Prepare to be confused.
Confusion isn’t necessarily a bad thing. I remember vividly the first time I watched a David Lynch movie. Trying to unravel that particular puzzle noir was a complicated but ultimately rewarding experience.
But food and drink labelling is a different beast entirely.
Much hoo-hah has been made of the provenance of so-called British pork pies, with the Conservative party dedicating an entire viral campaign around the misleading labelling (pork from the continent assembled into pie form on these fair shores) of this particular snack.
These little culinary wolves in sheep’s clothing seem to be in other places too, hiding out waiting to pounce on the unwitting consumer at less than a moment’s notice. Even in wine bottles.
It was in such a state of blissful ignorance that we bought three bottles of Three Mills – one red, one white, one rose – from the supermarket.
At two quid a bottle it seemed silly not to take the chance. Having spent three years at university imbibing wine of dubious origin and questionable quality, it seemed logical to think that the contents would at least be drinkable. And if not then there was always the option of cooking with it.
What really swung it for us, though, was the proud wording on the label: British Wine. Six pounds to help the fledging wine industry of Great Britain? Well worth the money.
How wrong we were. On all counts.
The wine itself was undrinkable. Cloying. Sweet and with all the depth of a dried up puddle. It sat limply in the glass and at a mere 8% alcohol wasn’t even worth drinking with the sole purpose of getting merry.
To cook with it would be a crime against food. I shuddered at the prospect of ruining a glorious free range chicken or beef short rib by sluicing it with this vile concoction. It went some way to proving the maxim that one shouldn’t cook with wine one isn’t prepared to drink. In fact, it went all the way, proving beyond all reasonable doubt that if you wouldn’t put it in a glass, don’t put it in the pot.
But at least it was British. Right? Wrong. It transpired that we had been the victim of a cruel marketing sleight of hand.
British wine is a very different beast to English wine which is made with grapes actually grown in this country by people who actually know what they are doing and who actually take pride in what they do.
We had been fooled into buying three bottles made with imported grape juice somehow turned into something that resembled wine in the same way Frankenstein’s Monster resembled a fully functioning human being.
It had been made with the sort of contempt that a nefarious character from Grimms’ Fairy Tales might show an innocent stepchild standing in the way of a vast inheritance.
To call Three Mills ‘wine’ is questionable, at best. To call it ‘British’ is downright duplicitous. Even at two pounds a bottle we were left feeling conned, and without wine. Not a combination leading to satisfactory happiness.
For more on this visit english-wine.com And don't forget to follow me on Twitter. But only if you want to.
Monday, 29 June 2009
Friday, 26 June 2009
Assiette de Tete de Porc or ‘How to turn a hog’s head into a delicate trio of starters’
[Scroll down for recipes]
Carnivorous detachment is something many of us are guilty of.
By that I mean there is a deliberate and tangible epistemic distance between product and animal. It’s one that we gloss over. Choose to ignore, and prefer to exist in a state of happy ignorance about where meat comes from.
Of course, when it really comes down to it we know that something, some thing, died so that we can consume the animal protein on our plate but there is a vast chasm between the casual awareness of this and the genuine hands on reality.
A few weeks back I went to a slaughterhouse. It was clean and quiet and had been shut down for the day. But the pervading atmosphere was one of death.
It was discernable not only in the smell, but in the walls, the floors, the shape of the pens and the grim actuality of the chains, hooks and instruments required to turn a cow (or in this case a water buffalo) into something the consumer is happy to eat.
There was no slaughter that day. But it wasn’t necessary to see it in order to have beliefs affirmed: that, for me, eating meat comes with a responsibility to appreciate the reality of husbandry, slaughter and butchery.
I’m not here to proselytise. Merely explain the position I’ve chosen to take and hopefully use that as a springboard for what follows.
Naturally there was a culinary dimension to cooking a pig’s head. It’s a challenge. A gastronomic gauntlet. A badge of honour, almost. But it also represents the face-to-face dimension of being a carnivore. Literally.
Where one can cook a steak with little thought to animal from which it came, a head doesn’t offer this luxury. It is clearly an animal, and one that we are familiar with. Looking at the apparent smile that seems to spread across the face of a dead pig one can’t help but think it is in a state of blissful ignorance as to its fate: the dinner plate.
I’d set myself the task of cooking a rather ambitious menu and then serving it up to brave diners who had kindly volunteered to accompany me on this little culinary journey. As a perfectionist, though, this wasn’t going to happen without a practice run.
The brain dish wasn’t a winner and certainly not worth the effort of cleaving open the head – a task which took close to three quarters of an hour. But the rest had potential.
