Smoked mackerel rillettes

Fish is preserved practically the world over, but the UK does it particularly well. I imagine that its enormous coastline and historic strength as a maritime power both were factors in its populace finding tasty ways to make fish keep. While the Portuguese and Spanish used salt for their cod, and the Scandinavians chose to pickle their mackerel and herring, the British have generally used smoke. In Scotland and Ireland, cold smoking is the norm for salmon. More prosaic, and these days far less popular, is the kipper, a whole, butterflied herring, heavily cured and grilled with butter as part of a (very) large breakfast. Smoked haddock is another particularly British speciality. Like kippers, the cure—and resulting colour—can often be overly harsh. But the best, when poached lightly to remove excess salt, make a creamy and delicate addition to chowders, fish cakes and the Anglo-Indian classic, kedgeree.

My favourite, though, is smoked mackerel. Its sweet, rich flesh needs no cooking and is tasty enough to eat on its own. In contrast to salmon, kippers and haddock, there don’t really seem to be small-scale producers or regional or other stylistic variations in smoking recipes. But even the bog-standard supermarket varieties—with the exception of the acrid, pepper-coated versions—are surprisingly good.

Smoked mackerel rillettes make a fantastically easy weekend lunch, either in an open-faced sandwich made with rye crackers or dark bread or alongside cucumber and potato salads (and maybe even some borscht). I haven’t had occasion to do so, but I imagine they’d work well as an hors d'œuvre before a more formal dinner.

Many recipes I’ve seen call for cream cheese. You could try this, but the tang and lighter texture of crème fraîche seem preferable. If crème fraîche is hard to come by, sour cream is a perfectly suitable alternative. The horseradish, though not essential, adds a welcome hint of piquancy. Even creamed, jarred horseradish would probably add something. In France, where hot-smoked trout is widely available, I’ve used that instead of mackerel. The only categorical guidance I would give is to avoid the food processor. Not only does it add to the washing-up, but the end-result will have an unwelcome resemblance to wallpaper paste.

If you’ll be drinking with this, non-vodka options could include a Muscadet, an Old World-style Riesling with a bit of residual sweetness, or a beer that picks up the mackerel’s smokiness.

Smoked mackerel rillettes

Serves 2

Total time : 10 minutes ; Active time : 10 minutes

150 grams plain, undyed smoked mackerel filet

crème fraîche

lemon

fresh horseradish root

small handful fresh chives and/or dill

Strip mackerel from its skin and place in a medium-sized bowl. Lightly mash with a fork until there is mix of coarse paste and bite-size chunks. Add crème fraîche one teaspoon at a time, mixing through with each addition. You’ll likely want several teaspoons to get a spreadable but not overly sloppy consistency.

Loosen the mixture with a good squeeze of lemon juice. Using a microplane, grate in horseradish to taste. (I tend to use about one teaspoon.) Chop or snip in herbs.

Check seasoning (you likely don't need additional salt) and serve.

Pan Bagnat

John Ash tells of being invited for lunch by the great food writer MFK Fisher. As they chatted, she prepared a large sandwich, wrapped it tightly and handed it to him with instructions to sit upon it until it was time to eat. After an hour or so it was retrieved from its resting place and served in thin, neat slices with cornichons and Californian Pinot Noir.

According to Ash, lunch that day was a ham and cheese sandwich, bound together with a tangy mix of mayonnaise and mustard. But it seems likely that Fisher, who spent many years living in the south of France, borrowed the melding technique from the classic Nicoise sandwich, pan bagnat. Best translated as "bathed bread", a pan bagnat sandwiches tinned fish, hard-boiled egg, tomato and condiments in a large roll, using weights, time and good amount of olive oil to turn the whole into a deliciously marinated mess.

