Pan-fried coley with egg mayo

It’s easy to drift away from fresh fish as a supper item if you’re feeling a bit budget-constrained. You can get an awful lot of bacon for the price of a sea bass fillet! But if you poke around your fishmonger’s counter a bit (not literally, your fishmonger will become grumpy if you touch his pollocks) you might spot some cheaper options. Cod cheeks and cod flaps are good, but even better is a much overlooked fish: coley.

My mum used to give our dogs coley in their dinner as a treat once a week. Not kidding, no more than a couple of decades ago coley was only sold as pet food. Reason? It has a very genuine fishy smell. Now, I know Jamie, Hugh, Rick and co will have taught you that pongy fish is gone-off fish, and in many cases they’re right. But there are a few fish out there who have what you might call natural body odour. Coley is one. Don’t be put off.

What it wants is some robust companions, then it is simply a lovely, moist, flaky, cheap (don’t forget cheap) piece of pan-fried fish. Red peppers, chillies and fresh mayo punched up with the makings of tartare sauce, for instance.


Pan-fried coley and mayo (serves two)

2 pieces coley fillet (200g each)
1 red pepper
1 fresh red chilli
2 eggs*
150 ml light olive oil*
1/2 tsp salt*
black pepper
1 tsp mustard powder*
2 tsp cider vinegar*
1 garlic clove, minced fine
1 tsp lemon juice
1 tsp capers
2 cornichons
1 handful parsley leaves
* – or 200ml mayonnaise from a jar!
  1. First we make mayonnaise. Or to save 15 minutes, scoop some out of a jar into a bowl and skip to step 4 (but add the minced garlic too)!
  2. Put the egg yolks in a clean bowl. Fry the whites in a drop of olive oil and reserve them. Add the mustard, garlic, salt and black pepper to the bowl. Now begin whisking the yolks and add the oil a drop at a time. Really, one drop at a time. I’ve curdled mayonnaise twice by rushing it, you will too. I usually find a way to sit with the bowl trapped between my legs so I can whisk with one hand and drip with the other.
  3. After a time, could be many drips, the mixture will thicken quite distinctly. Go with drips a little longer, but then you can add the rest of the oil in a steady dribble. Once the mayo has thickened, it won’t curdle. See? Wasn’t so bad. Add the cider vinegar too, which will loosen it up a bit.
  4. Now fry the egg whites, let them cool, then chop up the egg whites, capers, cornichons, parsley and mix them all into the mayonnaise with the lemon juice. Add a bit more lemon juice if necessary to get a consistency you like, and check seasoning.
  5. Slice the pepper and fry in a bit of olive oil, getting some nice blackening on the skin. Optionally: add a splash of red wine and sizzle it down to nothing, this will just improve the the peppers.
  6. Boil a couple of old potatoes and then roughly crush them with some butter, salt and black pepper – roughly crushed is much better with mayonnaise than a smooth mash. Alternatively, splash out on some Jersey Royals and just boil them.
  7. Get a pan really hot, then add a knob of butter and splash of olive oil. Put the coley in skin up for a couple of minutes, then turn it over and cook skin down until just done. Coley is usually a thick fillet, so you should be able to look at the side of the fillet to see that it has all gone opaque (white instead of pale grey)
  8. Put the fish on the potatoes, scatter pepper slices, scatter the very finely sliced chilli, then add a huge dollop of mayonnaise and enjoy!

Muchos gracias to Delia for the basic mayonnaise technique, and for her superb tip: if you are a hasty idiot and curdle your mayo by adding the oil too quick, don’t despair. Put a fresh egg yolk in a clean bowl and start dripping your curdled mixture into it, one drop at a time – if you are more patient this time, it will work out fine and you can carry on with the rest of the oil.

Avoid disappointment

Restaurants do need to take care of the detail on their menus. You might shrug your shoulders and say “so what if we used the wrong term for a dish, or missed out a comma, that doesn’t actually affect the meal.” I would say, and this is a philosophy I apply to everything in life, that disappointed expectations are much worse than no expectations at all.

