Yesterday an old friend came over to our new house for dinner. I decided to make a Cajun duck gumbo. Or at least, I thought I did, as the resulting effort, although relatively appetising, tasted nothing like the genuine dish. So I did some research:

Gumbo is a stew or soup popular in Louisiana and the Southern States of America. It's probably got okra in it, and most importantly, the "holy trinity" of diced onions, green peppers and celery. It's also thickened at the beginning by a roux. Now, this is not just any old roux. There's a whole sub-culture of check-shirted, bearded roux experts out there, ready to tell you at a drop of a hat that your roux isn't dark enough, and that you should have stirred it one hundred and one times anti-clockwise, and in slow-motion.

Forget your namby-pamby Cordon Bleu type rouxs made with a bit of butter and a genteel sprinkling of flour, these Cajun rouxs are macho affairs, made by heating cups of oil to a high temperature in old tin pans, and then stirring in cups of flour, until the liquid roux turns a mahogany colour, or even in some cases almost black. If you've got time, have a look at this excellent website, the Southern Gumbo Trail- which will tell you how to make authentic "Cajun Napalm".

Here's my recipe for Cajun Duck Gumbo:

Heat a heavy pan until it's smoking hot. Pour in a cup of oil. Let it get hot. Gradually stir in a cup of white flour, stirring the whole time to make sure it doesn't burn (it might be a good idea to turn the heat down). Keep on stirring. You will see that as the flour cooks, the colour will start to turn brown. Keep on stirring. Your goal is to end up with a dark brown, nutty flavoured roux with the consistency of a thick chocolate sauce. Which hasn't burnt. This is going to be the base for your gumbo.

Now it's time to add the "holy trinity" of diced green peppers, onions and celery. Stir it in, and sauté for around five minutes. Add some chopped garlic. Stir. Now throw in some chopped up okra. Turn the heat up, and stir the okra in until it's cooked properly, and become less "stringy" and gelatinous.

Add shrimps (prawns), sliced smoked sausage and small chunks of duck. Keep on stirring as it cooks. After about another ten minutes or so, pour in some stock. I used a lovely clear duck stock which I had made by using a very low heat, and then skimming off the scum as it rose to the surface.

Simmer gently for about twenty minutes until the gumbo thickens up. Season to taste and add a generous slug of Tabasco and a teaspoon or so of Cayenne Pepper. Finish off the dish with some chopped parsley, and serve it on a bowl of steamed rice.

I'm a huge fan of genuine Indian food, believe me. The sort of street food served by restaurants such as the excellent Masala Zone. But I'm also fond of our own bastardised British versions too- as peddled by the Cordon Bleu Cookery Academy, circa 1959. Here's my own recipe for a delicious and simple chicken curry. Most Indians worth their salt will turn their noses up at it, but I find it strangely satisfying; and it's extremely easy to make too.

First, you need to sweat some chopped onions, celery and garlic in oil. Next add some apple chopped into chunks. Stir in a tablespoon of curry paste, and some turmeric. Cook this for a few minutes. In the meantime, season some de-boned chicken thighs with salt and pepper, and dust them with some flour. Add these to the pan. Cook for several minutes, until the chicken begins to colour. Now add some chicken stock (preferably home made, otherwise Marigold reduced-salt bouillon is just the ticket), and simmer for about ten to fifteen minutes. Next, pour in some coconut milk. Simmer for about half an hour until the chicken is cooked. You should end up with a thickish sauce. Add a teaspoon of redcurrent jelly (yes, redcurrent jelly).

Serve with chopped coriander. Instead of plain rice, try my Lemon Rice instead. This is just ordinary rinsed Basmati Rice, which has been cooked in a bit of stock, lemon juice, lemon zest, and a few cardamom pods.

Caesar Salad is one of those classic dishes that has been over-tweaked, bastardised, and generally ruined by self-indulgent chefs over the years. The best Caesar Salad is the original Caesar Salad.

It was invented by Caesar Cardini in 1924. Cardini was a chef working at the Hotel Comerical in Tijuana- the Mexican town a few miles from the Californian border. During Prohibition, large parties of Americans used to cross the border in search of booze. The story goes that Cardini created the salad when a large party of hungry Americans turned up for the Fourth of July celebrations. He had run out of food, so made do with what he had left over.

