Food Urchin

Som Tam: Salad of Joy and Pain

2012-01-20T08:21:00.014Z

Two words, that's all it took and straight away I could tell she was impressed. She may been taken aback at first. I think I may have even flustered the young lady but then she flashed me a wicked white smile, framed by hot, red, pouting lips. She probably didn't get my kind of proposal that often. I mean working night after night, serving up the same old fare to the same old punters, well it must be dull and tedious. Don't get me wrong, the food in Sukhothai is of a high standard and quite delicious but out in the provinces of 'Ornchurch, I doubt very much that anyone ventures beyond the safety net of a green curry or a pad thai. Except for me of course. Because when I saw the new addition to the menu and asked for it as my starter, she was definitely excited.

"You want to try the Som Tam?!"

"Yeah, go on then"

"You try it before?"

"Of course" (I hadn't)

"You....you like it spicy then?!"

"Yeah, I do"

"How hot?! Two chilli hot? Three chilli hot?!"

"Yeah, go on, three chilli hot" I replied, slouching back on my chair, holding up three stubby digits, speech slow, languid and seductive.

And off she went, beaming all the way to the kitchen, glancing back over her shoulder oh so quickly before walking through the swinging doors. 'Was that a wink?' I thought, grinning to myself. Yeah, probably.

Almost immediately after that exchange, I felt a ferocious, sharp shard of pain shoot through my shin bone and up my leg, which jolted me out of my stupor. Opposite me sat Mrs FU with a face framed at first by disapprobation and ire, before melting back into calmness, all batting eye-lashes and sweetness and light.

"Now that you have quite finished flirting with the waitress, would you mind pouring me and Craig some wine?"

I looked to my dear old friend for support but I could tell by the arch of his eyebrow that I wasn't going to get any. I shouldn't have been surprised, Craig professed to me his preference for boys years ago. So there was no getting away with it. I had been caught, busted, St Strabismus had looked down upon me at the wrong moment and for the next five minutes I was made to suffer in silence, the ignominy of wandering eyes.

But then suddenly, she appeared again at our table, my Thai princess - sorry waitress - and placed the plate down in front of me triumphantly and all was well again. Although this time I had to suppress any signs of coquetry. As she stood there waiting, it took me a while to wonder why she hadn't cleared off but of course, she wanted to see how I got on. So with a large fluid action, holding my fork, I scooped up a healthy mouthful of glistening shredded papaya and chomped down with great enthusiasm. And nodded with a smile and a thumbs up. And then I glanced back at my wife and her gay compadre, you know to make sure that I hadn't overstepped the line. Again.

Satisfied, she left us in peace to get on with the business of eating. Mrs FU had her Tom Kha Gai, Craig had his Thai fishcakes and I had my Som Tam. Gorgeous it was too, with lovely sour and sweet flavours, fruity, crunchy textures, the tang of lime and fish sauce and an underlying heat that seemed to build and build with each mouthful. And build and build. And build and build. And..............oh my God, the heat. The searing, overwhelming heat which threatened to engulf my entire person and if it hadn't been for the sweat and the snot that began to cascade from my pores, I am sure my head would have surely burst into flames. I dropped my fork onto the plate and clutching the side of the table, began to smother my face with my napkin to mop up the mess and the ooze.

After an ablution of sorts, I looked up and spied the young waitress peering through a crack in the swinging door with half a dozen older ladies, complete with blue hairnets, giggling. Still thinking I was in the game, I plunged another forkful into my mouth and shakily raised my thumb, chewing like a wide mouth frog with tears dripping from my cheeks. The door shut to raucous laughter. Gently, Mrs FU placed her hand over my trembling thumb and lowered it, cooing "Take it easy now Dan. I think, as usual, you've impressed her enough for one night." To which I dropped my fork in submission and proceeded to drink a whole jug of tap water.

That was the first time I tried Som Tam and I have eaten it a couple of times since, with more or less the same reaction. It truly is a salad of joy and pain and perversely, I can't get enough of it. Yesterday, I tried for the first time to make it at home, following this recipe by Meemalee's Kitchen. However, the papaya I bought in Chinatown, which incidently was £4.50, was too ripe and was therefore useless. So I ended up going to the supermarket to buy some unripe mangoes, which incidently cost me a futher £4.00.

This has been the most painful Som Tam episode yet.

Som Tam

Garlic and "Two" Bird's Eye Chillis

Sour pounding

Giant ripe papaya

Baking For The New Boyfriend

2012-01-10T00:00:00.015Z

Persimmon

During the early stages of romance, as things begin to flourish and blossom, there are many possible perils and pitfalls that seek to beset us along the way. But once we get through those initial episodes of nervous drunkenness, coughed up popcorn and inopportune farts at the restaurant table and plunge headfirst into a sordid world of heavy petting and seat wetting (you know, as people do when they are getting to know and really like each other), the next real test of any burgeoning relationship is the first introduction to family and friends. Because I think once you've done that, that is the sign that things are getting serious. Although I do know of people who have left it for years before introducing their partners to parents. Sometimes even on the night before their wedding.

And so with that in mind, when my little sister announced before Christmas that she was bringing her new beau around to our house to meet up for the first time, I quickly realised that as an older brother, I had to deal with the situation with maturity and sensitivity. Unfortunately Mrs FU vetoed most of my suggestions for the night which included my dressing up as a butcher, complete with cleaver and smothering myself in blood. She also said I should leave the car engine totally alone and not even consider bringing it into the house and that any kind of physical joshing was absolutely out of the question. I wasn't even allowed to ask the new boyfriend for an arm wrestle. However, I was desperate to show some kind of masculine authority, some kind of upper hand. She was my little sister after all and I wasn't going to let any kind of plonker waltz along and whisk her off into the sunset. And my God, there's been some plonkers in the past. No, I was going to show this guy who was boss, I was going to bake him a tart tatin.

This was to be no ordinary tart tatin though. This was going to be a persimmon tart tatin to serve up as the finale of a sumptuous three course meal. In one fell swoop, I was going to show off my skillz as a chef and get to use these strange orange-red fruit that had been hanging around in our Nigella Lawson porcelain bowl (exclusive to Debenhams) on the kitchen side. A misguided tasting of one earlier in the week produced a cat's bum pursing of the lips such was it's astringency. But after a further period of waiting, the persimmon had finally begun to soften becoming juicy and sweet as candy. Just the thing to put into an upside-down, caramelized, spicy, boozy, tarty type affair and just the thing to bamboozle the new fella who probably hadn't even heard of a persimmon before, let alone see one.

Imagine my surprise on the night.

Me: So Russ, enjoy that meal did you? (dabs mouth with tea towel, leaning back on chair)

Russ: Yes, it was lovely thank you.

Me: Bet you've never had pheasant before, eh?

Russ: Oh I have, but yours was great.

Me: Yeah but that lamb was pretty special, eh? Slow roasted that was. 5 hours.

Russ: Yeah, I love slow roasting, it really works well with pork belly too doesn't it.

Me: Yeah right...... but what about the tart?

Russ: Brilliant.

Me: What did you make of the weirdo-mondo fruit tucked inside? Strange, eh? (motions with fingers)

Russ: The persimmon? Oh I love persimmon.

Me: You do?

Russ: Yeah, shame you don't see them more often. You've got to make sure they're ripe though, don't try eating them at all when they're hard, persimmon will suck your mouth dry in seconds. But you know what's really great about them? They're packed with vitamin C, really good for you. Where did these ones come from Dan? Spain?

Mrs FU: Do you know where they come from Dan?

Me: Eh?

Russ: Yeah, bet they were from Spain.

Me: Do you want an arm wrestle Russ?

Russ: Pardon?

Mrs FU: No Dan, Russ doesn't want an arm wrestle...

Me: Course he does, big man like you Russ ain't scared of a bit of arm wrestling..

Tori: Dan, leave it.

Me: Yeah, come on Russ, big man like you, knowing everything there frigging is to know about persimmons, come on, yeah that's it, come on, here we go.....................

(pause)

Mrs FU: Dan? Are you alright?

Me: Yep

Tori: Why are you holding your hand like that?

Mrs FU: Where are you going Dan? What's wrong with your eye?

Me: (quietly) I've just remembered something..............we've run out of milk.........need to get.... milk.......for the kids..........in the morning.

(Door slams)

(pause)

Mrs FU: How tall are you Russ?

Russ: 6'4

Persimmon Tart Tatin - serves 6 (this is a variation of Gordon Ramsay's Pear Tart Tatin)

Ingredients

4 very ripe, juicy persimmon, trimmed of leaves and fibrous core cut out and then cut in halves.

100gms unsalted butter

100gms golden caster sugar

2 star anise

1 cinnamon stick

4 cloves

1 tbs of brandy

500gm pack of ready made all butter puff pastry (OK not so chef skillz)

Method

Take a 20cm wide frying pan and over a medium to high heat melt the butter and sugar, adding the spices and stir occasionally until everything begins to bubble. Then add the persimmon to the pan, flesh side down and cook in sauce for 10-12 minutes, shaking the pan from time to time until the persimmon are nicely caramelised.

Add the brandy and tilt the pan so that the alcohol catches and bursts into life with flames (I really should have done this part later in the evening when the new boyfriend first arrived). Flambé and when the flames dies out, turn off heat and put to one side to cool. Once cool, rearrange the persimmon flesh side up in the pan.

Pre-heat the oven to 200C/180C fan and roll out the puff pastry to thickness of a pound coin. Using a plate roughly the size of the frying pan, cut out a circle and place over the persimmon, tucking the pastry under the fruit.

Place in the oven and bake for 15 minutes. Take back out and carefully pour off any excess juice (if any). Lower the oven temperature to 180C/160C and place back in for a further 15 minutes until pastry is light and golden.

Cool to room temperature and serve with cream

Arranging

Caramelising

Flambé-ing

Erm more arranging

Persimmon Tart Tatin

FU's Top Ten Food Trends, Happenings and Events for 2012

2011-12-29T19:28:00.013Z

Around this time of year, lots of us bloggers like to write up lots of top ten lists, which self-perpetuate our importance, relevance and standing within the online community and not wanting to be outdone, I felt it was high time that I wrote a list too. You know, to show that I too, am a big knob in a sea of flaccidity. But with this list, there will be no comfortable, familiar, repetitive lines, no cliquey platitudes, no product placements and no mention of Roganic, which still sounds to me like a word that Scooby Doo would use. No, this list will be truly innovative and original. It will contain things that you haven't even heard of, ideas that you daren't even dream of, impossibilities that you really couldn't imagine were possible. For this is the Food Urchin Top Ten Food Trends, Happenings and Events for 2012 list. And if you thought that the likes of Morgaine Gaye had her fingers on the pulse, then think again. Because she ain't got nothing on me. So here goes:

1) Hay was the buzzword for chefs in 2011. Such was it's marvelous insulating qualities, the strawy, straw coloured straw stuff that grows in fields was a big hit in the kitchen for cooking things in straw. Hay made all the difference, wrapped around that pork shoulder, that leg of lamb, that calves liver. And it also made a lot of mess. But this year, the word across stainless steel countertops across the land is that a new material has been found, which is even better then straw. And it's called 'Rockwool'. Yes, you heard it hear first. Demand for this stone wool insulation material is set to go through the roof as chefs such as Nuno Mendes start to set the trend. Look out for his new Rockwool wrapped Goat's Head with Milk Poached Daikon and Camomile Starfish Goujons coming onto the menu at Viajante very soon. It will tear your mouth apart.

2) Government proposals to implement a 'minimum price' on alcohol sales in the UK will see a boom in home brewing but traditional beer and wine making will fall to the wayside as experimentation with vegetables and other foodstuffs come into dominance. Techniques are still a bit rough and ready at the moment but as certain people get to grips with the possibly illegal distilling of manky vegetable hooch into pure spirit, major breakthroughs will start to shine through, particularly at house parties. In turn, alternative speakeasies will begin to rise and appear around the capital, where 'Marrow Rum', 'Turnip Gin' and 'Pumpkin Whisky' will all become common parlance. And it will all be great fun and giggles with only the occasional bout of blindness or paralysis. Which is kind of ironic, given that the idea behind Chief Iggle Piggle David Cameron's latest, joyless, bogus campaign is to improve the nation's health. David, an Englishman will fight off a horde of rabid hyenas wearing nothing but his underpants to get to a beer, sod the cost. And therein lies the real problem. Yet another system of tax won't solve it, you twat.

3) Our working lives are getting busier, hours longer, lunch breaks shorter. It's no wonder that the temptation to gorge on junk in the 15 minutes behind our desks is so prevalent. So thank heavens for the likes of Sebastian Fortescue-Smythe who has come up with a fantastic new concept in healthy, organic, super fast food. And I for one can't wait for the roll out of his new chain of food bars called 'Masticate', where all dishes will be served up having gone through the first stage of digestion. In Sebastian's own words, "Yah, I first got the idea on my gap year travelling through Papa New Guinea, living with various tribes. The staple diet out there is taro root and the most incredible thing I witnessed out there, were the various Mothers of each tribe chewing these tubers and spitting them into bowls for their young offspring to eat. My God, I thought, there's an idea that will go down well in London." The first Masticate bar will open in early Jan, in Hoxton.

4) Whispers behind the tills at Waitrose is that Delia Smith will be launching a brave and bold venture for Valentine's Day, in the form of a new range of sexy, edible lingerie made from spun sugar. Which, apparently, is to be found by the jam and preserves section. Apparently, this is a last ditch attempt to lure Heston, who, judging by the adverts has been displaying a distinct lack of chemistry in the partnership so far, despite Delia's best efforts. In fact, apparently, this whole marketing campaign has been orchestrated and paid for by Delia, simply because she fancies the pants off the pseudo-bald, bespectacled, meat fruit genius. I don't know, I am only repeating what the cashier was telling me the other day. What I do know is that I will be Sky plus-ing the saucy advert when it is aired on ITV1 at 9pm (after the watershed) on Feb 1st. Because, perversely, I fancy the pants off Delia. And I really am bald.

5) As street food continues to grow and expand, the hunt for the next frugal, portable, takeaway dish to be elevated inexplicably to a superlative state is on. We've had burgers, hot dogs, pulled pork, ribs, falafel, jerk chicken, burritos, bratwurtz, sandwiches, burgers, hot dogs, pulled pork, ribs, cupcakes, falafel, burgers and sandwiches, all ranted and raved about in equal wonder and derision but I reckon that nows the time for the humble Frikadellen to catch some of that limelight. If you shop at Lidl or Aldi, then you are probably already aware of the qualities of this lumpy, ugly, salty, shitty, horse meat patty but sooner or later, someone, somewhere will pitch up with a trolley in a car park and start shifting these by the bucket load. People will start to queue for hours to get a bite, rambling on about about how good these Frikadellen are. "Just as good as the stuff you get in Copenhagen." And before you know it, the first Frikadellen pop up will open some crack den in Westborne Park before moving onto a permanent fixture in the West End. Mark my words.

6) Thankfully, for the first time in 10 years, deaths at home because of accidents in the kitchen will finally decrease in 2012 due to this recent and successful campaign. Unfortunately, catering outside, in gardens, in the open air will continue to take the lives, especially in the summer. And this really is a worrying trend. By the way, I am not talking about deaths relating to throwing petrol on the barbecue and food poisoning due to undercooked sausages here. No, something far more sinister is afoot. And it's all down to some numpty showing men, grown but essentially immature men, how to deep fry whole turkeys. My wife has actually banned me from watching this video but I keep getting up in the night, quiet and secretive, to pad down the stairs, to flick open the laptop, to click and stare in awe. I know of many other brethren who are also hooked on this instructional video, which is dangerous yet beautiful, like an open flame. like poor old Nicholas Cage in Knowing, it's a terrible thing to thing to acknowledge that one of us, or all of us, will surely die.

7) Food, food design and food performance art will continue to make great strides after the trail blazing trailing trails made by the likes of Bompas and Parr and Blanch and Shock in recent years. But these guys will seem a little bit average, tame, boring and vanilla in comparison to the more avant garde food artists that are emerging onto the scene. Amongst a plethora of practitioners who have recently formed and exhibited their culinary inspired work, under the umbrella of 'Zeitgeist Banana', is a young man from Berlin called Claus Lowenbrau. Coming to the Festival Hall in June, in time for the Golden Jubilee, Claus is planning his most controversial piece yet. Entitled 'Essen Sie Scheiße und sterben Sie', Claus hopes to construct a large pair of buttocks, made from 2 tons of rendered pig fat and sit atop the structure so that he can throw rotten fruit at the audience, whilst making defamatory remarks about vegans. Book your tickets now, it should be an interesting night.

8) The marriage of television and food will enter the doldrums in 2012 simply because of overexposure, tedium, half-cocked ideas and the continued martyrdom of the celebrity chef. The public have carried on for long enough, slouching listlessly in their baggy sofas, watching the same old shit, the same old bouncy seasonal feature, the same old campaign to save squirrel, the same old competitive yet torpid runaround, the same old "Boy, I would love to stick my dick in that pudding." We've had enough, we are unconvinced, or simply put, we still can't be bothered because our ovens are still sparkling clean. BUT HAVE NO FEAR! For I have devised a brand new cooking show format, loosely based on The Running Man where members of the public and television chef's fight to the death in a gladiatorial arena, using nothing but silicone spatulas, eggs and spam. OK, I have yet to get it commissioned so things might not happen this year but I do have Antony Worrall Thompson on board as a prospective warrior called 'The Ginger Gnome'. Together, we shall get the nation cooking proper in no time.

9) Despite number 8) sort of besmirching that this country doesn't really have a proper food cultcha to speak of as yet, I do predict a rise in food festivals throughout the country and as a result, can picture seemingly ordinary towns blossom into new frontiers of taste and flavour, where the artisan can flourish and rise. Of course, already firmly ensconced on the UK food map are places such as Ludlow, Abergavenny and Aldeburgh but sure enough I can forsee Kettering, Skegness and Romford forming an integeral part of the burgeoning infrastructure. At present, I am personally involved in putting Romford firmly out there as a food tourist destination because I believe we have a lot to offer. We certainly have the wealth of the Essex countryside and it's produce on our doorstep. Which is why I am pleased to formally announce that Romford will have it's very first and proper food festival in July. And it will be called - "Alex James' Cheesy Essex Romp" - he'll sign up for anything these days.

10) The very last trend, prediction, event, hoo-ha that I would like to inflict on you (and if you have made it this far, well done) is one of grave importance. So please, listen carefully.

I am giving up blogging..

Goodnight.

Ha ha, I am only kidding folks, I am far too fond of writing this inane obllocks and getting drunk whilst doing so. Even if it's inconsistent, slack at times and even if you don't care for it ; P.

But what I really would like to announce is Happy New Year to everyone, let's hope it's a good one, without any fear.

Dan
xx

Inspired Bread Pudding

2011-12-15T00:00:00.007Z

Soggy bread

Sometimes, a guy can't help but to act on impulse. And I am not talking about the kind of "Phwoor, your armpits smell gworjus petal, 'ere have a bunch of flowers," swerve in the street. No, I am talking about acts of inspiration that leave you mumbling incoherently into space whilst pensively scratching your chin. The sort of "Er, ah, um, maybe I shouldn't haven't done that," scenario. I am infamous for it. My life is peppered with bad DIY decisions, ill-thought email replies, dodgy sartorial choices and inopportune statements. All because of snap judgements. I once pinned a young chap to a wall outside Shoe World in Romford because I thought he had just assaulted some poor girl and run off with her shopping bag. Turned out that he was the boyfriend of said helpless maiden and they had just been arguing about returning some goods to another shop. But hey, it really looked like he was mugging her at the time.

This rush of blood thinking also applies on occasions when I am tinkering in the kitchen, as it did yesterday when I set about to make some bread pudding. I had just visited our local bakers for a loaf and spotted some of the lovely, sugar-sprinkled stuff on the glass shelf. Walking back to the house, munching away on a gloriously sweet and stodgy slice, I resolved to make some more as soon as I walked in through the door. I mean, I wasn't even going to take my coat off so batshit was my hankering. But having never actually made any before, I quickly threw a shout out for recipes on Twitter. Lynne from Greedy Pig pinged back an intriguing version which used black treacle but the one that really caught my eye was this family recipe, passed down through the generations from Grandpa Joe to hirstute Dan of Essex Eating. Primarily because he suggested soaking the fruit in brandy. A great idea, I think you'll agree.

However, dashing to the drinks cupboard revealed a situation of Mother Hubbardesque proportions. We really had bugger all in the way of honest, hard liquor. Except for a half bottle of Lagavulin. Which remained unopened, put aside for a tipple in front of a roaring fire (on DVD) on Christmas Eve. I paused for a split second and then, reminiscent of Withnail demanding booze, I ripped the box asunder, pulled the bottle out, popped the cork and poured a rather generous splash over a bowl of some very sorry looking mixed fruit that I found at the back of the cupboard. I think I was pleased with myself for just one more split second and then the feeling disappeared because, well Lagavulin is fairly expensive and possibly too good for the likes of bread pudding. Looking down at the moistened currents and sultanas after the deed, I really did feel this horrible, hollow pang of regret, deep within my bowels. I should have thought twice. But it was too late, I had just mugged myself of some fine, fine whisky. And I can just imagine all the connoisseurs out there, are fainting right now at the mere suggestion of such waste and are having to be revived with splashes of water from small glass jugs and smelling salts.

But you know what? The end result wasn't half bad, leaving me with a bread pudding that in flavour was unusual, complex, masculine and brooding. A bit like Marlon Brando's Stanley in A Streetcar Named Desire. If I were to go down this road again, feeling frivolous and flush then perhaps I would ease off the whisky just a touch. But the peat-smoke taste and aroma certainly added a new dimension to this humble cake. It even made it seem quite festive, perhaps I should add nuts next time? Maybe that's taking things too far but it goes to show that the bare bones of a good, honest recipe will stand up to almost anything and I rather like that train of thought. As for the 4 tablespoons of gooseberry jam that I added because we didn't have any marmalade in the house (as per Grandad Joe's recipe), well, that was truly inspirational. Not foolhardy at all.

Inspired Bread Pudding (recipe from Essex Eating but with my tweaks)

Makes about 10 very generous slices.

You'll need:-

Half a loaf of bread (preferably stale)

Water

3/4 of a mug - self raising flour

4 tbs homemade gooseberry jam

9 tbs sugar (Plus extra for sprinkling)

50 gms butter - plus extra for greasing, and dotting on top.

2 eggs

300g mixed fruit (optionally soaked in 3 tbs of whisky).

1 heaped tbs mixed spice

Tin foil.

Rip the loaf into small pieces into a mixing bowl, and fill with water to cover. Leave to soak for about 1hr.

(If soaking the mixed fruit in expensive whisky, or perhaps something else, slightly cheaper - now would be the time to do it).

When ready, strain your bread in a Colander, pushing and squeezing the water out, put back into the mixing bowl and add the flour, Marmalade, Sugar, Butter and the two Eggs. Mix together, then stir in the mixed fruit and the mixed spice.

Pour the mixture into a buttered 5cm deep Dish, rough dimensions 20cm x 25cm.

Dab butter on top, cover with foil, put into an oven pre-heated to 180C. and bake for 1hr 15 min. Remove the foil, and then cook for another 15 min to brown the top.

Test if done, by inserting a skewer or knife into middle, if it comes out clean it's done. Finally, sprinkle some sugar over top.

Bread pudding tastes best barely warm or cold, so you need to leave it to cool down a bit before tucking in (with a glass of Lagavulin, if you happen to have any lying around)

Wasteful?

