A Christmas Feast

At the beginning of December I attended a lecture at the British Museum on the origins of our modern Christmas celebrations in the ancient Roman feast of Saturnalia. Basically, the early Christians stole Christmas lock, stock and barrel from the Romans (December 25th was the birthday of the god Mithras) and it is surprising just how much a Roman coming back today would recognise - feasting with family, parties with friends, gift-giving, “peace on earth goodwill to all men” - but even silly hats, jokes and japes, cakes, puddings and nuts, and (remarkably) gingerbread men. The idea of the ‘king of the feast’ - surviving in the form of a coin hidden in the Christmas pudding or the fève a lucky guest discovers in a galette des rois - comes directly from the Romans.

It made me think about how cultural traditions work - both in terms of the larger culture as a whole and in our individual lives. Repetition never repeats entirely exactly - traditions and lives evolve - but the repeated attempt at the ideal encourages comparisons and brings back memories of how it was when.

I am a hardened traditionalist, and I wholly concur with Felicity Cloake’s assertion in the New Statesman that “December 25th belongs to the birds”: a ringing defence of all things turkey and sprouting.

To be fair though, it is has become a traditional pursuit in itself to defend the Christmas turkey - the bird is entrenched in our tradition but it has always had its doubters. In their favour, turkeys are out of the ordinary (and therefore ideal for special celebrations), large (ideal for feeding multitudes), fairly bland meat (again, ideal for feeding multitudes) and relatively low-fat. Their downfall is a tendency to dry out in cooking. In my childhood the cure for this was to wrap the turkey in bacon and tin foil; these days soaking it for 24 hours in a brine bath is the fashionable option. But there are those who depart from the turkey route flagrantly - I remember as a child being totally shocked by a friend’s mother serving prawn curry as the Christmas meal. This was all the more outrageous as our family, good expats, stuck with resolute rigidity to the prescribed Christmas formula - even down to the brussels sprouts, which were a particularly exotic and hard-to-find vegetable in the 30˚C heat of an African midsummer.

This year, as I found myself alone on Christmas day, a turkey was out of the question, and I didn’t think a chicken would be Chistmassy enough. I decided to go for quail (which I’ve never cooked before) and went with a traditional pot-roast Spanish recipe: brandied quail with caramelised onions. But the accoutrements were the same as for the traditional English feast - bread sauce and roast potatoes, sprouts with roast carrots and macadamia nuts, and a gingered parsnip purée. I love sprouts but am not a fan of parsnips. I made an exception this year because (a) they’re traditional and (b) I have recently become a fan of ginger and a recipe for gingered parsnip purée intrigued me (it may have converted me; I will do this again). The recipe claimed it was a replacement for ‘outmoded’ bread sauce but I love bread sauce so had both.

My starter was a plate of smoked salmon on rye topped with home-made gently pickled cucumber slices and dill, snacked while watching the Christmas special Doctor Who, and to finish I had Passion fruit puddle pudding. I kept myself liberally quenched with poinsettias - Cranberry juice and Cointreau topped with Prosecco. Merry Christmas all!

Jelly

Earlier this year, at the Wedgwood Museum in Barlaston, Staffordshire, I came face-to-face with 18th-century jelly moulds: all in that classic creamy Wedgwood Queensware glaze. Immediate lust.


I love the idea of the history of these things - the amazing history of the industrial revolution's earliest manufacturers, as well as the domestic history of the individual objects - who owned them? what did they make? who ate the jellies? How did the moulds survive unbroken?


Research showed 18th-century moulds were financially out of reach, but Victorian moulds are surprisingly affordable still, especially for wealthy relatives. I put antique Wedgwood jelly moulds on my birthday list.




And it came to pass I got one! Yay! I chose a Victorian contra-swirl patterned one. The markings indicate it was made by Wedgwood c1880, twenty years before my grandfather was born.




Rather utilitarian and in today's terms under-designed, these stamps have their own modest beauty: the hand that stamped them as mysterious and distant to us as the hands that carved ancient Roman inscriptions - and yet culturally they are just as readable and informative. The man or woman who stamped the marks in the wet clay back in 1880 is long dead, but the object itself could last for thousands of years - pottery can break, but doesn't degrade. Shards date civilisations.

