Kohlrabi slaw

I was in a particularly suggestible mood at the farmer’s market last Sunday. It not only felt like summer, with temperatures warm enough in mid morning to make long sleeves unnecessary, but it looked like it too. Tomatoes were finally the right colour, and at a price that encouraged over-buying. Berries were abundant as well, likewise broad beans, peppers, courgettes and cucumbers. Aubergines made their first appearance.

Kohlrabi wasn’t an obvious fit in a basket of  more Mediterranean ingredients, but it got a good talking up from one of the vendors, who compared its taste to radishes and affirmed it could be eaten raw, thinly sliced or grated. And at 70p apiece, it was hardly an expensive experiment.

Once home, a bit of reading confirmed my suspicion that kohlrabi takes well to all sorts of slaw-like treatments. The most popular approach seems to be to combine it with similar quantities of carrot and white or green cabbage in variations on a standard creamy, vinegar-based or mustardy coleslaw. (I think the last of these could be particularly good with an extra spoonful of caraway seeds.)  I was also intrigued by a recipe in which it substituted for celeriac in a remoulade. Another well-regarded combination drew on the kohlrabi’s similarity to daikon and dressed it with rice wine vinegar and sesame oil.

I ended up swapping it out for the green cabbage (hard, crinkly or soft) in a Mexican-inspired salad and served it as a topping for black bean tacos. Should summer be making more than a fleeting appearance in your parts, I’d imagine it would also pair well with spicy grilled meats.

Kohlrabi slaw

Total time: 15 minutes; Active time: 15 minutes

Serves 2 generously

Special equipment: mandoline with a julienne attachment

1 kohlrabi

½ bunch coriander

2-3 spring onions

1-2 fresh chillies (preferably red for colour contrast)

lime

salt

Set your mandoline blades to cut julienne slices.  (We used the middle of the 3 julienne blades, but any julienne width should do.)

Cut off the protruding stems from the kohlrabi and peel off tough layer of outer skin. Slice into chunks that will run easily across the mandoline. Using the hand guard, cut the kohlrabi into julienne slices. Add to a bowl large enough for the slaw to be tossed and served.

Remove the largest stems from the coriander and roughly chop. Top and tail the spring onions and cut into thin slices. Add the coriander and the spring onions to the kohlrabi.

Deseed the chilli (depending on heat and tolerance) and finely chop. Add to slaw.

Season to taste with lime and salt and mix well. Allow a few minutes for the flavours to combine before serving.

Salads for hot or cold

Last weekend, the lawn in front of our building was full of people sunbathing, and the air smelled smoky from all the barbeques being lit. Today, the brave souls heading out to see the Queen’s River Pageant will  have sweaters, umbrellas and, if they’re clever, flasks of hot tea.

English springs are usually variable, but this one has been more so than most: March temperatures in the high 20s, followed by the announcement of a drought and hosepipe ban and the wettest April in several hundred years. The last few weeks have featured elements of both. The plants are evidently confused too, with the first spring crops arriving weeks ahead of schedule, while others, like the asparagus, delayed and diminished by the endless wet.

Luckily, new-season potatoes and carrots seem to be readily available. They are the main ingredients in these salads, which are just as good hanging around in the sun at picnics as they are indoor alongside roast lamb or chicken or as part of a table of mezze.

Potatoes with cumin, caraway and harissa

Adapted from Moro 3

Serves 4

Active time: 15-20 minutes; Total time: 30 minutes

Special equipment: mortar and pestle

1 kg salad (waxy) potatoes

2 spring onions

1 small bunch coriander and/or parsley

½ garlic clove

½ tsp salt

½ tsp cumin seeds

¾ tsp caraway seeds

1 tbsp lemon juice

2 tbsp harissa

4 tbsp olive oil

Scrub the potatoes and cut into large bite-sized pieces. Bring a pot of salted water to the boil and add the potatoes. Boil until tender, around 12-15 minutes.

While the potatoes boil, prep the other ingredients and dressing. Slice the spring onions and set aside. Pick leaves off coriander or parsley and chop. Peel the garlic and pound in the mortar and pestle. Add salt and spices and continue to turn into a paste. Finish by adding lemon juice, harissa and olive oil and adjusting seasoning to taste.

