Molecular gastronomics

I got a Molecular Gastronomy Kit for Christmas! So once the enormous glut of seasonal food was chewed down to the last couple of mince pies and the final gobbet of Christmas pudding it was time to start playing the mad scientist…

The kit is the MSK Molecular Gastronomy Starter Kit and while I haven’t actually seen or tried any other starter kits, I have to say that this one seems to have some strong advantages. For a start, they supply enough of each chemical additive for at least ten recipes, so after you’ve mastered the process you’ve got lots left to wow your friends when you invite them over for a soiree. They also give you the absolutely essential tools you’re unlikely to have in your kitchen: electric scales that measure down to 0.1g and a couple of big syringes. Then there’s a professional recipe making use of each additive, printed on glossy cards; perfect for proving the theory before going off on a Willie Wonkaesque blaze of experimentation.

Just to be crystal clear: this was a Christmas present from my lady, I’m not “reviewing” a freebie.

So the first thing I tried was some rhubarb spherifications, ‘cos there isn’t much that’s cooler than a spherification. Heck, Michelin-starred chefs will serve you up pea spherifications which are pea-shaped things that taste of peas. So, basically, peas with extra hassle. That’s how much Michelin-starred chefs love to spherify things!

Anyway, it failed horribly. My little spheres looked great in the magic solution, but collapsed into pink goo when I fished them out. I used almost every implement and vessel in the kitchen in search of a combination that would result in salvagable spheres, but ended up with nothing more than a huge mountain of washing up.

Some internet research led me to two conclusions: (1) by using apple juice for poaching my rhubarb (my usual method) I was making the liquor more acidic, (2) by poaching in just a splash of juice, I ended up with a liquor that was too thick. I made a third conclusion myself: molecular gastronomy is not a game for the “instinctive” cook, at least not until you’ve learned the science!

Indeed, although the recipe cards are neat they don’t explain any of the why’s and wherefore’s of molecular gastronomy: “300ml rhubarb poaching liquor” is all it says. It takes a lot of reading (Google or a big fat book) to discover that acidity ruins spherification and that the liquor to be spherified needs to be of low viscosity. Yes, this is rocket science. Research isn’t like Googling “chocolate fondant recipe” and skim-reading a few until you find one you like. You put in search terms like “problem with sodium alginate spherification” and soon find yourself staring at scientific papers

on electrolyte capture and hypertension in alginates, including spidery molecular diagrams of chemical compounds that would make Professor Frink blink.

So I got cross with the Sodium Alginate and abandoned it in favour of Gellan Gum. Five minutes and only two ingredients later I had a beautiful plate of glistening Madeira jelly noodles. Wow. Less effort than making a hot chocolate and results that might have diners cooing in wonderment. Even more so because this Gellan Gum jelly is heat tolerant, so these noodles wouldn’t melt if I served them in a bowl of hot ham broth!

Today I’m back to the spherifications. I corrected both the things I thought were wrong and got to work again with the chemistry lab. An hour later and I have my first perfect little glistening spheres of translucent pink, ready to plate on neat little pieces of sashimi. Here’s the hero shot:

Next stop, the land of heat-tolerant and freezable foams! Who thinks frozen shards of gin-and-tonic foam on top of a lime posset sounds good? Yep, I’ve already wandered away from the printed recipes and into Wonka-land. I settled on trying for a frozen horseradish foam to top some mackerel. This used some nifty stuff called “Sucrose ester” which is so seldom used that I could only find one recipe on the whole internet. So I read that, and I read the recipe card from the kit, and I read up a horseradish foam that used a different additive,

and I mixed the three recipes together to see what happened. It… sort of worked. To be honest, I’d be bemused if I was served a lump of this in a restaurant.

I cheered myself up by making pistachio macarons using the “Hy-foamer”, brilliant stuff that will stabilise egg whites even if you add straight lemon juice to them. They came out beautifully. Which means I’m running at about 50/50 successes and failures so far.

So, a molecular gastronomy starter kit. Good investment? If you like cooking and are intrigued at how the top chefs do it, definitely. But as an instinctive cook, I would say that it is definitely not for instinctive cooks! There’s precision involved here, and straying from professional recipes is as likely to result in a deflated mess as it is in whooping and air-punching. I also have to say, a lot of it runs

contrary to my distaste for waste. You make up plenty of bases, be it rhubarb liquor to spherify or horseradish sauce to foam, and then you use perhaps 20% of it making your molecular wonders before ditching the rest. Hmm. Finally, at the end of the day you are mainly creating fripparies, garnishes. I’d be the first to say that a spoonful of watermelon caviar and a lemongrass foam are far more delicious and impressive than a shred of lettuce and some salad cress, but garnishes aren’t normally the domain of the home cook, even an inventive one.