Sturdy and able to keep, pan bagnat makes perfect picnic food. So when the idea emerged to spend an afternoon cycling in the parks surrounding the Chateau de Versailles, I knew exactly what we'd be having for lunch. By chance, the one local bakery selling ciabatta had reopened the previous day, and we had discovered a particularly tasty brand of oil-packed anchovies. I made the sandwiches early in the morning, layering on the tuna and anchovies, egg and sliced tomato and seasoning with herbes de provence, the remaining oil and a splash of lemon juice. Double-wrapped, the sandwiches went into my backpack under 4 bottles of water and other paraphernalia. By the time we had dragged the bikes out to Versailles and found a sunny spot facing the Chateau, they were nicely squashed and moist throughout.

I was distracted from taking photos by the swarm of alcoholic wasps who also attended our picnic, eventually meeting their demise in a half-bottle of Saumur Rouge. But the sandwiches, along with what wine we could retrieve and a bag of Reine Claudes, provided sufficient ballast for several hours of charging through the woods and gaping at the grandeur.

Pan Bagnat
Adapted from the New York Times
Serves 2
Active time: 30 minutes; Total time 3-10 hours

2 portion-sized or 1 large ciabatta, either olive or plain (substitute a small white country loaf)
1 medium-size tin tuna packed in olive oil
1 small or medium tin of anchovies packed in olive oil
1 tomato
Small handful olives (optional)
Basil leaves or a small handful of rocket (optional)
Herbes de provence
Lemon juice
Olive oil
Salt and pepper

Hard-boil eggs according to preferred method. Split the ciabatta, removing a bit of the interior if desired. Open the cans of fish. Spoon a bit of the residual oil onto the bread. Add the tuna, followed by the anchovies. Slice the tomato and place on top. Stone the olives, cut in half and add.

Once sufficiently cool, peel eggs, slice and add to fish and tomato. Top with leaves. Season to taste with herbes de provence, lemon juice, olive oil and salt and pepper.

Wrap sandwiches in a double layer of foil, place on a plate and refrigerate, using a heavy pan or some canned goods to compress. Bring to room temperature before serving. Sandwiches will keep for at least a few hours outside the refrigerator.

Chez Moi

With too much time on my hands these days, it is tempting to explore making more things from scratch. I heard recently that canning is achieving new-found popularity. Why not make some jams and chutneys with the last of the summer produce? Or yogurt—homemade is meant to be excellent, and cheap too. Ice cream and bread are out due to lack of equipment, but many of the things on my fridge door—ketchup, curry paste, tapenade—could be attempted.

Yet while my homemade jam is perfectly nice, it falls short of even good-quality supermarket brands. Tapenade prepared in my mortar and pestle boasts an appealingly rustic texture, but it’s expensive, messy and has a shorter shelf-life. As for yogurt, I don’t share the French passion for eating it multiple times a day, which would seem necessary to make it worthwhile. Ketchup is only called into service for steak tartare; Heinz works just fine there, additives be damned.

Undoubtedly, a more skilled jam-maker or a larger household might reach different conclusions. But for me, these types of projects seem justified only if undertaken for the pleasure of the process; good results are strictly a bonus.

Boredom may yield some additions to last year’s stash of homemade plum chutney (a bit too sharp, and less versatile than I imagined). At least I’ve found one made-from-scratch project which is impressively simple, cost-efficient and tasty:

Homemade gravadlax involves nothing more than topping a salmon fillet with some greenery and seasoning, then weighting it down in the fridge for a few days. Given the length of the lines at my local supermarket, the initial preparation takes less time than visiting the chilled fish aisle, plus I’m able to buy two or three times the quantity of fresh fish for the cost of a small packet of cured. After two or three days in the fridge, homemade gravadlax has a brighter, fresher taste than its commercial counterpart. It is also easy scalable; anything from a 200 gram (1/2 pound) fillet to a whole side of salmon can be cured.

Sliced into strips, piled onto blini or thin toast and topped with sour cream, the gravadlax makes an elegant starter. Though its texture is less dense and oily, it can also stand in anywhere smoked salmon is used: eggs, salads, sandwiches. Most recently, we served it whole as a main course, accompanied by potato salad.