First, you need two small heads of Romaine lettuce, preferably organic. Tear the lettuce into large shreds. Add two coddled eggs. Coddling is a technique where you only boil the eggs in their shell for one minute, so that you end up with a runny yolk. Add half a teaspoon of sea salt, and freshly ground black pepper; the juice of two lemons, ten drops of Lea & Perrins' Worcestershire Sauce, half a cup of fresh grated Parmesan cheese, and half a cup of garlic oil. Garlic oil is just a good quality Virgin or Extra Virgin olive oil, infused by some garlic cloves for a day or so.

Here's a post I wrote last year about pheasant casserole. For me, it's nostalgic, comfort food at its best, evocative of the English Countryside in autumn:

Pheasant Casserole! I can't think of anything more suitable for a cold November. I once had it at a Sunday lunch party, served with a jug of foamy Black Velvet- and this worked surprisingly well. If you don't know anyone who shoots, pheasant are amazingly cheap to buy, either from your local butcher or decent supermarket such as Waitrose. I've plucked a few pheasants in my time, and I have to say that I'm not sure that it's worth the hassle, when you can a) get the butcher to pluck them for you (and do a much better job) or b) buy them from the shops, ready plucked, for a few quid.

Here's my family recipe for pheasant casserole (from The ABC of Tried and Tested Recipes), which I've adapted slightly from the original version. Take a large cock pheasant and fry it in butter and oil, until lightly browned. Add a dash of cognac, and flambé it quickly until the flames die down.  Remove the pheasant and put it into a casserole.

In the same pan, fry some chopped bacon, diced celery and carrots cut into batons.  Add two tablespoons of flour, and cook. After a few minutes pour in half a bottle of red wine (I suggest using a Burgundy or a Rhone) and top up with some chicken stock.

Bring to the boil, and simmer gently so that the alcohol burns off.  Pour it over the pheasant in the casserole and add 50g button mushrooms and 175g button or baby onions.

Cook in a moderate oven for just over an hour. Pheasant has a tendency to get dry and stringy very quickly, so I've cut down the cooking time. I'm sure you'll get the drift: you want lots of sauce, and you need to make sure that you don't over cook the pheasant.

When you reckon the pheasant is ready, take the casserole out of the oven and let it cool down. Lift out the pheasant and carve it up: cut the legs and wings off and carve the breasts. Place the carved meat in a flat casserole dish with the sliced breasts in the centre, surrounded by the legs and the wings.  Place the vegetables, mushrooms and onions over the pheasant.

Strain off the sauce through a sieve into a small sauce pan-  this will get rid of all the nasty bits and pieces. Add two teaspoons of redcurrant jelly to the sauce and  chuck in some crushed juniper berries. I'm currently crazy about juniper (which, of course, is used to flavour gin).  It has a rich, pine-nut, woodlandly sort of  taste and works beautifully with game. Check the seasoning. When the sauce is at the right consistency, pour it back over the pheasant.

Serve the casserole with parsnip chips.

I've just read an article in The London Times about a new edition of the classic board game, Cluedo (or Clue to my American readers). I trust that many of you will have spent many happy and instructive hours of your youth playing this slightly ridiculous game, invented in England by a certain Anthony E. Pratt in 1949. How can we forget the vampy Miss Scarlett, that sinister old codger, the Rev. Green; the Library, the Lead Piping, the Conservatory, the Revolver, or the slightly scary Mrs Peacock? 

Well, I've got some really depressing news for you: the thrusting young execs of the American games company, Hasbro, have taken over good old Waddington's and have revamped the game to what they consider to be modern taste: Colonel Mustard is now "Jack Mustard, the ex-professional football player", Professor Plum is now "Victor Plum, a celebrity internet millionaire", the Ballroom is now the Spa, the Hall is now a Home Cinema, the lead piping is now a baseball bat. The evocative 1940's film-noir graphics have been given a naff computer game style makeover. Is nothing sacred any more? It's just not cricket.

From a commercial point of view, I'm not convinced that Hasbro have done a sensible thing.  If it ain't broke, don't fix it; tamper with the classics at your peril. It's the same with food. Often, you'll find some young new turk who thinks that he can improve upon a classic dish by giving it a twist.  Gary Rhodes tried this with his "New British Classics". Sometimes it worked, quite often it didn't.

Here's a recipe for Braised Red Cabbage. It's a classic British dish. It is is what it is. No extra squeezes of orange juice to give it "added lift". But it's more than just cabbage- there are other ingredients in there as well, and the dish has a tangy, piquant flavour which is addictive. It's also suitable for this time of the year. 

Take a red cabbage, slice it in two and take out the core (that's the hard bit in the middle). Cut up the cabbage into thin slices. 

