Cook The Books

Cooking For Real Life by Joanna Weinberg: The Review

Joanna Weinberg. The woman whose recipes work.

“He’s going to come a bit later, he didn’t want to be the first one to get there,” my friend explained of her husband on a recent night out. “I suppose I can understand, he doesn’t want to hang out with my friends all night. If it was with his friends, I’d probably show up at last orders.”

“And I’d probably have a massive strop and not show up at all,” I replied.

 “They’re so lucky to have us, aren’t they?”

 Much as I genuinely love my boyfriend’s friends, many of whom have become friends of my own (hi guyzzzzzz!), it’s always a little bit more effort to drag myself off the sofa, away from Take Me Out, to see his chums rather than my own. (It’s an effort to see my friends, too. I really do love Take Me Out.)

 I’ll try everything. “Do you reeeeeeally want to go?” I’ll ask, stretching languidly. “Yes,” he’ll reply. I won’t say anything for a bit.

 “I’m not sure that I reeeeeeeally want to,” I’ll eventually say, as if he hasn’t guessed. He’ll look at me sternly. “Philip! We’re going.” I’ll pout. Maybe harrumph a couple of times. But it never works.

And so I go and stand in the corner and feel miserable and drink slowly and check my watch not very surreptitiously and eventually Will will let me go home and he’ll stay out and go to Heaven and roll home at 6 in the morning and I’ll feel smug that I had a good night’s sleep and bang around the kitchen really loudly with no sympathy for his hangover. Again, he really is lucky to have me.

But to try and trick him into thinking that I’m not actually all bad, sometimes I’ll do something so selfless, with so little griping, that it hopefully tips the scales back into my favour. Like cooking a three course meal for six on the Friday night of the first full week back at work after Christmas.

“You really fucking owe me for this,” I hissed, hunched over Tesco Online, nursing the last of the festive port, and none of the leftover Christmas spirit. “All I want to do is crawl into a ball and die and you’re making me cook a whole dinner?”

“Pip, I’m not making you do anything. We can go to the pub if you like.”

“Humph,” I harrumphed. There was no chance of that. One of the guests was Will’s ex girlfriend and her husband (so modern) and the last time we’d been to their house they’d done something amazing with steak and scallops, so I had our honour to protect. Plus I literally love playing the martyr.

But seeing as it was the first week back and I was battling with a crushing depression bigger than the hole left behind by the Christmas tree, I went for a book I kind of knew would work. “Where’s the fun in that?” I hear you cry. “We love it most when you serve up raw potato!” But January is not a time for uncooked tubers, and boyfriend’s ex-girlfriends are not the sort to whom you should be serving them.

And so I chose Cooking For Real Life by Joanna Weinberg. Disclaimer – I know Joanna. She is lovely, and has written recipes for me at both Sunday Times Style and Red, and they have always been easy, delicious and included unexpected twists of flavour. And she’s polite, oh how polite! One August I descended on her home and dressed it for Christmas and made her light a Christmas pudding constantly for two days and she never complained once. I kind of love her a bit. (That was for a shoot, by the way. Not some weird hostage situation.)

The only problem with her recipes? So simple were they that I barely got a chance to have a stress at Will whilst cooking them.

 

Joanna’s Parma ham with elderflower poached rhubarb and burrata

Take the starter – Parma ham with elderflower poached rhubarb and burrata. I poached the rhubarb the night before with some elderflower cordial, and as the guests were arriving I simply drizzled it over the ham and cheese. If it hadn’t been so delicious I’d have almost felt cheated.

And mine. Weird yellowy-ness not present at time of photo. I blame January light

The Spiced butterflied leg of lamb with cucumber raita nearly denied me the chance to hiss too, but luckily I found the opportunity. “Do you want to check the meat?” Will asked as I was clearing the plates. “Sure,” I smiled sweetly, keen to make it clear to Will’s ex girlfriend that we had the perfect relationship.

Top: Joanna’s lamb, followed by her salad

(At this point, it might be wise to point out that they dated for about two months nearly a decade ago, and she’s been married for five or six years, and neither of them have ever given me any cause to think there is anything other then friendship between them. BUT STILL.)

My version. The pitta bits were Joanna’s idea. Guess what? They totally worked.

“I don’t know if it’s done, you check if it’s done, meat is your job,” I snarled into his ear by the oven. “Well, has it been in as long as the recipe said?” he asked “Isn’t that the rule?” It had been, and it was, to perfection; Joanna’s Courgette, fresh pea and ricotta salad making a light, zingy, welcomingly Spring-like accompaniment to the spices of the meat.

