Mulled Whine

My dad recently called me a Grumpy Young Man. It was due to my opinion that trick or treating is nothing short of mugging. If I went knocking on people’s doors demanding sweets or money (or a flat screen tv or the family silver) or they run the risk of getting their tyres slashed or dog shit put through their letter boxes I would, quite rightly, get my shoulder felt. I read a piece in the Guardian about parents following their offspring around as they terrorized old aged pensioners, not to make sure the little tykes were safe from sleezy men in gaping dressing gowns but to ensure they didn’t cause malicious criminal damage. We weren’t home this Halloween, and our garden is in such a state we can’t see if anything has been vandalised, but I must admit I spent a few evenings beforehand dreaming about fitting a Tazer to the doorbell.

I guess that qualifies me as grumpy.

Autumn has always been my favourite season. The deep colours, the blustery-yet-mellow winds, the migrating birds, the excuse for unearthing your favourite woolly jumper and, not least, the dark evenings calling for comfort food and drink. Here in Denmark a favourite run-up-to-Christmas tipple is gløgg; hot, sweet red wine with raisins and chopped almonds. Naturally most people either buy it pre-fabricated or “make” it themselves by combining red wine, a bottle of “gløgg mix” and a bag of raisins and stale, chopped almonds. It is almost always too sweet and sickly for my buds, and the bloated warm raisins are vomit material, so the only thing to do was to experiment. I tried using a fruit juice base (plum, grape, redcurrants etc) but found it too “busy” so I’ve ended up using red wine. I go for an ultra cheap fruity wine (as opposed to an oaky one) for both the spiced base and the mulled wine proper. The aroma this makes as it boils away is quite fantastic, filling the kitchen with the sort of spicy smells which make even grumpy young men feel good about the world.

Mulled Wine

For the base

1 litre or a bottle of fruity red wine
15 cardamom pods
3 2inch pieces of cinnamon (or 2 3inch pieces even)
10 cloves
5 allspice berries
20 coriander seeds
small piece of ginger
3 star anise things
2 pieces of mace or half a nutmeg clove chopped/crushed
cup of raisins
1 unwaxed orange sliced
1 unwaxed lemon sliced
100g sugar

The specific measurements are not necessarily to be followed to the seed/pod/inch or berry. My personal way of doing things is more “a few of them, a shake of them, a good pinch or more of them etc”. And, other than the cinnamon, cardamom, cloves and orange, things can be left out or replaced with alternatives. I didn’t have any lemons this morning when making a batch but I did have some kafir lime leaves in the freezer so I used them instead. I only add the sugar at this point because otherwise tasting can become a rather puckering experience.

Anyway, bring everything up to a rolling boil and simmer for an hour or two. Strain (through muslin or a coffee filter if you want) into your receptacle of choice. A batch will suffice for two to four litres of mulled wine depending on how spicy you want it. And it will keep for yonks in the fridge.

The Wine (Mulled)

I bottle of red wine
½ - ¼ batch of base
sugar
stout (optional)
vodka

Gently warm the wine, stout (about half a bottle pr bottle of wine – it adds a nice depth) and base in a heavy pan. It is imperative you do not let your wine get anywhere near to boiling point. Alcohol boils at 78.3 degrees celcius and begins evaporating long before then. I keep a (glass) lid on the pan so that any condensation (ie alcohol) can be returned lovingly to the wine. Add sugar as and if required, stirring to dissolve. When nice and (not too) warm pour into mugs or glasses. If you pre-heat your glasses with boiling water the mulled wine won’t cool down too quickly. To give it that extra smack-the-chops effect float a teaspoon or two of vodka into each glass on top of the mulled wine.

And whilst on the subject of Christmassy beverages I’m making a rather splendidly smelling Spiced Vodka. Into a very large jar goes an unwaxed orange (prick it to death with a chopstick), some cardamom pods, star anise, coriander seeds, cinnamon sticks and a handful of raisins. Pour in a bottle of vodka and leave for a couple of weeks. Well, you don’t leave it – you give it a good shake everyday not forgetting to have a sniff at the same time, marvelling at the wonderful aroma. This will be a fine aperitif Christmas morning, one hand up the jacksy of the turkey the other coddling a snifter of this stuff. Can’t wait.