Next, slice up some apples in the same way, removing the cores. Put them in a casserole dish with the cabbage, and some diced streaky bacon.

In a separate pan heat up a generous dash of port, two tablespoons of red wine vinegar, and two tablespoons of caster sugar. Bring to the boil, and then simmer gently for a few minutes.

Pour the liquid over the cabbage, bacon and apples, and season well with salt and pepper. Shove the dish (with the lid on) into a medium oven and cook for an hour or so.

London this morning is grey and overcast, the atmosphere heavy with an oppressive gloom. It's even slightly foggy. That's one of the odd things about this city of muffin men and dancing chimney sweeps: the way the weather changes at a drop of a hat; yesterday for example, we enjoyed the most glorious, warm, autumnal day bathed in a golden light. Now, I don't usually write about the weather (finding the subject, like cricket, slightly tiresome) and I would dispute the idea that the British are a "weather-obsessed" people. This dubious award goes to the Americans. Have you ever noticed how the Americans are obsessed with temperature? I once asked an American how he was, and was told "twenty three degrees".

Anyway. To alleviate all this gloom, I've suddenly got this thing about Irish Stew. Traditionally, Irish Stew consists of just lamb or mutton; onions, potatoes and water. Purists will tell you that carrots should not be added, but I was having a chat with an Irish friend about this recently, and she insisted that she includes carrots in her version. The secret with Irish Stew (as indeed with any stew), is to cook it for a long time at a low temperature. You want the meat to break down, so that it's hanging off the bone, and the potato to slightly disintegrate, so that it thickens the sauce.

Take some Lamb Chops, and brown them in a pan with a knob of unsalted butter. Transfer them to a casserole dish. Next, saute some sliced onions in the butter, and when they're cooked add them to the casserole. Peel some carrots, and slice them into quarters, lengthways. Add them to the casserole- on top of the onions. The aim is to build up your vegetables in layers. Add another layer of onions. Finally, add some peeled potatoes, which you have chopped into quarters, lengthways. Season with sea salt and ground black pepper.

Now pour in some stock (ideally lamb stock if you have it), and add a sprig of thyme. Cook the casserole in a low to medium oven, until the lamb is cooked properly (ie just about to fall off the bone), and the sauce is reasonably thick. On a low heat this may take at least two hours.

Take the casserole out of the oven, and have a look at it. If you want to thicken the sauce, you could always add a roux- which is butter and flour mixed together to form a small ball. Check the seasoning, and add more salt and pepper if it's needed. Finally, serve with a generous amount of chopped parsley.

It's that time of the year again: Sloe Gin Time. Sloe Gin is a liqueur made from the sloe berries of the Blackthorn bush, which grow in the hedgerows of the English countryside. By ancient lore, they're picked at the end of October (around Hallowe'en and supposedly just after the first frost); but with global warming, I can't quite work out if you should pick them earlier, or pick them later.  Anyway, they're quite easy to spot- medium sized purplish coloured  berries with a slight dusty bloom. I get mine from an idyllic spot I know in Oxfordshire- that is if the good burghers of Wallingford haven't got there first. Sloe gin is easy to make at home.

First, you need to pick a decent amount of ripe sloe berries. If you live in the city, you can buy sloe berries on ebay. I think it's probably a good idea to freeze the berries first to simulate the effects of a first frost. The freezing process will help to break down the berries, and extract the juices. 

Then you need to prick each berry, so that the juices can be released.  Traditionally this was done with a silver fork.  I'm not exactly sure why, but it certainly adds to the mystique. 

Next, you need to get hold of some gin.  I use Plymouth Gin, the traditional tipple of the Royal Navy.  One year as an experiment, and in a misguided attempt to be trendy, I made a batch from vodka; it was okay, but I missed out on the junipery flavours that gin gives you. It's easiest to make your sloe gin in the gin bottle itself, but if you're really keen you can use one of those large demi-john glass jars used for home brewing.

Using a funnel, pour your pricked berries into the gin bottle, so that they come up to between a third and a half way.  Drink the surplus gin.  Now it's time to add some sugar. (Up to about a third of the gin bottle is probably right). So you will now have a bottle of gin, with the berries coming up to about half-way, and sugar up to about a third of the way. I hope that's clear.

To give my Sloe Gin extra flavour, I add a teaspoon of almond essence, a clove and a stick of cinnamon, for added spice. Screw the cap back on tightly, and shake the bottle like crazy. The gin will start to turn a pink colour.  Store it away in a dark cupboard, shaking daily for two weeks, and then once a week thereafter.

