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Wines of the week: David Williams

Sun, 05 Feb 2012 00:05:46 GMT

A reliable red from Sainsbury's, a Spanish highlight from Virgin Wines and a delicious chardonnay from The Vintner

Château David Bordeaux Supérieur, France 2010 (£6.49, Sainsbury's)
The 2010 vintage was a very good one for Bordeaux and for the top few dozen producers it meant huge prices. But the region isn't all about status symbols for the super-rich; most producers operate in a much humbler sphere, as is the case with this reliable red fixture of the Sainsbury's range. With its succulent blackcurrant fruit and crunchy texture, this is classic claret for enjoying with today's roast.

Mas Oller Blau, Empordà, Spain (£10.99, Virgin Wines, virginwines.co.uk)
From an up-and-coming producer in one of Spain's smaller wine regions – Empordà in Catalonia – this is a real highlight of the Virgin Wines range. A blend of garnacha (known in France as grenache) with syrah and cabernet sauvignon, it has a glossy, supple texture and vivid black and red berry fruit tinged with liquorice and spice. A great example of modern Spanish winemaking.

Moret-Nominé Rully, Burgundy, France 2009 (£18, The Vintner, thevintner.com)
The Rully appellation in the Côte Chalonnaise is not one of Burgundy's grandest names, but in the hands of the right producer it provides some terrific white wines at more accessible prices. David Moret, who makes wines from across the region, is one such person, and this is a delicious chardonnay, with nuts, oatmeal, spice and apple, and a characteristically Burgundian fine balance between acidity and richness.

A taste of old Japan in a mountain ryokan

Fri, 03 Feb 2012 10:00:00 GMT

One of Japan's best foodie destinations is the Maruhachi Ryokan, hidden away in the tiny mountain village of Maze, near Takayama. Rebecca Milner makes the culinary pilgrimage

The Japanese clearly value tradition, yet for one reason or another – fire, natural disaster, the second world war, an enthusiasm for progress – there aren't many towns left that truly encapsulate the way things were. Kyoto has its temples, but in between them is a thoroughly modern city.

Takayama is different – an old castle town in the mountains of central Japan. You can still see the ruins of the 17th-century castle in the town's Shiroyama Park, but Takayama is much better known for its townscape of narrow lanes and low wooden buildings stained the colour of espresso. With its steep hills the town couldn't produce much rice, so it produced artisans instead. Many were carpenters, who would go on to work on the palaces and temples in Kyoto, then return to construct their signature lattice-front buildings for local merchants.

Takayama has a few beautifully preserved streets, now filled with perpetually crowded tourist shops, and there is also a slow encroachment of Disneyland-esque additions on the edges – new "old" buildings are sprouting up. To really get away from it all, you need to head deeper into the hills, to a tiny village like Maze. Consider it a pilgrimage: Maze happens to shelter one of Japan's best hidden culinary destinations.

Maze is 40km south of Takayama, enveloped by a bucolic nothingness of rice paddies and hills. A slick two-lane highway makes easy work of those hills, though considering there's hardly another car in sight one has to wonder if its construction was really necessary.

Its star, the Maruhachi Ryokan, doesn't advertise; and has almost zero online presence. The inn gets by entirely on repeat customers and word-of-mouth, and this is the way that the owner Chikako Hora prefers it. I get the sense that she agreed to let me write about her inn only because she believes that nobody would bother to travel from a foreign country to Maze (yes, that's a dare). 

It looks like a classic Japanese country villa, with a low, horizontal frame capped by slate-coloured tiles. But it isn't a time capsule. The walls are crisp white planes, the tatami mats are silky and fresh and the futons are wonderfully fluffy. Along one highly polished wooden corridor, glass cutouts in the floor look down over the carp swimming in the pond below.

Most of Maruhachi's customers are anglers – when the wisteria starts to bloom in summer the fishing season begins in earnest. The fishermen arrive armed with long rods to fish for ayu (sweetfish), a river fish native to east Asia with delicate white meat that Japanese people will tell you tastes like watermelon. It doesn't; but it is light and sweet and perfect in the summer when skewered and barbecued over hot coals, seasoned with sea salt and eaten head to tail off the stick like an ice lolly.

But the spring months, before the anglers arrive, are the region's most spectacular – clumps of purple wisteria hang over fast-moving mountain streams teeming with amago (red-spotted trout) and iwana (white-spotted char). Unruly tufts of bright yellow-green foliage are run through with rivulets of dark evergreen.

Spring is also the season for sansai, mountain vegetables. These are the ferns and shoots that nose up through the ground when it thaws and sprout from the tips of branches. There are half-a-dozen or so more common ones, like kogomi (ostrich fern) and taranome (Angelica tree shoots). It's a foragers' paradise. In Maze, housewives with baskets pillage the mountainside for edible greens to sell at roadside stands. With only 1,500 people in the village, there aren't enough to do too much damage.

Dinner at Maruhachi is a feast of all of this. The 11-course meal is served in a private dining room on a low black lacquered table with mother-of-pearl inlays of dragons and flowers. Guests sit on floor cushions. With each course, the waitresses go through the ritual of opening the sliding paper doors, kneeling on the tatami and explaining the details of each dish.

