Spectator Life

In British cooking we have traditionally had a complicated relationship with garlic. Let the french use it to their hearts’ content: fine in a Toulouse but no thank you in a Cumberland. Suggestive of this wariness is wild garlic’s many names – ‘devil's garlic’, ‘gypsy's onions’ and ‘stinking Jenny’ amongst others. But in recent years British cooks have taken to wild garlic with unabashed relish (and indeed it makes rather a good one, as seen here). Food always tastes better having foraged or hunted for it yourself and so it is with wild garlic. The leaves appear in March and you will find them throughout spring but they are best picked early in the season.

With Shrove Tuesday upon us, I am forced to face my annual pancake day gripe. It is, inevitably, the cook’s gripe: standard crèpe-like pancakes should be eaten as soon as they are cooked, each doled out to waiting mouths as soon as it’s ready. Yes, recipes tell you you can keep them warm in a low oven, but doing that tends them towards the rubbery and luke-warm. This means that the cook is standing at the stove ladling batter while everyone else eats. As a greedy cook, I resent this. But there is a pancake solution: the Dutch baby. The name does not point to a Holland heritage: instead, the dish is named after the Pennsylvanian Dutch, a group of German-speaking immigrants to America.

I don’t quite know how the Americans got away with it: convincing first their own people, and then the rest of the world that a muffin is a suitable breakfast food? A foodstuff which is, let’s be honest, cake. But then, we are quite happy to sprinkle our worthy porridge liberally with demerara sugar, to use yoghurt in our overnight oats or alongside granola, to combine butter and flour in any manner of breakfast staples from toast to pancakes, what’s so different about combining all those things?

Seafood has been at the centre of the Japanese diet for more than 10,000 years, with the Japanese consuming an amount that’s more than triple the world average. But it’s not just about food — sake is also an integral part of this seafood culture. Japan’s national alcoholic drink has a 2,500-year history, but its quality, style and variety have evolved to give a marvellous selection of perfectly balanced options. Sake as umami enhancer One of the unique characteristics of sake is its rich umami, which translates as ‘essence of deliciousness’. Sake contains amino acids such as glutamic acid that give a mellow, mouth-coating sensation, helping to enhance other flavours.

There was a moment, about 20 years ago, when Londoners began to realise, and then boast about, the transformation in our food scene. No longer deserving of mockery compared to other global centres, our restaurants were suddenly producing delicious food every bit (well, almost) as good as that associated with the likes of New York. The revolution began with fresh takes on exotic cuisines, especially South and East Asian, Spanish and Italian. But soon another, delightful development emerged: the reinvention of British food. Gastropubs began taking ploughmans and sausage rolls and roasts very seriously indeed, and posh restaurants began to show that homegrown food, when it comes from domestic seas and soil, can be sophisticated, innovative and richly satisfying.

There’s something inherently romantic about eggs: whether you’re preparing them for another person, or being served them, they always strike me as a little act of love. Maybe it’s that they suggest breakfast in bed. Breakfast in bed is not about flirting or seduction, it’s more than that. You don’t make breakfast in bed for someone in whom you’re uninterested. Breakfast in bed is not a collaboration, it’s a gift from one person to the other, reserved for those you wish to impress, or to whom you wish to signal your love. That said, while in theory I like the idea, in practice I can feel a little allergic to breakfast in bed: the prospect of crumbs dropped and discovered the following evening is about the least romantic thing I can imagine.

Japan’s influence on the way we drink cannot be overstated. An entrenched culture of artisanship and craft combined with a love of the good life has made Japan a force to be reckoned with in the noble field of boozing. As a fellow island nation with a similar appreciation for the hard stuff, we Brits have taken a serious interest in how our Japanese cousins get their drink on. In London today, traditional fare like sake and shochu, as well as finely honed interpretations of single malt and gin, feature prominently on our cocktails lists. There’s never been a better time to drink Japanese-style in the city and these are some of the best places to do it.

Let’s face it, rugby can be a bit confusing. No-one really understands the rules. For huge swathes of an 80-minute game, the ball disappears under a pile of bodies; scrums look like a load of fat fellas looking for a set of keys dropped in the mud and the rest of the time it’s just a giant cartoon brawl – a massive Beano-esque cloud of dust with assorted fists, feet and colloquial expletives emerging from it at various angles; after which a pint-sized 'bloody good bloke' kicks a penalty through some posts after an alleged offence no one understood in the first place. That’s why rugby fans are allowed to drink in the stadiums because, if they weren’t, no-one would bother.

