Spanish omelette

I’m not going to insist you call it a tortilla. This is an international internet, and who knows I might have some American readers who would of course be entirely baffled by a tortilla made of egg, onion and potato.

When I first made a spanish omelette I was rather pleased with the result. It was as good as some of the pinchos of tortilla that I loved so much from our trip to Seville, which felt like a minor accomplishment. Since then I’ve ordered tortilla a few times at tapas bars in England and honestly they are usually rubbish. Too egg-y, too dry, or with random ingredients added in a truly dumb attempt to ruin what is a pure and elegant taste. Worst of all, sometimes it has been served hot. I should add that I’ve had some equally bad tortilla on other trips to Spain as well.

So it seems that I actually make a really good tortilla. Certainly everyone I’ve fed it to seem to agree, including one flattering (or maybe just polite) “I really don’t like things with egg in… but this is great”.

I find the tortilla immensely satisfying for a rather hard-to-explain reason. But I’ll try. Okay, it’s only made with three ingredients (four if you include olive oil). They’re also really cheap ingredients. And the result tastes better than the sum of its parts. This has been said before, but it isn’t the whole story: I could equally well be describing a bacon butty. No, the nifty bit is what you have at the end, once your tortilla has cooled. You can slice it! Wheel-like, as though it were a tart. Or even better, into little bite-sized cubes. There’s an inexplicably magical alchemy in taking a bunch of humble ingredients, doing nothing remotely high-falutin’ or chef-y with them, and yet ending up with tiny perfect cubes that have such an elegantly savoury taste.

I’ve written the recipe fairly long, just because there’s a few odds and ends to pay attention to which can make all the difference.

Spanish omelette, tortilla if you must
Supper for 4, with a salad

6 medium potatoes
1 large onion
5 large eggs
olive oil
  1. Waxy potatoes are better than floury. Peel the potatoes and par-boil them for five minutes in salted water. If they’re big potatoes, halve them first. Let them cool a little, then slice thinly – thinner than a £1 coin if you can.
  2. Peel the onion, chop in half, then thinly slice each half. Pour about 6 tbsp olive oil into a non-stick 7 inch (20 cm) frying pan and fry the onions on a low heat. You don’t want to colour them at all.
  3. Once the onions are soft, add the potatoes and move them around to get them all coated in oil. Season with salt and plenty of pepper, stir again.
  4. Cover the pan and leave it on the lowest possible heat. Every 5-10 minutes lift the lid and turn the potatoes so that those on the bottom don’t burn and those on the top get to the bottom.
  5. How long it takes before they’re done varies a lot, but it could be 30 minutes. They’re done when the potato slices are fully cooked – prod a couple to make sure they fall in half.
  6. Beat the eggs in a large bowl and season, then dump the potatoes and onions in and mix together. Your pan may or may not need a quick wash, depending how good the non-stick is.
  7. Get the pan back on a high heat, with a fresh splash of olive oil. Once it is very hot, pour the mixture in and turn the heat down to the lowest setting again. Fiddle around a bit to get neat edges and a flat top.
  8. Now leave it on the low heat, uncovered, for perhaps 30 minutes. This will also vary. You want the bottom to be browned without burning, but of course you can only really check by lifting the edges a bit.
  9. Shake the pan to ensure the omelette is loose from the bottom. You may need to fiddle underneath with a spatula if it has got stuck. You now need to slide the entire thing out onto a plate at least as big as the pan.
  10. Now put the pan over the omelette on the plate, grab hold of plate and pan with oven gloves, and flip the whole thing upside-down. Please take a few moments to make sure you have a clear space to put it down, and have worked out a sensible grip so you don’t end up doing contortions.
  11. The pan goes back on the hob, with the other side of the omelette now cooking. This should only be another 5 minutes or so, 10 if you feel the centre was still very uncooked. You can actually slice the whole omelette in half in the pan to double-check the centre, if you need to.
  12. Slide the finished omelette back onto the plate. And now for the most important step of the recipe: let it cool right down to room temperature before you go anywhere near it.

