eating in the garden of england

Last weekend, the husband and I celebrated Ten Years Of Not Killing Each Other. For those of you that know either of us, you'll understand that this is no minor achievement- not because either of us are that way inclined in the general sense, just because we both know how to wind each other up (and happen to be rather good at it). To mark the occasion of what since our wedding has been called our 'fake' anniversary, he begrudgingly agreed to arrange something suitably romantic for us to do- on the strict understanding that from this year forward we would limit ourselves solely to the one 'proper' anniversary. I agreed, in the full knowledge that by this time next year I'll have badgered him into conceding another one.

The upshot of this is that we spent last weekend holed up at the Chapel Down Vineyard in Kent. We're both big fans of British wines, for obvious reasons. We're not xenephobic, it's just that people seem to forget that we Brits have been producing the stuff since the Norman conquest- most notably in this little corner of Kent. And we do it very well- the chalk that runs under the Champagne region also lies underneath south-east England's own vineyards, and our cool (cold) and moist (miserable) weather makes the growing conditions for whites and sparkling wines in particular, ideal. We consistently beat French and Italian counterparts in blind taste tests. Arguably in most cases (Chapel Down's Union Red being a notable exception) our reds leave a little to be desired, but this is a work in progress.

As it turns out, Kent isn't called 'the garden of England' for nothing- being happily (ish...) ensconced in leafy Buckinghamshire, I honestly thought Kent would look much the same. But it really is one of those places where you feel a warm, slightly patriotic glow inside- something I normally only experience perched in the shadow of Big Ben by one of the fountains in Trafalgar Square, or else strolling along Embankment. Yes, it really is all rather pretty. It's also quite a trek; being a 25 year old (for another week or so, anyway) non-driver with a poor grasp of regional geography, means I remain resolutely under the impression that everywhere in the UK is but a short hop, skip or a jump away by car. Which, as it turns out, is not the case. So I write this in the full knowledge that most readers of this blog won't find a spare two days any time soon in which to squeeze in a Kent-and-back roadtrip, but if you do, I can heartily recommend it.

A horse. It's sad, because
it doesn't like lasagne.

So, nestled in the picturesque village of Tenterden, sits Chapel Down Vineyard- 23 acres of lush vines. Unless you visit in early March, in which case all you'll see is what appears to be field upon field of dead sticks. Nevertheless, the magic wasn't entirely lost on me. On the edge, sits The Swan English Restaurant.

At the risk of sounding xenephobiconce again, there just aren't enough of these. I love our cultural heritage and the impact it's had on our cuisine as much as (or perhaps more) than the next person- I just think we ought to be buying and eating more of our own local produce. It's not as easy as you'd believe... we live in a culture where it's simply too easy to pick up a couple of steaks, some courgettes and some carrots from our local supermarket, without thinking about their provenance. It's not until you bother checking that it emerges they're from Romania, Morocco and Spain respectively. Our supply chains are now so long that we no longer instinctively know what's in season, and we keep accidentally eating horse. For our wedding back in 2009, my husband and I painstakingly sourced every ingredient from within the UK, with only three exceptions- lemons, pepper and rum. Dear God, was it hard, but that's what we care about, so we did it. Similarly, all of the prime ingredients at The Swan are sourced from within a 25-mile radius- something more restaurants should by trying to do.

Enough of the soap box shenanigans, and more about this restaurant. Because I can almost positively declare it to be the best establishment I have eaten at within this country (or maybe joint first- the Hand and Flowers in Marlow really is rather good, too). Bold claims indeed, eh? Now my menu choices were hampered somewhat by my ridiculous self-imposed bread and potato-free Lent. You'd think the weight would be falling off me, but I seem to have replaced both banned substances with gin. I had to forgo the smoked mackerel with beetroot on the basis that it probably came with bread, and resisted the pan-seared Rye Bay scallops on the basis that my good friend (and talented chef) Billy cooks them for me an indecent amount, so I opted for the salad of poached native lobster with pomegranate vinaigrette. Which, as it turns out, also has potato in it. I exercised saintly levels self control and proceeded to pick through it with a fork, which was a shame as it a) looked rather pretty, and b) made me look like a complete arse. However, this did nothing to dampen my spirits. The sweet, barely-poached hunks of lobster came stacked atop a bed of nutty, ripe avocado and the aforementioned (but very nice, I'm sure...) potato, doused liberally with the refreshingly tart vinaigrette and a smattering of pomegranate seeds. It was so thoughtfully balanced, and visually stunning. Sadly I have no photographic evidence, as I'd dropped my phone in a glass (of water, not gin), two days before...

One of various stock images of Chapel Down, to make up
for the fact that I don't have any appropriate ones of my own.

Husband opted for the devilled lamb's kidneys on soda bread, which were stupendous. I'm a great lover of all things offal, so was tempted to order it myself in spite of the noted (and significant) bread content. Instead I decided to pout petulantly until I was afforded half of his. The kidneys were cooked to retain their rosy, velevety inner flesh, without veering on rubbery as they often can. The flavour of kidneys certainly packs a punch, and they aren't for everyone- I find devilling is the best way of dealing with them, as not much else will stand up to their earthiness otherwise. It was executed beautifully.