Goosegog jam

Soggy bread, flour, eggs, sugar, butter, jam, mixed spice and booze = a cake of champions

Wandering hands

Inspired Bread Pudding

Pig Boy - A Cautionary Tale

2011-12-08T20:24:00.010Z

It was a dark, dark...... dark, dark, dark night. The kind of night where you might ask yourself, "How dark can this night get?" And the answer would be, "None, none more darker my friend." But this didn't worry the Food Urchin, no, not at first. Having just left the warm enclave of a topsy turvy Victorian flat in the middle of nowhere, full to the brim and giddy with wine, the Food Urchin feels just fine. The chef proprietor, a mysterious young magician named Neil bids him farewell and hugs the Food Urchin tight on the doorstep. "Thanks for coming", he whispers into the Food Urchin's ear. "I hope we get to see you again, real soon." Looking back and picturing that enigmatic, smiling face, perhaps the Food Urchin should have realised that something was amiss, something was not quite right. But instead, the Food Urchin just points two fingers back in pistol fashion, clicks his tongue inside his cheek and tumbles down the steps and onto the pavement.

It was only once he started walking on, down the hill and back to the train station that a tumult becomes apparent, a tumult from inside, inside his head. And with each step it grows and grows. The feeling itself was indescribable, some kind of bizarre gnawing, a ravenous hungry squall, some intense pressure from deep within. Dipping into an alleyway the Food Urchin tries to relieve his bladder in the vain hope that this fear would dissipate. But no, this maelstrom from within had nothing to do with the fear of the Food Urchin publicly pissing himself. No, it was far worse than that. This was pure fear.

Onwards the Food Urchin staggers, sweating, shivering, blinking and staggering some more. Shadows linger and stretch across the road, street lights morph and twist into spiral galaxies, whilst his ears buzz all the while with ferocious white noise. In the distance, the Food Urchin can just make out a sign on a wall which reads 'Surbiton' and he breathes a short sigh of relief. 'Perhaps', he thinks, 'Perhaps, if I can just make it to the station, to the lights, to the company of strangers, then maybe I'll be alright.' And after fumbling with hands, as clumsy as trotters, at the ticket barrier for what seemed like an eternity, the Food Urchin finally makes it onto the platform and spills onto a bench, hyperventilating and shaking wildly. 'Someone will come to help me, someone will get me on the train, get me home.' But no-one does, they all simply move away, recoiling, gasping and averting their eyes, leaving a wide empty space around him, a lonely space. Desperate, the Food Urchin looks at a little girl who was being dragged away and tried to say something but no words came. It was the little girl who punctuated the silence - "Mummy, what's wrong with that man's face?"

Again the Food Urchin tries to respond but the clattering and hiss of an arriving train sounds in the distance. Wanting just to get home and to bed, the Food Urchin decides to haul himself up and brush his clothes down, muttering to himself, 'You've had one too many ales, young man that's what it is, now take it easy.' With toes dangerously overlapping the yellow line, teetering and swaying, listing from side to side like a ship on rough seas, the train misses the Food Urchin's nose by an inch but good fortune finally begins to smile on him as the doors open precisely where he stands. Further more, there are seats. 'Ah a place to sit and maybe sleep this off a bit', the Food Urchin thinks to himself, not noticing the clamber of bodies scrambling out of the other door on the carriage. Finally, the Food Urchin slumbers against the cold glass and peacefully drifts off, occasionally scratching his nose. Which by this point more than resembles a snout, yet softly the Food Urchin begins to dream and soon enough he is back at the house from whence he came, dreaming about all the wonderful things he ate.

The chicharones, puffy, porky and crisp dipped in a wonderfully boozy and warm bourbon satay.

The 'Bacon Sarnie' of iberico ham and pan fried brioche with a tomato pil pil sauce. A scoop, a wipe and a single mouthful that was so so good.

The frozen salami - pork loin cured with fennel seed, bay and juniper - thinly sliced and ice cool with fragrant juniper pop corn and a lovely bay granita which could have done without the bitter garlic chips.

The twist on 'Ham and Eggs' which superseded any comfort and familiarity that the original dish has. So delicious was this version that from now on, throughout the land, this dish must be made with cured ham hock, confit egg yolk and grated parmesan and drizzled with sage butter. There can now be no other way.

The 'Boston Butt' brined in apple juice and cooked in a low oven so that it remains scarcely pink and so tender, served up with black pudding, apple and a tangy, minty chimichurri type sauce.

The Three Shots - Jim Bean Black Bourbon, Pigs Trotter Dashi, Gin and Lemon Thyme slush puppy - all intoxicating in their own special way, the gin in particular singing on the taste buds

The 'Bath Chap' oozing sensuality with melting flesh and wobbly fat, with lush pear soaked in prosecco, peppered with stabs of salt from the pecorino, divine.

The Bacon panna cotta, the giddy school boy surprise, lush cream laced with the goodness of streaky, fatty bacon with some candied on the side for equal measure, drizzled with maple syrup. Pure alchemy.

All of it was so so good, so so indulgent and so so piggy and just recalling the images in his mind was enough to make the Food Urchin clutch his stomach and dribble in his sleep with his cheek still pressing against the glass, flashing blue, flashing blue.

Suddenly the Food Urchin realises that the train has stopped. He thinks he is at Waterloo Station but he can't be sure for several police wagons obscure his sight. Slowly but surely, peeling his face away from the window, the Food Urchin suddenly becomes aware of eyes. Lots and lots of eyes framed by helmets with visors down. And guns, lots and lots of guns pointing towards him. In a fit of panic, the Food Urchin tries to shout but instead of remonstration, an alien, shrill squeal emits from his lungs. The helmets jump back before a deafening chorus of "DON'T MOVE" is repeated over and over again. Now frightened the Food Urchin raises his hands in front of his face to protect himself. Except they aren't hands anymore, they are ungulated stumps, hooves, real trotters. In terror, the Food Urchin screams and again that piercing sound resonates and echoes across the concourse before the helmets move in and brutally force the Food Urchin to the ground. Now in a state of total delirium, the Food Urchin thrashes as if his life depended on it, screaming, kicking, squealing, resisting the cuffs but it is no use, he is outnumbered and dragged off the train.

Now all becomes pandemonium. A huge, swelling crowd has been present all along but up to that point, deathly quiet. But when they witness the Food Urchin, bound and defeated, a deafing roar goes up and a hundred phones and cameras are pointed in his direction. Despite being confused, disorientated and scared witless the Food Urchin decides to make a one last ditch effort, to take one last chance for escape and kicks out at no-one in particular. Instantly, a baton strikes his head and the Food Urchin falls to the floor. Slowly he loses consciousness but before he blacks out totally, the Food Urchin hears a familiar voice.

"Leave him alone! Leave him be! He has a condition damn you! LEAVE HIM ALONE!"

When he wakes the Food Urchin finds himself in a darkened room lying on a bed of straw on the floor, with low hung lights and old rickety beams above. In the corner is a trough where several large pigs are scoffing, all different breeds, all different colours, some hairy, some bare. One pauses and looks around and just for a split second, the Food Urchin experiences a flash of familarity as if the pig is an old friend or someone he has met at least once before. It something to do with the eyes, which look sad yet resigned. A door suddenly opens and in walks Neil, the culinary magician, followed by another guy with a mop of blond hair and geeky black rimmed glasses who again looks strangely familiar.

Neil walks up, bends over the Food Urchin and roughly rustles his head, sweetly chirping, "How are you doing Danny Boy, you feeling any better?"

The Food Urchin tries to talk back but again, all he can manage is that same pathetic whine.

"Shhhh, Danny, take it easy, take it easy, you rest up ok? You need to get your strength back. Listen, we're just going to have to keep you in here for a while and we're going to try and make things as comfortable for you as possible. Is that ok? So just relax, eat what you like and most importantly, take things easy because listen Danny, we've got big plans for you, haven't we Tom?"

And with that the guy with the blond mop looks down and just smiles, that same enigmatic smile.

The Food Urchin attended Neil Rankin's inaugural supper club on November 27th in Surbiton and hasn't been seen since.

One Night In London

2011-12-01T12:50:00.004Z

Creating a menu at any level, be it for a small dinner party or for a big event requires a great deal of thought. Ideas and suggestions should be approached with careful consideration. And when putting down these flights of fancy on paper, when scribbling frenetically with quill, when constructing a masterpiece, the chef or cook must take on board many, many, many different.............things. He or she must recognise subtle nuances of taste, they must be appreciative when balancing flavours and examine thoroughly combinations of textures and colour. The chef or cook must ask pressing questions of himself or herself. How do I present this dish? What can I do to make this better? What am I trying to say here? Who am I cooking for? Why? Why am I cooking...................why?

For chefs (or cooks) truly are artists and poets, we are the music makers and we are the dreamers of the dream.

So it goes without saying that when we were trying to come up with a menu for the forthcoming One Night In London, a collaborative venture at The Chancery in January 2012, this was precisely the process we undertook. And when I see we, I mean Luc Martin of Roast Chicken and Red Wine fame with Pavel Le Bouche, the man who knows Not How To Do A Food Blog, on board as executive, consultant chef and onion chopper. Yes, we are offering a one night only (hence the name) nine course menu for charidee in the heart of the city and after much deliberation and wringing of hands, we can finally present the menu:

Canapés with welcome drinks

Amuses/Amazeballs

Charcuterie

Bread: Luc's sourdough

Roast quail

Langoustine ravioli with langoustine broth

Black Angus Onglet and a cheeky pie

Cheese!

A small sticky toffee pudding

Petit fours

In truth, this menu was thrashed out over a half-hour, three-way Skyping session which is exactly as rude as it sounds. Just imagine, three guys, behind their respective computers, barking aimlessly into space, drinking beer, swearing, sitting, wearing nothing but their underwear and you'll get the picture. There had been some lengthy, warbling discourse via email but we only really nailed it via that conference call. It was, I'd say, a little bit like the Yalta Conference as negotiation got quite edgy at times. Pavel wanted to bake a cake and I suggested a vegetarian dish at one point, both of which were shot down by Luc with a ferocious pounding on the table, heard all the way from Holland, echoing down the line. But as this was largely his baby, we let him take control and write most of the menu. Which absolves Pav and I from any real responsibility should everything go tits up on the night. But just take another peek at that menu, it might look a little bit vague still but it still looks pretty damn good to me, do you agree?

At present, we are fully booked for January 22nd I'm afraid but who knows, if this goes well, we might just do another one. Call it something like.............. 'Another Night In London'

I dunno, we would need to have a chat on Skype about that.

Tongue Tied

2011-11-14T17:02:00.010Z

I have been dipping my big toe into buckets and buckets of visceral, wobbling matter for some time now, exploring and tasting the vast possibilities that offal has to offer. I have wolfed down scrambled brain on sourdough toast in St John, slurped up numbingly spicy intestines at Chilli Cool and sliced tender, slightly uretic slivers of kidney for breakfast at Smithfield's stand fast, The Cock Tavern. I have prepared and eaten all manner of cheeks (ox, pig, cod and bum), cooked a whole pig's head for brawn, barbecued chicken hearts and flashed calves liver in pans lightening fast to ensure a consistency of melting butter. I have even spent an afternoon ploughing through 30kgs worth of lamb's testicles, deftly scoring each one before plunging my thumb in and around the thick outer membrane to pop out a beautiful, salmon pink, quivering prairie oyster. Wince inducing? Hell no. Towards the end, I was dispatching them with such a speed that I fancied changing my name by deed poll to 'The Bollockinator' and getting a t-shirt printed and everything. So until now, I thought I pretty much had offal sewn up.

Then I went and bought an ox tongue.

Now the problem with ox tongue is that...... well, by design, that's pretty much what it is, a tongue. And whilst I appreciate the beautiful fact that offal comes in all different shapes and sizes and textures, when I came up close and personal to this collossal muscle for the first time this weekend, parallels were drawn that were just a bit too close for comfort. Holding it up to my face, weighty and wandering, I was suddenly reminded of a first kiss in the darkened corner of a school disco and the unexpected thrashing in my mouth that tasted of cigarettes and chewing gum. Holding the tongue further still, the scene changed to a grilling from a interdentally challenged policeman, soaking me with spit because I drunkenly dared to ride a kids bike on a caravan park (read wrongly as stolen). Two bonky eyes then appeared on either side of the tongue and morphed fully into a Friesian cow which stared dumbly back at me whilst chewing aimlessly on a clump of grass before finally changing back into a plain old, huge tongue. I had to check myself and ask the question 'how much copydex did I sniff earlier?"

But I think it came down to the fact that I was about to cook an organ that we encounter and visually connect with every day, when conversing, when eating and when (if you're lucky) commiting certain carnal acts. It certainly felt weird at the time but after simmering in a stock pot for a few hours with carrots, leeks, onion, celery and a bouquet garni and then leaving to cool before slicing thinly and serving with a celeriac remoulade, those initial vapours and fears soon disappeared. Instead, all that remained were wonderous salt beef flavours, reminscent of the corned kind but much more delicate and satisfying, light yet encompassing, fluid and sensuous, just the kind of thing you'd expect from a tongue. I can't wait to make it again.

But first, let me talk to my shrink.

Ox Tongue with Celeriac Remoulade (serves quite a lot depending on the size of your tongue, the ox tongue I mean)

ingredients

1 Ox Tongue, approx 1.5kgs

1 carrot, chopped

1 onion, chopped

1 leek, chopped,

1 celery stick, chopped

1 bouquet garni (parsley, thyme and bay)

for the remoulade

1 medium sized celeriac, sliced into matchsticks with a mandolin (if you dare) or with a sharp knife

1 egg

2 tsp white wine vinegar

pinch of salt and pepper

250ml rapeseed oil (I used Farrington's Mellow Yellow)

1 tbs of capers

method

As ox tongue is usually cured, it's a good idea to soak overnight, changing the water once or twice during that time. Place in a stock pot with all the chopped vegetables and bouquet garni and cover with water and bring up to a gentle simmer on the hob. Leave to softly bubble away for 3 hours, keeping an eye on the pot to top up water levels when necessary and to skim any funky scum off the surface. Take the tongue out and leave to cool completely, placing in the fridge overnight if necessary. When it's fully cold, here comes the icky part. Peel the pale outer skin off completely, revealing the dark pink tongue underneath and trim off any fatty bits.

For the remoulade, crack the egg into a bowl and add the white wine vinegar and a pinch of salt and whisk to blend. Then slowly and steadily pour a stream of oil into the bowl, whisking all the while so that everything starts to emulsify and thicken, speeding up towards the end. The mayonnaise doesn't have to be Hellmans thick though, a nice loose, torpid consistency will do. Throw the celeriac matchsticks in, mix, taste for seasoning and leave to steep in the fridge for an hour.

To serve, slice the ox tongue thinly and arrange on a plate with a dollop of remoulade to the side. Scatter all over a liberal sprinkling of capers. Enjoy.

Cornish Rarebit (Or The Rabbit That Went Too Far)

2011-11-08T00:00:00.002Z

Cornish Rarebit

As a young teenager, getting up early on a Saturday morning was never the best of prospects and it used to take more than a gentle nudge from my father to get me going. After several exasperating shakes, it wasn't uncommon for him to just grasp my ankle and pull me off the bed, out into the hall and down the stairs whilst I clung onto my duvet for dear life, moaning with each thud on the step. A cruel and callous alarm call some might say but he was only trying to instill a strong work ethic, I did after all have a job on Romford Market to go to. Pitching up when the weather was fine, was well quite fine really but when it was grey, dark and drizzly, it was horrible. Swinging around cold lumps of steel on your shoulders to be slotted into position often resulted in nipped fingers and blood blisters. Tarpaulin to be hoisted above and straightened in a downpour would always dip at some inopportune moment and unleash a torrent of freezing water down the back of your neck. Boxes full of women's bras and knickers were suprisingly heavy, back breaking even (I mean how heavy can bras and knickers be?) and had to be carried from a grotty Transit van, like ten miles down the road. An exaggeration but remember, I was a teenager and they exaggerate everything. But once everything was done, there was just enough time to grab half an hour in the market cafe before the first round of meandering pensioners came along to inspect triple G cups, dangling on high from clothes pegs. And every Saturday, as I waltzed into the steaming throng of chatter and clatter, I would order the same thing, a mug of tea and a plate of Welsh Rabbit, the highlight of the day and just reward.

I remember always being quite curious about the phrase 'Welsh Rabbit' and would often extrapolate at length about the origin of the name with my fellow market workers at the table. Who were all about the same age as me and all named Danny, strangely. "I mean it's just cheese on toast innit," I would often sniff. But one of the Dannys had a theory that historically, this dish was symbolic, that it was a culinary signpost which signified the struggle of Welsh peasantry under the oppression of English nobility down throughout the ages. He would rant, "they kept them poor you know, they kept them poor for centuries and you know what? They had the audacity to mock them for the food they ate. The bastards sneered because all they could afford was cheese and when they did manage to get their hands on some meat, which was usually rabbit or something, the bastards laughed at that too!!" And with that, he'd normally smash his fist on the table and storm off out the cafe, leaving us to rue his words in silence until eventually, one of us would mutter, "blimey, Jonesy is touchy today eh?"

That never happened of course. We were all teenagers remember, prone to exaggeration and more intent on wolfing down the savoury delight within 5 seconds of it being laid on the table but I really did used to ponder about the name, honest. To this day, I am still partial to a bit of ol' rabbit. Although now that I've grown into a handsome, intelligent gentleman, I tend use the term 'rarebit', which sounds far more sophisticated, if not even more elusive. And perhaps we should clear up at this point that rarebit does not simple involve melting cheese onto toast. You have to go lot more effort than that and there are a lot of variations out there. Last Sunday evening I made a very good rarebit indeed, a Cornish rarebit this time, having gleaned a recipe from the recently refreshed and updated Great British Chefs website.

Now I have to be honest and say that really I shouldn't have gone ahead with this delicious version by Nathan Outlaw because I had already stuffed myself silly. Dinner consisted of garlic and herb marinated pork belly, roasted over potatoes with celery gratin topped with breadcrumbs and walnuts and a vegetable julienne, followed by poached pears and ice cream. And whilst preparing the feast, I kept nibbling at wedges of 3 year Davidstow Reserve which quite frankly is perverse in the extreme. Simply put, it is crumbly, crunchy, creamy, cheese sex. So really I should have been fully sated but at some point, later that evening fate seemed to take over the driving seat. Having spotted Nathan's take on rarebit and knowing that there was some Davidstow left in the fridge AND knowing that Nathan and Davidstow have some kind of association, I felt that it was my manifest destiny to make some for a very late tea. I am really glad that I did because it was bloody gorgeous, bursting with tangy flavour, mustard warmth and (dare I say it) umami goodness. But at the same time I kind of wish I hadn't. Because after eating, I spent the rest of the evening in a dairy coma, lying on the floor, spilling all over the place, dreaming of Lady Gaga.

Which is not good.

But if you are equally fond of rarebit (or rabbit) then you really should try this recipe (with Davidstow Reserve if possible).

3 Year Old Davidstow Reserve

Flinty, crunchy slivers of cheese sex

Must. Make. Rabbit

This beer, brewed by none other than Pete Drinks, may have helped out the soporific process too

Deep Fried Squirrel

2011-10-19T00:00:00.007+01:00

Tufty

Well gosh darn dang it y'all, this takes me back. This. Takes. Me. Back. And why I nearly darn fergit jus' how good squirra is. We used ta eat these little critters aaall the time. If Pop weren't fishin' or shootin' or pig greasin', he'd be trappin' and on high days, he'd be fetchin' a whole bunch of these ornery varmints for Mama to throw in the pot. It might be hotter than a goat’s butt in a pepper patch but there'd she be, skinnin' and a guttin', throwin squirra into a pitch of boiling hog fat, faster then you could say "jumping jehosaphat". Which was quite hard to say on account of ma orthodontic condition. There be a lot mouths to feed, 24 in total and we'd truly 'preciate that sweet, sweet meat. Hell, one occasion I witness my lil' brother, Billy Bob Bob Billy Joel eat 12 squirra on the hoof, straight up. Or was that Billy Bob Joel Joel Billy Bob Bob? Anyhows, we had it good in those days. We might be poor folk but hell y'all, we could eat happy off the fat o' the land. Sad to say that last time I had squirra though, was at ma Grandpaw's funeral. Got a toe licked by a rattler so he did. So Pop called for Cletus from across the creek (on account of his medic training in the Army). 5 hours Cletus did spend on ma poor Grandpaw's toe that day, tryin' ta suck the poison out before he realises he got the wrong toe. Hell, the dumb fool didn't even get the right darn foot! Still, made us all holla like coyotes at the table 'membering that story, the day we put Grandpaw in the ground, guffawin', drinkin' moonshine and eatin' some mighty fine squirra. Shoot.

OK, contrary to what you have just read, I do not come from the Deep South, I come from Bromley by Bow. But having served up some squirrel for the first time ever to my family last night, I have to say that I really did get caught up in the romance of it all, this Appalachian style of cooking and spent the best part of the meal trying to converse in the appropriate manner. And have done so ever since. Which I think is starting to annoy my wife somewhat. Especially come bedtime last night, when I whispered into her ear, "Night, night, John Boy".

Of course, you don't have to carry on like an idiot redneck to appreciate the finer qualities of this woodland creature and if you haven't tried squirrel yet, then I suggest you do. I bought 4 of the ornery critters (along with some pheasant) from Wild About Meat, a small but very friendly game dealer based in White Roding, Essex last week and it took a while to decide what route to take. Because it is so lean, like rabbit meat, a lot of recipes suggest a bit of stewing or braising to ensure that it remains tender but during the consideration, I kept hearing the dulcet tones of the King himself reverberate in the back of my mind. So I went in for some deep frying, KFC style as it is an excellent method for sealing in moisture. Although keep an eye on the temperature if you can, my oil was a touch too hot at the start. As for the taste, well squirrel is in texture like a cross between chicken and rabbit but so much sweeter, delicious in contrast to the herby crispy crust from deep frying. And it didn't bother the kids one little bit that they were tucking into Tufty.

Deep Fried Squirrel (cook with Suspicious Minds blaring in the background) - serves 4

ingredients

4 squirrel, cleaned thoroughly and jointed into small pieces, arms, legs and saddle (I discarded the ribs as there wasn't much meat on that part)

1ltr sunflower oil

100gms plain flour

2 tbsp of mixed herbs

1 tsp of cayenne pepper

healthy pinch of salt and ground pepper

pinch of chilli flakes

2 eggs

100ml evaporated milk (tip picked up from Valentine Warner recipe)

lemon, for a quick squeeze over afterwards

Method

Heat the oil in a large deep pan (I used a stock pot) until it reaches 180c, I used the ol' drop a cube of bread in and if it browns in 30 seconds, it's ready trick.

Pat down the squirrel pieces with kitchen towel to ensure that they're really dry.

Combine the flour, herbs, spices, salt and pepper in one bowl and beat the eggs and evaporated milk in another.

Take a piece of squirrel and give it a thorough coating in the egg mixture and then dust thoroughly in the seasoned flour and place on a tray or large plate. Repeat (this can get messy)

When ready, pop your pieces of squirrel into the oil, large pieces first such as the saddle and cook in batches. I used a rough rule of thumb, frying the saddle for 10 mins, legs for 8 mins and arms for 5 mins. Or until they are nice and golden and cooked through. Take out with tongs when done and leave in on a tray covered in kitchen towel to soak up excess oil. Squeeze over some lemon.