One of my favourite restaurants in New York is the Grand Central Oyster Bar. I've always found this place a bit incongrous, and those of you who have been there will know what I am talking about: it's a labyrinth of sparkling marble and mosaic tiled rooms, decorated in the Byzantine style, and built directly underneath the station, offering an extensive choice of oysters from every shore in the United States.

And with the oysters comes a spicy horseradish and tomato sauce (or ketchup), served up in those little paper cups. You'll also find this sauce in American diners. I've noticed that some Americans just call it "horseradish sauce", which is slightly confusing as it's red in colour, and quite clearly contains tomato; while here in Perfidious Albion, "horseradish sauce" is the creamy stuff we serve with the roast beef of Merry Old England. You say tomato, we say tomarto, let's call the whole thing off.

Here's a good (if slightly lengthy) way to make your own version. I've based it on Simon Hopkinson's wonderful book Week in Week Out, which is currently The Greasy Spoon's "Book of the Month". The secret lies in making both the horseradish concentrate and the tomato juice ahead of time, and then keeping both of them in the 'fridge. The horseradish concentrate can also be used for English style creamed horseradish sauce and delicious horseradish mousse. The homemade tomato juice can be used for mixing Bloody Mary's.

First you need to make a homemade horseradish concentrate: Grate 200g of peeled horseradish root into a food processor and add five tablespoons of water, two teaspoons of Maldon Salt, 1 ½ tablespoons of caster sugar, 2½ tablespoons of lemon juice and 2½ tablespoons of white wine vinegar. Make sure you peel the horseradish and then grate it across the base of the root. Whizz it up in the food processor until smooth, and then tip it into a Kilner jar (it should keep in the 'fridge for up to two weeks).

Next, you need to make a homemade tomato juice: take 1kg of very ripe tomatoes and core and cut them up into quarters. Put them in a large pan. Add a heaped teaspoon of Maldon Salt, a tablespoon of caster sugar, and 125ml of water. Cover the pan and warm on a lowish heat for about twenty minutes. You want the tomatoes to wilt. There should also be quite a bit of tomato juice floating around in the pan. Pour the contents into a vegetable mill (mouli-légumes) and grind it up. (It's really worth investing in an authentic mouli-légumes, and I've included a link to buy one from amazon uk.  It's a decent bit of kit and indispensable if you are going to make your own purées, sauces and soups.

Leave the tomato juice to cool, and stir in a tablespoon of horseradish concentrate. Let it infuse for about ten minutes and then pass the sauce through a sieve. That make's a basic tomato juice.

To make the ketchup: take 300ml of the tomato sauce and reduce it in a small pan, until it thickens up. Remove it from the heat, let it cool down and stir in two tablespoons of the horseradish concentrate. Chill in the 'fridge. Perfect with oysters.

Photograph: Kake Pugh

Rasa Sayang does exactly what it says on the tin. It's a small crowded room in Chinatown, just off Shaftesbury Avenue; painted white, with wood-effect tables and cheery laminate menus full of colourful photographs of Malaysian and Singaporean street food. I like this: being able to point at something and saying "I'll have this one, this one and this one". If you're a lazy or frustrated communicator (and I'm often feeling like that in London these days) it makes life one hell of a lot easier. No hanging around for the idle.

The food is good: a substantial cut above many of the dubious restaurants in the area. And there's lots of it, too. I ordered "Seafood hor fun" (that's stir-fried flat rice noodles with seafood, mixed vegetables and "velvety" egg) and liked it, though The Girl thought it a trifle bland: much better were the deliciously crunchy stir-fried "Sambal cluster beans" and the intensely savoury "Nasi goreng istimeura" (rice with shrimp paste, soy sauce and chili). The Girl seemed pleased with her "Nasi Lemak" (chicken curry with coconut scented rice, sliced boiled egg and crunchy anchovies), and my "Curry chee cheong fun" (rice noodle rolls in a hot and rich curry sauce) were the cat's whiskers.

There seemed to be quite a few Malaysian people there- which is always a good sign, although I've just read a few negative Malaysian reviews on the internet, and I suspect they know much more about their own food than London bloggers who pretend to know what they're talking about. It's a bit like the time I ate a soggy fish and chips in Hong Kong- but that's another story for another time. 