Fire In The Hole!

A while back I watched a totally inane programme called A Taste Of My Life in which Nigella Slater interviews a so-called celebrity about their dull lives through the food memories they have. At the end of it the celeb had to hold an imaginary dinner for a handful of people of their choice. A bit like Desert Island Discs. Or Dessert Island Dicks, even. The guests chosen were usually rather predictable – Nelson Mandela, JFK, Sigmund Freud, John Lennon etc. This lead me to muse on who I’d like to invite to dinner. After scrapping a couple of ideas (Bill Shankly, Bob Paisley, Joe Fagan, Kenny Dalglish, Graeme Souness and Rafa Benitez would be great – “So Bill, what do you think of these fellas’ handling of your legacy?” “Aye, they’ve all done good, save that money shaggin’ fool who used to have that mole on his top lip”). I’d also invite John Peel along coz he’d appreciate that. And I could thank him for pulling a few heaven strings at half time on a certain night in May, 2005 (always knew it was you, John). But yesterday I found the right combo. Mike Tyson, Bruce Lee, Josef Menegele, Attila The Hun, Sweeny Todd and David Caruso. I would proceed to announce to the first five that dinner will only be served once they had beaten up, tortured and mutilated the ginger twunt. I would then sit back and enjoy the spectacle. Any doubts to whether this guy deserves it should watch this snippet from YouTube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pWS7c21jOnI

So, to carry on the theme of things which make one’s sphincter turn inside out this is my take on a humdinger of a chilli sauce. After years, nay, decades of shop-bought disappointments where the fire-breathing, devil-summoning condiment turns out to be a sour, meek, food-wrecking bottle of nothingness I decided to see if I could do any better. And lo and behold the first experiment was fantastic. By using a liquid preservative (in Denmark it’s a sodium benzoate called Atamon) the sauce will keep for over a month after the jar is opened. The strength of the chilli sauce obviously depends on the type of chillis used. I find Thai birds eye chillis are my preferred type, roughly a 7 on the Sphincter Scale. Habaneras are only for ass-assinating people.

Smaug’s Revenge Chilli Sauce

100g chillis (rinsed in cold water)
1 small tin of tomato purée
Vegetable oil (anything neutral – olive oil isn’t good as it goes cloudy in the fridge)
Salt, pepper & sugar
2 or so cloves of garlic
sodium benzoate (optional)

So you peel your garlic, top the chillis and wop them into a food processor together with the tomato purée, preservative, a pinch of sugar, salt and pepper and about 50 ml of the oil. Blitz and taste. Add more seasoning if required. If you want a more loose sauce add more oil. Pour/scoop into sterilized jars and keep in the fridge.

Ginger Nutty Butt Squash Arse Cream

My father-in-law’s a proud, cricket loving Yorkshireman. And as everybody knows Yorkshirefolk can’t say “ice cream”, they say “arse cream.” Just thought I’d mention that. I have to admit I’ve never been a huge ice cream fan, preferring the clean tasting freshness of sorbets to the sickly ice creams you can buy. And my first forays into ice cream making were deffo not a huge success – Very Mature Goat’s Cheese Ice Cream is an acquired taste to say the least and my attempt to make a Tom Ka Ice Cream using coconut milk nearly caused our machine to burn itself out. And I really should have known that using a Nigel Slater recipe for Old Fashioned Vanilla Ice Cream was a bad idea as almost everything he makes is a gagging great 10 on the Rich-ter scale. It called for 8 egg yolks for the “custard”. “Ooo” said Mrs B, “it tastes like custard – I love it!” “Ergh” I said, “it tastes like custard – I DON’T love it!” (I hate custard by the way, probably due to the stuff they poisoned me with at school.) So it was with little faith that I embarked on a James Martin recipe for Ginger and Butternut Squash Ice Cream. But it was brilliant, quite bold – it goes nicely with things like melon, strawbs and, especially, pineapple, rather than on its own. And the reason it’s now my recipe and not Mr Martin’s is a slight technicality. I leave the bits of ginger and squash in the ice cream whilst he pulps them through a sieve. In my (obviously far superior) version the ginger and squash become chewy, almost as if you’d used stem ginger.

