Spectator Life

Christmas is probably the only time I bother with appetisers or canapés proper; usually I am quite content to stick a bowl of fancy crisps on the dining table, and let my husband make sure everyone’s drinks are topped up. But Christmas is different. Christmas demands canapés. And, given the Vintage Chef moniker, I tend to favour the old-fashioned, the retro, the kitsch; the deviled eggs, the vol au vents – and the devils on horseback. The dish is thought to date back to Victorian times, when it would be served not as an appetiser or hors d’oeuvre, but as a savoury: a kind of palate-cleanser that came after the main meal to be eaten with the dregs of wine; they have since migrated to canapé status.

The traditional Christmas meal takes on different guises around the globe. Our festive table groaning under turkey and all the trimmings would look quite unrecognisable to many. For Jewish people living in the US the tradition at Christmas is to eat Chinese food. And in Japan come Christmas you’ll find everyone eating KFC. Seriously—you have to be sure to order your friend chicken weeks in advance to avoid disappointment. I don’t suggest looking to Japan for Christmas culinary inspiration, but there is the odd thing we might want to borrow from abroad. Namely, dessert. Call me a heretic but I’ve never much liked Christmas pudding. Too dense and heavy; packed full of nice things but somehow underwhelming.

‘What’s that earthy flavour in the sauce?’ ‘It’s a black Himalayan moss which monkeys find an aphrodisiac.’ If 2020 has been the weirdest year the modern world has known, that was well and truly reflected in Masterchef, The Professionals. Because this year's series, the 13th annual, dispensed with its own unwritten rules. For years the received wisdom had been just to cook some meat or fish in a modern European style with traditional pairings. If you wanted to be dangerous you might put a square of dark chocolate in the sauce for your venison but even this was usually considered de trop; if you wanted to be playful use popcorn.

The name ‘toad-in-the-hole’ suggests something a little more whimsical (or saucy) than its reality. The origins of the name are spurious and, to be honest, a little tenuous: I’ve seen theories that the hole is a hungry stomach and the toad a ‘substantial meal’, another that suggests the dish resembles the way toads peep their heads out of burrows, and another which attributes the name to a trend in the eighteenth century for live toads to be incased in stone.

Braising isn’t a terribly glamorous way of cooking: you’re not flipping steaks over an open fire, flambéeing alcohol, or shucking oysters. No one is going to gasp at your cheffy technique if you plump for braising. And when you pull the dish from the oven, it may not look any more exciting: no soaring soufflés, or mahogany egg-washed wellingtons. It’s just a jumble of meat and veg in a single dish, cooked until the meat is yielding and the sauce luscious. Braising is pretty unassuming both before and after cooking – but for all its culinary modesty, it packs a real punch. Braising is an old-as-the-hills way of cooking meat or vegetables in a covered pot with a little liquid (this could be stock, wine or water).

Diwali, which falls this year on November 14th, is a festival of family, fireworks and food. Here are the dishes to try to keep the Diwali flame alive in a Covid winter. Covid has already put paid to regular Diwali celebrations. It was inevitable: eight people around the table to tuck into a Christmas turkey is one thing; a Diwali gathering involving your typical Asian extended family— aunts, uncles, fourth cousins and all—is quite another. But, as a festival celebrating the triumph of light over darkness, we should all get in on the cheer and do our best to salvage the festivities by rustling up some celebratory food.

I have always been a bit of a stew-pusher; it tends to be my answer to any of life’s dilemmas, culinary or otherwise. Friends coming round? Stew. Cold and dark outside? Stew. Feeling sad? Stew. To be honest, it doesn’t matter whether or not the weather demands it, I am always in the mood for stew. I’d eat mince and dumplings in June, a slow-cooked sticky oxtail ragu in high Summer. But once Autumn arrives, and my obsession is legitimised by the cold and the dark evenings, there’s no stopping me. In our household, it’s casseroles from now until Spring. I struggle to think of something more comforting and cosy than a big, generous dish of braised meat, tender vegetables and a beautiful sauce arriving at the table.

Oh the avo. The fruit that launched a thousand tweets. This millennial Holy Grail has done more to divide generations than anything save perhaps Brexit. It has been three years since Australian property developer Tim Gurner became a hate figure for suggesting in a TV interview that it was not economic difficulty that was keeping millennials from getting on the housing ladder but a tendency to spend $19 on smashed avos for brunch. Millennials vented their anger in the only way they know how—by twitter tirade. Perhaps it would have been more fitting to pelt Tim with over-ripe avos for his audacity. To eat avocado on toast in public is now as bold and unequivocal a statement one can make on their position in the contemporary culture wars.

Long before we pick up the tongs and crack open the first of seventeen-or-so stubby beers we have to ask the big question; charcoal or gas? The debate over which fuel is best can take on almost tribal dimensions, fraught with foodie orthodoxy. In truth, both camps have their good points and choosing between them is mostly about deciding what barbecuing means to you. In a rush? The great British barbecue tends to see us throwing sausages on the grate while we keep a wary eye on the great British weather. With a gas grill you can get your cooking surface up to temperature quickly, grill for hours without worrying about maintaining a steady heat, and have no ashy mess to contend with when you’re done.