Drain the potatoes well and place in large serving bowl. Toss well with dressing and set aside until cooled slightly. Add spring onion and herbs before serving either warm or at room temperature.

Grated carrots with Turkish seasonings

Serves 4

Active time: 20 minutes; Total time: 20 minutes

½ kg young, tasty carrots

4-5 spring onions

Small handful ready-to-eat sultanas

Turkish pepper flakes to taste

Dried mint to taste

Salt

Juice of at least 1 lemon

2-3 tbsp olive oil

Coarsely grate the carrots with either a box grater or a food processor and place in a large bowl. Slice the spring onions and add, followed by the sultanas. Mix well to combine.

Season to taste with the pepper flakes, dried mint, salt, lemon and olive oil. The carrots will leach a bit of liquid when they sit, so it doesn’t need to be too wet. The mint is there to add a bit of freshness, the salt and lemon to counteract the sweetness of the carrots and sultanas, and the pepper flakes to bring complexity.

Istanbul

I arrived back from my trip to Istanbul less than 72 hours ago. Already, there’s only one piece of the sublime pistachio baklava left—supremely buttery but not overly sweet. The chewy, almond-orange biscuits from a sepia-toned bakery in the Besitkas neighbourhood are gone completely, and we’ve made considerable inroads into the pistachio-sesame halvah, bought from a shop that’s been in the same family for nearly 150 years. For folks who claim not to have much of a sweet tooth, that’s an awful lot of sugar.

In between, I’ve been cooking up some savoury dishes with my new stocks of grains and spices. Last night, we began with a winter salad of bulgur, celery, walnuts and pomegranate from the Moro 3 cookbook. Our main course was minced lamb kebabs, seasoned with fruity-hot red pepper flakes (aci biber), dried mint and oregano and garlic, and served with flatbread and a salad of onions, parsley and sumac.

For breakfast this morning, we used the rest of flatbread to scoop up a take on the Turkish scrambled egg and pepper dish, menemen. Lunch was somewhat more ambitious, a spinach and cheese borek, or savoury pastry. Some compromises were necessary: we used Greek filo pastry (the slightly thicker Turkish yufka only being available in a few North London shops), and a mix of feta and ricotta in place of Turkish white cheeses. The filling was made savoury with sautéed onions, to which I also added some more of the aci biber and dried mint. In a change from the Greek versions I’ve had, the remaining yogurt-oil-egg mixture used to moisten the pastry sheets was poured over the assembled dish, softening the crust but becoming almost soufflé-like in the oven.

I have plans for pilaus, other types of kebabs and lots more salads and dips, as well as most anything which will make good use of my ample dried mint supply. And as soon as I get my notes and photos in order, I’ll have plenty more ingredients, vendors and dishes to write about.

For now, though, my ambitions centre on that last piece of baklava.

Radicchio, fennel and orange salad

With each passing year, bitter flavours are featuring more prominently on our table: strong black coffee and marmalade on a weekend morning, Campari or gin and tonic to begin a leisurely dinner and endive or radicchio salads to sharpen the palate. Endive tends to feature when we have French meals, tossed with a mustardy walnut oil dressing and, on occasion, some toasted nuts, pears and blue cheese. Radicchio usually gets an even simpler treatment—just a sprinkle of good balsamic vinegar and a smaller one of Maldon salt.

This fall I tried growing radicchio from seeds given to me by an Italian colleague. The resulting leaves, while speckled with maroon streaks and tasting agreeing bitter, in no other way resemble either of the main varieties (one round and crinkly, the other with long, stiff leaves) available locally.

Unable to harvest enough leaves to serve friends coming for Sunday night pizza supper, we bought some particularly handsome radicchio di Treviso at a local greengrocers. The plump, unblemished fennel bulbs also on display gave us the idea to adapt a southern Italian recipe for fennel, orange and olive salad, using the radicchio both as a colourful base and to add bitterness. Laid out on a large white platter, the salad looked festive and elegant, so much so that our photographer friend snapped this quick shot with her iPhone.

Pizza will still be appearing through the abstemious month of January. But in the interests of continuing to fit into the new clothes I just bought in the States, large helpings of this salad will be as well.