The iwana is served as sashimi (raw and thinly sliced), rare for a river fish. It has a cool, clear flesh traced with silver that looks like the river in the sun, and just enough fat to give it a richness of flavour and texture. The leaner amago is skewered and grilled at the table. Sansai appear lightly swaddled in tempura, seasoned with matcha (green tea) salt. There is also homemade tofu spiked with yomogi (mugwort) and new potatoes dusted with egoma (wild sesame seeds). By the time the top-quality hida-gyu steak arrives, at around course number six, we're in heaven.

Midway through the meal, we are greeted at the table by Chikako herself. As the okami, the mistress of the inn, this is her role. It was a role that she was born into – her mother was the okami before her. There are inns that can trace their lineage back 10 generations; Maruhachi is comparatively a child – only two generations old.

She's graceful and charming, wearing a formal silk kimono; you'd never suspect that she's spent all afternoon in the kitchen. We invite her to stay and chat with us, to tell us about growing up in Maze. While making sure our sake cups stay full, she talks about her beloved river and the effects of the new road that make it easier to get in and out of the village (Chikako could do without it).

"There's nothing here!" she says, laughing. "Unless you get that, and in your heart really want that, you certainly wouldn't want to come all the way out here."

She has no idea how wrong she is.

• To get to Takayama from Tokyo station, take the Nozomi Shinkansen to Nagoya and change for the limited express Wide View Hida train to Takayama. The journey takes four hours and costs ¥14,200 (around £118) return. The same train stops at Gero, the nearest station for Maze; the trip between Takayama and Gero takes one hour and costs £17. A night at Maruhachi Ryokan (+81 576 47 2502) is £96 per person, dinner and breakfast included. Find a Japanese speaker to make a reservation, as no English is spoken at the inn. Guests will be shuttled to and from Gero station.

• Rebecca Milner is a writer based in Tokyo

Poor pregnant women missing out on free vitamin D, health officials claim

Fri, 03 Feb 2012 13:24:05 GMT

Senior government health advisers say takeup of vitamin supplements under NHS Healthy Start scheme is low

GPs, midwives and health service officials have been told to ensure pregnant women and those with young children in low-income families know of their right to free vitamin D supplements.

Takeup of vitamins under the NHS's Healthy Start scheme is low, according to Sally Davies, the UK government's senior medical adviser, and chief medical officers in Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland.

Up to a quarter of the population are at risk of vitamin D deficiency, according to national nutrition surveys. This has led to concerns about the health of bones, particularly in older people and young children.

Those at risk include people who have low or no exposure to the sun, for example those who cover their skin for cultural reasons, who are housebound or confined indoors for long periods.

People who have darker skin may also need supplements because their bodies may not be able to make as much vitamin D.

The medical officers say the NHS must ensure those who need supplementation are offered it, in the form of tablets for adults and drops for children.

Women qualify for Healthy Start from the 10th week of pregnancy or if they have a child under four years old, or if they or their family receive income support, jobseeker's allowance, employment and support allowance or child tax credit. Pregnant women under 18 also qualify, even if they do not get any of those benefits or tax credits.

The letter adds: "NHS organisations can choose to sell the vitamins or supply them free of charge to those who are not eligible for Healthy Start, and we encourage this. Alternatively, vitamin D supplements are available for purchase or can be prescribed for those who are not eligible for the scheme."

Allspice recipes | Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall

Fri, 03 Feb 2012 22:59:43 GMT

This is one spice that really lives up to its name. So why on Earth don't we make more use of it?

Allspice is the ironically named spice. Though not in the Alanis Morissette sense of the word "ironic", which she uses as a synonym for "quite annoying", which is, ironically, quite annoying. No, the irony of allspice is that it really is incredibly useful and versatile, with the qualities of a complex assembly of other spices, with notes of bay, citrus, mace, clove, cinnamon, black pepper… and yet we hardly ever use it.

Well, if you've got some lingering in the cupboard, get it out now (or get some in), for few flavourings segue so easily between sweet and savoury, and make such an intriguing, complex contribution. Used alone or in a blend, allspice can do great things.

Also known as Jamaica pepper (and also pimento), allspice brings with it a true breath of the West Indies – it's the backbone of jerk seasoning, the defining touch in rice and peas, and even used to flavour a fiery, rum-based liqueur called pimento dram. It is also found in many Latin American and Middle Eastern dishes, as well as in the cupboards of cake- and biscuit-bakers the world over.

Allspice is not to be confused with proprietary blends labelled "mixed spice" – those are generally designed for sweet baking. Rarely is allspice part of the blend, perhaps because of its intense pepperiness, yet that heat can be very welcome in a sweet batter or dough, just as ginger can (see the sumptuous cake recipe).

I love the look and feel of allspice's fat, round, brown berries. They vary in size – some as small as a coriander seed, some as large as a pea – but all are easily crushed to release the multi-layered flavour. Just broken open like this, then captured in a little square of muslin, they are wonderful simmered in a chutney, soup or curry, or even in the fruit cooking for a marmalade or jam. The crushed berries can also be added to marinades. Alternatively, grind them to a fine powder, which is ideal if you want just a pinch for a rice dish or biscuit dough.

While writing this, I nipped to the larder to crack a couple of berries and inspire myself with that heady aroma, but I've used so much of late that I've run out. Ironic, wouldn't you say? Or at least quite annoying.

