Sourdough for Dummies

There is an air of mystique surrounding the making of sourdough bread.

Any fool can knock together a simple loaf using bought yeast cultures but it takes a special type of fool to attempt catching and nurturing these teeny organisms then harnessing their unique power to create a loaf of bread.



Sourdough appeals due to its infinite variety: the special combination of flavours, textures and smells that results from the singular terroir of an area. As pretentious as that sounds its true – the airborne yeast cultures, the flour and the water are all unique. Sourdough bread made in Paris will be noticeably different to one made in San Francisco.



Previous efforts have invariably resulted in failure. Flat, puddle like breads that spread out over trays like an overly ripe cheese. Bitter tasting efforts with dense centres more suitable for constructing buildings than contributing to breakfast.



But, by Jove, I think I’ve cracked it.

After two days relentless study and nearly a month of stirring, waiting, mixing, kneading, waiting and baking here is a completely foolproof, day-by-day guide to making that most magical of breads.



Sourdough Bread

This is undoubtedly slow food. But it’s certainly worth the effort.

Sourdough is made in three stages: first you create a starter dough. The starter dough is then used to make a sponge and the sponge used to make a loaf with a little held back as the next starter.



Beautifully and simply cyclical.

All you need to do is remember the following ratios:
50:50
60:40
70:30

That is to say, the starter should be half flour and half water. The sponge 60% flour and 40% water and the final loaf around 70% flour to 30% water.

Other than that the only ingredient is salt.

Salt performs two functions. Firstly it adds flavour to the bread but more importantly it inhibits the growth of bacteria which can quickly spoil a starter dough.

You’ll also need a largish jar with a lid.

Day One – mix together equal parts of white bread flour and water. Stir and pour into the jar. Leave the lid off for a few hours then loosely close it. Let it stand overnight in a warm place – between 16 and 18°C

Day Two – Pour off half the mixture and discard. Stir in equal parts flour and water, a little salt, close the lid and leave in the fridge. Why? Bacteria struggle to multiply at lower temperatures whereas yeasts flourish.

Day Three – repeat as day two but add some rye flour to the mix. Rye flour is high in natural yeast cultures. The mix should be bubbling away now and giving off a slightly acidic smell. This is good. If you fancy speeding up the process, leave the jar out of the fridge for a few hours to accelerate the fermentation.

Days Four, Five and Six – Repeat as above.

Day Seven – After a week your starter dough should be nicely fermented with a healthy ‘sour’ niff. It might even smell faintly boozy. Give it a stir then tip into a mixing bowl to make the sponge. Add flour and water to a ratio of 60:40 (go for about 180g flour – a mixture of white, wheat and rye if you wish – and 120g water) and a sprinkle of salt. Stir well and cover with plastic wrap. Leave in a warm place for 12-24 hours.

Day Eight – Pour half the sponge back into your (now clean) starter jar, stir in a 50:50 mix of flour and water and pop it back into the fridge. This only needs refreshing once every few days now.

Add flour and water in a ratio of roughly 70:30 (for a large loaf or two small ones you will probably need 420g flour and 180g water) and a pinch of salt. Stir to combine and then turn out onto a floured surface. The dough should be quite wet. Knead and add more flour as necessary to create a dough that doesn’t stick to the surface but retains its lax and slouchy feel. Knead well for 15 minutes or so then return to the bowl, cover with plastic wrap and leave to double in size. This could take anything up to three or four hours.

After the volume has doubled, turn the dough back out onto the floured surface, swiftly knock the air out of it and shape your loaf or loaves onto a baking sheet. Sprinkle the tops liberally with flour and cover with a slightly damp tea towel. Leave to rise for another hour.

Preheat the oven to full whack and put a bowl of water on the bottom shelf. Slash the top of the loaf to allow the bread to rise properly in the oven (a phenomenon known as ‘oven spring’ as the gas bubbles inside the loaf quickly expand due to heat) and cook for 10 minutes. Turn the oven down to 120°C and give it another 15-20 minutes. It’s ready when it sounds hollow when tapped on the base



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Honey Madeleines

Once again, Bourdain takes the blame.

‘England’s best hope for salvation...a warrior, pioneer, philosopher and fearless proponent for what’s good, and what’s always been good, about English cooking.’

High praise indeed.