Nevertheless I’ve been enjoying myself, and slowly mastering the techniques. When it works the results are good enough to make me SQUEE! with delight, so I’m almost certainly going to be cranking out something spiffy whenever I’m entertaining friends to dinner. This is one Christmas gift that isn’t going to just migrate quietly to the back of the corner cupboard.

Review: Old Hall Persian, Dorrington

Persian is one of the three “grand cuisines”, along with French and Chinese. For me it conjures up images of delicate meats cooked with perfumed spices and exotic fruits. Yet it isn’t something you see a lot of in provincial towns and cities (well, unless you want to count doner kebabs as cuisine). So to find a Persian restaurant in a small rural village in Shropshire is not much short of astonishing.

The Old Hall Persian is in Dorrington, near Shrewsbury. As the name implies, the dining room is set in an old half-timbered house in the middle of the village. Instead of playing to that ambience they’ve chosen a fairly neutral modern decor, in essence what you’d expect of a small town Indian. This is a family operation and service was very friendly, helpful and informal.

My starter was simplicity itself; thinly sliced mushrooms fried with oodles of cracked pepper, on a paper-thin and crispy piece of oily flatbread. It was delicious. Maureen’s appetiser was a concoction of aubergine and yogurt with sharp citrus flavours, also very good with the splendid flatbread.

For main course I ordered the Ghormeh Sabzi, and it was a lovely earthy bean stew with fine, clear flavours of preserved lime and aromatic spices coming through. It’s one of the national dishes of Iran, and now I know why. Chef Lal has put the recipe up on his website – I have a feeling I may start cooking it a lot. Maureen’s Fesenjan was an unusual stew of chicken with ground walnuts and pomegranate. The dish fell on the sweet side of sweet/sour and although we’re always keen to pick unusual flavour combinations I have to admit that we didn’t fall in love with it. It probably didn’t help that the chicken was bite-sized bits of dry breast. It may be received wisdom that British people want nicely chopped up pieces of white meat in their ethnic cuisine, but I think restaurants really ought to start testing this and serving up chicken on the bone, with all the improved flavour and texture that would bring.

I wanted to try a pudding, as none of them were familiar to me. Because they were Persian! The Sheer Birenj dropped me straight into the bazaars of old Araby, with the high scent of rosewater and other floral notes coming from the sticky ground rice with its little puddles of milk and scattering of sultanas. Very classic, very good.

We drank a glass of wine with the meal, rather oddly served as 250ml measures. I really don’t need a third of a bottle in one go! This is a restaurant, not a boozer. I would also have liked to see a couple of interesting soft drinks on the list; some suitably Persian teas or long drinks.

Given the rarity of Persian restaurants pretty much anywhere, it’s great to find a place that delivers genuinely classic dishes so well executed. The bill came to £30 each, including two drinks apiece. I think that’s about spot-on. If you’re not familiar with Persian cuisine then I’d recommend you take a trip to the Old Hall, it’s a fine introduction.

Steak tartare

Whenever I visit France I throw myself at the steak tartare like a love-struck fool. Because absence makes the heart grow fonder and this simple dish is harder to find on UK menus than beetroot macarons. Not impossible, I grant. But don’t bother telling me about the one posh brasserie in London you know of that has it on occasionally; in France you find steak tartare in family-friendly chain restaurants and every cheap bistro in every single town.

Clues as to why I can’t find steak tartare in the UK are plentiful. Search for recipes and they all agree on one thing: use the very best fillet steak. Ouch. That’s immediately pushing it out of the everyday bistro food category. Were my 10 euro steak tartares around rural France really all fillet?

Next we can search the web for articles discussing the pros and cons of eating raw beef. Opinions are polar, running from “I love the taste of raw beef, chicken, turkey…” right through to “I think it’s disgusting! I actually don’t know how people can casually chomp on raw meat! I find it repulsive.” Taken on balance, the “think it’s disgusting” group seem to have weight of numbers. And I’m betting they represent an even larger silent majority who would simply never think of eating raw beef.

I’m part of quite a small market, it’s no wonder most restaurants won’t risk their fillet steak on it. Chatting on Twitter, Matt Follas of The Wild Garlic told me that last time he tried, he offered it raw or grilled… and every order was for grilled. Hmm.

Finally, it’s interesting to look at Food Standards Agency advice. Their requirement is that if you have to serve steak tartare (reading their blogs and articles, it’s pretty clear they would much rather all meat was cooked right through) you must use the “sear and shave” approach; sear the outside of the beef and then cut the seared edges away, before mincing the interior.

So that’s a fair percentage of your fillet steak disappearing into the bin.