Anyway, service was reasonably friendly at first, but then degenerated into slightly brusque, anti-social behaviour- I had my plate snatched from under my nose as I was still gobbling down the Sambal cluster beans with chili (dearie me, what Mrs Aitch has to put up with). I'm not too fussed about this: to survive, a small restaurant like Rasa Sayang needs a brisk turnover, and the bright lighting and hard seats à la "Chicken Land" are- er- not exactly there to make you linger are they now?

A destination for a romantic diner à deux it is not (am I writing the obvious?) but for students of a gourmet persuasion, those on a lunch break with a precious three quarters of an hour to spare, or just the plain greedy, this new restaurant comes out top of the form. Well, almost.

Rasa Sayang, 5 Macclesfield Street, London, W1D 6AY (020 7734 1382)

I had been meaning to take The Girl to Bocca di Lupo for ages, and typically had done zilch all about it. Until recently, Bocca di Lupo was currently the number one London foodie destination on the Urban Spoon hot list. I managed to get a table at a decent time (in other words not at Tea-Time or the Witching Hour), and one of the best-if not the best- tables at the back of the room, with comfy leatherette armchairs. Service was charming, and efficient.

This is The New Austerity. As at 22 Great Queen Street, menus were printed on unpretentious sheets of throwaway cheap paper, and at Bocco di Lupo the food is restricted to a selection of classic regional Italian dishes. The very helpful waiter suggested we went for a selection of the smaller dishes- in the Tapas manner.

The "tripe with cured pork cheek, chilli and tomato" was wonderful: for once the tripe didn't taste like rubber, and was cooked to perfection. The "artichoke a la Giudia" was crispy, the "rustic pork and foie gras sausages with farro and porcini", divine. The "grilled squid with gremolata" tasted as squid should taste, and for a light pudding, the "blood oranges" were just what we needed.

Wine was provided by the glass, and Bocco di Lupo has an interesting and intelligent regional wine list.

Jiminy Cricket, I really like this place; and I'm currently in quite a picky mood when it comes to reviewing restaurants. Bucco di Lupo is grown-up, civilised yet utterly unpretentious. The food is wonderful, too- which helps.

Bocca di Lupo, 12 Archer Street, London, W1 (020 7734 2223)

There's also an upright piano, played badly by a thin person wearing black tie, and a bar propped up by grey-haired roués, chatting up good looking London blondes on the wrong side of forty. Maybe that's its charm?  Beacuse it's not Sketch. Still fashionable, glamourous and grown-up after all these years, just because it is what it is.

Service is friendly and relaxed, and the tables are spacious- that is if you're not sent to social Siberia and given the tiny table for two in the corner, on the right-hand side. The food is good- as you would expect- but certainly not exceptional.  

My "dressed Dorset Crab with celeriac rémoulade" was pretty decent, but the second course of "Cornish lemon sole with herb butter and sea greens", was, in my opinion, under-cooked, and, sadly, a trifle bland. Mrs Aitch ordered an attractive looking "wild rabbit salad with elderberries and cob nuts" which "ticked all the right boxes", but her main course of Atlantic cod with brown shrimps and sea purslane (Halimione portulacoides (if you've ever wondered) left her slightly unsatisfied with " a monster lump of fish" she couldn't handle, and "not enough brown shrimps". It's always welcome to see English Wine on a leading restaurant's list, and the Wickham 2008 Vineyards Vintage Selection from Hampshire was just the ticket.

Don't let our slighly picky observations put you off; I'm a great believer in the idea that you don't go to restaurants just for the food alone, and Le Caprice has glamour and ambience in abundance. In short, it's fun. It's also, in my opinion, surprisingly affordable for a restaurant at the top of the game, and I reckon it would be quite possible to dine there in style for fifty quid a head. We're fans.

Le Caprice, Arlington Street, London, SW1A 1RD (020 7629 2239)

With the nights drawing in, and winter just around the corner, there's nothing more welcoming than a humble, everyday cabbage. Cabbage is one of those vegetables which everyone thinks they know how to cook, but in fact, is actually quite hard to get right.

There seems to be a general assumption amongst the cognescenti that cabbage should be cooked to a crunchy texture; well, Up to a Point, Lord Copper: quite often this just means that the cabbage is undercooked- and you'll encounter this in Gastro Pubs up and down the kingdom. 

On the other hand, I have nausea-inducing memories of the cabbage as served up to us at Dotheboy's Hall: this involved boiling water, a kitchen timer set to four and a half hours, the colour yellow, and a terrifying smell reminiscent of the Slough Gasworks. In the world of cabbage, you just can't win.