When I see that your sticky toffee pudding is offered with “custard ice cream or cream” I get a little excited at the thought of custard ice cream. When you point out that it is really “custard, ice cream or cream” then a tiny hope dies inside me. The sticky toffee pudding might be half-decent, but it’s no longer special (as an aside: banana ice cream, best ever partner to sticky toffee pudding).


When I see “duck liver parfait and onion parfait” on the menu my metaphorical ears prick up. A duo of parfaits indeed! And I wonder how they’ve made an onion parfait? When I get a piece of duck liver parfait and a dollop of sticky onion chutney, my grump is definitely on no matter how tasty the onions. I’ve had (better) duck liver parfait and sticky onion chutney a score of times, I wanted something different.

If my dessert is described “with black pepper tuile” and you don’t have any, it’s worth telling me “we don’t have any black pepper tuile, is it okay with plain tuile?” before I order, rather than serving me the dish with the same plain tuile as my partner’s pud. Because now my heart has been crushed, and I’m left wishing I’d picked something else.

People choose from menus in different ways. Some decide that they want venison and that’s it. Others reject all the stuff they don’t like and finally pick the one safe-ish option. And some of us eye up the list for unexpected combinations or interesting accompaniments. The tuile may very well seem like a support act for the strawberry pannacotta, but it just so happens that the black pepper tuile was the most intriguing element on your whole dessert menu.

Hey, I know this is small beer. But it also doesn’t take much effort to get right.

Of course, these little crushing disappointments are far more likely when eating abroad, with all the tangles of translation. Pork chops with porcini mushrooms sounded pretty good to me, so I rejected the nice looking seafood and went for it. When I got a thin pork escalope wrapped around measly slices of button mushroom I just gave a resigned sigh and started chewing doggedly through. It certainly wasn’t worth an attempt at complaining. This was the Balkans after all, where our friends had found a cheese dish on a multi-lingual menu that was described as “cheddar” in the English section, “brie” in the French translation and “gorgonzola” on the Italian part. If I had asked where the “porcini” were they would no doubt have pointed out the mushrooms and smiled patiently at the crazy foreigner.

But anyway, language barriers aside, please read over your menu twice, and let people know beforehand if an element of their dish isn’t available. Ta.

Review: Gostilna Pri Lojzetu, Slovenia

Scene setting. We’re in Slovenia, a tiny country on the edge of the Balkans with Italy on one side and Austria on another. A long weekend is highly recommended, a week if you can spare it, and we’ve found at least one top-drawer restaurant for you.

A meal is an entire experience. So of course the incredibly friendly reception we had at Gostilna Pri Lojzetu was bound to help. From our cheerful Romanian waitress, our knowledgeable and enthusiastic sommelier, right through to Chef Kavcic’s wife who gave us a lift back to our hotel, I have to thank everyone for a memorable evening (and no, I didn’t give any hint that I was a food blogger).

But of course, it all counts for nothing if the food isn’t great. It was very good indeed.

Chef Tomaž Kavcic doesn’t make it easy for himself, finding out what each table is interested in and then tailoring a menu to suit them. That takes confidence, hospitality and a great deal of enthusiasm for your work. No menu appeared at any table, the staff explained everything as we went along, and chef was in and out of the dining room a lot.

There is a terrace for sunny lunches, but the main restaurant is a cosy and evocative wine cellar, with that unique wine cellar hum in the air. It’s a romantic setting, a room you’re most likely to be sharing with Italians as Pri Lojzetu is set in the countryside an hour from Ljubljana but only twenty minutes from the Italian border.

We began with a great deal of fun. Neatly set on the inside of an upturned wine glass was a cube of firm dentex (a local fish) set in a clear seawater jelly with garnish. This was a blinding good mouthful. We also enjoyed a little flowerpot of super-savoury beef ragu with a disc of baked pastry and clay on top, the literally earthy flavour going very well with the meat. Oh, and this came with a carnation. The carnation was filled with a zingy jot of herbal brew, a tiny hit that set up the beef nicely.