So, here it is. A first draft anyway. Complete with recipes
Trio of Pig’s Head
[NB – The only element of this I had help with was asking the butcher to remove the eyes. I have a funny thing with eyes. I was 21 before I could consider the possibility of getting contact lenses.]
For this you will need one pig’s head. Remove the eyes and discard. Remove the ears close to the head and wash well. Use a boning knife to remove as much of the cheek meat as possible, cut into inch long pieces and set aside.
Cut off about an inch and a half to two inches of the snout and discard (a large saw is probably the best piece of equipment for this).
Place the head and ears into a large stockpot with a crude mirepoix of carrots, onion, celery, leeks and garlic. Cover the whole lot with water and bring it to a gentle boil. Let it simmer for half an hour, skimming off any scum that rises to the surface. After thirty minutes reduce the heat and let it bubble away very gently for three hours.
To confit the cheeks, finely chop some rosemary and bay leaf. Salt the cheeks and sprinkle over the herbs. Put the whole lot into a roasting tray and add enough duck or goose fat to come halfway up the cheek pieces. Cook in a cool oven – about 125 degrees C – for three hours. Turn the pieces every half hour or so. Once cooked leave to cool.
Remove the ears and head from the stock pot and let them cool. Strain the stock through a sieve and then a muslin cloth, bring it back to the boil and reduce it by about half. Remove about 250ml from the pot and add it to another saucepan. Reduce that by half. This will make the setting jelly for the brawn pâté. The rest of the stock can be used to make soup.
Once the head is cool enough to handle strip it of its meat, of which there should be plenty – about 300-400g. Set to one side and discard the bones.
Take a deep breath. You’re almost there.
Confit of pig’s cheek
Remove the meat from the duck or goose fat and slice off the skin (which can be used to make pork scratchings – bake ina moderate oven for about 20 minutes). Use two forks to shred it roughly, a little like making rillettes. Heat the leftover fat and strain through a sieve.
Season the meat with salt and black pepper then stuff it tightly into a sterilised jar. Pour over the liquid fat, screw on the lid and let it cool. This should keep for weeks and is great served with cornichons and fresh, crusty bread.
Brawn pâté
Brawn is a rough and ready item of charcuterie usually made with the entire head with chunks of meat set into jelly. This is a more delicate, refined version, much more similar to a pâté or rough sausage. The jelly is almost indiscernible and is used predominantly as a binding agent.
Finely chop the meat. Season it with salt and pepper then add some chopped sage, about six or seven leaves. In a mixing bowl add about 50ml of the reduced stock to the meat until it starts to come together then turn out onto a square of cling film or tin foil.
Roll the meat into a tight sausage and leave in the fridge overnight. Once set, slice the meat into circles, fry in a little olive oil for thirty seconds each side and serve with salad leaves.
Crispy fried pig’s ears
These are delicious. Not just passable or ‘OK. For an ear’, but really tasty. A little like calamari but slightly tougher.
Thinly slice the ear and coat in seasoned flour. Make up a batter (I used the ginger beer batter again – it works really well) and deep fry the battered ears for about two minutes. Drain on kitchen paper and serve with sea salt, a little lemon juice and some mayonnaise or sweet chilli sauce.
Carnivorous detachment is something many of us are guilty of.
By that I mean there is a deliberate and tangible epistemic distance between product and animal. It’s one that we gloss over. Choose to ignore, and prefer to exist in a state of happy ignorance about where meat comes from.
Of course, when it really comes down to it we know that something, some thing, died so that we can consume the animal protein on our plate but there is a vast chasm between the casual awareness of this and the genuine hands on reality.
A few weeks back I went to a slaughterhouse. It was clean and quiet and had been shut down for the day. But the pervading atmosphere was one of death.
It was discernable not only in the smell, but in the walls, the floors, the shape of the pens and the grim actuality of the chains, hooks and instruments required to turn a cow (or in this case a water buffalo) into something the consumer is happy to eat.
There was no slaughter that day. But it wasn’t necessary to see it in order to have beliefs affirmed: that, for me, eating meat comes with a responsibility to appreciate the reality of husbandry, slaughter and butchery.
I’m not here to proselytise. Merely explain the position I’ve chosen to take and hopefully use that as a springboard for what follows.
Naturally there was a culinary dimension to cooking a pig’s head. It’s a challenge. A gastronomic gauntlet. A badge of honour, almost. But it also represents the face-to-face dimension of being a carnivore. Literally.
Where one can cook a steak with little thought to animal from which it came, a head doesn’t offer this luxury. It is clearly an animal, and one that we are familiar with. Looking at the apparent smile that seems to spread across the face of a dead pig one can’t help but think it is in a state of blissful ignorance as to its fate: the dinner plate.
