I first wrote about Jellied Eels back in 2007, when we had a look at Tubby Isaac's famous East End eel stall. I still have mixed feelings about jellied eels. I want to like 'em, and indeed, I'm almost at the point of becoming an aficinado, but if the truth be told, given half the chance, I'd sooner plump for a decent oyster on the shell, or a lovely cut of smoked eel with horseradish sauce.

Back in the good old days, eels were the staple diet of the London poor. The Thames Estuary is full of the critters, and as the Thames is now so much cleaner than it was say, forty years ago, eels are coming back in force.

I suspect the best way to enjoy jellied eels is to cook them yourself.  A few months ago, I had a bowl of jellied eels as a first course (from memory, think it was at Jack's Place in Battersea); and I don't remember them being especially good (not that I want to denigrate Jack's in any way; a splendid institution and long may it thrive!).

I've trawled through several very old-fashioned Mrs Beeton type cook-books on your behalf, and come up with a definitive recipe:

First, catch some eels. Chop them into 2 inch thick pieces, and plunge them into a large pan of boiling water with a generous dash of sea salt. Take them off the boil, and let them stand for five minutes.

Next, take a pan or dish, and throw in the eels. Pour in a pint of water (so that the eels are covered), and add three tablespoons of malt vinegar, a squeeze of lemon juice, some thinly sliced onions, carrots and celery, a bayleaf, a few peppercorns, sea salt, chopped parsley, and nutmeg.

Bring to the boil, reduce and simmer for twenty minutes, until the eels are tender. Remove the cooked eels and place them in a deep serving dish or bowl.  Strain the 'liquor' over the eels, and when cool, bung it into the 'fridge.  Eels are naturally gelatinous, so the liquid should set.  If it doesn't, be prepared to add some liquid gelatine to the mix.  According to one book, the chopped parsley gives "the jelly the traditional hint of green, like the sea".  What a nice idea.

Serve the jellied eels with chili vinegar.

Image via Wikipedia

Every Christmas, instead of the usual Nordic fir tree, my parents used to bring our bijou Bay Tree indoors and decorate it. Slightly weird behaviour- and I'm not sure why they did it; but there is no doubt that the tree looked the part, and as we were not aware of what we were missing out on, it became an integral part of our family Christmas. Ignorance is bliss.

I use bay leaves quite a bit in cooking; who doesn't?  The Bay Leaf is the aromatic leaf of the Bay Laurel (Laurus nobilis). It originated in Asia Minor, and spread to the warm Mediterranean countries, where it became a symbol of honour in the Ancient World. As with many other herbs, it was also considered to have magical properties.

It has a flowery, aromatic scent and is, of course, wonderful to add that je ne sais quois to stocks, soups and stews such as the Marseille bouillabaisse. It's also an essential ingredient in the bouquet garni, which as I am sure you know is a sprig of parsley, thyme and a bay leaf tied together, traditionally with leek leaves, but more often or not these days, a piece of string.

Image via Wikipedia

I'm fortunate enough (or unlucky enough, depending on your point of view) to work next door to the new Westfield Shopping Centre in darkest Shepherd's Bush. For those of you who don't know about it, this is a spanking brand new Shopping Mall built on American lines, and apparently, the largest shopping complex in Europe.  I'm sure you'll get the picture: squeaky clean chain shops, giggly teenage girls hanging out in pairs, bland post-modern architecture, bored looking Security Guards talking into mobiles. Escalator Heaven.

It's a useful place to get a quick lunch, and I've been to that fast-food Chinese place on the first floor a few times. They cook an excellent, crispy squid, which they serve with black pepper, salt, and thinly sliced chili; along with a further chili dipping sauce. It's delicious and given me a quite a taste for the thing.  It would make an excellent Chinese influenced canapé, and I think, would work well with a Dry Martini. It needs to be served very hot, and very crispy. The following recipe is based on Rose Prince's version in the Daily Telegraph:

Use fresh squid. Cut them open lengthways and remove the insides including the hard quill. With a pair of scissors cut away the tentacles and any hard, boney bits. Dry the squid with paper towels, and then score one side of the squid with a sharp knife to make a lattice pattern. Cut the squid into bite sized pieces.

