Showing posts with label sauce. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sauce. Show all posts

Sunday, 11 January 2009

Stilton et Lincolnshire Poacher

A few years ago, I had a work trial at Neals Yard Dairy, the renowned purveyor of artisanal British cheese. After a day of wearing wellies, cleaning floors and scrubbing counters, I was turned down. The stated reason? An inability to stretch plastic wrap neatly over the large cheese rounds.

I can’t claim discrimination by the shop’s managers—I was terrible at wrapping cheese, and probably not much better at describing its taste—but it did seem that a high proportion of the employees were male, with a propensity towards scruffy facial hair. This was also true of the gentleman who served us last weekend, though he was both generous in his tastings and eager to explain his cheeses.

As is so often the case at Neals Yard, we gravitated towards two highly-popular cheese types: blue and cheddar. The former is rightly dominated by Colston Bassett Stilton, a buttery, slightly crumbly cows milk cheese; an unpasteurised upstart, Stichelton, is more variable but at times stunning. On this occasion the Stilton won easily, showing the mellow yet almost savoury flavours which make it such a favourite.

Deciding amongst the cheddar-style cheeses (so called because of the process of “cheddaring” curds into uniform blocks) was considerably harder. Our usual choice is the blue-ribbon standard, Montgomery’s, one of just three cheese-makers recognized by the Cheddar Presidium for continuing artisanal practices in a small corner of England’s West Country. Aged for upwards of a year, Montgomery’s is nutty, a bit dry, and riddled with the same kind of caramelised, sweet-salty crystals that can be found in a good Parmesan. The Keens, which we tried next, had more of the characteristic cheddar tanginess, along with a slightly moister texture. But after some further tasting, we went home with a sizable chunk of Lincolnshire Poacher, a cheese from England’s Northeast which on that day combined the complexity of the Montgomery’s with the slightly smoother mouthfeel and refreshing sharpness of the Keen’s.

Most good Paris cheesemongers have le cheddar anglais and even occasionally a small wheel of stilton hidden away in a corner of their display cases. And, for a price, it is even possible to buy Neals Yard cheese from a few of the most upmarket fromageries. But while I do have late-night urges for a hunk of sharp, almost meaty cheddar, piled on top of an oatcake smeared with chutney, this—and so many other things—are best indulged on a superficially similar but far more stylish red couch that lives on the other side of the English Channel.

Iranganis’ Date Chutney
Vegetarian Cooking School, Bath

While you search for proper cheddar, make this chutney, which will only improve with age. Another dried fruit—perhaps abricot—could be easily substituted. If it will be kept in the fridge, the jar doesn’t need to be sterilized.

200 ml rice vinegar
200 ml water
2 garlic cloves
thumb-sized piece of ginger
½ cinnamon stick
4 cardamon pods
2 tsp chilli powder
1 tsp mustard seeds
1 tsp salt
250g pitted dates
4 tbsp brown sugar

Heat the vinegar and water. Finely slice the garlic and ginger, lightly crush the cardamom pods, and add, along with the other spices and salt, to the liquid. Simmer covered for 5 minutes. Chop half the dates coarsely. Add the chopped and whole dates and sugar to the vinegar mixture and simmer gently, uncovered, until the dates are very soft, about 20 minutes. Let the mixture cool completely then decant into jars and refrigerate.

See this again, along with lots of other cheese, at the next Fete du Fromage round-up, available here later this week.

Sunday, 10 December 2006

Think Pink!

Think Pink, the Diana Vreeland-esque fashion editor instructs her minions in the opening musical sequence of Funny Face. (Though an unconventional choice, it is probably my favourite Audrey Hepburn movie. What can match the combo of Paris, Fred Astaire and couture? Thanks to Susie Boyt for calling this to mind.) And so, in this instance at least, food follows fashion.

Things began auspiciously last night with a pre-dinner kir. This particular version paired the previous night's indifferent pinot grigio with a teaspoon or so from the beautiful bottle of creme de cassis which I toted back from Paris this summer. Originally designed to disguise the harsh acidity of some southern French white wines, kir is, at least in my kitchen, pressed into service on the (admittedly rare) occasions when there is leftover white wine. (I sometimes also make kirs with the remnants of rough red. The cardinale, so named for the red of the cardinal's coat, is something of a rustic, winter-weather counterpart to the yachts and suntan-evoking kir ordinaire. Its muddy colour, however, is not nearly as lovely as that produced when purpley-pink cassis meets bleached-straw white. As for the more famous royale, it has sadly never featured in my abode.) This raises the question of proportions. In The Cook and the Gardener, Amanda Hesser notes that some Burgundians compose their kirs out of nearly equal measures of wine and liquor. Although I prefer to stick with more austere quantities of cassis, the increasingly beautiful colours do make it difficult to resist shading from a deep salmon pink to light fuchsia and beyond. A taste will convince otherwise. Too much cassis produces something akin to adult Kool-Aid.

Although I didn't know it at the time, the symphony of pink was just beginning. Apres kir, dinner featured stubby, rosy-hued merguez sausages from the Ginger Pig. These were a bit too strong on the chili, but suitably meaty and well-seasoned. The following morning, newspaper read, (pink) grapefruit consumed and a post theme germinating, I discovered that the kitchen held several more useful specimens. The quinces, gently perfuming the corner by the washing machine, could be braised into rosy submission. (Melissa at the Traveler's Lunchbox provided very timely inspiration, cooking whole, unpeeled quinces in a languorous bath of sugar and water.)

The crowning touch came in the form of a box of cranberries. Tonight, I decided, would be the perfect occasion for my abridged, better-late-than-never Thanksgiving dinner. I am not a traditionalist when it comes to food, but proper, simple cranberry sauce--homemade, chunky, not-too-sweet and never, ever from a can--seems difficult to improve upon. At least much. I spent a bit too long looking at sauce and chutney recipes on Epicurious, then, in a rare improvisational mood, came up with this:

12 oz cranberries
finely-grated rind 1/2 orange
heaping 1/2 tsp allspice
several grinds black pepper
1 1/4 cup water, plus the juice of 1/2 orange
just shy of 1/2 cup sugar, a mixture of turbinado and molasses cane sugar
a splash of white wine vinegar (I imagine cider vinegar would work as well)

I combined everything, brought it to a boil and simmered it until thickened, just less than 20 minutes. The result, while certainly not unpleasant, did not altogether vindicate my creative efforts, with the flavours layering rather than harmonising. I'll report if a bit of refrigerator maturation improves matters. In any case, there will be lots of roast chicken, potatoes and parsnips, a bracing endive salad and an award-winning chardonnay from Limoux, none of which, I suspect, will be left for kir tomorrow.