Ox tongue and beetroot with ramsons and horseradish

It’s all too easy to turn one’s nose up and something like ox tongue but, as I’ve discussed in the adjacent column, if you’ve decided to eat well-reared and slaughtered meat you might as well go for all the bits of the animal; particularly when it tastes as good as this.

You can buy pressed tongue from all good butchers but, if you wanted to do it yourself, it’s easy enough and so cheap with enough meat to feed a family of four . It just needs a little forethought. Take one salted ox tongue and soak it overnight in plenty of cold water. Drain, place in a large pan, cover with cold water while adding a few peppercorns and something like a couple of carrots, sticks of celery and a bay leaf. Bring to the boil and simmer for 2 to 2½ hours until tender. Remove from the water and allow to cool a little before peeling off the skin and chilling well before slicing.

As for the ramsons (wild garlic), along with asparagus it’s one of my favourite seasonal vegetables of the moment and I love it because it’s free. Found in moist wooded areas, it’s recognisable by the garlic smell in the air and when the leaves are crushed between your fingers.

Serves two as a starter or light lunch

A few slices of ox tongue

One whole uncooked beetroot

Horseradish sauce

The zest of half a lemon

A large pinch of smoked paprika

Extra virgin rapeseed (or olive) oil

A handful of wild garlic (ramsons) leaves

A couple of walnuts or two or three hazelnuts

A few salad leaves of your choice

Salt and freshly-ground black pepper

Wash the beetroot but don’t cut off the stalk, just trim back a little with scissors. Piercing or cutting into beetroot before cooking dilutes the flavour. Place in a pan of cold water, bring to the boil and simmer for 30 to 45 minutes until it can be easily pierced with a skewer or pointed knife. Drain and allow to cool enough to handle.

To peel, you can use a potato peeler or sharp knife but the slices have a propensity to end up in the shape of a 50 pence piece. We use an old tea towel to rub the skins off but it will turn the towel pink.

To prepare the wild garlic, bring a large pan of water to the boil, blanch the leaves in it for a few seconds (this kills any germs or bugs) and then quickly drain and plunge into iced or very cold water. Drain well. Place in a blender, add the nuts, a little salt and black pepper and blend, adding enough oil to make a slushy sauce.

Place a teaspoon of horseradish sauce, the lemon zest and paprika in a small jar, add a little rapeseed oil and shake until well blended.

Place slices of ox tongue and beetroot on the plate along with the salad leaves. Spoon over then spoon over the horseradish and ramsons dressings.

Want my support? Tell me the truth

It’s got into the press that David Cameron’s in-laws are objecting to having a slaughterhouse built next to their home. Quite why I should be interested in the personal matters of the Prime Minister’s relations is beyond me as it’s doubtful they were a major influence in our decision at the last general election, but that’s to digress.

I’ve just read a letter to a newspaper that was written by a lady from an organisation called Animal Aid who suggested Cameron’s in-laws would benefit from being educated about the reality of meat production. She implied that all slaughtered animals went through terror and pain and went on to say that Animal Aid makes available films about the subject.

Now, I’m sure that she holds genuine feelings but in her enthusiasm to further her cause she makes the same mistake made by so many who want to change our views: she transparently told only part of the truth and, as a result, lost me as a potential member to Animal Aid. There’s so much more to this subject than she let on.

It’s possible she actually disagrees with the breeding, rearing and killing of any animals for food. She didn’t say in her letter. I wondered if she’d be happy for us to eat an animal that had been accidentally struck by a car, or - taking the human element out of things - had met its end purely by its own misfortune (one of my sheep tried to commit suicide this weekend and didn’t even thank me when I saved its life). Is it ultimately the eating of meat that she’s against or the rearing and killing? She didn’t say.

But what I know not to be true is the suggestion that all animals destined for our table go to their maker (and diner) filled with terror and pain. The majority do, and I’d have been reaching for an Animal Aid application form faster than the release of a captive bolt if she’d said that. But, and here’s the rub, a minority don’t.

Obviously I’m a supporter of eating meat. That’s why I do it and why it’s on the menu in the restaurant. But being the wise and intellectual race we are, surely it’s morally correct that any meat we do eat comes from an animal that’s treated as well as possible prior and right up to its demise? After all, few of these animals would exist outside sanctuaries if we didn’t choose to eat them. We’d still need cows for milk but what would happen to the 50% of boy cows born? I guess there’d be a few sheep knocking about to keep moorland grass down but rabbits seem to be amazingly efficient at that in my garden. And pigs? They’d have to be in zoos.

Animals can be reared in a way that gives them a good time on this planet. And it’s not beyond the wit of man to put systems in place where the animals aren’t stressed being transported to the slaughterhouse and then, when they get there, never actually realise what’s happening to them. It does happen. We do it for Oldfields and so do a number of farmers we use to supply us.

I’ve seen the two extremes of slaughter house: first the sort where animals are delivered in multi-storied lorries and know exactly that a frightening fate awaits them due to their treatment, the noise, confusion and smells. And then the other sort where the animals are kept calm and quiet, get no terror-inducing feedback and are quietly and professionally led away to a sudden and, if there is such a thing as an animal afterlife, surprising end.

It could be like that for all animals reared for meat. It’d mean more expensive bacon but that’s your choice.

But this is the sort of reasoned discussion we should be having rather than picking on some people who didn’t choose to be, and really shouldn’t be, in the public eye. Perhaps Samantha Cameron’s parents don’t actually want a commercial building built next to their house and it’s their right to object. Maybe they don’t actually believe in industrial-style slaughter houses. I don’t know as I’ve not discussed it with them.