Enjoy with potato wedges, corn on the cob and salad (suppose it really should come with gravy, grits, dumplings and peanut butter but the choice is yours)

Principle ingredients

Jointed into pieces

Close up

And another shot

Isla loved it

Fin, hmm maybe not so sure

Tufty disclaimer: these squirrels were grey NOT red

Playground Politics

2011-10-11T20:40:00.008+01:00

It's hard to believe that half term is just around the corner and it's also hard to believe just how far the twins have come along since that fateful first day at pre-school. I'll never forget it. I had taken the afternoon off so we could pick them up together. Bristling with excitement, the plan was to go out for a meal and spend some quality time soaking up their experience, expecting fast, gabbled chatter and wild-eyed enthusiasm. Isla poked her head around the door first. She waved and then blinked and then frowned and then quickly disappeared. The curly mop of Fin then came bouncing into view. He knew straight away that our arrival meant it was hometime and immediately he burst into tears. A wailing Isla was soon ushered back out of the classroom and with wavering smiles and open arms, we knelt to receive them. But they wouldn't come. Things got slightly hysterical after that. In full view of the other parents, the pair put on quite a display. Fin leapt for his coathook and would not let go. After 5 minutes, I was practically pulling on his ankles, lifting him in the air, trying to prise him away from the wall as he screamed all the while. Meanwhile, my wife was wrestling with our daughter on the floor, desperately trying to put Isla's coat on whilst she thrashed about the place. Raised eyebrows and furtive glances transformed us into demon parents. 'Oh those poor, poor kids'. But they weren't really poor kids, they just enjoyed themselves a little too much that day.

Like I said, we've come a long way since then. The twins get the fact they can go to school everyday, have fun and glady share events on the walk home. But I am starting to worry that other anti-social elements are starting to fester, which permeate from the very culture of school life itself. It's all to do with birthdays and sweet treats. Now I don't mind this policy of parents offering out mini Haribo bags or tiny Mars bars at the sound of the bell. That's one way of making little Johnny popular on his birthday. We all sing, which makes his day, makes him feel loved and I have nothing against that. The twins are certainly happy as they wander down the school path with cocoa grins. But, well how to put this. Some of the mothers have started baking. And I can't help feeling that now an element of competition is starting to creep in. Which can't be healthy for the kids.

One by one, I've seen them walk in, with puffed up chests and warm glowing cheeks of pride, carrying tupperware boxes filled with sponge slices, bursting with cream and jam, dusted icing sugar, wrapped in pink napkins. Fruit cake and bread pudding has also made an appearance, to be dispensed oversized into small clutched hands but the biscuit was well and truly taken the other day. Someone turned up with cupcakes. Now I am not a cupcake fascist but after seeing the vivid purple and green swirls of buttercream topped with dinky little flowers made from royal icing and that simpering, simpering smile, I thought 'that is it, enough is enough'. So I made some chocolate brownies yesterday for the twins to take in today.

Their birthday is in April but I've told them to keep quiet, I hope they do.

This recipe is taken from St Nige's Kitchen Diaries and I used a large portion of the chocolate I received at the weekend, promoting Chocolate Week. The one week of the year that children, Mums, Dads and dentists relish with joy.

Very Good Chocolate Brownie - 12 portions

ingredients

300gms golden caster sugar

250gms butter

250gms chocolate (70 per cent cocoa solids)

3 large eggs plus 1 extra egg yolk

60gms flour

60gms finest quality cocoa powder

½ tsp baking powder

method

You will need a baking tin, about 23cm x 23cm, preferably non-stick, or a small roasting tin.

Set the oven at 180°C/Gas 4. Line the bottom of the baking tin with baking parchment. Put the sugar and butter into the bowl of a food mixer and beat for several minutes till white and fluffy. You can do it by hand if you wish, but you need to keep going until the mixture is really soft and creamy.

Meanwhile, break the chocolate into pieces, set 50g of it aside and melt the rest in a bowl suspended over, but not touching, a pan of simmering water. As soon as the chocolate has melted remove it from the heat. Chop the remaining 50g into gravel-sized pieces.

Break the eggs into a small bowl and beat them lightly with a fork. Sift together the flour, cocoa and baking powder and mix in a pinch of salt. With the food mixer running slowly, introduce the beaten egg a little at a time, speeding up in between additions. Remove the bowl from the mixer to the work surface, then mix in the melted and the chopped chocolate with a large metal spoon. Lastly, fold in the flour and cocoa, gently and firmly, without knocking any of the air out. Scrape the mixture into the prepared cake tin, smooth the top and bake for 30 minutes. The top will have risen slightly and the cake will appear slightly softer in the middle than around the edges.Pierce the centre of the cake with a fork - it should come out sticky, but not with raw mixture attached to it. If it does, then return the brownie to the oven for three more minutes. It is worth remembering that it will solidify a little on cooling, so if it appears a bit wet, don't worry.

With the food mixer running slowly, introduce the beaten egg a little at a time, speeding up in between additions. Remove the bowl from the mixer to the work surface, then mix in the melted and the chopped chocolate with a large metal spoon. Lastly, fold in the flour and cocoa, gently and firmly, without knocking any of the air out. Scrape the mixture into the prepared cake tin, smooth the top and bake for 30 minutes. The top will have risen slightly and the cake will appear slightly softer in the middle than around the edges. Pierce the centre of the cake with a fork - it should come out sticky, but not with raw mixture attached to it. If it does, then return the brownie to the oven for three more minutes. It is worth remembering that it will solidify a little on cooling, so if it appears a bit wet, don't worry.

Sea Salt and Valrhona Manjari Orange Chocolate (which was going cheap at Waitrose)

Burford Browns by Clarence Court

I'm melting! I'm melting! Oh what a world!

Before the oven

Soft, moist and fudgy chocolate brownie (much better than any cupcake)

Delirium and Christmas Crackers on the Orient Express

2011-10-10T20:28:00.015+01:00

Even after splashing my face with cold water and resting my forehead on the lip of a cool porcelain sink, the heat is fairly unbearable. The luxury of my surroundings doesn't quite allude me. As toilets on trains ordinarily go, this one with teak panelling and fluffy towels has to be nicest toilet that I have ever been in. And I've suffered some terrible toilets on trains in my time. But still, the stifling air is threatening to knock the wind out of my sails. 'Don't pass out', I whisper in the mirror, silently cursing my genetic make up. Gingers, even those on the wane, do not fare well in this kind of weather. I douse my face one more time and glimpse back into the Art Deco frame. Peter Ustinov peers over my shoulder, wearing a gold paper crown, sipping a glass of champagne and in his cod-Belgian accent cheers, "Joyeux Noël mon ami! Are you 'aving a good time?" I slump back onto the throne and think that this has got all too much. 'It's October tomorrow for God's sake, why is it so hot? And why am I wearing this stupid hat?' And then I remember, I am having Christmas dinner on the Orient Express.

OK, it wasn't quite THE Orient Express but as invitations go, this one was still pretty special, to preview Christmas lunch on the British Pullman which leaves Victoria Station at 12:25 prompt and goes on various excursions throughout the year. As you walk up to platform 2, you certainly get a sense of occasion as people mill about in their finery with a jazz band tooting in the background. Actors (at least I hope they're actors) swirl around in period clothes, dancing on the concourse and chat to fellow passengers which all adds to the buzz and bonhomie. When the train arrives, there is a slight pause of hushed reverence before cameras click and the scrum to get on board commences. An octogenarian tramples over my foot in the rush, such is her excitement. Which piques me slightly but who am I to complain, it's quite obvious from her face that she has been looking forward to this trip. It would have been nice if she had waited for her husband though and hadn't left him behind on the platform.

Our carriage is named Gwen, orginally a consort to the Brighton Belle which used to ferry dear, dear Larry from coast to city all those years ago and our private little coop inside is festooned with decorations. The only thing that is at odds with the whole proceedings is the aforementioned temperature. The country is in the grip of an Autumn heatwave and to be honest the last thing on my mind is Jingle Bells. But as champagne is poured and the train lurches forward on it's journey into the Surrey countryside, I settle back into my very comfortable seat and whittle my eyes across the menu:

Tian of Whitby Crab and Atlantic Prawns, accompanied by a Gin and Tonic Gravadlax

Spiced Parsnip Soup served with a Warm Savoury Scone

Seared Fillet of Yorkshire Beef, Creamed Sprouts, Roasted Cocotte Potatoes and a Truffle and Madeira Jus

Great British Cheeseboard and Home-Made Chutney

Chocolate Delice and Spiced Clementine Jelly with a Raspberry and Cranberry Coulis.

So yes, despite the damp patch forming on the back of my shirt, I'd say that there are definitely worse ways to spend a Friday afternoon. In fact, everything was pretty damned perfect as the food and service was equisite. The subtlety of the juniper in the salmon was a great match for the rich creaminess of the crab. The delicate, salty cheese scones were lovely to dip into the sweet and spicy soup. The beef fillet, cooked medium rare was beautifully tender. The cheese was dispensed in generous fat wedges and dessert was both clean and refreshing yet also decadent and fulfilling. All dispensed with quiet, attentive but unintrusive service and cooked in a kitchen with barely enough room to swing a cat. Like I said, it was all pretty amazing really.

And for £300 a head, well you would expect that at the very least, wouldn't you.

This of course is where I struggle slightly to make the sell because that is rather a lot of money. I do have to ask myself, if I hadn't been invited, would I ever stump up the cash for such a trip? I am not sure and it's funny but during our journey, the subject of a rather costly pop-up popped up in conversation. Everyone at the table (except the PR of course) concluded that that ticket was just too expensive and yet slowly, after making the collective statement, I think a certain irony dawned on all of us. Christmas lunch on the Orient Express is very expensive too. But in order to justify it, I think I have to come back to that excitable octogenarian, who by all accounts was celebrating her diamond anniversary that day. You see, what the Orient Express offers is that once in a lifetime experience, that grand sense of occasion, that one thing to do before you die. A lot of envious eyes widened when I told friends and family that I had dined on the British Pullman. One Uncle said "don't tell your Aunt for gawd sakes, cos then I will HAVE to take her, she's been banging on about it for ages". That wouldn't have happened if I had mentioned the words 'Thomas Keller'. And so, with much history, heritage and romance behind the brand, I would say that it is very much worth it in that respect.

As for watching the trainspotter who ran off the edge of platform 2 whilst filming our departure, well it would have been worth shelling out £300 for that too*.

Thank you to the Orient Express for a wonderful, if somewhat sticky afternoon. The Christmas Lunch excursions start on December 4th, bookings can be made here.

"Ha, did you hear that chap broke his poor old leg"

Hors d'oeuvres

Tian of Whitby Crab and Atlantic Prawns, accompanied by a Gin and Tonic Gravadlax

Spiced Parsnip Soup served with a Warm Savoury Scone

The scenery on a beautiful Winter's day

Shampoo

Seared Fillet of Yorkshire Beef, Creamed Sprouts, Roasted Cocotte Potatoes and a Truffle and Madeira Jus

Chocolate Delice and Spiced Clementine Jelly with a Raspberry and Cranberry Coulis

The "Tornado" - hand built steam engine which travels out only twice a month

Possibly the smallest kitchen in the world?

*That didn't really happen but it would have been so funny if it had, eh?

Autumn Coleslaw and Hemophobia

2011-10-04T00:00:00.003+01:00

'Deep breath now. Come on Dan, you can do this. Be a brave boy. Just press and slide down. Slowly press and slide down. Gently does it. Nice and easy. Press and slide down. That's it, press and slide down. There we go. Press and slide down. Ah, we've got some rhythm going now. Up and slide down, up and slide down. Oh, this is not so bad. Up and slide down. God, I should use this more often. Up and slide down, up and slide down, up and slide down. Ha ha! This is great! Up and slide down. Come on Dan, let's get down to it, let's get down to the very last nub. Ditch the tea towel now, be brave. Up and slide down, up and slide down, ohmygodImgonnadoit, up and slide down, up and down, up and down, up and down, up and deyOOOWOOOOOONAHYAFUCKA!!!'

Plastic clatters over porcelain, eyes shut tight and a stubby, sausage finger is plunged into my mouth. I wait for the flow of copper to envelope my taste buds, wait to cough and spit. But nothing comes. Instead, I feel the rough edge of a fingernail scratch my tongue so I pull my digit out and examine the damage. Shorn off at a jaunty angle and down to the quick on one side, the nail looks odd but I am grateful that on this occasion, only keratin was sacrificed and not flesh. I glance at a small piece of carrot on the floor and then into the sink. A wicked blade, set against black, winks and flashes it's straight, steely, menacing smile, as if to say, "got you again." I grimace back with narrow, vengeful eyes and consider fetching a hammer from the shed. But then soon enough, this rarely used Christmas present, this instrument of torture is packed away, consigned to the dark place under the stairs. And it is only then, that I sit down and sadly think to myself, 'why do I ever bother with that poxy mandoline?'

If there is ever a piece of kitchen equipment that is exacting, vicious and cruel, it would have to be the mandoline. I appreciate the benefits of clean, uniform slices of vegetable which look very pretty and everything but seriously, what benefit is there to be gained by running your fingertips so perilously close to a guillotine. Health and safety bureaucrats will point out here that these devices often come with guards, which are supposed to clamp onto your vegetable and protect your hands from danger. You only have to try this once to realise that the endeavour is quite useless. Many an ungainly potato has rolled away and onto the floor in the past, escaping it's dauphinoise destiny. So it comes down to the bare knuckles, or bare bones even. To use a mandoline efficiently, really you have to use your hands and maybe a tea-towel to maintain a grip, which is hardly a concession to safety (although I have heard of chefs doning kevlar gloves, a good idea). As a result, I rarely use my mandoline.

Why am I wittering on about mandolines anyway? Well yesterday, I made some Autumn coleslaw as featured in Skye Gyngell's first book, A Year In My Kitchen and had just cause to fetch the beast out of it's hiding place. Skye's recipe takes a whole batch of vibrant, crunchy, seasonal fruits and vegetables such as apples, red cabbage, beetroot, carrot and fennel and guides the reader to finely slice each one. Now she makes no mention of using a mandoline to do this but feeling adventurous, I felt it was high time that I showed the damn thing just who was boss.

With fingers hesitant and trembling, I adjusted the setting on the dial and picked up a carrot and slowly but surely, dragged it over the blade length ways to create fine silky ribbons. I trimmed and relieved the fennel of it's tough outer leaves and repeated the process again. Next came the yellow beetroot and I soon began to get into the swing of things, upping the tempo, actually beginning to enjoy myself. By the time I started on the red cabbage, Vivaldi began to fill the kitchen, well my mind at least, resonating through my soul, the imaginary orchestra guiding me, goading me to slice faster and faster. The apples were blitzed in an almost orgasmic frenzy, each sliver was sent flying up into the air before floating back down, landing like feathers. And then, I was done.

I looked down at my work, all layered upon a wooden board and over the counter top and then at my steady, straight hands. No nicks or cuts were to be seen. I won. I tamed the mandoline.

Later that evening, enjoying this wonderfully piquant, sweet salad with some herbed chipolatas and a jacket potato, my wife noticed that there was something different about me. Had she detected my new found confidence maybe? An exuberant force of nature? A boastful vim, the kind that erupts when one smites their own enemy?

"You've got a cut on your nose", she said.

And just then, from under the stairs arose a deep, cackling, hollow laugh............

Autumn Coleslaw - serves 4 (based on Skye Gyngell's recipe and what we had in the house)

ingredients

Quarter red cabbage, finely sliced

1 small fennel bulb, trimmed and sliced

1 large yellow raw beetroot, washed and finely sliced (any kind of beetroot will do, we've got loads of yellow growing down the allotment)

2 carrots, peeled and sliced in ribbons

2 Cox apples, quartered, cored and finely sliced

Half a pomegranate, seeded

Handful of cobnuts, toasted in the oven for a few minutes and roughly chopped

Salt and pepper

Juice from half a lemon

A splash of extra-virgin olive oil

dressing

2 free-range egg yolks

1 tbs runny honey

1 and half tbs Dijon mustard

1 tbs cream

1 tbs cider vinegar

200ml mild olive oil

good pinch of dried tarragon (we didn't have any fresh)

method

Place the sliced cabbage, fennel, carrot, beetroot and apple into a large bowl and drizzle with some extra virgin olive oil and a squeeze of lemon. Mix all together with your hands and then set to one side.

Tip the egg yolks into another bowl and add the honey, mustard, cream, cider vinegar and tarragon and whisk until nicely blended together. And then, whilst continually whisking, pour the olive oil into the bowl in a nice steady stream so that it emuslifies into a very loose mayonnaise. Season to taste with salt and pepper.

Stack the sliced slaw into the middle of the plate (or to the side if eating with chipolatas, or anything else) and drizzle the dressing all over. Scatter over pomegranate seeds and chopped cobnuts and serve.

Autumn Coleslaw with Chipolatas and Jacket Potato

Pre-sliced fruit and veg in the Autumn sunshine

The close up

Purple Rain

2011-09-30T07:17:00.008+01:00

For all it's magic health giving properties, the humble beetroot don't arf give you a scare sometimes. One minute, there you are, scarfing a couple of juicy, purple balls of vinegary joy from the plate, happy in the knowledge that you are plowing a rich vein of vitamins and antioxidants into your system. And the next, you're lying prone on a stretcher, racing to A&E in a blaring ambulance because you've visited the bathroom, swooned at the sight of a resultant skid mark and cracked your head on the sink. I am sorry to get all scatalogical on you but when talking about beetroot, these matters must be addressed. And why is it always a surprise anyway? What is it about the human psyche that makes us forget in that first initial instance? I dunno, it's all a mystery to me. I am still trying to work out why asparagus (and Sugar Puffs) makes my wee wee smell funny.

But these are questions that I suspect the folks from lovebeetroot.co.uk would like to avoid for the time being. Having sent me a batch of beetroot to sample, I suspect that they wanted me to come up with a fan dabbi dozy recipe to promote this delicious veg. To work say, into a cake or a soup or a dip or something. I can highly recommend Silvena Rowe's Beetroot Falafel recipe from her book, Purple Citrus and Sweet Perfume. It's a bloody gorgeous method for using up beets. However, I've used the lot making my new favourite lunchtime snack, corned beef, salad cream and beetroot sandwiches and if you haven't tried them, then I suggest you do. Satisfyingly cheap and dirty, combining lush sweet, sour and salty flavours, this sandwich currently reigns supreme in my household. The twins can't get enough of them either. Although after wolfing them down they are probably wondering why Daddy keeps getting them to repeat "why so serious?" for the video camera.

As for potty time, well they never bat an eyelid.

Corned Beef, Salad Cream and Beetroot Sandwich

Take some bread, some corned beef (cheap stuff is fine, I wouldn't bother with the quality stuff which is far too salty in my opinion), some salad cream and some sliced beetroot. Make a sandwich with all the ingredients, it's not rocket science.

I never meant cause you any sorrow, I never meant to cause you any pain........

Corned Beef, Salad Cream and Beetroot Sandwich

Get Yer 'Ands Orf My Cobnuts!

2011-09-24T00:00:00.003+01:00

There is an elderly owner of a fruit and veg stall, down a market very close to where I work, who is a right miserable so and so. I don't why but every encounter I have with him seems to be marked by some grievance on his side. I've been reprimanded for taking my time when eyeing up his apples and pears. My enthusiastic appreciation of his blood oranges has been met with derision. And he once gave me a right old rollocking for, as in his own words, for "fingering his figs". One episode in particular lingers long in my mind. I had made quite a hefty purchase of various bits and bobs from his stall and after handing my cash over, I went to grab what I thought was my blue carrier bag, when he snapped, "oh no sunshine, what do you think you're doing?". "I'm taking my stuff", I said. "That's not your stuff, this bag is for someone picking up their stuff later, your stuff is in that bag", he barked, pointing with one stubby finger to another blue carrier bag. "How do you know that's not my stuff?", I countered. "Because your stuff is different to her stuff". "Her stuff?". "Yes, her stuff". "Well, what stuff did she get?". Unfortunately, the conversation stopped quite abruptly at that point as Mr Grumpy simply shoved a blue carrier bag into my chest before turning and walking off, muttering under his breath. I think he might have even called me a stupid bar steward. Which was a shame because I was enjoying myself. Despite this somewhat abusive relationship, I always return because his responses appeal to my absurdist world view and as time passes, the opportunity for mischievous and surreal exchanges grow and grow. After this latest conversation however, I think he is beginning to let on that I am a bit of a wind up merchant.

"These nuts, are they cobnuts?

"Yes"

"From the cobnut tree?"

"They come from Kentish Cobs"

"Ah and where do they come from?"

"They come from Kent"

"Ah, hence the name"

*pause* "Yes" *pause* "Do you want some?"

"What's the difference between a green cobnut and a golden cobnut?"

"A green cobnut is fresh, a golden cobnut is older, nuttier, without the husk"

"And how fresh are your nuts today?"

"Do you want some cobnuts or what?"

"Hmm, nah, maybe not. Do you have any hazelnuts though?"

The lady standing behind me got served after that.

Life and Death in Cardiff

2011-09-21T20:46:00.010+01:00

I don't get to spend as much quality time with my little skin and blister as I used to. We see each other a lot but our adult lives are busy. Days and weekends fill up fast and quick and with each passing year, time seemingly evaporates into thin air. Sometimes, I find it hard to believe we're the ages we are. Sometimes, a sunny afternoon spent fishing for sticklebacks in the river Rom with wellies and empty plastic ice cream tubs feels like it only happened yesterday. However, despite this onward march, we remain close and whenever we get a chance to pair off, we always have a laugh. You know I don't think we have ever really fallen out. I am proud of that. So when the invite came through to attend a banquet at Cardiff Castle, celebrating the best of Welsh food and the end of a very impressive journey for this lucky couple, I immediately thought of Tori (Mrs FU wouldn't be able to come along. I mean who would look after the kids?)

We rolled up at Paddington, bright and breezy on a Sunday morning and grabbed a coffee. Tori also wanted to grab a newspaper for the journey but I told her there would be plenty of papers for us to read on the train. We were travelling first class after all, 'expenses paid' exclaimed the boastful brother with a wink. Of course, there were no free papers to be seen anywhere, just free watery coffee so initially I had to face a surly sis as we pulled out the station and past the Westway flyover but we soon got chatting, making use of her iPhone to play Scrabble. "Ed-Ged??? What kind of word is Ed-Ged?". "It's 'edged', you prat". I was never that good at Scrabble. Along the journey we talked about lots of things. Funny stories, past and present, plans and dreams, collectively spitting on the floor at the mention of Tori's ex, who won't be mentioned any more. The unpronounceable Dolgellau came up in conversation, a drunken weekend with both sets of our friends in Snowdonia where I fell down a hill on a midnight walk and got stuck in a bush. Tori came to my rescue that night and I was about to agree to the suggestion that she was always the more sensible of the two but then, ten minutes later, she made rather disparaging comment about Jonathan Davies. On a train full of Welsh rugby supporters. Perhaps we are more alike than we realise.

We arrived in Cardiff with time to kill, completely missing the Millennium Stadium somehow, making a beeline instead for a pub just outside the castle. The sun was past the yard arm so a pint of Brain's Dark seemed to be in order. The barman was very convivial, asking what I was up to in Cardiff that day. "Sounds great. So you're a food writer eh? Who do you write for then?" God, the amount of times I get caught out with that one so I used my usual stock response, "oh it's a blog called *mumble mumble* ooh look a squirrel!" before turning and hastily making my way to a corner where Tori was sitting, taking a slurp of gorgeous nutty, malty beer on the way. Staring at her orange juice, I could tell straight away that Tori was regretting the decision to leave her car at mine and so we quickly mulled over some options. Leave the car and use the universal taxi service of Mum to get her to work the next day sounded best so she picked up her phone whilst I idly stared out the window, taking another sip. It was the tone of her voice that made my head swivel back. Ashen, Tori's face crumpled as she lifted her hand to her mouth and my stomach lurched. "What's happened?" I asked and with a whisper she told me that Andy, one of our cousins, had died that morning. Andy hadn't been well for a while but having visited him in hospital a couple of weeks previously, he seemed to be growing stronger, winning the battle. But he didn't. He was 31.

