ricotta and tarragon roast chicken

                                                     


I'm going to Australia on Tuesday. Sorry dear readers, I have become one of those smug gits who crowbar their holiday plans into conversation, immune to the glaze-over of friends and colleagues. Uppermost in my mind, well after the soppy Richard Curtisian airport reunion with my best friend V, the sunshine and the surfers, is the food. Aussie grub is gorgeous. The combination of sizeable Italian, Greek, Lebanese, Korean, Chinese, Russian, Vietnamese and Japanese immigrant populations, the fantastic produce and, of course, that sunshine has led to good things. Very good things. Last time I was there, I subsisted mainly on Magi noodles in grotty hostel kitchens, so this time I'm looking forward to a bonanza of flat whites, sashimi, vibrant salads alive with coriander and flat leaf parsley, pho, banana bread, and ricotta hotcakes drenched with honeycomb butter.

Sydney on my mind, I turned to the white-trousered wizard of Oz cuisine, Bill Granger, for some Sunday roast chicken inspiration. Bill's TV shows aren't really known over here, although his books and columns are rightly popular. But a few years ago the BBC aired a couple of his series' after Saturday Kitchen. They were wonderful, a sun-drenched slice of grade-A food porn, cruelly screened during a dank, dark British winter. Here's Bill hosting a BBQ on his beachside sundeck. Here he is ambling around the Sydney Morning Herald grower's market, picking up some artisan cheese and sourdough. It's hot. It's sunny. Life is good, let's make pancakes.

One episode featured a spatchcocked roast chook, crammed with ricotta and fresh herbs. It has lurked in my internal recipe file ever since, symbolising everything I love about Aussie food - the freshness, the imaginativeness and the chuck-it-on-the-barbie simplicity. Bill uses chives and chervil, but I've subbed in tarragon here, as its aniseedy kick goes so well with chicken and lends some welly to the timid ricotta. Served with green beans and corn, and a (ssh, out-of-season) tomato salad, it made for a lovely pre-Easter lunch. But I imagine it will be even better come summer, served outside in the evening when the heat has fallen away from the day, with  friends, fairylights, and some cold, crisp rosé.

Ricotta and tarragon roast chicken
(adapted from Everyday by Bill Granger)

Serves 4

A 1.6kg free-range chicken
375g fresh ricotta
3 tablespoons fresh tarragon
2 tsp grated lemon zest
A goodly pinch sea salt
freshly ground black pepper
Olive oil

Preheat the oven to 200°C/Gas 6.

To spatchcock the chicken, place the bird breast-side down on a board. Using a sharp knife, cut along both sides of the backbone, cutting through both the skin and bone. Remove the backbone.

Turn the bird over and press firmly on the breast bone to break it and flatten the breast. Tuck the wing tips under the breast.

Mix together the ricotta, tarragon, lemon, and a liberal amount of salt and pepper. With your fingers, carefully loosen the skin over the breast of the chicken and down to the thigh area. (You may need to use the point of a small, sharp knife to slip through some of the connective tissue joining the skin to the breast, until it looks like the inside of a tent.) Spread the ricotta mixture evenly under the skin to cover the breast and thighs.

                                                    

Put the chook into a roasting tin, drizzle with olive oil and season. Roast for 50 minutes or until the juices run clear.
Leave to rest for 5 minutes before carving.

Yorkshire curd tart

                                                        

Yesterday afternoon I went to see a man about some bees. Amateur beekeeper Chris Richmond and his family kindly welcomed me into their home where we ate honey fudge, did a little baking, and talked all things apiarian. 

Chris only checks on the bees periodically at this time of year, but he took me out to see the hive, gallantly lending me his gauntlets and that white hat-and-net protector thingy that beekeepers wear to protect them from getting stung. Unfortunately the bees were crabby - crabby like Gordon Brown on a bad news day.

           Chris removes the slides bare-handed.

Don't try this at hive.

The bees got Chris good on his bare arms. A bee stung me through my jeans on the back of my thigh. Another breached the net thingy and stung me on the back of the head. Further denim breaches - this time on my arse. It all went a bit Macaulay Culkin in My Girl for a few minutes except, thankfully, without the severe bee allergy part.