The legacy of Greek antiquity extends to the country’s cuisine. One eats there as the Ancients would have done—Greek yoghurt and honey for breakfast, simply-cooked fish and cold wine for lunch and supper—as one reclines languidly on the klinai couch, grapes dangling from the mouth, like Dionysius and Adephagia. Greek food can sometimes be disparaged as crude and one-dimensional: the runt of the Mediterranean litter, overshadowed by the glorious culinary traditions of France and Italy. But, for me, its beauty lies in its simplicity. And while it is often familiar it is simultaneously unexpected: fat olives in spectacular Greek salads, but also acerbic caper leaves. Feta crumbled atop everything, but baked too with aubergines and peppers.

If you’re a coffee lover and can’t comprehend mornings without a strong cup, now might be the perfect time to invest in a machine that will stand the test of time. After all, it’s going to be a while before we can rely on a barista to whip us up a cup on the way to work. Bean to Cup Machines These machines take roasted coffee beans and grind them for you, pouring water through the ground beans and into a drip pot or a cup below. Often the more expensive coffee machines, as they have more moving parts and automate some of the process for you. Filter Coffee Machines You will be familiar with these kinds of machines and will have probably comes across them in one way or another in the past, either in the home or office.

Are toasties the ultimate comfort food? For me, they have to be in the top three at the very least. Toasties mean late nights or early suppers; they mean eating in the kitchen, standing up, or sitting on the sofa, probably in your pyjamas; they mean picking the little bits of escaped melted cheese from the pan before you plate them. They mean waning hangovers and catch-ups with close friends; they mean solitude and they mean company; they mean ease and speed, a direct route to something crisp and hot and oozing. But crucially, toasties are completely delicious. They don’t rely on nostalgia (although I have plenty of nostalgia for them) to deliver their comfort, they aren’t bland nursery food, or esoteric family favourites. Toasties hold their own.

If, like me, you’re thinking longingly of the days spent drinking with friends in some of London’s finest establishments – then worry no longer, here are some of best ways to enjoy your afternoon tipple from the comfort of your own home. There’s never been a better time to get into whisky – and Milroy’s has you covered. This Soho gem is shipping its finely curated whisky collections to your door. A simple online order brings you the best from around the world – Scotch from the Highlands, Lowlands, Speyside, Islay and Campbelltown; Bourbon and rye from the United States; and a host of other malts from Japan, Sweden, Australia, South Africa and more.

Over the last few weeks of lockdown, I've found myself going through a number of different cooking emotions: normally a form of solace, something I turn to in times of crisis, it has become a little more complicated. I already knew I was privileged to have a well-stocked kitchen, radio 4 burbling away in the background, as I pottered about making whatever came into my head that day, but I don't think I'd considered how stabilising the time I spent in there was. When the pandemic first came to Britain, I felt stuck between a rock and a hard place: not wanting to stockpile and deprive others, while also not knowing whether, if forced to quarantine, I'd have enough in to keep us going for a fortnight.

London feels very different from the city it was a few weeks ago. Restaurants are closed, the tubes are empty save for key workers, and Soho is a ghost town. We can’t eat out, or go to bars or pubs; many are struggling to get hold of even basic supplies, like eggs and flour. But a number of food businesses have shown extraordinary tenacity, ingenuity and spirit in the way they have dealt with the daily changes to our lockdown situation, manipulating their business models, and pivoting to delivery services. We’ve collated a list of independent food stores or producers who are delivering in London at the moment. Please visit individual suppliers for delivery time estimates, as most are slightly longer than normal due to the current Covid-19 situation.

Continuing in the vein of the last couple of weeks of Vintage Chef columns, this week’s recipe is designed to make the most of common ingredients, and give maximum reward for minimum effort with these incredibly simple flatbreads. Last week, I wrote about the joy that baking can bring even in adverse circumstances, how it remained a source of solace to me in this brave new world. These flatbreads are joyful (warm, pliable, smoky from the griddle), but when I make them, I tend not to be seeking joy as much as stability. These flatbreads require so little: no yeast, no proving time, no kneading – they don’t even need an oven. And it takes – from bag of flour to stuffing it in your mouth – about ten minutes.

In the midst of the greatest threat to individual liberty – not to mention health and livelihood – that most of us have experienced in our lives, it is a sad inevitability that the hospitality industry has taken the first economic hit. What we don’t know at the moment is if this is a recoverable, if irritating, situation that can be overcome with patience, good humour and forbearance, or if it spells the end of many of the interesting drinking and dining options that we have in this country. Yet there is something that individuals can do to support their local restaurant rather than simply writing posts of solidarity on social media (and those help, too).

Not only are the supermarkets running out of bread, bananas and bog roll, the wine is taking a pounding too. And if you want anything delivered, well, good luck with that. Early May is probably the soonest you’ll get a slot. Let us wine lovers thank heavens, then, that the independents are showing true Blitz spirit and are delivering across the UK every day during these strange times. Tom Ashworth of Yapp Bros tells me that they’re up 200 per cent on this week last year and are busier in the warehouse than they were at Christmas.