Leaving our drinks behind, Tori and I just walked out onto the street and hugged in front of the castle, crying, not knowing what to do. I phoned Mum again, trying to work out how quickly we could get back, asking what could we do and calmly she said "just stay where you are Dan, there's no point racing home to sorrow, just raise a glass for him and try to enjoy your day together". And that's what we did. As surreal as the whole afternoon felt, we stayed and enjoyed ourselves. Occasionally the mask slipped, which had to be covered up by a scramble to the toilet, I hate to think what fellow patrons made of my swallowed sobs coming from the cubicle. But we did it. It's strange but my memory of the day seems to be more focused on the people that we sat with. The food was amazing with a sublime main of tender Ifan Valley saddle of lamb but to be honest, the company of strangers stands out more. The girls from Wales The True Taste were great fun and so obviously passionate about the produce from their country but the main star of the day came in the form of Susan Fiander-Woodhouse, a woman who matures cheddar cheese in an old mine in Blaenafon. As you might expect from someone who uses this unusual method, Susan was oh so slightly hat stand but also very funny and kept our spirits high at the dinner table. With a twinkle in her eye, she weaved a fair few tales of hilarity involving food, the EU regulating her 'chunks' of cheese and her serious twitter reporting of growing vegetables - "people have the right to know how my tomatoes are doing". If she turned around and said she grew leeks in her knickers I wouldn't have been surprised but I am very grateful to have met Susan. She made me grin from ear to ear, which counted a lot for that day.

Thanks for the invite Visit Wales, I think I know who your next poster girl should be.

The Piers and Emma Farewell Banquet

The Menu

Anglesey Shellfish and Crab Jelly, Caerphilly Cured Salmon, Spiced Penclawydd Cockle Cake, Tomato and Chilli Jam Salsa

Roast Saddle of Ifan Valley Lamb stuffed with a Leek, Garlic and Laverbread Stuffing, Braised Thyme Potato, Buttered Garden Vegetables and a Mint Jus

Hazlenut Merlyn Tart with Raspberry and Orange Compote

Welsh Cakes

Moustache Lunchbox

2011-09-07T13:33:00.003+01:00

For the last month or so I have been sporting some fantastically curious facial topiary on my boat race. Namely a 'handlebar' moustache. Ginger, wiry and oh so funky. Why? Well I recently got involved with a little project with the guys at Movember, purveyors of the 'Mo' and fundraisers extraordinaire, more of which I hope to divulge at a later date but naturally, any association with this charity requires a submission of the razor blade and a commitment to grow to a hairy caterpillar under your nose. So I went for it with great aplomb. I have to say though that opinion on the Mo has been divided, with some detractors commenting that I resemble a German porn star, a member of some cult or worse still, a Victorian paedophile. But other folk have been quite kind. Sophisticated, suave and sexy are just some of the adjectives that have swung my way, the latter coming from my good wife so I've persevered and I have to say, I reckon a lot of people are starting to look at me in a different light. Just the other day for instance, a gentleman in the public lavatory at Upminster station whispered across the urinals at me and asked if I was a friend of Dorothy. "I might be", I replied back, smiling conspiratorially before continuing with "didn't she used to serve behind the bar at The Golden Lion in Romford?" It turned out I that got the wrong Dorothy but still, he was a lovely guy to talk to. I've got his number at home, somewhere.

Accidental cottaging episodes aside, the really great thing about wearing a moustache becomes apparent at feeding time and let me just say, it really does make a difference to the whole process. Because to take a bite of cake, a slurp of soup, a nibble of cheese or a chomp of banana and to flick your tongue up and across, well it's blissful. And that's because (whisper it) with each mouthful, morsels and remnants of each bite often become trapped. Trapped by this unique, beautiful, baleen filter-feed type system. It's brilliant! It's like getting seconds before the seconds come out. Of course, I have been trying to spread the word, encouraging everyone I know to grow one, including my children and I've even boasting on Twitter about this new found application for a Mo, stating that the great thing about having a moustache is that you can store crumbs to snack on at a later date. Unfortunately the response so far has been fairly muted, apart from the faint sound of an electronic 'boak' across the ether of the Internet but then Eat Natural, the muesli bar people dropped me a line and asked would I like to try out their range of bars on my 'tache. I kid you not! They sent me loads. Thus began a bonkers experiment to test the viscosity, flavour and sticky attributes of Eat Natural bars, the hypothesis being - which of these breakfast bars, with the help of my beloved moustache, would help see me through a working day?

These are the results.

Toasted muesli bar with orange marmalade - A disappointing start as the muesli flake to moustache yield was quite low with only a solitary puffed speck of rice attaching after first bite. But still, the tangy aftertaste of the marmalade was quite pleasant.

Cranberries, macadamias and dark chocolate - After making a first crunch down upon this bar, I was quite pleased that a singular cranberry and piece of macadamia flew off and attached themselves in uniformity under each nostril. Fashionable but still not making the grade for sustainability.

Almonds, apricot and yoghurt coating - Now we're talking. One bite and this bar exploded and peppered my Mo with a luxurious even crispy, fruity base, ready to be picked off at intervals throughout the day. I would like to work on reserving yoghurt deposits in the corner of mouth with this one.

Dark 70% chocolate, brazils and apricots - Highly decadent with the chocolate making a heavy, deep penetration of the Mo, excellent storage for frequent licks, especially for that coffee break at 11AM. Scores bonus points with the wife as passionate kiss at the end of the day ensures a cocoa hit too.

Brazils, sultanas, almonds, peanuts and hazelnuts - The best of the bunch by far. Dense, squidgy and packed with nuts. A total meal in a bar and could feed the rest of the office at a push . I just wish my tongue could reach the tip of my nose.

This was as far as I got with this experiment. I should have tested eight in total but after the fifth bar I felt slightly queasy and as we all know, well those who have ever grown one that is, the last thing you want to find in your moustache is a half digested carrot.

But thank you Eat Natural for sending the bars my way.

Roasting Chicken The Food Urchin Way

2011-08-31T00:00:00.003+01:00

The Food Urchin stands in the kitchen and he stands alone. By himself, in solitude, peerless, unrivalled, steadfast, ready, still. And then alone some more. In the other room, the buzz and bonhomie of crashing lego bricks fills the air. A dinosaur roars, Barbie loses a shoe and Scooby Doo cries "ZOINKS!" for the umpteenth time. Still, despite all the distractions going on, he remains focused. Staring. Staring down at the cellophane wrapped chook that is wallowing in a pool of water on the counter top. He glances to one side and spots a tea-towel on the floor, which had originally been used to cover the chicken whilst it was in it's frozen state. Which, no doubt, had been whipped away by a small, curious hand shortly afterwards and used as a cape of some description. In the cold light of day, now defrosted, pasty and flabby, the fowl looks, well pretty foul really. But no matter. Because the Food Urchin is about to work his magic. He is about to give Mr Hopkinson a run for his money. He is about to give this bird the roasting of it's life.

With a swift, deft lunge and a snappy twist of the wrist, the Food Urchin turns on the main oven on, heating it up to a perfect 220C. Give or take a degree or two. Or three or four. Or maybe even ten. The Food Urchin oven is not entirely accurate and the dial thermometer he bought to pop inside could do with a really good scrub. But this doesn't worry the Food Urchin. He knows when the oven gets to the optimum temperature. He feels it. By putting his head in the oven. When the hairs from his nostrils begin to smoke and singe, it's Hammertime. Or should that be Chickentime?

Whilst the oven is working it's way up to Maillard nirvana, the Food Urchin starts to prepare the bird. 'Keep it simple, stupid' is a mantra you'll often hear when it comes to roasting chicken. Butter, salt, pepper, no more, no less. But the Food Urchin firmly believes in that lesser known idiom - 'Throw in whatever shizz you have to hand and if it works you'll be a hero, if it fails, the chippy is just up the road'. So he dives into the condiment cupboard across the room and unearths a decade's worth of impulse buys, sorry, faded, near empty jars and at least 3 packets of IKEA dehydrated cream sauce for meatballs. Eyes flicker back and forth over the parade of spices, herbs, vinegars and oils with hands ploughing through and discarding over shoulders as the Food Urchin's synapses begin to fire on all cylinders. To the outside observer looking in, this hive of activity soon melds into a blur but to the Food Urchin, every flows in beautiful stop motion majesty. Finally, he decides on his prime ingredients, slamming each jar or bottle or packet to the side with a triumphant, albeit imaginary earth shattering clang of a gong.

So into the pestle and mortar, the Food Urchin throws some stale garlic, some dried oregano from Aldi, some out of date sumac, some random looking celery salt and a generous splash of exquisite, rosemary flavoured extra virgin olive oil, procured from a small Glaswegian lady. Who lives in a bush, in a park, in London. With a rhythmic pounding and swirling action, the combined elements soon turn into a bewildering witches brew, pungent and heady. The Food Urchin dips his little finger into the granite pot and tastes. Lips purse and an eyelid flickers. 'Oh my giddy aunt, that's got an unusual..... tang' the Food Urchin thinks to himself but is nevertheless pleased with the concoction and strides back across to where the chicken resides. A slight slip on jars previously cast aside nearly puts the mission in peril but the Food Urchin regains his balance with only a minimal spillage on his slippers.

The next stage is critical and the Food Urchin knows it. For it wouldn't do just to simply empty the marinade over the chicken, throw it in the oven and be done with it. No, the Food Urchin knows that he has massage the oily, speckled ferment into the bird thoroughly and comprehensively, liberally and totally. He has to massage the breasts. He has to massage the legs. From the Parson's Nose all the way up the back to the scruff of it's (formerly) scraggy neck, the Food Urchin's fingers must probe and rub. Basting must begin before as well as after you've put the bird in the oven. Most importantly though is the insertion of half a lemon up the chook's jacksy. This is an absolute must. Without and the chicken and the cook will suffer the ignominy of bone-dry, pallid offerings at the table thus rendering all life void and meaningless. The Food Urchin has spent many a night trapped in an existential nightmare, crying himself to sleep before he discovered the lemon trick.

Once this is stage is over, the Food Urchin thinks 'it's time to put this baby in the oven'. And so he puts the chicken into a roasting tray and into the oven and breathes a sigh of relief and contentment. He picks up the jars, bottles and packets. He sweeps up the floor. He wipes down the surfaces. He prepares the vegetables by the sink. Sweet potatoes for roasting, red onions for caramelising and mange tout for blanching for just one minute before refreshing in ice cold water to retain their fantastic emerald colour and crunch. And soon enough, beguiling smells and aromas begin to emit from the oven and envelope the kitchen. Putting aside his razor sharp cooks knife, The Food Urchin grins to himself, licks his thumb and peers into the fridge. Riding this crest of a wave, he wants to push the boat out just that bit further, for his wife and for his family. He spies some chorizo and thinks 'chicken, chorizo, chicken, chorizo, chicken, chorizo.......chicken, chorizo......well it's a winning formula isn't it'. So he takes the celebrated Iberian sausage out and proceeds to chop it up into neat squares for frying and a fine scattering. 'My family are sooo lucky to have me cook for them' he giggles to himself.

Then from nowhere, something taints the Food Urchin's sensitive, hairless nostrils. It's hard to pin point but the Food Urchin recognises the odour from somewhere, from some passage in time. Hands on hips, he steps back, bows his head and frowns drawing the scent in. Suddenly, this divine, talismanic number hits the back of the Food Urchin's head which he clasps in panic.

"190!!! Christ, I forgot to turn the oven down!!!!"

And with that he flips down the oven door and smoke plumes out as though it were some gate to Hades itself. The Food Urchin screams, grabs a tea-towel and pulls the tray out with extreme force. So much so that the chicken re-animates and repossesses the gift of flight right across the kitchen, the kind that it could only have dreamt of when it was alive. However, this new voyage of discovery is sadly cut short by an opposing wall and the Food Urchin screams yet again. Which is soon followed by a bout of extreme profanity. Tiny feet pitter patter into the kitchen and mouths remain agog for just a few seconds before emitting a barrage of questions with vigorous pointing at a half-cooked chicken in the middle of the floor. "Go back into the living room kids and no Isla, you must never ever repeat that word OK? Ever" instructs the Food Urchin before wiping the sweat from his brow and picking up the ungainly bird from the floor. Placing it into another tin, the Food Urchin leans over and surveys the damage and decides that it could have been worse. He could have used the C-word. He licks his thumb again and smiles 'actually, this doesn't taste bad at all really' so he brushes some fluff off one of the legs, turns the oven down to 190C and pops the old girl in for another hour. She comes out perfect.

Still, it's hard being a culinary genius sometimes.

Just some stuff from the cupboard

Red onions, pre-caramelisation (with sugar, salt, oil and balsamic vinegar)

Caramelised red onions

Sweet Potatoes

Mange Tout

Roasting Chicken The Food Urchin Way

My 7 Links

2011-08-23T17:47:00.001+01:00

OK. So really I should have written up a whole load of stuff by now. Stuff to do with bees, whisky, food crawls, beer crawls, crawling in general, a random chicken recipe, an argument in a certain wine bar in Borough Market that I swear was not my fault and a misadventure at Tas involving a face first dive straight into a bowl of taramasalata (the last two are linked). But I haven't. Not yet anyway. I have been very busy you see. Busy digging holes generally. Burning things. And putting stuff in the ground to cook. All in the name of supper clubbing. Plus Dickie the diabetic cat has killed my laptop by vomiting on it, therefore halting any progress on FU at home. Although that doesn't really matter because my blogging mojo seems to have disappeared altogether. I suspect that it's hiding down the back of the cooker somewhere, perhaps next to a mouldy carrot. So these are my excuses and they are pretty poor ones at that but luckily I have been nominated to take part in an intriguing little project called 'My 7 Links'. Like all good ideas, My 7 Links is a simple one which strives 'to unite bloggers (from all sectors) in a joint endeavor to share lessons learned and create a bank of long but not forgotten blog posts that deserve to see the light of day again'. Any excuse to regurgitate posts from the past sounds great to me and I may carry on in this vein for the next few weeks until I run out of material. That won't take long so I better come up with something new.

But anyway, on with the project! Here are My 7 Links to stuff wot I wrote in the past and the categories are:

Your most beautiful post - er this one was the hardest to chose because I don't really consider my posts or photography to be heartwarming or aesthetically pleasing to the eye but am I fond of the colour green so it will have to be Wild Garlic Pesto, Soup, Bread, etc, etc, etc

Your most popular post - As a youth I used to weep in butcher's shops.... - Going by comments for this one, I think I tapped into the inherent catagelophobia you sometimes endure when walking into your local butchers.

Your most controversial post - Ten Hour Roast Lamb - Sponsored by Armitage Shanks - Some people were rather put off by my admission that I read cookbooks whilst on the throne. I don't know why.

Your most helpful post - In Search of OOMMAAAAMMMEEE Part 1 - For showing to the world that umami is a crock of sh......ugar. I did mean to do some more videos but dropped the ball on this one (story of my life).

A post whose success surprised you - Bag of Meat - This recent post surprised me because it got tons and tons of hits. But then again it did feature a bag of meat, so maybe I shouldn't have been surprised at all really.

A post you feel didn’t get the attention it deserved - Meat is Murder - a rare restaurant review on FU and one of my first and no-one read it. No-one. Who cares if it didn't have photos of the food. Or if it prattled on about Bobby Gillespie. Or.........oh I don't know.

The post that you are most proud of - A Night In The Life Of The Food Urchin - because it was silly and great fun to write (and a brilliant night out).

Now all that remains for me is to pass the baton on to these rather fabulous bloggers of which there should be 5 (according to the rules):

Essex Eating
Gin and Grumpets
Roast Chicken and Red Wine
Lost In The Larder
Kavey Eats

And thanks to the BFB for the kick up the backside, sorry nomination.

Marrow Rum Update

2011-08-09T17:13:00.005+01:00

In these scary, portentous and angry times, it doesn't feel right to be flippant but as I am absolutely fucked off with everything and haven't posted in a while, in an effort to lighten the mood and to get this blog fired up again, I thought I would give you all an update on my marrow rum. This rum or grog or batshit bizarre bongo juice has been gurgling away in my kitchen for the last few weeks now and just the other day, I took the brave steps to sample some. These were the unexpected results.

Like I said, the marrow has been sitting quite benignly in the corner of our kitchen for some time now. I had sealed the bugger up pretty well, using sellotape at first and then moving onto clingfilm. If it hadn't been for the attention of the odd fruit fly, I may well have forgotten about it but I do distinctly remember walking into the room thinking 'where the hell are all these fruit flies coming from?' and my eyes zeroed in on said corner. 'Aha, lets see how the ol' marrow rum is getting on' I thought. It was 10 in the morning.

Brushing the fruit flies away, I peeled off the clingfilm, popped the top of the marrow off and peered down into the abyss.

If I were to be really honest, looking at it, well it reminded me of a terrible case of bum gravy I once encountered in Zimbabwe a long, long time ago. But the fierce scent of alcohol was searing the hairs of my nostrils, clean off in fact, so I felt encouraged enough to pour some off into a glass using a funnel and an old pair of my wife's tights (at least I think they were old).

It still looked like bum gravy but the more vegetal, floral notes of the hooch started to emanate from the glass and I began to grin at this point. Sure it looks pretty grim, I thought but as experiments in home brewing go, this could be a success! Buoyed by a resurging confidence and a quick fire business plan to enter the drinks market with my new range of 'vegetable-based' rums, I toasted to a premature success.

I brought it to my lips. And my nipples exploded.

And then I turned into Edgar from Men In Black.

Can I say anything further on the tasting? Well no. I am really sorry but I really can't at present. Well apart from "er, it needs tweaking". I can say this though, I've tried some more tonight and given the transformation, I feel fully prepared to hit the streets and scare the bejesus out of the little fucking shits who are rampaging throughout our cities.

Keep an eye out for me on the news in the morning..............

Bag of Meat

2011-07-25T09:22:00.008+01:00

A couple of weeks ago I had what I like to call a 'Charlie Bucket' moment. But before I go any further, perhaps I should explain exactly what that is and in order to do so we need to cast our minds back to the final scene of that camp and slightly sinister classic from 1971, Willy Wonka and The Chocolate Factory. Willy Wonka, Grandpa Joe and Charlie Bucket have just miraculously smashed through the glass factory roof in a glass elevator and are flying through the air, surveying the wonderful Bavarian scenery below. After a short period of uplifting violins and wonderment, Willy Wonka (or Gene Wilder rather) then delivers his coup de theatre, revealing that he wants to pass on the chocolate factory and all that it encompasses to Charlie Bucket. For me this is the pivotal point of the film. Because the look that Charlie Bucket shoots back at Willy Wonka is truly, a thing of beauty. This simple, well executed look symbolises in one short, sharp hit the realisation that after a lifetime of poverty, desperation and grime, everything is finally about to change. It is both glorious and heartbreaking to watch and why child actor, Peter Ostrum didn't get any work after that film is beyond me. So, simply put, a 'Charlie Bucket' moment occurs when all your dreams come true.

My CB moment happened in Porterford Butchers and fellow blogger MiMi from Meemalee's Kitchen was my very own personal Willy Wonka. I had heard her talk about this butchers on Watling Street before, wittering on about buying 'bags of meat' but I always assumed MiMi was just getting her protein haul in for cooking in the week ahead. The carnivorous chanteuse that she is. But then I met her recently for lunch and she suggested that we get a bag of meat to eat. This was a curious proposition and I have to say I wasn't quite prepared when I walked in through the door of Porterford Butchers that day. Standing behind a winding queue of city gents, the shop itself seemed fairly regular as we slowly shuffled past a respectable display of joints and meats but then the suits fell away and I found myself basking in the warm glow of halogen lamps. The sight in front of me was one to behold and took my breath away. A cabinet jam packed with endless varieties of cooked meat. Sausages, chops, ribs, steaks, breasts, legs, kebabs, you name it, it was there. And the only concession to your five-a-day was a tray of sticky looking roast potatoes.

I looked at MiMi with a tear in my eye and she just put her hand on my shoulder, offering warm support. The guy behind the counter then chirped up in brusque fashion, asking "what would you like sir?" Mindful I think of the growing queue behind me. "When can I move my family in?", I replied. Which prompted a frown from said guy and a jab in the side from MiMi. "I'll have two ribs, two sausages, a jerk chicken leg, a minted lamb chop and some roast potatoes please." And he duly handed it all over in foil-lined bag.

I had just bought my first bag of meat. Naughty, delicious, guilty and salty but after scoffing the lot, it felt like I was on top of the world. You should go, you might get to feel like Charlie Bucket too.

Some of the photos are courtesy of MiMi.

Courgette Soup and Marrow Rum

2011-07-14T06:52:00.009+01:00

It's all gone a bit mad down the allotment, especially with our courgette plants, they seem to be growing and fruiting at an exponential rate. Pick one healthy size specimen, return a couple of days later and bang, a pair of bruising green truncheons appear in it's place. Leave it a week or so and woof, the zucchini transform into massive weighty clubs, fit for cavemen and trolls. It must be the wet but warm weather we've been having. Although I think the fact that I've left the plant's man and lady parts alone this year has helped too. You know, their flowers. Last year, I kept snipping off these delicate golden blossoms for stuffing and tempura, ignorant of the fact that I was making the plant less fertile and the yield was a lot lower as result. I feel a bit ashamed actually. The arguments I must have caused due to tension, frustration and feelings of inadequacy. The turning of backs, hitting of pillows, whispered name calling, 'flopsie wopsie', oh dear. But like I said, I have let the bees and Mother Nature do their thang this season and we really are reaping the benefits. So much so that we appear to be heading towards a 'glut' - a word which in itself seems have connotations of wanton abandonment - and so I have had to resort to extreme measures to cull the tide. In other words, I've been making soup, that great subjugator of excess food stuffs.

Courgette soup comes in many guises and with this fruit as a base, it seems like you can run off in various directions. During research on t'internet, I discovered that carrot, mint, watercress, curry powder (a Pear Cafe suggestion), tomatoes, chickpeas all make happy bedfellows but yesterday I plumped for a traditional Italian combination of courgette and parmesan. This is a slightly bastardised version of a recipe I found here to accommodate the quantity of courgettes I had. I also omitted some ingredients such as the cream simply because I didn't have any lying around in the fridge but I am not sure the soup needs it as courgettes do have an inherent, lush creaminess when cooked nice and soft which goes well the salty bite of the cheese. Great served warm but I bet it would be equally delicious cold.

Courgette and Parmesan Soup
serves 4 (with some to go in the freezer afterwards)

ingredients

50 gms butter and a healthy splash of olive oil

5 garlic gloves, chopped

handful of basil leaves, chopped

1 bay leaf

1 and half kgs of courgettes, quartered and sliced into 1cm rounds

1 litre of vegetable stock (I used Marigold Swiss Vegetable Boullion)

100 gms of finely grated parmesan cheese, plus some to serve

salt and pepper, for seasoning

method

Take a large pan and heat oil and butter until its foams and then add the courgettes, garlic, basil and bay leaf and cook gently for 10 minutes or so until courgettes are soft.

Take about a quarter of courgettes out and then add the stock and simmer for 10 minutes, remove from the heat and leave to cool slightly, take out the bay leaf and then blitz in a food processor or blender.