Radicchio, fennel and orange salad

1 medium-sized radicchio, any variety

1 large fennel bulb

1 large orange

Lemon

Olive oil

Salt

Chives

Tear or slice the radicchio and arrange on a platter. Remove the core from the fennel and slice into thin moon-shaped pieces. Remove the peel, pith and interior membranes from the orange (preferably allowing any juice to drip onto the salad) and chop into small segments.

Place both the fennel and orange onto the radicchio bed. Dress with lemon juice and olive oil and sprinkle with salt. Chop or snip chives on top and serve.

Coconut

In Malaysia, Java and Bali, coconut comes second only to rice in its ubiquity and centrality to both sweet and savoury food. Even the goats—we came across this one near a beach in Terrangganu, eyeing up a coconut shake—seem to like it.

Young, green coconuts—often described as jelly coconuts—are simply sawed open, the watery, gently sweet liquid drunk through a straw. In the process of maturation, the flesh shifts from being gelatinous and quite bland to a meaty, sweet richness. The flesh can then be turned into milk (made by grating the flesh either on a board of nails or with a threshing-like machine, then pressing it, adding warm water and repeating) or oil (a more involved process which requires long, gentle cooking of the milk, then spooning off and refining the liquid fat which rises to the top), or simply grated, to be used as is, toasted or dry-fried.

I can’t say that the oil was particularly distinctive as a cooking fat, though the less processed oil (used in a particularly tasty meal served, of all places, at a “lifestyle cafe” in the Kuala Lumpur airport’s Low Cost Terminal), did have a certain clean sweetness . The milk, however, drew together all sorts of complex tastes and textures—as coconut rice (nasi lemak),anchoring and giving its name to a popular Malay breakfast spread of chicken curry, fried peanuts, crisp anchovy-like fish, hard-boiled egg, cucumber and a spicy, tomato-based sauce (sambal); in tempering the pungent sourness of curried fish soup (Nyonya laksa, also sometimes known as curry laksa or laksa lemak); and as a relatively neutral medium to float sweet noodles, crushed ice, syrups and gelatinous shapes in cendol and ice kacang.

Coconut also features prominently in desserts that more closely resembled their European counterparts. The best we came across were moreish tarts from Leong Chee Kee, a small bakery owned by the same family for two generations. Justifiably popular, the tarts’ double-crusted pastry are impossibly flaky, the coconut flavour intense, and the overall result not too sweet. Impressively tinged green with pandan leaf, but perhaps less exciting in the mouth, were the thin crepe-like pancakes sold across Bali, filled with a palm sugar caramel and fresh coconut flakes.

A new discovery in Indonesia was the abundant use of grated coconut, sometimes fresh, other times toasted, in cooked vegetable salads. These invariably contained long green beans, chilli, lime, sugar, often also spinach or water spinach and young, just-sprouted mung beans, and were sold under the name of urap sayur (coconut vegetables).

Back in London, I found a Madhur Jaffrey recipe for something named Gudangan which seemed a simpler approximation of what I had eaten. (Some versions also use a fresh spice paste.) Without the energy to bash open the fresh coconuts which are abundant at local Caribbean shops, I settled for rehydrating unsweetened, desiccated coconut. And though Jaffrey’s recipe also called for cauliflower and mung bean sprouts, I stuck to the green beans already in the fridge.

The result was, even without the banana leaf as serving plate, plastic stool and relentless heat, highly enjoyable. And with only six ingredients, it stands a better chance than other vacation favourites of making it onto our table on a regular basis.

Green bean salad with coconut and chili dressing

Adapted from Madhur Jaffrey’s World Vegetarian

Serves 2 amply

Total time: 75 minutes; Active time: 15 minutes

I like this slightly warm or at room temperature, but it can also be prepared a bit in advance and chilled.

1 fresh red chili

1 garlic clove

2-3 tsp lime juice

Scant 4 tbsp unsweetened, desiccated coconut

1 tsp palm sugar (use dark brown sugar or jaggery if this is unavailable)

2 large handfuls of green beans (should be about 1 package or farmers’ market container)

Rehydrate coconut in a bowl with just over 3 tbsp hot water. It should take from 45 minutes to one hour to fully absorb the liquid and become soft.

While the coconut is rehydrating, chop the chilli finely (removing seeds if desired). Mince the garlic. Add both to a mixing bowl and squeeze over lime juice. Add palm sugar. (If it’s hard to get out of the container, try microwaving it for 5-10 seconds or using a spoon dipped in boiling water.) Mix to combine.