There are two methods of cooking cabbage. With the "fast-cook" method you slice up your cabbage and plunge it into rapidly boiling salted water. When it's cooked (difficult one to get right, that- you want it crunchy, yet not too crunchy), take it out of the pan and drain it in ice-cold water. This will help to set the colour green. Throw it into a small pan, warm it in butter and season to taste. Make sure that all the water has drained off properly. As I'm impatient (and also greedy), I have a tendency to do this in a rush (a "bull in a china shop", as my piano tutor used to say) and end up with nasty pools of water floating around on the plate.

The second method is the "slow-cook" or braising method, as favoured by the French (and The Greasy Spoon's grandmother). Yes, the cabbage will go yellow, and it will smell of sulphur, but if it's cooked very, very slowly, this might (just about) be a good thing. Simon Hopkinson, in his excellent book Roast Chicken and Other Stories, mentions John Tovey's recipe in which the cabbage is braised very slowly in butter, white wine and juniper berries. This sounds like the sort of dish they serve in Alsace, and my instincts tell me that a Reisling or Gewürztraminer would be just the ticket.

I've also found an old-fashioned French recipe for "Cabbage Soup with Diced Bacon". Chop up a green cabbage into small pieces and rinse it in vinegar and water. You then fry some chopped garlic in butter, and add diced bacon. After a few minutes add the cabbage and pour in some chicken stock. Simmer the soup very slowly for up to an hour. Serve in earthenware tureens with croutons sprinkled on the top.

If you're going to use the "slow-cook" method, a heat diffuser might be a good plan. This is a simple device which you place directly on top of the gas hob, and spreads the heat.  It will allow you to cook food at a snail's pace.

Sad news about old Keith Floyd. If his more recent appearances seemed a bit contrived, world weary and lacking in genuine enthusiasm, his earlier programmes (such as Floyd on Fish and Floyd on France) were wonderful.

According to today's Evening Standard, Floyd's last lunch consisted of: Champagne, Pouilly Vinzelles 2006, oysters, potted shrimps, Nature Perrin and Fils Conte de Rhone 2007, Red-legged partridge with bread sauce, and pear cider "perry" jelly.

And who can forget Mimi of Biarritz and the correct way to cook piperade?

I've been going to the Royal Standard of England for God knows how many years now.  It's supposed to be the oldest freehouse in England, and I have no particular reason to doubt it. The building looks old enough- a Quakerish brick and timber pub in the seventeenth century South Buckinghamshire style, bordered by a brick-and-flint wall, and found down a single track, pot-holed lane near Forty Green, Beaconsfield, on the outskirts of London, where the outer suburbs meet the mucky countryside of "Tinker Country". Here, the scrapmetal heaps of road-side gipsy encampments sit uneasily next to the cliquey golf courses of Bekonscot Man, where hearty middle-aged execs (clad in the latest polyester plaid and natty Pringle v-necks) practise their swings and entertain the Boss.

In the days when I was still wearing shorts and humouring my pyromaniacal tendencies with a magnifying glass and a pile of smouldering leaves, they used to serve 'Owd Roger'- an especially dark and black bitter of superhuman strength with the density of pond water and, which, according to local lore, was limited to one pint per burgher. This was the stuff which put hairs on your chest. Those days are now past, and there is no sign of "Owd Roger" on the menu, which is a pity, as I look back to those days of inebriated discovery with nostalgia.

In a world now dominated by Farrow & Ball and its many acolytes, I am delighted to say that The Royal Standard is a rare example of a pub which has actually improved with age. The interior is slightly grotty, with muzak and dubious sub-Rothko contemporary paintings banned. The food is excellent, too- which helps.

Mrs Aitch ordered fish and chips (£12), and that is exactly what she got- a beautifully cooked, generous helping of cod wrapped in a thick, traditional batter, served with chips of the chunky  persuasion. I ordered the Steak and Kidney Pudding with cabbage (£12), and a pint of the local Chiltern Ale. Again, it was properly cooked, with a suety pudding crust as your dear old Grandmother might have made, with thick, meaty gravy, and a verdant cabbage. It's always a good sign when pubs stock local beer, and the Chiltern Ale lived up to expectations.

The Mutton Shepherd's Pie (£10), Buckinghamshire Bacon Badger (£12), Braised Elwy Valley Welsh Lamb Shank, with sauteed potatoes and roasted vegetables (£16), and Bramley Apple Crumble (£5) all looked excellent.  The Malt Whisky list looks interesting, too with Laphroaig, Bruichladdich, Dalwhinne and the Welsh whisky, Penderyn at £2.75 a shot.