 

J-Wein’s trifle

Then finally came the Eastern Trifle, which again I’d made quietly and unfussily the day before. “You seem very calm, and everything tastes wonderful,” Will’s ex girlfriend said as I spooned dessert out unceremoniously into the bowls. “Oh, well, the recipes were really good, which helps,” I smiled. She’s so sweet. – he really does have good taste in partners.

 

And mine

And the trifle didn’t disappoint. It was like a regular one, only with the base soaked in Earl Grey and some orange blossom water adding a touch of exoticism. Everyone liked it, even if it did look like a grey mess by the time it made it to table.

The guests left early – it is January, after all, and whilst no one was on a detox, people still had vague resolutions to somehow be better about their drinking. “Thanks so much for cooking for my friends,” Will said, loading the dishwasher.

“They’re my friends too,” I replied, full of goodwill to all men. “And it totally wasn’t a bother.” See? He really is lucky to have me.

Cost of ingredients: £42.68 (not including items already in store cupboard)

Starter * * * * *

Main course * * * * *

Dessert * * * *

Overall 10/10 and not just because I know the author. It is sublime.

Cooking for Real Life by Joanna Weinberg (Bloomsbury, £25) Original photography by Jill Mead.

Mr Wilkinson’s Favourite Vegetables by Matt Wilkinson: The Review (Kinda)

Actual Awwwwww

“I’m never fucking doing Cook the Books again,” I shouted at my boyfriend, before storming into the bedroom. “I’ve had e-fucking-nough,” I added, yanking off my tie and throwing it on the floor for effect. It was the night before I was due to be cooking from Mr Wilkinson’s Favourite Vegetables, a paean to plants and produce from asparagus to zucchini. I’d chosen the book because it seemed gentle, calming, easy, and began with the following inscription:

Thank you so much for picking up this book and reading it. I have many cookbooks and not one person has thanked me for buying, reading or using them – so thank you. I hope that as you read it, you will be inspired by the same love of good food that inspires my every day.

As sweet as puppies, lambs, and that moment in Top Model when Tyra tells the contestant she’s just booted off that they just have to believe in themselves and they’ll be able to smize their way to the top or whatever, how could anyone’s heart not be melted by that? It’s printed on gorgeous paper stock, full of sun-drenched photographs, and has a dedication which includes the author’s dog. This was meant to be a sure fire success.

It had started easily enough. I’d ordered the ingredients off Tesco.com and was at my Book Group the night before delivery and eventual cooking. We had all been tasked with reading Fifty Shades of Grey, so obviously had to get wasted to get past the horror of 500 pages of Anastasia Steele and her incapacity to do anything without biting her lip. “Can I borrow your computer to change something on my Tesco order? I’ve just remembered I need to add washing powder and it’ll be too close to the delivery time to add it when I get home,” I asked the host, flipping between the sordidness of Christian’s Red Room of Pain and the banality of domestic life as casually and unskillfully as EL James does all the way through the novel. “No,” everyone cried, as dominating as our fictional hero. “You can’t do something so dull in the middle of Book Group – Book Group is for talking about boys and booze and, in this case, sado masochism.”

By the time I got home, it was too late to amend the order, but I logged on blearily, just in case. “Fucking hell,” I hissed at my poor boyfriend, who was quietly watching television. “I’ve only gone and set it to the wrong address, to be delivered to that place I organised the hen party at two years ago. Fuck! And now I’m going to have to actually go to the shops myself tomorrow, and traipse all the way up the aisles, and carry all these shitty vegetables home, and then cook them, and fucking entertain people, whilst you do nothing to help.” And then for emphasis, the line so angstily dramatic, so over the top, so pointless, that it had Fifty Shades written all over it: “I’m never fucking doing Cook the Books again.”

I’d calmed down once my hangover had cleared and the guests arrived the next night. I’d forgone trekking to the big supermarket and bought everything from the Tesco Metro on the corner. I’d had to compromise a couple of times, which was technically against the rules, but it’s not like I’d signed a contract with Christian Grey and anyone was going to insert beads in me for going against my own dogma.

Our guests seemed disappointed. “Have you had your drunken meltdown yet?” Camilla asked, almost the second she was through the door. “I’ve read the blog, I know there’s always at least one.” “Well, Will’s still at work, and I’ve been by myself all afternoon, so there’s been no one to shout at,” I admitted. “Strops are no fun if there’s no one there to indulge them.”

Mr Wilkinson’s Salad of Cauliflower, Smoked Salmon and Strawberry

Three drinks down and the Salad of Cauliflower, Smoked Salmon and Strawberry was a hit. It had literally involved nothing more than chopping a couple of vegetables, sticking them in a big bowl, and letting a slosh of lemon juice do the talking.