Hot spanish omelette is edible, but really not good. Fridge-cold spanish omelette is also pretty poor. Room temperature is absolutely right. Always. A slice of spanish omelette makes a nice supper with some salad, and goes very well with chorizo or any manner of sausages. Great for picnics and snacks. It keeps for a couple of days, though not in this house.

J-choke soup 2

I already posted a Jerusalem artichoke soup recipe. It’s an absolute classic, no wonder it crops up in restaurants this time of year as a substantial starter or a warming amuse bouche.

But I am back to offer you more! For I have been fiddling around and I have made a thing that I call “J-choke soup 2”. Because I’m hip. You could also call it “Jerusalem artichoke and ginger soup”, if you’re a complete square.

Anyway, enjoy! I like inventing.

J-choke soup 2
Makes 4 small bowls, or 2 big bowls

5-6 Jerusalem artichokes
2 cloves garlic, roughly chopped
1 medium onion, chopped
1 stick celery, chopped
1 inch fresh ginger, chopped
½ stick lemongrass
1 pint chicken or vegetable stock
butter
salt and pepper
  1. Peel your artichokes. This can be a fun game in itself if you have the really knobbly ones! Roughly chop them
  2. Sauté the onion and celery in butter for a few minutes, then add the artichokes, garlic, lemongrass and ginger and sauté for a few minutes more
  3. Pour in the stock, season with salt and pepper, and leave to simmer covered for 30 minutes or until the artichokes totally fall apart when you prod them
  4. Remove the lemongrass, blend the soup smooth, you’re done!

The magic is in the ginger and lemongrass, of course. I’d have never thought of adding those typically oriental flavours to something as earthily English as Jerusalem artichokes. And I didn’t. Maureen did. Hail to the chief!

PS – this variant seems to have also banished the unfortunate gaseous effects of J-chokes. I won’t swear to it: further experiments are required, but it seems promising. Could it be the ginger?

Review: Brace of Pheasants, Dorset

For those of you who like a nice day out, I would like to propose Dorset. But dismiss images of Bournemouth, Sandbanks, Lulworth Cove and Kimmeridge Bay from your mind; there is a lot of pleasure and beauty to be found inland in the county.

Shoot along the A303 past Salisbury and the tourist-riddled building blocks of Stonehenge, then drop down the A350 to Shaftesbury. This attractive little market town perhaps only warrants an hour or so exploring, but it does include one unmissable site: “that hill from the Hovis advert.” If you now have Dvorák’s 9th going in your head then you know the one I mean. You may not know that the Hovis advert was directed by Ridley Scott, a few years before he had an Alien explode out of John Hurt’s chest. QI.

I had assumed the hill in question was somewhere up north, but here it is in Dorset. And Ridley didn’t use any camera trickery; it really is one of the most picturesque spots you could imagine.

Rambling west from Shaftesbury you’ll come to Sherborne, for my money the star in Dorset’s crown. This is a town steeped in history, including surely one of the oldest schools in the country (King Alfred the Great was a student). It has the most alluring architecture of warm red-golden limestone, as well as a stunning abbey that remains at the very heart of the town and two castles out in the fields nearby. The high street is a pleasure to wander, and great for foodies with artisan bakers, traditional butchers, delis, independent cafes and characterful pubs. The abbey is splendid, inside and out.

Keep going west past Yeovil (a bigger and distinctly less characterful town) and you’ll find Montacute House, alongside the idyllic village of the same name. The house looks amazing from the outside, but on this occasion we ran out of time to visit. That’s because we detoured south from Sherborne, half an hour on winding country lanes, to have Sunday lunch at the Brace of Pheasants in the unlikely sounding village of Plush. This is Dorset, though: you’ll find Plush among the nearby villages of Melcombe Horsey, Piddletrenthide, Droop and White Lackington.

The village, and the pub, lie at the end of a narrow lane in their own little private valley. This is definitely huntin’, shootin’ and fishin’ country, your genuine rural idyll. There are a brace of stuffed pheasants in a glass case hanging over the door of the pub. Inside the bar is abuzz and it’s clear that most of the people here for lunch are local. With just a tad of misfortune, the bar room is only just full and so we are banished (in the nicest possible way) to the empty dining room next door. C’est la vie, it’s comfortable enough and we can still hear the buzz.