How wonderful to find a pub serving Apple Crumble!

The Royal Standard of England is Pub of the Year, 2009.

The Royal Standard of England, Forty Green, Beaconsfield, Buckinghamshire, HP9 1XT (01494 673382).

I always find this time of year- very late August, very early September- slightly wistful, if not poignant.  Summer is probably over, but with any luck might just about survive for an extra week or so of golden heat- but with an added autumnal nip in the atmosphere.

F. Scott Fitzgerald captured this brilliantly in perhaps, my all-time favourite novel, The Great Gatsby: Gatsby decides to take a dip in his swimming pool for the first time (it's late Summer) and gets gunned down by George Wilson, the garage owner who thinks Gatsby has murdered his wife in a hit and run accident.  Here is Fitzgerald describing the blood- red autumnal leaves floating on the swimming pool surface:

"with little ripples that were hardly the shadows of waves, the laden mattress moved irregularly down the pool. A small gust of wind that scarcely corrugated the surface was enough to disturb its accidental course with its accidental burden. The touch of a cluster of leaves revolved it slowly, tracing like the leg of transit, a thin red circle in the water."

Now, I adore cucumber sandwiches- honestly, I think there is nothing better on a hot June afternoon than a near-scalding cup of Earl Grey tea, and a plate of properly made, slighty salty English cucumber sandwiches; and I suspect that early September is probaby the latest you can get away serving them.

Here's how I make them. I like traditional finger sandwiches (ie sandwiches cut lengthways) and look upon those triangular abominations with distaste. I hope you will follow suit.

First you need the proper bread. For traditional English sandwiches forget anything brown, healthy, hippy or wholemeal.  No, you need a traditional pre-sliced white, refined sandwich loaf of bread. Easier said than done, as every time I go to the supermarket, I search in vain for the stuff. So, for the time being, medium cut pre-sliced white bread will have to do.

Spread the bread with softened unsalted butter. Next, get hold of some cucumbers, remove the skin and slice them up so that they are very thin. Pat them dry (a good tip that, as there is nothing worse than soggy sandwiches).  Spread the thin cucumber slices over one side of the bread.  Sprinkle with sea salt and some pepper. Place another slice of bread on top, and remove the crusts. Slice the sandwiches lengthways to form fingers.  You can then stack the sandwiches on a plate to form a neat square, and if you're that way inclined, decorate with a few sprigs of watercress.

That's how to make a proper English cucumber sandwich. Trust me.

We've got two corn-on-the-cobs left over in our weekly Abel & Cole vegetable box, and I was racking my brains thinking what to do with them. Last year I invented a rather good sweetcorn relish- which was very similar to the stuff you used to be able to buy in jars. It's white trash diner food, and I like it.

Chop or slice up some shallots and fry them in grapeseed oil. Next, tip a tin of sweetcorn (or better still, some fresh cooked sweetcorn) into a bowl, and mix in some diced green and red peppers,  a dash of white vinegar, a spoonful of sugar, and a teaspoon of garlic powder. Season with sea salt and white pepper, and finish off the job with a spoonful of starchy cornflour.

Add the cooked shallots to the mixture and heat up the thing slowly in a small pan, so that the cornflour cooks properly. The finished result was cotton pickin' authentic. Perfect with burgers, even better with fried chicken.  I rest my case.

First, you put some ice into a cocktail shaker. Next, pour in a decent slug of Stolichnaya vodka, and top up with a good quality tomato juice.  Add a dash of Tio Pepe, a squeeze of lemon juice, a pinch of cayenne pepper, celery salt, a few shakes of my favourite Tabasco and Lea & Perrin's Worcestershire Sauce.  Do the Hokey Cokey and shake it all about.  Strain it off into a glass and add, if you must, a stick of celery.  You'll find that the lemon juice smooths it out, and the sherry gives it an added kick.

I don't like lumps of ice floating around in my Bloody Mary, and think it's much better if strained off.  But the drink's at its best if served very cold, so keep the vodka buried away in the 'fridge, as the Russians do.  You'll find the vodka goes thick- and that's the way to keep it if you're going to drink it neat, as an accompaniment to blinis and caviar.

More on things Moroccan.  The food at the Riad Enija was excellent. The owner, Björn (a former architect with UNESCO) reckoned that his chef, Aziz, might be one of the best chefs in all Marrakech.  This could be true. The food, although simple, was delicious.  We signed up for the Riad's cookery "course" (in effect, more of a cookery demonstration) and watched as he prepared a smooth melon and ginger soup, followed by a tajine, cooked with baby okra which we had bought at the spice and vegetable market in the Mellah (the walled Jewish quarter) that morning.