So, at the risk of sounding like one of missionary types who wants you make your own jam, I can only say: buy the salmon. It’s worth it. And have I mentioned that it’s easy?

Gravadlax
adapted from Cooking for Engineers
Serves 4 as a starter or 2 as a main (can be easily doubled or tripled)
Active time: 10 minutes; Total time: 2-3 days
Special equipment: mortar and pestle

1 salmon fillet, about 200 grams (try to find one of equal thickness throughout)
1 scant tablespoon coarse sea salt
1 heaping tablespoon granulated sugar (I used light brown)
1 heaping teaspoon black peppercorns
1 heaping teaspoon juniper berries (optional but recommended)
Handful fresh dill

If possible, peel or cut skin from salmon fillet. Examine for pin-bones by draping over hand, removing any with fingers or thin tweezers. Place fish in the center of a double layer of foil.

Measure salt and sugar in a small bowl. Grind peppercorns and juniper berries coarsely in a mortar and pestle and add to sugar-salt mixture. Stir to combine. Spoon mixture over both sides of fish, pressing gently into flesh.

Place dill fronds under and on fish fillet, snapping off protruding stems. Wrap fish into a tight package with the first layer of foil. Repeat packaging with second piece of foil. Place in a shallow dish and weight down evenly with cans and/or a heavy pan.

Turn 2 times/day, leaving package wrapped. After two or three days, unwrap package, brush or rinse off any excess cure and serve. Unused fish will keep covered for another week or so.

Tagine aux Sardines

Were I to tell my tomato and herb vendors that I hadn’t yet developed a taste for North African pastries, it’s likely that they would leave their stands in the care of underlings, escort me to any one of a number of local shops and present me with a plate of assorted sweetmeats. Yet if I were to mention that I had developed a method for fish tagine* that might yield better results than those their mother or grandmother used, I doubt that I would be invited into their kitchens for a demonstration.

Taste memory is unassailable, so too authenticity. And while it may have suffered from the ubiquity of time-saving ingredients—instant couscous, bouillon cubes and premade spice mixes—traditional North African food is something that, for much of Paris’ population, is as familiar and evocative as Friday night challah is to me. And so just as I’m dismissive of every loaf which isn’t my mother’s, I can understand why my tagine, though avoiding the common problem of overcooked fish and undercooked onions, would not past muster at the market. In the interest of ensuring my supply chain for tomato and basil salads, I’ll therefore be keeping this more or less to myself.

Sardine Tagine

Serves 2; can easily be doubled or tripled
Total time: 45 minutes; Active time: 15-20 minutes

Unlike traditional tagines, in which all of the ingredients are cooked together for the same length of time, this vegetable and herb base is virtually ready by the time the fish is added. This allows the fish to retain structural integrity and the spice rub to be fresh and unmuddied . Sardines are delicious and inexpensive, but their high oil content means they spoil quickly. If you can’t access good ones, try this with mackerel fillets or a full-flavoured white fish, perhaps mullet or bream. Either add to the fish’s cooking time or cut the fillets into large bite-size pieces.

Olive oil
1 medium onion
1 small bulb fennel
2 small tomatoes
Large handful coriander
Large handful parsley
2 cloves garlic
A few slices lemon peel
Harissa (substitute hot paprika or red pepper flakes)
400 grams sardine fillets (from 600-700 grams whole fish)
Large pinch each cumin, coriander and fennel seed
Lemon juice

Over a low heat, warm enough olive oil to just cover the surface of a heavy, lidded pan. Slice the onion and fennel bulb thinly, add, season and fry gently until just soft, 5-8 minutes. While these cook, chop tomato and herbs coarsely. Add all the tomato and half the herbs to the pan. Pour in a few tablespoons of water and cook the mixture until the tomato begins to break down and the other vegetables are fully softened, another 10 minutes or so. Slice or chop garlic and add once the mixture is nearly cooked. Add lemon peel and harissa to taste. Take off heat and set aside.