Ginger and Butternut Ice Cream

4 egg yolks (the more organic the better)
500 ml double or whipping cream
125 g sugar
125 g or thereabouts of butternut squash, cut into cubes
an inch of fresh ginger peeled and chopped fine-ishly (note my rebellious use of both metric and imperial)

Start by roasting the squash in a medium oven (150 degrees celsius) for twenty or so minutes or until it’s tender. Don’t let it brown. When it’s done bung it on a chopping board and cut to smithereens. Well, into very small pieces. Put the ginger into the cream, bring to the boil, remove from the stove and leave it to infuse for 30 minutes whilst you make a nice cup of tea. (This bit is important – tea is good.) Now whisk the sugar into the egg yolks good’n hard (you will be feeling strong and refreshed after that cuppa). Bring the cream back up to simmering point, whisk a little of it into the egg mix then stir it all back into the cream. This back and forth stuff is to stop the eggs from scrambling. Wallop in the squash and simmer very gently for a few minutes, stirring constantly until it thickens slightly. Then leave to cool and it’s ready to either pour into an ice cream maker machine thing or put into a tub and then in the freezer (taking out and forking up every hour or so).

Being a great fan of waste-not-want-not I have been using the leftover egg whites to make chewy merengues. They’re dead easy. Important tip numero uno is your whisking bowl must be spotless, the mere hint of grease or whatever will ruin everything (and the world will end). You need 115 grams of sugar per egg white. Whisk the whites till they form soft peeks then gradually whisk in the sugar. Keep whisking away for three or four minutes and your merengue mix should be shiny, silky, smoothy white. Plop or dollop spoonfuls onto greaseproof paper and bake for 35 or so minutes in a preheated 150 degree c oven or until they’re everso slightly golden brownish. Too long and they won’t be chewy – too little and they’ll be raw in the middle. Many thanks to Gwen, my mother-in-law, for this recipe. (She’s not from Yorkshire and can pronounce ice cream, by the way) Her merengues are world famous in our family and it was her that told me the need for potassium hydrogen tartrate, 5% acetic acid, sodium chloride and god-knows-what which other recipes call for is a total waste of time. And as some long-forgotten bard once wrote; “I’d give you my forever but I do not have the time”. Speaking a which it’s time to bugger off….

The Spanish Deglutition (part uno)

Mrs B and myself have been in traveling mode; last autumn we were in Barcelona to eat. Which we did packing in twelve meals into two and a half days. Then we were in Devon, at the in-laws, for Christmas. That seemed to be a non-stop food session too. And lastly we’ve invaded Andalusia where we stayed with my folks for a few days in Nerja before doing a four day tour of the surrounding mountains, hills, villages, towns and cities. So, instead of the usual recipes, I thought I’d write down the food we experienced in Barca and southern Spain.

Barthalona

Sunday - Despite living only a few kilometers from Copenhagen Airport Mrs B had bought these ever so cheap Ryan Air tickets out of Malmø which meant getting the bus into town then taking an hour long coach trip into the depths of rural southern Sweden. And because it was Ryan Air we didn’t fly into Barcelona Airport but Girona which means another hour long coach trip into Barca. There was apparently only one taxi on duty and he was ignoring every one of the twenty or thirty souls in the taxi queue so we decided to hike into town from the bus station. Luckily it didn’t take very long so after half an hour or so we arrived at our hotel, Hotel Ingels, situated twenty meters off the Ramblas in the Gothic part of town, at midnight. Everything bar a seven-eleven type place seemed to be shut so we grabbed a few beers (and some water), said goodnight to the myriads of professional ladies on the street and went back to the hotel to crash.

Monday – we’d opted not to go for the hotel breakfast on offer on the grounds that there was no point in filling ourselves up with croissants and rolls and the like when there was a city awaiting to dazzle us with it’s wares. So we buggered across the Ramblas to La Boqueria, the infamous food market. Here it dawned on us that, like in many countries, Monday is a no-no for fish lovers as all the fish stalls bar the ones selling salted cod (bacalao) were shut. Nevermind, we ambled around, avoiding the very popular food bar place (the name escapes me) and it’s very famous and perpetually grinning owner and ended up at a food bar right at the back. Here we waited for a couple of seats to empty after which we could order. Despite the guy next to us necking back a bottle of Cava we opted for coffee (fantastic) and freshly squeezed orange juice to go with our….