One of the first dishes we sampled at the Riad was Aziz's courgette soup. I'm not sure if it was especially Moroccan, but who cares?- it was outstandingly good. Smooth, piping hot, creamy- with dollops of taste, and a nice, clear, fresh green colour to boot. I persuaded him to give me the precise recipe. Here it is, courtesy of Aziz of Marrakech:

You take a large pot, and into that you put: a kilo of chopped baby courgettes (zucchini), two crushed garlic cloves, a sliced white onion, parsley, 20g butter, and a dash of a decent salt. You pour in 1 ½ litres of water, and simmer for half an hour on the stove.

One of the best things you can do when travelling is to keep an eye out for small details that might improve your cooking when you get home.  Last year, when we were touring Alsace-Lorraine, I noticed that the French use far more salt and pepper in their cooking than we do; and this humble observation has made a substantial difference to my cooking.

The fabulous Riad Enija serve iced water in large jugs stuffed with fresh mint, leaving the water with a subtle menthol taste, which, I'm sure would go down well in the dusty, humid dog days of a London August. A useful hint.

Breakfast at the Riad Enija was on the French model, with a Morroccan twist: beghrir (honeycomb griddle cakes), pancakes, slices of cheese, pastries, croissant, black coffee and orange juice.  With this came what they called a "Moroccan omelette".  Actually, it was really what we would call scrambled eggs, flavoured with chopped tomatoes and oregano.

I think I've worked how it's made: add a dash of olive oil to a flat pan, and add chopped tomatoes.  Cook them for a few minutes.  Next, add three or four lightly beaten eggs, and swirl them around until they start to set.  Season with a generous helping of oregano, salt and freshly ground black pepper.

Hooray!  We made it in the end.  You may have noticed that I haven't written a post for about a month.  I'm not really that apologetic: for some reason inspired by insanity, The Girl and I decided not only to get married (formal, traditional City of London wedding) but sell her flat, and my hovel, buy a new house, go on honeymoon and hold down our jobs- all at the same time. The honeymoon was in that fascinating halcyon, lotus eating city, Marrakech; or is it Marrakesh?

The "cuisine" of Morroco is undoubtably interesting, and currently de rigeur amongst trendy food writers. It's difficult to say anything against it. Yup, It's all good stuff- but please allow me to be a tiny bit critical: the Morroccans don't really have a tradition of eating out at restaurants (a bit like the British, albeit until a few years ago), and there is a distinct lack of variety in Marrakech's restaurants (may I suggest for m'sieur a traditional preserved lemon and olive chicken tagine, followed, by a tagine of beef, prunes and almonds?).

How am I going to play this?  'Cos, I've got lots to tell.  Probably best in snippets.

The photograph shows a snail soup seller in the Jemaa El Fna.  The Jemaa El Fna is a large tarmcadamed square in the middle of Marrakech. At night it comes alive with snake charmers, acrobats, story tellers, tarot card readers, Berber tatoo artists, witch doctors, monkey trainers, dentists and dancers from the Sub-Sahara.  It's Medieval, and not just for gormless American and French tourists.  How many of them, par example, would have a tooth pulled by old Mohammed, the Jemaa El Fna's on-spot dentist, or haggle for a bit of frizzled lizard from one of those charming Nubian apothecarists?

The new Mrs Aitch and I decided to sample the snails.  There are about four or five snail stalls in Marrakech, each with their own number written up on a bit of old wood.  As you walk past, the stall owners try to hustle you to their wares, and they're good at it.  If you decide to take to plunge, you sit down on one of the formica stools at the front of the stall, and the stall owner scoops up a bowl of snails from his steaming hot pan. A bowl costs ten dirhams.

The snails are served in their shells with a sort of brown coloured snail stock, which I suspect is flavoured with thyme, cinnamon- or possiblty cumin, and a snifter of lemon juice.  They're small in size and reasonably gothic- heads, antennae and all, and various bits and pieces or "waste" (is that the right euphanism?) falling out of the snail body- which, I'm almost positive chefs remove in the glorious French Republic.

The snails were- er...snail like, and Mrs Aitch (not a fussy one, I've discovered; all power to her), thought the "snail stock" tasted a bit like a consommé.  There was definitely thyme in there somewhere, and perhaps a bit of lemon juice. They were good- good enough to return for a second helping.

The Greasy Spoon recovering from post-wedding stress at the Riad Enija