Home comforts

It is at this time of year, dearest reader, that the mind turns towards the creature comforts. Dreary mornings spent de-icing windscreens, days at work where you don’t see daylight, cold, dark evenings – it can all get to be too much. We are, of course, still some days away from erecting the Christmas tree in Chez Peas (although I am turning my mind towards the annual conundrum of what to use to top the tree...) but even without the festive lights and the hedonistic promise of Yule, I am doing my best to warm my spirits and those of my nearest and dearest Mr Green.

And how am I doing that? You may well ask. There are many techniques, though for the purposes of this column we had best restrict ourselves to discussing food.

Soups, my dears. Stews. Savoury foods cooked on a long, slow, simmer. Scents that fill the house, promising the visitor warmth and comfort, an evening of conversation and well-chosen wine. It is a different way of cooking from the instant gratification of those summer months, when you pick a perfectly ripened ingredient and hasten home to transform it, almost instantly, into something fresh and succulent. No. This is the time of year when you choose carefully, shop days before you want to eat, bring home the bacon, the butternut squash, the parsnip, the shin of beef and plan, oh so carefully, when and how you will cook it, when and in what company you will eat.

Cooking now takes a little love – you have to respect the ingredients before they will give you their best. You have to treat them gently, give them time. This is not a moment for haste or reckless abandon.

Let me share with you a stew, so savoury and full of promise that it won a place in the heart of even the once-vegetarian Mr Green. 

The Prudent Gentleman: Pork buns

As any gentleman knows, when heading into town it is sensible to line ones stomach against the perils of the evening.  While not eating can lead to a cheap night, more often than not this is because it is short, unpleasant, and involving a gutter somewhere.  But the troublesome question is often deciding where you should sate your stomach before you slake your thirst.

One of my favourite fast options lies in Chinatown.  Not one of the fancy restaurants - this is a stall occupying a sliver of land outside a grocers on Newport Court (close to Leicester Square station).  Two steaming cabinets stand either side of the stallholder, offering a selection of treats, including oyster pancakes, tea eggs and the like.  But what we're here for is a steamed bun.  Known in the Orient as baozi, these delicacies originate from China.  They are one of my favourite snacks when heading into town for some light Bacchian debauchery, and a very prudent choice at that.

Noms and the City: Balfour - a damn fine brunch

It seems to me, my best beloved, that the mark of a civilised society is brunch. I cannot understand breakfast – it’s too early in the morning, and I’m not hungry, no matter what I have got up to the night before. No. It takes me a good couple of hours to want to eat, and when I do, I would infinitely prefer to partake of something savoury and nomsome that can get me through until afternoon tea, possibly via some sort of luncheon on the way.

I am supremely fortunate in my life that I am surrounded by like-minded folk, and so when I took my last-but-one jaunt down to the capitol and was met off the train by my beloved nephew, Julian, it seemed only right and proper that we wander the streets round Euston until we found a suitable venue for brunch.

It took a small while. We were distracted by the Black Books bookshop, and briefly considered a little café I had eaten at before until we discounted it for being too crowded. We stumbled on, lost in a haze of enjoyment at each other’s company and the promise of the weekend ahead, until we found Balfour on Marchmont Street.

Noms and the City: A belated review of Gauthier

There are many problems with having a day job. For a start it constrains my artistic bent, limiting my writing to the hours of darkness (which some would argue is strangely appropriate). For a second, I have to pretend to the world to be a demure and serious business woman and hide the fact that I am, in fact, an eighteenth century harlot, which can come as a shock to the system on occasion. One major benefit, however, are the executive junkets, which at best give me the chance to meet up with young Julian, and at least let me travel the country scouting for pretty and noms.

Thus is was that some months ago (for I am a busy woman my dears, and time simply rushes away from me, like a cheeseboy on roller-skates) we ended up in the bustling heart of Soho in the salubrious establishment that is Gauthier. Such a beautiful environment – flowers and pictures and clean white lines in a lovely old townhouse. The welcome was warm and, well welcoming.  The restaurant itself was spread over three floors, making me feel like a hedonistic Victorian lady, immersed in a society of polite manners and cheap doxies.

Breaking News: We Aren't Dead

Darling readers, you may have noticed some radio silence from the Good Ship Illustrated London Noms.  Do not panic, for we have not capsized nor been lured by sirens (well, any more than usual) and both myself and Ms Peas have been unaffected by the riots that have gripped London and the counties in the past weeks.

You see, last month I accompanied my dear Mr Apple on a trip to his homeland, exploring the delights of Nippon (and, of course, nomming everything in sight).  Rest assured I had my daguerreotype and numerous plates on hand to record the finest delights I encountered, and will be recounting some of those here when everything calms down.

And as for Ms Peas?  Well, rumour has it in my absence she eloped from the Shires to a select theatrical gathering along with Mr Green and Ms Dasher.  Of course, I am not one to listen to rumour in general (it having been so cruel to me in the past), but in this case I suspect it may very well be right.  Especially the part about colourful drinks made with flaming sambuccas, discussions on the gold standard, and Scottish thespians in revealing skirts.

In any case, normal Illustrated London Noms service will resume shortly.  And in the meantime, I suggest you amuse yourselves in whatever way pleases you most (though do try not to cause too much of a scandal while doing so…)

Yours, J Carrot (Esq)

The Gentleman Cook: Smoked Mackerel Salad

There comes a time in every Gentleman's life when he finds himself bereft of assistance about the house - your valet has his night off, cook's away visiting her sick mother, and the boy is probably off terrorising the neighbourhood.  It's at times like this one must not panic.  Instead raise your belt to a respectable height, adjust your moustache and head forth into the kitchen yourself!

