Ramen – specifically tonkotsu ramen – is pretty great. Noodles in a rich broth, usually topped with chashu pork, spring onions, kombu, and a soft-boiled egg. It’s that particular kind of over-architected fast food where you’re taking twenty four hours and as many ingredients to make a pot noodle with delusions of grandeur, and I bloody love it.
As top-tier fancied up junk, I’ve been hoping for years that ramen shops would roll into town and pull Cambridge out from the burger event horizon.
You know what’s great? Porcehtta. Now, what if porchetta but beef…
Cool – many of you can now skip the recipe entirely.
What? Nigel Slater got a 400-page book out of one-liners and faint gestures. At least I’m going to give an ingredients list below the fold… sheesh. (Eat is actually great though, worth your time as an idea-sparker)
This is a thing that happened when I wanted to make porchetta, but couldn’t find pork belly without walking across town. It doesn’t have the zingy brightness of a herb-stuffed pork roast, and brisket won’t give you the gooey richness either, but it’s big satisfying flavours and it’s fall-apart soft. Other cuts may push you more in that unctuous direction (looking at you, beef shin) but they’ll be fiddlier to slice and stuff.
The nice thing about this is that it’s front-loaded. Twenty minutes of faffing, then three hours of ignoring it in a low oven and you’ve got an amazing sandwich filling (fresh rolls or pita) or an unusual roast.
This is a medium-weight stew. A spring or autumn affair like an earth-tone cardigan for your mouth. The pork and apples are brighter than, say, beef and ale, and the spices keep it light while the dumplings add some satisfying heft.
I was talking about it to friends the other night, and I was sure I’d posted it already. Apparently not. I only had the recipe as a scrappy handwritten scrawl in an old notebook. So if I’m writing it up, you might as well all have it too.
It’s reasonably easy, and uses meat you don’t see super often outside roasts. While little seems likely to cure our national gammon we can at least reclaim this retro carvery favourite while there’s still food on the shelves, eh?
Just before Christmas, a friend asked me for this recipe, and I realised I’d never actually posted it.
This was a bit of a surprise, as it’s something I’ve been making for years. I had to send him the draft, and it was, let’s say, a little rough…
I’ve tidied it up now.
So, what exactly is “three cup aubergines”? It looks pretty questionable if you try to express it in emoji, but it’s just a veggie take on a Chinese classic: Three Cup Chicken.
I don’t think there’s a recipe in Every Grain of Rice– which has become my go-to for Chinese food – but that Serious Eats one is decent, and it’s pretty simple in any case.
The three cups in question are, historically, one each of soy, rice wine, and sesame oil, all cooked down to a sticky sauce. Although if you actually use three cups of each you’ll need to serve it with a generous side of blood pressure meds.
Both the aubergine and chicken versions are quick to make, succulent, and incredibly comforting served with a bowl of rice and some simple greens.
Earlier this year, the boyfriend and I had an amazing time in Hong Kong. That’s a whole separate post, and one where I get over-excited about architecture before complaining about the air quality and the financial inequality.
But the food was amazing.
Particularly amazing were the xiaolong bao we had at Din Tai Fung. If you’ve not had xiaolong bao before (and I hadn’t), they’re these little steamed dumplings, usually filled with minced meat, various aromatics, and – crucially, deliciously – soup.
I know, right? Soup. Turns out the answer is “gelatine”, but we’ll get to that.
Recalling how much we’d enjoyed them, and being non-trivially wonderful, as a Christmas gift, Kit got us both a class learning to make them. It was an oddly serene way to spend a January morning, and thoroughly enjoyable
A couple of weeks ago, I realised I had been making Spanish omelettes wrong (or at least badly) for years. This mini epiphany came when playing Codenames (it’s brilliant, you need it) with a friend whose Spanish boyfriend had heard I liked food. He waxed lyrical about tortilla de patatas the way his gran showed him to make, and then proceeded to show us how it’s done.
The key revelation was small but delicious: about a pint of olive oil.
Yep, it’s basically potato confit. Which, I’m sure is old news to most of you. But (light your pitchforks!) I’d been boiling them first, or occasionally frying them to an exterior crisp. No wonder I could never get that gooey unctuous texture in the middle. Thanks David! You and your gran have massively upped my omelette game.
After tweeting about this over the long weekend, a few folks asked for my Spanish omelette recipe. “Oh, I checked and it’s basically just the Felicity Cloake one”, I said. But y’all wouldn’t be told, and now here I am making another of these. An omelette surplus – how ever will I cope.
So, just for you, Twitter Omelette Fans, just for you, here goes.
Let me tell you about one of the best things I’ve recently put in my mouth.
Naturally, it contained garlicky butter. But it also contained a few wonderful simple other things, and it was served at the bistro at the Cambridge Cookery School.
I’m not even talking about this sandwich, and it’s a great sandwich.
The bistro boasts “a strong Scandinavian and Italian influence”, as well as the customary local/sustainable/organic/crafted gubbins. While this sounded like fun, it did not prepare me for the Turkish Eggs. But I’ll get to that.
Carbonade – sometimes called Belgium’s answer to beef bourguignon – is a rich, simple stew of beef cooked in beer, with a little mustard and an ambiguous bread topping. Much, much more on the bread part later.
The etymology is probably via charbon, from meat cooked over a coal brazier, or perhaps the stewpot itself simmering over warm coals. Either way, it’s a Flemish classic that makes use of the sensational beer brewed in northern Belgium. At its very simplest, you can just dump a kilo of beef shin in a pot with some onions, herbs, and a bottle of oud bruin. But then you’d miss the (questionably authentic) mustard croutons, and those are sodding delicious.
I’ve been making carbonade for as long as I’ve been cooking, and its evolution in my repertoire is a mini history of me learning to cook. If I had a change log (sauce control?) it would be fascinating. Not least because I recently got all in a lather about the history of the dish, wondering exactly when people started topping it with mustard-slathered croutons?