Rinse the filets and place flesh side up on a large plate. Grind the cumin, coriander and fennel seeds in a mortar and pestle or spice grinder. Using a teaspoon, distribute the ground spices evenly over the fish.

Warm the sauce over a low heat. Sandwich the fish fillets (spice-side in) and distribute over the sauce. If the mixture looks dry, add another splash or two of water. Cover and cook on a gentle heat until the fish is just cooked through (as little as 5 minutes depending on the size/thickness of the fillets). Add lemon juice, adjust seasoning and serve warm or at room temperature with remaining herbs, couscous or flatbread.


* This Arabic word describes both a conical, earthenware pot and any meat, fish or vegetable dish cooked in it.

Fish for Tennis

The installation of a roof on Centre Court at Wimbledon seems to have resulted in the balmiest June in recent memory. These days, English strawberries—not to mention Spanish or Chilean ones—arrive on the supermarket shelves well before the opening match, regardless of climatic variation. But it is doubtless true that summer traditions such as Pimms cup, Jersey Royal potatoes and Eton mess are more enjoyable when they don’t provide the only reminder of summer’s putative existence.

Perhaps because I spent my childhood elsewhere, I have little sentimentality for England’s variable but occasionally glorious summers. Given the choice, I would rather spend mine in a place where it’s regularly hot enough to require a cool drink, and where climate, architecture and culture all conspire to encourage time spent outdoors. (France has mastered the latter, though its northern reaches often leave something to be desired on the temperature front.) I can therefore only attribute my tangent into English summer cooking to the tennis.

Without the over-abundance of good, cheap fruit that comes from a garden or country farm stand, I’ve never really been tempted to make dessert classics such as summer pudding, preferring to eat my berries straight-up. The only exception I make is for gooseberries, whose mouth-puckering sharpness only softens with a judicious application of sugar and heat.

The gooseberries got no further adornment before being puddled next to a freshly-grilled mackerel, the classic perfection of the combination hinted at by the French word for the fruit: groseille à maquereau. And when I could find no more gooseberries, I moved on to a variation on another English summer classic, salmon and mayonnaise. Guided by Nigel Slater, I made fishcakes from salmon (and an equal quantity of smoked trout), boiled new potatoes, and generous handful of tarragon, dill and parsley, and served them with a punched-up mayonnaise full of the same herbs, lemon juice and chopped-up capers.

The tennis is only on for another week. But I suspect these dishes will be on regular rotation for at least another two months.

Mackerel with Gooseberry Sauce

Because of its high oil content, mackerel is only appealing when it’s very fresh. (If it’s unavailable, salmon fillets or steaks could be substituted.) We ended up with whole, cleaned fish, though fillets would make for neater serving. A sauvignon blanc (I like these moderately priced ones) will pick up the grassy, gooseberry flavours of the sauce and cut through the fish’s richness.

Serves 2
Total time: 30 minutes; Active time: 10 minutes

1 small basket gooseberries
Sugar to taste
Very fresh mackerel, either whole or filleted, with skin on (at least 200 grams per person after wastage)
Lemon

Rinse the berries, trim both ends and place in a small saucepan. Add a tablespoon or two of water, and a tablespoon of sugar. (You may want to increase this at the end.) Place on a low heat, stirring occasionally until the gooseberries are soft and collapse under the weight of a spoon. Crush gently with a fork or potato masher, adjust sugar and set aside.

If using whole fish, heat grill (broiler), rinse fish and season. Grill on foil, turning as necessary. Fillet on a separate plate, then add the gooseberry alongside. You may want lemon, though the sauce likely adds sufficient acidity.

If starting with fillets, heat a teaspoon or two of olive or neutral oil in a non-stick pan. Start the fish skin-side down, turning with a thin, flat spatula when it has browned. Season the skinless side and cook for about ½ the time as the first side. Remove to a plate, adjust seasoning and serve with sauce.

