The pea soup ferry to Flushing

Pea soup is one thing. Pea soup with a frankfurter in it on a blustery day in the middle of Zeeland, south-west Netherlands, when you’re under ten is quite another. A regular treat we had as kids was an excursion on what became known as the pea soup ferry. The pea soup ferry used to carry cars from Breskens to Vlissingen (Flushing), but was discontinued in 2003 when a transport planner thought that building the Westerschelde bridge was a better idea. Clearly that person had no idea how good the pea soup was. My Dutch friend, Tom, is a transport planner. It was probably all his fault.

Pea soup with mandatory Frankfurter, many years later

a packet of frozen peas (obviously), though fresh are good, they have to be really fresh and it’s five times the work
good quality vegetable stock, or organic chicken stock, homemade or bought
an onion
the best Frankfurters you can lay your hands on
fresh mint to garnish or add to the soup (optional)
salt, pepper, olive oil

Gently sweat the onion in olive oil till translucent. Chuck in the peas and stock. Simmer. Talk to your mum on iChat. While that’s happening, heat the frankfurters in barely simmering water. Come back ten to fifteen minutes later. Blitz the pea soup with a hand blender while thinking of your least favourite person (the transport planner, for instance). Season to taste. Pour into a large mug. Drop in a hotdog. Cuddle up on the sofa and wish you were still under ten. Things were simpler then. Just like this recipe.

Tom, the transport planner

Eating children for breakfast

When I was eight, I went to a new school. It was called école internationale Le Verseau. Nothing especially remarkable about that except that in its grounds it had a zoo. A zoo with a fully grown lioness. A lioness, in a primary school. Let’s just say no one misbehaved in class.

There were baboons, too, with bright red bottoms. Monsieur Aubertin was the zookeeper. I learnt to speak Flemish. And my brother was the baby Jesus in the school nativity play.

Waterzooi à la gantoise – a soupy stewy Flemish thing
an organic chicken, cut into pieces, or use a mix of skinless chicken thighs and breasts
carrots, celery and leeks, finely sliced lengthways (julienned sounds too pretentious, but that’s what I mean)
an onion
chicken stock
single (light) cream
an egg yolk
butter
flour
salt and pepper
parsley and chervil

Put the chicken into a large pot, add the sliced onion, and cover with chicken stock. Poach for an hour, skimming off any scum that appears. Chuck a lump of butter and a splash of olive oil into a frying pan and gently cook the vegetables till softened. Now make a roux. Put another lump of butter into a saucepan, melt, then add about the same amount of flour. Mix together with a wooden spoon and allow the floury taste to cook out on the lowest heat possible for about ten minutes or more. Go back to the chicken, remove it from the pot, and keep it warm. Strain the broth and gradually add it to the roux to make a sauce. Next add the cream, and finally the egg yolk. Check the seasoning. Cut the chicken into bite sized pieces and put into shallow bowls with a spoonful of vegetables. Add the sauce. Scatter over parsley and chervil. Alternatively, put it all in one large serving dish and let your friends help themselves.

Crusty bread is a good idea. And here’s how to get to the school, though the lioness is currently unavailable.

A vegetarian comes to lunch – hurray!

I like having to cook an entirely vegetarian meal. It makes a change. Thanks, Michael, for coming to lunch.

Nigel Slater (Tender: Volume 1) has a brilliant recipe for a cold winter’s day: mushroom and spinach gratin. It goes more or less like this.

Choose some mushrooms you like the look of. Small brown ones are good, but you could pretty much use any you fancy. Buy spinach and wash it thoroughly if not already washed. Gritty spinach is foul. Then you also need a knob of butter, a glug of olive oil, the usual salt and pepper, and about half to three quarters of a pint of double (heavy) cream. And a large glass of white wine (one you would drink as well as cook with – I used Pinot Grigio last weekend).

 

In a large frying pan (assuming you’re cooking for five or six, or a small frying pan if you’re not), drizzle olive oil and add the knob of butter. Toss in the mushrooms, which you’ll have cut up into halves, or smaller if they’re big ones. Let them slurp up the buttery oil for a while until they get some colour. Splash in the wine and simmer for ten minutes or so while you dust the lampshades or something.

Tip spinach into a pan and wilt on high heat. I don’t add water but you can if you like – you’ll just have to squeeze it all out later. Drain in a colander until cool, then – whether you added water or not – squeeze out the inevitable brown water with your bare hands till it’s dry. Watery sauce is no good (see elsewhere on this blog).

Back with the mushroom brigade, add the cream and bring back to the boil. Season. I added some Cheddar I found in the fridge (sorry, Nigel).