Cut beans into 1 ½ inch lengths. Bring a pot of salted water to a boil and add beans. Cook until just tender—approximately 4 minutes. Drain in cold water to arrest cooking and leave to cool.

Add the coconut to the dressing and mix through. Add the beans and combine. Taste for balance, adding salt and pepper and adjusting the acidity and sweetness.

Late spring salad

On our table, salad is usually nothing more than some nice leaves, simply dressed with a bit of olive oil and sherry vinegar and served following our main course and before or after cheese. If we’re feeling ambitious, there might be some nut oil (like this fantastic stuff we’ve been rationing since our last trip to Paris) or Dijon mustard mixed in, or maybe some chives from the window box.

When the weather is warm-ish, we sometimes eat a substantial salad for a weekend lunch or supper, likely something involving tomatoes, olives and herbs, bulked out by bulgur, farro or stale bread cubes. There’s the ever-popular Nicoise, and on the rare occasions when we’re willing to bypass the tomatoes, something with rice noodles, herbs and a sour-sweet-funky dressing. But as for meal-opening salads, our repertoire is functionally limited to a much more wintery assemblage of ingredients like endive, blue cheese and walnuts, or one of a number of variations on roasted beetroot.

There was, however, a recent deviation from form. Inspiration came in the form of the freshest peas, broad beans, and asparagus, all bought that morning from just down the road (and picked the previous evening.) The peas were, for once, better than frozen, their sugars not yet turned to starch, and still small enough that they could be eaten raw. The broad beans were young and creamy enough to do the same once they were double-podded. Even the asparagus were left uncooked, instead shaved into long slivers. These were all bedded on some soft, slightly curly leaves, studded with thinly-sliced radishes and mint. Some blobs of a soft, tangy cheese (we used crowdie, a light Scottish cream cheese, but a rindless, spreadable goats cheese or sheeps' milk ricotta would also work well) added richness and creaminess, while a drizzle of lemon juice and some olive oil drew it all together. The result was not only beautiful to look at, but may have even outshone the new house favourite of duck confit which followed.

I’d happily eat this salad at least once a week for the next few months. But I suspect that it may have been, like the perfect restaurant found on the last day of a holiday, a one-time pleasure. When I’m next at the market (in this case not for another two weeks), the peas and broad beans will likely be larger and coarser, the former perhaps not worth the trouble and (relative) expense, the latter now better suited for a summer minestrone, or a dish of gnocchi and pesto. And the asparagus, which arrived weeks early due to an abnormally warm April, may no longer be at their prime.

There will be many compensations, of course: perhaps the first courgettes, tiny, with their flowers attached, at least a few more weeks of very good strawberries and, if the recent rain abates, some cherries. All will make for some very good eating. But the search for a salad continues.

Salade aux carottes a la marocaine (Moroccan carrot salad)

Seasonality is a wonderful thing. But this time of year, it’s often not clear what season it really is. One day it seems almost appropriate to break out the chilled rosé, on the next the only enticing beverage is a steaming cup of hot chocolate.

Adding to the challenge is the paucity of enticing fresh produce. Faced with a choice between wintered-over apples and yet more cabbage, a pizza suddenly seems like a very good idea.

Carrots span any number of seasonal interregna, and with any luck, the ones available now will be young and fresh-dug. On the warmest of days, copy the French and serve a plate of raw, grated carrots, tossed in a sweet-sharp dressing, to awaken the palate.* Or braise carrot batons in stock and a bit of butter, finishing the dish with tarragon or chervil.

I’m partial to a Moroccan-style carrot salad in most seasons. At this time of year, though, it is particularly enticing, filling and substantial, yet bright in colour and flavour. Serve it now with roast lamb or chicken. And when it’s finally time for barbeques and picnics, make it as a side dish for grilled merguez (thin, spicy lamb sausages) or alongside tabbouleh, grilled peppers, feta and the like.

Finally, as I discovered last night, it’s a good make-ahead contribution to dinner parties or pot-lucks: pretty on the plate, able to survive a wait (or a trip on the Paris metro in rush hour) and complementary to a wide variety of foods.