Hooray for Raymond Blanc for stating the absolutely obvious. He’s got an ITV series coming up, which, if I had a television, I’d be watching compulsively, called Simply Raymond Blanc. He’s an instinctively brilliant, self-taught chef, who really was a game changer on the Eighties restaurant and cookbook scene. And in an interview for the Radio Times he declared that Delia Smith was absolutely right to make use of convenience food in her most controversial cookbook, including frozen mashed potatoes. As he observed, ‘Delia Smith was the first TV chef to really simplify food. She was heavily criticised for using tinned and frozen food in her recipes, but she was absolutely right. ‘Take the frozen pea.

My casserole dish is seeing heavy use at the moment: with each day seeming colder than the last, a blipping stew sitting on the hob feels like a defence against midwinter. This week I’ve been making a variation on coq au vin: coq au riesling. As the name would suggest, coq au vin is a French dish, made by cooking chicken in wine. Traditionally, that ‘coq’ would be a cockerel, older and tougher than the chicken, but the slow braising in the liquor-rich sauce renders it tender and flavoursome. But then, traditionally, the dish would also use blood for thickening. Don’t worry: I’m not going to suggest you try to procure either an ageing rooster or a bag of blood. Some traditions are products of their time, and best consigned to it.

Our friend Colin is back in the news again. This time, it's not his name that has caused a storm – Colin's many fans may remember M&S filed an intellectual property claim against Aldi back in April in an attempt to stop them from selling their copy cat-erpillar Cuthbert. Rather, it's the suggestion that he may have been present at the Prime Minister's impromptu birthday party,  that is raising eyebrows. Like Prince, Madonna and Boris, in birthday party circles, Colin needs no second name, with over 15 million sales under his belt during his 30 year life. I’m only slightly older than Colin, and he’s been present at perhaps half the birthday parties I’ve ever attended, plus more than one wedding.

In 2014 I received a mystery phone call. It came from a French number but the voice sounded like a patrician Englishman from another age. It was a voice that you can imagine following into battle: 'Hello, it’s Anthony Barton here'. You might not know the name but to a wine lover, it was like taking a call from God. Barton, who died this week at 91, was the man behind Châteaux Léoville Barton and Langoa Barton, and his family were Bordeaux aristocracy. I was writing a book about the history of the British and wine, and had sent a message to the information at Langoa Barton email expecting at best to hear back from a PR representative, as had happened at Lynch-Bages. Instead, Anthony phoned me out of the blue.

Aside from Icelandic whale testicle beer and Korean wine made from baby mice, there are probably few drinks which the observation 'It's an acquired taste' is more applicable to than whisky.And with Burns night upon us, you can rest assured that there will be plenty of people who are already dreading the moment when the time comes to raise a glass in honour of Robert Burns, the 18th century 'heaven-taught ploughman-poet' whose birthday will be celebrated around the world on the night of January 25 with haggis, neeps - and, yes, whisky. Lots of whisky.

If these chocolate chip cookies are my only achievement for the entirety of last year's lockdown, I think I’ll be satisfied: crisp and buttery on the outside, fudgy and sweet within, with pools of dark chocolate, and just the right amount of salt. As ever, with baking, there are always substitutions you can make, if you don’t mind a slightly different (but still delicious) end product. Sub in the light brown sugar for dark brown sugar for an even deeper toffee flavour, or swap out the caster sugar for granulated or demerara. Strong white bread flour will work, if you can spare it, and rye or spelt flour will produce a damper but nuttier cookie (a delightful variation, in my books).

The humble pork pie has held its place in English culinary history for hundreds of years and now it finds itself embroiled in the latest Westminster plot to oust the Prime Minister. This iconic lunchtime staple may look simple to pull off but, just like the current political manoeuvres of SW1A, it's far from a small undertaking. Although crust pastry predates the pie itself, it wasn't pastry as we now know it, but a water-flour-oil mix used by the Romans to cover their meat during cooking. This protected the meat from burning during the cooking process and helped it retain moisture; it wasn't intended for consumption, and was discarded after baking.