I’d set myself the task of cooking a rather ambitious menu and then serving it up to brave diners who had kindly volunteered to accompany me on this little culinary journey. As a perfectionist, though, this wasn’t going to happen without a practice run.
The brain dish wasn’t a winner and certainly not worth the effort of cleaving open the head – a task which took close to three quarters of an hour. But the rest had potential.
So, here it is. A first draft anyway. Complete with recipes
Trio of Pig’s Head
[NB – The only element of this I had help with was asking the butcher to remove the eyes. I have a funny thing with eyes. I was 21 before I could consider the possibility of getting contact lenses.]
For this you will need one pig’s head. Remove the eyes and discard. Remove the ears close to the head and wash well. Use a boning knife to remove as much of the cheek meat as possible, cut into inch long pieces and set aside.
Cut off about an inch and a half to two inches of the snout and discard (a large saw is probably the best piece of equipment for this).
Place the head and ears into a large stockpot with a crude mirepoix of carrots, onion, celery, leeks and garlic. Cover the whole lot with water and bring it to a gentle boil. Let it simmer for half an hour, skimming off any scum that rises to the surface. After thirty minutes reduce the heat and let it bubble away very gently for three hours.
To confit the cheeks, finely chop some rosemary and bay leaf. Salt the cheeks and sprinkle over the herbs. Put the whole lot into a roasting tray and add enough duck or goose fat to come halfway up the cheek pieces. Cook in a cool oven – about 125 degrees C – for three hours. Turn the pieces every half hour or so. Once cooked leave to cool.
Remove the ears and head from the stock pot and let them cool. Strain the stock through a sieve and then a muslin cloth, bring it back to the boil and reduce it by about half. Remove about 250ml from the pot and add it to another saucepan. Reduce that by half. This will make the setting jelly for the brawn pâté. The rest of the stock can be used to make soup.
Once the head is cool enough to handle strip it of its meat, of which there should be plenty – about 300-400g. Set to one side and discard the bones.
Take a deep breath. You’re almost there.
Confit of pig’s cheek
Remove the meat from the duck or goose fat and slice off the skin (which can be used to make pork scratchings – bake ina moderate oven for about 20 minutes). Use two forks to shred it roughly, a little like making rillettes. Heat the leftover fat and strain through a sieve.
Season the meat with salt and black pepper then stuff it tightly into a sterilised jar. Pour over the liquid fat, screw on the lid and let it cool. This should keep for weeks and is great served with cornichons and fresh, crusty bread.
Brawn pâté
Brawn is a rough and ready item of charcuterie usually made with the entire head with chunks of meat set into jelly. This is a more delicate, refined version, much more similar to a pâté or rough sausage. The jelly is almost indiscernible and is used predominantly as a binding agent.
Finely chop the meat. Season it with salt and pepper then add some chopped sage, about six or seven leaves. In a mixing bowl add about 50ml of the reduced stock to the meat until it starts to come together then turn out onto a square of cling film or tin foil.
Roll the meat into a tight sausage and leave in the fridge overnight. Once set, slice the meat into circles, fry in a little olive oil for thirty seconds each side and serve with salad leaves.
Crispy fried pig’s ears
These are delicious. Not just passable or ‘OK. For an ear’, but really tasty. A little like calamari but slightly tougher.
Thinly slice the ear and coat in seasoned flour. Make up a batter (I used the ginger beer batter again – it works really well) and deep fry the battered ears for about two minutes. Drain on kitchen paper and serve with sea salt, a little lemon juice and some mayonnaise or sweet chilli sauce.
Tuesday, 23 June 2009
Nose to Tail Tuesday (N3T) - Brains
It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single foodstuff in possession of good batter can be rendered not just palatable, but delicious through the simple action of deep-frying.
So said Jane Austen in Pride and Prejudice.
I think. Or something along those lines anyway.
But it is a fair argument. Golden batter can hide a multitude of sins, provide a satisfying crunch to an otherwise flabby ingredient and even impart its own magical flavours.
It’s a culinary sleight of hand used the world over from the feather-light tempura of Japan to the more, ahem, heavyweight Scottish offerings (deep-fried kebab meat pizza, anyone? And is it wrong that I find that slightly alluring?).
My old boss once told me of a dinner he enjoyed after a long day’s trek through a mountainous region of the States. In the mood for seafood, he ordered a large plate of Rocky Mountain Oysters.
They arrived not on the half shell as expected, but a steaming mound of golden brown delights, fresh from the deep fat fryer, just the right size to pop into the mouth.
It was only after eating half the portion that his colleague informed him they were not the salty molluscs he thought, but rather the inevitable leftovers of the messy business of cattle castration.
‘Quite tasty,’ he relayed to me, almost romantically.
It was this approach I thought best when contemplating the prospect of eating, for the first time, brain.