Fishcakes with Tartar Sauce

Fishcakes can, when made small and spicy enough, be delicate nibbles. In truly tropical conditions, I’d opt for those, though the following recipe will be perfect for 99% of English summer evenings. The recipe is not particularly prescriptive: salmon can be substituted with a white fish, smoked (or unsmoked) salmon can easily replace the smoked trout and while aniseedy herbs such as tarragon and dill flatter both, the proportions can be adapted. Extra fishcakes can also be prepared up to 2 days in advance. Follow instructions through flouring the fishcakes, then cover and refrigerate until needed.

Serves 2
Total time: 1 hour; Active time: 20-30 minutes (depending on fish preparation)

Adapted from Nigel Slater's Appetite

Fishcake ingredients and initial prep
250 grams potatoes
250 grams fish (I used 1 small can of wild salmon and the same quantity of smoked trout)
Good handful herbs—a mixture of parsley, dill and tarragon works well
Flour
Neutral oil for frying

Peel the potatoes, cube or slice, and place in a pan of boiling, salted water. Cook on a medium-high heat until very soft.

While the potatoes are cooking, prepare the fish. Drain canned fish and chop smoked fish finely, placing both in a mixing bowl. If using fresh fish, poach in a shallow pan until just cooked, then cool and flake fish from skin, adding to the mixing bowl. Chop herbs finely and add to fish.

Drain potatoes. If still a bit wet, steam off excess water by placing the covered pan over low heat for several minutes. Mash with a fork or potato masher and, when cooled somewhat, add to fish mixture. Mix and adjust seasoning.

Sauce ingredients and prep
1 tbsp capers, preferably preserved in salt
Good handful herbs—a mixture of parsley, dill and tarragon works well
Mayonnaise (homemade or quality store-bought), 1- 2 tablespoons per person
Lemon juice
Cornichons (optional)

Soak capers in water to remove salt (or vinegar). Chop herbs finely and add to a small mixing bowl. Add mayonnaise to taste, aiming for something in-between a herb-flecked sauce and herbs just held together by mayonnaise. Remove capers from water, chop and add. Chop and add cornichons, if using. Add a squeeze of lemon juice and adjust seasoning.

Frying
Heat a neutral oil in a heavy-bottomed frying pan until hot but not smoking. Unless your pan is non-stick, you’ll want enough oil to coat the bottom of the pan. Put several tablespoons of flour on a flat plate and flour hands lightly. Form fishcakes about 3-4 inches in diameter, flatten slightly and dredge in flour. As each is ready, place gently in the oil. Fry each fishcake until it is crisp and golden on the bottom, then turn carefully with a flat spatula. Remove to a plate lined with paper towels and serve with sauce and freshly-steamed peas and/or asparagus.

Bar en Sel (Sea Bass in Salt)

The prospect of fish for dinner tends to make me feel either bored or hungry. I would exclude from this generalization oily, meaty fish like sardines, herring and mackerel, spice-laden curries and stews and, during the odd appearance of summer in northern Europe, poached salmon with mayonnaise. But to me, white, flaky fishes—halibut, cod, sole, sea bass and the like—usually taste abstemiously plain or only of the sauce in which they are swimming. Add to this high prices and few of the health benefits of less-glamorous fish, and it’s not surprising that months can go by without any appearing on my table.

It was only an accident of the calendar that changed things yesterday. At even the most modest fish stalls in the market, displays of oysters, clams and prawns—if not also lobster and crab—have claimed most of the square footage. Recession or no recession, the French are celebrating Christmas and New Years in the usual style: with huge platters of seafood (and champagne, geese and foie gras, but that’s material for another post.)

Oily fish has been banished entirely, so too more cost-conscious choices like mullet and bream. If not for the fact that I am generally a non-seafood eater, and that I had already purchased a good bottle of sauvignon blanc, I surely would have followed the crowds in another direction.