So, have jelly mould, will make jelly! Can't say I am actually much of a jelly fan, but there does appear to be a culinary revival going on - check out hip London jellymongers Bompass and Parr's website. Jellies also have a fascinating and distinguished culinary history.

For my first attempt I decided to jellify an Innocent mango smoothy. My mould takes exactly a pint of liquid (Victorian planning!) - and according to the gelatin packet instructions I needed 4 sheets.





The gelatin sheets are like clear acetate lasagne sheets. You have to soak them in cold water for five minutes, when they become a bit floppy, like plastic with a faint jelly-ish texture. You take them out of the water and squeeze the excess liquid off (I was expecting the sheets to be sticky at this point but they weren't at all).

Meanwhile, I heated up the smoothy in a pan (instructions say not to boil). I then added the soaked gelatin sheets and gently stirred until they were fully melted - about another two minutes. I then decanted the hot jelly into the mould.

I was warned to wet the mould first, and leave some extra space at the top to allow for gravity to pull the jelly out. Apparently a Victorian cook's trick was to oil the mould with almond oil, and then freeze it quickly before adding the jelly (an option available to only the wealthiest cooks with access to ice, obviously.)



I then let the jelly cool down completely before placing in the fridge to set overnight.



Et voilà! The final result. I dipped my mould in hot water to loosen the jelly, and left it in slightly too long, resulting in melting and mould pattern erosion. Something to remember for next time!



I must say, the jelly was vastly superior to packet jellies - the freshness of the fruit smoothy makes a huge difference. Also, there was just enough gelatin to gently set the jelly - it wasn't rubbery at all.

Rabot Estate in London

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London


I popped over to Borough Market this afternoon to buy some Jerusalem artichokes for a soup I’m planning to make this weekend (I thought it unwise to rely on our local Sainsbury's or Tescos). I was very excited to spot a new chocolate cafe and shop just at the beginning of Stoney Street: Rabot Estate. Apparently, it is the Borough Market ‘farm shop’ of one of the oldest cocoa estates in St Lucia, dating to 1745. The founders of the Hotel Chocolat chain of shops (and website) bought the Estate a few years ago and have invested heavily in new cocao plants and upgrading equipment and systems. Rabot Estate is taking the lead in reviving the cocoa industry in St Lucia.

The shop is pretty eye-catching and completely open to the street. It’s decorated in lots of chocolate browns, with reclaimed woods, corrugated iron panels and simple stencil-style typography and manilla labels. However the pricing is anything but basic - £8 for a bag of chocolate anyone?


I decided to play to safe and bought myself a small bar of their ‘Dash of Milk’ range (mid-way between classic dark chocolate and milk chocolate) to try. The 35g bars come in at £2.75 (however if you buy three they come at £2.50 each).


At the till I succumbed to temptation and had a hot chocolate (a more reasonable £2.50 per cup). You can choose between a 70% cocoa or a 100% cocoa, which you can sweeten to personal taste. I went for the 70% option.


This turned out to be very frothy and light - not particularly thick in texture but with a wonderfully thick chocolate flavour which coated my mouth and lasted a while. I think this might just become a Borough Market tradition for me.


They also sell something called ‘chocolate tea’ which apparently was big in 18th-century London before hot chocolate caught on. I need to try that sometime. Also available are chocolate-themed savoury snacks. This place is a great addition to Borough market.

Rabot Estate
2 Stoney Street
Borough Market
London
SE1 9AA

Opening hours: Mon - Sat 07:00 - 18:00

Check out my review of Rabot Estate - I am hedgiecc - on Qype

Scrooge alert!

Every year someone pops up to have a whinge about Christmas cards, and this year it turns out to be a Bishop.

Well, sorry,your holiness, but I bought mine today. Now to get writing . . .

And in any event - the first ever Christmas card (invented by Henry Cole, the first director of the V&A), wasn't notably Christian in sentiment:





Oh the materialistic hedonism of those debauched Victorians! And quick! Get that child into care!!!

The History of Me in Cocktails: No 3: - Today

God what a week. Work; home, money, life - hassles, crises, disasters. Culminated in a sleepless night last night; finally dropped off at @ 5am. Took the morning off and rolled into work at 12 noon, no less. Thank the Lord for relaxed bosses.