What I do know is that I’d prefer organisations such as Animal Aid to tell the whole truth and make sure we’re all educated properly so as to be able to make informed decisions rather than preaching, as they do, that the only cruelty-free diet is a meat-free one. I beg to disagree with them but admit that the cruelty-free option requires effort. And that’s what we, at Oldfields, are trying more and more to do.

Sausage and black pudding casserole

Sausage and black pudding casserole might seem like a winter dish but it’s so popular in our restaurants that we often have it on the menu, no matter what the weather.

It seems obvious but a good casserole depends on the quality of the ingredients you use. Obviously you’re depending on someone else’s product when using sausages and black pudding so do try to get the best you can. It’ll make such a difference to the dish.

And for those people who aren’t that keen on black pudding, give this dish a go; particularly if it the texture you don’t like. You might be pleasantly surprised.

Serves four

600g good quality pork sausages
250g good quality black pudding - cut into cubes
Four carrots - peeled and roughly chopped
Half a swede - peeled and roughly chopped
One large onion – peeled and finely diced
Four sticks of celery – cut into  1cm pieces
One litre of chicken stock

A couple of sprigs of thyme
Two bay leaves
A handful of pearl barley

Salt and freshly-ground black pepper

Vegetable oil
 
Unless you like the look of pink sausages, lightly brown the sausages under the grill. They don’t need to be cooked, just coloured.

Pour a couple of tablespoons of oil into a large pan or casserole that can sit on the cooker. Heat, add the carrots, swede, onion and celery and cook over a low-to-medium heat until they start to brown. Add the chicken stock, bay leaves and thyme. Bring to a boil, add the pearl barley and allow to cook for a further ten minutes.

Then add the black pudding and allow to cook for a few minutes and you’ll notice the pudding start to break down a little and enrich the sauce. Turn the heat down and add the sausages along with a little black pepper. Cook for a further 20 to 25 minutes, tasting and adding salt if necessary.

To serve, pile into warmed bowls and accompany with crusty bread. Or, if you wished, it goes great with mash, bubble and squeak or a few new potatoes.

The pink pound of sausages

Have you ever met a homosexual pig? I was introduced to one recently and, I must admit, I had my doubts. It didn’t look any different from the other pigs. It wasn’t dressed in a flamboyant fashion, didn’t seem to demonstrate a greater sensitivity to what was going on around it and I’m sure, if there had been a TV, would have shown as much interest in Sky Sports as the next pig.

But its owners, soon to be suppliers of fine rare-breed pork to our restaurant, were convinced it was gay. Why? Because this male pig wasn’t – how do I put this? – doing its job when it came to the lady pigs. He didn’t seem to show any interest in the procreation department. While they fluttered their eyelashes and pouted, the females in the field couldn’t even muster a wolf whistle from the boar.

Now, the subject of animal homosexuality has interested animal and wildlife experts for some time but it seems there are very conflicting views on it. On one side of this major, world-changing debate are those who are convinced that there’s no reason why a pig shouldn’t be attracted to members of its own sex. After all, it happens with humans. But I’m not so sure.

First of all, just because a creature of one sex doesn’t actually fancy the opposite sex, preferring to hang out with members of its own sex, without actually having sex, does that make that creature gay or simply a golfer?

But there’s a danger in treating animals like people; giving them human qualities. We’ve got a cat at home who, due to years of conditioning, knows that it’ll get fed immediately it sees someone first thing in the morning and again at approximately nine in the evening. When friends come around, that 9pm can slide to midnight and the cat plays up by meowing louder than the background music and rolling on the floor, making throat-cutting gestures. Of course our friends accuse us of being cruel to the cat and depriving it of food. “Look at its little face,” they say, “it’s starving and begging you”.

No it’s not starving. It’s been out depleting the vole population all day and, to be totally honest, doesn’t actually need an expensive sachet of kitty fodder. But it’s been conditioned by us, the superior race, to expect free food at set times. We’ve trained it. Cats are not humans. Neither are dogs and pigs certainly aren’t.

Despite what people might suggest, they don’t train you. They haven’t got the same reasoning abilities that we have. But they do have intuitive skills that have been developed in the wild that enable them to focus on the important things in life: food, warmth, sleep, procreation. Don’t confuse those with intelligence. Otherwise, why have cats not invented a vole killing machine yet so that they can sleep even more hours of the day?

I believe this is one of the reasons that some people hate the idea of naming animals when they know that they’re being reared for food. A name encourages the already susceptible human to consider the animal even more like him or her self.

So if they’re not really like humans, can they be homosexual? Maybe our boy pig just wasn’t too turned on by nooky. So, in the real world of farming, this young - possibly gay - pig ended up as sausages. Which, of course, were pink.

Pan-fried Coley, tomato and fennel salad

Coley is one of the least expensive fish in the cod family and is generally regarded as a sustainable fish, unlike everyone’s favourite cod. On the fishmonger’s slab, the flesh appears a little pinky/grey but turns white when it’s cooked. Also sometimes known as saithe and coalfish, coley can be used in any recipe calling for cod. For reasons of speed and ease of cooking, thrift and the welfare of the cod itself, it really is worth a try. And if coley’s not available, hake is a great alternative.