Pour the soup back into the pan and place onto a low heat, add the cheese and stir through until it has melted and warmed through. Season for taste, although you probably won't need much salt. Ladle into a bowl and spoon some of the reserved courgette into the middle. Sprinkle with some extra parmesan and drizzle some extra virgin olive oil around the outside of your courgette pile for poncy presentation effect.

Courgette and Parmesan Soup

Now I was always of the opinion that marrows were just overgrown courgettes and as they both member of the squash family, it's not too far flung a belief to behold. After all, when a courgette becomes huge and bloated with water it tastes exactly like marrow and therefore is pretty bland to boot. This didn't discourage us in sowing some marrow seeds earlier this year but after facing this recent onslaught of courgettes, I've been scratching around for alternatives this Daddy which rose into view across the allotment path like "wot no" Chad.

Again, I did a bit of research online and some unusual ideas did come up such as marrow and ginger jam which is pretty intriguing but then my eyes zeroed in on a recipe for marrow which featured the magic word 'Rum'. And then a ping of deja vu zipped through my brain. 'Didn't Helen of Food Stories say she was going to make rum with a big, fat marrow that I gave her as part of WMPC?' I asked her on Twitter and the answer was verily, "No! Bugger! Didn't get around to it".

I think I got to the shops and back within ten minutes, juggling bags of demerara sugar.

So yes, I am now on a journey to procure some of my very own hooch. There are many questions surrounding this project. Such as will this actually bloody well work? And what is the legality of making your own rum at home? Is it in fact rum or something entirely else? Grog? Minging marrowy mead? To be honest, I haven't got the faintest clue to any of these questions but still, it is all rather exciting and I hope to report back in a few weeks time with the outcome. My only real reservation is an innate worry that the stuff will turn out to be as potent as some poteen that I tried way back in my uni days, having been smuggled in from Ireland. After only a couple of glugs, I had a conversation with Elvis, went blind in one eye and woke up in a pool of my own vomit and urine. I doubt or at least very much hope that the same will happen here. In the meantime, here is a little pictorial of the first stages of my making marrow rum. Kids, don't try this at home.

Take your marrow, cut the stem end off and hollow out all the pith and seeds.

Fill the cavity with demerara sugar (roughly 3kgs)

Pour in some orange juice and activated bread yeast (not pictured)

Stir and marvel at the concoction and wonder, will it work? Will it?

Place stem end back on top, seal with sellotape and leave for 3 weeks in a muslin bag (not pictured). The second stage involves some filtering into a demi john or something but I haven't got that far yet. Whoop!

A review of some cookbooks wot I recently got

2011-06-26T08:51:00.003+01:00

"Morning darling, now listen up a second will you. How is it that when we last went shopping *BONK!!!!* I wasn't allowed to buy a dress *THWHACK!!!!* because we're watching the pennies and yet you *KERPLUNK!!!!* can buy all of these books online? Why is that darling? Can you explain? *SHHPLANNKKK!!!!*

Bleary-eyed, bewildered and ever so slightly battered, I finally awake. Thinking that the ceiling has possibly collapsed on my head, I peer through a gap and spot her at the base of the bed, arms crossed with one brow raised in an arch of grievance. Having glanced at the logos on the cardboard pressed against my face, my frazzled brain begins to put the pieces together and and it soon becomes clear that my recent purchases from Amazon have arrived. Purchases which fly in the face of recent protestations of clothes purchased a few days previous. I breathe in deeply and take my time, trying to think of the best way to respond to such an abrupt alarm call. Finally, I decide that this situation is best dealt with a degree of tact and humility so I rise up and take action.

"WHAT THE BLOODY HELL ARE YOU DOING? YOU SCARED THE LIFE OUT OF ME! AND THESE BOOKS, THESE BLOODY BOOKS ARE GOING TO SAVE US MONEY. YOU DAMN, BLOODY WOMAN!"

*PWINK!!!!*

You know what? I wish I had seen the wooden hair brush in my wife's hand before I said that. Because of all the items that were thrown at my head that fateful morning, it was the brush that really, really...really smarted.

I am grateful to say that such scenes of domestic strife rarely happen in our household but before I carry on with this brief review of cookbooks wot I recently got, I would just like to announce to husbands and boyfriends of the world: If you decide to have a splurge chaps, always have stuff sent to the office.

Nuff said.

So first is up is Small Adventures in Cooking by James Ramsden. Now I know James fairly well having met him on numerous occasions and I've also nipped up to his flat in North London a couple of times to eat at the popular supper club he runs with his sister. He is friendly, funny, young, good looking, writes well and most importantly, James is a great cook. Which makes him a bit of a bastard in my book. And when I first thumbed through his authorial debut, I was slightly dismissive. Recipes using tinned goods from the cornershop? Vignettes of late night feasts after the pub closes? Definitions of harissa, sousing and trendy Hoxton drinks? What the hell could this whippersnapper ever have to say to me? A tired, balding, family man in his mid 30's? "Bastard!" I screamed again, flinging the book into a corner. But since that outburst, I have to say I've been having a proper ferret through and I really am starting to warm to his ideas and recipes. Particularly the notion that cooking should be stress free and enjoyable and that we should all feel free to twist or tweak dishes without constraint. A no brainer suggestion really and one that plants James firmly in the accessible 'cooks' camp of food writing over the sometimes overly technical 'chefs' camp. Which isn't to say that the recipes are ordinary. Far from it and I am very eager to try his Ox Cheek Chilli and Pork Wellington, fantastic alternatives to familiar dishes. I've already taken on board his Lemongrass and Basil Granita for my supper club. If I can let the jealousy subside for long enough then I might give credit where credit's due if it goes on the menu again but in the meantime, Small Adventures is an assured first outing and James is worthy to be considered a 'New Voice' in food. The bastard.

Next is The Flavour Thesaurus by Niki Segnit, another debut that has been much lauded by all and sundry, winning prize after prize. Before I kick off, you should know that the actual basis for buying this compendium of flavour pairings and combinations was due to the fact that I must have spent more on overdue library fines borrowing the book rather than owning the damn thing. I have been keeping this greedily to myself for the last 6 months or so without renewing so hurrahs all round then because this really is a great book, one that I am now proud to own. And now the people of Upminster might be able to take a peek at it too. So what's so good about it? Well by turns the book is informative, enlightening, intelligent, humorous and also makes for great reading in the toilet where it's all peaceful and quiet. Simply put, Segnit takes 99 ingredients and then groups them using themes, applying characteristics to each group such as 'Earthy' or 'Spicy'. And then she goes on to suggest pairings and recipes, some which are familiar such as lamb and mint. And some that are down right strange, such as bananas and bacon (think Devils on Horseback but with er bananas instead of prunes). At times it's bonkers stuff but everything is made all the more entertaining by Segnit's notes, personal stories and the historical references that she's unearthed for each suggestion. All in all she comes up with 980 different pairings offering an abundance of opportunity for the adventurous and not so adventurous cook. I particularly liked her take on that MasterChef classic, black pudding and scallop. As she vividly described in The Flavour Thesaurus, the scene of a delicate bivalve "trembling like an ingénue, on a filthy old black pudding's knee", for some reason I couldn't help but think of Greg's gurning, sweaty face. A brilliant book that I will keep dipping in and out of for a long time to come

The Frugal Cook by Fiona Beckett came out a couple of years ago and may well have passed me by hadn't it been for some debate on Twitter regarding Sainsbury's 'Feed a Family for £50' campaign. Mindful of our increasing food budget at home, I was chatting and sparring with other tweeters as to whether it offered a good deal or whether it just offered a boring, carb-loaded and somewhat un-ethical diet. Especially when it came to provenance and quality of ingredients. Fiona then entered the fray on line saying that she always believed that you were going to be better off buying every couple of days over a whole week's shop, thus reducing potential for waste. She also added that if you can be strict with your shopping list and plan ahead and resist temptation in supermarkets then there's no reason why your food shop should ever be overly expensive. With a final remark she casually threw in "I've got lots of other tips in my book you know, incidently the second edition has just come out" and then whoosh, she was out of the room. And so I headed straight for Amazon. Authors of the world, this is Twitter at it's best, engage with your audience and they will buy your book. At least I will anyway. I must admit I've yet to explore Fiona Beckett's book properly and pick out some recipes to try although I have taken on board some of the golden rules to cut your food bills. Such as shopping only when you really need to and to avoid impulse buying. Though it is interesting, standing there in the aisle, wrestling the inner demons within my soul whenever I start to reach for two bumper bags of Twiglets on special offer. Must. Buy. Twiglets. No Luke! Use The Force Luke! Use The Force!

The last book in this merry bunch is Offal: The Fifth Quarter by Anissa Helou, a sensuous celebration of all the bits and bobs of the animal that we tend to ignore. The head, the tail, the feet and the 'oh-my-God I can't look' innards. I didn't say that but I have heard a squeamish couple squeal the very same in the butchers before, gibbering madly at a tray of kidneys. And I get the feeling that this is the kind of response that Anissa Helou is trying to rally against, not that she delivers the message in a preachy, holier than thou way. No, as she interweaves childhood memories and other stories into the recipes along with some lipsmacking photography, the whole approach is one of encouragement. And some of the recipes look very good indeed. I've already made her Jamaican Oxtail in Red Wine with Bird's Eye Chillies which was surprisingly simple and fiery hot (probably a touch too hot as I went against her instruction and also added 2 scotch bonnets - ouch) but it aptly demonstrated just how delicious offal can be so please do try the recipe below. And there are tons of other recipes to have a crack at yet. I am actually thinking about putting on an offal-only dinner party for some of my more adventureous friends and family. Or what about an offal theme for a supper club? The shopping list is bound to produce quizzical looks from my butcher though. And from the people standing around me. Asking for cock's combs will probably elicit the biggest response and I will have to explain further that I am after the fleshy, red comb that adorns the top of a rooster's head. And not some toothed device to carry out some funky pubic topiary.

Jamaican Oxtail in Red Wine with Bird's Eye Chillies
serves 4

2-3 tablespoons coconut oil
750g oxtail
1 bird's eye chilli
2 medium onions, finely chopped
1 tablespoon chopped celery
2 mild chilli peppers
1 whole head garlic, cut in half
Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
120ml tomato ketchup
120ml good red wine

Method

Put the coconut oil in a large saute pan and place over a medium-high heat. Add the oxtail and the chilli and brown the oxtail, taking care not to let the chilli burst.

Add the onions, celery, peppers and garlic. Season with salt and pepper to tast and cookm stiring occasionally, until the onion has softened.

Stir in the ketchup and let it bubble for a few seconds. Then add the wine and let in bubble for a minute or so. Stir in 120ml water. Reduce the heat to low and simmer, covered for a couple of hours, or until the meat falls off the bone. Check on the sauce every now and then to see that it doesn't dry out. If it gets too dry, add a little water. Taste and adjust the seasoning at the end of cooking. Remove the bird's eye chilli and serve very hot, accompanied with plain rice.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to get myself off to Primark. I've seen a copy of the dress that Mrs FU was after in there.

Much cheaper.

Foraging with The Fat Hen and unearthed

2011-06-16T10:31:00.014+01:00

It’s 2011 BC and a rag tag group of Celts are standing around in a circle at some remote coastal location in Kernow, all clutching straws. Adorned with animal skins and feathers and smothered in wode, the mood seems pensive and tense. Eyes flick back and forth towards a strange bush situated near the edge of a cliff. A grunt is issued from one older looking man, quite possibly some kind of shaman given the fact that a badger skull is jauntily perched on his head and everyone simultaneously opens their hands. There is a collective sigh and general murmur of approval and relief amongst everyone. Except for one rather small chap whose face drops into a frame of intense sadness and anxiety as he stares down as the short straw in his palm. The shaman notices this and motions towards the bush with a bark and a thrust of his gnarled wooden stick. Slowly but surely the small chap edges towards the bush and somewhat shakily stretches his hand towards it. Again, all becomes quiet. With a swift movement he grabs a clump of leaves and stuffs them into his mouth, chews down fiercely and then swallows. Time seems to stand still. Only the gentle breaking of waves on the cliff face below interrupts the silence. The small guy blinks and then lifts his hand, motioning to the group with a victorious thumbs up before suddenly clutching his stomach. He then screams, staggers back and falls off the cliff. Everyone's shoulders collectively sag before badger man motions everyone to move on in single file. As they trudge off, a frowning misfit right at the back begins to whisper to his consort in front.

“ You know the same thing happened to Barry last week don't you, I think the old man is starting to lose the plot. How are you dealing with the mushrooms he made you eat?

“Polly wants a cracker. Polly wants a cracker”

“Ah that's great", he mutters to himself, looking up to the sky. "That's just bloody great.....”

Now let's fast forward to a rugged outcrop near Penzance in modern day Cornwall and this is precisely the scenario that enters my head. I'm standing there in the pouring rain, clutching a single green leaf, poised to place it in my mouth. I'm not worried or anything. I have total faith in our guide, Caroline Davey of The Fat Hen. But then suddenly, I am dumbstruck by this strange sense of awe, this bizarre feeling of wonderment, this notion that when it comes to foraging wild food and garnering all that knowledge down throughout the ages, that simply hundreds and hundreds of thousands of people must have died along the way. If it wasn't for all those poor souls, those hunter gatherers who unintentionally carked it, well we wouldn't be here would we. None of us would. 'This is amazing', I think to myself and I am desperate to share this anthropological epiphany with Caroline and the rest of the group. But having turned up to the unearthed Foraging Masterclass in shorts, trainers and with no waterproofs whatsoever, I felt it would be best that I keep this little revelation to myself. You know, to save any further embarrassment.

Shaky evolutionary theories aside, I have to say that I had a very enjoyable albeit soggy time down in the south west last Friday with unearthed and The Fat Hen. Arriving early in Penzance via the overnight sleeper from Paddington (or 'sleepless' as it is also known as according to Ismay, she's right) our merry band were transported to Fat Hen headquarters for a breakfast of fresh bread, japanese knotweed jam and sloe gin before heading out into the wilderness. The main aim of morning as you might expect from a foraging masterclass was to learn all about wild food. A subject I thought that I knew a little bit about but after just a few minutes in the company of Caroline - botanist, ecologist and professional forager - it seems that I've been kidding myself. With an easy, warm manner she dispensed lots of information, expertly pointing out each plant to our group, it's latin name, properties and culinary uses. What astonished me most was the seeming abundance and availability of edible plants that can be found on such a short walk by the sea but saying that, Caroline was eager to encourage of sense of respect and responsibility. Take only the very common plants such as nettles, alexanders and sorrel, use scissors to cut leaves and leave more than half the plant to grow back were just some of the mottoes of the day. The best part though of course was plucking leaves to smell and taste. Towards to the end of the walk we wandered into a Tolkien inspired woodland and picked some wood sorrel which had a much subtler citrus note than the common variety, it's certainly an ingredient I'd like to discover closer to where I live.

Accompanying us on the walk was Simon Day, founder of unearthed and I sidled up to him at one point to ask "so what are you doing here anyway?" because at first I couldn't make the connection between an importer of continental artisan food stuffs and the really wild stuff. Simon explained that on his travels around Europe looking for different producers, he noticed that a lot of areas thrive on a wild food culture and foster a symbiotic connection between making food and foraging food. Plates of charcuterie, slabs of pate, bowls of olives served up on tables in quiet, dusty villages will often have been made or presented with foraged ingredients. So Simon thought it would be fun to see what The Fat Hen could come up with using some of the products in their range. This did beg the question as to why weren't we using artisanal foods from Cornwall then, a nice local cheese for instance but Simon just smiled wryly and said that he was looking into sourcing some British products for unearthed. I hope he does. We had a really good chat and a giggle on the walk, although I could have started off better. I actually kicked off with "so how long have you been with Unearthed?" "Er, I started the company Danny." "Ah......." Sometimes ignorance isn't bliss.

Having then spent the morning wandering around, gaily skipping around in the rain, snipping leaves and flowers to put in my basket, it was soon time to get back to Fat Hen farmhouse kitchen for the important part, lunch. For this part and as part of her Gourmet Wild Food Weekends, Caroline employs the considerable talents of local chef and tutor, Mark Devonshire. I met Mark many years ago at Rick Steins Cookery School and although I don't think he remembered me, he still remains the funny, cocksure chef with a penchant for olive oil and cling film from way back when. Caroline and Mark had evidently put a great deal of time and thought into combining the foraged ingredients with the range from unearthed and sitting around a table listening to Mark explain the menu whilst nibbling on canapes and drinking wine was very pleasant indeed. Well it would be wouldn't it.

Canapes came in the form of Pork rillets with pickled rock samphire on sourdough toasts, Chorizo, cornish scallops and wood sorrel and Saucisson Sec with crispy laver seaweed were all delicious. The saucisson and seaweed was amazing actually. Soft, garlicky slivers of pork salami wrapped around crunchy laver proved to be a devious incitement to filing my stomach up but I was able to walk some off before heading into the goat barn for the main event. To start we had Nettle rotolo with barrel aged feta cheese and wilted wild greens, accompanied with a fantastically punchy wild salsa verde. For main we had Monkfish wrapped in wild herbs (wild fennel, wild chervil) and Serrano ham, served with a marsh samphire rosti and a rock samphire fritter. And dessert came in the form of Panettone and elderflower bread and butter pudding with eldeflower ice cream and elderflower fritter.

The sign of a good meal is usually silence but as we all got stuck in, the air was often punctuated with "ooh that's different" and "now what does that remind me of?" which is testimony to the fact that whilst our palates and brains were recognising the flavours, the use of wild ingredients meant everything was just ever so slightly off kilter. And I say that in a good way. It was like discovering something new but which is not new. If you get my drift. But most importantly, there was a nice balance throughout. The aforementioned punchy salsa verde was offset by the creamy feta in the rotolo, the herbs complimented the monkfish and serrano ham and the elderflower ice cream? Well that's a kingly addition to any kind of pudding in my opinion, it seems to be made for sweets. It was, in short, an excellent lunch.

Brimming and tired, I have to admit I was happy to get back to the hotel for a late afternoon snooze but happier still for meeting up with Caroline and Mark at The Fat Hen and Simon from unearthed and trying their gorgeous food. But the sweat drenched nightmares later that evening? Of ghostly ancient ancestors, pawing at me with wide eyes and foaming mouths? Warning me - "Stay away Danny! Stay away from the cow parsley!"

Well I wasn't too happy about that.

Thanks to Unearthed and Wild Card for the invite down to Cornwall.

Nettle rotolo with barrel aged feta cheese and wilted wild greens and wild salsa verde

Monkfish wrapped in wild herbs (wild fennel, wild chervil) and Serrano ham, served with a marsh samphire rosti and a rock samphire fritter.

Panettone and elderflower bread and butter pudding with eldeflower ice cream and elderflower fritter

Sloe gin, bread and japanese knotweed jam

Mallow flowers, Caroline holding a dock leaf, hogweed

Dunno what Caroline is holding here (can't remember), rock samphire, foraging said samphire

Giant burdock leaves, black mustard, elderflower

Wild fennel, beautiful woodland, wood sorrel

Chorizo and scallops, rotolo, crispy laver seaweed

Caroline's store cupboard, Unearthed charcuterie and cheeses

The Goat Barn, Mark Devonshire, Fat Hen HQ

Food Urchin Supper Club Menu - 24th June 2011

2011-06-14T13:18:00.009+01:00

Garlic grown by my own fair hand

When it comes to running a supper club, the one thing I've been looking forward to is being able to utilise the garden and the allotment. And now that the growing season is fully underway, I am happy as Larry to say that the fruits of our labour are starting er, well fruit and I can now start to incorporate home grown produce into our menus.

"Aha!" I hear you say. "That's because you're going to improve your profit margin eh? Using all this stuff you've grown for free"

Well no because of course home grown produce doesn't come for free. If we forget the actual cost of seeds for a second and actually factor in the man-hours and physical work, the digging, the muck spreading, the sweat, the watering, the toil and the profanity (oh my god the profanity). No growing your own fruit and vegetables comes at a high price indeed. But when you prepare and transfer this food to the plate and take it to the table, you are offering something else over shop bought ingredients. And that is love, care and devotion*. And just a little bit of pride. For the Food Urchin, this is a rather sentimental statement to make but if you like the look of the menu and fancy coming along to FU Mansions in Hornchurch next Friday night, don't be surprised if I plonk your plate down and tearfully wail "I bloody grew those potatoes I did" before shuffling back into the kitchen an emotional mess.

Here is the menu.

Broad Beans and Black Pudding with Mint and Fennel on Sourdough Toast (see here for recipe)

Lamb Shoulder Braised in White Wine and Garlic with Roast New Potatoes and Sautéed Swiss Chard.

Summer Pudding with Elderflower Cream.

Plus homemade bread and palate cleanser. Vegetarian options and iced tap water available on request. BYO booze. All for suggested donation of £20.00.

There are are currently 12 spaces left.

Please contact me at foodurchin@yahoo.co.uk for reservations.

Cherries to be (controversially) included in the Summer Pudding

The Fiddle and The Faff

2011-06-09T07:32:00.007+01:00

During my time as my man and boy, I've heard lots of people extol the virtues of simply spending time in the kitchen preparing fruit and vegetables, happily easing themselves through the day with a spud in one hand and a peeler in the other. And I have to agree. There really is something quite pleasant about whittling away minutes, hours or days at the sink. Stopping occasionally from time to time to contemplatively stare out the window zone out and pause. Very nice. This state of zen is normally interrupted by a prod in the backside by a wayward son with a light saber or a vision of the cat squatting over my beloved zinnias but nevertheless, this state of grace, however long it last is a very pleasant place to be. I do get caught out sometimes, particularly with aubergines. I think it's something to do with the lovely firm purple skin of this very sexy looking fruit. Standing there grinning with heavy eyelids, cupping the base as though it were a buttock, I easily become distracted and lost in time, thinking lascivious thoughts of yielding, soft flesh. 'Oooh, I am gonna flame grill you until you drip all over the hob, you saucy little thing you'. Again, in this incidence, things usually come crashing to earth when Mrs FU slaps my out of my stupor and tells me to get on with the baba ganoush. But for even if it's just a little while, it's beautiful space to inhabit. Just beautiful.

Not all vegetable preparation needs to be meditative or titilating though. Many a squash has been cleaved in half with the zeal of Jason Voorhees which of course helps to release tension, frustration and anger. Sometimes I find it very soothing to personify said vegetable, even going so far as to stick a photograph onto my butternut before sticking my cook's knife in and slashing it down the middle whilst screaming "DIE! DIE! DIE!". I have done this a lot lately which is probably not healthy but hey, it keeps me out of jail. However, some preparation of fruit and vegetables do sadly racket up the blood pressure due to their sheer finicky attitudes to life. I love gooseberries but I hate top and tailing the buggers. And why, I ask myself, do sulphourous brussels sprouts have to be crossed at Christmas time? And just what is the point of globe artichokes? Never has a vegetable have to give up so much for so little. Well that's my experience anyway, detractors have commented on the size of my artichokes in the past. The humble broad bean is similar in some ways in that you have to pod them from their fluffy overcoats and then further remove them out of their little jackets. To me this is the veritable padlock on a pair of knickers which is time consuming and fiddly to unlock. (The key of course is to blanch the beans for just a minute or so and then they will pop out with nick from your thumbnail and a gentle squeeze.)

Still the rewards are great because this sweet green little bean is very tasty indeed and I always look forward to this time of year when they are ready for harvesting from the allotment. We don't grow many and for that I am grateful but once I've got the fiddle and the faff out of the way, I always end up being rather grateful for them. If that makes any sense.