Seeing as I'd started with fish, I felt tempted by the honey-roast pork belly, smoked bacon white pudding and wholegrain mustard, but the crab mousse-stuffed Dover Sole with leek gratin was screaming at me from the page. The fish was so sweet, and so delicate, the leek gratin adding a welcome salty crunch and splash of colour to the dish. The Husband had wild-mushroom stuffed Guinea Fowl and creamed spinach- something I was dubious about, given that I'm yet to try a version of the bird in a restaurant that isn't dry as chaff. It wasn't- it was both rich and moist, and the gaminess of the flesh was complimented by the nuttiness of the mushroom stuffing. We probably didn't need to order two sides to accompany our meals, but we did anyway. Hell, we were celebrating! And what better way to do it than with braised red cabbage and lobster macaroni cheese. Yes, lobster. In mac and cheese. I don't mind admitting that until this moment, I was a macaroni virgin. It's nothing to be ashamed of, and I'm fairly certain I haven't missed out on much, because it probably doesn't taste like this anywhere else. So rich, so indulgent, and so very, very wrong-sounding. But I can tentatively say that this, washed down with a chilled glass of Chapel Down's Bacchus, could justify the 200 mile round trip on its own.

It's worth mentioning that the
restaurant interior is probably one
of the best I've seen. If you care.

And so, to the pudding- after a sizeable period of rest, during which I thought my heart might give up on me (it's worth bearing in mind that we were eating in a vineyard, and it's safe to say grossly irresponsible quantities of wine were consumed). We had the orange frangipane. It was good, Very good, in fact. The only problem is, when you also have a dark chocolate parfait with roasted peanuts, salted caramel and popping candy, all else pales in comparison. To put it quite simply, this pudding was the greatest I have ever consumed, and words simply won't do it justice. I care nothing for how 'faddy' or 'overdone' people might argue salted caramel now is, because to me it's nothing short of alchemical genius, and the best thing since sliced bread.

I'm sorry for the hefty post. I hadn't, until now, delved into the world of blogging reviews, and it seems glaringly obvious why- the lack of editorially-imposed word limit means it's rather easy to get carried away. But there you have it- that was The Swan at Chapel Down. I implore all of you to start considering buying British not just for your food (I think I got that message across already), but for your wine too. They're a friendly bunch in this corner of the world, and I'm sure they'd be glad to see you. However, if you don't feel like making quite such an arduous journey, their wines are now stocked at M&S and Waitrose.

Bottoms up,

mrs hunt.x

almost-spring cake

See? Sun. Photographic evidence of sun.

Yesterday, something peculiar happened: I went to post a letter. For me, that alone is rather unusual- I still have a stack of Christmas cards (addressed and stamped) languishing in a kitchen drawer, along with two lovingly-penned letters to a friend in Australia that are now so outdated that I'll have to write a third. Which I'll probably forget to post. But putting my own anecdotal scattiness aside, I went to post a letter, and it wasn't cold. Windy, certainly. Balmy? No. But it wasn't cold. I was in a t-shirt and pyjama bottoms- inappropriate on several of levels- firstly, it was two o'clock. Secondly, they had sheep on. And I was wearing them in public. Thirdly, it was, and still is, February. I should have been cold. But it seems it's nearly spring... and we can all feel it; there's a contagious and palpable uplift in the national mood that gains momentum with every additional minute of daylight that's creeping in. However, judging by the ominous grey of today's sky (not to mention the return to near sub-zero temperatures this morning), I'd say we're not quite there yet. There's no spring lamb, no asparagus, and no new Game of Thrones on the telly- because what heralds the advent of Spring quite like the annual arrival of more bloodshed, pelts and dragons than you can shake a stick at?

So what am I eating? I'm bored of stews, and done with stodgy steamed puddings. And because I haven't given up cake for Lent (instead I opted for bread AND potatoes- what was I thinking??), I'm eating this. A lot.

Almond St Clements Cake

... or essentially a tarted-up Lemon Drizzle.

This recipe has come about after years of tweaking, adjusting, and screw-ups. A lemon Drizzle was the first of many things I learned to cook with my mum, and is quick, easy and relatively fuss-free to cobble together. It won't win any awards for gastronomic originality, but it might just pinch first place in a quaint rural bake sale of some sort. I can't say for sure, I've never tried.

What You Need:

• 4 oz (or 113.398g... this one works better in ounces, it seems) caster sugar
• 4 oz salted butter, at room temperature
• 3 oz self-raising flour
• 1 oz ground almonds (or for a nut-free version, just up the flour measurement to a full 4 oz)
• 1 tsp bicarbonate of soda
• 2 eggs from happy chickens
• 3 unwaxed lemons- you're using them for the zest too, so unwaxed is infintely better
• 2 oranges
• 1 tbsp (or more) of milk or cream
• 3 tbsp (or more) of icing sugar
• A sprinkling of poppy seeds

What You Do:

1. Preheat your oven to 160 degrees fan, or 180 degrees otherwise. It's just occurred to me that I never give a gas mark instruction- that's primarily because I've never used one, nor would I have a clue how to. Sorry.

2. Grease a 7" tin (with a removable base, or else you'll be gouging the finished cake out with your hands, which is never classy), and line with baking parchment or greaseproof paper. I find it helps if you grease the base, and then stick the paper on. It makes trimming easier.

Butter and zest. Lots of zest.

3. Cream your butter with the zest of two of your lemons, and one of your oranges. You'll need the rest for the 'drizzle' part. Beat for at least two minutes.

NB. I'm lucky enough to have a big shiny Kitchen Aid, which my husband bought me in lieu of paying the rent one month. No joke- they aren't cheap, but they make light work of exhausting tasks like this. Working on the assumption that most people don't own one, a handheld electric mixer (about a tenner from Argos) works well. Only resort to using a wooden spoon if you're either some kind of masochist, or looking to offset the calories from actually eating the cake itself.

Not a noteworthy picture, but just one to illustrate what
I mean when I say like yellow whipped cream. Because that
doesn't really paint a very nice picture.

4. Gradually add your caster sugar, and continue to beat. I really can't emphasise enough just how important this step is: it's the foundation of the entire cake. Do it carelessly or hastily, and your cake will be as solid and appetising as a breeze block. The process allows the sugar crystals to beat air bubbles into the fat, creating the light, airy sponge that's the mark of any good drizzle cake. Cream for at least five minutes- the mixture needs to be significantly paler, and almost have the appearance of a yellow whipped cream.

