Pancakes

"They live on crispy pancakes
Of yellow tide-foam."

One of the most evocative descriptions of pancakes ever, it is that of William Allingham. Thinking a little more closely about the poetry, however, I have to say that I prefer my pancakes not to be crispy. Also the idea of yellow tide-foam sounds faintly repellent. Like yellow snow.

In my opinion, pancakes are not worth ordering in restaurants because in the time it takes to get them from pan to table, their point is lost. The times I have had soggy, sodden, cold disappointing pancakes. In a kitchen straight from the pan and on to the plate in front of the eater. Ideally the person producing them is not overly keen on eating them.

As for fillings, forget, please, about over-elaboration. Lemon and sugar are all that is required. Thus the perfect pancake will have contrasting flavours as well as contrasting textures.

Delia Smith has the best recipe in her Complete Cookery Course.

John's brandy butter

A saturated solution of brandy and butter. With sugar. Slightly granular on the tongue. Icing sugar. Served in a silver christening goblet.

Palmiers

If I had to identify a favourite pastry, this might well be it. Heart-shaped, sugary puff pastry. I first discovered them in France, where they were available as a special treat on Thursdays only in the bakery local to my parents' house in the South of France. Most satisfactory when the mouthfuls are soft rather than crisp.

Bolst's mango pickle

Bangalore is a city named after food. It means "Beans Galore" or "Full of Beans". And it is the place where the Bolst Family used to make their famous Mango Pickle. My father once told me that he thought the Foster Family knew the Bolst Family. That may well be true because, about a hundred years ago, the Foster family lived in India, in Bangalore itself. It was there that my grandfather, Donald, was born, in 1914. He went to Bishop Cotton’s School there before he sailed to England to go to school in Canterbury.

Bolst’s Mango Pickle used to come in a glass jar with a red lid and a white label with red writing on it. On the lid was a scrawly white signature: Bolst. When the jar was new and opened for the first time, the pickle underneath had a film of orange oil floating on the top. Over time, the label on the jar would become greasy and grimy with the oil. The pickle underneath the oil was most unlike what you would normally expect a pickle to look and taste like. It was coloured dark brown and had a slightly granular consistency, almost like brown sugar which had had a little water added. One of the main ingredients was indeed sugar. There were no chunks of mango to be found, although occasionally there were what looked suspiciously like bits of mango skin. Over time, the bottom of the lid would turn black: corrosion, I think, caused by the pickle. But the pickle was so full of chillis and sugar that it would never, ever, turn bad.

A family tradition with Bolst’s was that we would eat it with Shepherd’s Pie. And when Grandfather made one of his chicken or beef curries (which Mum called one of his "watery curries" and she actually liked very much), out would come the jar of Bolst’s for those who wanted it. Granny used to tell me not to put too much on my plate and end up leaving it…and some of us would end up mopping up the dollop of pickle on our plates with a piece of bread.

But not everyone liked Bolst’s Mango Pickle. My brother Will always preferred Patak’s Mild Lime Pickle and he used to enjoy eating Mum’s game pie with it, which she always made at around Christmas time. Mum occasionally said that she was not convinced that it was a particularly good idea to mix her delicious pie with Lime Pickle but I think she got used to the concept and it, too, became a family tradition.

When I was growing up, there was no problem finding Bolst's Mango Pickle. But gradually, probably as the Patak and the Sharwood Families became more and more popular, shops stopped selling it and people stopped buying it. It was a vicious circle.

I managed to find a supplier in an Indian grocery not far from West Croydon Railway station. I must have visited the shop on about three occasions and each time, bought up their entire supply of Bolst’s Mango Pickle  and, sometimes Bolst’s Lime Pickle which was similar to the Mango but not as good. But the last time I visited the shop they had none left. Lots of other pickles but no Bolst’s.

 

Towards the end of Grandfather’s life, when he had run out of Bolst’s Mango Pickle, I wrote to a company in Enfield, Middlesex called "Bombay Emporium". Their name and details were on the last jar of Bolst’s Mango Pickle in our possession and they were the agents for Bolst’s in this country. I pleaded with them to tell me where I could find their supplies of Pickle and I got a kind letter back from them enclosing six free jars and saying, "I am sure your grandfather will be delighted!" I think he was – even though, by then, only the Hot Mango Pickle was available when he preferred the mild version.