With this year's batch I made Habas y Morcilla or broad beans and black pudding to you and me. In fact, the black pudding came from Bury and not Spain so this dish does have a fervently British slant to it, he says triumpantly and I urge you to try this handsomely moreish recipe which I got from the first Moro cookbook. It really is worth the effort.

Habas y Morcilla - serves 4

3 tablespoons olive oil

200 g morcilla (or Bury black pudding) cut into 1cm slices

2 cloves garlic sliced

Half a teaspoon of fennel seeds

1.5 kg broad beans – to yield approximately 500gms of podded beans

100 ml chicken stock

A good handful of fresh mint roughly chopped

sea salt and black pepper

Method

Warm the oil in a fryin pan over a medium heat and then throw in the black pudding. Leave for a minute or two, making sure that the pudding crisps up but doesn't break down. Put to one side.

In the same pan fry the garlic and fennel for a minute until the garlic begins to colour and the throw in the broan beans, pour on the stock and simmer for 3 to 5 minutes until the beans become tender. Throw the black pudding back in the pan to warm through and right at the last minute toss in the mint. Serve up with griddled bread. Delicious.

From this....

to this...

and this.....

then this.....

and then finally this....

......phew!

How To Celebrate National Barbecue Week Without A Barbecue

2011-06-02T14:54:00.003+01:00

By all accounts it's National Barbecue Week. "Good grief, really?" I hear you yawn. Yes it is. And yes, whilst at times it feels like there's not a week that goes by without some preceding nomenclature to promote some cause - last week was National Incontinence Week which ran the slogan 'Hey! It's OK to piss yourself!' - I do believe that as a nation we should get behind the campaign and celebrate this wonderful way of cooking. Sure along the way there will be sunburn, liver failure, food poisoning and statistically, at least two deaths from petrol being thrown on the fire but that shouldn't stop us because something else at stake here. And that is pride. You see over the pond, our US counterparts tend to scoff at our interpretation of barbecuing favouring smoking and cooking huge joints and carcasses, normally from piggies, indirectly in cavernous barrels. On stilts. The meat will have been thoroughly rubbed (and in some cases dry humped) with piquant spices and cooked for 12 days until the flesh falls off the bone in ribbons and can be collected from the bottom of said barrels, scooped up with alooominum buckets. All then to be slapped onto individual platters with 'slaw, whatever that is and smothered with a rich vinegary, mustardy tomato-based sauce. This sauce by the way is normally knocked up by pouring all the industrial sized components into a bath and then a guy called 'Jed' will climb inside and writhe about with no clothes on.

It sounds disgusting doesn't it.

No give me five minutes of prodding sausages around the grill with a fork until it's black on the outside and pink in the middle any day of the week. I might simultaneously singe the hairs on my eyebrows and knuckles as I bend down to scrutinise the one damn sausage that has lept into the fiery pit. I might decide to pour beer over the bbq in an effort to quell the inferno that the £1 Iceland burgers have invited. I might, after the event, decide to throw little bits of cardboard onto the charcoals in a vain effort to keep the hypnotic primordial flame alive. I might just go for a sleep under the tree because I've drunk too much cider and my head is pounding. But I don't care because this is the British way dammit. And this is why I am going to have a barbecue tomorrow, in the blazing hot sunshine because this week is our National Barbecue Week.

Except I don't actually own a barbecue. I still haven't got over Betty see so won't even consider buying a new one. But I thought it would be fun to show you just how we've been getting along with her.

First of all I select a spot.

Then using a cunning array of bricks and a metal grid that I somehow seem to have acquired from somewhere, I assemble a very simple but very effective barbecue.

I then place one of those ready-to-light bags of charcoal in the middle and er, set it alight. And you can bugger off all you snobs that complain about meat having a tinge of white spirit. It all adds to the flavour.

I then sit back and admire my handywork, with a beer in my hand and smoke in my eyes.

After a while, I get fed up of the smoke and decide to speed things up with some frantic flapping.

I then bring out the meat and other combustibles that will go on the barbecue. In this case lamb steaks that have been marinated in olive oil, lemon, garlic and thyme and a piece of pork belly that has been rubbed with crushed sea salt, fennel and coriander seed and already slow roasted for a couple of hours. Plus the ubiquitous squeaky halloumi which no barbecue should be without. And some pitta bread.

I then cook the meat, trying to keep the lamb a bit pink in the middle but hotspots in the coals dictate that it gets cooked all the way through (see how I blamed 'hotspots' there?) The skin on the pork belly crisp up wonderfully though.

I then throw on the cheese. Now there are different preferences to grilled halloumi in our household. Mrs FU likes it quite burnt, I like it just nicely browned and the kids couldn't care less.

After quickly toasting the pitta, we then sit down to a feast adding a delicious greek salad to the mix and Daddy gets to sup some Moroccan beer, courtesy of Badger and Bumble.

Barbecuing, there's nothing to it really.

My Vege-Gel Hell and Supper Club Stories So Far......

2011-05-16T18:36:00.003+01:00

DIE VEGE-GEL! DIE!

To be confident and have confidence running through your veins is an admirable trait. When the heavy burden of fear and doubt starts weighing heavily on your shoulders, sometimes all you need a quick burst of self-belief, a little whisper in your ear of "you can do it" and yeeehaaa you're off, over the posts, waving your cowboy hat in the air. I'd say that when it comes to running a supper club, confidence is a necessity because the prospect of feeding numbers in excess of 20 people can be quite daunting. So yes, I have approached this whole adventure so far with a certain joie de vie because it helps to get you through the task in hand. However, complacency can often be mistaken for confidence and can bugger things right up. To quote Ed from Shaun of the Dead, "I'll do it on the night" is a mantra that I will never ever adopt again. Because for Food Urchin Supper Clubs in future, I never want to have that feeling of bowel wrenching, sweat dripping panic as people come traipsing into the room. It's not a nice feeling at all. Welcome to my Vege-Gel hell.

We had returned to the Brentwood Theatre on April 29th to commemorate the Royal Wedding and to run a pre-theatre supper club for people attending a production by Eastern Angles. 8 out of the 24 covers booked were vegetarians so I came up with two different menus. The fact that I originally put fish on the vegetarian menu sums up what I know about vegetarian cooking but at least after a conversation on the phone ("You don't eat fish? Really?" - who knew?) I was put firmly on track. And as I was making Red Wine and Rhubarb jelly as part of the dessert, I soon realised that an alternative to gelatine would be needed so when I did the food shop I bought packets and packets of Vege-Gel, which is made by the curious Dr Oetker, Willy Wonka of bakery products throughout the land. Oh and as I was making a Chicken and Leek terrine starter for the meat eaters, I thought 'what the hell, might as well stick to using the veggie stuff for that too, I know I haven't used it before but how different can it be?' Quite a lot different as it turned out. Making the jelly the night before was quite traumatic simply because Vege-Gel works very fast on cooling and as I was trying to achieve as clear a jelly as possible I poured the liquid through a fine sieve. Which set as soon as it made contact with the mesh. Now you know when you see a small child in a supermarket throw themselves on the floor when Mummy does let them have their own way? Well that was pretty much my reaction in the kitchen, late on a Friday night. But I gathered my wits and with some gentle reheating, fast work and a supportive hand from Mrs FU, I was able to produce 24 individual jellies (in muffin tins by the way) and felt quite pleased that we overcame that challenge with confidence, yes confidence and vigour. The jellies set quickly and although they had a strange, almost slightly salty tang, they still looked and tasted good. And so we went to bed.

The next day came and it was the usual case of loading the car up with as much stuff as possible including portable hot plates and slow cookers as the theatre doesn't have a kitchen as such. More a cupboard with sink and microwave really. With Mrs FU on board and plus help from my Mum and Dad, we transformed the studio into a presentable little pop-up restaurant, complete with bunting, flags and pictures of Will and Kate, sorry Catherine and soon the space was filled with smells of pot roast lamb, red wine sauce and er broccoli soup. Which does smell nice, I promise. We had a short break at 4pm and then returned half an hour later to get ready for the impending arrival of our diner guests. At 5pm I took my pressed prosciutto wrapped terrine and placed it in a freezer to firm up some more. A terrine that I had lovingly assembled the day before with layers of chicken meat, leeks, mushrooms and herbs. A terrine which had received lashings of warm, rich chicken stock, heavily dosed with Vege-Gel and ladled in between each layer to help the terrine to set. A terrine that looked bloody amazing once it was taken out of the freezer 20 minutes later and eased out of a loaf tin onto a chopping board. A terrine that started the crumble and collapse with each painful slice as people started filing into the room. As the horror unfolded before my eyes the best I could do was to stuff my fist in mouth to prevent anyone hearing the torrent of profanity that was gushing from my mouth. A clip around the ear from my mother also helped. But that was that, the terrine that I had such high hopes for looked at best like malformed meat and veg slices of squished Soreen and we had no other choice but to serve it up because we certainly didn't make enough broccoli soup. Of course, a true craftsman never blames the tools he works with but I fucking well blame Vege-Gel for that travesty.

I am possibly being too hard on myself here and after that 10 minutes of sheer hell, the one saving grace was that nobody seemed to notice, the plates came back empty with full compliments to the cook. Still the lesson learned here is that nothing should be left to chance and in future I am going to properly test recipes before releasing dates for more supper clubs. Especially if I am trying out something new or using an ingredient that I have never used before. I still say confidence is a good thing to have on board when cooking though, therefore and with great aplomb, I would like to announce the new menu for the next Food Urchin Supper Club.

Dun dun daaah!

Celery and Leek Soup with Truffle Oil

Pan-roasted Chicken with Lentils, Roasted Tomatoes, Aïoli and Basil Oil

Gooseberry and Elderflower Fool (OK I still haven't quite tested this out but it will be fantastic, no it really will)

This will be held at a secret salubrious location in Brentwood on Saturday 28th May and at present there are 4 places left so if you are interested then please contact me via email at foodurchin@yahoo.co.uk. The menu includes homemade bread and a palate cleanser, suggested donation is £20.00

On one last note, a general comment that people make when you tell them that you run a supper club is "what you let strangers into your home?" and I often respond to this with a nonchalant smile and a shrug as if there was nothing to fear. It's that confidence thing again. But the Royal Wedding supper club certainly bowled us a curve ball, in terms of how to deal with some members of the general public at large. And there are some strange ones out there. In this case, we had a gentleman who was vegetarian and who was actually expecting fish for his main course (see they do exist). I was first alerted to this by Mrs FU who discreetly whispered in my ear "there's a guy on table 4 who really wanted fish and he looks really, really pissed off". Using all my charm and guile, I wandered over and explained that we had decided to take fish off the menu because er it actually wasn't vegetarian. "Ha! Stupid me" I said "but I am sure you are just going to love the Sharpham Park Spelt Risotto with Asparagus, Wild Garlic and Lemon I've made for you."

He just looked up as if he wanted to kill me but silently nodded that all was fine. And then proceeded to spend the rest of the evening looking over at us, looking as if he wanted to kill us. Towards the end of the night, Mrs FU was up for giving him a complimentary bottle of Reina María Cristina Cava to compensate for his woes. This was by means of shoving it up his jacksy by the way, a typically feisty gesture from my beloved wife no less but the whole experience was quite unnerving I have to say.

But still this is all an adventure, this supper club business and one must remain confident at all times.

It's wine Jim but not as we know it

2011-05-11T07:01:00.005+01:00

I took one sniff, then another and then squinted with one eye shut at the diminutive pixie-like woman standing in front of me, beaming, willing me on. And then I took another sniff. I then raised the glass up in the air, swirled it around, trying to peer through the cloudy ether and then frowned. "Are you absolutely sure this isn't scrumpy?" I asked. The pixie with a twinkle in her eye gently shook her head and motioned for me to drink. This didn't seem right and taking a glass from someone who proudly pronounces that they are certifiable certainly didn't feel right but everyone else in the room was doing it. So not wanting to be left out of the club, I took one last sniff before finally plucking up the courage to tip the glass towards my mouth, letting the gold liquid flow in and flood over my taste buds. Eschewing the method of pursing your lips and sucking in air, which personally always results in coughing and hacking, I simply swished the strange elixir around before swallowing. Yes swallowing, not spitting. And well, I was pleasantly surprised. Despite smelling of brackish West Country loopy juice, the kind of stuff that has left me lying prone on festival fields in the distant past, this wine, this murky, pungent wine actually tasted very good. This was my welcome to the world of natural wines where appearances (and smells) can be deceiving.

I was invited to a tasting a couple of weeks hosted by Isabelle Legeron, that Crazy French Woman to try out some natural wines and so went along with no preconception of what natural wine is. I mean isn't all wine natural? After all, it all comes from grapes dunnit? Seemingly not so and after a thoroughly pleasant evening of sampling natural wines, both reds and whites from the Languedoc region, I stumbled home an enlightened man. First and foremost, natural wine does exactly what it says on the tin in that it's produced without artifice. The grapes, the vineyards, the harvesting and the process of making wine simply do not get tampered with. There is no use of fertilisers, pesticides, no added yeasts, sugars, additives or heavy machinery. Instead natural wine producers take a holistic approach to their wine making that in some cases borders on lunacy and I don't wish to insult when saying that, I am just making a crap pun on biodynamic farming. So it's all a very hippy dippy, circle of life, the moon is in Uranus kind of way of doing things but that sort of eccentric approach appeals to me. As Isabelle said on the night with natural wine there is a story behind every bottle and knowing that the grapes were picked by a farmer wearing a cow skull at 3 o'clock in the morning seems so much better than picturing a cavernous warehouse with hundreds of steel vats. Furthermore some of the wines we tasted were, like I said, very good. By and large they all had an earthy, farmyard quality that on first taste might be perceived as quite rough but once you got your teeth into them, the subtleties came through. My favourite of the night was L'Inattendu Minervois Blanc from Clos du Gravillas, a dry white that was quite intense at first before fading with mineral notes, really good. Coupled with some fine charcuterie and cheese (and some very dirty, cheesy feet from some quarters) it was all in all, a very educational night.

If there was one snag behind the promotion of natural wines, I would have to say that it would be the cost as the retail price generally hovers around £20. Obviously this reflects the time, care and effort that goes into producing natural wine and as Isabelle was also keen to point out, why not splash out on a bottle of something different and special for the dinner table rather than going for cheap deals. He types, clutching three bottles for a tenner under his arm. But seriously, natural wines are really worth investigating and if this has tickled your fancy then you would do well to go to The Natural Wine Fair at Borough Market on Sunday (open to trade only Monday and Tuesday) where Isabelle and five other importers are showcasing 500 different natural wines. Admission is £18, you get a catalogue and tasting glass to take away. And I think you're allowed to swallow.

PS The featured cartoon was drawn by a talented bearded oaf who is going to marry my sister, please check out his blog too.

This was supposed to be a restaurant review.....

2011-05-03T07:13:00.014+01:00

In my neck of the woods, that being Hornchurch and home of the Mighty Urchins (no relation), I have to say that we're pretty much spoilt for choice when it comes to eating out. For starters there is the local Prezzo which offers an exquisite range of pizza, pasta and grills. Continuing much in the same vein is a vibrant little place called Zizzi which offers a not too dissimilar line of Italian fare such as pizza, pasta and grills. Then there is the spectacularly cladded Wildwood and I can tell you that a wild night of pizza, pasta and grills always ensues whenever we go there. And of course, lest we forget the fantastic Ask, a restaurant that proffers a slightly more subtle approach, still supplying pizza and pasta but with a greater emphasis on insalatas rather than grills. Not all roads lead to Rome in Hornchurch mind. Oh no, for an utterly authentic Mexican experience then one can do no better than to go to Chimichanga, where one can wear a sombrero whilst chowing down on a big, fat, bulbous burrito. But best of all we have a Nandos, that symposium of bottomless soft, sugary drinks and endless varieties of PERi-PERi chicken. You can feel your head positively spin every time you pick up the menu and glance at the plethora of buzz words on the page. Hot, breast, cool, wings, medium, wrap, chicken, breast, hot, chips, coke, burp, chicken, diabetes etc etc etc. Authenticity and variety comes at a price though and there are times when the choice just gets too much. It's not unusual to find myself in the hubub of a Saturday night simply standing there in the middle of a zebra crossing, not knowing where to go and with tears in my eyes. Willing, just willing for a car to mow me down and put me out of my misery. Yes, it's that tough a call to make.

Of course I am being incredibly sar-car-stic here and perhaps a bit of a food snob but whenever I reflect upon what is available on my local high street, my heart does sink a tad at the creeping diaspora of corporate beige that is starting to envelop Hornchurch. Whilst I don't expect the suburban town I live in to be a mecca of fine dining, I can't help but get narked at the fact that the main eateries in the area are the same ubiquitous chains that run up and down the land. Having peeked under the bonnet today, I am particularly narked to discover that there are just a handful of people who run the show but who don't make it plainly obvious on their company websites. You see, all of the aforementioned restaurants are linked* in some way or another via affiliations or partnerships or under the umbrella of private equity. To be honest I feel quite daft and naive at this realisation because in essence they are all the same type of restaurant, peddling the same generic menus and using the same ingredients, they are just operating behind a different frontage or brand. But what is the deal behind this vague approach I wonder? What are these companies trying to hide? Furthermore I wonder how many of us know that we've been monopolised or do we even care as we're herded into these places clutching coupons and voucher codes? The argument or discussion I've got running through my head is half baked but the more I think about it, the more I think that it's a crying shame, this proliferation of plastic restaurants in the neighbourhood. Especially when there are smaller, local, family run establishments that offer so much more in terms of food, atmosphere and service. Places like the Turkish Mangal in Hornchurch which is a simple, sparce yet friendly and warm restaurant that serves up wonderful and reasonably priced Turkish food from a impressive looking barbecue grill. Great stuff. I went there on Saturday night and tried their iskender for the first time. Tender pieces of lamb covered with a spicy tomato sauce and served on a bed of torn bread mixed with yoghurt, it was delicious. I was also stuffed, full up to the brim but sadly the same could not be said of the restaurant. However, all around Prezzo, Zizzi, Ask, Wildwood and especially Nandos, well they were packed.

And now I am confused.

This was supposed to be a restaurant review.....

(*I should add that Josh from Cooking The Books pointed this out to me)

Mega Egg

2011-04-26T21:41:00.003+01:00

It's a well worn tale but many years ago I found myself in a bar in Temple Bar, in Dublin talking to a heavy built man from Cork who had enormous hands and tight curly hair. We covered quite a wide range of subjects but seeing as pints and pints of the black stuff were flowing I can't really remember what the hell we were talking about. However, I do remember the matter of heritage being brought up as the giant from the South laid a hand on my shoulder and boomed in my ear:

"Yerra bhoy, like eh, looking at yer as I do, I'd say like you had some Irish in yer."

To which I replied, "er yeah, yeah I do *hic*....er I got ancestors that used to come from er........Lilliput."

"Lilliput??", the big man hollered, "like... what like the place with all the little people?"

Cue long pause from me as my undulating eyebrows danced about the place desperately trying to figure out the place name.

"Ah I mean Limerick *hic*, I think some of my relatives hail from Limerick."

The curly, rosy faced farmer's son patted me again on the shoulder, looked at me ruefully and squarely in the eye and said "ah stab city, it all makes sense now." And then wandered off for another round.

I often look back fondly at that exchange and regale the story to anyone who'd care to listen with or without stifling yawns but I am still puzzled to this day where the word 'Lilliput' came from. I mean it's not as though I am overtly familiar with Gulliver's Travels and any Swiftian notion of parody (although I did see the film with Ted Danson in it) so I wasn't trying to be clever or make a joke. No perhaps all it boils down to a simple longing that exists somewhere in my psyche. A wish, a dream, to be tiny and small. Seriously, I wouldn't mind eking out an existence as a Borrower. Sure it might not be fun living life on the run from the cat and having to fashion trousers from feather done and stockings out of apple rind but the rewards, oh the rewards would be great. Imagine going on your travels across the kitchen floor and coming across a crumb of stichelton, the size of a football or a slither of pata negra, the length of a blanket. Oh the joyous, bountiful feasts you could have....................................

Or maybe we should just forget about skipping through the daisies, leave this gibberish behind and concentrate on the fact that I received a mahoosive Ostrich egg a couple of weeks ago and had great fun piss balling around with it.

Now there are a couple of interesting facts about ostrich eggs in that they were revered by the Egyptians, a grown man could step up and balance atop one without it cracking and ostrich hens up lay up to 200 eye watering eggs a year but that's all heresay. By far the most interesting thing about an ostrich egg is that it's bloomin' huge and the possibilities for creating super sized meals are endless. So much so that I spent a good few days nesting over my prize egg wondering what the hell to do with it, with much conflaboration on Twitter. In the end and after some cajoling from Nick from The Drapers Arms and Linda of With Knife and Fork, I decided to go in for making a giant scotch egg. The mission was tested along the way with some folk knocking the wind out of my sails during research, all unintentionally I am sure. "You'll need 40 litres of oil!", "You'll boil yourself alive!", "You'll get a coverage of 1gr/cm3 with 2.4kgs of sausage meat" (WHAT?!) "You just need some good pork belly, pork shoulder and mix it with your shit". Yes the Twitterhive can sometimes be a little bit overwhelming at times but still I was grateful that someone mentioned Stefan Gates had a done one in his Extraordinary Cook Book. So I went with his fairly straightforward and simple recipe, being the grovelling fanboy that I am. Except I baked mine on grounds of safety, what with the fact that we often have minors wandering into the kitchen. Often at high speed. Should you ever get your hands on one of these monsters, which are now readily available in Morrisons across the land for 15 English pounds, and would like try making one of your own, here are the step by step instructions that you need to follow to make a #MegaEgg (term coined by The Grubworm).

First boil your egg for 1 and a half hours in a large stockpot. Now I know it's quite fashionable for scotch eggs to have soft yolks and all kinds of la de da but I opted for a proper hard boiled version as the prospect of a supermassiveyellowgooeyhole seemed a step too far even for me and I like runny eggs. If you want to try it soft, the packaging recommended 50 mins. After you've taken the egg out of the water and it's cooled slightly, smash it open with a hammer. Seriously, go on, whack it.

Once you've made a decent dent and wrenched off a couple of pieces, which was surprisingly tough to do, the rest of the shell then cracks open quite easily. Breathe in the eggy aroma and then dry the turgid white mass with kitchen towel and leave to cool further.

Assemble your key ingredients. 1 boiled ostrich egg, 1.5kgs of sausagemeat (good quality), 3 hen's eggs (beaten), 400gms breadcrumbs (from a mixture of odds and ends of loaves that I keep in the freezer for such use). I also crumbled some Bury black pudding into the sausagemeat, my one concession to la de da scotch eggs. First coat the egg with some of the beaten egg and leave to dry and get 'tacky'.

Then spread out your sausagemeat, using cold wet hands and plonk on top of the egg. In a rather unwieldy fashion, press the sausagemeat to the egg trying to keep it uniform which is easier said than done. I ended up wrapping the whole rugby shaped ball with cling film to manipulate the meat without getting all sticky and messy (is this sounding rude yet?). I then put the egg in the fridge to chill and set for a bit longer.

Take the egg out of the fridge and baste with the remaining egg wash and roll or carefully spread rather the breadcrumbs over the surface and underneath. Take a photo of your egg with an object like a fork in the frame for scale and punch the air, laughing to yourself like a silly schoolboy. Place the egg in a pre-heated oven at 180c and bake for approx 40-50mins.

Take the egg out of the oven and place on a pretty platter. Take another picture whilst simultaneously whistling 'U Can't Touch This' and doing the MC Hammer dance.