Heat up some groundnut oil in a wok. Groundnut (or peanut) oil is excellent because it has a high smoking point. Carefully drop a tiny globule of water into the hot oil.  If it sizzles, you will know that it is ready.

Dip the squid into some flour, and fry in small batches for two minutes.  If you overcrowd the wok this will lower the temperature, and stop the squid from frying properly. Remove the crispy squid and let them cool down in a paper-lined sieve or colander.

When the time comes for you to eat them, reheat the oil and re-fry the squid for 3-4 minutes, or until they are a pale golden brown.

Serve them with fine salt, freshly ground black pepper, strips of red and green chili and a chili dipping sauce.

Last night I made an almost perfect Chicken Kiev. It's not especially difficult to make, but my previous attempt ended in failure, with a burnt outside, and a raw inside. Not good.

Some of you out there in cyberspace think that Chicken Kiev is a classic Ukranian dish- perhaps. More promising is the information provided by Alasdair Scott Sutherland's fascinating book The Spaghetti Tree, Mario and Franco and the Trattoria Revolution, which reckons that the Kiev (albeit without the garlic) was initially brought over by some Polish restauranteurs after The War, and then re-invented and italianised by the trendy La Trattoria Terrazza during the 1960's.

Franco and Mario added grated parmesan and garlic to the dish, and this undoubtably gives it a je ne sais quois. Here's how to make my definitive version:

First make the butter mixture. This is just salted butter mashed up in a bowl with lots of chopped parsley, some lemon juice, a few shakes of Tabasco, some freshly grated parmesan cheese, a decent dollop of crushed garlic, and freshly milled black pepper. Fashion the butter into a quenelle shape with a spoon, and let it stiffen up in the 'fridge.

Next, get hold of a chicken breast, and take a good look at it. There should be an extra bit of meat (almost forming a flap) on the side. Run a sharp knife along the edge and remove this, so that you end you with two pieces of chicken meat.

Beat them flat with a kitchen mallet, and then season them with sea salt and black pepper. Brush with a beaten egg, and lightly dust with seasoned flour. Put the quenelle of garlicky butter onto the larger bit of chicken. Place the smaller piece on top, and try and pinch the two pieces of chicken together, so that the butter is sealed inside. Wrap up the finished effort tightly in some cling film, and shove it into the 'fridge.  This should help it stick together. Then you can roll the chicken in the seasoned flour, and then brush it with the beaten egg. 

Finally, dip the Kiev into seasoned breadcrumbs, making sure that the chicken is well covered. Deep fry in oil, until the breadcrumbs turn golden brown. Make sure that they don't burn. It should take about five minutes.

I'm not completely sure what shape the Kiev should be. If you follow my method, there's a tendency for the Kiev to end up a turd-like sausage shape. I've got a hunch that it might look better if it's in a round, or at least a kidney or tear-drop shape. I'll leave that one up to you; it's going to taste the same isn't it?

Image via Wikipedia

I've just heard Alasdair Scott Sutherland talking about his interesting new book on BBC Radio London. It's called The Spaghetti Tree: Mario and Franco and the Trattoria Revolution and looks at the growth of Italian restaurants in Sixties London, and in particular, the careers of Franco Lagattolla and Mario Cassandro; former waiters at The Mirabelle who opened the starry La Trattoria Terrazza in Romilly Street, Soho, in 1959; subsequently patronised by the likes of David Bailey, Michael Caine and Princess Margaret (I'm finding that "Princess Margaret ate here" is fast becoming a favourite mantra).

Franco Lagattolla published his own cookbook (with illustrations by Enzo Apicella) in 1978. It's called: The Recipes that Made a Million.  Here's his recipe for Salsa Verde.  Do you remember all the trouble and angst I had to go through when I attempted to make Elizabeth David's walnut sauce? Franco's version leaves out the walnuts, and is quite definitely served cold:

The Greasy Spoon's Book of the Month for April is A Life With Food by Peter Langan, annotated and with a memoir by none other than Brian Sewell.  I love this book.  It's an idiosyncratic account of the life of the late, eccentric restauranteur, Peter Langan, his restaurants and his art collections.