Serves two

Two 200gm coley fillets – skin on, scaled and pin-boned by the fishmonger

One head of fennel

Two tomatoes

Six cherry tomatoes - halved

Extra virgin rapeseed or olive oil

A few mixed salad leaves

Lemon juice

Salt and freshly-ground black pepper

Butter

Flour for dusting the fish

Pre-heat the oven to 200°C , gas mark 6

Cut the fennel in half length-ways, remove the core and cut the remainder into 5mm-thick slices. Heat an oven-proof pan, pour in two or three tablespoons of oil, add the fennel slices and allow them to brown a little over a medium heat, stirring occasionally as you add a little salt and pepper and a few drops of lemon juice. Meanwhile, remove the eye from the two large tomatoes, cut them into wedges and add them to the saucepan. Give a further stir and place the pan, uncovered, in the oven for around ten minutes. Remove from the oven and allow to cool.

Heat a frying pan and add a little oil. Dust the skin of the fish fillets with flour, shaking off any excess, and place in the frying pan, skin side down, over a medium heat. Season with a little salt and pepper but don’t move the fish. After four or five minutes of frying, add a walnut-sized knob of butter to the pan and carefully lift the fish to see if the skin appears golden and crisp. When it is, carefully turn the fillets over to cook for another three minutes.

While the fish finishes cooking, drain the oil from the fennel and tomato mix but make sure you reserve it as it makes the perfect dressing for the salad. Place the salad leaves and cherry tomatoes in a bowl together, pour over the reserved oil and toss. Pile onto plates and place the fish fillets on top or alongside.

Wooly logic

The girl who cuts my hair is called Trish Brown. When I say girl, she’s more of a woman these days as I’ve known her a long time; time she’s spent gaining experience with one of the best hairdressing chains in the land before, a couple of years ago, opening her own salon in Darlington and charging realistic prices. She’s become a successful business person in her own right and that’s in part because she knows what she’s doing and, therefore, gives her customers confidence.

What she doesn’t do is cook up her own shampoos and other hair treatments. Apart from being extremely time-consuming – what with crushing the eye of newt and mixing it with Himalayan spring water – she’d be rubbish at it. I know that because we can’t all be good at everything. She’s good at styling your hair so leaves making hair products to the experts.

But it’s taken me a good few decades to discover the same thing for myself. Never mind the choice between Jack of all trades or master of none. I always thought, though maybe not admitted, that I could be the master of anything I put my hand to. For instance, I didn’t headline at Glastonbury this year but only because I didn’t get around to it.

So, sheep shearing should be a doddle then, shouldn’t it? I mean, it’s only an addendum to farming; a service that’s contracted in every now and then. A bit like the Pick Your Own malarkey, anybody must be able to do it. Yeah, right.

In my quest to be able to talk on a level with all the farmers that supply Oldfields Eating House directly, I’ve convinced myself that whatever they can do, I can do it too – albeit on a much smaller scale. The theory being that if I have a little knowledge of what they have a lot, we’ve some common ground for conversation and the prospect of a smidgen of respect from those with generations of experience to someone who’s spent the last few years learning at speed.

So, rearing my own animals for supply to our own restaurant is part of that plan. And cutting the woolly stuff off the back of some recalcitrant adolescent castrated sheep should easily be within my ability. And I’m sure I can make them look as good as if they’d been sent to Trish Brown.

Sometimes I think I must have the mind of an 18 year old because the confidence of youth seems to run through my veins while the evidence of my efforts demonstrates how useless I am. I’m now the proud possessor of a flock of punk sheep. While commensurate with my adolescence, punk is not my favourite era but the sheep don’t know that. They’ve even got the safety pins in the form of ear tags to complement the disaster of a haircut I gave them. They’ve had the tags a while; long before the makeover from the Malcolm McLaren of the smallholding world.

Ok. While this has been an interesting experience – for both me and the sheep, it demonstrates that in my ambition to understand the whole process, there’s a necessity to leave certain things to the experts. However, I’ll always argue that it helps to have some knowledge or experience of all the necessary processes in life. And the whole food chain thing is one of those.

So the theory is that by if one does things like shearing ones own sheep, rearing animals for food in general and butchering ones own meat, confidence is given to everybody that eats the result; because there’s a resultant faith in the quality of the raw materials and the ability that’s gone into the food.

That’s why we go to such lengths at the restaurant. Now, can my hairdresser say the same?

Broken biscuit cake

I’m sorry to admit this – but I’m a bit of a fraud. The editor of the Newcastle Journal employs me to provide him with a recipe every other week on the basis that a lot of people consider cooking difficult and appreciate a little guidance. Therefore, one assumes that the recipes are sophisticated and provide an insight into the years of learning and research that the average restaurateur experiences over his or her lifetime. Well, the truth is, a lot of cooking’s not that difficult. In fact, anyone can make a cake out of broken biscuits. So, here’s a short recipe that makes enough for a few dozen biscuits, depending on their size.

One kg of a good quality dark chocolate

500g of butter

100g shredded or desiccated coconut

150g walnuts - roughly chopped

Three tablespoons of honey or golden syrup

One packet of Hobnobs – broken into 1cm pieces

Three balls of stem ginger – finely chopped

Choose a pan of the right size that a heat-proof, such as Pyrex, bowl sits neatly and securely on top. Bring an inch or so of water to the boil in the pan and place the bowl on top, making sure the water cannot touch the bowl. Lower the heat until the water’s simmering. Add the butter, honey and chocolate to the bowl and allow to melt, stirring occasionally.

When fully melted and combined, mix with the coconut, walnuts, stem ginger and broken hobnobs. Spoon into a greaseproof paper-lined cake tin and smooth until flat. Place in the fridge to set, removing halfway through to cut into pieces so as to make it easy to break once fully set.

Lovely served with ice-cream and fruit.

Soap of the day

I’d so like to write a book. I did write one a year or two back but that’s a cookbook (called, as it happens, The Passion for Real Food, essential for your bookshelf, a great present for anybody who likes cooking or, indeed, anybody who’d like to learn to cook, and available from the restaurant or, if you can’t get there, all good book shops).