Grandfather died in 1999 and at his funeral, among other things, we ate Samosas which Mum and I had bought the day before at the Indian restaurant at the end of my road in Leyton. They did us proud and had them set out beautifully on foil trays so we were able to set the trays out without any further work when we got them to Kenilworth. No Bolst’s pickle to go with them but there was no need. Happily,  there was still about a jar remaining of Bolst’s Mango Pickle so Grandfather never ran out. There were also some jars of Bolst’s Curry Paste which I don’t think Grandfather ever opened. They were still sitting on the shelves in Kenilworth in 2010, twelve years later because I think Granny found it very difficult to throw them out – perhaps because she thought it would upset me if she did so.

 

Mum knew about my love of Bolst’s Mango Pickle and she occasionally used to visit Bangalore herself. She managed to find some jars of the hot variety and brought them back with her, sewn up in a wonderful parcel made of hessian. I think I distributed some of the jars among family members who were particularly fond of it. I think I even gave another jar to poor Granny who was probably, by then, sick of the stuff.

But then, disaster. Mum made another trip to Bangalore and got a colleague of hers to get hold of some of the pickle. Again, it arrived in one of the exciting hessian parcels. But when I looked at the jars, the contents looked nothing like what I was used to. They looked instead, like the contents of a jar of Patak’s Pickle. And when I opened the first jar, my suspicions were realised. They had changed the recipe completely! So all that we had left were the remaining few jars of the original Bolst’s Mango Pickle: possibly the only remaining jars in the world.

 

Then came another disaster after my mother died. We were sorting out her belongings and I was hovering in her kitchen wondering what to do next and said, "If anyone sees the jar of Bolst’s Mango Pickle, please make sure it doesn’t get slung. It will be well past its best before date but it’s one of the last remaining jars!" My sister-in-law looked at me rather sheepishly and said, "Lynda and I were going through stuff in the cupboards and we threw out a lot of stuff." Although I didn’t hunt through all the cupboards, it seemed pretty obvious what had happened. Among the collection of old, mouldy, unwanted, inedible jars, packets and tins, had been Mum’s last jar of Bolst’s Mango Pickle. And the pickle had probably been washed down the sink while the jar had gone into one of the glass recycling bins. I can even imagine the conversation: "How revolting!" my aunt Lynda would have said. "I don’t think there’s any chance of anyone missing that".

 

But I said it was a disaster. Not entirely. I may, one day, write to the people in Bangalore and see whether they could tell me the secret recipe or send me some more jars. Or I might see whether some of my friends in India – or some of Mum’s friends – could help and get in touch with people I might not have spoken to ever again as a result.

 

Kenderdine's

The food I ate at nursery school was pretty unmemorable but a few fragments remain in my mind. My first day of staying at school for lunch, when I reported to my mother that we had had "chewing gum in gravy". She knew it was liver. Then there was the occasion when the cook mistook salt for sugar, making the apple crumble inedible.

But those were bad days. Wednesdays were always good days. They followed swimming and instead of our eating in the dining room, we always ate upstairs. We were each given a handful of peanuts which I used to count carefully and savour. Tomato soup would follow, and sandwiches.

And lastly, I remember returning to the school a year or so after I'd left and being invited to stay for lunch of fish fingers and chips. How small the blue plates were...

 

Salad dressing

Sequels written by somebody other than the original author lend themselves to the prospect of savage criticism by disappointed readers. The Bond books are a case in point. I have rather enjoyed the tradition of writers renowned for their own creations - Kingsley Amis, for example - continuing where Ian Fleming left off. It is particularly pleasing when such writers clearly know their original material so well that they do not merely repeat it but take it further.

In Fleming's "Moonraker", we learn that James Bond takes his own "mustardy" salad dressing to the secret service canteen for lunch. More exotically, in William Boyd's "Solo", Bond even insists on his own version in "the best steak restaurant in Washington" where he is brought a small lacquered tray with "all the ingredients necessary to make a vinaigrette to his own secret formula": these last two words a stock phrase beautifully pinched, no doubt with relish, from the archetypal spy novel. The ingredients are set out in the novel as follows:

a little carafe of olive oil;
a little carafe of red-wine vingegar;
a jar of Dijon mustard;
a halved-clove of garlic;
a black-pepper grinder;
a ramekin of granulated sugar;
a bowl;
A teaspoon; and
a small balloon whisk to mix the ingredients together.