Pulpo (octopus) – they had a huge tentacle, all white and purple behind the bar. When cut up into bite sized chunks it was served dressed only in extra virtuous olive oil and a sprinkling of paprika. It was lovely.

Razor clams – I’d been dreaming of eating these ever since we’d booked the plane tickets so the simple fact all the fish places were closed didn’t deter me. So my razor clams weren’t fresh but frozen. But still pretty good, done in oil, garlic and parsley.

Next we meandered off towards another, mucho less famous market where there were more clothes stalls and the like (like = tat). Here we found a food place selling more meaty fare. After much dribbling we decided to share a bowl of the house speciality….

Stew – well there was definitely tripe in it. And probably cheek, knuckle, tail and all of those sort of things. It was very scrummy, a deep, deep flavour seasoned with garlic and paprika. And all the better for being washed down with a couple of San Migs.

Pretty stuffed now we went and did the lazy tourist thing, ie got on one of those sight-seeing buses. Thoroughly recommend it – saw one helluva lot without having to get off our arses. Went past the Olympic stadium and a few other tall buildingy things. It was t-shirt weather so we sat upstairs in the no roof bit and froze our nipples off.

We saw roughly half of the route, the bit from 12 o’clock running backwards to 6 o’clock, saving the rest for the morrow (which we didn’t do). Alighting down near the harbour we zig-zagged around until we found a place I’d read about in a wine magazine; The Cava Bar. Actually called something completely different (El Xampanyet- that must be Catalan humour) it’s a bar renowned for selling cheap cava and cheap buns. And it was PACKED. Full of natives doing what the Catalans (and Spanish as we later learned) do best – eat, drink and scream at each other. We fought our way to the bar, eventually catching the eye of one of the many serving blokes and then ordered…

A plate of cheese and a plate of Serrano ham – nice if not terribly stunning

A bottle of red cava – well EVERYBODY seemed to be drinking it. It was really a tad sweet for us but down it went. Very quickly. Whilst we were standing there enjoying the ambience Mrs B decided she wanted to try one of the baps which were being sold at the speed of light. She went for one with 3 types of pig; lever patê, Serrano ham and hot roast pork. It was very tasty. It came in a thin paper wrapping and when finished you dropped this on the floor.

Feeling ever so slightly affected by the cava we walked back up the Ramblas, taking in all the human statues and lovely flower stalls they have. What isn’t so lovely are the stalls selling live birds. All types of exotic and domestic birds sit in their tiny cages. It was bizarre to see a free pigeon sitting a top a cage containing another pigeon. And it was not nice seeing a cage full of hedgehogs.

There was a bar next to our hotel so we decided to grab a quick beer before having a siesta. We should have seen the omen hovering above us when it turned out all they served was Heineken. Not a single Spanish or Catalan brew did they have. And why oh why did we let ourselves be tempted by the tapas they proudly displayed? Our pre-siesta snack comprised of…..

Grilled cuttlefish – it was rubbish. And smelled funny. And wasn’t freshly grilled. Wasn’t freshly anything. The only redeeming quality it possessed was that it wasn’t quite as bad as the…..

Carpet clams – or whatever they were as they were bigger than the normal, tiny clams I know. And they were foul. The only way to bugger up something as simple as clams done in oil & garlic is if the clams aren’t fresh. We drank up and didn’t leave a tip, hoping we hadn’t just poisoned ourselves.

“Fuck the siesta” I thought “I’m not going to sleep after an experience like that. I might have night (or evening) mares. I might not actually wake up, ever, if the shellfish was as dodgy as I feared”. So we found somewhere else for a bite. Well, actually we didn’t. First we popped into a small bar for a real drink. This place was the terrier’s testicles. A local beer for me and a glass of local red for Mrs B. Strip lights for illumination and a telly showing footie. And an owner who neither spoke nor understood a word of English. I like that. THEN we went looking for solid stuff. Not too easy at six pm as nigh on all local eateries are closed until dinner (8-9 pm). What we found was a rather touristy tapas restaurant (“tapas” & “restaurant” isn’t a natural marriage) where we sat up at the counter and ordered…..

