cornish delight

The Greenhouse, St. Keverne, Cornwall
www.tgor.co.uk

So small it was almost like a front room turned restaurant, and run by just two rather dedicated people, I loved The Greenhouse from first bite of chewy new bread to the last spoon of pud. The alpha and omega of dining.

The menu was full of seafood and local produce. I know 'seasonal' and 'local' food is the big fat middle-class cliche of our time, but here it was sincere and so easily the best bet - given the plethora of farms in the area, and the sea pretty much acting as doorstep.

One of the multi-tasking two runs bread-making classes, my local hosts reliably informed me. I jested (not) that I would judge the place by their bread - and frankly, it exceeded expectation. I don't know how to describe it without the words 'fresh + chewy + crusty + holey' so I will leave it at that. For the rest, I'm going to give you a medley of what I remember from round the table: I didn't eat four meals.

There were battered sprats 'like giant whitebait' with an aioli, pigeon breasts with crispy fried black pudding, mussels, and a generous scoop of ducks pate on toast. We shared with each other liberally, tasting everything.

The next course was a shore of seafood. Crab with mayonnaise and chips rendered the gent unusually silent, except for the click of shell against plate and a murmur of 'claws are the best bit'. Fish (fried brill?) decorated with more mussels, and a Goan fish curry - at the top end of spicy - pleased Mr and Mrs Host; I had a most delicate, soft baked megrim sole with crab sauce, and just a few buttered potatoes alongside. My lack of notebook shows: I can't recall the names of anything properly, how vexing. I hope the gent can at least recall what we drank, as it was terrific, and two bottles made their way to our table.

The only criticism suggested at our table, was that the starters were perhaps too large: four sprats, for instance, would have been a more perfect size for the appetite whetting morsel a first course should be. Six were more of a meal. Nonetheless, after this barrage of delights, we bravely pushed forward to a pudding course, crossing spoons to share this time. I believe a banana vacherin (?) was polished off with delight on the other side of the table: I was too busy with my face in a treacle tart with Roskilly's clotted cream to take much notice. Dark with treacle, not just golden syrup, this was as amazing as it sounds.

It was a beautiful evening. Locals obviously loved it - as did a certain television celebrity - and I hope it continues to be successful. I couldn't help but notice that this week there is a wild rabbit and mushroom terrine on the menu...

confit de canard

Confit de canard: five syllables of seduction. In Paris the gent and I had this at Brasserie Balzar, where it came gorgeously crisped, accompanied by a wonderful gravy and sautee potatoes. We enjoyed a wonderful, chewy, strawberry Beaujolais (2006) and the amazing moustache on our waiter. The next restaurant served the confit without gravy, and with fried potatoes. Unforgettable times.

Here is the perennially wonderful Nigel on the subject:
http://www.guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/2003/feb/09/foodanddrink.shopping6

To find the optimal way of cooking this the smartest thing to do, of course, iwould be to look at recipes and writing from the best cookery writers. However, I am curious about how much of a difference the differing methods make. I am keen to make this myself so I can play with the curing stage, and the time spent poaching in fat. I would, secondarily, be interested to see if the the length of time it is stored in the hard-fat block changes the end product.

In my grand plan I will make three versions varying the curing stage and treat them the same for the rest of the cooking stages. Then from this, I will take the best curing method and start again: cure it the best way and cook it for three different lengths of time to find the optimal result.

Now all I need is an empty weekend, a kitchen to myself, and a working oven.

Hobnobbing

I didn't realise how much I utilise the oven until over-summering in this flat without one.

I have several times planned an oven-cooked meal and had the raw ingredients in my shopping basket, before recalling that I have only a hob to cook with. One shameful supermarket chicken pie - now languishing in the freezer - made it all the way home and out of the cardboard before I remembered. I actually considered how else I could make it edible - slicing it up to fry? Steam?

The last thing to catch me out was planning this Italian aubergine dish, which Bert had raved about:
http://www.lifestylefood.com.au/recipes/1993/eggplant-parmigiana-melanzana-alla-parmigiana

I have been meaning to make this for some time from an Anna del Conte recipe but am separated from my cook books. And, as I later recalled, aubergine in hand, oven. So until I am back in my own flat, this dish will have to go on the backburner.

Is it wrong to laugh at your own jokes?