The best choice seemed to be the sea bass, which though expensive was very fresh and more wine-friendly than the salmon. As I walked home, fretting about the cost of that night’s protein source, I tried to think about a marinade or sauce which would inject flavour without totally overwhelming a much-anticipated side dish of a Central Asian rice pilau with herbs, pine nuts and raisins.

The answer came, as it so often does, from a recipe in one my much-beloved Moro cookbooks: fish baked in salt. I stuffed the cleaned bellies with lemon slices, fresh dill and fennel fronds and placed them on a bed of coarse sea salt studded with citrus zest and fennel seeds. The fish were covered entirely, leaving only their heads and tails protruding, and placed into a hot oven. After about 20 minutes, the crust was ready to be split, revealing moist, aromatic and—to my surprise—deeply flavourful flesh.

Adding to this a taut, mineral-laden wine, some moreish rice, and, to finish, goats cheese, and we had a meal that satisfied, impressed even. On reflection, I suppose it was regime (diet) friendly. Not a bad thing at this time of year, but hardly the point.

Salt-Baked Whole Fish

I adapted this principally from Moro 2, adding in Jamie Oliver’s suggestion to infuse the salt with citrus zest and fennel seeds. Depending on the aromatics used, I think it could easily be adapted as the centrepiece of an Indian, Southeast Asian or Middle Eastern meal. The recipe could also be doubled, or the smaller fish swapped for a larger one, with some small adjustment in baking time. And while the flesh has more than enough flavour to be served as is, it can be garnished with olive oil and lemon, or even some garlicky mayonnaise (aioli).

Serves 2
Active time: 5-10 minutes
Total time: Just under 30 minutes, not including preheating the oven

2 whole sea bass (or bream), 600-700 grams in total weight, scaled and gutted with heads on
1 kg coarse sea salt (anything cheap is fine)
Handful herb sprigs (fennel and dill work particularly well)
1 lemon
1 small orange
Small handful fennel seeds

Preheat the oven to 200C. Rinse the fish, pat dry and set aside. Pour the salt into a bowl and grate in the zest of the lemon and orange. Add the fennel seeds and mix through. On a platter or ovenproof dish which fits the fish snugly, pour in about half the salt. Place the fish on top and fill the bellies with herb sprigs and citrus slices cut from the lemon and/or orange. Cover the fish with the remainder of the salt, packing in closely but leaving the heads and tails exposed. Pour a few tablespoons of water over the dish and place in oven.

After 15 minutes, check to see whether the salt has formed a hard, dry crust. If not, leave for a few minutes longer. If you’re unsure, poke a thin knife into the flesh, holding for 10 seconds. If the knife comes out warm, the fish is done.

Remove the fish from the oven and leave to rest for a few minutes. Break the crust with a knife and scrape off any extra salt. The skin will not be very tasty, but the flesh inside should be moist and flaky. Serve immediately with olive oil or lemon, if desired.

Soupe de Poisson

In my kitchen, at least, not everything is better when it's homemade. Even with tasty olives and anchovies, I can't produce tapenade like that sold by Britain's largest grocery chain. The same goes for jam; there's a reason why Bonne Maman does such good business. And then there are the items which I take pleasure in making--bread for instance--that may vie with easily available options (at least outside France), but don't really reflect a mastery of the craft.

I do think, however, that given time, several large pots and a good marketing plan, people might just pay money for my soup.

I'm still working on expanding my repertoire, but this Provencal-inspired fish soup, a riff on a Nigel Slater recipe, has proven to be a bit of a sleeper hit. In contrast to many (good quality) commercial French offerings, where the fish is pureed and the finished product topped with Gruyere toasts, the flavours here seem brighter, cleaner, fishy in the right sort of way. And it's as flexible as the famously belaboured bouillabaisse is not. For instance, while fish stock adds depth to the final product, I've made it successfully without. I also tend to limit myself to one firm, flavourful white fish (usually mullet or bream), simply for practicality. Fresh fennel goes in when I have it, some fennel seeds when I don't. The thyme sprigs could, if necessary, be swapped for a pinch of herb de provence. And anything dry, acidic and white--sauvignon blanc, muscat, a vermentino or verdejo--will work both in the pot and in a glass alongside.