Odin's has some fabulous Modern and Edwardian British paintings, which is not surprising as many of them were chosen by the great Mr Sewell himself. There's a terrific Laura Knight to the right of the main entrance, a fabulous Harold Gilman in the main dining room and a naughty drawing by Ron Kitaj displayed at table level. 

Here's a very Irish recipe from the book for Boiled Bacon and Cabbage with Parsley Sauce:     

"There are two dishes that are Irish to the core- this is one of them. If it is smoked gammon, soak it overnight in water, and then put it into fresh cold water and bring it to the boil. Remove, skim and simmer for 30 minutes per lb.

The old Irish way is to add the cut up cabbage to the pot for half an hour toward the end. I do not like this. I prefer to boil the cabbage separately for 3-5 minutes.  It is a crisp foil to the slowly cooked bacon.

The parsley sauce is simple. Melt 1oz of butter, add 1 oz of flour and cook until the flour is well blended. Add 1/2 pint of the cooking liquid slowly to begin with then the 1/2 pint of milk, stir, bring to the boil and simmer. Add a bunch of freshly chopped parsley- do not cook it in as most idiot restaurants do.

The bacon, crisp cabbage, and fresh parsley sauce could be the country's greatest dish. Serve it with floury boiled potatoes in their skins."

I'm back. First, you may remember that I had that awful bitter taste thing going on in my mouth after eating a packet of rancid Chinese pine nuts, and frankly, as the taste lasted over a week, I just wasn't in the mood for writing anything about food, let alone even thinking about it. It was as if I was constantly licking my tongue against an aluminium panel. Secondly, my modem decided to finally give up the ghost, so I was offline for a few days, and peace and harmony reigned supreme.

But last week, my taste buds had recovered enough to revisit that former favourite: Khan's, the Indian restaurant in Bayswater. In the event, this became an irrelevance, as all we encountered was bland food and, frankly, pretty rude service.

Khan's was founded, I think, in 1977. My father used to work for an advertising agency around the corner, and I remember being taken there to admire the murals and palm tree columns holding up the ceiling. That's about the only good thing about the restaurant- it used to be a Jo Lyons Corner House- and the ghosts of tea-time orchestras, walnut cake and waitresses with starched pinafores still linger; at least, to those of us with over-active imaginations.

And the first impressions of Khan's are still good, even if it is a paper napkin sort of place. Waiters in white jackets bustle around in Italian style, the palm trees give off a whiff of the Raj, and the murals are still there- if now repainted in a kitsch turquoise and beige.

We were shown to a rickety table. As the restaurant is Muslim owned, alcohol is now banned, so we ordered alcohol-free Cobras, which were surprisingly drinkable- even if alcohol-free beer is a confusing paradox in itself. Service was erratic. The beers arrived and were handed to us, as if- God forbid- we were at some sort of Antipodean barbeque.  

Poppadoms and chutneys arrived on time. The Poppadoms came, I guess, straight from the packet, and the chutneys were boring, thin and unappealing, though the lime pickle tasted all right, and had probably been made in house. I ordered a "Meat" Madras, and a mushroom side dish.  The "meat" came in small grey lumps (dyed orange by the sauce) and looked suspiciously processed. The Girl had some sort of chicken thing with radioactive rice (I'm almost falling asleep as I write this). And when the waiter finally brought himself to bring it to us, he spent the whole time chatting away to the people on the next table as he dumped it all on ours. Don't think he could be bothered to look us in the eye once.  Enough!  Frankly, the whole place was such a yawn, I can't even be bothered to write about it anymore.

