Ramsons, aka wild garlic

Wow, suddenly it is spring. There are lambs frollicking in the fields, daffodils nodding at the roadside, and wild garlic stinking up the riverbanks. Just a pity the daffodils aren’t edible. Hmm… in fact, they’re poisonous. “Poisoning most often occurs when people mistake the bulbs for onions.” Silly.

Wild garlic, or ramsons, are perfectly edible, and there’s nothing that makes me feel like spring is sprung more than the taste and whiff of it. You can find it growing on moist slopes, always fairly near a stream or river and usually in woodland, and pretty much anywhere in the country. If you’re in any doubt that you’ve found the right plant, just crush a leaf. The stink of garlicky-chivey perfume is unmistakeable.

So, how to enjoy wild garlic? Eggs and butter are a great start, they both work wonders with the perfumed leaves. Oh, and wild garlic is one of those herbs whose flavour is killed by cooking, so it usually goes in pretty much at the end of a dish.

The very, very, very best way to welcome spring is simply to make scrambled eggs and add chopped wild garlic leaves when the eggs are nearly finished. There is no better expression of the lively green flavour, and trust me I’ve tried a few ideas. You want roughly one leaf per egg, fairly roughly chopped, and I won’t insult your cooking skills by reminding you that scrambled eggs require no milk or cream, just a bit of butter, and should be cooked really slowly and scrambled with a wooden spoon.

Wild garlic omelette: same idea, just make an omelette instead and try including some cheese.

Oh. Here’s a luverly thing: wild garlic salsa verde. Chop up a bunch of ramsons leaves quite finely, pour on a couple of tablespoons of olive oil. Toast a small handful of pine nuts and crush them roughly, finely chop a large teaspoon of capers, add a half teaspoon of dijon mustard, salt and black pepper. This is brilliant with lamb chops, or as a pesto in pasta.

And my fourth idea of the day for wild garlic is a simple pasta dish for two. Slice up a big leek and gently saute in 50/50 butter and olive oil, seasoning it with plenty of salt and black pepper. You want to cook it until it is completely soft, but don’t let any of it catch and brown. Coincidentally this takes about as long as boiling a pan of spaghetti, which you should also do. Now, add a handful of chopped wild garlic leaves to the leeks and a handful of grated pecorino. Dump this into the drained spaghetti along with a big knob of butter and another glug of olive oil, mix together and serve into warmed bowls with another good grind of black pepper.

The white star-shaped flowers of the ramsons are just as edible as the leaves and taste a little milder, so you can make the pasta (or any other ramsons dish) look really spiffy by simply sprinkling a few flowers on top before serving.

But to recap, if you only pick one tiny bunch of ramsons this year, go for the scrambled eggs.

Review: The New Inn, Baschurch

We rolled to the New Inn for Sunday lunch in a bit of a funk. Big meal out on Saturday night, rather too much wine, and then the stupid clocks went forward so lunch at 12:30 was going to feel more like 11:30. Given that we didn’t stumble home until midnight on Saturday, groaning like a pack of wolves who have just devoured a whole herd of caribou, we weren’t the most vivacious quartet on what was a truly gorgeous Sunday morning. Bountiful sunlight, thou art offensive to my tender head and squinty eyes! Begone!

Turned out that a leisurely lunch stretching out three courses of excellent cooking over three hours was just about the ticket.

The New Inn is a cheerful place, all the old wood beams scrubbed up to a natural oaken hue with tables and chairs to match. There’s a lot given over to dining, but it remains a proper village pub too with room to swing a pint and outside tables where beer and sun were being soaked up by the locals. We were served by a friendly and helpful band of young ladies, who ignored our occasional vacant stares and blinky gazes.