Thankfully it was nothing a Piriton, a cup of tea and a slice of something nice couldn't sort. We retreated to the Richmond's kitchen for the comforts of butter, sugar and pastry. Chris grew up down south, but his mother was from good Wakefield stock. Yorkshire curd tart is a real regional classic and, says Chris, 'Yorkshire folk are proud and opinionated, and there are many variations on the curd tart recipe.' As a died-in-the-wool southerner I won't even attempt to try and understand the subtleties of the currant-to-curd ratios or the nutmeg vs cinnamon argument. One thing that is tantamount to heresy I gather, is to take a shortcut and use boxfresh ricotta in your filling - the tart gets its name because it was traditionally made with the leftover curds from cheesemaking. Luckily it's really easy, and a bit Blue Peter, to make your own curds using either lemon juice, or for best effects, epsom salts.

The result is a slightly wobbly, not-too-sweet but richly fragrant tart. The texture of the filling should be a cross between scrambled eggs and a baked cheesecake, accompanied by salty, crumbly pastry (the lard really helps - fear it not, just channel Heathcliff and go for a strident walk on your nearest alternative to the Dales afterwards). Sprinkling a little nutmeg and brown sugar on the top leaves you with a lovely bit of golden crunch. It's a no-nonsense slice of pie, perfect for rainy afternoons when you've been stung, literally or metaphorically.


Yorkshire curd tart
(with thanks to Chris Richmond, and his mum)

For the curds
2 pints full-fat milk
1 heaped tsp Epsom Salts (available from chemists, but lemon juice is a good alternative)

For the pastry
225g plain flour
55g lard, cubed
70g butter, cubed
2 tbsp water
pinch of salt

For the filling
75g butter
75g caster sugar
2 eggs
zest of a lemon
1/2 tsp freshly grated nutmeg
75g currants
A few drops of good quality vanilla extract

Make the curds in advance or even the night before. Bring the milk to the boil in a saucepan, remove from the heat and stir in a heaped teaspoon of epsom salts. The curds will start to form immediately. Strain off the whey in a sieve, and leave the curds in the sieve to drain (cover it with a tea towel) for several hours or overnight. You should be left with about 300g curds...

                                                    

Preheat the oven to 220°C, Gas mark 7.

To make the pastry, sift the flour and salt. Rub the lard and butter into the flour until you have a mixture that resembles coarse breadcrumbs. Add the water and stir gently with a knife to bind the dough together into a ball. Wrap the dough in clingfilm and leave to chill in the fridge for 30 minutes.

Roll out the pastry and line a 10inch flan dish. Cover with baking paper and beans and blind bake for 10 minutes.

To make the filling, cream together the butter and sugar until pale and fluffy. Add the eggs one at a time, beating well after each addition. Stir in the curds, lemon zest, vanilla extract, nutmeg and currants.

Pour the filling into the pie crust, grate a little extra nutmeg over the top, and sprinkle a little brown sugar if you desire. Bake at 180°C, Gas mark 4 for about 45 minutes until filling is set but still retains a slight wobble.

Leave to cool. Brew pot of Yorkshire tea. Put world to rights.

Spring fever on Columbia Road

                                                                 

The Met Office says spring doesn't officially start until march 21st. The Met Office was obviously squirrelled away in a bunker this weekend, making inaccurate predictions about BBQ summers, because spring has unofficially sprung my friends, and not a moment too soon. Bring on the Easter eggs and gamboling lambs.

Is there a nicer way to welcome in the new season than stocking up on spring blooms and fairy cakes at Columbia Road Market? Unfortunately, D and I weren't the only ones attempting to frolick our way down this teensy strip of blooms and independent shops - it seemed like le tout East London was snagging some mother's day florals. The result? Cheery pandemonium.

                                              

We fortified ourselves for the scrum with flat whites from Gwilym Davies. The 2009 World Barista Champion is the pied piper of caffeine, attracting devoted followers wherever he takes his roving coffee cart. On Sunday's you can find him tucked away in a yard on Ezra Street just off Columbia Road, turn right by the vintage cake stands but if you reach the sausage baps you've gone too far. Just follow the queue of sparkly-eyed caff-angelists waiting patiently for London's smoothest, creamiest, toffee-noted cappucinos, lattes and flat whites. Ironically, given that punters follow him wherever he roams, Gwilyn is also the man behind the genius coffee disloyalty card.