Cut the egg open and take even more pictures to post and boast all over the Internet and then yodel, scream and jerk your body like a horny pony would and revel in your own greatness. After coming to on the kitchen floor, get back up and try some of the scotch egg. Hopefully you'll find that it rather tastes like scotch egg, although you may also find as I did that the actual white is strangely translucent and jelly-like in texture. But no matter because you've just made a huge, mahoosive scotch egg, a Mega Egg and maybe for just once in your life you can stand there, eyes closed and finally imagine that you are Tom Thumb. With an acorn cup perched on your head at a jaunty angle.

Basket Case

2011-04-12T06:56:00.007+01:00

I am a big fan of The Fox and Anchor gastropub in Smithfield as they always have great beers on tap, the food is good, the staff are friendly and the decor exudes a wonderful olde worlde charm with it's snugs, nooks and crannies. All in all a great formula really. And as it's close to where I work, I frequent the place a fair bit. Be it for lunch, some post-work lubrication and.....oh what the hell, sometimes for a sneaky one at breakfast time. But before you cast any aspersions, let me just say that early morning imbibing is part and parcel of life in this part of London. The butchers and porters of Smithfield meat market put in a hard, hard days work well before the rest of the city wakes up and sets their wavering, meandering toes on cold carpets. So we deserve a pint in the morning and I say 'we' because I start work at 6:30AM so that qualifies me, OK? Flagrant denials aside, a pilgrimage to EC1 to undertake The Fox and Anchor's massive City Boy Breakfast is a must. Simply because it is really very good indeed. Just make sure you free up a couple of hours afterwards to digest the plethora of meat before trying to exit the building. So yes I like this place. A lot.

The Fox and Anchor City Boy Breakfast (photo courtesy of Essex Eating)

If I had any gripes it would be that the pub is far too narrow in places which to my mind makes it a haven for frottaging and just lately I've started to notice a slightly gimmicky element with the presentation of their food. Which may well have been there all along but on my last visit I was piqued just a tad. I went last Friday to meet the very mysterious Uncle Ji for a long overdue WMPC swap (post to come shortly, well maybe in a month or two) and ordered chish and fips, what with it being a Friday and all. And when it arrived, it all looked delightful. Firm, crisp beer batter surrounding a moist, generous portion of cod, chunky triple cooked chips and a lovely dollop of mushy peas with a healthy boat of tartare sauce. Fantastic. Except the chish and fips came served up in a frying basket. Now I am not a delicate diner at the best of times, yet mindful that I was eating with a stranger I did try my best to put on some airs and graces. However the basket did not allow this. In fact trying to deconstruct my lunch with arms shortened and wrists pointed in a curious downward fashion felt very odd indeed. It was as if I had been reduced to some kind of Tyrannosaurus Rex picking up cutlery for the very first time. After a few minutes of preening and prodding and pinging of said knife and fork onto the floor, I gave up and emptied the whole lot onto the plate, casually throwing the basket over my shoulder. I say that the Fox and Anchor could do without this kind of nonsense and frippery and in future would do well to serve their delicious fare straight up on plates. It would certainly save on the washing up. So please, no more baskets and if you could widen the room just a touch, it would be much appreciated.

That is all.

Fish and Chips in a basket (when it could be on a plate)

Franck Pontais and The Glass Kitchen

2011-04-03T20:21:00.013+01:00

Where would we be without the beautiful people eh? Seriously, what would we do without them?

I was pondering this question last Thursday night, winging it back to leafy Essex on the tube from Knightsbridge having run into some at Harvey Nichols, that leading international luxury fashion destination. I was making my way out of the bling bling store at the time, waiting at the lifts on the fifth floor, fully aware that some kind of event to do was 'happening'. A vodka launch or something like that. The red carpet was out and I had spotted Noel Fielding walking across the shop floor wearing an IKEA rug and sporting a sexy looking girl on his arm so I figured that it must have been a fairly prestigious party. So, like I said I am waiting at the lift and ping, the doors open. Inside are a group of lithe, hot, bouffant, trendy, Bieberish, skinny, foxy cats, both male and female with slack jaws and utterly vacant expressions. I look at them and smile. And they just stare back. With slack jaws and utterly vacant expressions. For a quick moment I think 'wait, is this the service elevator? Are they mannequins?' but no they're real and I step back to let them get past. However the beautiful people just stand there, staring, eyeballs in unison scanning me from my very tip to my very toe. Only seconds tick past but it really does seem like an age, having to stand and wait there under close scrutiny. I consider informing them the metal box they are standing in is a lift, you know in case the fact was lost on them during the journey up. But I button it, in the vain hope that if we all wait just a little bit longer, the doors will close and they'll all have to go back down. Alas, some master controller flicks a switch and finally they sashay out, hips swinging, lips pouting. I offer my hand to the last gormless soul to exit and say "Hi, I'm Harry Hill". "Harry who?" is the response but by then I am already inside with the doors closing.

Yes the beautiful people, what would we do without them. But what was I doing at Harvey Nicks in the first place? Well I had been invited to sample some dishes that a certain Franck Pontais has been magically pulling out of his pocket at the aptly named 'The Glass Kitchen' over the last month. The word 'dishes' plural is a bit of a misnomer actually, I should have said that I was there to try out his 'verrines' and if that word is unfamiliar to you, well let's clear up any sexual connotation straight away. A verrine casually and simply put, is food layered and served up in a glass. And it's a trend that has gone from strength to strength in France, possibly reaching saturation point but very little is known about this culinary concept in the UK. But of course, there is a lot more to it than my rather blaise definition as Franck was keen to point out when I met him last week Going by first impressions, I would say that Franck doesn't suffer fools gladly, which put me on the back foot when I first arrived at the food hall. I spotted him straight away, so I waved, bounded over and interrupted his chat with a solitary blonde at The Glass Kitchen bar. Having introduced myself, he was a bit perplexed as to what I was doing there so I said that I was a food blogger. Like duh? To which he responded with the definitive "OK" and asked if I had a card. I said no. "OK, so what else do you do besides blogging?" So I told him I work in print. "OK, so you work in print, you turn up here unannounced and you don't have a business card?" "Yes, er yes, well not quite I've been invited by your PR but er no". No indeed and not the most auspicious of starts but luckily Franck's gruff exterior soon melted and he became quite chatty. Especially once I started fawning over the segmented tower of glass in front of me containing pockets of food, vivid and vibrant in colour.

The first rule, Franck explained to me is that you can't just take any old glass to create a verrine. It shouldn't have a stem ("This is not a trifle Danny!") it should be wide, rounded, with a heavy base and should you want to present a verrine as a main course, you would use a tiered set such as those made by Durobor. Franck presented this part with a flourish to some boxes that were stacked to the side of the bar. I enthusiastically nod my head in favour at his sales pitch but silently think to myself that if I ever give these verrines a crack at home, I would do them in our whisky tumblers, wine goblets and shot glasses. Franck then went into further detail about the construction and assembly of the food that goes into the verrine. The layers of each prepared element of the verrine should be considered carefully so that when you place your fork or spoon in and take a mouthful, the combination of flavours should work together rather than stand apart. He used one of his desserts as an example pointing out a small layer of fragrant pomegranate jelly, a healthy amount of rich white chocolate mouse with a medium spoonful of tart cherry confit saying that each component should be measured as such to create a perfect balance. It's a common sense notion when it comes to cooking and creating a dish but I quite liked having it spelled out to me nevertheless. I even let out a Bill and Ted "woah". But the most important thing with verrines, Franck said, was to have fun putting different and sometimes unusual elements together to see where you could go with it.

Thankfully my dinner date, Andre Dang then turned up and we got to ordering straight away going for the smoked mackerel and hot smoke salmon terrine with herby crushed potatoes, cucumber and poached radish salad with fine rustic bread wafer. AND smoked duck breast on a cauliflower flan with puy lentils and lardons, poached saffron quails eggs and crispy fungi mushrooms. AND the aforementioned dessert along with blackcurrant mouse topped with a sharp and creamy lemon posset, semi set mango jam, lavender and lemon shortcake. All served up in glass. It was really interesting to watch Franck assemble the verrines as it highlighted to me, quite starkly the importance of prep or mis en place when comes to cooking. By getting the hard work out of the way, I presume sometime earlier in the day, the empty verrines were transformed into very impressive looking pyramids of food, very quickly. Almost by some sleight of hand. My chosen verrine of duck was described as a bit of a 'Daddy' and it was certainly filling, surprisingly so. The combination of flavours from the robust, earthy lentils to the almost sweet cauliflower worked well with the smokey game and the quails egg when punctured delivered a lovely dribble of yolk over the mushrooms. I always get a little thrill when that happens. I nabbed a forkful of Andre's salmon terrine which was delicate and light with a more subtle smoke taste than that of the duck. For dessert, I leaped with spoon in hand into the white chocolate mousse with cherry confit with black forest fudge and muscovado tuille biscuit. I should add here that Andre had suggested we share the all the verrines but that didn't really work well with my 'focused' style of eating. Scraping the last of the pomegranate jelly into my mouth, my eyes switched to the right to where Andre sat, I was suddenly aware that I should have offered him just a little bit but it was so good, especially the fudge. So I didn't.

Unfortunately, it was soon time to go as the floor was closing for the private party or maybe Harvey Nicks was just closing full stop, I don't really shop there that often. A real shame as I would have liked to have bent Franck's ear some more, especially to talk about his book Terrines and Verrines which is an absolute corker. The pride I felt for some of the meat-loaf style, pork and bacon packed creations that I've rustled up in the past soon palled after flicking through the pages. Evidently there is a whole lot more you can do when it comes to the humble terrine. And when it comes to verrines for that matter also. Without a doubt Monsieur Pontais really does know how to turn it on when it comes to creating visually impressive food. And therein lies the danger that this approach or trend in food could be interpreted as having too much style over substance and that ultimately it just becomes another vehicle to show off. No doubt the beautiful ones would lap this kind of stuff up if you was put in front of them. But having had just a little chat with Franck, hearing his passion for the ingredients he uses, the dishes he creates and his philosophies about food, this is obviously not his intention. Ironically, given that Franck has appeared on Iron Chef UK, he was quite disparaging about the level of competition that is developing in this country when it comes to cooking. He explanation was slightly overwrought but essentially he believed that food should be about enjoyment and fulfilment. It should be fun, it should be social and verrines are just one way of expressing that notion. I am quite happy with that and I hope that Francks influence brings the concept of verrines more into the mainstream into the UK.

And as for the beautiful people, well I've got their next trend lined up.

Layered food.......................in socks. They'll love it.

Franck Pontais' residence at The Glass Kitchen, Harvey Nichols has been extented for an extra week.

PS Formatting issues have prevented me from labelling photos but I am sure you can work things out (blame Blogger, I don't know what the hell is going on).

Wild Garlic Pesto, Soup, Bread etc etc etc

2011-03-23T09:00:00.008Z

I got caught up in a verdant frenzy of foraging and cooking yesterday and where it came from I don't precisely know. Perhaps it was the passing of Ostara that got me in the mood, finally throwing off the shackles of a long, dreary, grey winter. Awaking an impetus, a burning desire within my soul to take to the surrounding fields and forests and seek new growth, new life, new beginnings. To dance across streams, to climb trees, to run with the stags, to awake the cuckoo, to rip my shirt off and smear badger shit all over my hairy chest and yell at the top of my lungs, "Aslan is back! Aslan is back!"

Or maybe it was because a lot of people were talking about wild garlic on Twitter (well @audreygillan and @everythingbut mostly) and my garden is teeming with the stuff.

Nevertheless, there is definitely something exciting about spring and when the ramson shoots appear around our cherry tree and start to broaden into pungent leaves of green, I do get slightly hysterical, grabbing fistfuls to smell and shovel in my gob. I kid you not. And this is regardless of the fact that our cats often spray their business in that area. Over the seasons though, I have to say that I don't really utilise our crop as much as I should. In the past I've snipped some into salads, scrambled eggs or steamed and wilted very quickly and used as accompaniment for salmon or chicken but more often than not I've given the stuff away to friends. With the intention of using this alturuistic act to bribe them for goods, services, favours etc at a later date. But like I said I got thoroughly stuck in yesterday making wild garlic pesto, soup (with nettles) and bread so as a further act of goodwill I thought I'd post the recipes. Being the kind of guy I am and all.*

Wild Garlic Pesto

A simple recipe and an absolute humdinger, an assault on the senses and quite frankly one that will make your breath stink so make sure your partner also indulges. My son Fin was watching me with eager eyes whilst I was blitzing this up in the food processor, constantly asking "what was are you doing?" and "can I have some?". I warned him that it might be a bit too strong for a little boy to taste but Fin was insistant. Cue minute tip of teaspoon being placed into his mouth followed by much spitting and wailing and running around. Like I said I did warn him. Strangely enough though when heated through with some pasta, the intensity of the pesto did temper somewhat and Fin managed his bowlful with no qualms at all.

1 large bunch of wild garlic, washed

1 small bunch of curly parsley, washed

60gms pine nuts, toasted

60gms parmesan cheese

150mls olive oil (I mixed half extra virgin, half normal)

squeeze of lemon juice

salt and pepper

Method

Place all the ingredients into a food processor apart from the olive oil and blitz for a minute or two then slowly pour in the olive oil until blended. Use for pasta, mash, dipping etc etc

Wild Garlic and Nettle Soup

I got the inspiration for this vivid, fresh tasting, vitamin packed soup from the aforementioned @everythingbut (real name Claire) who also runs Shacklewell Nights supper club and writes Green Onions but changed a couple of ingredients with what I had to hand. Interestingly, did you know that after they've been picked, nettles do actually lose their sting before cooking? It's all to do with the fact that the flow of formic acid comes from the main stem of the plant, pluck the leaf off and the 'sting' dries up. So after washing you can use the leaves raw. Best leave the nettles overnight to test this theory though. In fact, don't hold me to this, I am giving you all this guff because some bloke from Cool Earth once told me I could do it. (And I did, just check my reaction on the video in this link). But I don't want to be held responsible for any incidents or get any phone calls from people saying "Dabby, I'th justh sbent ten hoursth upth the hosthpital coth of you, you bathsted".

2 onions, finely sliced

2 stalks of celery, finely sliced

3 potatoes, small dice

1 bay leaf

1 large carrier bag of wild garlic, washed

1 large carrier bag of young nettles, leaves picked and washed (wearing rubber gloves!)

2 litres water

pinch of nutmeg

a dollop or two of mascarpone

salt and pepper

large knob of butter

In a large stock pot, melt the butter and gently fry the onion and celery until soft, then add the potato and bay leaf and continue to heat and stir for a further 10 minutes or so. Pour in the water and bring to the boil and then add the nettle leaves. Bring back to a gentle simmer for 5 more minutes until the nettles have wilted and then throw in the wild garlic, which will wilt almost immediately. Take off the heat and blitz in a blender. Place back in the pot to reheat, stirring though the nutmeg, mascarpone and season to taste. Claire's suggestion of serving with grated boiled egg worked really well with this soup.

Wild Garlic Bread

Very simple. Just follow Dan Lepard's Easy Loaf recipe and at the stage when you have to pat the dough into an oval shape before rolling, just smear some of the wild garlic pesto over the surface. It helps to make some wild garlic pesto before this stage of course but this bread tastes amazing. No more frozen bagettes to be slammed into the oven 10 minutes before serving up your lasagne from now on. Yes this is slow food but also wild food. Luuurve food in fact......grrrowl.

*Obviously you have to find your own wild garlic though. Unless you can offer me a decent price.

Food Urchin Is Two Today

2011-03-04T11:01:00.011Z

I very nearly forgot, today Food Urchin is two years old.

My where does the time go eh? I dunno. One minute there you are, sat on the sofa scratching around in your y-fronts with a great big orange stain on your string vest, thinking 'damn that spag bol was good, I really must write up the whole experience of cooking and eating this splendid dish and put it on the Internet for posterity.'

And then the next minute? Well you're still there, on the same sofa. Except it's actually two years down the line. You're still in the same grubby underwear, wearing the same string vest, albeit with a few more canteen medals on display. Still furiously tapping away in the vain hope that one day your dissenting voice will be heard out of a cast of thousands. I'll be honest here and say that's what motivates me to write. Well partly. The idea that one day, these aberrant, inane ramblings which focus on food will maybe lead to something else. Hopefully one day it will.

But like I said, that is only what partly motivates me to write. The flip side of this blogging malarky is that it gives me free rein to write tales of arsing about in the kitchen which is always fun. It also gives me impetus to try out different recipes and types of food, to go to new places, do unusual things, to eat, drink and be merry (like I need an excuse). But most important of all, it gives me the opportunity to meet new people. Two years have past and in that time I have met some great folk. Sure there's been the odd fly in the ointment but by and large it's all gravy. Better still, wonderful, firm friendships have been forged as a result of the blog. For instance, Mrs FU and I had a brilliant time last night at Bistro Bruno Loubert in the company of a couple from dearest Essex and I had lunch today at the excellent City Caphe with a certain babe from Burma. Food may be the medium but it's the conversation, the humour and the general good feel vibes that it cultivates, that's what I cherish above all. I may have lost the hair but beneath this shirt beats the fierce heart of a soppy, daffy, hippy. So given that, if Food Urchin only ever amounts to a hobby, a slightly crazy and obsessive one at that, it's one that I would be happy to continue for years to come.

Now I did have it in mind to make a film to commemorate the occasion but in true Food Urchin style, I didn't pull my finger out in time to get it done. So I thought a video of the twins who are also two (just) squishing out some bread dough would be adequate substitute.

So Happy Birthday er............me.

Suddenly everyone is a wine expert

2011-03-02T12:46:00.005Z

Sunday dinner is normally a convivial, family affair in our household. With a pair of little mouths to feed, proceedings leading up to the event can be stressful but more often than not either my parents or Mrs FU's parents come over to help, to take up the slack whilst we dish up. Hot plates are placed down, knifes and forks both metal and plastic plunge forth, hush descends. This silence is always brief though. Fits of giggles will erupt from one corner, usually from my daughter as she spots her brother modelling some of his dinner on the end of his nose, crossing his eyes. More laughter follows, this time coming from the grandparents before wet wipes and mild reprimands are dished out to both young and old. However, a cheeky grin peering out from underneath a mop of curly hair often snuffs out the rebuke and then it's smiles all round. Normal service resumes and the business of eating goes on with small talk and endless questions beginning "why does..?" in between mouthfuls. Before long, empty, clean plates are taken away and stacked in the sink and to great applause, the pudding bowls appear shortly afterwards. The contents of which get demolished in double quick time. Then comes the best part as the kids slip off their chairs and charge into the other room. The adults are left to sit around the table and idly chat, pat their collective belly's and sip the last of the wine as the remnants of the weekend slowly fade into dusk with a crash, bang, wallop of building blocks echoing in the background.

A couple of Sunday's ago, something different happened.

My wife's parents were over this time and at the end of our meal, I asked my father-in-law what he thought of the wine we had been drinking, a Mistral Chardonnay Reserve 2009 from Naked Wines. "Very nice" he replied. I then told him that it came from a mixed case that Naked Wines had sent me to review and that I needed some opinions as I've never really done this sort of thing before (sure I've buggered about with wine tasting before but to concentrate for once and try to give an informed opinion, well that's a different matter.) It was a shot in the dark as he is normally a real ale man and by my reckoning knows just as much as I do. But then he did something I've never seen him do before. With a delicate swish of the hand, he brought the glass to his nose and then in one swift movement poured the wine into his mouth. "Yes, very nice in fact, surprisingly sharp towards the end and good length too". 'Length?' I thought to myself, creasing my forehead. But before I could respond with one raised, hesitant finger, my mother-in-law countered with "you know, it's got a slightly deeper yellow to the usual light straw" holding the glass behind one of my credit card statements. Where she got it from I don't know. I always make an effort to shred them as soon as they pop unwelcomed onto the welcome mat, usually still in the sealed envelope. My mouth dropped and again before I could utter a word of exasperation, Mrs FU finished the last of her glass, licked her lips and said "hmm lovely tropical notes, it sounds bizarre but I'm getting banana for some reason". This left me totally bamboozled. 'Tropical notes? Yellow straw? Length? LENGTH? Where are they getting this from?'

Desperate to join in but lacking confidence, I headed straight for the one phrase of wine terminology that I always keep in store in the ol' memory bank.

"Yeah and it's got great legs" I shouted, over egging a careful, almost clinical examination of my wine glass.

"That's just a myth Dan, wine legs or 'tears' as the French might say, don't really tell you anything about the wine itself", sang Mrs FU.

"They do! They indicate the quality of the wine. Good legs, good wine. And it's down to the sugar in the grapes and the glycerin and er the noble rot". All of this was plucked out from the nether recesses of my mind, especially the last bit.

"Yes, if a wine doesn't have legs, it's not worth having and the legs are there to tell you how oaky the barrels are and er butter, they put butter in Chardonnay you know, to make it taste er buttery, hence the legs. They are in actual fact big, streaky, buttery legs of fat!"

By this point, I had raised my voice a little too far towards the ceiling attracting the attention of the twins who came galloping back into the room to see what the fuss what was about. Silence descended with all eyes on my person. Heads, including the kids, shook from side to side. I'd been caught out. So, slowly but surely, I stood up and clasped my glass in my hand, walked calmly out of the room, grabbing a generic wine guide from our bookcase along the way and headed straight for the bathroom. I locked the door and stayed in there for well over an hour, perched on the toilet seat perusing the dog eared tome, flicking from page to page. "I've got 5 more bottles to review yet", I muttered to myself. "I better start getting to grips with this or I'm going to look really stupid."

Let the education commence.

Little Acorns

2011-02-28T12:19:00.017Z

I was perfect...

So we came, we cooked and we conquered. And whilst it would be cocksure to start doling out tips on how to run a supper club at this stage, after the inauguration of the very first Food Urchin Supper Club last Friday night at the Brentwood Theatre, I think I can safely give just two little tidbits of advice. The first would be that working a 22 hour shift prior to the event isn't really conducive when it comes to productivity. Or personal sanity for that matter. By my reckoning I got about 6 hours sleep over a 48 hour period and at one point in the afternoon, when I was loading the car up with pots of soup, prepared vegetables, homemade bread etc etc, I definitely had a Black Swan moment. A mirror hangs in our hallway and I swear that on more than one occasion my doppelganger was pulling faces and flicking v's as I rushed past. I tried to catch the slaphead out but he was far too cute for his own good. Sleep deprivation eh? What a killer. And I could have killed Bugs Bunny when I was chopping the carrots, I am sure that pesky wabbit kept swiping them.

Secondly, never ever put boiled potatoes in a food processor unless you plan on doing some decorating and need to hang wall paper. In the run up to the supper club when I was trying out different recipes, I become hooked on Simon Hopkinson's Olive Oil Mashed Potatoes although it's quite rich so I tinkered about with the recipe until I was happy. However, the constant and great thing about Hopkinson's recipe was his suggestion to use a food processor with the paddle attachment as this always produced a beautiful, silky smooth pomme puree. When you use a couple of spuds at a time, enough to feed say 2 people. But when you up the multiples to cater for 24 people, suddenly your food processor's capabilities get stretched somewhat. Frustrated at the time it was taking, I thought 'sod this, let's try it with the blade'. And hey presto, I got instant glue. So let this be a warning to you, whip potatoes in a frenzy and those starches will create an adhesive so strong you will be able to paste a boiler suit to a big yellow board, get into it and flip the board over the precipice of a twenty story tall building. And survive. So yes I had to do some more bloody potatoes.