And it's a great shame, as Khan's could, indeed, be excellent. The space is potentially fantastic, and has oodles of character. I like the bustling brasserie-like atmosphere, and the look of the waiters in their smart white jackets and black trousers. If you sacked the head chef, and gave the waiters each a copy of "How to Win Friends and Influence People", courtesy of Dale Breckenridge Carnegie, Khan's could be a great destination restaurant. Currently, it's not. 

And one last word on the subject: Khan's has an irritatingly slick and self-indulgent website, in which they suggest, I quote: "I suppose its (sic) fair to say that Khan's of Westbourne Grove, W2, is probably the most famous Indian restaurant in London."  Ever heard of The Veeraswamy, chaps? The Bombay Brasserie?  Or Chutney Mary?

Image by Kake Pugh via Flickr

Khan's, 13-15 Westbourne Grove, Bayswater, London, W2 4UA (020 7727 5420)

I seemed to have tapped into the zeitergeist: yesterday, there was another feature in, I think, The Sunday Times colour supplement, on the perfect chip.  Which made me think- what's happened to our supposed national dish, fish and chips? 

Photograph: gruntzooki

In the last few weeks, I seem to have fallen into a dangerously nostalgic, slightly reactionary mood: I was spluttering into my breakfast cuppa on Saturday morning when I read the ghastly news that Bates, the eccentric hatters of Jermyn Street, was under threat of closure. The Crown Estate has its eye on a juicy bit of property along the Haymarket end of the street, and are, apparently, keen to re-develop.  I love Bates, and often drop by to touch my forlock to Binks, the stuffed cat and original cigar smoking St James's swell- I like the way he wears his topper at a jaunty angle, and the cut of his dash. Similarly, I've never felt the same since I heard the news that 'Finisterre' was to be replaced by 'FitzRoy' in the BBC Shipping Forecast. It's just not fair. 

Hands up who remembers The Gasworks?  Twenty odd years ago, I started my glamorous career in the so-called Art World- as a porter at a well-known auctioneers to be found in the grotty fag-end of The King's Road, London; humping antique brown furniture from lorry to saleroom, and stacking shabby Victorian paintings against the brick walls of the warehouse. A favourite after-work refuge was The Gasworks restaurant (a last gasp of the myth that was Swinging London), in that no man's land between Chelsea and Fulham- a former haunt of Princess Margaret, the Rolling Stones and, if the internet is to be believed, Noel Gallagher.

Where on earth do I begin?  This was a London institution, where eccentricity became a creed. Outside, it looked a bit like a private house, with its green painted stucco, latticed windows of stained glass, garish window boxes, and niches filled with ponderous busts and Neo-Classical statues. The proprietors were- how can I put this politely?- different. Shells (Cheryl?) of Wagnerian proportion, fag in mouth and forthright opinion, ruled over her kitchen, offering a choice of rack of lamb (some lover-ly lamb, dearie?) or duck 'all orange'.  Jacks, her husband, was a thin, dapper man with a trimmed grey beard and silk stockings. Rumour had it that he had previously held some sort of vague career in the antiques business. He liked to join you for an after dinner cigar- this had more than a whiff of Reggie and Ronnie about it.

The dining room was reminiscent of an Edward Gorey illustration or a Pinewood set from that early 70's meisterwerk, The Legend of Hell House. Here was the perfect place to lie on a chaise longue, sip a gin and tonic and admire the Victorian bric-a brac: pornographic chess sets, oil paintings of dubious antiquity and provenance, heavy gilt frames, doubtful portraits in the manner of Greuze, and wall-mounted taxidermy; all set off by a long, polished mahogany dining table, high-back 'Jacobethan' chairs and a massive chandelier.

Choice was not a word in The Gasworks' vocabulary: champignons en croute (a nice bit of tinned mushroom poised daintily on a slice of toasted Sunblest) or avocado pear; rack ('racked' being the operative word) of lamb or assassinated duck; some sort of gateaux horror topped with UHT cream from a spray-on aerosol. Indeed, The Gasworks seemed to be almost obsessed with the trend setting avocado: their seemingly endless supply was stacked up high in the corridor which led to the bogs, which, in turn were lined to the ceiling with amusing nineteenth century erotica.