The food cut through my funk big-time. First up we got a perfect scotch egg: vivid yellow and runny yolk, oinkingly porky sausage meat with a serious punch of lemon and thyme. Moving onto the proper starter, plated on slate, a trio of battered balls of chewy slow-cooked ham hock sat on a swipe of shiny mustard mayonnaise. There was nothing subtle about this dish, a good hit of mustard and the sticky cream of the mayo mashing in the mouth with scrunchy batter and salty ham. Woke me up.

I almost never order chicken, but this morning my head, body and tummy were calling out for something soothing. Although breast, it had been roasted properly to keep juice and flavour intact. Kale and mash were good, as was the jus, but it was the sweetcorn puree that lifted the whole dish. Sweetcorn is so badly underused as an ingredient.

All this is irrelevant, because Maureen’s burger came along and knocked my socks off. Massive. Lamb and beef, absolutely blue in the middle, and laced rather raunchily with blue cheese and truffle. I’ll probably dream about it tonight, and not the kind of dreams I’d ever

tell anyone about. Did I say it was massive? It was huge. Maureen roped off the area and began excavations, but eventually I had to come in and help (oh, hardship). The triple-cooked chips were also maddeningly good.

I should note that Tim and Vanessa were also making contented noises about the roast beef and the smoked haddock, and the nibbles I tried were groovy indeed.

It would have been rude not to squeeze in pudding. I squeezed in a lemon posset, which was delicious and always a favourite – rich, tangy and light all at once. Rather niftily served with scrunchy gingernuts and a little slurp of sweet-tart homemade lemonade. Pannacotta was pronounced good, rhubarb ice cream was noted for being good but a little too delicate in the rhubarb flavour.

The New Inn is right at the top end of pub dining for me, from the menu choices to the plating. Everything was delicious and the bill jolly reasonable – £25 each for three hours of relaxed gastronomic entertainment, though admittedly we didn’t have much wine!


‘Cos I’m conscientious I have to say that chef Marcus knew we were coming, on account of the wonders of Twitter.

A gourmet and his gout

I explained to my new doctor that I have gout, have had it since I was 32, and am taking medication for it. He expressed surprise at my age (late thirties), asked if I ate a lot of fatty foods (no, and at 10 stone I’m hardly hefty), and then suggested I should certainly be

avoiding cheese, port and red meat. All of which is wrong, wrong, wrong. Looks like even in the medical profession gout is a poorly understood condition.

But still, can’t complain. What could be better confirmation of one’s status as a top-notch gourmet than to get gout in your early thirties? Instant foodie kudos! Clearly I must dine out every night on pheasant and lamprey washed down with bumpers of old port, to be so afflicted.

The truth, as always, is a bit more complicated. For starters, it’s largely a genetic ailment so having got the relevant gene from my grandad (a martyr to ‘is gout) I was always likely to develop it. And while a rich diet is definitely going to exacerbate the condition, the usual suspects my doctor trotted out are not necessarily guilty. Port is no different from any alcohol, and alcohol is only a problem if you let it dehydrate you. Cheese and fat don’t contribute noticeably to gout, and there’s some evidence that dairy products are slightly beneficial. It’s a case of guilt by association: the fat old bloaters who suffer from gout in Victorian

novels are always devouring the whole cheeseboard and hogging the port bottle. But it’s more likely to be the rich venison gravy or the half-dozen langoustines that did for ’em.

So, what is a gout attack?

It’s a form of arthritis, and often described as the most painful form. The most common joint attacked is the big toe. Pathetic, eh? What kind of man can’t live with a bit of pain in his toe? Imagine a little gnome with a sledgehammer trotting along beside you and smashing your big toe whenever you set your foot down. That’s the first three days. There was too much pain to sleep until I got my foot out from under the sheet. Yep, the touch of a cotton sheet felt like the gnome was using my toe as an anvil for beating out a ploughshare. This is after dosing myself with potent prescription painkillers. After those first few days it’s simply a case of gradual recovery over about a month, by which time I could walk without much of a noticeable limp.