The method for the authentic-sounding recipe is revealed in the only footnote in the entire novel:

"Mix five parts of red-wine vinegar with one part extra-virgin olive oil. The vinegar overload is essential. Add a halved clove of garlic, half a teaspoon of Dijon mustard, a good grind of black pepper and a teaspoon of white granulated sugar. Mix well, remove the garlic and dress the salad.”

We are told that Bond ended his meal with "half an avocado into which he poured what remained of his dressing". I must at some point try a similar demand in a restaurant.

Horseradish

I was so used to seeing this come out of a jar, a little slimily (and usually served with grey rather than red beef), that I never realised there was an actual vegetable called a horseradish, until I saw a pile of them in Fortnum & Mason's one Christmas Eve. As we were planning to have roast beef on Christmas Day, it was the perfect find. So the horseradish was bought, and when it was bought it was wrapped and went into my brother's stocking. As I expected him to do, he made an obscene remark on discovering it. On Christmas morning, I allocated to myself the task of turning it into horseradish sauce. And very quickly, I realised why it was that most people acquired their horseradish sauce from a jar rather than making it from scratch. Grating it was worse than chopping an onion. But, having finished making it, I very quickly realised why it was WORTH making it from scratch. It actually tastes fresh and alive. Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall is responsible for this recipe, which comes in his River Cottage Meat Book: the best book on the subject that I know.

100 g horseradish

125 g creme fraiche

1 teaspoon English mustard

2 teaspoons wine vinegar

Pinch sugar

Salt and pepper

Peel and grate horseradish. This is the toughest bit. Then steep the horseradish in the vinegar, mustard and sugar for ten minutes. Stir again. Add the creme fraiche and mix it together well. Add salt and pepper if and as necessary.

Pashka

It is hard to describe this without either sounding as though I am exaggerating...or as though I might be trying to put you off eating it. I think it's indescribable. The nearest thing to Ambrosia I have ever eaten?

I have heard it described as "Russian Easter Cake" but it really isn't like cake. My father described it as similar to "raw cake mixture" (don't forget how that was always so much nicer than the finished product). But unlike raw cake mixture, you really can eat large quantities of this without regretting it. My personal theory is that it's due to the sour ingredients offsetting the sweet in an impeccable combination. It is supposed to contain all the ingredients you are not supposed to eat during Lent.

The following recipe was handwritten for my mother by the granddaughter of a Russian woman - Kyra Mahoney - who, if my memory of family legend serves me correctly, left Russia as the revolution started. When my mother enthused and begged for the recipe, she was a little chary about disclosing it... Her daughter Chris, my mother's oldest friend, said that her mother would stand at the stove, stirring endlessly. These were pre-Google days. Eventually, Kate, her granddaughter, managed to obtain her Nan's recipe - and it is in front of me now: blue biro on green paper, and the ingredients in evidence on the paper. Here it is, unamended, although I have inserted metrics for my own ease:

"1 lb cream cheese (454 g)
1 lb cottage or curd cheese (454 g)
8 oz butter (227 g)
4 egg yolks
1 1/2 gills (6 fluid oz) sour cream (170 ml)
10 oz caster sugar (283 g)

1 - 1 1/2 teaspoons vanilla essence
6 oz blanched almonds (flaked) (170 - 171 g)
4 oz seedless raisins (113 g)
3 oz mixed candied peel (85 g)

Mix cream and cottage cheese together and turn into a cheesecloth.

Leave in a cold place (not fridge) to drip overnight to make sure that cheese is really dry.

Next day, rub through a nylon or hair sieve.

Melt butter and allow to cool but not to set again.

Turn egg yolks and sour cream into a basin and mix together.

Add sugar and vanilla and whisk altogether for about 10 minutes or until sugar has dissolved. (Remember this was written before electric instruments were used).

Stir into the sieved cheese.

Add almonds, raisins and chopped candied peel and turn into a heavy saucepan.

Put the pan on a very low heat and cook stirring continuously.

When mixture shows signs of boiling (in about 1/2 hour) remove it from the heat at once (1st bubble) and stir until it is almost cold.