5. Add your eggs, one at a time. If your mixture looks as though it might split or curdle, add in a spoon of sifted flour between each egg.

6. Sift your self-raising flour (even if it says something along the lines of 'No Need To Sift!' on the front- it's always worthwhile), and add your bicarbonate of soda. This gives the cake an extra bit if oomph.

Lemons.

7. Fold in gently using a metal spoon or spatula (both minimise air-loss in the mixture, whereas a chunky wooden spoon is more likely to knock the bubbles out).

8. Add in your ground almonds, and fold in gently. Again, your aim is to retain as much air as possible, so do this lovingly.

9. Add a splash of milk or cream to your mixture- just enough to loosen it so that it falls from a spoon when nudged. Do this gradually-you can't take it away once it's in.

10. Place in the centre of your oven for 25-35 minutes. I appreciate that these timings are a bit vague, but it all depends on your oven, the mixture, your tin... I would suggest spending a fiver on an oven thermometer, because oven calibrations are nearly always wrong. Check it at the twenty-two minute mark- and not before! Opening the oven any earlier will cause the temperature to drop, your cake will sink, and you'll be the laughing stock of whichever provincial cake competition you've entered it into.

The cake is done once a skewer comes out without any wet batter clinging to it. Mine took twenty-seven minutes.

CAKE

11. While it's in the oven, crack on with your syrup and the icing. Squeeze the juice of two lemons and one orange into a bowl, and grate in the zest of one lemon and one orange. Add caster sugar- a teaspoonful at a time- until you get the desired level of sweetness. I like mine quite tart, because it has the sweet sponge and the icing sugar to contend with, but it's up to you. Stir to make sure the sugar crystals dissolve.

12. For the icing, place your icing sugar in a bowl, and squeeze the juice of you remaining lemon inside. Mix feverishly until a paste forms- it should be quite thick, and retain a bright white colour. Adjust as necessary with lemon juice or more sugar to get it just right.

13. Once your cake is out of the oven, prick it all over with a cocktail stick, and drizzle the... err... drizzle... over in stages. Wait for the first lot to soak in before continuing. How much you use is up to you- I love a sticky, wet cake, so I go all in. Leave your cake to cool for a few minutes until you can handle the tin safely, and remove the outer ring

MORE CAKE

14. Once the cake has cooled, drizzle your icing over in a way that strikes you as attractive. Top with a sprinkling of poppy seeds, and then try to refrain from eating it entirely. Saving a slice or two for the cat is always nice.

Happy Almost-Spring,

mrs hunt.x

an ode to butter

In case it had escaped your notice, this is not a diet blog. It's not even a healthy eating blog- it's just an eating blog. To me, food isn't just fuel- whatever 'healthy eating gurus' such as Gillian McKeith et al. say. It's worth pointing out that I also find the idea of taking nutritional advice from someone who looks so haggard and, frankly, miserable, absurd. Food is there to be enjoyed- there's nothing more satisfying than sharing a beautiful meal with people you care about, and the contentment that follows- a feeling that all is right with the world. A feeling, presumably, that you won't quite achieve from tucking into Quorn (other pretend mince is probably available...), washed down with a side of pallid, marge-coated bread.

Now seems as good an opportunity as any to embark on a bit of a rant. Not about chocolate this time- it's 'health foods' (note the inverted commas) that are in the firing line. By now, most faddy January diets are out the window. After three weeks surviving solely on maple syrup or fruit juice, people tend to slip all too easily back into the same food routines, and fall for the same old 'health' traps- time and time again. So with Lent beginning tomorrow, I figured I would use the chance to compile a guide to:

Things You Think You Should Be Eating That Are Actually Really Bad For You, And What You Should Probably Swap Them For

For the sake of credibility, I should mention these aren't just my musings; I haven't simply decided that since I happen to detest the taste of margarine, we should all avoid it. Steve Harrison, a very close friend of mine, (whose job title I've never actually managed to nail down- the Chandler Bing of the fitness/nutrition world, if you will...) has long been indulging me with lengthy rants about how us Brits in particular have food so very wrong. And having done a bit more research of my own, I'm inclined to agree. I don't just mean our capacity for over-cooking steaks, or our nationwide obsession with microwave meals- and all that's without even mentioning the horse meat. I'm talking about the so-called 'health-food' industry, something we spend millions of pounds on each year.

And so, here are just three things you could try giving up for Lent, if not permanently, and what you should be eating instead- alternatives that billions of pounds, and many years of marketing have gone into convincing you are bad for your health.

Fake Health Food #1: 

Margarine

Can I put this here? Will I
get sued? We'll see, I suppose.

.. and other veg oils, for that matter. We've only had the technology to extract oils from crops (and thereby make margarine or other synthetic spreads) for 150 years. It's not something our bodies are well adapted to breaking down, and without sounding like a  hypochondriac, can cause cell mutations, and clog arteries. It's also been linked to skin cancer. But more importantly- and something the foodie side of me is more preoccupied with than anything else- it tastes crap. It smells crap. It has none of the beauty or richness of butter, and will always be a pale substitute.

And What You Should Replace It With...

Well, BUTTER. Obviously.

It tastes... like butter. Which is the point, surely? It also contains Lecithin, antioxidants, vitamin A, vitamin E, Selenium (all good things- google them if you don't believe me), and cholesterol. Which is also good. Yes, good. Flora and the like may spend a great deal of time and money telling you otherwise, but it's all rubbish. See here, here and here,  and spread the word.

Fake Health Food #2:

Soya/Tofu

Don't even get me started. Again, I have the foodie objection to proffer (it's tasteless, has the texture of a thirty year old rubber band, and looks about as appetising as one too...), but for me, it's far more complex an argument than just this. 