But next I’d like to write a story about the life of a restaurant and that’d be so much easier. Because a cookbook demands work and pictures and lots of recipe testing even before you get to the writing bit. And then the proof reading is so hard, believe me. It’s amazing how many mistakes you make when writing recipes and it takes the services of a professional proof reader to spot them. Well, at least, most of them.

But the story of the life of a restaurant would be easy as there’s so much material and it’s begging to be captured and turned into a Hotel Babylon-style soap opera. I always assumed that your Corrie and Eastenders dramas were daft because so many things happened to so few people. But, actually, real life’s much more interesting and so much funnier.

Of course a lot of it’s a touch too racy to include in a family-orientated article but a book allows you to use all the gory detail, sexual shenanigans and, above all, swear words. Not that we utter that many swear words while working – no, honestly - but it’s funny how the funny things so frequently seem to involve them.

But the life of a restaurant includes love affairs and relationship drama; illness and life-changing moments; young staff finding their feet on the emotional rollercoaster of life; and, of course, customers.

For instance, we invite comments from guests on cards we deliver with the bill. One a few days ago said that she’d enjoyed everything about her food and the service. Her only complaint was the miserable woman at the next table who found fault with everything. In retrospect, I guess it was a legitimate complaint. Maybe we could have dealt with the miserable woman better. Or maybe, using the original customer’s situation as justification, thrown her out.

I’ve seen punch-ups at wedding celebrations; a storming out of the restaurant by a woman soon after she’d accepted a proposal of marriage (I wouldn’t have minded but I’d bought them both a glass of Champagne to celebrate. Who knows, the extra alcohol may have contributed to their argument); a regular visit by a ménage à trois that finally exploded after the third bottle of bubbly one Valentine’s night; the posh lady who always dined with her family in the window but in the rear of the restaurant when with her lover; frequent visits by a married couple where the husband always drank too much before falling asleep, leaving his wife to repeatedly proposition me (the staff took to staying behind for my protection).

 

And what on earth had been happening to result in a bra, one night, being left under a table?

 

But while customers provide a rich vein of entertainment, the loves and lives of our staff are the real stuff of the book. I mean, how much stick do you think the kitchen gave one of our supervisors when, on behalf of a customer, she burst in and asked if the sea bass was a freshwater fish? It’s the staff; they’re my pension.

Yes, real life’s much more interesting and so much funnier. Coronation Street eat your heart out.

Whisky-cured fillet of beef Carpaccio with radishes

If you think this sounds posh and very much a restaurant dish you’d be wrong. It’s a terribly simple starter or, maybe when served with a little crusty bread, light meal that’s essentially very thinly-sliced raw beef. It’s hardly cooking at all.

The name Carpaccio allegedly comes from the fact that the colour of the meat is similar to a particular red used in the paintings of the Italian master Vittore Carpaccio (whose real name, I understand, was Scarpazza which, if used by the artist, would have changed the name of this recipe).

The beef’s marinated for an hour or so in whisky. Therefore, depending on the whisky you choose will affect the flavour. I particularly like using a peaty Islay malt.

Serves four

400g of best beef fillet – trimmed of any sinew

Two teaspoons of black peppercorns

Flaked sea salt

Sugar

Some good whisky – preferably a malt

Six to eight radishes - washed with stems and roots left on

A couple of handfuls of watercress

Wholegrain mustard

Oil for sealing the meat

Crack open the peppercorns using a mortar and pestle or, if you don’t have one, use freshly-ground black pepper. Place the pepper in a bowl along with a teaspoon of the flaked salt, a teaspoon of sugar and two tablespoons of whisky. Mix well and add the fillet of beef; coating all sides with the mixture. Cover with clingfilm and allow to marinate for an hour or two, turning or shaking occasionally. Remove and allow to drain but don’t remove the pepper coating.

Heat a frying pan, add a little oil and seal the fillet on all sides. Remove, allow to cool a little and then roll it up in a square of clingfilm and twist up the ends tightly until it resembles a firm sausage. Place in the fridge for an hour or so to set.

Make a dressing by combining a teaspoon of the mustard with a little more whisky, a little salt and pepper and a couple of pinches of sugar. Slice the radishes, roots and stems included, as thinly as possible. We use a mandolin but you could use the thinnest slicing blade of a food processor or even a very sharp knife.

To serve, slice the beef as thinly as possible, arrange on plates and season lightly with a little flaked sea salt and black pepper. Place watercress and radishes on top and dribble over the dressing.

Music to your deers

I’ve been to Glastonbury for the last three years running. Not because I’m trying to stay young (that’d surely be an effort in vain) but because I love it. I go for the music of course. There are approaching 40 stages or places where you can hear music being played and there are 200,000 people there appreciating it in an area measuring  20 square kilometres. It’s a massive festival that’s extraordinarily well organised. The reaction of most people when you tell them you’re going is to laugh and mention the mud but, in the same way you rarely hear of any other stage than the Pyramid, it’s more often than not sunny. “No mud seen at Glastonbury” is not exactly an exciting headline so you only hear about it when it rains and that becomes the abiding memory.

Of course, feeding 200,000 people over four or five days is a massive task and it’s provided by hundreds of independent caterers. And what they do has always fascinated me. How they do it and why some succeed more than others is like seeing a microcosm of the restaurant industry; hundreds of kitchens and serveries, working flat-out, all in one place.