Moroccan Carrots

Adapted from Jenifer Joyce and Victoria Blashford Snell’s Diva Cooking
Serves 4
Active time: 25 minutes; Total time: 3-4 hours+

Try to use the best carrots—fresh, sweet, not woody—for this dish. If you only have ground cumin and coriander, this salad is still worth making. Just ensure that the spices are recently bought and well amalgamated into the dressing.

½ kilo carrots
1 tablespoon cumin seeds
1 tablespoon coriander seeds
½ tablespoon smoked paprika (sweet or hot, as per preference)
3 tablespoons olive oil
1 ½-2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice
Parsley or coriander (cilantro)

Peel carrots and slice into coins of (relatively) even thickness. Cook in salted boiling water until tender but not disintegrating. This can take from 7-15 minutes depending on the size and thickness of the sliced carrots. Drain and set aside.

While the carrots are cooking, make the dressing. Peel garlic and crush to a paste in the mortar and pestle. (A pinch of salt helps to add grip.) Add cumin and coriander seeds and continue grinding until seeds are thoroughly broken up.

Transfer spice mixture to a bowl and measure in smoked paprika. Add olive oil gradually, stirring to combine with the solids. Squeeze in lemon juice until the dressing is pleasantly sharp (somewhere between a 2-1 and 3-2 ratio.) Salt and pepper to taste.

Pour the dressing over the carrots, mixing thoroughly. Refrigerate for several hours or overnight to combine flavours.

Allow the salad to return to room temperature. Just before serving, check seasoning and add chopped herbs to taste.

*Carottes râpées are sold in traiteurs and supermarkets and served as a first course in bistros. The pre-prepared versions often sit too long, turning unpleasantly acidic. But made with care, as per these recipes, they're a simple, refreshing salad.

Une Salade Betterave, Mâche, Noix et Fromage Bleu (A Salad of Beetroot, Lamb's Lettuce, Walnuts and Blue Cheese)

Though I’m only occasionally attentive to the language’s humorous quirks, I’ve lately found a number of delightful French turns-of-phrase. Sleet is a mélange of rain and snow, while a treadmill is known as a tapis roulant, or rolling carpet. Most entertaining is a variety of roasted beet known as crapaudine, a name likely bestowed because of the similarity between the beet’s rough, pock-marked skin and that of the crapeau, or toad.

While the lettuce here usually requires washing and spinning, and the best carrots are thoroughly encrusted with soil, beets come handily pre-boiled or roasted. The former are often vacuum-packed and sold in supermarkets. (While perfectly serviceable—and far superior to their vinegar-soaked British counterparts—they lack the earthy sweetness brought on by roasting.) The latter can easily be found at outdoor markets, where they are speared out of packing crates with long forks. Select vendors should have crapaudines.

A heritage variety thought to date back several centuries, crapaudines can immediately be distinguished from ordinary roasted beets by their shape: conical instead of spherical. A closer inspection reveals the distinguishing texture and, usually, a higher price tag.

I’ve used crapaudines to make a quick, extra-flavourful borscht. But most often, I settle for a composed salad. A classic plate begins with a bed of soft lettuce—I like the gentle grassiness of mâche, or lambs lettuce, though watercress or a mesclun mix are also suitable. Next, fresh-roasted walnuts or hazelnuts bring crunch, while echoing the earthiness of the beets. Finally, soft, crumbly cheese adds richness and lactic tang. A creamy, mild blue like Fourme d’Ambert is classic, though nubs of pure-white goats cheese (you could try a young crottin or Maconnais, both squidgy and rindless) make for a particularly attractive presentation. A nut oil dressing sharpened with red wine or sherry vinegar melds the ingredients.

Accompanied by good bread, this can stand alone for lunch. It would also make a visually striking starter before a monochrome main course such as roast chicken. Just two caveats. The beets and dressing make this a challenging match for wine. And the salad should be made just before serving, to avoid the beetroot bleeding onto the cheese.

Roasted Beetroot Salad with Mâche, Walnuts and Cheese
Adapted from Amanda Hesser’s The Cook and the Gardener
Serves 2
Total time: 20 minutes; Active time: 20 minutes

1 handful walnuts
2 handfuls mâche
1 medium-sized roasted beetroot
2 tablespoons walnut oil
1 heaping teaspoon sherry vinegar
½ teaspoon Dijon mustard
80-100 grams Fourme d’Ambert

Place a heavy-bottomed pan over a low heat. Add walnuts, turning occasionally, until browned in spots, 7-10 minutes. Remove from heat to cool.