Sardine escabeche with allspice

An escabeche is a dish of richly spiced, lightly pickled fish, and it's delicious made with oily fish. If you can't get sardines, small, whole mackerel or large mackerel fillets are an excellent alternative. Serves six.

12 large sardines, descaled and gutted
Olive oil

For the dry spice mix
1 tbsp allspice berries
1 tsp cumin seeds
1 tsp coriander seeds
Black pepper
1 rounded tsp fine salt
1 rounded tsp sugar

For the marinade
A few allspice berries
1 pinch dried chilli flakes
1 red onion, peeled and finely sliced
2 cloves garlic, peeled and finely sliced
2 bay leaves
125ml white wine
75ml cider vinegar

In a heavy frying pan over medium heat, lightly toast the allspice, cumin and coriander, tossing often, until fragrant. Tip on to a plate to cool. Transfer to a spice grinder or mortar, add the pepper, salt and sugar, and grind to a coarse powder.

Rinse the sardines and pat dry with kitchen paper. Put the spice mix on a plate and dust the fish in it, making sure they're evenly covered; shake off the excess. Put the pan back on a medium heat and add a tablespoon of oil. Fry the fish in batches, adding oil as necessary, for three to four minutes, until coloured all over, then transfer the fish to a deep dish. Add a little more oil to the pan. Roughly crush the allspice berries for the marinade and add to the pan with the chilli, onion, garlic and bay. Cook for a few minutes until the onion is soft, pour in the wine and vinegar, and simmer for three to four minutes. Tip the hot marinade over the fish – they should be completely covered – leave to cool, then chill for at least six hours and up to two days. Escabeche is best served at room temperature, so take it out of the fridge a few hours beforehand. Serve with flatbreads, pittas or toasted sourdough and a simple salad.

Jerk chicken

This classic West Indian dish is a real winner. You can also use the paste as a seasoning for pork, fish and even vegetables such as aubergines. It will keep for two weeks if covered and refrigerated. These quantities make about 250g paste.

1 chicken, jointed (or about 1.5kg on-the-bone chicken pieces)
1 small handful coriander leaves and some lime wedges, to serve

For the jerk seasoning
4 tbsp allspice berries
1 tsp coriander seeds
1 tbsp black peppercorns
2 tbsp fresh thyme leaves
1 tsp ground cinnamon
½ tsp ground nutmeg
¼ tsp ground cloves
6 garlic cloves, peeled
4 spring onions, white and pale green part only, chopped
1 small bunch coriander, tough stalks removed
4 Scotch bonnet chillies, cored and deseeded
1 small thumb fresh ginger, peeled and chopped
2 tbsp light muscovado sugar
3 tbsp vegetable oil

For the rice and peas
200g basmati rice
410g tin kidney beans
400g tin coconut milk
1 bunch spring onions, trimmed and chopped
1 sprig fresh thyme
1 clove garlic, peeled and chopped
1 tsp ground allspice

In a spice mill or mortar, grind the allspice, coriander and peppercorns until fine. Tip into a blender or food processor with the other jerk ingredients and blend to a smooth paste. Turn the chicken pieces in the paste so they're well coated, cover and refrigerate overnight. Remove from the fridge 30 minutes before cooking.

Soak the rice in cold water for 30 minutes. Heat the oven to 220C/425F/gas mark 7. Line a roasting tin with baking parchment and lightly brush the paper with vegetable oil. Lay in the chicken in a single layer and roast for half an hour, turning occasionally, so it browns all over.

Meanwhile, drain the rice and rinse until the water runs clear. Tip into a measuring jug, make a note of the level, then tip into a bowl. Drain the liquid from the kidney beans into the jug and add the coconut milk: the liquid needs to be one and a half times the volume of the rice, so pour some away or add water, as necessary. Pour into a pan and bring to a boil. Add the rice, spring onion, thyme, garlic, allspice and a good pinch of salt, and simmer, covered, for 10 minutes. Add the beans and simmer, covered, for five minutes, until the rice is done. Drain, and serve hot with the chicken. Garnish with the coriander and lime.

Orange, ginger and allspice cake

A wonderful winter tea-time treat, packed with warm, spicy, aromatic flavours. Or serve it still warm from the oven, with cream, as a pud. Makes one 23cm cake.

180g self-raising flour
2 tsp ground ginger
1 tsp baking powder
1 tsp ground allspice
180g butter, softened, plus extra for greasing
180g caster sugar
3 eggs
60g stem ginger, chopped
Juice of 1 orange
Finely grated zest of 2 oranges

For the syrup
Juice of 1 orange
Juice of ½ lemon
3 tbsp syrup from the ginger jar
1 pinch ground allspice
2 tbsp demerara sugar

Grease a 23cm-diameter loose-bottomed cake tin, line with baking parchment and butter the parchment. Heat the oven to 180C/350F/gas mark 4. Sift the flour, ginger, baking powder and allspice into a bowl. In a stand mixer or with a hand-held mixer, cream the butter and sugar until light and fluffy. Beat in the eggs one at a time, beating well after each addition. (If it looks as if it's going to curdle, add a tablespoon of flour with the last egg.) Gently fold in the rest of the flour, then stir in the stem ginger, orange juice and orange zest.