This is his summation of Fergus Henderson as it appears in the ultimate food lover’s bible, A Cook’s Tour – the one book I wish I could have written. Forget Dostoyevsky. Move along Melville. Step aside Shakespeare. Let me travel, eat then write it up in shotgun gonzo style. Yes please.

Understandably, the monochrome delight that is Nose to Tail Eating, Henderson’s manifesto/cookbook, soon found its way into my collection swiftly followed by its successor, Beyond Nose to Tail – a similar affair but with an extended section on baking.

Those books were read and re-read. Not just the recipes but the snippets of gastro-philosophy that pepper them. The words and oddly exotic lists of ingredients pored over, mused upon and eventually cooked and eaten. The exotic ceased to be so and all that remained was The Tasty.

Bourdain’s gushing made sense.

Considering my affinity for his work, it took a surprisingly long time to actually eat at Henderson’s London restaurant, St. John. A last minute reservation meant we would eat late but we would eat and I would sample those dishes whose names were familiar but flavours alien.

Cue roasted bone marrow with parsley and caper salad. Langoustines with rich mayonnaise. Smoked eel and bacon. And thick slices of beef topside with boiled carrots.

I felt like an art lover finally laying eyes on a favourite painting previously seen only in reproduction.

The desire for something sweet was tempered by achingly full bellies. There was no room for Eccles cakes or doughnuts. There was barely room for a digestif. But a request to take away some sweet treats was met with a smile. Five minutes later we left, clutching a still warm paper bag, emblazoned with the outline of a pig, containing the famed Eccles cakes as well as half a dozen Madeleines.

They were eaten for breakfast.

St. John Madeleines

The Madeleine tray I bought the GF for Christmas (‘a bowling ball for Homer’, I think she referred to it as) is the most specific item of kitchen kit we own. It has a single, solitary use. But, oh, what a use.

There may be countless Madeleine recipes out there but for a first attempt there was only one to go for. It was deliriously easy and came together with such pleasure that I doubt we will turn elsewhere. Watching the small blobs of mixture spread, rise then bulge up into such a recognisable shapes was most satisfying.



They are also near ethereally light with a slightly malted flavour that comes from the caramelised honey, almost reminiscent of Horlicks.

Makes 12

Melt 70g of unsalted butter with a generous tablespoon of runny honey then simmer until the sugars caramelise (it didn’t seem to matter that it split).

Whisk together a large egg with 55g of caster sugar and a tablespoon of soft brown sugar until a trail can be left on the surface of the mixture. Sift in 70g of self raising flour then fold in along with the butter/honey mixture. Leave in the fridge for a couple of hours.

Grease the Madeleine moulds with butter and flour, tip out any excess then pop a spoonful of the mixture into each one. It won’t look like enough. It is. Honest.

Bake at 200 degrees C for about 10 minutes, marvel at how big they’ve got, delight at the fact they look just like Madeleines then enjoy with cups of tea. If you have any left, they still taste great the following day.





*Would you look at that – a whole piece about Madeleines and not a single mention of Proust. Oh, bollocks.

Eating New York: Hot Dogs

Confession time.

I’ve always said that my last supper would consist of hot dogs. As much as I’ve tried to develop the outward appearance of a sophisticated foodie, I can’t shift this love of cheap sausages simmered in cloudy water and slung into a fluffy white bun.



Until now, I wasn’t fussy. I wouldn’t have specified brand names or quantities. Simply 'lots. With everything.' That would be my last request.

I’ve changed my mind. My final meal on earth would be these hot dogs. Homemade buns. Homemade relish. Ketchup. Mustard. Fried onions. And beef sausages.



Throughout Europe hot dogs are almost invariably made of pork. But with a historically large Jewish, and increasingly Muslim, population in New York, sausages here tend to be all-beef. It’s hard to find a kosher or Halal pig.

Your nearest Middle Eastern supermarket will be the best place to pick up beef hot dogs.

NB Recipe inspired by and modified from one in Gourmet magazine.

To make 16-20 hot dogs (more, even, than I could manage), you will need:

16-20 beef hot dogs (no kidding, Alex, get on with it)

Relish:

A medium sized cucumber cut into little tiny pieces
A small onion, also cut into teeny tiny pieces
150ml white wine vinegar
50g caster sugar
Thickener (I used xantham gum, my new favourite multi-purpose ingredient but cornflour works fine)

Mix all these together. That’s it.