With coffee, so follows cake. But it wasn't to be. A plague of carb-craving locusts had decended on English cake shop Treacle, leaving the shop Mother Hubbard-bare...

The crowds were so dense, Barney decided he needed to be carried by his entourage...

Deprived of the holy trinity: fat, sugar, sprinkles, we contented ourselves instead with a rumage at Vintage Heaven and Cakehole. This glorious trove of china, rare books, fabrics and kitchenalia is full of retro treats...

                                                    

tableware in exclusive Pinch of Salt colourway

Brilliant - Marguerite Pattern's Food from Abroad

By lunchtime the market had gone from this...

To this...

So it was time to make like this dude's tree...

and leave...

...Back to D's in Stoke Newington for turkish bread and the tabloids, fizz, seven-hour lamb shoulder and a rhubarb parfait. Get the bunting out, it's spring - and don't let anyone tell you otherwise.

                      

                                                   

weasel coffee

                                                  

                                                                   

Every Christmas Eve my schoolfriends and I gather in one of our old under-age drinking haunts for pints and pressies. This year there was someone missing, my best friend V, who has been travelling since last June. Her brother Tom had just been out to Vietnam to see her, entrusted with a care package from England containing copies of Grazia, Percy Pigs and flying saucers, and some Topshop fripperies. These are the things you need when you've swapped heels and Chanel lipsticks for trekking sandals and a dry-kwik rubbery towel. I digress. So, during the excitable exchange of holly-sprigged, bowed and tagged gifts, Tom sheepishly passed me a handbag fashioned from chicken-feed sacks. Inside were five mishappen bundles, wrapped in a Hanoi newspaper and secured with lumps of parcel tape. Treasure from a sorely-missed friend.

On Christmas Day I ripped open the bundles to find four stainless steel Vietnamese coffee cups and, joy of joys, weasel coffee. I've heard about this unconventionally sourced joe but never tried it. Until now. For the unitiated weasel coffee, or kopi luwak in Vietnamese, is coffee made from berries which have passed through the digestive tract of the Asian palm civet and, how can I put this, reached the other side. That's right - it's a post-poo brew. The reason it's so popular, and indeed one of the world's most expensive coffees, is that while the berries are in the civets' tummies, stomach enzymes leech into them - producing a smooth coffee with hardly any bitterness.

I've brought the weasel coffee back to the 'shire for Mothers' Day weekend. Pa Salty is keen to try it after seeing it in The Bucket List, and y'know, he's not going to be shown up by a decrepid Jack Nicholson. Ma Salty is less convinced.

                                                          

The cups come with various detachables and filtery bits. Yikes. This is going to be more complicated than I thought. Also, we don't have condensed milk. So this is going to be weasel coffee, Kent-style. A quick google directs me to a guide for assembling these steel contraptions. "It is very basic and simple, but it works" says the guide. Phew. Reassured, I go in all guns blazing, like a man with a new gadget - not reading the whole guide from start to finish, and undeterred by the fact that my cups don't look quite like the pictures and don't have twiddly bits on the side.

We open the weasel coffee - it smells sweet and vanilla-y. We heap three teaspoonfuls into the tiny cups, which seems a bit much. Never mind. I put the silver saucers underneath the cups, and try and tighten the filters as much as I can. And then... disaster.                                                             

We pour the boiling water into the cups and, it turns out those missing twiddly bits are quite important little screws, because soon hot mahogany liquid is pooling over Ma Salty's worktop and onto the floor. She is not impressed.

                             

These contraptions may have handles and be cup-shaped, but cups they are not. I thought it was a two-in-one self-contained filter n'cup thing, but clearly I  have been a fool. Pa Salty is now bored and wants to stick the post-poo brew in his Bodum. The dog is barking. But I persist. This coffee has come a long way...