And some of them are very good but, also, a lot are rubbish. I guess it reflects the wider industry in that the signs on the outside offer much but the eating leaves you wanting. Of course, being Glastonbury, there are a lot of veggie places and it’s often there that you’re likely to find a better tasting meal. I put it down to the fact that vegetarians are, by nature, people who think more about what they’re eating and that goes for the people providing a purely vegetarian menu. More often than not, on the high street, it’s difficult to make a vegetarian restaurant make money because of the fact that fewer than 10% of the population are vegetarian. Making a living out of a restaurant is difficult enough if you have the choice of 100% of people. But at Glastonbury, the chances of success must be multiplied five-fold.

Anyway, this last weekend, we, at Oldfields, decided to conduct a little experiment and built and manned a catering stall at a small family-orientated affair called the Deer Shed Festival down in North Yorkshire. It was only its second year but attracted around six thousand parents and children; the majority of the latter under twelve. It was brilliant, the music was great and the sunny weather a bonus.

In line with our traditionally British approach, we decided to serve sausage and mash, all sourced locally. With a choice of mustard or plain mash as well as a choice of gravy, we had a great time chatting with the festival-goers, learning a lot about catering in such an environment and, hopefully, covering our costs.

We know our approach went down well because we got so much repeat business over the 48 hours we were there. But, along with getting some time to listen to the music, we also got the opportunity to sample other caterers’ wares and, with our new–found experience, compare methods.

And what surprised, and disappointed, me was the quality of a lot of the offerings. Again, large signs with tempting pictures and words but when it came to satisfaction, the proof of the pudding was in the eating and I couldn’t wait to get home to get a meal with properly balanced flavours. I enjoyed our sausage and mash but, with variety being the spice of life, there’s only so many times you can repeat a meal.

The festival was brilliantly organised with a great atmosphere but foodies like me want something nice to eat, and I can’t have been alone. However, it’s difficult to know what else the organisers could have done. They could have let us be the sole caterers but man cannot live by sausage alone.

And what sort of sausages did we serve? Well what else would you expect at the Deer Shed Festival other than venison? With meat sourced from the Raby Castle deer herd, those sausages, when eaten in the sunshine with great music and thousands of happy families, were the best sausages in the world. Lovely.

Mordon Blue cheese and celery terrine

We’ve discovered some fabulous local produce over the last few years and the closer to the restaurant’s doorstep somehow the better. One such find is from Carol Peacock’s cheese making business in Mordon just of the A1 a little to the south of us. Trading under the Parlour Made name, Carole produces three lovely cheeses: a Farmhouse White which is a bit like a Cheshire cheese, a wonderful camembert-style cheese and, our favourite, a cheese called Mordon Blue. We’ve been using the latter in salads over the summer but the following recipe is for an interesting take on a terrine. You could, of course, use any type of good blue cheese but I’d recommend trying to get hold of Carol’s Parlour Made. This is a local cheese maker who certainly knows what she’s doing.

Serves at least six as a starter

250g of Mordon Blue cheese or other good quality blue cheese

100g unsalted butter

Three sticks of celery

50ml double cream

A handful of chopped parsley

Sea salt and freshly-ground black pepper

First, slice the celery sticks as thinly as possible. Spread out the slices on a plate and sprinkle well with salt to draw out the moisture. Leave for about 30 minutes before tipping the celery into a sieve, rinsing under the tap to remove the salt and then tipping out onto a clean towel to dry.

Place the butter in a food processor and process until fluffed-up somewhat. If you don’t have a food processor you can place the butter in a mixing bowl and beat it with a wooden spoon until, again, fluffed-up. Add the celery and a little salt and pepper; tasting to adjust, remembering that the cheese will be quite salty. Then mix in the chopped parsley.

Line a small terrine mould with clingfilm (or, if you didn’t have a terrine mould, a small bowl would do) and spread the butter and celery mixture around the cover the base.

Process the cheese in the food processor, adding the cream as you do. But watch the consistency; you want it creamy but not too slushy. Spread the cheese and cream mixture on top of the butter, cover with clingfilm. Place a suitably-sized weight on top such as another mould filled with water and place in the refrigerator for an hour or so to set.

This is lovely served in slices, as we do in the restaurant, with hot toast and a few sliced radishes.

The truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth

It’s like a war out there. Who would you trust? After all, it’s down to you. You’re the one who’s going to determine whether you survive and ultimately succeed. It’s apparent, just by the fact that you’re reading this article, that you’ve got what it takes; that you’re intelligent enough. So, who do you believe? Who’s lying to you?

Well, unfortunately, nearly everybody. Or, if not actually lying, misleading you with a type of slight of hand that makes you do something that, if you really thought about it, you might not.

You think I’m being alarmist? Well, do you really trust politicians to tell you the truth? The non-being-economic kind of truth? Surely not. Just consider their motives. Did they stand for parliament for purely altruistic reasons; just to represent the well-being of you and all your friends? Or was there just a teensy weensy bit of motive to get and stay in a position of power and influence? Obviously they’re bound to fashion whatever they communicate so that it conveys the impression that having them there is in your interest and that you should vote for them when it’s time for them to get back in. They’ll work their argument hard in such a way that you’ll be persuaded. Is that the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth? Or, dare I suggest, a little selective?

Take the young chap trying to woo the young lady. Will he really love her in the morning and, anyway, doesn’t love last forever? Or is he spinning her a little bit of a yarn in his desperation to consummate his said wooing?

