Stichelton

It’s not quite as much a seasonal product as turkey, 90% of the annual national consumption of which is said to take place on Christmas day, but the holidays are also high season for the East Midlands producers of Stilton.

I had the opportunity to taste Stilton from one of the remaining artisanal producers, the 99-year old Colston Bassett Dairy, a few weeks back. It was mellow but deeply-flavoured, creamy-textured but not cloying—in every way a great cheese. But it was edged, as I’ve found to be the case on a number of head-to-head tastings, by an upstart from just down the road called Stichelton.

Stichelton is simply raw-milk Stilton, produced, bar a bit of technology, as this very old English cheese had been made for centuries before a listeria scare in 1989 led to mandatory pasteurisation. It’s said to have come out of a conversation at a Borough Market pub between Randall Hodgson, owner of Neals Yard Dairy and long-time champion of English artisanal cheese producers, and an American cheesemaker, Joe Schneider. They tracked down an ‘80s-era culture and convinced owners of a Holstein farm to partner with them with their quest to recreate the complex creaminess and sweetness of pre-pasteurisation Stilton.

To achieve this, Hodgson and Schneider have reintroduced traditional flavour-deepening methods, including the use of only minimal amounts of starter and rennet, hand-ladling the curds and allowing yeasts and bacteria to form a natural rind. The resulting cheese can’t be called Stilton, as EU regulations now prescribe both counties of production (Nottinghamshire, Derbyshire and Leicestershire) and the use of pasteurised milk. (It takes its name instead from that given to Stilton village in the medieval Domesday Book.) And with far smaller production capacity, it can’t aspire to capture more than a tiny segment of even the top-end Stilton market. But it’s a real treat for those who are able to try it.

Stilcheton devotees describe the cheese as having a gentle nuttiness on both the nose and palate. The blueing is moderate and integrated, and the texture lush without becoming sloppy. I find it to be both quite savoury, almost meaty, and moreishly sweet. The finish can be fantastically long.

In London, Stilchelton can be bought at Neals Yard Dairy, La Fromagerie, the cheese counters at Selfridges and Fortnum & Mason, and several other independent shops. You can follow the cheesemakers on http://twitter.com/sticheltondairy.

Beajoulais, still (relatively) Nouveau

The French take their fun very seriously, particularly during the orchestrated bacchanal of Beaujolais Nouveau. At midnight on the third Thursday of November, bottles of new-vintage Gamay are opened in the wine-producing villages of France’s central Beajoulais region. By the next evening, the wine has arrived in locations as diffuse as Paris, Tokyo and New York, and a global (and highly-profitable) harvest party can begin.

Beajoulais Nouveau celebrations date back more than a century, when vignerons in the southernmost region of Burgundy saw an opportunity to sell off middling wine early in the season and at a good profit. Utilising carbonic maceration—in which wine is produced by allowing barrel fermentation of uncrushed grapes—allowed them to significantly shorten the time lag between harvest and release of the new vintage. Initially, it was mostly consumed by residents of the nearby city of Lyon, who had long regarded Beajoulais’ fruity, low-tannin wines as the ideal accompaniment to their rich, rustic cuisine. But beginning in the 1960s, a combination of improved transport and savvy marketing helped to generate an international market for Beajoulais Nouveau. The real brilliance was to heighten demand and excitement by fixing the date for release; the current date was chosen in 1985.

Wine shops, bars and cafés worldwide still have out signs and banners proclaiming “Le Beaujolais Nouveau est arrivé!” (The Beajoulais Nouveau has arrived!) By now, though, more than half of the Nouveau supply is gone, having been consumed in the 48 hours following release. But it’s still worth trying to buy a few bottles of what is reputed to be a landmark year. Garish labels, usually a sign of indifferent wine, are the norm with Nouveau, and very few of the bottles will be labeled with a village of origin. (It may be possible to find Beajoulais Nouveau Villages, where the wine will have come from the 12 top-ranked appellations in the region.) But any risk involved is mitigated by the wine’s gentle pricing.

Lacking tannins, Beajoulais Nouveau should be drunk within a few months of bottling. The timing is ideal, though, as its fresh fruitiness is an easy match for the hodgepodge of flavours at holiday parties and dinners. Chill the wine lightly and serve it with anything from an appetizer spread to a formal meal of a roast bird and side dishes to a platter of assorted cheeses. A traditional accompaniment would be gougeres, Burgundy’s answer to the ubiquitous cheese biscuit.

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.

Humble Fare

At once primeval and utterly quotidian, lentils are a key ingredient of some of the world's oldest cuisines. Archaeologists have dated cultivation to the paleolithic age, while the Bible, Aristophanes and Apicius all feature the consumption of lentil stews and potages. Today, in the form of the Indian dal, and the lentil and rice dishes (including mjadarrah and koshari) ubiquitous across the Middle East, they remain a staple source of (cheap, local) protein to tens of millions daily.

For the (voluntary) vegetarians of the West, lentils occupy a similarly central role. Yet try as I did over 15+ years in their camp, I was never able to embrace this homely legume. Sludgy in colour, mushy in texture, often doused in copious quantities of harsh curry powders, lentils came to symbolise everything that was boring and abstemious about generically ethnic vegetarian fare. To be fair, the problem was something like that which I encountered with tofu. In the skillful hands of a Chinese or Thai cook, tofu was tasty, sometimes even moreish. In my own, it was bland, bereft of texture and generally to be avoided. Likewise, while the lentils served at curry houses or in the mezze dishes of a Lebanese restaurant did more than just fill the stomach, none of my own efforts in these genres merited repetition.