Spoon into the tin, smooth the top and bake for 25-30 minutes, until risen and golden, and a skewer comes out clean.

While the cake is baking, make the syrup. In a small pan, combine the orange juice, lemon juice, ginger syrup and pinch of allspice. Warm through and let it steam gently for five minutes. When you take the cake out of the oven, prick it all over with a skewer and trickle the syrup over the top. Sprinkle with the demerara sugar, leave to cool in the tin for about 20 minutes, then remove and leave on a rack to cool completely.

• Visit the new River Cottage Canteen & Deli in Plymouth – river.cottage.net for details.

Dill and potato bread recipe, plus potato farls | Dan Lepard

Fri, 03 Feb 2012 22:59:10 GMT

Want your crumb to stay soft and moist for longer after baking? Then add some potato to the dough

The writer and cook Rose Prince, author of the excellent Kitchenella (Fourth Estate, £26), has for the past few years been baking bread for friends each weekend. Starting on a Friday afternoon, the sourdough is mixed, then shaped in the evening and baked the following morning.

Rose's children are involved in the whole production, too, from start to finish. As Rose writes, "If baking is to come back into domestic kitchens… it has to be practical" and involving the family in this way makes it eminently so. As does adapting a recipe so it fits the time you have, and so the bread stays soft enough to eat for many days.

Using sourdough helps stop the crumb going stale too quickly, but other ingredients have a similar effect. Potatoes, say, be they grated raw or cooked to a soft fluff, hold moisture in the dough, which means the crumb stays soft for longer after baking. However, the dough you make will depend to some extent on whether you use raw or cooked spuds. Cooked potato has an accelerating effect on yeast, because it is more easily fermentable, so mash makes yeast dough rise faster; while grated raw potato allows a slower and more flavourful rise. But raw potato needs more cooking time, so the brief heat a potato farl gets on the griddle means that cooked potato works best in that dough.

Dill and potato bread

This loaf has the most curious aroma once it's baked, almost that of sizzling butter and very unlike that of fresh dill. You can tweak the recipe in various ways: we used ale for the liquid one week, and milk the next; replacing a quarter of the flour with spelt or wholemeal is good, too. This toasts very well and stays soft for days.

275ml warm water
1 teaspoon fast-action yeast
1 big handful chopped fresh dill
350g potatoes, washed but unpeeled
50ml olive oil, plus extra for kneading
550g strong white flour, plus a little extra for shaping
Just under 3 tsp salt

Pour the warm water into a bowl and stir in the yeast and dill. Grate the potatoes, mix into the bowl and stir in the oil, flour and salt. Mix well, leave for 10 minutes, then lightly oil a worktop and knead the dough for eight to 10 seconds only. Return the dough to the bowl, cover and leave for 90 minutes. Dust the worktop with flour, shape the dough into a ball, then place it seam-side down on a baking tray lined with nonstick paper. Cover and leave to rise for an hour.

Heat the oven to 220C (200C fan-assisted)/425F/gas mark 7, dust the loaf with flour, slash a crisscross into it and bake for 45 minutes.

Potato farls

The texture of these potato cakes is a bit like gnocchi – that is, slightly dense and sticky, but delicious. Using double the flour and a teaspoon of baking powder, with some milk to keep the dough soft, will give them a lighter but less typical texture. Either way tastes good, especially with fried bacon, eggs or black pudding.

550g potatoes, peeled
25g unsalted butter
1 tsp salt
About 100g plain flour, plus extra for rolling

Boil the potatoes in unsalted water until tender, then drain well and, while still warm, mash with the butter. Add the salt and flour, and gently mix to a soft dough, using more flour or adding a little milk, depending on how much moisture the potatoes have. Taste a little to check the salt.

Flour a worktop and roll the dough to a disc just over 1cm thick, or to a width that will fit in your frying pan or griddle. Cut the dough in quarters, called "farls", and place these on the dry hot pan and cook for three to four minutes on each side, adjusting the heat so they're brown and crisp but not burnt when you flip them.

danlepard.com/guardian

The cookerless kitchen

Fri, 03 Feb 2012 09:30:00 GMT

As necessity is the mother of invention, so Chris Harding's toastie machine is the mother of grilled peppers and herb-crusted lamb chops

The toastie machine. One of the most neglected kitchen appliances of our time; appreciated by impoverished and uninspired students the nation over, by the time its devotees venture into the world of fitted kitchens and stainless steel mood-respondent triple action ovens, the poor toastie-maker finds itself confined to a dusty cupboard, unplugged and unloved.

My last month, though, has seen the thing rehabilitated. An incorrigible snob, I'd consigned the toastie machine to the same circle of culinary hell as the electric carving knife or juicing machine. A house move had my better half and I rock up to our studio haven, perfect in every way but one. We didn't have a cooker. In fact, we lacked so much as a single lonesome hotplate. Even a camping gas stove was out of the question - wooden floors, precarious open flames and one clumsy 6'5" journalist don't make for the best combination. Our full range of cooking appliances totalled three - a kettle, a toaster and a £12 toastie machine from Morrisons. This is how we would be cooking for the next few weeks until our cooker arrived.