I won't go into huge detail about the legal wranglings of Monsanto (a company that have patented 'soy' and sue anyone that tries to grow and sell it themselves), but it's well worth reading up on if you're interested- if only to hear about Oprah putting them in their place like only she could. For now, let's just focus on the nutritional side: The fermented stuff- the staple of Asian cuisine for thousands of years- is lovely. Go for it. Who doesn't love soul-soothing Miso every once in a while? But the processed, unfermented stuff that's used in cheap fake meat brands and other processed foods? No. Avoid it like the plague, because it interferes with digestion and pancreatic function, and contains high levels of aluminium, which is toxic to the nervous system and the kidneys. Since mine are pretty busy filtering copious amounts of gin from my system, I wouldn't want to add to the burden any further, even if the stuff did taste half decent. I don't know about anyone else.

And What You Should Replace It With...

Meat. Lots and lots of meat. Or fish. Just protein, really- it's all good for you, and if you genuinely do want to lose weight, what you should be basing your diet on. Ignore the Daily Mail's ramblings about steak leading to premature death/unemployment/the end of 'Great' Britain as we know it, because again, it seems to come down to some very successful indoctrination (not to mention bad journalism). Meat is good.

And if you're vegetarian? Well, just stick to the natural, unprocessed stuff.

Fake Health Food #3:

Cereal

Sticking a moderately attractive, skinny brunette in a nice red dress on the front does not a health food make. In fact, if there was to be an award  for 'the most unhealthy product to have somehow permeated the mass market by pretending to be healthy' (it's catchy, give me that) then 'healthy' cereal brands would be neck and neck with margarine. I'm not saying they're worse than soy, I'm merely noting that both have been inordinately successful at convincing 99% of the British populace that they're good for us. 

Surviving on a diet that is two-thirds grain based (if you're mental enough to try eating cereal for two of your three meals a day, as the marketing push of a popular brand would have you doing, that is), which in itself is 77% carbohydrate, and 1/4 sugar is clearly not going to do you any good. That much is obvious. We need to get our heads around the idea that whilst cereal isn't excessively bad for you- it does have vitamins and fibre- it's no health food, and should be regarded as a treat in much the same way sweets or crisps would be.

And What You Should Replace It With...

A fry-up. The works- egg, bacon, black pudding, sausage, mushroom, tomato... all cooked in butter or olive oil. Eggs are one of the best things you can be giving your body, and the fats here are all good. If you really feel like being healthy, forgo the toast and baked beans.

So I hope that brightens up your February- or at least assuages any lingering post Christmas/failed diet January guilt.

And if not, next week I'll be doing cake. That'll make everything better.

mrs hunt.x

pork: the trilogy

Red wine obligatory

All the best things come in threes...Coppola's The Godfather, Tolkein's Lord of the Rings, fun-sized 90's boyband 911 ('Bodyshaking' anyone?)... and my pork, which gave every indication of being never ending. But a trilogy it is- for this is my third and final austerity cook, pulled-pork recipe. You have my word. This recipe will finish off any of the leftovers, and can be stuck at the back of the freezer until you feel ready to face the remnants of your pork shoulder once more.

And so in a bid to see away the last of my meat, I turned to that reliable bastion of leftovers- the humble pie. You could, I suppose, just chuck a clump of leftover meat into a pie dish, cover with a layer of shortcrust, and I daresay it would still taste perfectly lovely. A lot of blood, sweat and (I admit...) tears went into that joint of pork, and its leftovers won't fail you. But what this blog might lack in imagination name-wise, it makes up for in its cooking- if I may say so myself, anyway.

So, I present to you all...

Swine-Herders Pie

Arguably not the most sophisticated sounding of dishes, but since it's essentially a bastardized shepherds pie with pork, it seemed fitting enough.

What You Need:

• As you'd imagine, you'll be needing a pie dish. I used a 24cm stoneware Le Creuset one, as it distributes the heat nicely (so no scorched bottoms), and it looks pretty enough to serve at the table. Mine is purple, if you care to know.
• Enough leftover pork to fill your pie dish 2/3 of the way to the brim.
• Oil for cooking
• 3 juniper berries. It may not sound like much, but more and you'll feel like you've spiked the dish with bathtub gin. Which is no bad thing, I suppose.
• 1 tsp cumin seeds
• 1 tsp fennel seeds
• 1 tsp chilli flakes
• 1/2 tsp bashed-up cloves
• 2 tsp cinnamon powder
• 2 diced shallots
• 2  garlic cloves, finely chopped
• 200ml cider. Something slightly sweeter works well with this.
• 1 pint good quality beef stock
• 1 pinch of cayenne pepper
• 4 sweet potatoes
• 1 tbsp mango chutney
• Soy sauce
• Juice and zest of two limes
• 1 egg, beaten (optional, but nice- omit if egg intolerant, or you've forgotten to buy eggs)
• Sesame seeds
• Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
• Coriander, to garnish

This looks like a fairly hefty list of ingredients for something that's just using up leftovers, but most of this should be in your store cupboard. If it isn't, put it there and I promise you'll use it up eventually.

What You Do:

Mash things. Except there's only one
 lime there. You need two. Sorry.

1.Preheat your oven to 200 degrees fan-assisted, hotter if not. Whack in your sweet potatoes just as they are. Take them out an hour later, or once the skin starts to pucker, puff, and char slightly. Leave them to cool on the side, and turn your oven down to 190 degrees.

2. About an hour into the potato cooking time, heat a couple of tablespoons of oil (nothing too flavoursome- just olive, or plain old veg) in a large, heavy-bottomed pan, over a medium heat. Add your three juniper berries, the cumin seeds, chilli flakes and bashed-up cloves.