The menu tete de porc is gradually taking shape. It needs some work, some gentle refining before it is unleashed upon intrepid diners but it is mostly good.
One course, however, will not make it onto the final bill of fayre.
Removing the brain from the head of a pig is a chore of such magnitude that the final result would have to be rapturously delicious and close to orgasmic in order to make the task worthwhile. It is far from being either of these things. About as far away as it is possible to be.
After stripping the head of the cheeks, ears and snout you are left with something that resembles a science project. What then follows is an hour of finely tuned sawing, cleaving, chipping and brute force in order to remove its contents.
Which are surprisingly small. A disappointing fact at first sight but one that I grew grateful of very quickly when eating time came around.
A pig’s brain is about the size of a large duck egg. Before eating it must be soaked in water for at least 24 hours and then gently poached for about ten minutes. You can use plain old water with a splash of vinegar but we used chicken stock.
What emerges is something that looks like, well, it looks like a brain. There is no getting away from that fact: those familiar little lobes with the swirling labyrinthine pattern twisting across their pale surface.
Each hemisphere was sliced into three, dipped into batter (made with plain flour and ginger beer seasoned with salt, pepper and cayenne) and then deep fried in sunflower oil and suet for about two minutes.
They looked great. Appetising little nibbles whose true origins had been thoroughly and carefully disguised.
My dining partner on this occasion was a chef, also in possession of an adventurous and willing palate. ‘Batter looks good,’ he mused in an attempt to distract us both from its contents.
The small portion was taken outside along with some homemade mayonnaise, plenty of water and a pinch of bravado.
Sitting opposite each other in unintentional gladiatorial style, we each picked up a piece of battered brain and took a bite.
It is not necessary for something to taste actively bad in order to be unpleasant. Texture plays a major role in how we enjoy food. Few westerners enjoy the sticky, glutinous quality of many Asian delicacies such as Natto, made from fermented soybeans.
In that respect brain is unpleasant. Deeply so. What little flavour there is, is not nice. Faintly eggy but not strong enough in of itself to warrant being labelled disgusting.
But the texture of brain is what made us wince. Hard to pin down we tried to find a foodstuff with which to compare it to. The uncooked top of an inadequately fried egg. The slight ickiness of a cloying curdled milk product. Yoghurt that has gone flying far, far beyond its best before date.
It’s somewhere ethereal beyond liquid but stopping short of being solid and it disappeared in the mouth in an alarming fashion, almost flooding the palate with its bizarre nature. The brief respite of the batter only accentuated the downright unpleasantness of what was inside.
We ate another, with slightly more mayonnaise and slightly less gusto in order to galvanise our findings hoping that having removed the shock and awe factor, our second taste wouldn’t be clouded with prejudice. But prejudice merely gave way to knowledge and expectation. I’m not sure if it was better or worse. There was certainly no pride.
The remaining two nuggets were dissected and picked apart in order to pin down what the texture was like but we were still left without an adequate comparison.
A truth universally acknowledged? There is an exception that proves every rule and brain is the one.
Verdict? Brain has made the list. The. List. The list of foods I will happily go a lifetime without tasting again. It has happy company along with tinned tuna and hundred year egg. Don’t try this at home.
So said Jane Austen in Pride and Prejudice.
I think. Or something along those lines anyway.
But it is a fair argument. Golden batter can hide a multitude of sins, provide a satisfying crunch to an otherwise flabby ingredient and even impart its own magical flavours.
It’s a culinary sleight of hand used the world over from the feather-light tempura of Japan to the more, ahem, heavyweight Scottish offerings (deep-fried kebab meat pizza, anyone? And is it wrong that I find that slightly alluring?).
My old boss once told me of a dinner he enjoyed after a long day’s trek through a mountainous region of the States. In the mood for seafood, he ordered a large plate of Rocky Mountain Oysters.
They arrived not on the half shell as expected, but a steaming mound of golden brown delights, fresh from the deep fat fryer, just the right size to pop into the mouth.
It was only after eating half the portion that his colleague informed him they were not the salty molluscs he thought, but rather the inevitable leftovers of the messy business of cattle castration.
‘Quite tasty,’ he relayed to me, almost romantically.
It was this approach I thought best when contemplating the prospect of eating, for the first time, brain.
The menu tete de porc is gradually taking shape. It needs some work, some gentle refining before it is unleashed upon intrepid diners but it is mostly good.
One course, however, will not make it onto the final bill of fayre.
Removing the brain from the head of a pig is a chore of such magnitude that the final result would have to be rapturously delicious and close to orgasmic in order to make the task worthwhile. It is far from being either of these things. About as far away as it is possible to be.