Our first proper dish was actually the only slight duffer of the night, some very good raw tuna and seabass with a slight muddle of local cheeses, orange dressing and tepid basil foam. Three raw shrimps had a gooey texture that coated the mouth like the morning after. I admit I was nervous at this point: copying fads without the execution?

So I was inexpressibly glad to find perfection in the next dish. Citrus cured beef, somewhere between a carpaccio and a braesola, on top of smooth local cheese mousse and a puddle of soothing pea puree, alongside a warm cube of the most excellent slow-cooked smoky pancetta on a salad of fennel and courgette.

And then I loved our next dish. A perfect scallop, coral and all, served in a sumptuous potato puree with fresh local asparagus. Seasoned to perfection (with seaweed salt? Not sure…), it was the most original use of scallops I’ve enjoyed in ages. This was followed by sea bass baked on a salt “stone”, a technique that was dramatic and also made for the best single piece of sea bass I’ve ever tasted, served with a sun-kissed citrus sauce.

A very odd thing happened after the gnocchi, delicious in a smoky cheese and wild asparagus sauce but rather too big for a tasting menu. We left some, to save room for the main as we told our waitress. Oh no, she explained, if you’re full we’ll stop here. In other words: dishes keep coming until you’ve had enough. It’s an admirable sentiment, but a bit left-field for such a fine tasting menu! We didn’t want to miss out so we tucked the gnocchi away with some difficulty and were rewarded with a modest portion of the foie gras with shredded apple and warm cheese underneath. Beautiful and surprising again.

Dry ice made its appearance alongside the dessert of citrus cream and gin jelly – this time beneath a branch of white blossom and filling the room with the herby scent of juniper when chef poured hot water from a sturdy watering can over it. Well, why not?

Eventually we paid about 70 Euros each for the menu, which is excellent value for such an entertaining and delicious tasting menu served with great enthusiasm and hospitality. The Slovenian wines we had paired with each course were memorably excellent, especially the local fizz that had me fooled into thinking I was swigging some rather good champagne. It’s only unfortunate that local production is probably too small to make exporting sensible. Boo.

Review: Casamia, Bristol

For being the fourth city of England, Bristol hasn’t done well for top class restaurants. However it does at last seem to have a gem in its midst, and it’s a home-cultured pearl because before Casamia’s reinvention as a fine dining restaurant under the brothers Sanchez-Iglesias it was their parents’ Italian trattoria for a number of years.

The neighbourhood Italian is still recognisable in the shape of the dining room. The rest of the décor is bright and colourful, deliberately so as they’ve picked up the Japanese practise of redecorating a dining room according to the seasons and we’re here in spring. The menu goes on to include: eggs, rhubarb, asparagus, wild garlic, lamb, mint, micro-salad. We’re definitely here in spring!

One of my favourite bites of the evening was the very first, a little beetroot-purple pastry case containing a light goat-cheese mousse humming with flavour, and an earthy hit of beetroot jam hidden within. This was followed by a breakfast egg: black pudding, toast, tomato ketchup and creamy egg curds all layered cleverly back into a duck egg shell. The next starter was a verdant green, puffed spelt and citrus-marinated shallot in a sauce of pure parsley. Lovely. This was a really strong start and I would have happily reset the clock and eaten these three dishes over and over again all evening.

There was a clever little salad intervention next. A dozen baby veg, and I do mean baby; tiny shoots surely a few days old. Served dressed and with tweezers, the fun was in picking out a piece at a time and trying to guess what he’d grow up to be. Tiny turnips and leeks were startlingly powerful.

Fish was John Dory, scorched and topped with a sweet apple jelly, bathed in a lovely light cider cream. The jelly calmed the otherwise fiercely fishy taste. The main event was the best bit of lamb I’ve eaten in a very long time. I have trouble knowing whether the absolutely magical lamb taste is down more to the quality of the produce or the skill of the chef, but in any case the sweet mint sauce, dark wild garlic puree and soft stewed alliums all simply and beautifully flattered the meat.