  

I am well aware there are perils to this approach - society rumours suggest the remodelling of Lord P's east wing was due to an improperly boiled egg, while Sir H's whiskers simply haven't been the same since he tried to peel a potato (note: names withheld to protect me from accusations of scandal-mongering).  And let us not forget the health conscious times we live in; it is just Not Done to return home from a vigorous cross country jaunt to raid your pantry and feast upon a gout inducing banquet of jugged meats, rich cheeses and cold roast fowl, all washed down with claret and port.  Well, at least not on a week night. 

So, in light of these considerations I shall disclose to you a recipe that can save you from such a desperate situation.  This is a dish that sees me through the summer months without having to resort to utilising the hob, nor calling on my servants.  Sirs, I give you the simple pleasure of a smoked mackerel salad, with my blessings.

Notes from the Square Mile: St John's Chocolate Brownies

Now, dear readers, sometimes our summers do not deliver.  While the weekend gave us the hottest day of the year, sadly this came to an end abruptly today.   This morning started muggy, and by the afternoon we were treated to the inevitable thunderstorm.  Trudging home from further clerical training in the docklands, my shirt drenched with rain, my spirits were at something of a low ebb.

I tried to console myself with some healthy callisthenics, but despite an hour of squat thrusts and lunges I was no closer to raising my mood.  Luckily, on my return from the gymnasium, my dearest suitor, Mr Apple, came to my rescue with a delightful treat in the form of a St John's Chocolate Brownie.

The Earl of Sandwich: An Aunty's Advice

The internet is a marvellous thing, you know, capable of building friendships across oceans and time. It also reveals just how wrong the colonies can get it if they are left on their own for too long.

Earlier today there was a discussion on Twitter (a social networking site that’s an invaluable tool in locating rare eighteenth century erotica and pretty people) about what constitutes a toasted cheese sandwich. Darling readers – I was horrified. People fry their sandwiches! They toast bread and melt cheese onto it! THEY MICROWAVE CHEESE ON PLATES!

Obviously this cannot be allowed to continue. So gather round readers, pay attention rude colonials, I am going to explain how to make the perfect toasted cheese sandwich.

Francification of Covent Garden: Ladurée

Laduree's main entrance, taken by Ms Peas

As my beloved Miss Peas has already mentioned, last weekend we had the fortune to escape the shackles that keep us apart and delve into the depths of London's heart.  While there we both partook of culture and, of course, cuisine with great enthusiasm (albeit will a few ill effects the next day).

Now, Miss Peas has already written up our notes on Viet, an establishment on the edge of Soho.  I would like to take us a little further away, to the former tenements and rookeries of Covent Garden.  As a gentleman, I would not normally be seen amongst the hubbub of the great unwashed (well, unless there's a particularly fine restaurant, or bit of pretty), but for Ladurée I would make an exception.

From the World’s Scrap Book: Acqua Pazza

Ladies, Gentlemen, friends, if there is one thing I have learned in my travels about the continent and the Orient, it is the value of simplicity.

Take, for example, the famed Zen gardens of Kyoto, a Jewel of the East. Here the elegant simplicity of raked gravel disguises an graceful, emergent complexity to please the eye and sooth the soul – of course, the same has been said about my own sense of style, although naturally it simply is not done to blow one’s own horn. And, of course, some mornings (particularly after a lengthy soirée with Miss Peas) I myself look like I could do with a good raking over.

But I digress, for the point of my writings is to describe a dish I have encountered several times upon my travels, Acqua Pazza.

Noms and the City: Pho at Viet, Soho

Despite being damned by the world and separated by society, my nephew, Mr Carrot, and I occasionally manage to elude our guards and meet up to wreak our vengeance on the Capital.  Last weekend was just such a weekend.

Now, my darling Julian sees part of his role as a notable lavenderist about town to educate me on aspects of society I may miss during my life of pious contemplation in the Midlands. (More on this later when we review Molly Houses of London: RVT)

In this instance Julian, citing prudence and taste, encouraged me to into a Vietnamese establishment, Viet (34 Greek Street, Soho), where I tried Pho for the first time.

The Earl of Sandwich: Poached salmon with dill

Gentle readers, welcome to the beginning what I hope will become a regular column here at the Illustrated London Noms.  As some of you may be aware, as well as a notable dandy and lavenderist about town, by day I hold down a job until such time as polite society forgives my indiscretions and my trust fund is reinstated.  Naturally, this leads to a requirement to arrange such nourishment as may sustain me till my release from my clerical desk to the gambling dens and esoteric iniquities that the metropolis has to offer. 

While the weekend often promises a leisurely luncheon (or bruncheon) to be savoured, but sadly more often than not on a working day this becomes nothing more than a sandwich taken at my desk, crumbs strewn over the latest set of accounts.  So how to correct for this sorry state of affairs?  Well, like so many things a little creativity can go a long way; not necessarily with the ingredients themselves, but often just in the combinations.  While many glory in the fillings, it is the accoutrements that really make a sandwich shine.  In this series I shall go through some of my favourite combinations and share them with you, dear reader.

A dispatch from the Shires: The Rose and Crown, Warwick

Darling reader, the thing that struck me most upon my last visit to the metropolis was the appalling standard of deportment I witnessed in its inhabitants. Stood with my beloved nephew Julian, I observed a cloven-hoofed individual shambling towards me. Imagine my horror when I realised it was the light of my life, Mr Green. Straight away I resolved we would cure him of his shamble, and to this end I have enlisted the help of a dancing master.

The path of my life is never smooth though, and it is with sadness that I must report that the dancing master is a fickle fellow, prone to cancelling lessons at the last minute. Thus it was that Mr Green and I found ourselves with an hour to spare last Sunday morning. It was a beautifully sunny day, we had nowhere particular to be, and the first thought that sprang into our heads was Brunch.