Scavenger

I am at the Marylebone Farmer’s Market at the very best time of day:  just before closing time. The get everything-practically-for-free time. 25+vendors are in the parking lot just off Moxon Road and are gathering their last remaining produce into crates and stacking them back onto their trucks. Most customers have left. It’s a goldmine.

The fishmongers at maldon.co.uk yell over at me: “ALL FISH NOW HALF PRICE. GET YOUR FISH HERE NOW. ALL FISH…”

I walk up to their truck which features a built-in counter now filled with lots of melting  ice and very few fish. Some jellied seaweed is scattered on top. I have a little chat with  one of the fishmongers named Goudgel— a North African dark-haired man with fat rosy cheeks and a boisterous disposition.

S: What’s that? Monkfish?

G: Dogfish.

S: What’s that?

G: Shark meat.

S:  Really. How big’s the shark?

G: 5 to 10 K.G.’s. Like this.

S:  Just a portion for myself please. How do you cook it?

G: Aaah! Salt, pepper, flour, garlic, thyme…in oven.

S: Is that how you cook it for your wife?

G: No, no wife. I’m a chef. I cook for the people. (Pause). I can cook a human.

S:  Really.

Fishmonger 2 walks off in a huff.

G: (Goudgel shakes his head). He’s always like that. I roast it beautiful. I can cook different types of humans.

S: Who are the tastiest?

G: Boys. Between 14 to 16.

S:  Do you have a son?

G: No.

I spot the last piece of chocolate cake from the stand “Out of the Box”. The American cake lady crams a 5-inch high slice into a container and gives it to me for £2. I stroll over to the “Garden of Rest” behind the 15^th century Marylebone Church and collapse on a park bench. The encrypted plaque in front of me says that Francis Bacon—not the painter, was married here. I bask in the last few rays of rare sunshine and inhale the entire slice of my dessert as I figure out how to cook my dinner. This is what I came up with:

Fresh Huss Picatta in a Roasted Chorizo and Tomato Broth

This is a hearty dish of hunky gorgeosity. There is nothing cheap about my £2.50 piece of fish.

To begin: do you have a cazuela? If not, most of this dish can be prepared and assembled in a small oven- proof frying pan.

Coarsely chop ½ cup chorizo picante. Heat a frying pan with a tablespoon of olive oil and add the chorizo. While the chorizo is browning, finely chop a tablespoon of shallots or red onion. When the chorizo is crisp, remove it and set aside, reserving the chorizo oil. 

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Ave Maria, full of grace, Jamie Oliver is with you

Ave Maria, full of grace, Jamie Oliver is with you

I’m at Borough Market at London Bridge on a rainy Spring afternoon. It’s practically empty. I’ve just wolfed down a warm and oozy speck and fiore di latte piadina from Gastronomica. As I crumble up its oddly greaseless parchment wrapping, I notice a brick-red vintage ‘caff’ stand. Center stage: a Mother Earth type — ruddy cheeks and cropped dark hair. She is merrily cooking away on her hearth. I approach her and introduce myself.

S: You fooled me. I thought this stand may have been one of the originals built in the 18th century.
Maria: I had it built like that because I used to be in Park Street. It was called the Borough Café. We’re the ones who put Bubble and Squeak back on the British menu. It’s the poor man’s lunch which originates from the East End of London really and it was basically the leftovers from Sunday lunch fried up together in a pan. They call it that because of the noise it makes while it cooks. You can hear it bubbling away. So now lots of top menus are doing it. Roast is doing it. Marks and Spencer’s is doing it. But I made Bubble & Squeak famous. I had a lot of chefs talk about it. Jamie Oliver mentioned me on his program.
S: So how do you make it?
M: It’s potato and cabbage fried up together.
S: That’s it?
M: Yeah. But it’s the way you do it.
S: And how’s that?
M: I’m not telling you.
S: Please? I’ll bring you my brownies.
M: No no no, it’s a secret. It’s the way you do it, it’s the way you cook it.
S: And what do you serve it with?
M: Whatever you want. Bacon, cheese and bubble back; egg, bacon, tomato and cheese as a breakfast; bubble sandwiches; bubble and beans.
S: What’s bacon, cheese and bubble back?
M: It’s bacon and cheese and then bubble and squeak inside a bread bun. I get people jumping into taxis to have it once a week. James McAvoy likes bacon cheese and bubble back.
S: What about Suzanne Pirret?
M: Who’s she? Listen, she don’t know me, I don’t know her.
S: It’s me! (I give her a copy of my book).
M: Well is that you, is it? It looks like a story. It’s not boring. If it’s just recipe after recipe after recipe, it does my head in. Food is like a story. It has a personality. It goes to your senses.
S: I was a ch…
M: I like the story of a poor man. Something that’s got a history with it. It’s the story behind the recipes. Something simple, like Bubble and Squeak. Where it originates from. Why it originates from there. The fact that it’s got a personality. Bubble and Squeak. Rhyming slang.
S: What’s tha…
M: Skin and blister, sister. Apple and pears, stairs. That comes from the east end of London. They used to use rhyming slang say, 100 years ago, cause they didn’t want the police to know what was going on.
(She pauses.)
I’ve been through a lot in my life. I’ve been through hell and back. But it’s made me who I am. Nobody special. Nobody extraordinary.
S: You’re beautiful.
M: I’m not beautiful. I like your book though.
An older gentleman approaches her counter.
M: I’m going to do you a nice coffee darling. Would you like sugar or shall I dip me finger in it?