Now tip the whole lot into an ovenproof serving dish and add the spinach. Make it even so the mushrooms and spinach aren’t segregated. Grate over some Parmesan cheese, stick it in a hot oven, wait till it bubbles and starts to go golden on top. Serve with baguette.

My Belgian roots

Chicons au gratin, à ma façon (all good things come from Belgium)
Two of my friends regularly ask for this, but can never remember what it’s called, so they call it ‘torpedoes’. Well, OK. Why not?

Buy two evenly-sized chicons (that’s endive if you’re French, English or American) per person, and a couple of extras for luck. I’ve never known anyone eat more than four at a sitting, though they’ve sometimes come close to it.
Get good quality, thinly sliced ham, e.g. Parma cotto, but that pre-packaged stuff will do if necessary. One slice per chicon, with some extras in case.
Choose your cheese. It ought to be Gruyère, but good Cheddar or other hard cheese works very well. Not Parmesan.

Flour – all purpose
Butter
Milk – a pint or more depending on how many people you’re feeding
Small amount of freshly grated nutmeg. (No, I don’t like it pre-ground.)

Take any slightly browning leaves off the chicons. They shouldn’t be there. Where did you get them?
Take the smallest slice off the base, being careful not to let the chicons open up in the process.
Put them all in a saucepan filled with cold water, little bit of salt.
Bring to boil, then simmer for about 15 minutes.
Drain. Drain again. And once more. Now make sure there’s no water at all by wrapping each one in kitchen paper and squeezing. Watery cheese sauce is nasty.

Put a lump (technical term) of butter into a saucepan, melt, then add about the same amount of flour to make a Roux. Mix together with a wooden spoon and allow the floury taste to cook out on the lowest heat possible for about ten minutes, or more. Patience required. Do not leave the site. It’ll burn and you’ll get annoyed. If this happens, throw it out and start again. Add cold milk bit by bit. Throw wooden spoon out of the window and use a whisk instead. Lumps are as nasty as watery cheese sauce.
Start adding grated cheese. Incorporate.
Grate nutmeg into it. Don’t overdo it.
Increase heat to thicken, but not yet. See next step.

Wrap each chicon in a piece of ham. Lay in soldierly fashion in a shallow dish.
Thicken sauce. Taste for seasoning – it usually needs salt as far as I’m concerned.
Chuck sauce over chicons. Put in oven until the whole thing bubbles and starts to brown a little on top.

Crusty bread pretty much essential. Nothing else is.

Snaffled chicken

‘Snaffled’ because I snaffled or stole the recipe from my 88 year old friend, Tony. A great recipe for a crowd, for two as comfort food on a winter’s night, or as a healthy light meal in spring. I last made this for some friends who’ve just got engaged, one of whom cannot eat anything with gluten or wheat in it. Perfect.

a chicken (make it organic or at least free range – the things chickens go through don’t bear thinking about)
3 or 4 leeks
5 or 6 carrots
an onion
a few sticks of celery
some little waxy potatoes
a bay leaf or two
parsley
salt and pepper and a few whole peppercorns
water
and literally any other vegetable you like (but add at later stages, according to how long they take to cook. Overcooked spinach/pak choi/broccoli isn’t a good thing, but fine added at the end of cooking.)

Wash the chicken. Check for plastic bags of guts lurking within and remove if present.
Put chicken in biggest saucepan possible and more than cover with cold water.
Chuck in salt, whole peppercorns, sprig of parsley, onion sliced or quartered, bay leaves.
Bring to boil. Then simmer for about an hour. (Depending on size)
Skim scum from the top of the saucepan frequently. Looks nasty but is harmless. (Tip: take off the heat and leave for five minutes – it’s easier to see.)
Meanwhile, chop vegetables. (No, I don’t know what size you like your vegetables chopped.) Don’t chop the potatoes.

Add vegetables about 25 to 30 minutes before you want to serve it all up. Keep on simmering. The skin on the chicken should be coming off. That’s how you know it’s done.
Remove chicken. Note that this will take about four hands and that it’ll probably fall apart on you if you’re not careful, but it’s OK if it does.
Try to find the bay leaves and take them out.
Hack chicken into pieces. Carving is kind of irrelevant at this point.

Tony, owner of the snaffled chicken recipe

Invite lots of like-minded souls round. Serve pieces of chicken in warm bowls and let people dive in for vegetables. Ladle out some broth. Provide spoons. Crusty bread isn’t a bad idea to mop up juices.

When you’ve exhausted all the possibilities of the snaffled chicken in this form, you’ll probably have meat left on the carcass, and vegetables flailing around at the bottom of the saucepan. Strain broth through a colander to remove any dodgy small bones/missed bay leaves/bobbly chicken skin/chapter one of your novel, then put the chicken, vegetables and stock back together and blend into a soup.

Food for weeks, really.