Buns (can also be used to make burger buns – more on that later)

350ml full fat or semi-skimmed milk
150ml double cream
200ml warm water
800g plain flour
7g packet dried yeast
75g sugar
two teaspoons of salt

To make the buns, bring the milk and cream to a gentle simmer and leave to cool. Add the yeast to the warm water and leave for five minutes until it starts to foam like a rabid dog.

Mix the sugar and salt into the flour, pour in the foaming yeast mixture and then the cooled milk and cream (if it’s too hot you will kill the yeast, in the manner of a cruel Eastern European dictator wiping out a persecuted ethnic minority).

If you have a mixer, use the paddle to mix the wet doughy mass for about six minutes. If the dough is too wet, incorporate more flour until the dough just comes together.

If, like me, your mixer has exploded in a cloud of acrid black smoke and you are too scared to turn it on, you will be doing this by hand. Once the dough has been stirred together, turn out onto a floured surface and knead vigorously for about ten minutes. Add more flour whenever necessary – this is a wet dough.

Once you have a ball of dough and not a seeping puddle, tip it into an oiled bowl. Bear in mind that it will at least double in size. Let it prove for a couple of hours, covered with a damp tea towel



Turn it back out onto a floured surface and knock it back down by kneading it for another couple of minutes. Divide the dough into 16-20 equal sized pieces, roll them into a vague sausage shape (about six inches) and then place them evenly spaced on a baking sheet.



Leave a couple of centimetres between each one and let them prove, again covered with a damp tea-towel. About 45 minutes should do it.



Once your buns are touching and have near doubled in size, bake them in a pre-heated oven (about 175 degrees C) for 15-20 minutes, moving them from the top of the oven to the bottom about half way through. This will brown the tops whilst making sure they are cooked all the way through.

Remove them from the oven and leave to cool for ten minutes before putting them on a cooling rack.




To complete

Slice the bun down the middle, fill with fried onions (you don’t need a recipe for those, do you?), pop in a sausage that has been simmering away in murky water for six hours (if you want the really authentic NYC experience) and top with relish, ketchup and mustard.

This is without a shadow of a doubt the best hot dog I’ve ever had. The buns are light, soft and delicious but don’t have that cloudy, fluffy texture of bought buns. The relish is sharp, cool and sweet, the perfect counterpoint to the rest of the flavours and textures.



And the sausage? It’s a hot dog. You know not to expect artisanal spiced cuts of premium Saddleback pork. But that doesn’t make it any less tasty. Here’s to the guiltiest and most pleasurable of guilty pleasures. Perfect for July 4th.

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Eating New York: Bagels in the Park (+recipe)

Sundays need barely a few elements to combine in simple cohesion in order to create delicious perfection.



Gone are the days when it signalled ‘weekend over, back to school tomorrow. Time to knuckle down and finish that essay you were set a fortnight ago.’

Now, Sunday is the most sacrosanct day of the week, although not through any religious conviction. It’s a day when it is equally acceptable to do nothing under the proviso of doing something or vice versa.

And it is near effortless to craft these idyllic days thanks to the fluidity of the composite elements. The first drink could be a cool glass of orange juice, a steaming black coffee, a bloody mary or even a pint of water complete with an energetically fizzy 1000mg vitamin C tablet, depending on the previous night’s excesses.

Breakfast might be a bacon sandwich, softly scrambled eggs or even a bowl of Bircher muesli.

For activity sometimes a walk will suffice, or a run if energy levels permit. Other weekends might present gardening opportunities or lazy afternoons in the pub.

Food rolls in and out of Sundays too, paying little regard to any rules or regulations. Barbecues, slow cooked braises or Sunday roasts are all equally welcome. Cake, too, can be an excellent addition.

But there is one unwavering rule: there must be a newspaper. At least one.

Even though we were a few thousand miles from home, we obeyed this single commandment with near military precision. And everyone knows that newspapers are at their best when enjoyed over breakfast.

It was warm, despite the early hour. We ambled towards the port, through Hell’s Kitchen, in search of H&H Bagels, a baker's that appears to have a near legendary reputation. On the way we met a parade of street hawkers trudging their carts through the early morning sun towards their pitches where they would spend the next 12 hours selling hot dogs, kebabs and other assorted snacks to hungry passers-by.