My version. Tesco Metro didn’t have pea shoots either

“The only thing I would say,” said Andy thoughtfully, “is that perhaps the recipe should have included shallots instead of onions. It would have been sweeter, less overpowering.” Seeing as each dish is technically an experiment for a blog I’ve got used to swallowing as much carefully judged criticism as I do Riesling, but this one particularly stung. I didn’t have the guts to admit that the recipe had actually called for shallots, and my local Tesco had been out of them. “Yeah, I’ll bear that in mind,” I mumbled, topping up my glass.

Mr Wilkinson’s Smoked Baked Garlic With A Simple Good Old Roast Chook 

The local shop had let me down on the main course, too. Smoked Baked Garlic With A Simple Good Old Roast Chook had seemed easy enough, and when I couldn’t find Smoking Chips in my “convenience” outlet I thought I could fudge it somehow and that you, the reader, would never find out. (Soz and all, but I tried two places and could still taste last night’s Prosecco on the back of my furry tongue, there was no way I was hiking into town.) Back at home I realised the smoking chips were the main ingredient – used to give the garlic a delicious, well, smokiness, and make it the star turn of the dish. Unsurprisingly, in a book about veg, the chicken was just dressing, cooked as simply as banging it in the oven with a little oil. “Fuck,” I didn’t bother screaming allowed, as there was no one around to hear it, and just reached for Maria Elia’s Full of Flavour off the shelf. Her Slow Roast Paprika chicken, which had been so ace in my first ever Cook the Books, would come to the rescue once again.

My bastardised version of Maria Elia’s Slow Roast Paprika Chicken. Bloody hell, it’s a good recipe

Much as Mr Wilkinson’s book is a lovely feast for the eyes and soul, the very essence of its being means that it doesn’t do desserts. I still had some rhubarb in the freezer so I made that into a fool, thinking that at least I’d have reviewed two of Wilkinson’s recipes and been able to pass judgement.

My made-up rhubarb fool - the weird brown bits on the top are crystallised ginger. They were good.

We drank through the disappointment of not having done a proper three course Cook the Books. At one point the Port came out, and I declared the book a success anyway. “We’ve had a lovely evening, and it contains lots of lovely pictures – what more does any book need?” I cried. Had Anastacia Steele been at the table, she’d have definitely rolled her eyes.

Cost of ingredients: £28.76 (not including items already in store cupboard, or not bought because Tesco Metro didn’t stock them)

First course: * * * * * I have to give it the benefit of the doubt, seeing as I didn’t use shallots and it still tasted all fresh and summery

Main course: * * * * * Maria’s chicken came through for me once again. I’m sure Matt Wilkinson’s would have done the same. He thanks the reader for buying the book. Who cares if the recipes actually work?

Pudding: * * * * * My own-recipe rhubarb fool was a triumph, thanks for asking. I can just about remember it through the Port…

Overall: 8/10 The paper feels divine Mr Wilkinson’s Favourite Vegetables by Matt Wilkinson (£20, Murdoch). Original photography by Jacqui Melville

The Fabulous Baker Brothers: The Review

Which one is the hot one, again?

I read an interview with Delia in the 1990s where she moaned that whenever she went round to someone’s house for dinner they always cooked something fancy, trying to impress her, and all she really wanted was fish and chips or something.

#firstworldproblems

But when I invited my friend the renowned-food-and-drinks-writer Douglas over for dinner, I knew how Delia’s mates felt. (Sidenote: does Delia actually have mates? She seems too robotic to have anything other than football players whom she patronises, in both senses of the word). But as Douglas is a man who knows his claret from his Beaujolais, I had to wanted something a bit special. So I picked the new Fabulous Bakers Brothers book off my desk – it had a chapter called “Things Men Like to Make,” and Douglas was a man, so it was a sure fire winner.

I’ll admit, I’ve not seen any episodes of their new Channel 4 show. I’ve meant to – they’re all stacked up and waiting on my Sky box – but, well, watching Shipwrecked has been prioritised over them (ohmygod! Anna! whaddabitch etc). Anyway, Caitlin Moran, head of that sixth form girls-esque group who rule Twitter, has already proclaimed them the worst human beings who have ever lived, so forming my own opinion on them seems pointless and obsolete. Anyway, at least one of them is quite fit (I’m never quite sure which one).