While the nuts are toasting, pick through mâche, removing any wilted leaves or large stems. Wash thoroughly in cool water and dry in a salad spinner.

Remove any remaining skin from the beetroot and slice into half-moons.

Pour oil into a cruet or small bowl. Drip in vinegar, add mustard and season to taste. Whisk until well-emulsified.

Arrange mâche on a serving plate. Cover with slices of beetroot. Crumble walnuts over the vegetables. Cut the cheese into small chunks and scatter on top. Drizzle over dressing and serve.

Les Meilleurs Legumes du Paris (The Best Vegetables in Paris)

Sometimes I get a bit tired of visitors to Paris waxing rhapsodic about the fruits and vegetables found in the city’s markets. True, at nearly every one (and there are upwards of 75 held each week), good—even spectacular produce—is easy to find. And there’s little doubt that even the most rumpled vendors often possess a decorator’s gift for arrangement. Excepting such seasonal specialities as white asparagus or morels, prices are often very low too.

What can be disappointing is the conformity. Even the appealingly dirt-speckled carrots at my favourite stand are bought wholesale from the Rungis market, just like their counterparts all over town. And while heritage varietals of tomatoes and potatoes have become increasingly commonplace at British and American farmers’ markets, the supply system for Paris’ markets ensures high standards but (relatively limited) selection. Only two markets—both organic and high-end—have from-the-farm producers, known as “maraichers” or “producteurs.”

Perhaps Parisians get their fill of field-to-table food during their long summer holidays in the countryside. Or maybe, despite the obvious discernment of many market customers, they don’t attach the same importance as their food-conscious Anglophone counterparts to cutting out the middleman, or to meeting the person who harvested their food. It could even be—and here I tread very carefully into the realm of total bullshit—that contemporary French identity has retained some kind of cultural connection with the land (terroir), thus obviating the necessity of “reclaiming” it through a middle-class affectation for expensive, wormy apples.

I suspect that Rungis, the heir to the historic central market at Les Halles, will continue to be the “stomach of Paris” for many years to come. But Joël Thiébault’s produce, grown just 7 kilometres from the Eiffel Tower and sold weekly to some of the city’s best restaurants, has developed the same kind of cult status as Anne-Marie Cantin’s unpasteurised cheese, or Hugo Desnoyer’s meat. And in a city like Paris, that’s not faint praise.

A third-generation farmer, Thiébault reputedly cultivates up to 1500 varieties of vegetables and herbs (a bit of fruit is grown in high summer). About 100 of them are sold at his weekly market stand in the tony 16th arrondissment. Arriving mid-morning this past Saturday my choices including flowering chives, five varieties of carrots and three of beets, heaps of compact lettuces and herbs which I could not identify by sight or smell. Prices are curiously low. At 70 centimes apiece, salads cost no more than the half-rotten ones sold at the far end of my market; choosing with care, it’s possible to assemble a week’s worth of vegetables for about 10 euros.

It was only by exercising extreme restraint that I managed to come home with just two varieties of herbs, a head of lettuce, bunches of golf ball-sized new onions and radishes, waxy salad potatoes, a multicolour array of carrots and an enormous candy-striped beet. In the past 36 hours, the carrots and radishes have been eaten as crudités, with the remainder of the carrots braised with some of the onions and herbs. More of the herbs were chopped into an egg salad, and the lettuce, tossed with a simple vinaigrette, anchored a oozing disk of milky goats cheese.

I have some work to do in perfecting the salad du chevre chaud, but the other dishes—while both exceptionally simple—are ready to be shared. And while great produce will make these simple preparations shine, a trip to Paris is not required. (Though it may be for some of Cantin’s legendary unpasteurised cheese.)

Herbed Egg Salad (adapted from Amanda Hesser)

In this recipe from her first book, The Cook and the Gardener, Hesser deconstructs the classic egg salad, serving it over greens dressed with heavy cream, mustard, tarragon, chervil and chives. I put the dish back together again, substituting good store-bought mayonnaise for the cream, omitting the mustard (which appears in small quantities in French mayonnaise) and using good quantities of fresh chervil and thyme. Served slightly warm, alongside a hunk of coarse bread and some peppery radishes, it was both rich and sprightly.