I held my 30th birthday party there  (I was less interested in food, then), and as that night finished in the wee wee hours (Jack locked the front door at midnight) and the alcohol flowed, my memory is decidedly hazy. Pearl, the long-suffering waiter, rather sweetly made me a little chocolate cake with the word 'Love' piped on the top in very shaky handwriting. 

If they approved of you for some reason (as a wannabe auctioneer, I was in 'the biz', Guv), everything was just dandy. If they didn't (and this could change on a daily basis, as when my brother in law had a bit of mutton bone pointed directly at him, and told that he was 'evil'), you couldn't even get past the oak studded door. An earnest European couple in immaculate Loden coats, no doubt enticed by the cosy Englishness of the bow windowed exterior and the enchanting prospect of avocado vinaigrette, had the door slammed in their faces and were told to 'get lorst, and don't even think of comin' back!'.

But a few months ago I did go back. From the outside, everything looked the same: Jack's black Rolls-Royce corniche (fitted with darkened glass and vanity numberplates) was still parked opposite, and the house looked immaculate. But most ominously, the menu had been taken down. We threw gravel at the upstairs windows, but the net curtains remained firmly closed, and we didn't even get a twitch. Sadly, it looks like Jacks and Shells are no longer plying their trade. I do hope they haven't gone to the great gasworks in the sky, and are enjoying their retirement. That fast changing corner of SW6 won't be the same without them. Even without the duck.

The Gasworks, 87 Waterford Road, Fulham, London, SW6 2ET (020 7736 3830)

I'm amused by soufflés. There's just something terribly camp about them, isn't there?  I'm not exactly sure what it is: the acute accent on the e? Or the high drama of 'The Rise", perhaps? The fact that the Table has to wait for the Soufflé, rather than the Soufflé having to wait for the Table- giving you the chance to fuss dramatically around the kitchen, and then to have queeny hysterics when your soufflé collapses. 

Control Freaks love them, too. There's all that stuff about the right temperature, the correct way to beat the egg whites, the proper way to do this, the proper way to do that. So I was quite happy to leave this one to The Girl, who came up with a fabulous aromatic soufflé, flavoured with tarragon.

I will go as far as saying that I think her soufflé was the best one I've ever had.  Tarragon, as you will remember, has an intense aniseedy, licoriquey, Pernod-y taste, and is considered by le gratin to go extremely well with poultry. It worked well with the cheese in the soufflé, and gave the dish a punchy, herbal flavour. If you like tarragon, you're going to love it. Not that I want to patronise you in any way; I am aware that most subscribers to The Greasy Spoon have probably made more soufflés, than I've had hot dinners:

First you need to turn on you oven. It's really important that you get your oven really hot (200C) as this sudden heat is what makes ths soufflé rise. Get hold of a soufflé dish, and smear the inside with the greasy bit of a butter wrapper. 

Next, it's time to make a roux. You'll remember how to do this. Flour cooked in a large knob of butter, stirred until smooth, and then turned into a sloppy kind of sauce with the addition of milk. Keep the pan on a gentle heat and stir or whisk like crazy, until all the lumps have been removed.

Remove from the heat, and let the white sauce cool down a bit (you don't want the eggs to cook as yet). Whisk in three egg yolks, add a dollop of mustard, grate in some Gruyère cheese, and throw in a good handful of tarragon leaves. Season with salt, pepper and lots of grated nutmeg.

Whisk up three egg whites until they're stiff. It's very important not to get any fat in the mixing bowl (ie egg yolk) as this will prevent the egg whites thickening up. The mixing bowl needs to be extremely clean. Finally, mix the egg white into the cheesy, herby, white sauce, using gentle hand movements. Use a metal spoon.

That's about it. The soufflé mixture, not surprisingly, goes into the soufflé dish, and the dish goes into the hot oven. Half an hour later it should be ready. If it hasn't risen properly, you can blame me, this blog, the cat's mother, and the world in general. Nothing like throwing a tantrum to clear the air, is there?