Chickpeas, Spinach and Coconut

First things first, let’s be totally honest here: this is a recipe pinched straight off The Kitchn's Faith Durand, whose Braised Coconut Spinach and Chickpeaas with Lemon is heavenly.  It also has the advantage of being (a) healthy (very much so, or at least very much so in the context of the other stuff I tend to cook); (b) easy peasy lemon squeeze; and © suitable to feed to a vegetarian if you're pushed to do so.   All I've done with the recipe is play with the quantities a touch and converted them to UK weights and measures.

Faith recommends eating it with a baked sweet potato, which sounds nice enough, except that I like roasted sweet potato mash very much.  I also ate the leftovers with basmati rice, which worked pretty well too.  Next time I make it, I'll try it with wild rice - I can't help but feel that a little extra bite to this would be a good shout.

Ingredients:

Olive oil

1 yellow onion

4 cloves of garlic

Thumb-sized piece of root ginger

1tsp ground ginger

250g sun dried tomatoes

1 lemon

1 dried chilli (hot)

800g chickpeas

2 big bags of baby leaf spinach (About 400g)

400ml coconut milk (Although not the healthiest thing, coconut milk can also be bought in a 'reduced fat' form, which I think tastes just as good and is slightly better for you.)

100g coconut shavings

Handful of coriander 

Two big sweet potatoes (Basically half a sweet tat tie per head, based on the size we had - so just pick enough for everyone to have what they want)

Smidgen of butter

3 garlic cloves

1. Get the oven on to 170°C.  Peel and chop the sweet potatoes up into inch-sized chunks and chuck them in a large, ceramic roasting dish.  Don't peel the garlic but crack each clove it under a heavy knife.  Douse with olive oil and season liberally before sticking the whole dish in the oven, stirring every so often.  They'll need the best part of an hour, until they're soft and sticky, with nice blackened edges.

2. Boil a kettle and pop the chilli in a mug full of boiled water.  In a large cast-iron casserole dish get some oil heating on a low heat whilst you chop up the onion finely.  Add it to the dish and allow it to soften.  Whilst softening, zest the lemon, crush the garlic, grate the ginger, dice the sun-dried toms and extract and chop up your chilli pepper (if you don't like it hot, discard the seeds now).  When the onions are soft, add the whole lot and cook the mix off a bit, increasing the heat to medium.

3. Drain the chickpeas then add them to the pan, and stir them into the whole mixture.  Cook them until they start to turn golden as they toast.  

4. Throw in an entire bag of spinach.  it'll look ridiculous, but this is spinach and in a few minutes it'll have wilted to next to nothing as you stir it in.  Time to add bag number two, and repeat.

5. When it's all wilted down, add the ground ginger, coconut milk and the juice of the lemon.  Season to taste.  Bring it to a simmer and cook off for 10 minutes, so that it thickens a touch.

6. Whilst you're waiting, get a large frying pan on the heat and dry toast some coconut shavings.  Chop the coriander.

7. If you've timed this well, your sweet potatoes will be roasted nicely now.  Get them out of the oven, peel the garlic cloves and add them back in.  Spot the dish with butter, then mash it to a rough pulp.  

8. When you're ready to go, spoon the potato into a bowl before ladling over the chickpea and spinach mix.  Make sure you got plenty of sauce going on too.  

- GrubsterBoy - 

Food Porn #5: Bread

If you're gonna serve bread and oil, like every other gastropub under the sun, at least make it look pretty.  Hats off to The Wellington in Welwyn for doing so.  In a flipping flower pot.

Sherry and Basque Food Pairing at Ametsa

The other night GrubsterGirl and I enjoyed a charming evening of sherry sipping and food tasting.

 

The Ametsa, the restaurant at The Halkin by COMO hotel in Belgravia, has set up and ran a charming little event – the first of what they plan on being a series of Master classes.  For a relatively small crowd they gave a lecture on the history, production and styles of five different sherries, and paired them with some delicious Basque food. 

 

The word 'sherry' is, in fact, little more than an Anglicisation of the town from whence most sherry originates: Jerez.  Indeed, sherry now has a protected designation of origin status, meaning that (like champagne or stilton or tequila) it has to come from the certain region after which it is named in order to be legally classified as sherry – of Jerez wine, as I suppose we are calling it.

 

The evening kicked off with a very interesting and detailed talk from Álvaro Prieto, Ametsa's sommelier, about the sherry making process and the history behind it.  Then we got down to the good stuff.

 

The five drops we got to taste were all dry sherries.  Sadly, my sweet tooth was deprived of what it craved, but no matter, because they were all very good.  We started proceedings with the only vintage – a 2009 Navazos-Niepoort.  Those of you who know your ports will have heard the name 'Niepoort' before, without a doubt – they are perhaps most famous for their ports and Duoro wines, but their recent partnership with Navazos to create sherry is a potential goer – keep your eye on this number.   

It was light, chalky, slightly sharp sherry that went beautifully with its chose pairing, which was pescado con patatas – or fish and chips to you and I.