Total time 15 minutes; Active time 5 minutes
Serves 2

4 eggs
1 tablespoon or more good mayonnaise
At least 5 healthy sprigs chervil
1-2 sprigs fresh, leafy thyme (don’t use it if it has begun to dry out or become gritty)

Boil the eggs until they are moulleux (creamy in the centre, but no longer oozing). Chop the herbs finely. Peel the eggs and crush coarsely, mixing through the mayonnaise. Add the herbs and season well with salt and pepper.

Braised Young Carrots and Onions (adapted from Mark Bittman)

New York Times food writer Mark Bittman is currently spending a few months here in Paris. Last week he wrote about braising some carrots purchased at his local market with shallots, tarragon and a bit of butter. It was, he concluded, “an amazing dish, almost but not quite too sweet, simple, easy, and honest.” I swapped the shallots for new onions and the tarragon for chervil (which subtly echoes tarragon’s aniseed notes). Since I had some mild, homemade chicken stock, I used that instead of water.

Bittman’s original post didn’t include a precise recipe. Saturday night I made the dish just for myself and drank wine instead of watching the clock. So please take quantities and timing as approximate only. But while I like the vegetables soft, the one really important thing is to get the liquid to reduce into a sweet glaze.

Total time: 45 minutes; Active time: 10 minutes

Serves 2

Tasty carrots, enough to feed two amply
About 2/3 the quantity of new onions
A generous sprinkling of chervil
1 tbsp of butter
A few tablespoons of gentle stock (or water)

Cut the carrots into bite-sized batons. If any of the onions are bigger than a golf ball, cut them in half. Place the vegetables in a heavy-bottomed pot or lidded sauté pan, add the butter and a bit of liquid. If you’d like, include some of the chervil now. Season, cover and cook on a gentle heat, checking liquid levels occasionally, until the vegetables are soft (particularly the onions), but not falling apart. If needed, you can add extra liquid in very small quantities. If there is extra stock in the pan at the end of cooking, reduce it for several minutes on a medium heat, or until the vegetables are lightly glazed. Adjust seasoning, add the reserved chervil and serve warm, perhaps alongside roasted chicken.

Late Winter Sicilian Salad

There’s something to what is said about Sicily being an otherworldly place. But while geography, politics and poverty have each made tangible contributions to its historic—and in some sense—continuing isolation, the essential strangeness of the place is at once ephemeral and difficult to deny.

In my visit there, I discovered a place where the trains wait for nuns, where one encounters a man selling eels out of the trunk of his car on a rainy Friday evening, where an entire town takes the statue of the local saint out for a parade on her birthday, where the local coffee tastes like it could blow a hole in the top of your head, and the grappa even more so. Palermo is dotted with crumbling, scaffolding-shrouded neo-Byzantine marvels which some EU bureaucrat no doubt intended to have renovated. A Norman-era church stands in the suburbs, while the Vucciera market could, with the exception of the arancini, fried risotto balls, be mistaken for one in the Middle East. And that’s not even mentioning the Roman ruins, which stand unperturbed in the unlikeliest—and occasionally the loveliest—of spots.

I travelled to Sicily too early in my eating career to fully plumb its depths. My itinerary was dominated by relics, not restaurants. But even so, the characteristically strong flavours of the island’s food—the chili heat, the briny salinity of anchovies, the sweet-sour interplay of fruit and vinegar (as in the raisin-studded caponata) and the intense sweetness of most pastries –could not be backdrop alone. In the first few days I made my peace with olives, capers and sardines; by my return to England, I was collecting recipes for what would become a kitchen staple—puttanesca sauce.

With citrus, there were no such qualms to be overcome. It was December, prime season, and everything was ubiquitous and delicious. On our picnics, I learned the technique of removing pith and skin in one neat spiral (though nearly 10 years on, I am yet to master it entirely). I even picked a contraband lemon at an archaeological site. But the easy winner was the blood orange, which, like the gorgeous 5’10 blond who turns out to be a Harvard astrophysicist, could boast more than just looks.