Gout is triggered by an unhealthy build-up of purines in the body, which end up crystallising in distant joints such as the big toe. Purines are typically generated from processing certain kinds of protein-rich food; hence shellfish, offal, meat on the bone and rich stocks are just about the worst possible foods for a gout sufferer (this table gives more detail,

and the whole website is a mine of valuable information on the disease). The other major factor is hydration: purines are flushed from the body via liver functions, so if you get dehydrated then they’re much more likely to start crystallising.

So the perfect hypothetical recipe for a gout attack might be… going to a wedding on a Saturday, drinking far too much wine and no water in the evening, having nothing more than a coffee with a meaty cooked breakfast on Sunday and then going out for a four-course lunch involving scallops and pheasant. Silly me. By Sunday evening a tell-tale tingling throb had begun in my toe. This was going to be my third bout of gout and worst yet. It was at this point that I started reading about the subject in depth.

It became apparent that there are two choices for defeating gout; change your diet or take drugs for the rest of your life.

You change your diet to minimise purine intake. This means: say goodbye to all seafood, avoid any gravies or meat on the bone, don’t even glance at offal and make sure that you drink lots of water with alcohol in moderate amounts. Chicken is your friend, so are veggies and starches. This sounded terrible. What kind of a gourmand would I be if I couldn’t eat oysters, lobster, kidneys, liver, monkfish or enjoy a nice rich beef jus? GIVE ME DRUGS!

The drug you have to take for the rest of your life is called allopurinol, and it is blessedly free of (known) side effects. It does have one kicker: when you first start taking it, the purines that are released when it gets to work may trigger one final gout attack. “One for the road” sort of thing. Lovely.

So, three years later and I’ve had no more trouble with gout. I pick whatever I like off the menu and still drink the odd snifter of port. The modern gourmet doesn’t have to be a martyr to his diet. But I’m lucky; my gout is minor compared to what some sufferers go through.

Review: Fernandez & Wells, Soho

Most out-of-towners will usually find themselves somewhere around Piccadilly Circus, Oxford Circus or perhaps Carnaby Street at some point when they travel up to the metropolis. I certainly do. So it would probably be good to know about one of the best places I’ve ever

found for brunch, lunch or just afternoon coffee and cake. That would be Fernandez & Wells, on Beak Street just below the bottom end of Carnaby Street (they have a handful of other outlets, but this is the one we know and love).

It’s a very simple, modern space inside and if you want a sofa to surf on then just forget it – these are perches, for a sustenance break and a quick scan of the papers, nothing more. But what a great sustenance break!

The pleasure begins before anything passes your lips, with the display of food on the counter. No glass barrier here, they have confidence that their punters won’t be crass enough to start fingering the sandwiches or pinching the pastries. And in the same way that a face-to-face encounter with a lion on the African savannah is much more exciting than peering at one through the glass of a zoo enclosure, so the treats spread out on the hefty wooden table before you look far more enticing for their freedom.

My sandwich of wafer-thin Spanish pork with deliciously salty manchego was grilled to warm perfection, the bread full of crunch and taste. The rare roast beef in Maureen’s sandwich was melting in the mouth. Later we squeezed in gloriously authentic pasteis de nata.

I’ve been to Lisbon, I know they were right. If I had been more greedy the last huge slice of rose-petal jam Victoria sponge would have been mine. Maureen washed her sandwich down with a generous glass of fresh blood orange juice, while I had a flat white.

I must mention their coffee. First, I must confess to being a very lazy coffee afficienado. I drink lots of coffee, and I only drink good coffee. There’s no instant in our house, and I’ve lost count of the times I’ve ordered a take-away coffee in a strange town or station and then dumped the whole cup in a bin because I couldn’t stomach the filth inside. But! But. I don’t know any of the right terminology to use in describing a cup of coffee, I’ve never been on a tasting course or avidly read books and blogs on the subject. I just know a good cup of coffee when I encounter it, be it flat white or French press.