We get out some regular espresso cups - the filters perch awkwardly on top. Attempt 2: if it works correctly, the coffee should take about five minutes to filter through to the cup. This better be worth it. It takes two or three minutes - there is still a tightening issue but overall a great improvement on round one. The coffee is now lukewarm but tastes pretty good - smoky, with notes of dark chocolate and vanilla. "It tastes like normal coffee with a bit of chocolate dunked in it," says Pa Salty. "Very nice," says Ma Salty.  Done properly, with condensed milk, it would be heavenly. I'm still not sure it's the world's best coffee, but clearly I've been missing my calling as the world's worst barrista...

Weasel coffee, Kent style.

                                          

Supper clubs: Fernandez & Leluu

                                                                         

I sometimes worry about the Self-Appointed Trend Police. You know the type - they skulk around the shadows of Shoreditch, lurk on Twitter or the message boards of Time Out, pouncing to pronounce movements, ideas, places, foods and even people to be Just. So. Over. It must be exhausting keeping up the sneer. The Self-Appointed Trend Police (SATP) would say that supper clubs are so very last year. Hell, anyone who's anyone is eating out of a skip these days. Pah. What sourpuss nonsense. Supper clubs are the most exciting thing to happen to the London food scene in years. Anyone who is brave enough to open up a restaurant in their home and produce decent dinners under that kind of pressure deserves to be applauded for their gumption. And there's plenty of life in the old trend yet, as a visit to the delightful Fernandez and Leluu in Hackney proves...

Fernandez and Leluu is a fortnightly supper club run by software designer Simon Fernandez and his boutique owner girlfriend Uyen Luu. Simon is part-Spanish I believe and Uyen Vietnamese: an excellent foodie pairing.

Jammed into the small room are gold baroque mirrors, Chinese flasks, teetering stacks of books, white shabby-chic tables and lots and lots of tealights. The patio doors open onto a small garden where Uyen grows fresh herbs, and guests can chill their wine on a frosty night or sneak a crafty cig.

Before I get to the food, a disclaimer. Uyen and Simon are fantastic hosts. And while I cannot blame them for the Daily Mail-bothering gallons of wine I drank, or the two day hangover that followed, let's just say I arrived only planning to have a glass or two, and left at 3am after finishing the dregs of a Holsten Pils found in a flower pot. (Unopened when I found it by the way, I was drunk but I'm still a lady). A night chez Fernandez and Leluu definitely feels like a fun, slightly bawdy dinner at a close friend's, the antithesis of starchy service, linen napkins, smears and foams.

Given their small galley kitchen and lack of helpers (though Uyen's mum was on kitchen duty with Simon when we visited), the seven-course menu that Simon and Uyen served up for Chinese New Year was little short of miraculous. Not every course was triumphant, but given the scale of their ambitions it was hard to begrudge a few imperfections.

King's New Year sticky rice cake slices filled with pork belly and yellow bean were deeply, satisfyingly savoury but a bit claggy.


They were followed by a platter of steamed Ho Fun sheets with cured ham, pork belly and coriander. It was a salty-sweet triumph - the ham lifted by the zing of the coriander and sweet basil plucked fresh from the garden, a tangy sweet and chilli fish sauce, and lots of peppy lemongrass.

                                                                   

Pork and prawn won ton soup should be served in hospitals to perk up the patients - it was hug-in-a-bowl umami-rich comfort food.


The roll-your-own tilapia rolls that followed were less successful. I'm not a huge fan of this meaty fish - it was too leaden for the moreish soy sauce and ginger drizzled over it, which would have suited a silkier choice like sea bass. That said, I could drink the sauce by the jug.

                                                                    

Sticky pork loin and chicken wings were far more deserving of that adjective than their ricey predecessors - sweet, meaty offerings glazed in a mahogany rich-marinade and served with emerald pak choi.

                                                           

There then followed a duck, orange and star anise broth and some sort of sesame dumpling pud, but by that point, dear reader, I was quite drunk so it would not be fair to pass comment. I remember them fondly but hazily. Quite when the Holsten Pils came into play, I wouldn't like to say.

So the SATP can keep the next big thing. I'm sticking with supper clubs. The best, like Fernandez and Leluu, are charming, intimate and enterprising, and still a truly original night out.

http://www.fernandezandleluu.co.uk/