And then there’s commerce. Do you really think that anybody trying to sell you something is going to provide you with all the facts in a very clear manner? Would the cigarette companies have drawn attention to the life-shortening effects of their products if they hadn’t been forced by legislation? But even if laws are introduced in order to force the truth out, there’s a continuous game where we, the consumers, are caught piggy-in-the-middle between the legislators and the corporates egged on by their shareholders, trying to confuse us with their sales arguments. I mean, have you tried to compare mobile phone tariff structures recently? They’re designed to make your decision difficult so that you actually end up choosing their product for non-financial reasons such as the phone’s pretty colour.

There’s always some pressure to hold back the whole truth in the expectation that its release will make you stop, think and refrain from buying.

And so it is with the manufacturers of processed food. Only this week there was the surprising (not) news that certain products sold as “light” in fact contained more calories and fat than the “normal” variety. I’ve long argued that products such as a “virtually fat free” fruit yoghurt are not the greatest catalyst to a sylph-like you for a number of reasons but not least, that without fat to act as a flavour carrier, they’re particularly unsatisfying and the desire for fulfilment remains once you’ve eaten them.

In all honesty, I don’t think we should complain about that because that’s life. We live in a commercial world so get used to it and, dare I say, wise up to it.

But beware because things can be very blatant. It’s now it’s been confirmed that some so-called “light” crisps are more fattening than full-fat, that some “healthy” biscuits are at least as calorie-filled as normal ones and good-for-your-gut mini drinks may not be that good for your body in “light” form. And the list goes on.

Ooh, those nasty companies trying to hoodwink us. Who’d have believed it? And what can we do about it?

Short of revolution I believe the only way to know what you’re eating is not to buy processed foods or at least to limit them to those times when they’re really essential or your craving outweighs your self control. At all other times it’s simple: cook your own food from scratch. You have got the time. And if you think you haven’t, you’ve never learnt how to make food in the time available. If you had been taught correctly you could knock up many meals in a few minutes. Shopping and cooking can take no more time than going to the takeaway. But if we’re not taught we can’t do it. So we rely on processed foods produced by those nasty companies that don’t tell us the whole truth. And believe me, that is the whole truth.

Venison-stuffed chicken

When chicken’s good it can actually be some of the best meat to eat. But usually the stuff we’re offered in the shops is the intensively-raised variety that lacks its full potential. So we’ve come up with a dish that is lifted by the use of another meat stuffing and uses the tasty and less expensive legs of a chicken.

We’ve used venison mince here but it doesn’t have to be. Any good pork sausage meat will do. Also, if you were using pork you might be able to omit the pork fat. It’s used here because venison is such a lean meat. The easiest way to check what you need is to mix up a bit of the stuffing first, maybe without the fat, and make a small “burger”. Fry it off and taste it to see what you think. This also enables you to get the seasoning right.

serves four

Four whole chicken legs - skin on

200g venison mince or sausage meat

50g pork fat

One head garlic

A sprig each of rosemary and thyme – picked off the stems

One tin of chopped tomatoes or 1kg of fresh tomatoes - chopped

Salt and freshly-ground black pepper

Rapeseed oil or similar

A pinch of sugar

One bay leaf

String for tying the legs.

First take half the garlic, peel the cloves and crush finely. Finely-chop half the thyme and rosemary, dice up the pork fat and add both to the minced meat. Mix and season with salt and pepper.

If you have a half-decent butcher you could ask for the bones to be removed from the chicken legs but it’s not that difficult and just involves a little patience. First lay the chicken flat on the chopping board, skin side down. Pinch the thigh bone between the fore finger and thumb and simply cut around it with a thin sharp knife. Work down past the knee joint, making sure not to break the skin, and pull the bone free. You’ll now have a boned chicken leg but don’t throw the bones away.

Divide the stuffing into four and fill each leg, folding the meat and skin around the stuffing so that it forms a tidy parcel. Secure by tying with the string like wrapping a present.

       

Heat the oven to 180°C, gas mark 4. Meanwhile, heat a steep-sided pot or oven-proof pan,  add a good slug of oil and brown the chicken legs on all sides while adding the removed bones and browning those too. Place the pan in the oven for 5 minutes or so whilst roughly chopping the rest of the garlic, thyme, rosemary and, if using, fresh tomatoes. Remove the pan from the oven and lower the temperature to 160°C, gas mark 3. Add all the remaining ingredients to the pan with the chicken and bones and return to the oven to cook a further 30 minutes.

Lift the chicken legs from the pan and keep warm. Push the sauce through a sieve and return to the pan to reduce until thickened. Taste and adjust the seasoning; adding a little sugar if necessary, particularly if using fresh tomatoes.

Cut the string from the chicken legs, slice in two and serve with some greens and good bread to mop-up the delicious sauce.

An electrifying project

I’ve done a lot of project management in my time: from the design and installation of small-scale eco power generation plants, via the design and build of a number of restaurants to the construction of an extension on our kitchen at home. Therefore the upgrade of our electricity supply at the restaurant should be an absolute doddle. Shouldn’t it?

Well that’s what I thought until I started picking up the phone and receiving the paperwork from the two main parties.

You see we wanted to put in what’s called a three phase electricity supply in order for us to be able to run bigger ovens and avoid the panic that occasionally ensues every time the electricity trips during the busiest moment of the evening. It’s not just the fact that the diners have been plunged into darkness, nor the look through the emergency light-lit gloom on the faces of the waiting staff. But rather the language from the chefs in the kitchen who, halfway through plating up meals next to a raging gas cooker, suddenly can’t see what they’re doing and naturally complain in rather strong terms without realising that there’s no longer any music in the restaurant or protection from the loud hum of the kitchen ventilation equipment to drown out the swear words. Diners were being shocked. Something had to be done. Hence the upgrade.