Now, I don’t know about you, but I've been down to the British seaside and I've eaten fish and chips, in the rain, out of soggy newspaper, doused in vinegar.  I know fish and chips.  Whatever these are, they're not fish and chips.  I'm sorry, they're just not.  Whatever they are, though, they're lovely.  The crinkly crepe paper you see is actually coloured potato paper, a little like crumply rice paper except salty and spuddy.  The fish was carved into big, moist hunks and beautifully battered in a light, crisp batter.  So I can’t complain too much (or at all) that they’re not like Maggies' (the best fish and chips in Britain, fact) – they were great fun.

 

Sherry number 2 was a La Cigarrera, a Manzanilla, which is a light, fortified Fino sherry.  Again, it was light and fresh, but not as interesting as the first or as exciting as the later sherries. 

Its match was kataifi-wrapped scorpion fish cakes.  A bit of a mouthful to say, but not to eat – they were lovely.

Third glass was the Fino Una Palma, which was a beautiful Fino sherry, aged for about six years and withy a fresh, salty, oaky palate.  Apparently it's available at Waitrose under another (very similar) label (wink-wink-nudge-nudge), so if you see it I'd recommend grabbing a bottle.  It's actually produced by the sherry giant Tio Pepe, but don’t let that put you off – it's a delight. 

 

Keeping it company were some deliciously light croquetas de jamón.  So often when you eat Spanish croquettes in the UK they're thick and stodgy – these were quite the opposite, focusing more on the ham than a potato-based padding that other (cheaper) restaurants indulge in.

Next up, we're starting to move into the territory of my kind of wines – richer, louder, punchier.  This came initially in the form of an Amontillado, Tío Diego.  This was a real puzzler of a wine, in a sense.  The nose was all toasted almonds, caramel, sweet flavours; the palate was heavily dry, almost steely, with a slightly more drawn out citrus and buttery aftertaste.

Its pairing was pintxo de pancetta de cerdo con piña.  Or ham and pineapple skewers to you and me.  Now, I love the attempt to bring in a bit of '80s glam, with the classic cocktail party canapés reimagined.  But, sadly, these just didn’t work.  There was nothing wrong with the execution – nothing at all, in fact the pork belly was cooked to melt-in-the-mouth perfection - but the dish just didn't work, sadly. 

The final wine – and by far and away my favourite – was an Oloroso Antique.  This was fantastic.  Warm, rich notes on the note, followed by a sweeter (but still relatively dry) palate with a long, long aftertaste that grew in intensity and flavour over time.  It was the aftertaste that was most exciting – the initial flavours being a rich, dry sherry and little more, it then grew and grew into something richer, buttery-er, almost malty and with hints of popcorn.  No, really.  I'm not just trying to be pretentious.  This was stunning.

To go with it we had a classic Jerez staple, ox cheeks.  But, unlike your normal Basque fare (and, as I had by now realised, I rather imagine quite like your normal Ametsa fare) this was no ordinary ox cheek stew.  Au contraire, the dark, rich, slow-cooked cheek ragout was stuffed into little filo triangles and served with a sweet mango coulis.  Very nice indeed.

All in, it was a fun, educational evening with some good food and great wine.  At £30 a head, I have to say it was also pretty damn good value. 

- GrubsterBoy -

French Onion Soup

The weather recently has been GRIM.  Today is no exception.

It is a well-known fact that the more miserable the weather, the more you want to bundle yourself up in blankets, loafing on the sofa in front of the TV, with a big bowl of something warming and hearty.  I have a whole list of such comfort foods in my cooking repertoire that positively demand foul weather before they can be supped.  One such dish is French onion soup.

The French know exactly what they're doing with this dish.  It's an Alpine dish, in a way, that's designed for being chowed down at the top of a mountain in the most inhospitable of conditions to warm you up from the inside out. With a blizzard raging outside, what more could you ask for than a pot of this brown nectar with great garlicky chunks of crusty bread and topped with molten cheese?

Ingredients:

1kg yellow onions
Olive oil
75g butter
5 cloves of garlic
1 tsp brown sugar
350ml white wine
2 litres beef stock
75ml cognac / brandy
1 baguette
350g gruyere cheese

It's also remarkably cheap and simple, which is how I came to hone this particular skill whilst at university.  Since then I've graduated and started receiving an annual salary, but this recipe persists.  To keep the costs even lower you can sub in cheddar for gruyere, and omit the cognac.

1. Start by getting the oven on to 200°C and mincing two cloves of garlic into a bowl with 4tbs of olive oil.  Allow this mixture to sit for a bit whilst you get on with the soup.

2. Slice the onions relatively thinly, but not so much so that they'll turn to mush in the pot.  You want to be left with nice, long strands in the soup.

3. Melt the butter in the pan with the oil.  Add the onions and turn the heat up.  Don’t be perturbed that there are absolutely tonnes of the onions in the pan, that's perfectly normal and they'll cook away to about a quarter of that quantity – if not less.  Cook on a high heat until the edges have started to brown.

