Ready, Steady, Curry

While I enjoy making dishes with posh ingredients, it makes my peasant heart happy to do so with common stuff.


On the posh side, we had a simple pasta course at the weekend, just ribbed (for your pleasure, and to pick up the sauce) tubes and a small but expensive tin of black truffle slices in olive oil. Add grated Parmesan and that's it. Delicious.


On the simple side, a recent curry made with dried lentils, loads of sliced onions and garlic, a grated thumb of ginger, and a tin of coconut milk. With spices to perk it up of course. It was slurpy (the lentils cooked to dhal doneness), filling and of course cheap(-ish), and for once I got the spice balance right - a hint of heat, a lot of taste.


As so often the difference in kitchen terms between the two was time. The pasta and truffle thing took 10 minutes. The curry in all needed over an hour - 10 mins to boil the rinsed lentils, 35 more to simmer them, add to the sauteed onions and mix with the coconut milk then bubble gently away for another quarter of an hour to let the ginger, garlic and spices blend in and flavour the whole pan.


I loved both meals, but maybe because I enjoy the faffery, or possibly because the curry cost by my reckoning £2.50 (coconut milk from the Indian supermarket undercuts Messrs Sainsbury and Aldi by about 33%) it was the latter that pleased me most.

The Fixings

Strange, or maybe not, how 'the fixings' are so often the elements of a special meal that stand out. It's a cliche, but people at Christmas are wont to say if asked to choose between the meats and the accompaniments it's the gravy, bread sauce and stuffing that they'd prefer. Maybe that's because we're too lazy or busy to do them as frequently as we'd like. I swear blind every December 25th that I will make bread sauce more often, and here we are in mid-November and I haven't made any since that date. With The Dear Leader (tremble before her power) now 98.75% vegetarian I must make some veggie-friendly stuffing with bread sauce as a Sunday special, maybe with onion gravy, something we enjoyed last night and that I do cook several times a year. The urban peasant side of me relishes the thought that such a spread is very cheap, too.


Any excuse for onion gravy. Having come across two recipes for celeriac 'steaks' in the past week I decided to give the idea a go myself, but with the twist of aiming for (pretend) steak and (real) onions, a childhood favourite.


One of said recipes boiled thick slices of celeriac for 20 minutes before frying them in butter to finish, the other roasted them, so as I had the oven on to bake bread (I'll make someone a lovely wife) I opted for the latter route, coating the 10mm-thick slices in olive oil and a dusting of smoked paprika before sliding them in with the bread. They cooked at 190C, turned once, for about 30 minutes, till starting to show charring at the edges.


The celeriac was pleasant, strangely enough still tasting of celeriac rather than braising steak, though the texture was not far off, but the onion gravy with which they were covered on the plate - a load of red onions sweated, reduced and slightly caramelised for 45 minutes - was the star of the show. Some tawny port added sweetness, plain flour thickened things, half a tsp of Marmite gave it umami depth (stop showing off, Kyle), and a knob of butter added gloss at the end.


Heston B would doubtless wish to add a vanilla pod, eyebrow trimmings and donkey cheese to give it a lift (and justify charging the price of a high-end bicycle for a jar). He'd be wrong. If it ain't broke, don't fix the fixing.

Gratifyingly Good Gratin

Nigel Slater is a cookery writer I find both helpful and annoying. His prissy style gets right up my nose, but he has some excellent ideas. Reading his recipe for baked onions with miso nudged me to make something with onions prepared in the same way - boiled for 40 minutes till soft (he said 25 - 30). My version then diverted from his entirely. Halved across the equator the onions were placed cut side up in a gratin dish, moistened with a dash or six of vermouth, then covered with a heavily peppered gruyere-and-brown-breadcrumb mix, dotted with butter, and baked in a 190C oven for 25 minutes or so (until the top crisped and browned). Does anything smell more appetising than cooking cheese and onions?


The Dear Leader (eternal damnation to those who oppose her) and Sternest Critic both approved, though both later blamed the need to extinguish naked flames in the house on the alliums.


The gratin is one of those culinary joys that seem to have been pushed aside as old fashioned - 'so eighties darling [bro?].' As someone who is a dedicated follower of anti-fashion I prefer, greedily, to keep it in my ever-expanding kitchen vocabulary. Perhaps restaurants avoid them as needing too much checking on, and for the time it takes, though as with the example above you can often pre-cook the vegetables and just need to slide the dish in a hot oven to finish.