After stripping the head of the cheeks, ears and snout you are left with something that resembles a science project. What then follows is an hour of finely tuned sawing, cleaving, chipping and brute force in order to remove its contents.
Which are surprisingly small. A disappointing fact at first sight but one that I grew grateful of very quickly when eating time came around.
A pig’s brain is about the size of a large duck egg. Before eating it must be soaked in water for at least 24 hours and then gently poached for about ten minutes. You can use plain old water with a splash of vinegar but we used chicken stock.
What emerges is something that looks like, well, it looks like a brain. There is no getting away from that fact: those familiar little lobes with the swirling labyrinthine pattern twisting across their pale surface.
Each hemisphere was sliced into three, dipped into batter (made with plain flour and ginger beer seasoned with salt, pepper and cayenne) and then deep fried in sunflower oil and suet for about two minutes.
They looked great. Appetising little nibbles whose true origins had been thoroughly and carefully disguised.
My dining partner on this occasion was a chef, also in possession of an adventurous and willing palate. ‘Batter looks good,’ he mused in an attempt to distract us both from its contents.
The small portion was taken outside along with some homemade mayonnaise, plenty of water and a pinch of bravado.
Sitting opposite each other in unintentional gladiatorial style, we each picked up a piece of battered brain and took a bite.
It is not necessary for something to taste actively bad in order to be unpleasant. Texture plays a major role in how we enjoy food. Few westerners enjoy the sticky, glutinous quality of many Asian delicacies such as Natto, made from fermented soybeans.
In that respect brain is unpleasant. Deeply so. What little flavour there is, is not nice. Faintly eggy but not strong enough in of itself to warrant being labelled disgusting.
But the texture of brain is what made us wince. Hard to pin down we tried to find a foodstuff with which to compare it to. The uncooked top of an inadequately fried egg. The slight ickiness of a cloying curdled milk product. Yoghurt that has gone flying far, far beyond its best before date.
It’s somewhere ethereal beyond liquid but stopping short of being solid and it disappeared in the mouth in an alarming fashion, almost flooding the palate with its bizarre nature. The brief respite of the batter only accentuated the downright unpleasantness of what was inside.
We ate another, with slightly more mayonnaise and slightly less gusto in order to galvanise our findings hoping that having removed the shock and awe factor, our second taste wouldn’t be clouded with prejudice. But prejudice merely gave way to knowledge and expectation. I’m not sure if it was better or worse. There was certainly no pride.
The remaining two nuggets were dissected and picked apart in order to pin down what the texture was like but we were still left without an adequate comparison.
A truth universally acknowledged? There is an exception that proves every rule and brain is the one.
Verdict? Brain has made the list. The. List. The list of foods I will happily go a lifetime without tasting again. It has happy company along with tinned tuna and hundred year egg. Don’t try this at home.
Friday, 19 June 2009
In Over My Head?
As the old adage goes, you learn something new everyday.
Yesterday I learnt three things. Did you know, for instance, that the greyhound accelerates to 45 miles per hour in a single second from a standing start? Zero to forty five in a second? Amazing. It is the second fastest land mammal on earth.
The other two factoids I gleaned through empirical, hands-on research and part of me wishes I was still in a happy cloud of blissful ignorance. Here we go: the brain of a pig is surprisingly small. Tiny, in fact. About the size of a duck’s egg.
['Two squeaks, or not two squeaks? That is the question']
The second? There is a wonderful nugget of meat that sits just below the eye socket behind the cheek bone, only accessible with an adventurous finger after the head of a pig has been simmered long and slow. It falls away in a rather satisfactory fashion, a neat little piece of tasty pork.
I know this because of Project Napoleon.
Project Napoleon, named after the Stalin-esque character in Animal Farm, began quite by accident.
I’d had a request to cook (and eat) brain for the Nose to Tail Tuesday feature (thanks for that). With calves’ and lambs’ brain still illegal, it was up to the reliable old porker to provide the means by which this terrifying prospect could be realised.
I put in a reluctant request with my butcher and received a phone call on Wednesday: ‘I’ve got a pig’s head here for you? Do you want the whole thing or just the brain?’
The question was a no-brainer (ha ha ha – sorry). The head is a culinary challenge I’ve been keen to take on for quite some time: a real test that separates those who merely profess a predilection for the holistic approach and those with genuine gastronomic fortitude.
Why does the head divide the cooking fraternity so? It’s about emoting. As humans we have evolved to read faces, to try and glean as much information as possible from them. The slightest movement can give away a secret, a feeling or an emotion.
Presented with the head of an animal, there is a near certainty that we will lean towards anthropomorphosis. And pigs, even deceased and decapitated ones, look like they are smiling. They look content. Happy even. So turning it into food is difficult.