But by and large the whole caboodle went off really well. Although we didn't have a kitchen as such, it is pretty amazing what you can pull together with some planning and preparation (albeit slightly delrious towards the end). Mise en place was definitely the key there. As for our guests, a healthy blend of family, friends and complete strangers, they looked and sounded like they enjoyed themselves. I know that the notion of walking in through a theatre, going backstage, past dressing rooms and up to an acting studio that's been transformed into a restaurant was certainly different for everyone. And I don't think that they were expecting the cook to come out and deliver a rant about inanimate kitchen objects either but given the surroundings I thought that a little light entertainment was in order. The best and most pleasing sign was that all the plates came back clean. OK, bar the odd lump of gristle from an ox cheek here and there but come on, I was talking to Oliver Reed when I was trimming those up earlier in the day (so funny...). There's bound to be more thrills and spills along the way but for the first time out, it wasn't all that bad. Little acorns as they say. The next one will be at Food Urchin Mansions on March 19th with only 16 places going so please get in soon if you're interested (email: foodurchin@yahoo.co.uk) we'll be releasing the menu shortly.

In the meantime I'd like to thank Mark and David at the Brentwood Theatre for accomodating us and Mrs FU, Craigwah, Caron and Papa Urchin (even if you did steal my thunder again with your puds) for everything else.

Makeshift kitchen

Props from the house and IKEA

Tables set

'Veronica' takes centre stage

Lights, action....

Papa Urchin's puds (Tunsian Orange Cake and Chocolate and Apricot Tart)

Makin' Fish Soup, Ooh What A Palaver.....

2011-02-17T14:06:00.007Z

I couldn't help but crack a wry smile as I peered out of the kitchen window earlier this week. It was my day off and it was pelting it down with rain. With my forehead resting on the cool glass and clutching a steaming hot cup of coffee towards my chest, I cast my eyes down upon a churned muddy scar running straight through the lawn and I thought to myself 'well that's perfect, just perfect'. And it was. I mean you just don't know how hard it was to turn to my wife and say "well darling, I don't think I am going to get much done in the garden today". You see the big project going on at home at the moment is to get the garden ready for the summer and some of the work involves filling in a whacking great big space where a concrete path used to be with tons of soil. I am not looking forward to it and it's highly likely that I am going to have to get cracking at the weekend. Unless it rains again of course. In which case I shall have to mask my glee and suppress any desire to skip through the kitchen, singing and clicking my heels together like some kind of Tommy Steele from yesteryear. Because that never goes down well.

After nipping out to do some shopping, getting mugged by an old charidee shop lady in the process and some play time with the twins where we built a camp to hide from the Gruffalo, I started to feel restless. As always, there is a billion and one things to do in the house, never mind outside landscape gardening so I decided it would be a good idea to retrieve a fish head and some bones from the freezer with the intention of some making fish soup. I know what you're thinking. 'My God, that man is practical'. I am often in the habit of freezing bones and the reasons are twofold. As you may well have already guessed, I do this firstly with the intention making stock at a later date but secondly to protect my dustbins from a marauding gang of cats that terrorise the neighbourhood. Around my way, leave a chicken carcass to ripen and rot in your bin at your peril because sooner or later, the mangy moggies will mount an attack. I've witnessed an eight strong platoon ram raid our bins with a scaffolding pole before. This not just a matter of wasting food.

Anyway, the fish bones in question came originally from a whole salmon after a bout of curing (or gravadlaxing, if that's a word) over the Christmas period and I was going to try and extract some decent stock out of them. However, after a consultation on Twitter back in January, I was persuaded by a certain Tom Addy, Scottish chef and blogger that the stock would be 'bogging. Instead he suggested that the bones, head and all, could be used to make a very tasty soup. I must admit this was a bit of a revelation for me despite being overwhelmingly obvious and considering that I love soupe de poisson so so much. Doh! Sometimes you need to hit a person over the head with plank before they will wake up and quite often that person is me. But anyway Tom fired off some brief instructions along the lines of 'sauté with loads of onion, carrot, celery, tonnes of garlic in butter', 'add tomatoes, bay, splash brandy and white wine, water/stock simmer for 2 hours and blitz, bones and all' and 'perhaps add cream or more butter for richness and perhaps cayenne and lemon to season = Good Soup'. So I did just that. Given the final result, it was a shame that I waited for a dull miserable day in February to make the soup because it tasted absolutely gorgeous and showcased just what you can do with a few key ingredients on the cheap or for free even, the principle being the salmon bones. If 'waste not, want not' is one of your mottoes (and of course it should be, these guys have got the right idea) then I would definitely recommend that people, you people in other words, give this very simple method a go.

I should add a word of caution though, please do consider the equipment at hand when you get to the blitzing stage. As per Tom instructions you do want grind everything up but be wary, not all regular domestic blenders might not be up to the task. In fact when Mrs FU spotted me ladling the condensed fish mush into our KitchenAid blender she did question as to whether it was wise to put the fish head in. I scoffed in her face and said "of course it'll be ok, the head and bones have been cooking down for two hours now, they're nice and soft". Cue switching of button on, whirling sounds, then a high pitched squeal, crunching noise and abrupt switching of button off, followed by several minutes of deflated silence. When I finally turned to face Mrs FU, she shot me a look which, well how can I sum it up, pretty much went like this:

I bloomin' well told you so,
but did you listen to me, no
you went ahead, with yer fishy head
and now the blender is bloomin' well dead
but did you listen to me, no

(or now who's going all Tommy Steele eh?)

So by all means go ahead and make this wonderful soup but perhaps it would be best to chop everything up in a heavyweight food processor first and then strain through a sieve. Yes I think that might be a better idea.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'll be out in the garden. In the pouring rain.

The key ingredients

The fish 'ead what done it

The sautéeing bit

The damage

The better tool for the job

The sieving

The soup

The Fire and Knives Mixed Grill

2011-02-14T10:10:00.015Z

There was something all too reminiscent and unnerving about running to a lecture hall ten minutes late. 'Christ', I thought. 'What was I supposed to have read for this one? Summink about Beatrix Potter and the discourse of post-structural narratives within thematic signifiers in response to a Derridean point of view? Was it? Well I've seen Watership Down, that'll help. Oh balls, why did I have that one last pint last night? I might just go a for a kip at the back'. Wandering into a cavernous Conway Hall, full of hubbub with the sound of chairs scrapping on old wooden floors and general chatter, the unease didn't subside. Surveying eager beards rummaging through rucksacks, smart girls with pens poised and a whacking great big screen up on the stage, I began to panic. Strangely, Kurt Cobain's refrain from 'School' started to reverberate through my brain.

You're in high school again
You're in high school again
You're in high school AAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGAAAAAIIIIIIIN!!!!

Then I saw the gallery. 'Yes, the gallery! I can hide up there!' But then just before making my escape to the back of the classroom, I spotted tables neatly laid out with cutlery and then suddenly the smells hit me. Somewhere, something was cooking. And it smelt good. The fear evaporated and I breathed a sigh of relief, remembering the whole point of the day. Mrs FU asked if I was alright and I just tipped her a wink and squeezed her hand. Of course I was alright, I was at the Fire and Knives Mixed Grill wasn't I? I mean come on, it's all about food innit, what could be possibly wrong? "Let's go upstairs", I said.

And yes it was indeed all about food. Tim Hayward's promise of a day filled with 'talks, lectures, rants, performances, debates, panels, presentations and party pieces on the endlessly fascinating subject of..food' certainly lived up to expectations. OK it was a bit studious and a touch over sincere in places and as this was the first event of it's kind, proceedings did creak along a bit but that was to be expected. But ultimately it was a great day out, informative and entertaining in equal measures. Having a taste for the theatrical, I loved all the cabaret pieces, namely the very dry Piff the Magic Dragon, Marawa the Amazing with her impervious feet (she frigging walked up a ladder of razor sharp swords) and the supremely sexy Russella who could give Nigella a run for her money. Chris Neill was hilarious, even after nonchalantly admitting that he didn't think he had anything to say about food. Kavey from Kavey Eats was equally funny with her short, sharp rant against supplements on fixed price menus. Chris Heathcote and Florian Siepert turned the nerd factor up to 11 with their brilliant talks on micro-organisms and foodcamps and Siepert in particular has definitely planted a seed amongst some of the audience members, I can tell you that. Dr Morgaine Gaye, a future foodologist with fantastic hair gave us the run down on what we can expect to be eating in, well the future and Stefan Gates showed us, albeit in slightly prolonged detail, that there is nothing, absolutely nothing that he won't put in his mouth. Out of all the talks that had a more literary lilt, for me those led by Matthew Fort and Rachel McCormack worked best. Introduced as 'Ol Blue Eyes', Uncle Fort's appraisal of food in detective novels was warm, witty and fun and Rachel with the help of Spanish actor, Jose Estudillo created a totally interactive experience. By giving the audience chestnuts and melted chocolate to eat as Jose read an extract from The Carpenter's Pencil describing the very same thing, the subject matter of the piece certainly become more resonant.

The star of the day though had to be artisan baker Sam Leach who wooed the crowd with his matter of fact rally against the mechanisation of food, trumpeting quality over quantity and pushing forward ideas to save the economy. We just need to get more people working, baking bread by hand! Simple, direct and all delivered in a charming, ordinary style. Excellent work that man.

I have to say that I was disappointed to discover that James Ramsden wasn't going to be climbing up the stage that day to give us his views on the future of supperclubs, especially as I am about to make a venture into that heady world. Despite talk of rotten tomatoes, I was genuinely interested in what he had to say. And considering that Ms Marmitelover aka Kerstin Rodgers, doyenne and pioneer of the supperclub scene in the UK was there, I suppose I was surprised that she wasn't taking to the forum herself. But then again she was very busy cooking up what looked to be a sumptuous lunch, it was a shame that Mrs FU and I didn't make a booking. Perhaps I'll have to attend their supperclub workshop later in the Spring to hear what they have to say, although it does look a tad pricey. The Mixed Grill on the other hand for twenty English pounds a pop was excellent value for what really was an invigorating, educational (yes, educational!), epicurean day out. I understand more events are in the pipeline, may it go from strength to strength.

And I suggest you join the mailing list, right now.

It's a poor photo from my iPhone but yes that is a man dressed as a dragon

Another poor photo from my iPhone but yes that is a transvestite making pancakes to the thumping soundtrack of Christina Aguilera's 'Ain't No Other Man'

The Food Urchin Supper Club

2011-02-06T21:00:00.010Z

Now originally the title of this post was going to be called 'Tinkering with Teppanyaki' but then I got all worried that it might be misleading so I changed it. And whilst it pains me that to say that I haven't gone all Benihana on yo' asses, I am pleased to announce that I shall be making a foray into the illicit world of pop-up, hip-hop, don't stop till ya drop, overground, underground, wombling free, paladare, if you dare, secretive restaurants as sponsored by Pataks and soon to be shown on Channel 4.

Yes I am talking about supper clubs and yes I am being deliberately churlish.*

I have been thinking about running a supper club for some time now having visited one or two (and also having helped out at this one) but have continually shelved any notion of actually going ahead with it citing both logistical and lethargical reasons. Funnily enough I have also cited exactly the same reasons for not going running and getting fit so far this year. But after feeding some actors back in December, the guys who run the Brentwood Theatre planted a seed in my brain with the offer of the use of their studio for a supper club evening. So I returned, you know to talk the idea through some more and left, rather unexpectedly with two dates in the calendar and a proposition to cater for their awards ceremony, The Brents. Well let's not run before we can walk eh chaps but I was pleased to finally get the ball rolling.

Since then the biggest hurdle has been trying to work out exactly what to cook as the catering facilities at the theatre are pretty much non existent and for a while it looked like I was going to have to build a kitchen from scratch in true pop-up Pierre Koffman style. Of course these delusions of grandeur soon faded when I factored in hire costs, health and safety and my own personal ability. Yeah I'd say that I was just a few steps behind Mr Koffman. A far simpler approach was necessary and so for the past couple of weeks I have been tinkering around with borrowed portable hot plates, induction hobs and yes microwaves. All very much in a punk ethic kinda way. And after much experimentation and much burning of January Kings on teppanyaki plates (you can't really sauté vegetables directly on a hot plate, well at least I can't) I think I've cracked it. So, without further ado, the very first Food Urchin supper club will be on Friday 25th February, held obviously at the Brentwood Theatre and the menu shall be (drum roll please):

- Parsnip soup with herbed croutons and bacon lardons

- Ox Cheek braised in Chocwork Orange Dark Ale (Brentwood Brewery), topped with Gremolata and served with Pomme Purée and Steamed Purple Sprouting Broccoli

- Mick's Tunisian Citrus Cake with Vanilla Crème Fraiche

(plus homemade sourdough bread, nibbles and other little extras)

To my mind this event is to be the precursor or the fanfare (or the lit sparkler) announcing the start of a regular, monthly supper club at Food Urchin Mansions in deepest, darkest Essex. I've already got an idea to run an evening in the summer based upon a 'buried' theme which I am sure you can hazard a guess at but at first, little steps, little steps.

I shall run a couple more updates before the big night with better pictures of the food but wish me luck anway.

If you are interested in coming along to the very first Food Urchin Supper Club then please contact me at foodurchin@yahoo.co.uk or leave a comment with your email.

Suggested donation will be £20 a head (vegetarian options available on request) and alcohol and soft drinks will be available to buy from the theatre at a discounted rate.

All hi-tech mod cons will be used

But we shall not be 'sautéing' vegetables. Or juggling utensils. Or throwing eggs up in the air and catching them in our pockets.

We shall be using this beer

And we shall be reducing sauces

And you'll be getting something similar to this beautiful melt in the mouth, albeit obscured, ox cheek (sans cabbage)

*No sooner do I decide to announce my intentions to run a supper club when I discover that a certain Mr Ramsden, food writer and proprietor of the very excellent Secret Larder (been there too see) will be giving a talk on the future of the supper club at the forthcoming Mixed Grill. By the sounds of it he shall be exploring issues surrounding 'the most exciting food phenomenon of the last few years', asserting that 'the territory is getting crowded, audiences are getting blase and now professionals and big companies are muscling in.' Thought provoking stuff and I for one shall be interested in what he has to say, sitting in contemplative repose with one hand clutching my chin. The other hand clutching a rotten tomato. You know just in case James pisses on my chips.

Brawn Off

2011-02-02T20:38:00.032Z

Dear Prudence

It's a curious thing to do it seems, to take an animal's head and stick it in a pot with the intention of cooking it. Especially one as cheerful looking as Prudence. As I gazed down upon her, admiring her rosy pink complexion, floppy ears, bristled chin and eyes, though half shut, still twinkling away, I soon realised that any penchant I had for nose to tail eating was going to be severely tested. Sure I'll eat all manner of things at the dinner table but... but.....but.... this pig's head came with a face. I mean can you believe that?!

Curiouser still was picking through Prudence's somewhat altered features after simmering in said pot of water for 6 hours, along with various vegetables, spices and herbs with an absolutely steaming hangover. I think I can now safely say that picking apart a boiled pig's head with my bare fingers should definitely be reserved for sober days. Standing in the kitchen late on a Saturday night sifting through a gelatinous morass of meat, fat and other matter with waves of nausea washing over me was not my idea of fun. By the end of the evening, I wasn't sure who looked worse, the pig or me.

Puke

Most curious of all though was the response I got from some quarters having photographed the twins alongside Prudence prior to her going through the whole process but more about that later.

So what's this all about Alfieeee?

Well of course, it's all about the #brawnoff, a little competition that seemingly appeared out of nowhere, which took myself and three other bloggers on a journey into the world of brawning. Despite what you might think, the inspiration for this contest didn't come out of any trend or fashion for cooking offal (although it is very trendy and fashionable) but simply from an on-line conversation that happily got out of hand. Back in the autumn of last year, Jamie Oliver's Barbecoa opened to a somewhat indifferent fanfare and though I have personally yet to go to the restaurant, I was immediately impressed by the butchery department that had also opened downstairs at the One New Change complex. This shop front which also supplies the restaurant, though relatively small and narrow in size, is immense in stature. And it's all down the glass panelled cold store at the back of the shop. These cabinets are amazingly tall, well lit and house all manner of cuts, increasing in size right up to complete carcasses. In short, the display is a magnificent carnivorous spectacle. If that sounds gushing, well I'm can't help it. I mean Christ! When have you ever seen a whole f**king cow hang in all it's glory. I mean do you actually know how bloody big a cow is? I felt like a giddy schoolboy when I first wandered in. But aside from the wow factor, what is also brilliant about Barbecoa Butchery is the friendly service and advice. Having been burned by plenty of butchers in the past, it's always a relief when a butcher approaches you with a sense of humour. Although there is one toothless wonder who works there, who is going to get his hide tanned should his mother-in-law ever get wind of the some of the stuff he says about her.

Barbecoa Butchery

So, yes I like the place, to my mind a clever blend of modernity and traditionalism. And I soon discovered that some other bloggers liked it too, namely Meemalee's Kitchen, The Grubworm and How Not To Do A Food Blog via some intangible, meandering chat on Twitter which in short went like this:

"Have you seen the pig's heads in there? Yeah! We should go there and buy one each! Yeah! We should make brawn! Yeah! We should make it a competition! Yeah!........er what's the prize? No prizes, just for the glory! Woo hoo!" *collective punching of air* (apart from Aaron of Grubworm, who just whimpered).

All we had to do then was to find suitable experts to judge our brawn so I approached Danny, website editor of Jamie Oliver's er website to see if he and the butchers of Barbecoa would be up for it. And gladly they were more than up for it. Even better still, after a very uncharacteristic request from yours truly, they were happy to supply the pig heads gratis so the four of us piled into there a couple of Fridays ago and then marched back out with surprisingly heavy laden bags complete with trotters. Hands were shook and off we disappeared into the night with the intention of coming back on the Monday evening to proudly display our headcheese. Now the best course of action I should have taken was to get my piggy, or Prudence as she became by then, home as soon as possible and into the fridge. Or better still into a bucket for brining. But unfortunately I had made a prior appointment to visit Sarf Laaandan that night to sample my best mate's home brew named 'Tooting Trotter' (of a different kind). Hence the sore head the next day. In fact, brawn wise, things didn't get off to the best start at all really as I stood there trembling and watery mouthed on the platform at Tooting Bec and suddenly remembered that I had left my bag hanging in the shed in my friend's back garden. You know what, I reckon the exclamation of "PROOOODAAAANCE!" reverberated down the tunnel all the way to sniffy Balham. Or Blaarm as it is sometimes known. So after a quick gallop back out of the station like an epileptic donkey and an arduous sweaty journey across town, I managed to get Prudence back to Essex, safe and sound.

By this point time was now of the essence so I set to work as soon as I got through the door, although I did have to field a little question time session with the twins. After an extensive examination, Fin said to me "that's not a real piggy is it Daddy?" To which I replied that it was and that we were going to eat it. "You know you like ham Fin? Well this is where we get ham from, piggies". Having made the connection to Prudence and one of his favourite food stuffs, he smiled, patted it on the head and went on his merry way into the other room to watch telly. It would have been slightly perverse if Peppa Pig was on but it was only Gigglebiz or something like that. Isla reaction of sticking her finger up Prudence's snout was certainly different but no less surprising given that's her favourite hobby and she was more than happy to pose for some photos, flashing me her cheeky and oh so slightly malevolent smile. With the twins curiosity out of the way, I set to work.

Now this was my first time making brawn and given the state I was in I was happy to discover the process is pretty simple. I followed the advice in Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall's River Cottage Cookbook where upon you take your piggy head, clean it, shave it and place in a suitably large vessel, cover with water, adding onion, carrots, celery, a bouquet garni and a small tied muslin sack containing coriander seeds, peppercorns and cloves. Place your vessel on the hob and bring to a gentle simmer, skimming off any scum that comes to the surface and leave to cook for 4 hours or longer (like I said I left it for 6). Easy. And I was grateful it was that painless. Well not quite as I did have a Roy Scheider moment trying to squeeze Prudence's head into my stock pot. Not to mention a minor crisis of conscience as she stared back out at me with those longing eyes. But after slicing off her ears and jowls, Prudence's human-like identity faded and I was able to retire to the sofa with two Nurofen and a glass of water whilst she softly bubbled away filling the house with beautiful porcine smells (my God I sound like a serial killer).

Scenes from Ed Gein's House

The experience of stripping the flesh from Prudence's now wizened and murky brown head was pretty much as I described at the beginning. Plucking a milky, coagulated eyeball from her skull very nearly had me screaming out for Ruth but after that the green gills subsided and we got the job done quite quickly (yes we, I also roped in Mrs FU for this part). We were still careful though, trying to get the balance of fat and meat right, fishing out all manner of flotsam and jetsam. I suspect a connoisseur might well say "nah, leave it ALL in" but I couldn't take my nose to tail eating that far, although I was sad to discover that Prudence's tongue was missing. As per HFW's guidance, all that was left to do after that was to roughly chop the viscous mass, season it well and stir through chopped parsley and lemon zest. I then divided the mixture between two bowls, placed a foil wrapped piece of card on top and left them in the fridge, each weighed down by a can of baked beans. After that I asked my wife to draw me a bath to soothe my weary soul. Who told me in no uncertain terms to piss off and run it myself. Yet again.

Having had a sneaky slice of my brawn on the Sunday, I was feeling pretty confident. So confident that I also decided to bake some sourdough bread that was in no way intended to garner me any favour with the judges whatsoever.

Would you like to try some of my headcheese?

But when it came to Monday evening and I saw what the other guys had done, I soon realised that competition was fierce. The surprising factor was that everybody's brawn was so different. Paul of How Not To Do A Food Blog went down a simple, traditional route, letting the sweet fattiness of the pork do the talking. MiMi of Meemalee's Kitchen gave us a treat with her unusual Burmese inspired (what else!) fragrant brawn with lip smacking accompanying chilli pickling sauce. And that flash harry, whimpering Aaron of The Grubworm came up with a monumentally sexy and slender looking, succulent and beautifully flavoured brawn. You don't need to second guess who won but I will say this, it seems that my fantastic sourdough bread counted for nothing! But as competitions and experiments in food go, it was great fun and Aaron was a deserved winner, I was SO sorry that he couldn't join us for a slap up meal at Wahaca afterwards.

Brawn left to right: MiMi's, Paul's, Aaron's

The Winner with Boys from Barbecoa

So thank you to the boys from Barbecoa and Danny for your comments and for judging (and for the wine!). I am sure that if I hadn't succumbed to the delights of 'Tooting Trotter' I would have won.

And on a final note, it is worth mentioning some of the fall out that came from displaying some of the photo's of the twins alongside Prudence to family and friends (and to some people that I really don't know). Whilst I am pleased to say that there were no vindictive comments, in fact there were a lot of positive ones, the venture did throw up some interesting light on attitudes towards what is acceptable and what isn't when it comes to introducing children to where our food comes from. Some people have suggested that it was a 'gross thing to do', that 'it wasn't right to do that to a child' and have asked me 'did I want to give them nightmares?' Well of course I don't but then again I don't want them to grow up in a world where they don't make the association between an animal in the field and the meat on their plate. I certainly don't want them to suddenly freak out in the middle of a supermarket or a farm when the penny drops. It's very early days for us but I just want to be honest with them, to begin to explain and to try make the connections. What's the point of hiding? If further down the line, they decide that eating meat isn't for them, then fair enough but hopefully they'll make the decision based upon their own informed opinion. The way Isla is posing there like some kind of pig-tailed Salome, I'm not convinced that she'll become a haunted, staunch vegan years down the line. But if she does then fine, at least in that future she'll be able to point out on her friend's plate where the bacon they're eating came from. I wonder how many kids will be able to do that. I wonder how many kids can do that now?

Meat eaters or future vegans, you decide.....