It is also a great way of making something substantial that costs very little - especially economic if the oven is used for something else as the same time (the onion gratin was followed by a fish pie of modest size). Some years ago I wrote a paid piece for a culinary website where a cheesy potato gratin was one of (I think) four dishes to feed a family, each with ingredients costing under £2. No cream in that one then, but a stock cube, some dried herbs and a couple of cloves of garlic make a decent moistening, an alternative to milk, and supermarket cheddar browns as nicely as posher gruyere. You can save on pre-cooking too if, like in one cooked last week by Sternest Critic, you slice the spuds and onions to see-through thickness.


That use of vermouth, by the way, is something I'd recommend. I sometimes buy a cheapo bottle just for used in cooking - it gives a herby flavour, keeps better than wine, and makes you feel somehow more generous - as I only had some rather high end Dollin to hand, doubly so then. And its pairing with gin is as sublime as cheese with onions.

Simply (Sometimes) the Best

Given my undoubted obsession with variety, and ensuring our nutrition is tickety boo, main course dishes here accordingly tend to include quite a few different veg etc. Sometimes it's good to focus on one thing, however, to give it due respect and a chance to shine.


Last night's main course, with The Dear Leader still struggling with her jaw (a corn cob injury, weirdly) and needing softish foods I went with something from the classic repertoire - a fancy version of French onion soup (think the posh French name is Panade). It is my kind of cooking anyway, in several ways - onions are, like me, cheap. It requires slow cooking and a lot of therapeutic peeling and slicing (without tears for once), and watching carefully until it achieves that perfect mahogany shade of brown. And this version entailed opening a bottle of wine that forms part of the cooking liquid, (along with beef stock), so we had to finish off the rest. Thickened with flour (darling, nobody does that these days), then enriched with loads of grated Gruyere and a good slug of Cognac (best thing for it, I'm a (married) single malt man), it was the ideal thing for a gloomy autumn evening.


That approach, focusing on one big element, is suited to soups, though I'm a fan of the French hotel using-up-bits-of-leftover-veg option too. Recently we had an enjoyable Jerusalem artichoke soup, though that had the backing of carrots and onions, with the fine flavour of those tubers given free rein; and on Saturday a pumpkin was very much to the fore in another potage (not so fine, but TDL like it). Having mistakenly overdone the carrot purchasing we're likely to have Potage de Crecy this week too. I need to go to my favourite Asian supermarket to buy another net of their excellent and incredibly cheap garlic, to go for a Spanish sopa de ajo, using three or four heads of the stuff. All this veg may be good for us (and especially our blood apparently, as far as the garlic and onions are concerned), but it is just as well we have the heavy winter duvet on the bed. Enough said.

Obsessed with Onions

I go through phases when certain ingredients grab my attention to the point that they for a while become obsessions. These may be triggered by food I'm served, by a TV cookery show, something read in a cook book (the most frequent source), or by an aspect of a dish I've prepared, as was the case last week.

A biryani made with loads of onions in the sauce/body of the dish was finished with some caramelised and slightly crispy fried onions on top of the rice. Biryanis, btw, give the lie to an advert about takeaways where a supposed law of the curry is that the sauce always goes on top of the rice. Onions for that dish provided the deeply savoury flavour at the heart of the sauce, whilst onions from the exact same bag gave it a sweeter finish, the same ingredient made entirely different by different cooking methods.

Other things enriched that curry - potato, pumpkin, peas, plus ginger and spices. But it was the onion that caught the palate's notice. No wonder there were riots in India a few years ago when onions were in short supply - what would we do without them? I love raw onion in salads; baked onions; in cheesy potato grattins; onion gravy... but most of all I love fried onions, mahogany to black, the way mobile burger bars get them - you fear for your health on so many levels, but what a wonderful flavour.

On Lancaster market this Saturday I bought a 5kg bag of white onions for £2, ridiculously good value (the delightful examples within are a bit undersize for the supermarkets' cretinous policies). As an aside, my £10.10 worth of fruit and veg purchased there would probably provide the vegetable matter (and much of the starch) to get us through the week if we wanted to be frugal - 3 persimmons, 4 giant baking spuds, 5kg white onions, 2 avocados, 15 clementines, 1/2lb mushrooms, 4 limes, a mango, a papaya, 2 bags of tiny sweet peppers, a big swede, a head of celery and a cucumber. I may have missed something else out [I had as I discovered when checking this - add three pomegranates and the same number of sweet potatoes].

With a stock of sharply tasty onions to hand (they rate about Brief Encounter on the peeling tears scale, happily not The Railway Children ending though) I've begun a campaign to make the best of them. Yesterday was French onion soup, cooked slowly for about 90 minutes. I guess around 30 or so onions went into the pot, cooking down to creamy khaki before being thickened with flour ('Daaarling, nobody uses flour to thicken nowadays' - sod off), perked up with a glass of white wine, let down (physically rather than morally) with some ham stock, and finished with a dog end of a French cheese whose name escapes me grated in. It was wonderful, a gloop rather than a liquid, and begged for a glass of roughish red to accompany it. We had two, one for each bowlful. The Dear Leader (may she rule 1000 years) was gracious in her praise.