The bakery itself is an unassuming, industrial looking building. Fridges filled with juice, iced tea, butter and cream cheese line one wall and in front is a counter topped with a Plexiglas cabinet crammed full of bagels.

We picked out some cream cheese, a carton of Tropicana and ordered three at the counter.

On the way to Central Park we picked up a copy of the New York Times, weighty with its supplements, and two large iced coffees. Once there we ambled gently towards the centre, picked out a quiet, shaded spot and proceeded to consume what was in front of us.

Two hours later, full of dough, cream cheese and media, we picked ourselves up, dusted ourselves down and allowed the remainder of the weekend to carry us along. Sunday, brilliant Sunday.

Bagels: The recipe

Before I even took my first bite of a genuine New York bagel, my girlfriend said to me: ‘This will ruin all future bagels for you, you know? I hope you’re prepared for that.’

She was right. To a certain extent.

Soon after we got back, I bought a stack from the supermarket. Lacking the firm chewiness of those we’d had in Central Park a few days earlier, they were thin, floppy and light with a processed taste and texture. The Paris Hilton of the bread world.

What I wanted was something with more resistance, more pull. And a more flavour.

Searching for recipes I came across two that appeared to tick the necessary boxes: this one via Slate (no eggs) and another from Shaun Hill (two eggs), he of Merchant House fame. Gaining confidence in my baking abilities, I chose to combine the two and split the difference hoping it would create some sort of super-bagel.

It did. I can safely say, without any degree or hyperbole, that these are the best bagels I’ve ever tasted. Ever.

Makes 10 generously sized bagels.

500g + 50-100g white bread flour
two teaspoons of dried yeast
one teaspoon of salt
50g caster sugar
two eggs (one for the mixture and one for glazing)
450ml of warm water

For the water bath:
3 litres of water
2 tablespoons of sugar

Whatever toppings your little heart desires


Mix together 500g of flour, the yeast, the salt and 50g of sugar in a large mixing bowl, preferably one you can clip into a mixer with a dough hook, unless you want to knead a sticky dough.

Pour in the water and stir until it is worked in. Add the egg. Add a further 50g of flour and start the mixer on a low speed. Let it run for five minutes then check the consistency of the dough. If it looks too sticky then add a little more flour until it just combines into a workable dough.

Knead for a further 5-10 minutes (NB here is where my Kenwood made a loud ‘snap’ noise and started farting a nasty grey smoke from its rear end. Cue panic tinged with excitement at the prospect of having to use the mini fire extinguisher for the first time).

Once the dough is ready, transfer it to an oiled bowl, cover and leave for an hour or so to prove and double in size.

Use this time wisely. Perhaps call your Grandma, draw a pretty picture or tweak your CV.

After the well-used sixty minutes, turn out the dough onto a floured surface (it’s another sticky one) and knock out the air, sprinkling flour over where necessary. Cut the dough into ten to twelve equal sized pieces and shape each one into a vague round shape. Leave for another ten minutes.



Flatten each one with the palm of your hand then poke a finger, it doesn’t matter which – I used my index finger, into the middle of each roll thus creating a bagel. Wiggle it around a little and neaten up the shape. Leave for another ten minutes. Yawn.

Meanwhile, bring a large pan full of water to the boil. Add the sugar and turn down the heat to a gentle simmer. Boil the bagels two or three at a time for about a minute. Flip them after half that time so they cook evenly on each side.

Lift them out and put them onto a waiting towel to dry off. Transfer to a tray, brush with beaten egg and cook for 15 minutes at 200 degrees C, or until they are golden brown and delicious looking.



Eat as soon as you can handle one without doing a little dance and going ‘ooo, ah, shit, that hurts’.

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Eating New York: Pizza

Arriving in a new city, at night, can be an unpleasant experience.

Body clocks askew, deprived of sleep and crippled with the sort of grumpiness that can only ever be the result of being folded into an economy class seat on a long haul flight can test the mettle of even the most Zen individual.

The tiniest frustrations can cause eruptions of Pompeii-esque proportions and anger threatens to be vented on those who neither expect nor deserve it. Total strangers usually.

Even if that wicked combination doesn’t result in explosion, hunger can prove a willing and fiery catalyst.

As such, it is a good idea to find sustenance at the earliest possible opportunity. Sustenance of a homely and hearty nature. Pizza with its winning combination of dough and cheese is an excellent option.