Once this hurdle has been leapt over, the rest is easy.
One option for turning this insanely cheap meat (this one cost just under three pounds) into a viable foodstuff is to make a tête de fromage, not a uniquely male medical condition but a rustic pâté also known as brawn.
Here the entire head is simmered gently for three hours in water and stock vegetables. Once cooled, the meat, fat and skin is stripped from the skull, the stock strained, reduced and turned into a jelly into which the meat is set.
Yum.
Or not.
I wanted something more refined. I’ve always believed that true culinary skill lies in turning the ridiculous into the sublime. The drab into the delicious. Here was a challenge.
Driving home from the butcher’s I started putting a menu together, one that would showcase this unusual ingredient to its full potential.
Head Over Heels
So, here is the plan – to be served to adventurous dinner guests, just as soon as we find some. Any takers?
Pre dinner drinks with pork scratchings and ears Ste Menehould
Deep fried brain on toast with champagne
Sour Apple amuse
Pea & Bacon Soup made with ‘head stock’ with homemade bread
Refined brawn pâté with sage
Confit cheek with apple jelly, candied bacon and summer leaves
Dessert
Cheese and port
Let’s see just what this head can do…
Yesterday I learnt three things. Did you know, for instance, that the greyhound accelerates to 45 miles per hour in a single second from a standing start? Zero to forty five in a second? Amazing. It is the second fastest land mammal on earth.
The other two factoids I gleaned through empirical, hands-on research and part of me wishes I was still in a happy cloud of blissful ignorance. Here we go: the brain of a pig is surprisingly small. Tiny, in fact. About the size of a duck’s egg.
['Two squeaks, or not two squeaks? That is the question']
The second? There is a wonderful nugget of meat that sits just below the eye socket behind the cheek bone, only accessible with an adventurous finger after the head of a pig has been simmered long and slow. It falls away in a rather satisfactory fashion, a neat little piece of tasty pork.
I know this because of Project Napoleon.
Project Napoleon, named after the Stalin-esque character in Animal Farm, began quite by accident.
I’d had a request to cook (and eat) brain for the Nose to Tail Tuesday feature (thanks for that). With calves’ and lambs’ brain still illegal, it was up to the reliable old porker to provide the means by which this terrifying prospect could be realised.
I put in a reluctant request with my butcher and received a phone call on Wednesday: ‘I’ve got a pig’s head here for you? Do you want the whole thing or just the brain?’
The question was a no-brainer (ha ha ha – sorry). The head is a culinary challenge I’ve been keen to take on for quite some time: a real test that separates those who merely profess a predilection for the holistic approach and those with genuine gastronomic fortitude.
Why does the head divide the cooking fraternity so? It’s about emoting. As humans we have evolved to read faces, to try and glean as much information as possible from them. The slightest movement can give away a secret, a feeling or an emotion.
Presented with the head of an animal, there is a near certainty that we will lean towards anthropomorphosis. And pigs, even deceased and decapitated ones, look like they are smiling. They look content. Happy even. So turning it into food is difficult.
Once this hurdle has been leapt over, the rest is easy.
One option for turning this insanely cheap meat (this one cost just under three pounds) into a viable foodstuff is to make a tête de fromage, not a uniquely male medical condition but a rustic pâté also known as brawn.
Here the entire head is simmered gently for three hours in water and stock vegetables. Once cooled, the meat, fat and skin is stripped from the skull, the stock strained, reduced and turned into a jelly into which the meat is set.
Yum.
Or not.
I wanted something more refined. I’ve always believed that true culinary skill lies in turning the ridiculous into the sublime. The drab into the delicious. Here was a challenge.
Driving home from the butcher’s I started putting a menu together, one that would showcase this unusual ingredient to its full potential.
Head Over Heels
So, here is the plan – to be served to adventurous dinner guests, just as soon as we find some. Any takers?
Pre dinner drinks with pork scratchings and ears Ste Menehould
Deep fried brain on toast with champagne
Sour Apple amuse
Pea & Bacon Soup made with ‘head stock’ with homemade bread
Refined brawn pâté with sage
Confit cheek with apple jelly, candied bacon and summer leaves
Dessert
Cheese and port
Let’s see just what this head can do…
Thursday, 18 June 2009
The End of the Line?
Pay attention because these may be the three most important words you could learn this year.
They are in the form of a question, are easy to remember and will no doubt facilitate further conversation.
Ready?
Is. It. Sustainable?
Every time you buy fish be sure to say these words out loud.
I already knew the situation regarding dwindling fish stocks was perilous but the true extent to which so many species are in danger was brought into terrifying immediacy last week when I went to see The End of the Line, a new documentary based on the book written by journalist Charles Glover.