Take a sterilised flower pot (nearest approximation to a pashka mould) or a similar shaped vessel (not metal) of about 2 1/2 pint capacity with draining hole(s). Line it with cheesecloth and urn in prepared mixture.

Set the pot on a rack over a plate. Lay a piece of greaseproof or waxed paper over the mixture, set a saucer or small cake tin base in a plastic bag on top and weigh down about 2 lb weight.

Leave in a cold place/refrigerator if poss overnight.

Saucer must just fit inside lid of pot. We don't bother with greaseproof or plastic bag but fold excess muslin over top of pashka. I hope you like it."

Here is some commentary on the above, based on my having made it twice.

Bear in mind that the very first bit needs to be done in advance, but it takes fewer than 10 minutes: I recommend a Good Friday night and have an unhurried Easter Saturday making it: it doesn't actually take that long - say two hours before it's in the moulds and ready to go in the fridge. But one of the many points of this is that there is real pleasure to be derived in making it so give yourself plenty of time.

I use tea towels as my cheesecloth.

I use unsalted butter.

I use vanilla extract rather than essence.

This is the only recipe I know that uses gills as a unit of measurement.

The toughest part of this recipe is pushing the cream cheese and cottage cheese through the sieve!

There is no indication in this recipe as to when the butter is supposed to go in. I put it in once I've mixed the egg yolks and sour cream.

I approve of making it in a flower pot and have one that I use exclusively for Pashka. The photograph is of one made in London and eaten in Winchester.

Additional notes based on experience:

1. Having increased the cream cheese and cottage cheese to 600 g each (approximately a 30% increase), the other ingredients should ideally be increased proportionally to maintain balance. As a guide: butter ~300 g, sour cream ~225 ml, sugar ~375 g, 5–6 egg yolks, almonds ~225 g, raisins ~150 g, and candied peel ~110 g. If not increased, the result will be slightly firmer and less rich but still perfectly acceptable.
2. After melting the butter, allow it to cool for about 10–15 minutes. It should be fully liquid but no longer hot—just warm to the touch.
3. The butter should be added after mixing the egg yolks and sour cream together, but before adding the sugar and vanilla. This helps create a smooth mixture and avoids any risk of the yolks cooking.
4. There is no issue with sieving the cream cheese and cottage cheese mixture directly into the saucepan, provided the saucepan is completely cold.
5. After putting the mixture into the moulds, allow it to stand at room temperature for approximately 30–60 minutes before refrigerating, so that it cools slightly and avoids condensation.
6. The pashka should be left in the refrigerator for at least 12 hours before eating, though 18–24 hours is ideal for the best texture and flavour.
7. The cooking stage should be treated as a gentle thickening, not a true boil. Use very low heat and stir continuously, scraping the base and sides. The mixture should gradually become slightly thicker and smoother. Watch carefully for the first sign of a bubble or slight steaming from the surface—this indicates it is just reaching the point of simmering. At that moment, remove it immediately from the heat. Do not allow it to boil, as this can cause curdling or a grainy texture. Continue stirring off the heat until the mixture cools and thickens slightly.
8. For a more traditional result, the cream cheese may be replaced with a well-drained curd cheese (such as tvorog or quark), or the cottage cheese alone may be used if thoroughly drained and sieved. The drier and finer the cheese, the more authentic the texture.
9. For greater smoothness in the traditional manner, the cheese mixture may be passed through the sieve more than once.
10. A more traditional approach avoids cooking altogether, instead combining the ingredients and allowing them to set purely by chilling and draining. If following this method, ensure all ingredients are well incorporated and the mixture is thoroughly chilled under weight.
11. Additional flavourings sometimes used in more traditional versions include a small amount of cardamom or a few drops of rosewater, alongside or instead of vanilla.
12. A traditional mould (often pyramid-shaped and sometimes marked with religious symbols) may be used if available, though any suitably sized, draining container will function adequately.

Indian sweets

Shiny amber-coloured little whirls of sweetness, deep-fried, jalebis are as pleasing as a proper meringue, a good roast potato, or a Black Magic "Liquid Cherry". Crisp shell on the outside, melting on the inside.