So it was that we found ourselves on 8th Avenue close to 46th Street munching on large slices of, what at the time, tasted like, the best pizza I’ve ever eaten.

There is a persistent rumour that New York pizza is so good because of the water. Indeed, I have heard stories of West Coast Italian restaurants having water shipped over from the city in a vain attempt to re-create the characteristic dough.

With good reason. Somehow managing to tread that fine line between cracker thin Neapolitan style pizza and the thick, claggy, doughy deep crust nastiness that characterises so many bastardized versions of this classic dish, New York pizza has a light base that holds up against its own weight.

The tomato sauce has a vague sweetness that cuts through the classic garlic/oregano flavour combination. And the cheese comes in an artery-furring layer of stringy decadence that sits heavily in the stomach in the best possible way.

A dream filled sleep came quickly.

Having made pizza before, I was looking forward to the task of attempting to make this particular slice of NYC in my own kitchen.

Not only was recreating the firm, chewy texture of the base going to present difficulties, the lack of an oven that goes beyond 250 degrees C was also going to prevent me from attaining those searing temperatures required to cook the pizza in only a few minutes.

Enter a new piece of kitchen kit:



Ah, masonry – the saviour of all aspiring Italian cooks. The theory being that the scorching hot stone cooks the pizza from below as well as drying out the base – essential if you don’t want to experience the frustrating phenomenon known as ‘cheesy floppy end’. If you’ll pardon the expression.

I acquired mine from a reclamation yard for a mere seven pounds, about a third of the price of a dedicated ‘pizza stone.’

I felt quite manly asking for ‘an unglazed quarry tile’ – a phrase I’d repeated to myself for at least ten minutes before feeling confident enough to utter it out loud to a tradesman.

‘What size?’ he asked. Uh oh, rumbled. Quick say something that sounds about right. How big is a pizza?

‘Erm, twelve by twelve, if you have any.’ Phew. Situation recovered.

‘The only thing we have is (insert unintelligible building phrase here). That going to be OK.’

‘Uh-huh,’ I replied, veneer of confidence diminishing by the nano-second.

‘What colour you after?’

Oh god, I don’t know. It’s not like I’m going to be paving any driveways with it. ‘Terracotta?’

‘Think you might be out of luck. I’ll show you what we got and see if they’re OK.’

I duly followed. ‘There you go, how’s that?’

‘Perfect,’ I said confidently, not anticipating the next question.

‘How many do you need?’

Shit. Rumbled. ‘Just one,’ I said, rather pathetically going on to explain that rather than being a skilled manual labourer, I was, in fact a fraud: an amateur chef keen to replicate the tasty morsels of pizza I’d eaten too many of on a recent fact-finding trip.

‘Oh you’re a chef? I used to be a chef. In fact my sister was the pastry chef at La Gavroche.’

Halle-freaking-lujah. No more words mumbled in a voice slightly deeper than my natural one – we had something in common. Enter a little bit of banter about food and off I went on my merry way, new toy in hand (or two – it was quite heavy).

The Dough

Step one done, it was time to tackle the dough. Here I am indebted to Jeff Varasano’s rather excellent (and comprehensive) website detailing his efforts to recreate that elusive NY slice.

Taking inspiration from this I bought some high gluten flour and started by making a poolish – a mini starter dough before making a full batch.

Add a teaspoon of dried yeast, a teaspoon of salt and a teaspoon of sugar to 70g of warm water (I used bottled) and stir in 70g of flour. Cover it with a tea towel and leave to bubble away over night.

The following morning add this to 500g of high-gluten flour and 300g of water (again, I used bottled). If you have the wrists, knead it enthusiastically for about 20 minutes or use a food mixer complete with dough hook attachment.



What should emerge is a highly elastic, quite wet, dough that should be stretchy enough to read print through (the ‘windowpane’ test). This is due to the elasticity of the gluten.

Let it rest for 15 minutes then turn out onto a floured surface and knead into a large ball. Divide it into three or four smaller balls of equal size (depending on how big you want your pizzas and how thick you like your base) and place each one into a lightly oiled container with a loosely fitting lid.

These can be kept in the fridge for anything up to a week and will improve in flavour as time goes on.

The sauce

The fresh dampness of an uncooked tomato sauce on pizza is not something I like. As such this one is cooked for about 20 minutes before making its way onto the pizza.