That barely made a dent in the onion mountain. Tomorrow (man cannot live by onions alone) will be - so very Northern I want to say 'hey up lad' - tripe and onions. Anyone who has never tried it, I pity you.

What's in a Name?

In a previous post I wrote about how cheese and onions, a favourite of my parents (when money was tight I now guess), would have been more popular with foodies if it went by a fancier name. The same thing occurred to me last night when we had a variation on steak and onions.

Good braising steak (from the excellent Stuart and Caroline Lawson of Cockerham) was simmered in a low oven for three hours, the accompanying onions cooking down to a caramelly jam. The whole mushrooms (stalks removed) on top added to the ham stock juices to make, when thickened with cornflour an hour before the finish, something that deserved to be mopped up with bread and was. The stovies served with it added another savoury layer. 

It was delicious, the flavour deep and brown and sweet. But how many foodies would seek out or cook something so simple, just three principal ingredients? In France, where their peasant cooking is still the basis for many meals, the majority would. Here, not many, though if it had been called Boeuf Lyonnaise (the inhabitants of that fine city love their onions) maybe a few more. 

We have happily gone beyond our monomania about French cuisine, and now depending on the way the wind blows tend to bow before Spanish, Mexican, Morrocan, Egyptian, Japanese...  It's great to bring in new dishes and ingredients, but sad if yet again we denigrate British classics. Which do not, however, include Brown Windsor Soup or Coronation Chicken. 

I Bake, but not on Tarty TV

Our ridiculous culture of copycats and characterless celebrities has spawned a phenomenon - the rise (he-he) of baking - about which I am ambivalent. It's great that people are being drawn into cooking of any sort; but it is annoying that in the way of these things some media outlets act as if a) baking is new to the world; b) only the photogenic (count me out then) should be doing this; and c) we suddenly need 50 programmes on the topic.

A rainy Sunday and I felt the need to do something physical and creative, so I made some pizza dough and ended up with an onion and cheese tart of sorts - rolled over edges, base cooked on its own for 10 minutes, then filled with onions sliced thinly and previously cooked until very soft in olive oil, plus some grated cheddar. The filled version needed another 15 minutes to finish.

It was meant to be a slice each for lunch with a small salad, and some left for my wife's pack-up tomorrow. We ate it all.

As far as austerity goes it was about 25p of bread flour, 5p of yeast, at the very most 35p of onions (I used red to brighten it up), and £0.75 for the cheese. Even allowing for under-estimates and the cost of heating the oven to maximum something that proved (he-he again) to be fresh, warm, and really tasty cost well under £2.

Actually the surplus dough made a small garlic bread and some breadsticks, so even more of a bargain.

I posted about the madness of us spending £13 billion on the Olympics in the foolish belief that it would change the health of the nation (or at least that was one of the reasons given). Teaching people to cook would have been a far better use of the dosh. Am I turning into Ed Balls, spending in my imagination the same notional money over and over again, as I had posted before about using some (a very small part) of those wasted funds to provide allotments for a million people?

The Monetary Value of Time

That title one for the accountants and MBAs out there - a sort of pun on the time value of money - my how they didn't laugh. Net present value and all that. Never mind.

This post comes out of last night's meal, something very simple but I am sure hugely improved by the time factor involved. It was spaghetti with meat ragu, or as we called it in the 1970s spag bol. Too often it is something done rapidly, a standby that can with practice be on the table in edible form in 20 minutes. But the rapid version doesn't have the smoothness or the depth of something simmered for an hour or more, and food should be more than just edible.

Time is the magical factor in transforming mince (admittedly here Aberdeen Angus mince from the most excellent Henry Rowntree) from something a bit grainy into a tender and toothsome pleasure. Likewise in taking tinned tomatoes and rounding off their tartness, combining with the sweetness of the chopped onions to make a mellow vegetable (yes the tom is a fruit, don't care) base that can be called a sauce.

I cooked the ragu for about 90 minutes, on very low heat, and it was so much better for the extra time. Even before that simmer time played its part - the meat allowed to brown properly, caramelize in places, instead of being merely turned in a hot pan then moved hastily on.

Cheap Cuts - The Cheek of It

One truism of economical shopping is that meat needing longer cooking will generally be cheaper than something you can flash fry. The savings on the meat have to be balanced with the fuel used over two hours and more in the oven, but with a little planning several dishes can be done at once.