The first few evenings' grub was an uninspiring mix of takeaways and salads. We quickly tired of these as we tired of overflowing cheese toasties heavy with stout and oozing tendrils of cheddar. It was time to move on, to innovate, and here the astounding versatility of the toastie machine began to be revealed. The first broadening of our horizons saw the toastie machine cooking falafel with red onion and chilli marmalade and toasting some pitta pockets to be served with more red onion, softening goat's cheese and crisp lettuce.

The really useful thing about our bargain machine is its four separate compartments. Little teflon recesses bisected diagonally by ridges designed to cut your toasties into neat triangles, they'll happily shallow fry anything small enough to fit. This is how my falafels were (slowly) made, while the onion and chilli marmalade bubbled and reduced in another two compartments.

Day five saw the first venture away from filled and toasted breads. The kettle came to the fore to brew strongly spiced cous cous with spring onion to be mixed with halloumi grilled in the toastie maker and stuffed into a romano pepper before being grilled again. By moving the pepper incrementally along the four ridges separating what I was starting to call the frying dips, we achieved the kind of blistering char one would associate with a heavy iron griddle pan over a high heat. Granted, it took an hour and a half to do, but they tasted great.

The floodgates opened. Over the next week, the toastie machine grilled aubergines, courgettes and pastourma to be tossed together with a little olive oil, lemon juice and feta; lamb chops crusted with a mix of spicy n'duja and fresh thyme; homemade gyoza fried four at a time in an inch of oil; even a couple of thin steaks picked up for a song at the local butcher's. I was starting to miss boiling, steaming, baking and roasting, but it was clear that it was entirely possible - if not preferable - to live and eat well without a cooker.

Whether my love of the toastie maker will abide once I've got a cooker installed remains to be seen. Perhaps once in a while I'll go back to it, brush off the dust and plug it in, feeling a pang of nostalgia as its warm orange light winks into life. Maybe I'll lock the door, close my eyes and fill my nostrils with the smell of mature cheddar sizzling on a hotplate. Or perhaps it will fade into obscurity, replaced in my affections by a self-cleaning, strobe-lit, fingerprint-sensitive oven.

How would you cook without a hob or an oven? I came across this rather alarming / ingenious sideways use for a pop-up toaster but I'm a little afraid to try it. Have I missed any other appliances that are as versatile as my beloved toastie machine?

Char-grilled sprouting broccoli with sweet tahini recipe, plus gingery fish balls in miso soup | Yotam Ottolenghi

Fri, 03 Feb 2012 22:59:06 GMT

A salad to convert even the most tahini-sceptic, plus a stonking fish ball noodle soup

Char-grilled sprouting broccoli with sweet tahini (V)

This salad is loved even by those who claim not to like tahini. Serves four.

550g purple-sprouting broccoli
1 tbsp olive oil
Salt and black pepper
40g tahini paste
1½ tsp honey
2 tsp lemon juice
1 small garlic clove, peeled and crushed
1 tsp each black and white sesame seeds, toasted (or just 2 tsp white)

Trim any big leaves off the broccoli and cut off the woody base of the stems. Blanch for three minutes in boiling, salted water until al dente, refresh, drain and leave to dry.

Toss the broccoli in the oil, a teaspoon of salt and a large pinch of pepper, then cook on a very hot ridged griddle pan for two minutes on each side, until slightly charred and smoky. Set aside to cool.

Whisk the tahini, honey, lemon juice, garlic and a pinch of salt, and slowly start to add water half a tablespoon at a time. At first, the sauce will look as if it has split, but it will soon come back together. Add just enough water to make the sauce the consistency of honey – around three tablespoons in total. Arrange the broccoli on a platter, drizzle with sauce and scatter with sesame seeds. Serve at room temperature.

Gingery fish balls in miso soup

Miso makes a soup loaded with flavour that saves you the hassle of making stock. Serving the soup with just the noodles is a perfectly decent option, but if you're not vegetarian, I urge you to try the fish balls, too. They have the most charming, bouncy texture and taste fishy in the best sense of the word. Use fresh or frozen lime leaves – you'll find them in any decent south-east Asian grocer – as they have more flavour than the dried ones you get in supermarkets. You can prepare everything in advance and then put the soup together in 10 minutes. Serves four.

150g white fish fillets
150g prawns, peeled and deveined
1 tsp fish sauce
½ red chilli, deseeded and finely chopped
1 tbsp chopped fresh ginger
1 small egg, lightly beaten (you'll need only half of it for this dish)
1½ tbsp corn flour
75g french beans, trimmed and very thinly sliced
1 spring onion, thinly sliced
10g chopped coriander, leaves and stems
4 lime leaves
Salt and white pepper
100g soba noodles

For the miso soup
1 litre water
50g white miso paste
4 tbsp light soy sauce
5g ginger, julienned
1½ tsp rice-wine vinegar
15g picked coriander leaves
1 spring onion, thinly sliced
10g Thai basil leaves
Sesame oil

Put the fish in a food processor and pulse until roughly chopped – don't overprocess or it will go gluey. Tip into a bowl, then pulse the prawns and add to the fish bowl with the fish sauce, chilli, ginger, half a beaten egg, corn flour, beans, spring onion and coriander. Shred the lime leaves and add, too. Add a quarter-teaspoon each of salt and white pepper, and mix well. With your hands, roll into 16 balls the size of ping-pong balls.