Drain and sieve two tins of plum tomatoes and add them to a saucepan along with a little olive oil, two cloves of garlic (finely chopped), salt, pepper and a small handful of oregano. I also added a scant teaspoon of sugar to help develop the sweetness that seemed to be so characteristic of a genuine New York Slice.

Let it simmer away and then break up the tomatoes using a wooden spoon or hand held blender if you require a smoother finish.

To cook

Crank your oven up as high as it will go. Put the slab of tile onto the rack close to the top of the oven, remembering to leave room for a rising pizza crust.

It needs to heat up for at least half an hour although I’d leave it an hour before you even think of cooking on it.

In the mean time, start to work that little ball of elastic dough into something resembling a pizza base.



This is harder than it looks as it can frustratingly spring back into shape when you least expect it. Just keep going. Avoid the temptation to use a rolling pin and don’t forget to form a slightly thicker lip around the outside of the circle.

Once the oven – and stone – is hot enough spread a generous smear of tomato sauce over the base, add a few basil leaves and sprinkle over a disgusting amount of cheese (I used a mozzarella/cheddar/parmesan combination). A few turns of the pepper mill and it’s ready to go.

Hmmm. How does one get it from its current location to the screaming hot stone without a pizza paddle? Improvise, of course.



Just make sure your pizza isn’t too big to fit on a foil-covered spade (cue ten expletive filled minutes and a comment from the GF: 'Why not just make it smaller?')

In a regular oven the pizza should take no more than six or seven minutes. About twice as long as it would in a commercial furnace but, eh, whatchoo gonna do?

And neither should you care.

Because the final result is so good.



A solid base with firm, chewy texture. A slightly sweet, garlicky sauce. And a guilty slick of salty cheese. Exactly how an authentic slice should be.

And as proof? Well, here’s the money shot.



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Hummus and Flatbreads

If you are ready and willing, I’d like to let you in on a little secret.

Ready? Good

Willing? Excellent.



Here we go: you never need to buy another flatbread, pita bread, wrap, tortilla or naan bread ever again.

They are so easy to make, so very tasty, so incredibly fast and so extraordinarily cheap that it makes almost no sense to buy them.

Before I started keeping a ‘mother dough’ in the fridge, I used to make flatbreads with a simple flour and water dough, flavoured with a little salt and olive oil (about 250g of bread flour, 150ml of warm water and seasoning to taste).



Within five minutes it was possible to have a steaming pile of hot, blistered flatbreads ready to be torn apart by hungry guests and dipped into garlicky hummus or wrapped round a spicy lamb kofta.

Now all I do is tear a small handful of dough from the bubbling mass in the fridge, incorporate a little extra flour to make a workable dough, roll extra thinly and cook for 30 seconds on each side in a hot, dry, frying pan.

For pita breads, after the dough has been rolled, fold it over on itself once, then once again to trap a layer of air in the dough. Roll it out and cook as above. It should puff up like a little pillow as steam gets trapped inside the bread. Perfect for slicing open and stuffing with falafel, salad and tzaiki .

We cook these a lot. Brushed with olive oil and sprinkled with salt, they are an ideal snack and near impossible not to eat whilst they are still too hot.



Dipped in hummus, too, they are wonderful. Blitz a tin of chickpeas, some of the reserved water, two cloves of garlic, olive oil and seasoning in a food processor and you have an insta-lunch.

I tend to sprinkle a little smoked paprika over the top as well, just to add a slight warmth and depth of flavour. Just delicious.

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Italian Flatbread

I’m assuming that as a well-seasoned traveller and committed gastronome, you’ve been to Rome. Please forgive me if this is not the case but play along anyway. It’ll be fun. Promise.

My first time was about five years ago. Just me and my Dad exploring the Italian capital and imbibing Peroni, pasta, pizza and football in equal measure.



But the best meal we ate was a hastily bought picnic of bread, cheese, tomatoes and cured ham eaten on the steps of a backstreet church close to the Campo de’Fiori. A couple of chilled beers completed the feast nicely.

Campo de’Fiori, the city’s old flower market, is now home to a daily food market where visuals, smells and flavours meld together in luscious Technicolor with the intensity of a thousand ristretti.

Cafés and bars line the exterior of the diminutive square, encircling a generous selection of stalls around a central statue of Geordano Bruno, a 16th century philosopher who was executed as a heretic in 1600.