The coffee at Fernandez & Wells is up in the top five cups I’ve ever enjoyed, and that’s out of an estimated 20,000 cups of coffee in 40 countries. ‘Nuff said.

One more thing needs saying. F&W isn’t a cheap cafe, the sandwiches are over a fiver. But I don’t really care, I’d rather truly enjoy one of their sandwiches with a great cup of coffee than bolt down an adequate but entirely uninteresting number from Pret or Eat with a cup of hey-it’s-all-caffeine-anyway brew.

Som Tam, Thai papaya salad

One of my favourite culinary memories of our year-long trip around the world was the salad in Thailand. It’s called Som Tam and typically combines raw shredded green papaya with all the best south-east Asian flavours: garlic, chilli, lime, peanut, fish sauce, palm sugar to make a bowl of pure zing that punches with sweet, sour, salt and heat in equal measure. There’s not a lettuce leaf in sight. I will go on record: lettuce is boring green crap with no value except to pad out otherwise perfectly good salads and sandwiches.


Now, there’s one essential problem with making Som Tam at home in England. Green papaya. It’s easier to find a parking space in Kingston on the Saturday before Christmas than a green papaya. Don’t whatever you do go and buy the “least ripe” papaya from your local supermarket – it will still be way too ripe. No, you have two options if you don’t happen to live next door to a really good oriental supermarket. First: buy a green papaya on-line, for £8 plus another £7 postage and packing. I got mine from this website, and it worked an (expensive) treat. One is enough for six to eight portions of salad. Second: start rummaging in the greengrocer for something to use as an alternative.

The green papaya is only there to provide texture and to absorb and distribute all the strong flavours added to the salad, it tastes of pretty much nothing itself. You just need something that will shred into fairly crunchy strips that eat well raw. I’ve found mention of Som Tam made with apples, or carrots, but the former I think bring too much of their own juicy taste and the latter are… well… carrots. Blech. And so I bring to you the perfect alternative to green papaya, nearly identical in texture, mild in taste and cheap to boot… Turnip Som Tam.

It’s perfect.

Som Tam, Thai salad (serves two)

Two handfuls shredded papaya/turnip
1 tomato, sliced in thin segments
1 small handful fine beans
2 bird’s eye chillies
1 fat garlic clove
2 tsp dried shrimps (optional)
1 handful roasted unsalted peanuts
3 tsp palm sugar (or caster)
3 tsp fish sauce
Juice of 1 lime
  1. Roughly chop the chillies and garlic (a fresh, juicy clove is important) then pound them to pulp in a pestle and mortar
  2. Add the palm sugar and pound some more, you want to end up with pretty much paste
  3. Now add the dried shrimp if you have them, pound some more. These are also hard to come by, but you won’t lose much by omitting them
  4. Next add the peanuts, and pound them into little bits but not to a paste. The peanuts need to be roasted, but not salted or coated – I found that I had to buy monkey nuts and shell them
  5. Top and tail the beans, and cut into inch-long pieces. If you’ve only got a small granite mortar, you’ll probably find it is full by now, so put the beans in a large bowl and crush them a bit with your knuckles. Add all the gunk from the mortar
  6. I used a third of a green papaya, or one good sized turnip. I shredded it with a mandolin, as I’m not sure how well a simple grater will get on with these veggies – it’ll probably be okay.
  7. Add the shredded papaya/turnip (or whatever you are substituting), the sliced tomatoes, the fish sauce and the lime juice. Go in with your hands and smush everything together, just spend a few seconds bruising everything so all the flavours mingle.
  8. Taste some. This is important, as personal taste and variation in the ingredients really come into play in this dish. Some limes have very little juice, some fish sauces are stronger than others. So: add more lime, fish sauce or palm sugar as necessary to get the right balance of flavours for you.

Enjoy! Oh, and I should have said: if you don’t like much heat, go for only one chilli. The perfect accompaniment to any Thai food, or any simple seafood dish for that matter.