3. Give these a few minutes to infuse the oil, and then chuck in your chopped garlic and shallots. Turn the heat down, and stir fairly regularly to make sure they don't catch- you should know how I feel about burnt allium by now. Soften for a few minutes.

4. Now add your pork and stir to heat through, breaking up any big chunks with a wooden spoon. Once hot, add your cinnamon, cider, beef stock and cayenne. Allow to bubble away for at least twenty minutes on a low heat, stirring occasionally. You want the liquid to reduce enough that your pie has a decent gravy, but won't be swimming in it.

An unnecessary photo of a potato masher.

5. While that's simmering, start peeling your potatoes- you should be able just to rip the skin away. It really is worth waiting until they've cooled a bit before attempting this. Hot potatoes are hot. Pop them into a large bowl, and mash up with the mango chutney, lime juice and zest, soy sauce and lots of pepper. This is the Jamie Oliver version of sweet potato mash, and I've never looked back- it's amazing. Check whether the soy sauce has added enough salt- if not, use sea salt. You don't want your pie topping to look like mud, after all.

6. Check on your pork filling- tweak any spices to taste, and season. If you happen to have any leftover cooked veg hanging around the fridge, feel free to throw that in now. Take your pan off the heat, and allow to cool slightly.

7. Pour or ladle the filling into your pie dish of choice, and top with the mashed sweet potato. You want it to look nice and rustic- ploughed, almost. The peaks catch in the oven and give the whole dish a good bit of colour. Brush lightly all over with your beaten egg for a bit of a crust once it's cooked, and then sprinkle all with your sesame seeds and a last twist of salt and pepper.

8. Place in the middle of your oven, and cook for 35 minutes. You might hear a bit of hissing and spluttering as the gravy seeps up over the crust and inevitably trashes your oven, but don't be alarmed. Just coerce a grateful pie-recipient into cleaning it later. Once it's out, garnish lavishly with coriander leaves, and serve with salad, crusty bread, and a bottle of your favourite hot sauce.

For some post-pie viewing- enjoy this on me...

mrs hunt.x

eating madrid

I'm having a pork-hiatus. That is to say, the idea of a third consecutive pork-post is just too much to bear. And since it's a  cold, snowy, depressingly English day, I thought I'd perk myself up with a post about Madrid, following a hedonistic, fun- (and food... and drink...) filled sojourn there last October. But never fear- the pork will return for its third and final re-incarnation next week.

Possibly the only image I possess from Madrid that isn't food or alcohol...

So… what can one do with sixty-eight hours in Madrid? A great deal, I imagine. Explore the Prado, perhaps, or enjoy a leisurely amble through the Retiro. Maybe even have a peek inside the Palacio Real. Well, I didn’t manage any of these. I visited Madrid on an Eating Holiday, and I was dedicated to the cause. I’d packed my stretchiest, most forgiving wardrobe, and there was a blanket ban on anything more active than the walk between tapas bars - unless you count a night spent Salsa dancing with geriatric Spanish couples (which I do).  Until my arrival, all thoughts of the recession were far from my mind; my fabric softener is more expensive, and I probably won’t get a mortgage until my mid-thirties, but other than that, luckily I can say it’s had negligible impact on my day-to-day existence. Spain, however, is an entirely different kettle of fish; next to Greece, it’s had the roughest ride in Europe over the last five years. Don’t get me wrong- Madrid is a stunning city. Cleaner than London and more stylish than Paris (the children all look as though they’ve just stepped off a Petit-Filous advert…), there’s very little on the surface to suggest it’s still in the midst of the worst recession since the Wall Street Crash. If the Madrilenos are good at anything, it’s keeping up appearances.  But if you strain your ears and prick your eyes, you’ll start to notice the signs: the queue for Spain’s National Lottery reaches over 300 feet, there are ten anti-austerity marches in the city centre every day, and there’s a notable increase in the number of both street performers and sex workers lining the boulevards, leaning casually against the trees. If you listen carefully to the hubbub in the bars and restaurants, all talk is of ‘la crisis.’ Well, that or Real Madrid. But what of the bars? Are they being shunned, in favour of saving a penny or two? Of course not- this is Madrid. Whether it’s another case of ‘keeping up appearances,’ or else just a means of drowning sorrows, the bars and restaurants are packed. And if you follow a savvy Madrileno, you’ll probably find the best food you’ll ever eat.

The grilled-foie. Guilt-laden, and good

Txirimiri on Calle del General Diaz (one of four across the city) is a tiny Basque tapas bar specialising in pintxos. It’s small, nothing special to look at, and some football match or other will inevitably be blaring from the wall-mounted television. But the food- oh, the food! Eating the grilled foie was like consuming tiny droplets of velvet that evaporated on my tongue. The solomillo had the texture of butter, and the rabo de toro (sandwiched oxtail stew) was cooked to perfection. I finished with a tatin de manza- and how something so inauspiciously named can taste so good is, frankly, beyond me. Cinnamon-stewed hunks of apple in a light sponge were dusted with icing sugar and almonds, and encased in a shortcrust party base of such daintiness that Mary Berry would be hanging up her apron in defeat, should she try it. After this, we made the (thankfully) short crawl over to Taberna Degusta, where we ate eggs. Now the Spanish are fond of an egg or two it seems, and Madrilenos in the know would argue that this is the place to get them. Try the huevos rotos de corral con trufa (or ‘broken eggs with truffle, to you and me) and huevos con iberico y salmonejo (eggs with iberico ham and gazpacho), and your dippy egg and soldiers will never taste the same again.