Blanch the noodles in boiling, salted water until al dente – about five minutes – drain and refresh. Put the water, miso and soy in a medium pan, bring to a boil and set aside.

To serve, return the soup to a boil, reduce the heat and add the fish balls, one at a time, and ginger. Simmer gently for five minutes, until the fish balls are just cooked. Add the rice vinegar, coriander, spring onion, basil and a couple of drops of sesame oil. Divide the noodles between four bowls, top each with four fish balls, pour over the hot soup and serve. 

• Yotam Ottolenghi is chef/patron of Ottolenghi and Nopi in London.

Nigel Slater's citrus recipes

Sun, 05 Feb 2012 00:05:03 GMT

Whether it's roasts or tarts, the easiest way to add some zest to your evening meal is to give it a citrus twist

For someone who is not fond of the colour orange, there is an awful lot of it in my kitchen at the moment: chubby little navels, heavy with juice; tiny blood oranges with ruby and tangerine flesh; knobbly Sevilles, the fruit for marmalade and Caneton à la orange. There are pink grapefruit and the classic white-fleshed I prefer with its kick of sparkling citrus, and some rounded Bergamot lemons whose fragrance has a mysterious spicy edge to it.

I squeeze the occasional orange, mostly one of the blood variety, and swig its juice on a Sunday morning (try half orange, half pomegranate for a real wake-up call), but most citrus fruits in my kitchen end up grated, sliced, stuffed inside a roast duck or a chicken hotpot, simmered into marmalade or peeled and sliced and served in salad. Few are ever eaten as they come, or sliced in half and turned inside out the way my brother used to eat them. I value the fruit for its sharpness, that smack of acidity that it gives, and find its peel useful in lamb stews where it gives a hint of Provence if you include rosemary, red wine and garlic, too.

Orange juice squeezed from the fruit can be thin and metallic or sweet-sharp and vibrant, depending on your oranges. Right now there are some very good fruits around, and I have used them this week in a sort of upside-down tart, where the juice soaked delightfully through the pastry, and a main course involving cooking pieces of duck with slices of both orange and lemon to which I introduced a bit of seasonal warmth with preserved ginger.

I used both legs and breasts of the duck, but rather than cook them as they were, I marinated them with a salt and ginger syrup before adding them to the pot. That way they stayed incredibly juicy and succulent, not something you can always say about this particular meat.

My bracingly bitter Seville oranges will no doubt end up in a late batch of marmalade, a thick one I hope, to make up for last year's rather runny effort. I have started slicing the oranges already.

Duck with ginger and citrus

I have suggested eating this with rice, and in particular nutty brown basmati, but brown lentils could be suitable, too. Depending on what is to follow, I would accompany this with some steamed greens, such as bok choy, choi sum or maybe even sprouting broccoli. A watercress salad would be good, too.

Serves 2
duck legs 2
duck breasts 2
preserved ginger in syrup 6 small knobs
syrup from the ginger jar 6 tbsp
warm water 3 tbsp
sea salt flakes 1 tsp
orange 1
lemon 1
caster sugar a little, optional
steamed brown rice enough for 2

Make four or five slashes, about the width of a finger apart, through the skin of the duck on both breasts and legs. Put them in a plastic bag with 4 tbsp of the ginger syrup, 3 of warm water and 1 tsp of sea salt flakes. Seal the bag, then set aside in the fridge for a couple of hours.

Put a heavy-based pan over a moderate to high heat, place the duck skin-side down (no oil or extra fat is required) and brown lightly, turn and cook the other side. Tip off any excess fat from the pan (you need to leave a little in the pan). Thinly slice the orange and lemon then add them to the pan together with the marinade from the duck. Adjust the heat so the liquid simmers gently, season with pepper and cover with a lid.

Leave the duck to simmer for 20 minutes, keeping the heat low and checking to make sure the fruit is not sticking to the pan. Pour in the remaining ginger syrup, then knobs of preserved ginger. Check the pan juices – they should be nicely sweet, sharp and slightly spicy from the ginger. Adjust them to taste with salt, and, if you wish, a little sugar or orange juice.

Serve the duck, thinly sliced fruits and the cooking juices with the steamed rice.

Blood orange tarts

I wouldn't normally consider anything as juicy as oranges for an upside-down tart, as the copious amount of juice in the fruit will make the pastry wet. Yet that is exactly what happens with blood oranges and we all found the effect rather delicious. Vanilla ice cream is a suitable accompaniment.

Makes 6
blood oranges 4-5, small to medium
puff pastry 175g
butter 50g
golden caster 100g

You will need 6 small baking tins, about 9cm in diameter, 3-4cm in height

Set the oven at 200C/gas mark 6. On a floured board, roll the pastry out 5mm thick. Using a pastry cutter or a saucer as a template, cut 6 rounds of pastry and set them aside. They should be slightly larger than the top of your baking tins.

Remove the peel from the oranges and trim away the pith. Break into segments, but avoid the temptation to remove the skin from the segments. Put the butter and sugar in a small pan and place over a moderate to high heat. With minimal stirring, let the butter and sugar boil to a rich caramel. Take care the mixture doesn't burn. At the end, it can be stirred to produce an even caramel. Divide it between the 6 tins and set aside on a baking sheet.