It was only after I began to eat meat again that I finally found a lentil that commanded respect. The Puy lentil, cultivated under AOC protection in the Auvergne region of France, possesses a delicate, earthy taste and, crucially, retains its shape when cooked. As I recall, lentilles du Puy had a particular following amongst restaurant chefs in the late 1990s, who used them as a garnish for roast fish and meat. They are most often paired with Mediterranean herbs--notably thyme and mint--garlic and pancetta (or another form of smoked pork) and simmered until soft. Loosened up with stock, puy lentils make a hearty soup; served at room temperature, they form an excellent salad, particularly when garnished with goat's or blue cheese.

At first, in a concession to my boyfriend's ambivalent attitudes towards non-animal protein, I cooked my lentils in a soupy, salty bath of pancetta, carrots, onion and thyme. The following summer I found a fantastic lentil salad recipe from Nigel Slater, calling for ample quantities of feta, red onion and mint. But by far the best--and most popular--has been a simplified version of a bulgur and lentil salad which I found in the Gourmet cookbook. My variation has eliminated the bulgur altogether, along with the shallots, carrots and celery. I've retained the toasted walnuts and fresh tarragon, upping the quantities of both and adding a final spark of acidity with lemon juice. The result is, at least to my mind, earthy, sprightly and satisfying. Humble fare it may be, but some days, you don't need anything more than that.

Puy Lentils with Tarragon and Walnuts
3/4 cup lentils
1 large handful of shelled walnuts (I'd describe my hand as relatively small; adjust accordingly)
1 slightly smaller handful fresh tarragon
1 slug (probably a good teaspoon) white wine or white wine tarragon vinegar
juice 1/2 lemon
1-2 slugs olive oil
salt and pepper

Place the lentils in a heavy-bottomed pot, cover with enough water to leave about 1 inch on top and bring to a boil. Lower to a simmer and cook, adding water if necessary, until lentils are tender but not falling apart. This should take 30-45 minutes. In the meantime, toast the walnuts either in a dry pan or a medium oven (10-15 minutes should suffice). When cool, break into coarse pieces. Roughly chop the tarragon. When the lentils are finished cooking, allow to cool slightly then mix in the walnuts and tarragon (this will wilt in the heat; no matter). Lubricate with a bit of oil, then adjust the acidity with the vinegar and lemon juice. Season to taste and serve.

Eat warm or at room temperature. Though I've never had leftovers, I'd imagine they would taste quite good as well.

An English Christmas

I will not be having a merry old Dickensian Christmas. In fact, I do not celebrate Christmas at all. (I will be eating and drinking lots that day, but what else is there to do when everything is closed and there is little on TV?) With no dinner to plan, I can claim little interest in the goose vs. turkey debate, in the seemingly endless search for (lighter! newer! better!) side dishes or in the eternal problem of leftovers. I am, however, very interested in dessert.

Let me be a bit more specific. Over the festive season I may dabble with Christmas pudding (aka plum pudding). A plump, vanilla-scented pannetone (a very popular option amongst those who want to bring Mediterranean vivacity to their home-grown celebration) is already beckoning atop the microwave. There will most certainly be chocolate, including the justly renowned Bendicks bittermints. (With 95% cocoa solids, this is a very grown-up After Eight.) What I am most interested in at the moment, however, is mince pies, or--even more precisely--the contents thereof.

A quick perusal of the Oxford Companion to Food confirmed my suspicions about the medieval origins of this dish. In common with other English recipes from this period, mincemeat employed sweet spices such as mace (these were largely sourced from India), fruits and, on occasion, alcohol for bulk and distraction. All of this was bound for individual consumption in a pastry casing. (Here, the mincemeat pie has quite a bit in common with another convenience food of the Middle Ages, the Cornish pasty.) Early settlers to North America, perhaps eager to prove that everything in the New World was indeed bigger and better, made larger pies. By the 19th century, mince pies had shed the meat (though suet remained as a binder, a tradition still followed by some today) and become indelibly associated with a Dickensian image of Christmas.

While poor supermarket versions abound, a quality mince pie boasts a crumbly, buttery double-crust pasty and a filling packed with currants, chopped apple (too much is a sure sign of cheap mincemeat), candied citrus peel, fragrant nutmeg, cinnamon and cloves and lots of brandy. Chopped nuts are sometimes added, and/or frangipane applied underneath the top casing. The best versions are matured for several weeks, blending the flavours and ensuring a subtle, boozy hit.

Though it occurred to me to make my own mincemeat, handing out mince pies to friends and coworkers seemed a rather goyische thing to do. But I had noticed some particularly delectable mincemeat on offer at Neals Yard Dairy, piled high in a rustic stoneware bowl. Their version was made by Elspeth Biltoft at Rosebud Preserves, whose Yorkshire jams and chutneys are some of the best on the market. Some querying revealed that the mincemeat could also be used as a cheese condiment. Kirkham's Lancashire, a pale, crumbly cows-milk cheese was chosen, the slightly lemony and yogurty sourness of the cheese offsetting by the rich fruitiness of the mincemeat.

Consider it a nod to the festive season, to the history and culinary traditions of the majority religion. Or consider it dessert.