                  If Hemmingway truly frequented every bar that lays claim to his name, then it’s little wonder he had such a prolific drink problem. Nevertheless, if the state of the floor is anything to go by (and in Spain it is- the dirtier, the better) then Carvecierci Alemana is tapas gold. A bustling, well-known establishment, this isn’t exactly one of Madrid’s hidden gems, but it’s definitely worth a visit. Pop in for a chilled Tio Pepe, and fill up on the accompanying anchovies, Iberico and olives.  Once you’re sated, start heading over to La Latina- (especially if it’s a Sunday, in which case hit the El Rastro flea market en route) then commence the eating, drinking and merry-making. Apparently, even if they do have a job to go to the next morning,  sleep is of little concern to true Madrilenos, who party just as hard on a Sunday as any day of the week.  At the top of cobbled and winding Costanilla San Andres sits La Gorda, a Peruvian bar and restaurant. This might seem an odd recommendation to make, but it forms part of a subtle change in Madrid’s attitude to food. No longer are all Spaniards staunchly xenophobic in their culinary approach; indeed, many cities (Madrid at the fore) are embracing their changing demographic. The upshot of this? Some bloody fantastic Peruvian resaturants. La Gorda- literally, ‘The Fat Woman,’ had me the moment I spotted shot glasses brimming with Bloody Mary adorning the bar top, which I pounced upon immediately (almost choking on the cockles hidden at the bottom in the process).We had every intention of popping in for a pisco sour and pintxo before moving on… needless to say, four hours, several piscos and a lot of ceviche later, we were still going strong. It’s also probably worth mentioning that the pisco was responsible for the mother-of-all hangovers the following morning- don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Bitesize Bloody Mary. Notice
 you  can't see the cockle...

Of course, I now have every excuse to make a return trip. After all, I can’t really say I’ve seen Madrid- I’ve just eaten it. So I’ll be back. I’ll have to pop into La Gorda, obviously. And check the tapa is still up to scratch in the Plaza Major. I daresay I’ll visit La Latina for some late-night revelry again, too. Maybe, just maybe, I’ll squeeze in the Prado. We’ll see.

pork: the sequel

Fun Fact: every year, we Brits chuck away 18 million tons of edible food.

So, I lied. There was nothing particularly 'fun' about that fact, but it seemed worth mentioning. On a relatively serious note though, let's just try envisioning what 18 million tons of food actually looks like- it's ridiculous. And also a little bit sad, given the number of people who go to bed hungry every night.

Me again.

But let's not get too preachy, eh? I made a resolution this year- a new one. Because I daresay I won't have the time to learn Cantonese, and given the occupational hazards of being a food blogger, any weightloss ambitions are, sadly, unrealistic. So this year, I'm vowing to throw away less food, and be more inventive with my leftovers (and not just postpone their inevitable binning by chucking them into the cavernous depths of the freezer without another thought).

Last week, I promised you I'd do something imaginative with your leftover pork. Now, when I saw just how much leftover pork that recipe... well, leftover, I don't mind admitting that I was intimidated. Had I just got a tad carried away in the fervour of festive eating, and bankrupted myself for a joint that I could NEVER FINISH? Were these delicious scraps of meat destined to languish in clingfilm until I gave in, and turned to the bin in defeat? Not on my watch. So here we have it- Pulled Pork Reincarnation #1:

Jerk Patties

It's imperative that you consider the flavours used in the original cook when conjuring up inspired leftovers, otherwise you risk ending up with something that tastes confused and jarring. Given the Jerk leanings of the slow cook recipe, I wanted to come up with a mid-week friendly, Caribbean-inspired patty. And here it is.

What You Need:

• 2 average-sized potatoes- whatever variety you have to hand.
• Roughly half the volume of potato (once grated) in your leftover pork. Remove from the fridge an hour or so before you start your patty-making, if you can.
• A handful of fresh coriander, chopped.
• 1-2 fresh red chillis depending, as always, on how hot you fancy.
• 1.5 tsp of fennel seeds
• 1.5 tsp of allspice
• 1.5 tsp of mixed spice
• The zest of two limes, and juice of one.
• A sprinkling of fresh thyme leaves (dry will do, in a pinch).
• A thumb of fresh ginger, grated.
• 1 egg from a happy chicken
• Plain flour. Enough of it.
• Sea Salt
• Black Pepper
• Cayenne Pepper
• Oil for cooking.

What Yo Do:

1. Peel and grate your potatoes, and squeeze them gently in your hands over some kitchen towel to dry them out a bit. Don't clench them to a pulp, but do try your best to get some of the excess moisture out, or your patty will disintegrate, and look rather woebegone.

2. Lightly bash your fennel seeds, chop your chilli and coriander, grate your ginger (having peeled it first, ideally), and give it all a decent mix with the allspice, cumin, mixed spice, lime zest, lime juice, salt and pepper. This isn't really the sort of thing you want to check by thrusting a finger in and licking it, so give it a good sniff (not too hard- ingesting chilli and allspice through your nose is, surprisingly enough, quite unpleasant). It should smell sweet, earthy, and zingy, with no one ingredient dominating. If it does, tweak. Trust your nose.

3. Now tackle your pork. Getting it out of the fridge in advance should make it easier to handle, as you need to shred it a little more finely than you probably did originally. It should be roughly the same cut as your potato. Some excess fat will have congealed during refrigeration, so try to pick off any obvious-looking lumps, and don't worry about the rest.

Melge

4. In a big bowl, mix your potato, pork and spices. Crack an egg into a small glass or bowl, and whisk very lightly with a fork. Add this to the mix gradually until it all starts to melge* together- too much and it will turn out soggy, not to mention distinctly egg-flavoured.

5. In a shallow dish, pour in some plain flour, and season enthusiastically with sea salt, fresh black pepper and a good pinch of cayenne.