Divide the orange segments between the baking tins – each will need 5 or 6, closely packed – then place a disc of pastry on top of each. Push the edges of the pastry down around the fruits with a wooden spoon, remembering how hot the caramel is. Bake for 15-20 minutes until the pastry has risen. It will have shrunk slightly. Remove from the oven and leave to settle for a good 5-10 minutes before turning out. Using a knife, smash any hard caramel on the base of the baking dishes and scatter it over the tarts. It will be a crisp contrast to the syrup-soaked pastry.

Email Nigel at nigel.slater@observer.co.uk or visit guardian.co.uk/profile/nigelslater for all his recipes in one place

Nigel Slater's classic fettucine Alfredo recipe

Sun, 05 Feb 2012 00:05:05 GMT

One of Italy's creamiest, dreamiest dishes

As simple a supper as you could imagine, one for midweek and a virtually bare cupboard, fettuccine Alfredo originally came from the kitchen of Alfredo di Lelio. Not especially popular in Italy, it is nevertheless one of the world's best-known pasta dishes.

The recipe

Boil 250g of dried fettuccine in deep, heavily salted water until al dente. Put 250ml of double cream in a saucepan with a thick slice of butter and warm over a gentle heat. Grate in a little nutmeg. Stir in a good 100g of grated Parmesan, a generous amount of black pepper, then tip in the lightly drained pasta. Toss gently and serve with more Parmesan if you wish. Serves 2 generously.

The trick

To keep the sauce a perfect texture, add a couple of tablespoons of the pasta cooking water to the cream. Take care when seasoning – you have salt in the pasta water and salty cheese, so go easy. Cook the pasta until it is just short of how firm you want it to be. It will go on cooking slightly after draining and tossing with the warm sauce. Use freshly grated nutmeg, it is much more subtle than the ready-ground variety.

The twist

The dish is perfect as it is. Twist the recipe too much and you have got something other than Alfredo. But he is unlikely to be turning in his grave if you introduce the wider pappardelle instead, or serve the dish as a side for steak or gammon.

Email Nigel at nigel.slater@observer.co.uk or visit guardian.co.uk/profile/nigelslater for all his recipes in one place

No more Top Totty for the strangers in parliament

Fri, 03 Feb 2012 15:50:00 GMT

The 'political correctness gone mad' posse are queueing up to deride Kate Green, but by complaining about sexist marketing she's done real ale drinkers a favour

• In pictures: the worst real ale pumpclips fit to print

Shadow equalities minister Kate Green struck a blow for real ale and those who love it this week by complaining about the presence of "Slater's Top Totty" in a Westminster bar. Ms Green said "I was disturbed last night to learn that the guest beer in the Strangers' Bar is called Top Totty and there is a picture of a nearly naked woman on the tap." Sir George Young told MPs that "action will be taken", and the beer was removed from sale the same day. It's sad that any barrel of real ale should be removed from sale, but I think it's for the best.

Tory MP Andrew Griffiths declared the response to be "a distinctive sense of humour failure." UKIP MEP Mike Natrass said "this sort of knee-jerk puritanism does more to damage the cause of equality than a thousand beer labels." The story was given due prominence by the sections of the media that thrive on winding up their readers with the "political correctness gone mad" narrative.

Bravely I looked up the story on the Daily Mail website. Here are some highlights from the top-rated comments: "Oh for Gawds sake! These women are too up themselves. Get a grip"; "Pathetic whimp"; "Ohh, boo hoo! Get over it!"; "Zero SOH from the dungaree brigade"; "Stupid stupid woman get a grip".

You get the gist.

On my blog Pumpclip Parade I collect dodgy images from the world of beer (Slater's Top Totty has been there for some time). The point of the blog is that there are a lot of real ale drinkers who believe some brewers give the whole sector a bad reputation. They reinforce an idea that most British brewers are keen to shrug off – that beer is consumed exclusively by boorish middle aged men when actually real ale's appeal is broadening enormously - these days lots of younger people (some of them - gasp - women) have discovered the joy of real ales. Sales are increasing as a result and this uniquely accessible and enjoyable part of Britain's heritage is a living, thriving thing.

The feedback I get from my readers is that brewers should be strongly discouraged from giving their beers such dubious names and images. How offensive anyone finds this pumpclip is their own business, but it's certainly dull and unimaginative and unlikely to encourage any new ale drinkers to give a pint a try.

There is, it should be said, an element of a storm in a teacup about Top Tottygate. It may well have been further up the Beaufort scale had any of the following beers been served in the Strangers' bar: Helga's Big Jugs; Ffiagra; Village Bike; Fallen Angel; Rosy Cheeks and the pièce de résistance, Ha'p'ny Ginger Dip by Nobby's Brewery, considered so offensive by the good people at Word of Mouth that they haven't put it in their gallery of the worst pumpclips, although as a public service I've included it on my blog.

Wine: the pros and cons of buying up front

Fri, 03 Feb 2012 22:59:00 GMT

Pre-paying for wine – or en primeur – may seem an attractive option, not least to fend off potential price rises. But is it always such a good idea?

