distance of a partner who believes that even la bonne potage does not a meal make, likely means that for the next few months, soup will continue to be on the menu. I'll let you know how I get on.

The Sicilian-style chickpea soup could still use a bit of tweaking, perhaps a bit of fennel seed and a touch of chili flakes. But the pumpkin, which I simplified from a recipe in the newest Moro cookbook, is ready for the masses. The original calls for topping the soup with browned butter, toasted pine nuts and seasoned yogurt. I skipped the former this time (though it's worth browning butter at some point, if only for the unctuous smell), and seasoned my yogurt with dried coriander and paprika instead of cinnamon. The only pumpkin currently available in my market is a huge, ridged variety called a muscade; kabocha would probably be a good substitute. Though I'm partial to the original seasoning, I think it could adapt to a Tex-Mex combination of chipotle, lime, sour cream and pumpkin seeds, or a classic French trio of fresh thyme, creme fraiche and toasted walnuts.

Roast pumpkin soup with cinnamon
Adapted from Moro East
2-3 large servings
Total time: 1 ¾ hours Active time: 30 minutes

1 pound peeled and seeded pumpkin
Olive oil
1 medium onion
1 or 2 cloves garlic
1 medium potato
Vegetable or chicken stock to cover
Pinch smoked paprika
Cinnamon stick
Greek yogurt
Pinch coriander
2 tbsp pine nuts

Preheat oven to 220®C (425 F). Toss pumpkin with olive oil, salt and pepper and pour into a roasting tin large enough to fit the vegetable in a single layer. Roast for approximately 1 hour, or until the pumpkin is very soft and caramelised in spots.

After the pumpkin has been in the oven for 40 minutes or so, heat a thin film of oil in a saucepan on medium heat. Chop onion and cook gently until it is soft and golden, about 15 minutes. Chop garlic and potato and add, along with paprika, cinnamon, salt and pepper. Cook for a few minutes, stirring to ensure the garlic doesn’t burn. Add pumpkin and stock and bring to a gentle simmer. Cook until the potato is fully soft, about 20 minutes.

While the soup is simmering, lightly toast pine nuts in a dry pan or warm oven. In a small bowl, mix a few tablespoons of yogurt with coriander, paprika and salt to taste. When vegetables are fully cooked, allow the soup to cool slightly, then puree, ideally with an immersion blender. Season and serve topped with pine nuts and yogurt.

Poulet Reine Elizabeth: Coronation Chicken

On a trip to Malaysia and Singapore some years ago, I swooned around the grand Raffles Hotel for hours, made a pilgrimage to the Eton-esque Malay College (where I was shown the bathroom built for the recent visit of Queen Elizabeth II) and gazed through the gates at Singapore’s Cricket Club. Purchases included an old Raffles advertising poster and a photo taken at the time of 1953 coronation (when both nations were still part of the Empire). My studies of British history surely piqued my interest in imperial artifacts, but I hadn’t expected to be so thrilled by what the colonizers had left behind.

I was equally thrilled by the region’s food. But with the exception of the (somewhat disappointing) Singapore Sling, the local cuisines, which reflect the influence of the region’s substantial Chinese, Indian and Nyonyan (Chinese who intermarried with Malay locals) populations, seem to show little evidence of the former British overlords. Equally, neither classic dishes such as laksa, nasi lemak and beef rendang, nor the addictive melting-pot of sweet, spicy and sour flavours, were transmitted back to Blighty.

The case was otherwise with India, where the duration and intensity of imperial influence was far greater. The former largely gained ingredients, such as tea and beetroot, while British settlers (or, more likely, their Indian cooks) developed hybrid dishes, such as mulligatawny and kedgeree (about which I wrote here). From the Victorian period onwards, curry powders were also introduced to the English domestic market, with the result that by the end of the Raj in 1947, the warming (though usually mild) spice mix had become a pantry staple.

It’s tempting to say that curry powder first achieved marquee status during the 1935 ceremonies for George V’s silver jubilee, when the Palace’s chefs concocted a cold chicken dish dressed with a mix of curry powder and mayonnaise. But undoubtedly the most famous use of the ingredient came at a somewhat later royal celebration: the 1953 coronation of the current Queen, Elizabeth II. Created by Rosemary Hume, founder and director of London's white-glove cookery school, Le Cordon Bleu, Coronation Chicken was prepared for a luncheon of 350 Commonwealth dignitaries. The recipe was also printed in newspapers and magazines, and likely served at many of the street parties held across the nation.

The original recipe called for poaching and deboning whole birds, preparing a cooked curry cream sauce (including wine, tomato puree and dried apricots) to which mayonnaise was then added, and serving the entire dish along a cold, herby rice salad.

Newer versions of this retro classic have simplified matters considerably, often using precooked chicken, making a thick, mayonnaise-based dressing, and utilizing the multi-dimensional chutney instead of several other flavouring agents. I chose to cook my own chicken, though good-quality rotisserie could definitely be substituted. I did notice that the highly-seasoned (French) mayonnaise I used somewhat overwhelmed the other flavours. This is, somewhat regrettably, an instance in which neutral Hellmans may be best.

Coronation Chicken
Serves 2
Total time 70 minutes; Active time: 10-15 minutes

2 chicken legs
Peppercorns
Bay leaves
1 heaping tbsp mayo
3-4 tsp mango chutney
½ tsp lemon juice
½ tsp mild curry powder (we used Bolsts madras curry)
Small handful of cilantro
Romaine lettuce leaves to serve (optional)

Place the chicken legs in a wide frying pan or saute pan filled with cold water. Add a few peppercorns, 2 or 3 bay leaves, salt and turn heat to high. As soon as a boil is reached, turn down to a bare simmer. Continue poaching until the chicken is firm and cooked through to the bone. Take off the heat and cool until the meat can be taken off the bone and skin and shredded into bite-sized pieces.

While the chicken cools, make the curry sauce. Add mayo to a bowl, add the curry powder and ½ the chutney. Squeeze in a bit of lemon, and taste. Continue adding chutney until the desired balance of sweetness, heat and creaminess is reached. Season as needed, then mix the chicken through until thoroughly but lightly coated in sauce. Tear or cut the cilantro, top the chicken and serve, possibly on lettuce leaves.