In the southwestern corner is a bakery from where smells waft over the square and jostle for prominence against the rich coffee scents coming from the various cafés. Their large rectangles of salted flatbread are a firm favourite with the city’s residents and we barely managed to secure ourselves a large slab when we were there.

But we did. And it was amazing – thinner than a focaccia, more substantial than a pizza base and tastier than pitta bread. Just something unique, special and incredibly tasty.

Since then I’ve been meaning to recreate this delicious bread, liberally drizzled with olive oil and a scattering of sea salt and this morning I finally got round to it.

The dough I now use is an amended version of Jeff Herzberg and Zoe Francois’ Artisan Bread in Five Minutes A Day.

Initially I really struggled with getting the consistency right (perhaps something to do with English measurements) but I’ve gradually made a few changes and now have something that bubbles away nicely in the fridge like a cartoon swamp.

The other change is that I treat it as a sourdough – whenever I take some of the dough out, I replace it with extra flour and water, give it a stir, cover it and leave it in the fridge.

Firstly it means not having to make a master dough every few days and secondly it means you start to get some real character in your loaves as it ages and becomes more complex.

For the flatbread just grab a handful of the dough and spread it out over a well-oiled tray using your fingers so that it covers the area. Brush the top with more oil and scatter with sea salt.

Bake in a hot (seriously hot – about 250 degrees) for ten minutes, or until the bread starts to brown.



It tastes best fresh from the oven and needs no adornments to aid the Italian experience.

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Apricot & Ginger Tarte Tatin

Every month over at the Leftover Queen there is a challenge to create a brand new dish from three specified ingredients. Apart from that one caveat, the imagination is free to run wild. This is my first entry so please be kind!

I had one of those great moments when I first saw the list of three ingredients for this month's Royal Foodie Joust. Usually, when presented with a task like this one I will be wracked with indecision and spend days agonising over the potential dishes, day and night.

If it is something really serious, like when I was auditioning for Masterchef, I cannot sleep and even when I close my eyes my busy mind refuses to stop cooking. It is like a demon chef projectionist is playing a fast moving series of images into my head. Think 'A Clockwork Orange' but with more risotto.

But not this time. Instead of being teased with indecision, the words 'tarte tatin' immediately burst into my head when I read that this months creation should contain apricots, ginger and butter.

My usual take on this classic French dish was inspired by a trip to Midsummer House and involves the addition of cinnamon, star anise and bay leaf. I've done this a couple of times before so I knew that spices worked and managed to cut through the rich sweetness of the pastry and caramel. Why not with apricots too?

These delicious little bites of juicy fruitiness are great on their own and maybe it is because they look a little like the sun but I can't eat one without thinking of a warm summer's evening, no matter what the weather outside. They are also great to cook with...

Apricot and Ginger Tarte Tatin
To serve two. Don't let the simplicity fool you - it belies a warm, summery and strangely complex burst of flavour.

4 apricots, skinned and halved
a small piece of ginger, about the size of the top half of your thumb, peeled
50g of caster sugar
50g of unsalted butter, cubed
200g puff pastry, rolled to about 1cm thickness

Preheat the oven to 200c. To peel the apricots, cut a small cross in the skin at the base of each one. Drop them into boiling water for 10-15 seconds then remove and run them under cold running water - you don't want them to cook, at least not yet. When cool the skins should peel off easily.


Melt the sugar in a heavy based, oven proof frying pan (or tarte tatin pan, if you have one) until it begins to brown. Add the butter and stir to make a caramel. Use a fine grater - a microplane is ideal - to grate the ginger into the mixture. Give it a good stir. The warm, spicy notes of the ginger should hit your nose straight away.

Place the apricot halves into the pan, flat side down and return to a medium heat. Cook them for about 3-4 minutes then turn them over and cook for a further 2-3 minutes. Be careful because the caramel is freaking hot and from personal experience I can say that if you get it on your fingers, you know about it.


Remove the pan from the heat and lay the pastry over the top. It should be slightly too large for the pan meaning that the edges can be bunched up and tucked down the sides so that the fruit and caramel is neatly sealed in. Cook it for about 20 minutes until the pastry starts to brown. Turn it out onto an eagerly waiting plate (again, watch out for molten sugar trying to escape and singe your little pinkies) and serve with plain yoghurt if you're feeling healthy, or vanilla ice cream if you're feeling decadent.

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