Maria finally succumbed and generously revealed her recipe:

“You’ve got to use the right potato. It’s got to be a dry potato. Maris Piper, Marfona. But then again it depends on what the season it is. Potatoes are susceptible to ground conditions. I cook the cabbage and the potato beforehand and put it in the frying pan and I let them cook and cook and cook, and then I smash the potato, don’t mash it, you smash it right, and then you get bits — bigger bits, smaller bits, and then when you’ve cooked it to a certain extent, you add more, then you add more and you mash it in altogether cook it altogether and you get different textures and it…(whispers), it plays on the tongue, the senses.”

She handed me a plate of her Bubble and Squeak served alongside a fried egg, blood sausage, beans, and a bottle of Devon Stile Brown Sauce and watched me eat every last bite. My adaptation at home became a slight bastardization using olive oil, sea salt, cracked black pepper, and a little freshly grated nutmeg. No wonder why I never heard any bubbling. I jipped myself. Go for the lard and you’ll hear it.

Bubble & Squeak

Pigs and sh*t (or: how to recycle old veg)

I’m at my local organic greengrocer in Primrose Hill village on Regent’s Park Road asking Nigel— one of the owners— a thing or two about vegetables. Nigel knows everything about veg, but he doesn’t smile much.

S: I have a bunch of rotting root vegetables on my kitchen floor. What do you suggest?

N: Throw them away. If they’re rotting darling, chuck ‘em. Or give them to the pigs. You got pigs?

S:  No.

N: You should buy a couple of pigs, right, and feed them all the rotten vegetables. .

S: What do you do with them?

N: I eat them.

S: The pigs or the vegetables?

N: The pigs. I’m not Je…

(Hesitates)

Are you Jewish?

S: No.

N: I’m not Jewish. I eat pork, I don’t care.

S: We’re having pig on Easter. But what do you do with all your rotting vegetables?

N: We feed them to the pigs.

S: And where are the pigs?

N: Downstairs. All locked up. We take them over the park at night.

(Pause. Nigel sells another customer some potatoes. He seems to be thinking.)
N: Can you make a compost with them?

S: How do you do that?

N: I don’t know darling. It’s like people come in and say I want to make this blah di blah blah in my recipe book. What do I need? I’ve never heard of these things. I’m not a cook. I’m not a chef. I’m not a gardener.

S: So how big does the compost have to be?

N: How long is a piece of string?

His tiny female co-worker covers her mouth to stifle her giggling. 

S: Perhaps you can use that soil for all your plants out here.

N: We look after our plants darling. Thank you. 

S: Like the pigs downstairs.

A new customer walks in.

N: Here— she can tell you all you need to know about composts.

S: Great. How do you build one?

Customer: (without missing a beat) You put in four metal stakes. Have you got an outside area?

S: No but I can put it in my kitchen.

N: (snorts)…you can’t put it in the kitchen darling…!

Customer: Have you got no outside area?

S: No.

N: (under his breath) Americans…

Customer: You need it to be outside. If it’s on the earth, then the worms just come up and all the bugs. I mean as you chuck it in, you can just see it. It’s miraculous… it really is miraculous.

S: So I…

Customer: (in full flow now) And in a year it turns into this sort of alchemy. It’s this beautiful rich soil. All your rotten vegetables in one year and you run your hand through it and it’s all granular soil. And then you throw it on your garden.

N: Or your can run your hands through my hair.

Customer: Nigel, you’re nuts.

Someday I’ll have a big garden. But until then, I shall remain resourceful with my rotting produce. The celeriac was just slightly soft— as were the apples and gingerroot. I tend to exaggerate.

End of Winter Crispy Root Fritters

In a bowl, shred a medium-sized celeriac, about 2 cups. Then an equal amount of peeled and grated apples. Add a good tablespoon of finely grated fresh ginger, a good pinch of Maldon sea salt, finely grated fresh lemon zest from ½ lemon on a microplane (just bought a new one (http://www.microplane.com/), and then its juice, chopped or picked fresh lemon thyme, and a dash of white balsamic vinegar.

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How to Save the World, by Tom Aikens

Michelin-starred chef Tom Aikens hobbles over to greet me at his eponymous restaurant in Chelsea. He’s wearing green Havaianas but his feet are wrapped in white gauze and what looks like masking tape.  Up close they are beet red, bruised, and absolutely battered. One of his toenails is oozing with pus and about to fall off. The soles of his feet have had three layers of skin ripped off.