This soup is plenty good without any filips, though I'm prone to adding a dollop of decidedly not homemade rouille (a rich, mildly spicy, red pepper mayo) or aioli to my bowl. I let you know if I can improve upon--or even match--this.

Soupe de Poisson
Enough for 2; can double easily
Total time: 45 minutes
Active time: 20 minutes

olive oil, enough to film the pot
1 medium onion
1/2 small bulb fennel or 1 tsp fennel seeds
1 or 2 cloves of garlic
pinch of red pepper flakes (optional)
1 can crushed plum tomatoes
1 strip of orange peel
a few sprigs of thyme
pinch of saffron
1 glass white wine (or vermouth)
1 cup homemade or other good fish stock (optional, substitute a mixture of tomato liquid and water)
500 grams filleted white fish (off the skin is prettier, but the fish will break down faster)
chopped parsley (optional)
rouille or aioli (optional)

Serve with a baguette and chilled white wine

Warm the oil in a heavy-bottomed pot, chop the onions and fennel and add, along with a pinch of salt and some pepper, stirring occasionally. Chop the garlic and strip the thyme from its branches. Once the vegetables have fully softened--between 10 and 15 minutes, add the garlic, red pepper flakes, fennel seeds and thyme and toss. Add the tinned tomatoes, holding back about half of the juice. While this cooks down on a low medium heat, infuse the saffron in a few tablespoons of hot water. Warm the fish stock. In 15 minutes, or when the tomato mixture is looked reduced and amalgamated, add the wine. Raise the heat for several minutes to cook off the alcohol, then add the fish stock or watered-down tomato liquid, along with a bit of water if you'd like a looser texture. Let this cook for a few minutes while you chop the fish into bite-size pieces. If you are ready to eat, add the fish and let it cook through on a gentle heat, no more than 5 minutes. Check the seasoning, top with parsley and serve, adding either rouille or aioli to the baguette or the bowl.

Salad nicoise

It's early in the morning on the fourth day of my vacation, and I'm finally willing to admit that one doesn't always have to go somewhere to have an enjoyable holiday. Especially when one lives in Paris, when a certain cheese-loving Londoner is here for more days than can be counted on one hand, and when, finally, the sun has come out.

It should have been obvious to me sooner--around lunch on Saturday--when we assembled a nicoise salad that surely bested 98% of those eaten by the thousands slow-baking through August on the Riviera. Good summer tomatoes and green beans obviously helped, as did the perfectly moist and orange-yolked hard boiled eggs. (I have been producing some messy, and quite frankly, inedible specimens of late, a fact which I blame on my slow-to-heat Le Creuset, but may actually be due to simple incompetence.) But the defining element was the fish: one small (possibly too small) tin of olive-oil laden albacore tuna, another of anchovies so milky-white and clean-tasting that they deserve to be called boquerones and sold for lots of money in a stylishly simple tapas bar.

High-quality ingredients are important here; so is the timing. I like to dress the potatoes and beans while warm (in order to absorb the fishy, oily dressing), and to slice the egg on top of the composed salad as soon as it's cool enough to peel. On this occasion, from start to photo-finish, it took about 40 minutes. I think 30 is the minimum.

For two people, I usually start by boiling a handful of halved or quartered new potatoes. A similar quantity of trimmed haricot verts are added to the same pot with about 5 minutes to go. Once the potatoes are started, I drain the oil from the fish(es) into the serving dish. This, along with dijon mustard, a splash of vinegar, salt and vinegar, should make a sufficient quantity of dressing. After this, the tomatoes can be chopped or sliced (mi cuit tomatoes might make an interesting variation in the winter and spring), olives stoned and water brought up to boil for the eggs. By the time the eggs go on, I've hopefully added the fish and tomatoes, along with the olives, to the dish, and cleaned some soft salad leaves. The potatoes and beans are cooled slightly, then mixed through. I toss in the leaves just as the eggs come off the heat, adding the sliced eggs immediately before serving.