The conclusion of the film, full of serious looking scientists and graphs with a ubiquitous downward trend, is that stocks of many of the fish we know and love will have crashed sometime shortly before 2050.
When fish stocks crash, I learnt, it means their number has re-treated to below a level from which it can recover. Population sizes get too small and, ultimately, species die out. By 2048, Ted Danson surmises gravely over various swooping shots of the Deep Blue, the oceans may be full of little more than algae and jellyfish.
I don’t fancy jellyfish fingers. Crab sticks are bad enough.
Cod, marlin, skate and others receive their moment in the spotlight but the poster boy for the campaign is without doubt the bluefin tuna, now seemingly endangered to the same extent as the orang-utan or giant panda.
Fished predominantly in the warm waters of the Med, the bluefin is a beautiful creature – no doubt supremely tasty – but one that none of us should be eating. Indeed, many restaurateurs have taken the fish off their menus with barely a few notable exceptions (Nobu being the most famous, and currently stubborn).
Coming under the jurisdiction of the EU fisheries committee, quotas (if properly enforced) could help halt the rapid decline in the fish’s population. Scientists advise a maximum catch of 10,000 tons of blue fin, a figure that would just allow the stocks to start recovering. In a frustrating piece of footage, the quota is set at six times this amount with many boats simply ignoring it entirely and shipping illegally caught blue fin to the Far East.
Despite its grim predictions the film ends on an up-beat. It suggests that in this case, change must come from below. We haven’t yet reached tipping point but the revolution must be consumer led. The individual can, it says, make a difference.
Perhaps they can. Roberto Mielgo, one of the film’s heroes, is merely a lone gun. A former fisherman himself, he travels the world amidst a dense fug of Marlboro smoke compiling evidence against the worst offenders and putting together dossiers packed with information. A latter day Sam Spade for the oceans.
But for every David there is a Goliath and there are few bigger giants than the Mitsubishi Corporation who appear to be stockpiling bluefin in enormous frozen warehouses hoping, Glover argues, to cash in when the stocks begin to disappear.
It’s here I find the conclusion, that the consumer can make the difference, incongruous with the body of evidence as just presented. The shady worlds of international politics and global big business dominate the oceans and have a monopoly on its contents. The bottom line is the bottom line and whilst that is the case, I fear that there is little we can do.
That’s not to say we should give up and chow down plates of oturo seven nights a week – we do need to find other sources of piscine protein.
After the screening a Q&A was held with two representatives from the British Antarctic Survey, to field questions regarding the scientific aspects of what we had seen, and two from supermarket chain Waitrose to offer advice about fishy alternatives that are sustainable.
Top of that list is a tropical freshwater fish called tilapia. It has a meaty white flesh with a taste not dissimilar to cod. Having never tried it I was offered a piece to cook, free of charge, from my local Waitrose (another of the good guys - they don't stock any fish unless it is MSC certified)
Tilapia is something of a blank canvas. Like many white fishes it can hold its own with a variety of flavours. Many recipes call for fragrant Thai additions such as chilli and lemongrass.
But I wanted to know if it was possible to use it in the all time test: re-creating the British classic of fish and chips.
NB – I was too hungry to bother taking pictures.
Tilapia in ginger beer batter
This is good. Really, really good. The fish is moist and yielding and remains tender inside its little house of batter made from ginger beer. It might sound strange but please, run with me on this one. I guarantee you won’t regret it. It was the best battered fish I have had in a long time. Serves two.
Two tilapia fillets, each cut into four pieces
75g plain flour, plus a little extra
100ml ginger beer
a pinch of cayenne pepper
a pinch of baking powder
salt and pepper
oil for deep frying (I used a mixture of sunflower and rendered lamb suet)
Dry the fish well and sprinkle a little flour into a shallow plate. Season it with salt and pepper.
Mix the flour in a small bowl and pour in the ginger beer. Whisk well until it is lump free and smooth. Add the baking powder and season with the cayenne, salt and pepper.
Heat the oil in a saucepan over a moderately high heat (it should be about 175 degrees. Test it by dropping in a small cube of bread – if it is hot enough the bread will brown within sixty seconds).
Cover the tilapia with flour and shake off any excess. Drop into the batter then deep fry them for about two minutes until the batter has turned golden brown.
Serve with a mound of well salted chips and a little too much mayonnaise.
Is there a downside to this wunder-fisch? Naturally. It’s from Zimbabwe a country a long, long way away with a more than dubious human rights record. This is a decision you’re going to have to make alone but before you do, go and see the film. Immediately.
They are in the form of a question, are easy to remember and will no doubt facilitate further conversation.
Ready?
Is. It. Sustainable?
Every time you buy fish be sure to say these words out loud.