It was our mother who introduced them to my brother and me, in Coventry, where we grew up. She nipped into one of those little Indian grocers on the Foleshill Road and returned triumphantly with a brown paper bag, which had already become translucent with syrup. She took out one for each of us, having to separate the glistening orange spirals carefully so as not to break them. Somehow they avoided being sickly sweet.

At around the same time that we were introduced to Jalebis, there lived across the road from our house an Indian family with a boy about my age. We used to play at each other's house. One day, I was invited to his birthday party. His mother made the food and laid it on the table: a birthday tea of the seventies with sandwiches, biscuits and an iced cake. A quintessentially English tea. Save that the sandwiches were filled with a mixture of jam and lettuce. While several of the other mothers at the party looked pityingly at this combination, their children wolfed down the sandwiches until not one remained.

Travelling to India myself many years later, I recall the pudding on my first night: a bowl of spongy balls in a sugar syrup accompanied by, my host told me, sweet pureed carrot. It was too much. I heaved as I forced some down my unwilling throat.

But I did try jalebis once more, bought from a shop in the southern town of Vellore. I managed to drop one immediately after walking out of the shop. Ignoring the state of the ground, I recklessly picked up the jalebi and ate it. The following day I spent in bed. Whether the jalebis had been responsible I did not know. One thing was certain. They were not as good as the ones from Coventry.

Gravlax

This recipe comes from my mother's own recipe book. It was two years ago to the day that she died and this was one of the things she would always make at Christmastime when "Turn the gravlax!" became a twice-daily used expression, whether as a command or an intention.

Since then, making the Christmas Gravlax has been my brother Will's task. The photograph is of a plate of his, from Christmas just past.

I think it must have been Lotta, the family au pair and still dear friend, from Sweden, who stayed with us in 1982 - 1983, who introduced her and us to it. Sometimes I see it in recipe books written as "Gravadlax", sometimes as "Gravlax". Mum's recipe, then, exactly as she wrote it down, but whether this is from her head or copied from a Swedish recipe book, I am not sure. The last line (plainly her own view) was clearly added much later.

2 1/2 lb salmon trout,
20 peppercorns,
6 tablespoons salt,
4 tablespoons sugar,
2 oz dill leaves (chopped) (fresh if poss).

For sauce:
3 tablespoons French mustard,
1 tablespoon red wine vinegar,
3 tablespoons oil,
salt, pepper and sugar to taste,
3 tabespoons finely chopped dill leaves.

Split fish in two and bone. Crush pepper corns, mix with salt, sugar and dill. Sprinkle third into dish. Lay on a fillet of fish, skin side down; spread another third of dry marinade, cover with remaining fillet skin side up and pack remaining marinade over and around. Cover with cling film and weight. Leave in fridge or cool place for 36 - 48 hours turning every 12 hours. Will keep one week in fridge.

When fish has completed marinating, will be surrounded by liquid. Drain fish and scrape any solids left from marinade away. Cut horinzontally into wafer thin slices. Fold into pretty curves on serving dish. Serve with rye bread, lemon wedges and mustard and dill sauce.

Don't bother about peppercorns or sauce! Serve with lemon segments.

Bombay toast

Between finishing school and going to university, I spent four and a half months in India. Many years later, I read a book by William Sutcliffe called “Are you Experienced”. William Sutcliffe was born in the same year as me. His hero, Dave, like me, travelled to India in his gap year. Dave, like me, was about to read English at university. Dave, like me, was going to York University. I assure the reader of “Are you Experienced?” that my experiences were very different to those of “Dave” and that I have never met William Sutcliffe in my life.

“Dave” does not encounter “Bombay Toast” on his travels. I discovered it in about my second week in India, at St George’s Anglo-Indian School and Orphanage, Madras, where I taught for a couple of months. It was Tory, one of the other volunteers at the school, who described it to me when a stack of it arrived at breakfast time: “Bread dipped in a pancakey mixture and then fried”.

The key thing is that it should resemble a pancake, not an omelette. Unlike some versions of French toast, it is definitely sweet, not salty. This version is based on a recipe for “Pain Perdu” by Rachel Khoo. I leave out the fruit compote. The point of this is simplicity.

Ingredients:

1 egg.
100 ml milk.
1 tablespoon sugar.
4 slices of brioche bread (this is closest to the Indian version of Western style sliced bread).
1 tablespoon butter.