Fried green pimientos – stunningly simple, stunningly moreish. These green chilis are a classic tapas, quite mild apart from the one-out-of-four(or ten depending on the batch) which gets you snorting like a bull (nice Spanishy metaphor, that)

Fried Anchovies – whitebait (or “blanchebait” as the Taverstock Arms in Devon quizzically calls their identical version). Again, simple yet very, very good.

I think I had beer & Mrs B a glass of red with this.

Right, back to the hotel to die for an hour or so before going out for dinner. The restaurant we found at 8pm didn’t of course open til nine so we buggered back to our little drinking hole where the owner’s eyes literally lit up when he saw us. Maybe he couldn’t believe that a couple of tourists would come back for more. It’s rather reassuring to find a bar you can call home. Nicely bevvied we returned to the restaurant at the stroke of a few minutes after nine to find the place packed to the rafters. We must have got the last two seats available. But sit we did, and from my vantage point I could watch the kitchen at work. Mrs B had the honour of being able to watch me. We ordered a lovely bottle of red and then…..

Black Pudding with Rice - Which woz wot it woz. Very rustic and tasty. The B’s do love their black pud.

Smoked Ducks Breast - Thinly sliced and pretty mild.

Two types of liver – One probably goose and the other duck. And very good they were too.

Stuffed to the point of explosion we made our way back to our new “regular” for a digestive. Or few. Mrs B introduced me to carajillo which is simply strong, black coffee laced with loads of brandy. Being inquisitive types we managed to ask our new favourite bar bloke which was the best of the two brands of brandy he had. His reply was to gift us a bucketful of each so we could make up our own minds. Needless to say we were steaming when we left…..


Tuesday - Felt rough, very rough. But at least the copious amounts of wine, beer and local fire water had rendered any smellfish assassins harmless. For breakfast we headed deeper into the Gothic quarter, and after a good look around yet another food market, found a deli-cum-café where we ordered juice, coffee and a couple of baguettes. One contained bacon (hangover cure numero uno) and the other anchovies (hangover cure numero dos) with roquefort.

We slowly made our way down to the seafront, passing en route a huge queue for the Picasso museum. I felt rather pleased I’m such a cultural pleb as the thought of standing in line for a couple of hours only to enter a museum crammed with people jostling for a good view really doesn’t appeal to me. There are loads of restaurants along the seafront, some really expensive ones and some really tacky ones. The tacky ones all seem to use the same, annoying ploy to get bums on seats. A waiter type bloke/twat will come darting out from the outside-table-area and try to drag you into his lair. Like some hideous funnel-web spider the second you pause to look at their menu they’re out “you come, you sit, I speaka da Inglish, come now, good food cheap cheap”. “You speaka da Inglish? Then fuck off chum and leave us alone”

Well, lunchtime arrived as lunchtimes have a habit of doing so over a quick ale in a strange little bar we consulted our Rough Guide as to where to eat next. It transpired that a highly recommended seafood restaurant (Can Ramonet) was but a short walk away so short walk we did. A couple of beers and a bottle of cava (dry and white this time, a wise choice) accompanied the rather swash buckling selections of dishes we, with difficulty, restricted ourselves to……

Oysters - Just half a dozen. These were very good. We must remember to bring a small bottle of Lea & Perrins with us on holiday next time. A drop or two is our preferred accompaniment rather than the classic lemon. It might sound odd but it brings out the nuttiness. I like to think L&P and HP (RIP) hark back to an era when the British knew a thing or two about taste.

Deep fried small fish - Actually we thought we’d ordered whitebait but were rather startled to see the arrival of a plate of, erm, not-so-small fish. This is a local speciality and consists, I guess, of all the fish that can’t be filleted. A couple of them were eel-like, about 20 cm long and sporting huge fangs. The rest were an assortment of largish small fish or smallish large fish. All with piranha dentures. I suppose you’re supposed to eat the whole beast but I didn’t fancy the heads on most of them. I guess I was concerned about getting my throat chewed through from the inside. The taste was nothing near as good as the whitebait we’d had the previous day.