I’m not sure that I ever encountered this salad on my trip, nor that I would have eaten it if I had, as my reconciliation with the liquorice family was still several years off. It’s a remarkable versatile player, pairing well with everything from oily fish to grilled lamb to red-sauced pasta or pizza. And in this strange nether season, it’s a refreshing and strikingly attractive addition to the table. For those who can’t abide raw fennel, endive could be substituted. In fact, I often use both.


Late Winter Sicilian Salad
Serves 2; can easily be doubled or tripled
Preparation time: 20 minutes (for appearance’s sake, wait until the last minute for the oranges, olives and mint; the fennel and endive can be cut up to an hour before eating)

3 medium-sized blood oranges (substitute navels or another flavourful variety if blood oranges are unavailable)
1 large or 2 small heads of fennel
1 small handful unpitted black olives (I prefer unbrined varieties such as Nicoise or Kalamata; oil-cured olives can overwhelm the other flavours)
1 endive (optional)
A few tablespoons of fresh mint or basil
Good quality olive oil
½ or whole lemon
Salt and pepper.

Cut the fennel and endive into very thin matchstick strips and place on a serving plate. Peel oranges, being careful to remove all pith, and cut into circular slices. (If you cut over the plate, you’ll be able to use some of the juices, but you’ll risk destroying the pristine whiteness of the salad’s bottom layer.) Arrange the orange slices over the fennel and endive. Pit olives and depending on size, cut in half; add these on top of the orange, along with the mint or basil. To dress, sprinkle the salad lightly with oil and even more lightly with lemon. Finish with salt and pepper, being sure to taste one of the olives before salting.

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.

Autumn Leaves

I’m perennially uninspired when it comes to green salads. I can—and do--make an above-average Nicoise, a zingy corn-tomato-cilantro number and a smoked paprika-tinged carrot salad which is both rich and refreshing. But when it comes to leaves—which all too often fill the vegetable quotient of the meal—I rarely get beyond tearing open a bag (or, here in France, pulling out the salad spinner) and whisking up a vaguely mustardy vinaigrette. It’s certainly nothing to start a meal with, and it’s all too easy to bypass after a filling main course, or, as is embarrassingly common, I just can’t be bothered to do any more dishes. Add in a more than a few instances of eating dry leaves, rabbit-like, in a final attempt to up the vitamin quotient, and it’s unsurprising that the thought of salad evokes little excitement.

Behold, however, a glorious exception—or, looked at a different way, an early but significant success in my re-education.

It began with the unplanned purchase of two pigeon breasts—enough to feel like I was experimenting with something new, but insufficient to actually serve as a main course. We dithered, we discussed, I regretted buying them at all, then regretted not having bought two more. Eventually we came up with the idea of a sweet-savoury salad, combining slices of lightly seared meat, sautéed fruit and a handful of nuts. We even agreed to break out the butter—an exceptionally rare event—in order to cook the apple slices.

While the apples slowly softened and carmelised, we toasted some pine nuts and heated a heavy pan with a fine shimmer of oil. A few minutes on a high heat gave the flesh a burnished crust while still retaining a moist interior. The meat rested, and we made a simple vinaigrette with olive oil and sherry vinegar, after which the rosy slices of pigeon, apples and nuts were mixed with the soft leaves. It was a triumph—of seasonality, of creativity, and, most importantly, of taste.

*No French title this time. The language of Moliere and Rabelais refers to these as "les feuilles mortes,” or, “the dead leaves”—perhaps not the most alluring description for a salad.

Rather than a recipe, I would suggest the following template:
-a small piece of meat (perhaps ½ a dinner portion) per person—pigeon, duck, pheasant or another game bird, either roasted and taken off the bone or sautéed and then sliced
-softened and carmelised autumn fruit—apple or pear (choose varieties that hold their shape when cooked). Poached quince could be substituted, with a bit of the syrup added to the dressing. These are all lovely when they are still a bit a warm.
-toasted nuts—walnuts, hazelnuts or pine nuts all complement the autumnal fruit
-dressing—a vinegar that is slightly sweet but not overwhelming (too me, balsamic seems too assertive to fit here), paired with olive and/or nut oil
-leaves—nothing too spiky in taste or texture. You might try lambs lettuce (mache), butter lettuce or mixed leaves which don’t contain too many bitter or crunchy pieces.

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.

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.