Rose or a crisp white seem obvious partners. We would have finished with goats cheese, had we not eaten it all the night before in a decadent midnight picnic.

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.

On food shopping

Last year, my time spent scouring the winter sales landed me the following bargains. At Harvey Nicks, London's answer to Barney's, I scored a can of mispriced Ortiz ventresca tuna. Liberty's, the quirky, classy, designer haven, yielded up a bottle of Oliviers & Co. sherry vinegar. My final visit, to the vast expanses of Selfridges, forced an impulse buy. A bespoke bag of my favourite jelly beans (the banana, peanut butter and watermelon flavours, all underrepresented in the standard mixes) was the only thing that kept me from bursting into tears in the middle of women's sportswear.

Simultaneously in search of luxury (thank you, grandma) and bargains (thank you, mom), and with a backside somewhat larger than the rest of my size 0 self, I am not a very successful clothing shopper. So while I await the arrival of J.Crew in London and attempt a new jogging regimen (once prodigious, it has been replaced in recent years by an equally prodigious cheese-eating regimen), my consumer impulses invariably send me in the direction of the nearest food or wine retailer.

Here at least, I am rarely thwarted. With an Aladdin's cave of a European deli just down the road, a job on the city's best Parisian-style food shopping street and the possibility of a weekly sojourn to the justifiably renowned Borough Market, I've ample opportunity to pay homage to both maternal influences. In the last two days alone, our larder has gained the following:

• 2 creamy crottin du chevre, sold by a charming, if incomprehensible, purveyor at Borough
• delicate, slightly scraggly new season rhubarb, which was stewed with a handful of frozen raspberries (we give this the elegant moniker pink goo)
• very dirty, sweet-smelling dwarf parsnips
• a bargain bowlful of blood oranges, which I hope are bloodier than their plain-as-as-navel exteriors suggest
• a bag of the city's best truffles, only slightly irregular
• my first ever dried beans, bought with pocket change and used to make this
• two slices of fantastically succulent bresaola, the ideal complement to a not-so-small glass of amontillado
• a bottle of lush, lemony Vermentino, which paired with anchovy and rosemary-topped hake (did I mention the intimidatingly tattooed local fishmonger?) to make the best high-low meal of the weekend

I happened upon hake, and Sophie Grigson's fantastic recipe for it, this fall. Without question, this is the best fish dish I've ever made.

Hake with Anchovies and Rosemary (adapted from Fish to serve 2)

Total time: 45 minutes; Active time: 15 minutes

1-2 cleaned hake (heads left on, please), totalling about 1 1/2 pounds; 5 anchovy fillets, rinsed if salt-packed; 3-4 tbsp olive oil; 2 cloves garlic; 3-4 full sprigs fresh rosemary; 1 handful bread crumbs, ideally fresh and coarse; lemon; salt and pepper

Heat the oven to 350. Place the cleaned fish snugly in a lightly-oiled, oven and broiler-proof dish. Stick at least 1 rosemary sprig inside the cavity(ies). While the oven heats, gently heat olive oil, chop the anchovies and fry gently. When they have nearly melted (3-5 minutes), add the garlic, coarsely chopped, frying for another minute before removing from the heat. Pour this mixture over the fish, reserving a bit for the insides. Chop the remaining rosemary, mix with the bread crumbs and place on top, trying to cover the surface area fully. (Concentrate on the area surrounding the backbone, not the cavity.) Sprinkle with salt and pepper and place in oven. The fish will likely take about 30 minutes to cook through and colour; you may choose to baste mid-way through with the excess oil in the pan. If the fish feels done but the crumbs have not yet browned, place the dish briefly (2-3 minutes max) under the broiler.

This is difficult to serve neatly. In my experience, it's preferable to portion it directly from the dish, adding lemon juice and additional salt and pepper to taste.