Despite the prospect of a full-on roast, I have a starter anyway. Pan-fried partridge breast is cooked pink and thus jolly moist and chewsome. The sauce is lemon and honey, a surprisingly good accompaniment for the delicate gamebird. I’m happy, even if the sauce could have been reduced just a touch more.

The roast is haunch of venison, and on reflection I’m not sure I’ve ever been offered venison as a Sunday pub roast before. The meat is in great condition and perfectly cooked; pink, tender and with a rich livery taste. Great gravy, nice roast roots, good Yorkshire pud, but although the potatoes are crisp outside they’re rather too floury within. Wrong variety, I reckon, though I’m not expert enough to spot which. I enjoy my roast a lot, enough to want to come back here one evening to try their game-heavy dinner menu.

This is good pub grub, the more so at £11 for the roast and £6 the starter. If you’re having a wander around rural Dorset, the Brace is definitely worth a bit of a detour.

Review: Fishmore Hall, Ludlow

I think I may have mentioned that we live in Ludlow at the moment. Before our year of travelling around the world we were in London, now we’re in the woolly Welsh marches. Do I need to tell you about Ludlow? I expect everyone likely to be reading a food blog already knows it as a gourmet destination and a distinctly “foodie” town.

In fact it was the stunning medieval town and castle and the wild rural hill country around it that we loved when we first visited Ludlow. It was entirely by accident that we discovered its culinary credentials. “Yes, the town has three Michelin-starred restaurants,” our B&B hosts explained to us, “we can phone for a table, but it’s fairly unlikely there will be anything free tonight.” Followed five minutes later with, “aren’t you lucky, they’ve had a cancellation at Mr Underhills!”

Since then we’ve visited several times, got a second home here, and now have moved here at least for the nonce. And of course we’ve identified the good, the bad and the ugly of places to eat in the area. In fact it’s getting hard to find somewhere new that is likely to be any good. This weekend we took ourselves to Fishmore Hall, a small hotel just outside the town that is building a reputation for fine dining.

The hotel is a fine old manor house, and inside the décor is pleasant without feeling particularly deluxe. It’s contemporary and a little unmemorable, but relaxing. Service was friendly and efficient throughout the evening, although the restaurant was admittedly quiet – the annual Medieval Christmas Fayre in town no doubt attracting all the guests away.

Our amuse bouche was a cauliflower veloute with a rather hefty drizzle of truffle oil. I could probably have stopped proceedings right there and made some fairly astute predictions about the course of the rest of the meal. Although I would have had egg on my face, because there were actually some decent bits of invention in our later courses.

My pave of confit salmon wasn’t novel, but it was good, with nibbles of beetroot and a creamy goat cheese mousse. Maureen’s pigeon breast was presented on a piece of slate (no waaaaay!) but it was presented nicely with carpaccio cauli and curried pinenuts, a tangy little revelation. The other starter among the four of us was scallops, a little undercooked and a tad too salty.

My main was duck breast, great little roasted turnips, a blob of fragrant quince puree and a dribble of mead gravy. I ran out of sauce long before I ran out of duck, which was a pity as I’m always more interested in the accompaniments than the core ingredient of a main. Okay, not always. But I must have eaten well-cooked slices of decent quality duck breast a score of times before so it’s hardly what I’m focussed on at the twenty-first outing. Maureen’s venison was jolly good, its Jerusalem artichoke puree astoundingly tasty, and the addition of three slighty squodgy raspberries to the plating frankly bizarre. The best main (judging by the cooing noises Martin was making, as I didn’t try any) was some rolled rabbit saddle with peanuts and lime. Peanuts and lime, eh?

The dessert made me smile, mostly in a good way. It was a banana cream slice, with some peanut ice cream. The banana cream was an arrow straight out of childhood which smacked cleanly into my heart. The ice cream was decent company, though predictably sickly. There was some other stuff on the plate, including bits of squishy banana and a fairly tasteless jelly, but they didn’t need to be there. A meringue-covered cheesecake with nifty tarragon ice cream (must remember that one) was declared very good, while a rhubarb concoction (seasons, people!) was somewhat unbalanced but definitely rhubarby.