Snails - The Spanish/Catalans love their snails and these came in a rich, tomato and bacon sauce. They were quite earthy. In a good way.

Sea Cucumber - “Got to try that” said we. It was served thinly sliced & cold with salad and a lemony dressing. It’s pretty rubbery, didn’t taste of much and, novelty value aside, not worth the dizzy price. This dish cost almost the same as the rest of the meal together, including drinks. We’ll have to give it another go when we return to the Philippines, where it’ll no doubt be cheaper at least… (Mrs B would like me to say she thought the sea cucumber had the consistency of knicker elastic. I haven’t mustered up the courage to ask her why she’s ever eaten knicker elastic. Or in which situation it happened….)

Whelks - Much more ornate than the English variety, beautiful black and white shells with squiggly bits all over them. Unfortunately they’d blown all their money on their looks coz they didn’t taste anywhere near as good as their pig-ugly cousins from the Albion.

Toast - Done in the local style where you rub tomato and garlic into an olive oil drizzled slice of golden toasted Spanish bread. I must admit I find this even better than bruschetta.

Just around the corner from our hotel we found a booze’n’tin shop. Tinned shellfish is exceedingly popular in Spain. The variety is really impressive compared to what we’re used to (mussels, squid and, erm, well that’s it) in Denmark. Loads of types of clams in different sizes and in different sauces. We picked up a selection as well as a couple of bottles of local cider. Wicked stuff that, quite scrumpy-ish. Makes your insides shudder.

Our pre-siesta meal took place at the tapas restaurant we visited yesterday. Not our best nor most adventurous decision nor was our choice of tapas fully successful but we were knackered and all the nice places were shut. So we ordered a jug of Sangria and…..

Potatas Bravas - Chips by any other name. And good chips too, with a nice mojo sauce as well as some aioli.

Deep Fried Artichoke Tips - Why oh why did I order these? Dull and greasy.

Pickled Anchovies on a skewer with chillis and caper berries - Should have ordered more just to cut through all the grease from the artery-chokes

Jamon Serrano - Noone apparently does dried ham like the Spanish. It’s amazing. And no frills, just a big plate of the stuff.


After a siesta and a half it was time to think food again. By this time we definitely weren’t driven by hunger. In between stuffing ourselves I suppose we’ve been quite good really because, due to our inability to decide on where to eat and the variety of options on offer, we didn’t half peg around a lot. For our last “dinner” of the trip we opted for a restaurant due to one dish on its menu; baby goat. I was a little apprehensive about the establishment as it seemed a bit touristy (menu in various languages) but I was proven very wrong. So with our excellent bottle of Rioja we ordered….

Another plate of green pimientos – My name is Mr B and I’m an addict. They’re my version of crack cocaine. One hit and you’re hooked.

Baby goat ribs - I wish they’d called them Ribs of Kids. If they had I think I would have stolen one of their menus. These were tiny, succulent chops, roasted in garlic and on a bed of fried potatoes cut into match sticks. The portion was huge and it was some of the nicest meat I’ve ever had.

Grilled baby squid - Very simply done, just garlic and olive oil. And they were superb. Served with some strange green stuff. Oh yeah, SALAD! The first fresh veg-like food to enter our systems for over 48 hours (apart from chillis, garlic, parsley and wine of course).

After a night cap at our local (our last visit of the trip so it was very emotional) it was waddle-off-to-bed time.

Wednesday - Breakfast at La Boqueria, same food bar as our first meal. I plumped for a standard breakfast fare; Carpet clams. In olive oil, garlic and parsley. Wow oh wow. So tasty I was gobsmacked. The clams were sweet, the sauce perfect.

Mrs B went for the white pudding, or hogs pudding as it’s sometimes known. A sausage some might even say. In a rich, tomato sauce it was meaty and excellent. Note to myself: remember to omit the bread when I next make sausages. If you’re ever in Barcelona you should eat at this place. They had loads more stuff we wanted to try. Oh well, we’ll be back…..

After a visit to the local Carrefour supermarket to stock up on sausages, cheese, serrano, green chillis, paprika, tins and god-knows-what we made back to our hotel to pack, pay and piss-off. Amazingly we could cram everything into our hand luggage. And equally amazingly we could just about lift it off the floor.