Which leaves us to trot our way through four desserts (or rather five, as we paid extra for the GBM apple pie). The first was a sticky button of carrot cake with dehydrated carrot bits and nitrogen-frozen thyme ice cream, so the little dish smoked cheerfully at the table. I found it clever and nicely textured but underwhelming on taste. A dish of orange, crunchy dried mandarin, icy bloody orange nibble and a soft rosemary cream corrected this immediately, very good indeed. The apple pie was the finest dessert. Dry ice poured over cloves gave a nice hum on the nose, but gimmicks aside the lightest possible

pastry case over soft apples and cubes of vanilla ice cream was delicious. Final pud was a beautiful disc of pressed rhubarb topped with vanilla cream, scorched nuggets of meringue and juniper caramel wafer. It looked the part but the rhubarb was so tooth-achingly cold that it didn’t give as much pleasure as it should.

The Sanchez-Iglesias brothers offer food that is confident, fun and daring. At the same time, it’s hard to imagine anyone finding anything on the menu too challenging or not liking it. I think that’s pretty brilliant. Their faultless cooking is light too; I left feeling satisfied rather than leaden. Casamia feels like a restaurant just waiting for wider recognition, and £68 before drinks is a bargain for a tasting menu of such quality and imagination (and the wine list is just ridiculously good value). Maybe in a couple of years, when this blog is still not famous but Casamia very much is, I’ll be able to mutter a gruff “ha, told you so”?

Review: The Walnut Tree, Abergavenny

I can’t resist examples of the insanity of TripAdvisor. Shaun Hill’s Walnut Tree rocks in at a mighty number 7, while Stephen Terry’s Hardwick squeaks in at number 10. Gosh, Abergavenny must be a veritable culinary mecca if these top-drawer chefs are that far down the list. Well, if the food I enjoyed last night at The Walnut Tree is anything to go by I shall be in heaven when I finally get to eat at “Pizzorante” – Abergavenny’s number 1 dining establishment*.

Back to The Walnut Tree. It’s a dining room, not a pub, and has a pleasantly informal air of white-washed rusticity. Their website sums up a lot with this comment: “No dress code or similar pomposity. Journalists have given independent comment. This site will not offend visitors with smarmy overstatements of what’s on offer.” So it’s a take-me-as-you-find-me kind of place, and the various negative comments on TripAdvisor do seem to suggest that if you don’t like what you find you’ll get short shrift. I must admit that the formidable matron of the dining room had an air of disquiet about her that suggested she might get quite tart with anyone having an issue with their dish. Luckily everything was delicious.

My starter was a single large, perfect calf’s sweetbread. The strongly seared surfaces gave a beautiful meaty flavour to the normally subtle sweetbread, the remoulade and gravy mopped up very well. It was one of those dishes that ate far better than it looked. Maureen’s kerala fish curry was an insanely good, deep, spicy concoction. Just the fish in a curry gravy, it made a mouthwatering starter with a veritable minefield of whole spices to enjoy.

For main I had suckling pig, with approximately hispanic accompaniments. There was a good slab of soft morcilla, a little heap of chorizo and pan-fried veg that I failed to identify, and a little empanada. This last was stuffed with pig, but it was the strong nutty flavour of the crispy brown pastry itself that I loved. The pork itself was excellent, moist and piggy. Maureen’s rabbit platter included saddle, liver, kidneys and a pudding. I’m not sure how this pudding is made, but it was a light, wobbly, savoury wonder. The offal was also great, the saddle itself moist but lacking flavour. Special mention to the potato cubes, splendid.

I polished off a very boozily satisfying Muscat creme caramel with prunes, while Maureen’s rhubarb and cardamom fool was light and tasty. I’ve made an internal memo to try combining rhubarb with cardamom soon, as they matched up very well.

I like Shaun Hill’s cooking here. Despite the Michelin star, presentation is definitely pubby; here’s some things on a plate – enjoy. But all the dishes were enjoyable, combining interesting elements and flavours masterfully cooked. At about £42 for three courses without drinks I think the price matches the quality of the menu spot-on.


* – which I’m sure is very nice, for the record I know nothing about the place