To be fair their fear is E. coli, a particularly horrible bacteria that exists naturally in cattle guts and faeces. Apparently no modern beef butchering process can entirely avoid getting some of this onto the surface of the meat. Which means that any beef, even the best fillet from your local organic butcher, could have a little E. coli dusting the surface. Fear not, a brief searing will kill it entirely, which is why even rare steak should be safe and why “searing and shaving” the steak before chopping it for tartare is also safe.

But do they really take this approach at every tiny neighbourhood bistro in France?

I suspect not. I also suspect that farming practise has something to do with it. Modern mass production of beef cattle is intensive. The beef live their lives in small concreted yards where they are fed corn and dosed with numerous additives to try and keep them healthy. Hardly the cleanest animals at the best of times, they are essentially standing around 24/7 in each other’s muck. Where the E. coli is found. My hunch is that the highly subsidised French agricultural system has a lot more grass-fed cattle living out in the fields. Your average French bistro sourcing meat from their average French butcher is probably getting a better product than the average UK restaurant getting a weekly delivery from a meat wholesaler. Not every restaurant in the UK can afford premium beef from the minority of farms using less intensive practises.

I hoped this post would be an entertaining rant against bonkers food safety standards, but I’ve ended up concluding that there probably is a higher risk from eating steak tartare in this country than in France. That’s reality. What I cannot hope to self-research is the absolute risk of finding E. coli on a piece of raw beef. The risk exists, as evidenced by the occasional news stories of an outbreak, and although these stories always seem to relate to undercooked burgers of dubious provenance that doesn’t mean there is zero risk from a carefully sourced piece of fillet. But I think it’s pretty low.

So if – for the sake of argument – the risk of finding E. coli in a well-kept piece of beef is substantially less than the risk of being killed in a car crash then I’m going to keep enjoying steak tartare and driving to work.

How? Well, since restaurants won’t give it to me I’m going to make it myself.

Steak tartare (serves 2)

350g fillet steak (see below)
2 fresh egg yolks
1 banana shallot
1 tbsp capers
4 cornichons
Handful flat-leaf parsley
2 tsp Worcestershire sauce
Dribble of olive oil
Splash of Tabasco sauce
Salt and black pepper
  1. Remove any obvious bits of fat, then chop your steak up very fine, just stop short of turning it into mince
  2. Finely chop the shallot, capers, cornichons and parsley
  3. Mix these into the steak along with the Worcestershire sauce, Tabasco to your taste, olive oil if a little dry, then salt and pepper to season
  4. Divide the steak tartare between two plates (I used a big cookie cutter as a mould and squished the tartare into it, which looks nice), add an egg yolk to the top of each, and pile a load of salty French fries alongside. Bliss!

If you are more concerned about E. coli than I, just buy 400g of steak and sear every side of it in a pre-heated frying pan (2 seconds is fine) before carefully slicing the seared edges off. Then switch to a new chopping board and new knife to dice up the beef.

Buying your steak
Please, please, please don’t try making steak tartare with meat from your local supermarket. Yes, I know that sounds very middle class, but I’ve seen far too much TV exposing the slip-shod and cost-squeezed supply chains that get produce onto supermarket counters to ever trust their meat raw. Instead I went to a reputable (in fact, award-winning) local butcher and explained that I wanted to do steak tartare. They suggested two tail-end pieces of fillet steak; being too thin to make steaks they were cheaper but still as lean as the rest of the fillet and in fact more full-flavoured. Brilliant! That’s what going to someone knowledgeable gets you. Thank you, Ludlow Food Centre.

Review: The Unicorn, Ludlow

I’m sometimes tempted to make allowances for duff food on the grounds that at least it was cheap. But that’s daft. I’m a half-decent home cook, no Delia but no bad either. So I can confidently state that it doesn’t cost more money to cook crunchy chips, it just requires that you cook them right. It doesn’t cost more to peel apples before making a crumble with them. It doesn’t cost more to make a chocolate torte that has a velvety texture rather than that of potter’s clay. It doesn’t cost extra to roast beef to pinkness rather than grey – arguably it costs marginally less. So although there is a need to balance a review to reflect the price-point, that’s more about not expecting premium ingredients or molecular techniques. You shouldn’t need to pay extra for good cooking. If you eat in a restaurant you are eating food from a professional kitchen. As opposed to your own, amateur, kitchen. It should be at least as good as your own efforts, end of.

I think I’ve pretty well prepped this review!

I do like how they’ve done The Unicorn Inn, with its three distinctive rooms. The front room is a perfect country pub, original wood panelling still on the walls and a roaring fire in the grate.

Further back is the Slate Room, open to the kitchen, stuffed with period features but offset by smartly modern and comfy chairs. Good choice. The Oak Room at the back is the new extension, looking a lot more friendly and cosy than under the previous owners.