Like sherpas carrying the kitchen sink et al up Everest we dragged our abused organisms off in the direction of the coach station. We bought a tub of mango and melon from a market stall which may have been the first “sensible” purchase of the trip. It was as if every molecule in our bodies cried “thank you” as we ate it.

Our last meal of our tour-de-excess was taken in a café not far from the coach station. The people running it looked Asian but the menu was very Spanish and pretty vast. As we admired the one-armed bandits and illuminated pictures of baguettes we ordered….

Potatas bravas - Again. But I suppose being English you’re genetically programmed to order chips in a transport “caff”.

Pigs Ears - Another one of our “never-had-that-before-got-to-try-it moments”. We tried it….. and we left it. The ears were so fatty and tasteless they had simply nothing going for them. Shame they were served in half a liter of oil. Maybe a good, strongly flavoured sauce would have made them palatable. Naaa, don’t think so.

Baby Octopi. Or octopusses. Or octopussies. Or maybe just octopus - These were pretty good tho’. You often get vinegar as well as olive oil as table condiments so a little drizzle of the acidic one did wonders for these small critters. It was also fitting as we’d managed to eat all the cephalopods in 2 ½ days (squid, cuttlefish, large and tiny octopus).

Boquerones en vinagre– these are pickled anchovy filets drizzled with olive oil. They are seriously good. Having to choose between these and the fried green chilis would be like having to chose between a Chateau Debbie Harry ’78 and a Chateau Billie Holliday ’39.

Well, that was that. We spent a while at the coach station hunting for a ticket machine or office before it suddenly dawned on me that we’d purchased return tickets when we’d arrived. That’s what 60 hours of food, booze and more food does to you. All in all it had been a fantastic trip. We’d had some dodgy meals and we’d hit the jackpot more than a few times. We’d tried market stalls, cafeterias, bars and restaurants. We will be back. Hopefully for a bit longer so we don’t have to cram SO many meals into each day. Actually the meals in themselves were generally tiny; a portion of clams looks impressive but I doubt the meat content was more than a small handful. The kids ribs were mostly bone, snails & whelks are fiddly (and fun) and so on and so on. I think next time we’ll have to eat more fruit and veg. Or we might not survive…..

Pigs.....In......Sauce......

Dinner last night was such an unmitigated success that I just had to write it down before yet another tumbler full of brain cells get washed out to sea. It all started two days ago. I was sofabound, rendered a zombie by some weird viral force whilst Mrs B was out doing what Mrs B does best – partying. The telly was absolute tripe; I seemed to have the choice between reality “shows”, cross country skiing (why would anyone want to ski uphill?), Danish 1950’s films, Danish 1940’s films, loads of films with Wesley Snipes and a myriad of mind numbing series (doctors, nurses, hospitals, paramedics, hairdressers etc). Honestly, where is Taggart when you need him? Anyway, I was too inert to turn the fecker off so I snuggled up to BBC Food (after making sure Ainsley was nowhere in sight). Along came Gordon Ramsey with his F Word offering. I find this programme very contrived, his restaurant ghastly, his mingling with and sucking up to minor celebs painfully embarrassing (especially when he “subtly” tries to take the piss out of them) and Gordon, MATE, stop rubbing your fucking face all the time. You’re a chef in a kitchen on telly for godssake. No wonder your face looks like Gandi’s arse. And anyway, it’s not hygienic. And whilst I’m ranting Giorgio Locatelli GET A BLEEDING HAIRCUT. I cringe when I see him touching food, which someone will soon eat, whilst all the time trying to get that annoying, greasy hair to stay behind his ear. There’s a reason why people who work in food processing have to wear hairnets. I’ve seen Jammy Wallyver touch his nose (the nostril end like he was pinching off a snot drop) way too many times and Nigel Lawson In Drag is forever sucking her/his fingers. It’s foul. Yours truly, Angry of Mayfair….

But I digress, Gordon Ramsey has a couple of things going for him. Out of the restaurant he can be genuinely funny and THE MAN CAN COOK. He is quite brilliant, God knows how good his programme would be if he spent it just cooking. As it was I waded through the pond of poo and emerged with a golden nugget in my welly in the form of Mr Ramsey’s recipe for puréed cauliflower. Ta Gord….