Cooking comfort

I am frazzled. I have had such a wonderful month - two blogs nearly completed to describe it all - but I have barely had a night at home.

Last week I returned from a visit to my Mother laden with her garden produce: tomato (including tigerella toms), cabbage, runner beans and baby courgettes in yellow and green. Something my mother always cooks with the summer 'glut' is steamed runner beans, served with fried tomato and bacon. That's it: super quick, and ever so fresh tasting. I had a wave of nostalgia from being in my childhood house, so I re-created this dish back in London to remind me of home. I also had gnocchi with it, to use up some leftovers, and make it more substantial. No dressing - just the bacon fat drizzled over and pepper ground over.

Tonight I needed a quick fix of comfort so I made cauliflower cheese, my top nursery food. I can't go without carbs at bedtime, so I had this with rice (incidentally, macaroni is my usual pairing). I made the cheese sauce with a dab of English mustard and mature cheddar - and extra cheddar shaved over: a blanket of comfort.

St. John, Smithfield

To start, rolled pig's spleen wrapped in bacon, some vinegary cornichons alongside. We drank 'Domaine des Roy' 2008 - delighting my vanity - which the gent described as 'like a handful of lake reeds dipped in lemon juice'.

JD: 'What is a spleen for?'
SD: 'Venting'

SD and PB had an amazing terrine, of which was said: 'How can you, like, mash up a pig and a pigeon and come out with something so light?' and to which I will add, after only a taste I am spoilt for life. I have added terrine to my list of dishes to cook.

At this point we moved on to drink a wine so good that I was moved to take a bad photograph to remember the name: notes reveal it to be 2002 for sure, and 'Laurier domaine' for unsure. The gent and I feasted on pigeon, peas and bacon with buttered greens. The pigeon very pink, very soft, more strongly flavoured than I anticipated.

And so to the finale: Madeleines were freshly baked for us, and a sweet muscat wine imbibed by the gent. The torrential rain and amazing storm which we slipped home in was not enough to quench the inner glow of that whatsit-red, beautiful, inventive food and new friends.

www.stjohnrestaurant.com

ugly kolrabi!

Some veg-box kolrabi, rescued from neglect in the bottom of the fridge, needed eating. A quick glance through some books brought about this dish, which accompanied fish and potato for a quick dinner.

Thinly sliced, raw kolrabi layered up in a shallow bowl
Lemon juice and olive oil
Thyme from the garden, semi-denuded from the twig and scattered over

I was surprised by how tasty this was, and would definitely make it again for a speedy and different supper.

birthday food

Having just moved my life into storage for the summer, birthdays were the last thing on my mind. The gent – henceforth to be called ‘The dreamcake’ – soothed me with words of encouragement and housed me for a homeless weekend. (By the foodie by, to say thank you for this I took us to a local Vietnamese place on Saturday evening, which I am still in two minds about. I really want to like it, but it is speedy and shonky rather than delectable.)

Then on Sunday I awoke to scrambled eggs and smoked salmon on muffins, with juice and tea. It was properly the best scrambled egg in the world: buttery and soft. Later I was royally treated to high tea at the palace of tea-time in Stokie: they bake the cakes on the premises and their sandwiches are really delicious. We discussed how to keep sandwiches fresh for picnics, whilst piling jam and cream onto scones, and the dreamcake took photos so we can forever remember the great china and the auspicious day.

We lazed in the park with the papers after this: he read out the restaurant review and I read out bits of an interview with Mr Vivienne Westwood.

A brief savoury interlude of pesto pasta revived us, and then the dreamcake again lived up to his name and revealed a hazelnut cake he had made himself! Imagine! Unable to find ground hazelnuts he had had to roast, skin and be-crumb the nuts himself – an absolute labour of love – with the inventive method of encasing the nuts in greaseproof and bashing with a rolling pin.
Reader, not only was the initial of my name outlined on top of the cake, but the whole thing tasted moist and divine. And with Valdo prosecco alongside, I was in heaven.

It will over-gild the lily to report this, but a birthday isn't a day for modesty, so I will go ahead: I was gifted a box set of original Elizabeth David paperbacks, and 'Venus in the Kitchen' by Pilaff Bey. They are in my new bedroom and I can’t wait to cook from them to test out the stove. And, perhaps, the dreamcake.