I began cooking three hours before Douglas, our friend Jo, and my boyfriend arrived. As a starter I chose their Fish Finger Sarnies with Tartare Sauce, which comes with the pleasing directive to “eat whilst looking at a rainy window and thinking the world isn’t so bad when you’ve got a fish finger sarnie.” We didn’t do that – we ate with a glass of Sunday Times Wine Club Champagne (which expert Douglas assured me “smelt pretty good”) and constant proclamations from me about how fun and easy they were to make, and gasps from everyone else how about awesome they were.

The Baker Boys fish fingers. To be eaten looking at the rain, apparently

And they were actually pretty good. “Who bothers to make their own effing fish fingers?” I grumbled to myself as I laid out a plate of flour, a bowl of milk and egg, and a plate of breadcrumbs as my action station. But the process appealed to my obsessive nature: roll, shake, dip, roll, repeat until you have eight fish fingers ready to shallow fry just before serving. As for the homemade tartare sauce, all it took was to chop a couple of capers, mix them with some gherkins, herbs and mayonnaise, and you had Douglas claiming it was the best tartare sauce he’d ever tasted. And he eats out for a living.

I felt like a proud dad. They worked! And were easy! And I almost ruined them by running out of butter and covering the bread in Utterly Butterly!

But then the night went downhill. “I’m following the book exactly,” I’d explained to Douglas and Jo as they arrived. “So anything that goes wrong is their fault, not mine. Of course, if it goes right, I’ll take the credit too.” Sadly, the good name of the Fabulous Baker Brothers got besmirched over the event of my Beef Wellington.

Their version of Beef Wellington. Mmm, meaty stuff that men like to cook…

It sounded easy enough. You seared the meet – that was fine, even when a bit of blood spattered on my fluffy white alpaca slippers – and then wrapped it in the leaves of a savoy cabbage with some wild mushrooms before encasing it in the pastry. “Don’t leave any holes in the cabbage casing,” the book warned, “that’s what will ruin the pastry!” It was impossible not to leave holes – the leaves just didn’t stick to each other. I bunged the whole thing in the oven anyway, forgot about it, and then nearly had a meltdown as I had to serve up a disintegrating mess. The meat was uncooked at the 1 hour time directive – I had to break my own rule about how I’m not meant to break any rules. “You can’t serve it this raw, you’ll poison them,” said my boyfriend as he hacked of thick chunks and quick fried them in a hot pan. The meat was tough and stringy. The pastry soggy and limp. The whole thing looked like a pile o’crap, or deconstructed, if you will.  “Your broccoli is nice,” Douglas said gallantly, as I poured another glass of fizz.

My Beef Wellington. Meaty stuff that men don’t like to eat

The Rhubarb Queen of Puddings fell somewhere in the middle. The filling, poached with vanilla, sugar, orange zest and rosemary, was possibly the tastiest version of rhubarb I’ve ever had – and it smelled incredible whilst cooking. The base was fine to begin with, although the command to cook for 10-20 minutes, or until golden, actually meant it had to stay in the oven for 40. The Italian meringue was pretty good too – prepared by melting the sugar in the water until it got to 121C, and then pouring it into the beaten egg whites. With one hand on the electric whisk and another on the thermometer I had my second meltdown of the night. “Will!” I shouted at my boyfriend, who was busy getting drunk with the others in the living room. “I need you to hold this!” Thrusting the thermometer into his hand whilst I carried on beating the eggs, he looked at it rationally as it stuck at 106C. “It’s not going to get any hotter – it’s water,” he explained calmly, as if talking to an infant.

Their Rhubarb Queen of Puddings.To be fair, it does look pretty gay

Following a verbal tirade I accepted he had a point and poured the liquid into the eggs – it created the glossiest, smoothest meringue I’ve seen. The whole thing went into the oven happily. “Well, the pudding will be a success,” I boasted.

It tasted a lot better than it looked. The base would have made a nice cocktail, maybe?

“Why is the base so watery?” Jo asked 20 minutes later, looking at her meringue-covered rhubarb soup. “Can I have more of the topping?” Verdict: it tasted good, but looked like sick. Ah, but at least one of the Fabulous Baker Boys is hot.

Cost of ingredients, to serve 4: £37.87 (not including items already in store cupboard)

Starter: * * * * *

Main: No stars

Pudding: * * (for the meringue and aromatic rhubarb)

Easiness * *

Overall marks:  4/10 – the fish fingers were excellent, some of the bread recipes look good, and one of the Brothers is kinda pretty.

The Fabulous Baker Brothers: As Seen on Channel 4 by Henry Herbert and Tom Herbert

Published by Headline. Official photographs by Chris Terry.