S: What have you gotten yourself into now?

T: Marathon des Sables. Six marathons in five days in the Southern Moroccan desert for Facing Africa. 

S: Oh. Why the extremism and why this charity?

T: I did it with Facing Africa because it’s the only way to get to run for the race. Otherwise, it’s booked up about two to three years ahead. It’s the hardest foot race in the world.

S: But now you can’t walk and look slightly skeletal.

T: Do I? I have no ass anymore.

He stands up to show me. I poke it.

S: It’s okay. What other charities are you supporting these days?

T: I get asked to donate to so many. I find it very difficult to say ‘no’. They say ‘can you offer a prize? Say, cook for a table of ten?’. I’ve done World Food Organization, I’ve done WWF, I’ve done Greenpeace…

A young male chef walks up to us with a metal mixing bowl.

T: (sharply) Yes. What’s up?

Young Chef: Uh, consistency for tapenade?

He tilts the bowl toward Tom.

T: Oui oui oui oui yeah that’s fine that’s cool have you done the hummus yeah?

YC: Yeah, left it quite a bit lumpy

T: Make sure it’s not too lumpy yeah that’s gotta be smooth. The lentil one you can leave a little bit grainier.

YC: Lentil one? 

Young chef scurries off.

T: [in full flow]… done work with children’s charities, I’ve done work with women in cancer hospitals, I’ve done one with— what’s that local Chelsea hospital…?

S: What about donating leftover food? £10 billion of food is wasted every year in the UK. What about Love Food Hate Waste, Love Food Champions…

T: There’s not really much wasted food. The leftover food that is acceptable to eat we give to staff. The main waste is packaging: cardboard, plastic, bottles. We recycle that. Obviously, there’s a lot of food you can’t eat. A lot of the waste is peelings from vegetables, bones, scraps from people’s plates. Unless your food is crap, the only way of combating leftover food from people’s plates is portion control.

S: What’s your favorite leftover?

T: My grandmother’s Bubble & Squeak.

S: Have you had Maria’s at Borough Market?

T: I was there yesterday but I had toast and marmalade.

S: I’ll be seeing her this week. I’ll tell her you say hello.

T: Tell her I was the one in the running outfit.

Young chef returns with his bowl.

T: Yes?

YC: Hummus.

T: A little bit smoother, mate.

S: How’d the lentils turn out?

T: Did you do the lentils?

YC: I’m trying to get a hold of Ginger… but…. But I think it’s guacamole not lentils.

T: (Pause) You’re right. You’re off the hook then.

Young chef scurries off, proudly.

S: You’re pretty calm. You’re a changed man since our last interview three years ago...

T: Am I? Before I was a little woohoo. I’ve been through a fucking lot. No one will ever know. Until I write about it in my biography.

Remember those two extra lamb shanks I had you make in the first post? They were intentional leftovers with an excellent purpose:

Slow Braised Lamb Ragu with Tagliatelle

This feeds two with a side of steamed seasonal greens drizzled with white balsamic and olive oil. (Bread also helps.) This serves one, on the other hand, if you’re wildly hungover and craving creature comforts. But at those times, I just like cheese.

Take your two leftover lamb shanks (3 days max lifespan in fridge) and reserve the sauce—which has now congealed along with it. Shred the shanks, making sure you get rid of all the fat, skin, or anything you wouldn’t like to eat. You’ll see it. 100% meat is so much more pleasant.

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Bottoms Up

I’m racing over to Barrett’s Butchers on Englands Lane, Belsize Park. Need to hurry— they close at 5:30 p.m. This ain’t Noo Yawk.

S: Hello Handsome! Can you chop three of those lamb legs in the window into shanks and French them for me? God, it’s freezing out. You wanna coffee?

Bob the Butcher: At yours, love?

S: Cheeky git.

He snorts. The other butchers laugh heartily. It’s all meat, saws, and gristle.

S: How about a whisky— to warm you guys up?

Living in Britain gives one the freedom to drink at any time of the day in any public place I— I mean one— chooses. I leave the butchers and go next door where I buy a bottle of Jack, a stack of plastic cups, and two bottles of cheap Rioja (for the lamb). Four-and-a-half-minutes later I’m back at Barrett’s. I line up five plastic cups across the counter, snap open the bottle of Jack, pour five shots, and hand them out to the butchers, who have now all trickled out from the back.

Bob the Butcher: Just like the old days mates. Cheers.

I pour five more shots. They all toast this blog. The other customers couldn't care less.

Best Braised Lamb Shanks

Very thinly slice 2 red onions, finely chop ½ head garlic, and finely chop 3 Tablespoons of fresh rosemary (plucked from their hard stems). Open two bottles of red wine. Have an aged balsamic ready and waiting.

Rub three lamb shanks all over with crushed Maldon sea salt and cracked black pepper. Coat them lightly in flour and shake off the excess.

In a large pot with tall sides, heat a few tablespoons of hot olive oil and sear the shanks all the sides. Remove onto a plate and lower the heat.

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