Bad bad boy. However, I was v. good all afternoon; really did quite a surprising amount of work. Believe me, I needed to.

But now I'm home and blogging while drunk.

I have long wished to make my very own Brandy Alexander, instead of buying Sainsbury's packaged version.. Apparently, it's derided as a classic "Prom Cocktail" - however, anything sweet and creamy rings my bell.

The flatmate also confessed to liking Brandy Alexanders, so I ordered in the ingredients according to Diffordsguide, especially Creme de Cacao White Liqueur.

They arrived today from Drinkon, but imagine my horror when I discovered we didn't have enough ice to do the cocktail shaker thing! Aargh!

However needs must when the devil drives; necessity is the mother of invention, etc etc. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you:

The Chocolate Gin & Tonic

or, a

Fizzy Alexander


Glass: Collins
Garnish: erm - whatever u can find - use yor imagination
Method: Pour ingredients into ice-filled glass (or in our case, glasses with 2 cubes each)

1.5 shot(s) Gin
.5 shot(s) Creme de Cacao White Liqueur
Top up with Tonic water

Cream instead of tonic water and shaken would give you an Alexander; hence my fizzy version. Honestly, it's lovely - looks exactly like a G&T, but with subtle chocolatey flavas - you can never get enough chocolate!


The History of Me in Cocktails: No.2

The History of Tea

For such a comforting beverage with such a positive image Tea has certainly had an exciting history. It has paid an especially prominent and controversial role in British imperial history, both in America and China.

Tea became popular in Britain in the late 17th century, and rapidly spread to all classes. Tea was a net drain on the economy, as it had to imported from China and paid for in silver (the Chinese didn’t want or need anything else from anyone at that point). The British government therefore imposed tax on tea. This didn’t really bother the Brits (it is estimated that over 95% of tea drunk in Britain was smuggled in) but it really upset the colonial Americans. The Boston Tea Party set off the American Revolution and led to the Declaration of Independence. To this day, tea is less popular in the USA than coffee, which the revolutionaries promoted as the patriotic drink.

Meanwhile, back in the East, those canny British traders had worked out a clever scam. India was growing huge quantities of Opium, which was pretty useless in terms of trade to the UK or internally in India. However, Imperial China had a big opium addiction problem which the emperors were struggling to control.

Chinese drug traders were willing to pay in silver for opium.

So, British traders picked up opium in India for virtually nothing, traded it illegally in China for silver, then paid for Chinese tea with the silver and sailed back home, making huge profits at every point.

This obviously worked really well for the British; less so for the Chinese, who eventually managed to seize and destroy an opium shipment (despite the corruption of the port authorities).

This kicked off the Opium Wars, in which Britain seized control of Hong Kong. There were vociferous British voices raised in opposition to these wars in Parliament, so one can’t really excuse the wars as a reflection of the standards of their time: people knew how corrupt and awful they were then, too.

Eventually, the British introduced commercial tea growing to India and the African colonies too. Today, India produces the largest crop of tea and drinks most of it internally.

John Griffiths’ book Tea: The Drink That Changed the World is full of interesting historical facts about tea – interesting reading for tea maniacs like me!

Afterlife

What do The Sound of Music and Michael Frayn’s new play, Afterlife, have in common? – They both are set in Leopoldskron, a prince-archbishop’s Baroque palace in Salzburg. Also, both stories feature 1930s Austrian theatrical luminaries fleeing Nazi oppression. Alas, Afterlife doesn’t have Julie Andrews, cute singing kiddies togged up in curtains, or even a lonely goatherd.

Leopoldskron was owned by the legendary theatrical impresario and founder of the Salzburg Festival, Max Reinhardt. His signature production was a revival of the Medieval morality play Everyman. Frayn cleverly conjoins the play with the life, creating a sort of grown-up metaphysical version of Noises Off. The best bits are when the 1930s characters suddenly start speaking in a pastiche of morality verse, or when Max (Roger Allam, excellent) addresses the audience directly or directs the ‘real’ action. I wish this had been explored more, because the notorious weaknesses of the two genres, their relentless predictablity – the biographical and the morality – just build on each other and overwhelm Frayn’s wit.