Full of Flavour by Maria Elia – The Review

Maria’s chicken. How hard can a spatchcocking be?

“You need to spatchcock the chicken. Calm down, it’s not as scary as it sounds!” begins the recipe, complete with its own friendly exclamation mark, for Slow-Roasted Paprika Chicken with Butternut Squash, Smashed Butter Beans and Tomatoes. Obviously I panicked. The vague instructions spoke about cutting off the wing tips with scissors and then chopping out the backbone. Mid-meltdown, I made my boyfriend do it. “Shall we watch a video on youtube?” he asked. But that’s against the rules – the plan is to cook every recipe exactly as the book says, using only the book and no initiative, to judge how good it really is.

Fortunately my boyfriend is made of sterner stuff, and with the chicken now as spineless as me I was able to make the simple marinade and stick it in the fridge overnight.

The next morning, hungover, and with guests arriving in three hours for lunch, the act of cooking felt like too much. You know when you’ve drunk too much and everything is an effort, and why is there no Lucozade in the house and who are all these new characters in Hollyoaks? Yes, that.  Anyway, I took to my bed in a fit, bemoaning that preparing the parsnips three different ways for my Truffled Parsnip Salad starter was more than I could bear. In fact, two hours later, showered and almost without the sicky feeling the previous night’s wine had caused, it wasn’t. Cubing two and frying them in a lake of butter, roasting two more in the oven (the book said for ten minutes, or until golden brown – this actually took 30) and turning two more into a puree was as difficult as the whole meal got. Every stage was simple, the flavours in each – truffle oil with the cubes, sage with the roasts, milk in the puree – seeming like they could never be anything but delicious.

Maria’s Truffle Parsnip Salad. Everyone loves a good threeway

My replica. Liderally as amazing as it looked

And the chicken couldn’t have been easier too. Slowly roasting for two hours with the butternut squash, there was nothing to do but baste it every half hour, then add the beans at the very end. Obviously, post-strop, I was behind schedule, and our two guests arrived, on time, once it had been cooking for 30 mins. “Who turns up punctually to a Sunday lunch?” I bitched to my long-suffering boyfriend as Matt and Mark arrived with two bottles of prosecco and a bunch of lillies. “Lovely to see you,” I said cheerfully. “Hope you’re not hungry, dinner won’t be for aaaaaaages.” As the whole flat filled with the smell of paprika-y goodness we broke out the cheese Doritos. They’re practically a palette cleanser, right?  

My chicken. Almost the same, right? Note the lack of crushed beans. Bitch gotta work for them

The best thing about this dinner was that there was now nothing I needed to do, except wait. We drank the fizz, had a chat, and opened another bag of salt and vinegar Kettle chips – it was the most relaxed and non-stressful three course Sunday lunch ever. The meat was tender, juicy, full of flavour, the squash and beans the perfect accompaniment. It was a dish that looked impressive, smelt amazing, and yet you felt almost sheepish for how easy it was – spatchcocking notwithstanding. The only difficulty came when the book said to mash the butter beans in the roasting dish – but they were all mixed up with the tomatoes and butternut squash, and a pool of incredible juice.  I half heartedly managed to crush a few but as they started to make a mush with the tomatoes I gave up and served them whole.

Maria’s trifles. Sweet. Yes, really.

My mother never swears, instead using “Rhubarb” as a cuss word. We don’t know why, we’ve stopped questioning it, just one of those things mums do like ironing old wrapping paper to be re-used after Christmas, or recording Songs of Praise. To me, though, rhubarb is the most perfect ingredient, so tasty and easy and versatile. The Rhubarb, Rosewater and Ginger Trifle didn’t let me down – the whole course took just a few minutes to make after I’d put the chicken in the oven and tasted as creamy and perfect as a pudding can be. Obviously, mine didn’t look as neat as the ones in the book’s picture, but then it still goes down the same way, amiright?

And the homemade version. Not *too* shabby

Every plate of every course was returned clean, and after my unnecessary strop, which I’m blaming on the hangover rather than the recipes,  it was easier than pouring another glass of wine. “I’m going to buy this book,” said Mark, leafing through it over coffee after lunch, stopping at a Middle Eastern Inspired Eton Mess which mixes Turkish Delight into the meringue. And I would recommend you do the same.

Cost of ingredients, to serve 4: £28.73 (not including items already in store cupboard)

Starter: * * * * *

Main * * * * *

Dessert * * * * *

Easiness * * * * (Spatchcocking? Really?)

Overall marks: 9.5/10

Maria Elia: Full of Flavour

Published by Kyle Cathie. Official pictures by Jonathan Gregson.