I already knew the situation regarding dwindling fish stocks was perilous but the true extent to which so many species are in danger was brought into terrifying immediacy last week when I went to see The End of the Line, a new documentary based on the book written by journalist Charles Glover.
The conclusion of the film, full of serious looking scientists and graphs with a ubiquitous downward trend, is that stocks of many of the fish we know and love will have crashed sometime shortly before 2050.
When fish stocks crash, I learnt, it means their number has re-treated to below a level from which it can recover. Population sizes get too small and, ultimately, species die out. By 2048, Ted Danson surmises gravely over various swooping shots of the Deep Blue, the oceans may be full of little more than algae and jellyfish.
I don’t fancy jellyfish fingers. Crab sticks are bad enough.
Cod, marlin, skate and others receive their moment in the spotlight but the poster boy for the campaign is without doubt the bluefin tuna, now seemingly endangered to the same extent as the orang-utan or giant panda.
Fished predominantly in the warm waters of the Med, the bluefin is a beautiful creature – no doubt supremely tasty – but one that none of us should be eating. Indeed, many restaurateurs have taken the fish off their menus with barely a few notable exceptions (Nobu being the most famous, and currently stubborn).
Coming under the jurisdiction of the EU fisheries committee, quotas (if properly enforced) could help halt the rapid decline in the fish’s population. Scientists advise a maximum catch of 10,000 tons of blue fin, a figure that would just allow the stocks to start recovering. In a frustrating piece of footage, the quota is set at six times this amount with many boats simply ignoring it entirely and shipping illegally caught blue fin to the Far East.
Despite its grim predictions the film ends on an up-beat. It suggests that in this case, change must come from below. We haven’t yet reached tipping point but the revolution must be consumer led. The individual can, it says, make a difference.
Perhaps they can. Roberto Mielgo, one of the film’s heroes, is merely a lone gun. A former fisherman himself, he travels the world amidst a dense fug of Marlboro smoke compiling evidence against the worst offenders and putting together dossiers packed with information. A latter day Sam Spade for the oceans.
But for every David there is a Goliath and there are few bigger giants than the Mitsubishi Corporation who appear to be stockpiling bluefin in enormous frozen warehouses hoping, Glover argues, to cash in when the stocks begin to disappear.
It’s here I find the conclusion, that the consumer can make the difference, incongruous with the body of evidence as just presented. The shady worlds of international politics and global big business dominate the oceans and have a monopoly on its contents. The bottom line is the bottom line and whilst that is the case, I fear that there is little we can do.
That’s not to say we should give up and chow down plates of oturo seven nights a week – we do need to find other sources of piscine protein.
After the screening a Q&A was held with two representatives from the British Antarctic Survey, to field questions regarding the scientific aspects of what we had seen, and two from supermarket chain Waitrose to offer advice about fishy alternatives that are sustainable.
Top of that list is a tropical freshwater fish called tilapia. It has a meaty white flesh with a taste not dissimilar to cod. Having never tried it I was offered a piece to cook, free of charge, from my local Waitrose (another of the good guys - they don't stock any fish unless it is MSC certified)
Tilapia is something of a blank canvas. Like many white fishes it can hold its own with a variety of flavours. Many recipes call for fragrant Thai additions such as chilli and lemongrass.
But I wanted to know if it was possible to use it in the all time test: re-creating the British classic of fish and chips.
NB – I was too hungry to bother taking pictures.
Tilapia in ginger beer batter
This is good. Really, really good. The fish is moist and yielding and remains tender inside its little house of batter made from ginger beer. It might sound strange but please, run with me on this one. I guarantee you won’t regret it. It was the best battered fish I have had in a long time. Serves two.
Two tilapia fillets, each cut into four pieces
75g plain flour, plus a little extra
100ml ginger beer
a pinch of cayenne pepper
a pinch of baking powder
salt and pepper
oil for deep frying (I used a mixture of sunflower and rendered lamb suet)
Dry the fish well and sprinkle a little flour into a shallow plate. Season it with salt and pepper.
Mix the flour in a small bowl and pour in the ginger beer. Whisk well until it is lump free and smooth. Add the baking powder and season with the cayenne, salt and pepper.
Heat the oil in a saucepan over a moderately high heat (it should be about 175 degrees. Test it by dropping in a small cube of bread – if it is hot enough the bread will brown within sixty seconds).
Cover the tilapia with flour and shake off any excess. Drop into the batter then deep fry them for about two minutes until the batter has turned golden brown.
Serve with a mound of well salted chips and a little too much mayonnaise.
Is there a downside to this wunder-fisch? Naturally. It’s from Zimbabwe a country a long, long way away with a more than dubious human rights record. This is a decision you’re going to have to make alone but before you do, go and see the film. Immediately.
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