Next bit of the dish came about at work. I’d dragged myself out of bed feeling better for lots of sleep (and sampling a few of the more exotic bottles in our drinks cupboard). During my lunch break (Heinz tomato soup with chunks of mature cheddar gently melting in it – mmmmm) I was reading one of those freebie newspapers and stumbled across a recipe by a well known Danish chef called Bo Bech. In Dansk this dish calls for pigs’ jaws although I think the Ingerlish would call them cheeks. In fact they’re jaw muscles. Jowls I suppose. Yes, jowls they shall be know as. In fish they’re a favourite of mine, a salmon or seatrout has penny sized ones, soft and succulent like tiny oysters. In mammals they require long, slow cooking. Hr Bech did his jaws with beer and parsley. I used English cider (scrumpy), onions and sage. But the basic recipe is deffo his so “tak”.

The final part of this tale happened in our local supermarket whilst looking for something “nice and easy” for dinner. A steak maybe or some calves liver. But fate would have it that I found a packet of pigs’ jaws. Jowls, sorry. Unless you read the package you’d never guess what they were as they look like large cubes of pork. I’ve never seen them before but I suppose I would have expected some bone and a few teeth. So into my basket they went, I came home and cooked ‘em. And this here be the recipe for…

Pork Jowls In Cider with Cauliflower Purée

Makes 2 main courses or 6 starters

Cauliflower Purée

½ a cauliflower in florets
Olive oil
1 glug of milk
1 splurge of cream
Salt and pepper

Soften the cauliflower gently in the oil. It doesn’t want to take on any colour. Add the milk and simmer until they’re just cooked. If the milk catches a little don’t worry, just don’t scrape the bottom of the pan. Luzz in some cream, chuck into a blender and blitz. This, as Gordon so correctly pointed out, has to be done whilst everything is piping hot otherwise you won’t get that silky smooth finish. And, which Gord didn’t say, remember to leave an escape route for the steam (this is why most blenders have that odd shaped bit on the lid that doesn’t quite cover the jug spout) otherwise you risk a little boiling hot explosion. I hold the lid on with a tea towel just to be on the safe side. Once whizzed season with salt and pepper. Beware: this stuff is seriously moreish and can be used in an endless variety of dishes.


Pigs’ Jowls in Cider

6 pigs’ jowls
I large onion
1 large carrot
1 parsnip
A few cloves of garlic (I used loads of course)
50 cl of dry English scrumpy (I used Weston’s Old Rosie)
A bunch of fresh sage leaves
Salt and pepper

Brown the jowls in a little oil. (I use a pot that works both on the hob and in the oven. Otherwise use a frying pan and transfer to a roasting dish, remembering to deglaze the pan.) Add the cider (it should almost cover the meat – if not add some water, or more cider…), a few sage leaves, some pepper (but no salt), cover and bung in a 150 degree celsius oven for 1 ½ hours. In the meantime finely chop your onion and soften in some oil or butter. Peel and dice your root veg. Peel the garlic cloves, leaving them whole. All these go into the pot after the 1 ½ hours for a further 30-40 minutes or until the veg is just cooked. Deffo don’t want mushy veg. Remove from the oven and let rest for half an hour or so before taking out the jowls. This resting time is rather important as the meat soaks up the juices as it relaxes. Like I do. Drain the stock from the veg, discarding the sage. The veg should be kept warm. Now, in a frying pan reduce the stock until it is thick and syrupy. It is at this point that you can season with salt (and perhaps more pepper). Add some finely chopped sage then the jowls. Turn them over so they’re covered in this rich, sticky goo and bingo – they’re ready. I fried some sage leaves as garnish which really worked. And this is a dish which, in looks alone, is worthy of a very expensive restaurant. I placed the jowls amid a puddle of the velvety cauliflower purée, scattered the veg around a bit, drizzled the last sticky drops of sauce over the meat and then lay a few sage leaves on top of it all. These things melt in your mouth yet are moist and succulent in a way which other cuts of oink can’t quite match. I will never be able to pass by a butchers or a supermarket without looking for pigs’ jowls again.