So where did we end up? Well, it looks like there are some interesting ideas in chef David Jaram’s head, but accomplishment perhaps isn’t quite reaching aspiration. There were some slightly duff elements and some plating that made me smile in the wrong way. The menu was £49 for three courses, with a decently priced wine list. In the gastronomic micro-climate of Ludlow it’s easier to judge value: this is £10 more than a decent three courses on white linen at Dinham Hall Hotel, and £10 less than having your socks knocked off by three courses at La Becasse. On the evidence of this outing, that is probably a tad expensive for the food and ambiance here.

Review: The Bell Inn, Yarpole

This weekend was clearly doomed. Doooooomed!

Which is another way of saying that we were too late trying to book the restaurant(s) we wanted and so ended up eating somewhere dull on Saturday night. And then we didn’t even manage to rectify things with a good Sunday lunch, making for pretty much a culinary failure of a weekend.

Our friends Tim and Vanessa were visiting and we had wanted to try The Checkers in Montgomery, which scored a Michelin star this year… but was perhaps understandably booked up a couple of weeks in advance. So we thought we’d return to The Stagg at Titley, the granddaddy of Michelin-starred pubs, which we hadn’t been to for years. Fully booked. So we settled on The Bell at Yarpole, that I vaguely recalled had a Bib Gourmand and was run by Claude Bosi’s brother.

The Bell is actually under new ownership, has been for a year. Cedric Bosi has followed his brother up to London and can be found at a new gastropub in Wimbledon. The current chef at The Bell was apparently winner of Herefordshire’s New Chef of the Year, 2010. Their website is annoying, but I like that the address is “thebellyarpole.co.uk” which looks like it should read “the belly arpole”.

It’s still a lovely pub, and the chap behind the bar was friendly and helpful. Service was generally friendly too, though not terribly skilful. And so we come swiftly to the food. Four of us ate, and the bill came to £145 including a £30 bottle of wine. So, roughly appropriate gastropub prices for the Marches.

Starters included scallops on cauliflower purée, game terrine with spicy pear chutney, broccoli and Stilton soup. The scallops were fine, though for no good reason one of us had 2.5 scallops instead of 3 scallops. The terrine was good, very rustic with nice chutney. The soup was tasty enough but hardly elevated.

For the mains two of us had a trio of lamb (cutlet, breast, shepherd’s pie) and two had the trio of pork (belly, faggot and black pudding). The shepherd’s pie was okay but huge, the cutlet pretty good and the breast okay, the parmentier potatoes with it were squodgy and tired, and the gratin of beetroot and celeriac just didn’t work; the cream was very apparent and seemed split. I don’t think beetroot was made to gratin in this way. As for the piggy dish, the black pudding was tasty and probably home made while the faggot had a good strong herbal punk but needed gravy to prevent it desiccating your mouth. And was huge. The pork belly was fairly well cooked, but could have been a lot more unctuous and – criminally – the crackling was a waste of inedible chewiness. The mustard mash was fine, but there was lots of it. Especially with the side dish of (over) boiled veggies.

We finished with a massive lump of sticky toffee pudding in a lake of caramel sauce untempered by any bitter notes at all.

For the price, this wasn’t a terrible meal. But it wasn’t much good either. There were some basic mistakes in the cooking, and you can’t rectify that by giving us enough food to feed ourselves and the family of trolls we keep locked in the boot of the car. Only the smaller of the two dining rooms at The Bell was open this Saturday evening, which is perhaps telling.

I won’t trouble you with our failed attempts to recoup the weekend with a quality Sunday lunch. It didn’t work, we shouldn’t have tried for anything more ambitious than a pub roast without forethought and planning. In fact, Tim pronounced accurately that the best thing we ate all weekend was the homemade marshmallows that came with our (really good) hot chocolate at The Green Cafe, where we stopped after a leaf-kicking morning stroll along the Whitcliffe. Honestly, who makes homemade marshmallows just to offer them with a cup of hot chocolate? Our favourite cafe.

And needless to say, the weekend wasn’t really doomed. We always enjoy seeing our friends for a weekend even when the gourmandising doesn’t quite work out.