6. Start shaping your patties, but first- decide what you're using them for. They make good party nibbles (and sure beat a prawn ring or pallid frozen 'tikka bite'...), so think along the flattened golf-ball lines for that. For a solid main dish, think generic fish-cake size, and for a nice little starter, somewhere in between the two. Give them a good final squeeze as you're doing this, just to triple-check they aren't still oozing water. Dust them lightly but thoroughly in the flour, and set aside.

... and dust

7. If you want to freeze these for Credit Card Statement Day (or any other occasion you find yourself in need of a cheap dinner), then place them onto a clingfilmed baking sheet, and pop them in. Once they're hard, transfer them into something more practical (I heart Tupperware). Defrost thoroughly for at least twelve hours before heating. If you're cooking them there and then, leave them in the fridge for an hour or so to firm them up, if you have time.

8. To cook, heat some oil in a non-stick pan over a medium heat. The 'non-stick' element is quite important here- you risk skinning your patties in the pan if it's some dodgy old thing, which is always a bummer. You may notice Le Creuset cookware features a lot in my blog photos, and it's because everything they produce is amazing, and well worth every penny... so you've got a whole year to behave, and bag some from Santa for next Christmas. Anyway- once the oil is hot, place them in carefully using a spatula or some kind of burger-flipping-device. Cook dinner-sized ones for about four minutes each side, and the smaller ones for 2-3 minutes each side. Please do check they are piping hot all the way through- I still don't have the legalities of blogging quite figured out yet. I'd be awfully miffed if I got sued...

It's worth nothing that, seeing as your pork is already a couple of days old, you should either cook or freeze your patties on the day.

Serve with salad, and obligatory hot sauce.

Granny-plate optional

Don't fret- Pulled Pork Reincarnation #2 will follow soon. God, I hope you like pork...

mrs hunt.x

* I though 'melge' was a real word- it turns out that's not the case. I'm sure we understand one another.

austerity cooking

Ah, Christmas. A time for ill-advised knitwear, lying to children, and dodgy office parties. Oh, and shameless gluttony of course. It's as though December provides the perfect black hole for calories and cash- it's Christmas, so it would be rude not to buy/eat/drink everything in sight, even if we know all too well that feeling of dread and self loathing that hits us once January rolls around. But for now, it's December, and the festive season is in full swing. So without further ado, lets talk about food.

My own ill-advised knitwear. Well- it is Christmas...

For all you Christmas purists out there, there's turkey, 'nuff said. Luckily, due to a combination of a great mother and mother-in-law, I've managed to escape the delights of this dry, over priced and over-rated bird for most of my festive dinners. Frankly, I just don't understand why people invest so much time and effort in what is essentially an oversized chicken on Christmas Day. But, I'm not here to court controversy; instead I'm here to share a recipe that's perfect for the POST Christmas period- you know, those iffy few days between the Big Day itself and New Years. Or, it's great as a relatively fuss-free New Year's Day dinner, and it's a meal that can stretch to as many distant relatives as may deign to rock up on your doorstep over the festive season, providing brilliantly versatile leftovers that I will follow up on with not one, but TWO recipes over the coming week. Which is where the 'austerity' part of this cooking comes in- the cut, due in part to it's size, isn't exactly cheap, but remember- it is Christmas. And the reincarnated leftover dishes freeze perfectly, which will be a relief come January's credit card bill...

I'm not afraid to admit that this is a bastardized Jamie Oliver recipe. Now that's not to say there was anything wrong with the original, it's just that I do enjoy tinkering with things. I also believe that with any recipe, there's always the opportunity to put your own stamp on something- so long as you're not screwing with any basic chemistry at work (so no tampering with Mary Berry's sponge, please).

It's also worth mentioning that this takes a Very. Long. Time. But, it's worth it, and you can prattle around the house while it's cooking- maybe take the time to pair up all those nice new socks you seem to have acquired...

Jerk-Roasted Pulled Pork For The Masses

What You Need:

• 5kg boned and rolled pork shoulder, but ask your butcher nicely if they still have the bone hanging around. I also bought a nice little rack of ribs for the meat to rest on while it's cooking- the meat's delicious after a few hours in the oven.
• 1 x bottle of good quality cider- I really like the slightly medicinal taste of Hecks in this dish. You are, of course, permitted a cheeky swig for yourself every once in a while...
• 1 x can of Coca Cola (other 'cola' brands are available, but let's face it- they're shit. So just buy the real stuff)
• A handful of fresh thyme, leaves ripped off
• 1 tbsp ground cumin
• 1 tbsp fennel seeds, lightly bashed with anything solid you have to hand
• A liberal grating of fresh nutmeg
• Maldon Sea Salt and freshly ground black pepper
• Olive oil
• 3 x scotch bonnet chillis. More if you like it really hot, less if you're a bit of a whimp.
• 2 tbsp dark muscavado sugar
• A large knob of fresh ginger, grated
• 1/2 tbsp allspice
• 1/2 tbsp cloves
• 5-6 cloves of garlic, mashed with salt in a pestle and mortar
• Juice and zest of three limes
• A bunch of healthy-looking coriander

What You Do:

MEAT

1. Preheat your oven to its hottest setting- I was quite impressed to discover that ours manages 260 degrees. If your butcher hasn't already, score the skin of your pork and rub all over with the fresh thyme, ground cumin, fennel seeds, nutmeg, salt and pepper. Do this dry at first, and then follow with a hefty glug of olive oil to lubricate things nicely.

2. Pop your joint into a snug-fitting oven tray, resting on the bones. Pour half of the cider and half of the coke into the BOTTOM of the tray, taking care to leave the skin completely dry. If it gets even the tiniest bit soggy, your crackling will be abysmal (and we all know legendary crackling is the benchmark of all good pork). Place in the middle of your swelteringly hot oven for half an hour.