Method:

1. Beat together the egg, milk and sugar and pour on to a flat dish.

2. Place the brioche in the mixture and soak for about thirty seconds on each side.

3. Heat the butter in a large frying pan on a medium heat.

4. Add the brioche and cook for 2 to 3 minutes or until golden, then flip the slices over and cook the other side. Eat immediately. Cold Bombay Toast isn’t worth eating.

I discovered that Bombay Toast was readily available in the "Indian coffee houses” dotted around South India and it became my breakfast of choice on my travels. I associate it particularly with a breakfast by a lake in Ooty (official name: Udhagamandalam). There were a number of different versions of Bombay Toast, some, it has to be said, inferior: sometimes too thickly covered in batter; or with insufficient batter and tasting only of the oil in which it had been fried. Worst of all was the version available on Kovalam beach which was smothered with coconut and banana. On another occasion, in Mahabilapuram, I ordered four slices. The proprietor, possibly wilfully misunderstanding me,brought eight slices on the basis that a normal portion consisted of one slice cut into two. In other words, I had eight slices of Bombay Toast to get through.

Bombay is now officially known as Mumbai. "Bombay Toast”, on the other hand, has not been renamed “Mumbai Toast”.

Wartime economy fudge

No salt in this recipe, I know, but it is the best version I have ever encountered with a flavour that hits your tastebuds like no other. I have heard others say it's more "tablet" than "fudge" but I am not convinced.

The recipe, taken from my book (with the timings inserted by me while making it), then its story:

1 lb granulated sugar
1 1/2 oz marge
1/2 teaspoon vanilla essence (I prefer extract)
5 fl oz evaporated milk
5 fl oz cold water

Mix sugar, milk and water. Heat gently stirring with wooden spoon until sugar melts (5 minutes?). Add marge (cut into small pieces). Bring to rapid boil (10 mins). Stir all time. Wipe down sides of pan (don't let residue stick). Boil until soft ball stage (10 mins). Moment comes much sooner than you'd think! Remove from heat. Add vanilla. Cool for 5 mins. Using wooden spoon, beat it, stirring frantically until changes colour and looks creamy (10 mins), pour into greased mould (lined with foil).

I recommend AGAINST chocolate versions, rum 'n' raisin versions or whatever. Gilding the lily.

Mum's commentary on the recipe in my book:

"This came from a book in Bedworth Library. During World War II my mother swapped tea and other rations for the ingreedience and made something similar."

Bedworth Library was our local library in the first house where I ever lived, in Windmill Road, Exhall. I had always assumed the recipe my mother had recorded in her book - from which this is copied - was the very same that her mother had used, recorded in copperplate handwriting on faded yellow paper. Not so, it would seem. Mum would make this and then bag it for Christmas presents. Once she had made some shortly before halloween and some trick-or-treaters came round. She presented each of them with a piece and they went away not looking altogether impressed. I like to think that they would have changed their minds on tasting.

There was another occasion when, as her contribution to my nursery school's Christmas sale, she presented me with a polystyrene cup of fudge. Someone else had been more ambitious in terms of quantity and variety and had donated several bags of, if I remember correctly, rum and raisin flavoured fudge. My mother's contribution was rather lost in the array. Whether as a gesture of annoyance or otherwise, another boy and I stole some of the fudge from its table and were caught. Our punishment was to miss the showing of the school cine film. But later Justice relented and we were allowed in to see the second showing. I remember looking guiltily at the headmistress, Mrs Hartley, as we sat down in the darkened room. But that was the end of the incident.

The closest I have ever got to finding my mother's fudge on sale commercially was in a shop, now closed, in Canterbury. It had been recommended by my rather splendid landlady, Maureen de Sausmarez. I once brought some home. Having tried a bit, my mother claimed it was not of the best but then undermined her argument, repeatedly signalling she wanted more by mimicking a bird making high-pitched shrieks. Until the bag was empty.

A sad story on which to end. My grandmother - referred to in my mother's commentary above - had Alzheimer's Disease and in its early stages, she gave my brother and I a few coins with which to buy "Henley fudge" which, she told us, could be found in the shop at the bottom of her road. It may have existed decades before but the only fudge my brother and I could find was Cadbury's ("a finger of fudge is just enough...") and that is what we ended up buying, supplementing the money we'd been given with our own.