So the first thing I did was phone the number on our electricity bill. Obviously those people are the ones who I buy from so I must go to them. No matter that I’d made a mistake. They gave me the number for the people who put the wires in the ground, I made another call and we were off and running. They told me that they’d be delighted to give us more electricity. All they wanted was the dosh up front with absolutely no date as to when they were going to do the work. I thought this was a little like asking you for full payment for your meal at the time of your telephone booking with no guarantee as to what time we’d be able to sit you nor, actually, as to which day.

But we needed the work doing and I assumed I was dealing with a rational organisation who’d done this sort of thing many times before and I’d be able to draw on their experience. Well that was another mistake.

After some conversation about what we actually needed and the clearing of a fairly large cheque from Oldfields, we waited a couple of weeks to see what would happen. Then we got a letter dated two weeks before it was actually delivered informing us that the work was to be done in seven days time and we’d better make sure we’d arranged for the new meter to be installed that same day. And who installs the meter? Ah yes, the people who we actually pay for the electricity. So, onto the phone to them only to be told that they need three weeks notice. “But they’re cutting us off next week!” I relied, “Could you talk to them directly to synchronise things?”. “Sorry sir”, they replied, “can’t do that. It’s data protection you know”. I know that’s rubbish and you know that’s rubbish. It’s just something to hide behind but what could I do?

Well it turned out that these nice electricity supply people had a solution. Pay them money and we could actually specify a date that the meter would be installed and, not only that, they’d do it on the day the electricity cable people were coming. Marvellous but expensive. It actually wasn’t quite as simple as that but lack of space on the page prevents me from describe the faff-on that was involved. Suffice to say, after much high blood pressure and testing of my diplomatic skills it was all set up for the Friday morning the next week.

The due day arrived and, despite a late previous night at the restaurant, I arose early to be there before 8am just in case the cable layers came first thing. They didn’t. They turned up at 10:30 just as I received a call to be told that the meter installer would be there at 11. Good, it was all coming together. I then phoned our own electricians who had to be there to complete the switch-over for us and everyone agreed that it’d take about 45 minutes to do the job and switch the juice back on. Just in time for lunch at noon so that we wouldn’t lose any trade.

So, at 11 o’clock, the meter man arrived to be greeted by quite a few of us: me, my three electricians, three cable layers, two chaps who were there to fill in the previously-dug whole in the pavement and our staff looking on with expectation. “There’s not enough room for the meter” said our meter man to a hushed audience. “You’re going to have to get a bigger box installed on the wall and give us a call to reschedule the meter fitting. I’m off”. I did a swift body swerve, stood in his way to prevent him from leaving and offered him a cup of tea. I realised that if we couldn’t complete today I’d have to continue paying for the temporary generator I was hiring and, to add insult to injury, pay the meter man’s company an aborted installation fee!

While I kept the meter man talking, one of our expensively-delayed electricians shot off to the builder’s merchant to get another meter box and, to cut a long story short, we got the whole thing up and running – but only after losing revenue by turning away numerous diners who couldn’t wait until the 1:15 actual switch-on time, and after paying through the nose to get the whole job done when I actually wanted, and after pre-paying the cable people who then specified the wrong-sized box, and after the two main parties refused to talk to each other, and after paying three electricians to stand around waiting for said parties, and after ageing five years trying to bring this all together.

Apologies to those we turned away and to those who decided to sit and wait and accept free drinks. I really hope it was worth it.

Poorly educated

I remember an absolutely awful story from my teens where a student at a local college had crashed his motorbike and was in a serious way. People who’d seen the accident rushed to help him and, in a bid to make him comfortable, removed his helmet which, unfortunately, resulted in him dying. That’s why Formula One racing drivers are always pulled from their mangled cars with their helmets in place. Who knows what damage it may be holding together? Even if the driver’s conscious he may be unaware of his injuries.

So, what little education I’ve had has taught me that if I find a motorcyclist lying by the side of the road, whatever I do, I’ll probably leave his helmet on. Although, even with my size of mouth, if his helmet’s the full-face type, I don’t know how I’d give him mouth-to-mouth as part of CPR. But at least I’ve been taught how to attempt to bring back a pulse and to encourage breathing when neither is in existence. Let’s just hope I never have to do it with a motorcyclist.

But isn’t education a wonderful thing? Not only was I taught how to check my change in a shop and read about family values from a Janet and John book, I can potentially prolong life too. It’s a shame that the benefits of education in the basics of life aren’t appreciated by everyone.

I’ve recently been away on holiday but, even in the weight-challenged country that’s America, there was mention in their newspapers of obesity problems in the UK. When you’re reading a US paper, you get used to seeing place names that we feel at home with. After all, I live within easy distance of New York, Philadelphia and Washington. However, when I saw Gateshead being reported it made me sit up. What, they’ve a Gateshead in the USA? Unfortunately it appears not. But the Yanks now know we have one in the UK and that it’s recently been suggested that at least 30% of adults there are obese.

What was reported next had me jumping up and down – and not with happiness. The mayor of Gateshead, Joe Mitchinson (who, it was reported, has a 46in waist) believes poverty is to blame. He suggested that junk food is eaten because parents can’t afford healthier food. Does Mr Mitchinson know how much a bag of carrots costs? From the evidence, I’m guessing he knows how much he has to pay for a bag of chips.

Wondering if I was the only person to think like this, I opened a Sunday paper last weekend to see a lady making exactly the same point; using a bag of carrots as the example and pointing out that they cost a lot less than a couple of bags of crisps.

“But my children won’t eat carrots” is the cry you’ll hear. Well not if they’ve been fed junk and sweets since birth they won’t. It’s not the cost of food that makes people fat; it’s the lack of knowledge about what they’re eating. We all know that too much of anything’s not good for us but if we don’t know what’s in our food, how can we judge if we’re getting too much of one thing?