4. Turn the heat right down and let the onions cook right down.  You want to get the onions to a state where they’ve gone a caramelised, sweet brown, with lots of unctuous sticky goo gently bubbling away in the bottom.  Thomas Keller cooks his until they're properly dark brown and reduced to virtually nothing, but I think that's a bit excessive – I've tried it and it doesn’t seem to add an awful lot, to be honest.

5. Meanwhile, slice your baguette horizontally, so that you have nice rounds about an inch thick.  If you have a slightly stale baguette, then use that – it'll become less sloppy in the soup.  Lay them out onto a large metal baking sheet and brush the both sides of each crouton with the garlicky oil.

Into the oven they go, for 10-15 minutes or until golden brown and toasted.

6. When the onions are ready you'll have a pan that's coated with brown gunk and beginning to look a bit like it will never go back to normal.  Fret not.  Simply add the wine now and use a wooden spatula or spoon to scrape all the gunge off the bottom.  Et voila, a clean pan.  Throw the stock in now and bring the mix up to a gentle simmer.  Give it another hour or so now, tasting it every so often.  Initially there'll be an underlying sharpness which, as the mixture cooks, will gradually fade away.  When it does so, you're good to go.

7.  Whilst it's bubbling away, grate the cheese.  Arrange the croutons across the top of the soup when it's ready and sprinkle the cheese liberally over the bread.  Chuck it in the oven for five minutes (max) or until the cheese has melted – or, better yet, stick it under the grill so that the cheese can toast away quickly.

8. Serve by spooning out the soup into bowls and chucking in a half to a full measure (depending on taste) of cognac and giving it a quick stir.  Add a couple of croutons and you're good to go.

Scoff it all down with French wine.  We opted for a Gamay, served a little cold (frais, or 'fresh', as the French would have it), it's a perfect accompaniment.

- GrubsterBoy -

Rhubodka

It is most definitely forced rhubarb season.

There’s something really funny – almost dirty – about the term ‘forced rhubarb’.  But it’s effectively the luscious, sweet-sour pink stuff that we all really know and love as rhubarb.  It’s in season from December through to February, so we’re kind towards the end of this year’s run – but it’s not too late to still grab some!

For me, each year, that means one thing: Rhubodka, a glorious fusion of vodka and rhubarb, making a delicate liqueur.  It’s spectacularly easy to make, as well (like most infused alcohol drinks, like sloe gin or damson vodka / gin).

Ingredients:

500g forced rhubarb

250g granulated white sugar

1 litre vodka (Doesn’t need to be anything particularly fancy, but stay away from that Tesco’s blue & white stripe stuff, yeah?)

You’re also going to need a 2 litre mason / Kilner jar – something big, and solidly built (this last part is actually essential for this recipe).

Just a quick note on how to buy rhubarb: I could wax lyrical about this stuff all day, but I won’t (count yourself lucky).  It’s fantastic stuff (Is it a fruit? Or a vegetable? Or, even, a salad?) and should be treated well.  Just a follow a few rules: get bring, pink, healthy looking stalks, preferably from Yorkshire, which is the Mecca of rhubarb.  Also, the more spindly the stalk, the more pink there is in proportion to the rest of the fruit – which means the more of a beautiful, delicate pink colour the liqueur will end up.

Oh, one thing: Don’t eat the leaves.  They contain oxalic acid, which is toxic. 

1. First, sterilize your jars – wash them thoroughly in warm, slightly soapy water, then leave them to drip dry for half an hour in the oven at 130-140°.  Get them out (wear oven gloves) and let them cool right down.

2. Wash the rhubarb thoroughly, and then chop it into chunky chunks. 

3. Chuck the chunks into the jar and, using the end of a rolling pin or something similar, roughly crush the rhubarb chunks.  You’re not looking to totally macerate them, just mess them up a bit to release some of the juice and maximize the surface area for the vodka to interact with.

4. Add the sugar, close the jar, and shake like billy-oh.  Make sure that the sugar and the fruit are really combined.

5. Add the vodka, close the jar up tight again, and shake again. 

6. Keep shaking every day for the first week or so.  Then you can take it easy, provided that all of the sugar has dissolved into the liqueur.  Leave the mixture for about 3 months, then strain.  Fortunately, this is one of those mixtures that, because there is no seed or pith in rhubarb, leaving it too long is unlikely to cause a massive issue.  Also, it’s much, much quicker than the sloe or damson mixtures – it can be drunk immediately it’s strained, and can even be strained sooner than 3 months if you’re desperate. 

Drink straight, over ice, or with tonic water in a 3:1 ratio.  You can vary the recipe as well – it works well with a half-thumb-sized bit of peeled root ginger, sliced and mixed in.  Or, alternatively, throw a couple of sprigs of rosemary in there and see how you come out.

But, most of all, enjoy.

- GrubsterBoy -