3. After the 30-minute mark, turn the oven down to 130 degrees, and add the rest of the cider and coke to the oven tray. You're afforded a bit of faffing-time doing this, as you'll need to have the door open for a moment to cool the oven down anyway.

4. Set your timer for three and a half hours. Commence sock organising.

5. Once it's up, cover your joint with a layer of foil. Set the timer for a further three and a half hours. Write a short play, or learn a language.

6. And, we're done! Well, nearly. Once your timer has sounded, pull the joint carefully out of the oven. Move to a large plate, and leave to rest with the foil on. Skim the fat from the top of the oven tray (do not chuck this carelessly down your sink. Not only will it probably bugger up your drain, it's also a shameful waste of excellent fat that would much rather be used on a potato one day), and pour all the remaining juices into your favourite bowl.

7. Finely chop your scotch bonnets, and avoid all eye-scratching, tooth-picking and baby-cuddling pursuits until you've thoroughly washed your hands. In your nice bowl, start concocting what is essentially a Jerk seasoning-mix the sugar, grated ginger, ginger powder, allspice, cloves, mashed garlic, lime juice and zest. Don't worry too much about being exact with the quantities, tweak according to your own palate. It needs to taste a lot stronger than you'd think, as it has a rather large heap of meat to cover.

8. Remove the layer of crackling from the pork. If it isn't quite up to scratch, pop it under a hot grill for a few minutes. Scrape off the white, flobbery layer of fat from underneath, and discard. Now, start the shredding- the meat should fall 'aaahhh-' inducingly apart- in slow motion, just like a Marks and Spencer advert. Pull it all apart with two forks, and then toss in the jerk seasoning. 

Pile onto your favourite serving plate, and let everyone dig in. It's best served with something that can mop up the juices adequately, so I tend to do mine with sweet potato mash and lots of hot greens. As I mentioned, unless you really are feeding the five thousand there should be a fair bit of meat leftover. Just cover this up and stick it in the fridge to await further instructions...!

Merry Christmas/Happy Hannukah/Jolly New Year and all that malarkey...

mrs hunt.x

the not-so tough cookie

This post could be considered a bit of a follow-on from last week's chocolate prattlings- but no rants this time, just recipes. Or one, at least- my gruff, manly chocolate cookie recipe. Cookies might not be the most gastronomically exciting foodstuff, but there's something quite comforting about baking a batch every once in a while. These ones have a 'hero' ingredient- Green and Blacks Mayan Chocolate. It can be substituted for any other interesting variety of chocolate you might prefer (it works well with the chilli-infused stuff too) but the orange zest and spices in this particular bar are fairly distinctive, and fittingly festive to boot.

As you might have picked up from last week's post (which had all the subtlety of a sledgehammer, I'm sure), I'm brazenly snobbish when it comes to chocolate. Now I know Green and Black's can hardly be considered 'artisan' anymore, but it's bloody nice, and a reasonable price for its calibre. Some purists would argue that its dark varieties aren't, strictly speaking, 'dark', since they list milk solids amongst the ingredients. However, after a bit of nosing, I gather this is for allergy reasons and nothing else; they do not use milk solids in the recipe, if you cared. Plus, they're Fair Trade, which is nice.

So, without further ado, my recipe for...

Vaguely Festive Chocolate Cookies:

What You Need:

• 125g dark chocolate
• 150g plain flour
• 30g cocoa, sifted
• 1 tsp bicarbonate of soda
• 1 tsp ground allspice
• 1tsp cinnamon
• A grating of nutmeg- enough that you can taste it, not so much that you start hallucinating.
• 125g butter (see below...)
• 1/2 tsp salt (or use salted butter), at room temeperature if possible.
• 100g light brown sugar
• 25g muscavado sugar
• 1 tsp vanilla extract (NOT essence. Horrible stuff)
• 1 free-range egg- cold from the fridge.
• 200g Green & Blacks Maya Gold chocolate, chipped.

What You Do:

1. Preheat your oven to 150 degrees if you're using a fan oven. Crank it up to 170 degrees if you're not. Pop an inch (no more) of water into a pan, and place on a low heat. Break up your dark chocolate, and melt it in a snug-fitting bowl over the barely simmering water. If the bowl gets too hot, or the water touches the bottom, your chocolate will suddenly transform into a grainy mess that you'll be forced to eat while you try again.

2.Place the flour, bicarbonate of soda, cocoa, allspice, cinnamon, nutmeg and, if you're using it, the salt, into a large bowl and mix well.

3.In another bowl (or electric mixer, if you have one), beat the butter until it pales. Add the two sugars, and continue to beat for a few minutes until fluffy. Try not to forget about your melting chocolate in the mean time, and once it's smooth and glossy pour this in and stir through.

4. Beat in the vanilla extract, and crack in the egg. Mix in your dry ingredients.

5. Finally, stir in your Mayan chocolate chips. This is also a good time to start eating your batter.

6. Scoop out enough mix to create a cookie-ball in a size that strikes you as appropriate- this recipe makes 12 decent-sized biscuits, depending on how much of the batter you've managed to consume by this point. Place them on a lined baking sheet, about 2-3" apart. Any closer and you'll end up with a cookie sheet, which I suppose is no disaster. But if you're going for the traditional cookie form, then strategic spacing is advisable. DO NOT PAT DOWN! You might have to do a couple of batches, depending on the size of your baking tray.

7. Bake in the middle of your oven for about 18 minutes, or until a skewer comes out clean from the middle, not wet with batter. They might still seem very soft, but don't panic. Leave them to firm up on the baking tray for five minutes or so, and then transfer them to a wire rack.

I like my cookies still warm, served with a bit of creme fraiche and orange zest. If they last long enough to merit it worthy, stick them in an  airtight container and they should last a couple of days.


Happy cookie-munching.

mrs hunt x