We’d know that if we cooked. But most people don’t and can’t. Why? Because they were never taught. But we quickly learn how to sit on the sofa and watch all those adverts for convenience food.

Carrots are ok. They can be fabulous as part of a varied and interesting diet. Given a little time, I could probably give you a hundred ways to cook them or incorporate them into your life. And the same goes for apples and potatoes and peas and fish and the cheaper cuts of meat. We just need to be taught about it as part of all the other really important facts of life we’re taught at school such as reading and maths and how to have sex.

I was really upset to read the report while so far away from home. We obviously have a serious problem here in our region. Obesity is a complex subject and will be affected by many factors. But education must be the most significant factor of all. To ignore that and suggest it’s down to poverty is very misguided and, potentially, plain dangerous. Even a crash helmet and a bit of mouth-to-mouth won’t save you from the resulting ill-effects.

Pinscar Crag Organic mutton with Irish stew

Ask half a dozen people “in the know” their definition of mutton and you’ll often get six different answers. To many people, mutton’s a tough fatty meat and, without doubt, it can be true. The most tender meat usually comes from the youngest animals because meat is muscle and young animals haven’t worked that hard. So it stands to reason that the older the animal, the harder it’s worked and the tougher the meat. So, if a six year-old female sheep that’s mothered over six different years is used for meat, it’s fairly certain that the meat could be tough. Whether it’s fatty or not depends on whether it was a fat animal. However, a two year-old sheep, properly fed and reared, can have a much better taste than a six month-old lamb and the meat can be just as tender. It depends, amongst other things, on the breed of sheep and the cooking.

Older meat can really deliver superb flavour; particularly when cooked long and slow. Irish stew is a dish that makes use of the traditionally tougher and less popular cuts of meat, such as neck end, which while giving a great flavour, can lack a little sparkle in the visual department. However in the following recipe we use mutton from two year-old organic sheep and we finish the dish off with quickly-seared mutton cutlets or chops which provide a whole new dimension to this traditional dish.

We call it Pinscar Crag on our menu because that’s where we get the mutton from. And I promise you, it’s the best meat I’ve ever tasted – and that’s saying something. So it almost goes without saying, it pays to get the best meat you can afford.

Serves four to six

One mutton or lamb neck

A handful of pearl barley

Three carrots cut into large chunks

Two potatoes - peeled and cut into chunks

Two onions – peeled and diced

½ a swede – peeled and cut into chunks

½ Savoy cabbage - shredded

Three sticks of celery – cut into chunks

A sprig each of thyme and rosemary

A bay leaf

Ten white peppercorns

Salt and freshly-ground white pepper

Two mutton chops per portion.

First, take the neck and simply cover with cold water in a suitable pot. Add the bay leaf, thyme and rosemary sprigs and peppercorns and bring to the boil. Reduce the heat and simmer for around two hours until the meat can be easily picked from the bone, making sure to skim any fat or impurities from the surface of the liquid. Once cooked, remove the meat from the pan and allow to cool on a plate. Pass the stock through a fine sieve, return to the pan, add all the other ingredients apart from the chops and cook for a further 30 to 40 minutes. Meanwhile, pick the cooked meat from the bone and reserve.  When the vegetables in the pot are tender, simply stir the picked meat back in and adjust the seasoning as necessary with salt and white pepper.

To serve, grill or fry the chops to your liking, preferably a bit pink, and place alongside the stew and eat with some crusty bread.

Let's have a demonstration

What do you do, or have you done, for a living? Is it an interesting subject? And is it interesting enough for people to ask you to hold sessions at which you demonstrate your prowess?

I’ve got a mate who’s an accountant and, while I’m sure most people who’d agree that accountancy is a necessary profession, it’s not one that stirs the blood of non-accountants. I’m sure that when accountants get together at their special accountancy convention away-day weekends, they all get very animated about net present value and corporation tax but most of us would be left cold, even after helping ourselves to the free sparkling wine and canapés.

So could you imagine, when seeking a little entertainment, going to a demonstration of cash flow forecasting? No, neither could I.

But people love to see certain jobs being demonstrated. Thousands have been mesmerised at the Sunderland Glass museum while watching experts blowing into molten glass to make round things. Many more have been to Beamish to see how things were done in the olden days. The BBC even used to show a potter making clay things on a wheel when there were unscheduled gaps in the broadcasting. And, of course, there are the myriad cookery programmes on TV which occupy the lives of so many of us.

I’ve often wondered why people love watching others cooking. I originally assumed that it was because they wanted to learn how to expand their own culinary repertoire. But when you realise that, as a percentage of the population, fewer people than ever cook in this country today, that can’t be the main reason. I’ve wondered if, like pornography, it’s a remote form of gratification based on the idea that if they can’t get it they’ll watch others doing it but I personally know many who watch cookery programmes – including my mother – so I sincerely hope it’s not that.

Is it that people subconsciously wish that they can do what is one of the most of the important things in life – prepare food to keep us alive and improve our quality of that life – even though they can’t, and won’t?

Whatever the reason, I’ve known for years that when we’ve held cookery demonstrations at our restaurants, we’ve never had a problem filling the available places. And I’ve always used the opportunity as a shameless attempt to promote our business.

And on that subject, it’s worth promoting that there’s Durham City’s annual food festival this weekend (Saturday 22nd October 20011). And guess what? There are cookery demonstrations and I’m on at 10am on Saturday. Come along to see some chefs cooking and be prepared for some shameless promoting.