The relentless rhyming rhythm of the morality verse becomes tiresome quickly, and the biography loops from A, and then to B, and then years pass, and then to C, and then years pass and pass. Unfortunately, the character most responsible for explaining years passing, Gusti Adler, is played by Selina Griffiths in a strident one-note sort of way, which certainly gives the impression of years passing. Otherwise, one can’t fault the acting. David Burke as the Archbishop is especially enjoyable. One suspects that this was Frayn’s favourite character to write.

I wonder to what extent the set lets down Frayn’s play. Wonderfully, we can compare and contrast with Andrew Lloyd-Webber’s current London production of The Sound of Music, whose set also references Leopoldskron. I’ve never seen the actual building, but based on these two sets it must have a trio (at least) of very large arched French windows opening onto a terrace. Lloyd Webber’s version, as I recall, is a pastelly rococo dream, set on a revolving stage so the audience gets varying views of it. The National Theatre’s is monolithically hard-core h e a v y Baroque – relentlessly frontal, symmetrical and drearily putty coloured. Flatly lit, mostly. It has very few tricks up its sleeve – it just trundles ponderously backwards and forwards, up and down. It emphasizes all the text’s structural weaknesses.

Max all too frequently protests his adoration of his house. To this viewer, not credibly on this set. And call me a flint-hearted cynic, but surely – on the scale of Nazi atrocities, fleeing Austria for Los Angeles and then New York with one’s family, friends, staff and luggage intact can hardly register. Even the Von Trapp family suffered more. They had to climb a mountain. Singing.

Yes, he lost his house. But he spent the whole play verging on defaulting on his mortgage through his radical financial fecklessness, so realistically, how sorry can one expect an audience to be?

But my biggest bugbear was the repetition of the first words of Everyman again and again and again, emphasized by their own theme music played on trumpets. By the end I was digging my fingernails into my seat and clenching my jaw to avoid screaming.

Thank goodness for gin and tonics in the NT bar. Thank God for gin and tonic.

Three cheers for the weekend . . . hic

Settling down behind my desk and hoping for a nice, quiet, chilled Friday afternoon . . . went out last night with the office to say goodbye to a colleague and can report several bottles of pinot grigio mixed with spicy, greasy “Thai” food scrambles your liver, despite gallons of water and vitamin C before bedtime.

My boss and I shared a ‘vegetarian feast’ – one of the dishes was fiendishly hot. Unfortunately, we were both too smashed to work out which one it was so we ended up being annihilated by the chilies.

The History of Me in Cocktails: No. 2 – The Buck's Fizz

I think this is the first true cocktail I ever had: concentrate orange juice and South African sparkling wine, to celebrate something at work.

While drinkable enough, these days there are other mixers I prefer with champagne. But then, it was the height of sophistication for a spotty teenager.

I had a part-time job in the very lush HQ of a multi-national cement company, doing the weekly filing for their accounts department. My supervisor Antoinette taught me my first lesson in business: when your boss takes you to lunch, always order the lobster.

Buck's Fizz

Freshly squeezed orange juice
Champagne

Really, mix to individual taste. OJ in first, then champagne, to minimise a potentially explosive bubble situation.

The History of Me in Cocktails: No.1

The History of Me in Cocktails: No 3

The History of Me in Cocktails: No. 1 – The Beer Shandy

Now, I have just bought a very definitive book of Cocktail recipes, and the Beer Shandy doesn’t feature (from this I deduce it must be utterly utterly uncool; don’t order this at Mahiki). However, this was the first alcoholic mixed drink I ever drank, aged three-and-a-half and upwards. My mother was partial to the beer/lemonade mix and I used to have a sip or two. I also remember enjoying the froth on my dad’s beer, and apparently in solidarity with my granddad’s mates demanded Guinness at the pub aged 2. I think though I may have ultimately settled for smarties and a coke.

These were the glory years of my beer consumption: can’t stand the stuff now; I swear I’m allergic. Can only drink wine or gin or vodka. Doesn’t make life easy at the pub after work; although I am an exceptionally cheap date – I’m usually drunk after half a glass!

Thank heavens for Wikipedia – more about Shandies here.

The History of Me in Cocktails: No.2