We were in for Sunday lunch. My duck liver pate was pretty decent, with a nice fat grape chutney. It being Sunday, for main Maureen chose the roast beef. The meat was cooked right through to grey, disappointing given that we took the trouble to ask whether it would be pink and were told that it was. The roast potatoes were decent, the veg had good texture, but the Yorkshire pud lacked poof. The gravy was very full flavoured, a free hand taken with the Worcestershire sauce. My battered cod and chips were a mixed bag. The cod was a decent piece wrapped in jolly thick, crispy batter. There was a fair dollop of pea puree and a tangy homemade tartare sauce. The chips were disappointing though, the skins leathery rather than crisp. Not inedible, but it was certainly a chewy experience.

Puddings can often save a Sunday lunch, but these didn’t come close. My chocolate torte was as dense as any I’ve had, like trying to push through hardening potter’s clay. It stuck to the spoon like glue. The pastry did nothing and the chocolate itself wasn’t packing any punch. Blood orange sorbet was sweet-shop flavoured. Maureen’s crumble was mainly fruit with a dusting of crunchless crumble on top. And would it really have killed them to peel the apples? Strips of apple peel, divorced from their fruit, aren’t the loveliest things in the world to eat.

It wasn’t an expensive lunch. £25 for three courses and one drink. Good enough if you want a Sunday pub lunch in Ludlow, given the lack of good eating pubs in the town (we’ve tried the pies at The Church Inn, they were yuck but didn’t warrant a review). But £25 is also the price of a three course Sunday lunch at the Michelin-starred Stagg Inn, thirty minutes drive away in Titley. And what frustrates me most is that the things we didn’t like were just down to how the food was cooked. Which costs no more or less to get right, wherever you are.

Khao Soi, Northern Thai Curry

If you haven’t been to Thailand, you really should. I recommend spending two weeks exploring north from Bangkok, inland, and then relaxing for two days on a beach at the end before going home. We have such brilliant memories of our eight weeks there, and no more so than a week in the city of Chiang Mai, where we enjoyed the hot northern Thai curry, Khao Soi, as often as we could get it. For whatever reason, it seldom shows up on Thai menus in the UK.

One thing particular to Khao Soi are the condiments: a plate of various things you can add to your bowl as you go along, to your taste. I wish I’d taken a photo, but at our favourite place in Chiang Mai the plate of extras included bunches of about five different herbs, none of which (except the coriander) I recognised. And all of which were uniquely tasty.

So, this Khao Soi recipe isn’t watered down, this is the real deal*. It has a bright, aromatic, chilli heat which is making my mouth water while I type. It really is a dish for those who enjoy some serious spice, but if you want to try a less ferocious one then go down to 1 dried chilli and a half tsp of curry powder.

Khao Soi, Northern Thai curry soup (serves 2)

1 tbsp coriander seed
1 inch piece fresh ginger
2 black cardamom pods
3 big dried chillies
3 shallots
2 tsp turmeric
1 tsp curry powder
1 tsp salt
250ml coconut milk
300ml water
2-3 chicken thighs
1 lime
1-2 shallots
pack mustard greens
bunch coriander leaves
  1. Dry-fry the coriander seed, chopped ginger, cardamom seeds (discard pod), crumbled chillies and chopped shallots together in a pan for a couple of minutes
  2. Wail like a baby as the chilli fumes melt your eyeballs and lacerate your throat. Or make sure you leave plenty of windows open and the extractor on full blast!
  3. Put into a pestle along with turmeric, curry powder and salt then pound the whole lot until you end up with a thick paste. This will take some time!
  4. Pour 150ml coconut milk into a wok or large pan and bring to the boil. Once it is bubbling away, add all the curry paste and stir in. Leave this on a medium heat, stirring regularly, for perhaps 10 minutes or until it has reduced a lot and there is a sheen of oil visible
  5. Add the chicken, cut up as you like, and cook in the paste for 5 minutes
  6. Add another 100ml coconut milk along with 300ml water and leave this simmering for a good 15 minutes. Add a splash of fish sauce, then taste for seasoning and add more fish sauce as necessary
  7. Chop a couple of segments of lime. Pull off a good handful of coriander leaves. Chop up some pickled mustard greens (look in your nearest oriental supermarket). Chop up a shallot or two. These are your condiments, leave them on a plate to be added to the khao soi as you like
  8. Plunge enough noodles for two into boiling water for 3-5 minutes, then drain them and divide into two bowls. Add the chicken and pour on the khao soi curry
  9. Enjoy!

The paste is a hassle to make, so perhaps double the ingredients and make enough for two meals; it will keep happily for a week or two in the fridge, or could be frozen.

* – okay, it’s not quite the real deal. There are a few unusual herbs and spices from Asia that I have still never found in UK shops, so rather than torture you with demands for fresh turmeric root I’ve left it at stuff you ought to get easily enough. The black cardamom and mustard greens are probably still only from specialist Asian food shops, however.