Two days ago I cooked a stew of ox-cheek, meat purchased at Waitrose (not famed for cheapness, but this was a fairly thrifty £6.50/kg). With carrots, onions, and a leek there was the basis of something nutritious, and I added a bowl of mango chutney to the liquid (leftover from a party) plus some of our own dried sage and a tea-spoon of Bovril, a magical meaty ingredient in beef stews and gravies. Cooked very slowly in the morning and into the afternoon (for four hours at 120C actually, while I was out interviewing someone for an article) and then cooled it was kept to mature in the fridge overnight - stews pretty much always benefit from this, the flavours developing and melding.

The result when reheated next day was very tasty: the meat could be cut with a spoon, the juices were sweet and unctuous, and there was next to nothing left. I added a tin of Heinz beans when reheating it, as the meat needed some bulk other than carrots to balance it.

My planning was a bit off, the only thing I 'cooked' with it some lemon and lime skins. After they are juiced don't throw them away, believe it or not once dried out they make very effective firelighters.

Onions and Le Creuset - Both Bargains

We had our annual bonfire do last night, feeding I think 19 in all. The biggest culinary hit was a simple accompaniment to a big bit of plain boiled gammon, onions in a cheesy bechamel. The idea was lifted from Nigel Slater, though I think his version was without cheese. I love the breadth of his ideas, and his frequent focus on things other than meat, but can't abide his writing style as it has evolved over the last few books. Still, he is probably not worried given I have at least five of his tomes.

The dish was made by peeling medium-sized onions and cooking them in boiling water for about 25 minutes, then halving them, placing them like little domes in two Le Creuset cast iron oval dishes, and covering them in a bechamel sauce before finishing in the oven for half an hour at 180C, by which time the surface was starting to brown and bubble.

Milk for the bechamel was infused in the morning (thinking ahead as it was a party) with onion, carrot, bay and nutmeg, and the sauce made in the usual way, on the thin side as the cheese then added would give it extra body anyhow. At the end of the evening there was some gammon left, about half the pate (too much bacon in it, a sin Elizabeth David railed against), but not a scrap of cheesy onion (nor a single sausage, that standby of the bonfire party). Sternest critic rightly said later that the onion was a touch watery, so I'd probably cook them for just 15 minutes in future and rely on the oven to finish them off.

Ten onions cost about £0.75, the milk and cheese maybe £1, so it was a cheap and tasty success, a bargain. As were those Le Creuset dishes about 25 years ago. Good cookware lasts, and helps the cook. I have two sets of pans, one stainless steel, the other LC cast iron, both bought in the late 1980s, and both pretty forgiving of wavering attention. They cost quite a bit back then, but had we chosen cheapo options with thin bases and delicate lids they'd have died at best three years later, and would have burned half the things cooked in them.

Biggest firework hit btw was Molten Madness from Sainsbury's, brought by a friend. It was roughly the size and weight of a fridge, and effectively laid down an artillery barrage for five minutes. Le Creuset Soup Pot with Lid, 2-3/4 quart - Cherry (Google Affiliate Ad)

The Wonderful Onion

Because it is a relatively easy crop to grow and keeps very well on the shop shelf, the humble onion is still cheap and cheerful, a bringer of austerity joy along with peeling tears. No home should be without a bag of onions to form the basis of cheap homemade soups, add vegetable bulk to stews, and provide a bit of zing to salads. As with so many other veg, go for the big bags of undersized ones when you see them in the shops, same flavour but cheaper.

The onion can take centre stage as well as filling supporting roles. A simple and delicious dish my mother cooked in the Sixties and Seventies, probably made when funds were not abundant, was cheese and onions. Slice a load of onions thinly, put in a saucepan, cover with milk and a bit extra, ideally using full-cream but semi-skimmed is fine, not that nasty grey skimmed stuff though. Heat it to a bubbling simmer and cook until the onions are super-soft. It's milk, so you don't want to have the heat too high and risk it boiling over. Season to taste - for me it needs quite a bit of salt - turn the heat right down, or put a heat diffuser under the pan, then add plenty of grated cheddar or anything else you have to hand that melts well. If you have too high a heat the cheese turns to rubber, so don't rush it.

Serve in bowls with lots of white bread generously buttered to dip in the juices (with which the butter inevitably melds). This is not a dish that you can play tunes with. Don't add anything, it's perfect in itself. And white bread is the best here, cheapo sliced is fine but a cottage loaf would add a touch of class if you want. Cheap, filling, tasty, most kids love it, great for autumn or winter suppers. Drink a glass of wine as you eat and call the experience Pennine Fondue or the Lancashire Fondue.