The idea of spending less on wine if you pay for it up front – known in the trade as buying en primeur – seems on the face of it a pretty good deal. Basically, the way it works is that you pay for the wine when you order it – minus duty (£2.56 a bottle) and VAT, which is due when the wine arrives a year or two down the line. You may also need to pay a delivery charge and, if you don't take delivery straight away, storage costs, too.

That suddenly doesn't sound quite so attractive – so why do some people do it? Simple: this is one of the only ways to secure allocations of scarce wines, such as the 2010 burgundies – a fine but small vintage – that were on show in London recently. Even the big merchants may get only five cases of a particular wine, so chances are its price will have gone up by the time it finally goes on open sale.

That said, buying en primeur doesn't really appeal to me for a number of reasons, the main one being that you can't be sure that the tank or barrel sample in front of you is what's going to end up in the bottle a few years later. As one importer, David Gleave of Liberty Wines, puts it, "A lot can go wrong in the journey from barrel to bottle – there can be a malfunction of the bottling line, for instance, and the wine can get exposed to too much air. You can't predict that from a tank sample."

If the idea of buying en primeur does still attract you, though, the best advice I can give is to be careful whom you deal with. Never buy from an unsolicited approach. Get on the mailing list of established burgundy specialists, such as Berry Bros & Rudd, Goedhuis & Co, Flint Wines and OW Loeb. And look out for lesser known producers and wines, such as Sylvain Loichet's mouthwatering Ladoix Bois des Gréchons 2010 (13.5% abv), a "mini Corton-Charlemagne", according to Berry Brothers, which at the time of writing still has cases at £180 in bond (or £225 duty paid).

If you have a taste for burgundy but not the pockets to match, there are a few bargains out there right now, most of them white. Sainsbury's Mâcon-Villages La Côtes Blanche 2010 (13% abv), for example, is currently on offer at £6 (down from £7.99), while on the 15th of the month Marks & Spencer is starting another of its across-the-board 25%-off promotions if you buy six or more bottles.

In the meantime, you can pick up M&S's rather gorgeous Les Domaine Brocard Organic Chablis 2008 (12.5% abv) for £13.49 instead of £14.99 a bottle, though personally I'd wait a week or two for the bigger discount to kick in.

fibeckett@live.com

Photographs: Full Stop Photography

Restaurant review: My Sichuan, Oxford | John Lanchester

Fri, 03 Feb 2012 22:59:03 GMT

If you like your dinner hot and spicy, then Sichuan cooking is just the ticket. And this place in Oxford does it better than most

It's always exciting when you make a find, and this week's restaurant is one. The promised land is a Sichuanese place in Oxford called My Sichuan. I'm properly excited about it, and have to fight the tendency to hop up and down with keenness as I type. My advocacy is based not on the decor, because My Sichuan comes as close as any restaurant I've known to not having any decor – it's a couple of underfurnished rooms, with a few Chinese trinkets thrown around in a manner so half-hearted, it's almost as bad as if I'd done it myself. My big plug is also not for the service because, although well-meaning, the waitresses don't speak much English: we ordered by pointing at the menu, and it took four separate goes to establish that the sauce we were asking for was soy. The patchy English skills stretch to the menu, which you can inspect online: scroll through the specials and you'll see that they offer a dish of "fried aborigine in soya bean sauce".

So, the decor's a bust, the service is effortful, but the food is a delight. Not so long ago, you couldn't get good Sichuanese food anywhere in the UK, at any price. The Chinese community here has historically been Cantonese, and our version of Chinese food has skewed heavily towards the cooking of that region. This began to change for two reasons: the first was the work, in writing and restaurateuring, of Fuchsia Dunlop, one of the first two westerners to attend the great Chinese cooking school in the Sichuan capital, Chengdu. The second was the increased number of mainland Chinese who visit the UK, as students and tourists. I've noticed several restaurants catering to this market in recent years, and My Sichuan is another classic example. There were about 20 other customers on the Sunday we visited, and every one of them was mainland Chinese. (If you are wondering how I can tell, it's because I grew up in Cantonese-speaking Hong Kong – the languages become very easy to tell apart.)

Sichuanese food is spicy; if you want, crazily, near-psychotically so. We didn't push the envelope as far as I'd have liked because we were a mixed group, but we did have a go at "hot and spicy crispy king prawns". This dish doesn't have quite as much chilli as the "fish slices lavishly in chilli oil" photographed on the special menu, where the fish is almost invisible under a blanket of the things, but it still features a fearsome amount, and is a piquant, zinging delight. Also spicy was the chilli-based condiment that came with a cold jellified tofu, an unusual dish of sharp contrasts – the bland, cold jelly, the fire-hot sauce – which took two or three mouthfuls to work out before I finally concluded I really liked it. Thousand-year-old eggs are a more solid and less cheese-like version than some I've had, and a success even with the friends who approached them with caution.

The chefs here are from Chengdu, as are many of the ingredients, so it's a good place to try Sichuan dishes in super-authentic form. "Fish-flavoured sauce" is the house translation of a term often rendered as "fish-fragrant", and potentially misleading either way since it refers not to the taste of fish but to the preferred Sichuan flavourings for fish: garlic, ginger, spring onion and pickled chilli. Here, as applied to shredded pork, it has a beautifully warm, savoury sourness. Shredded pork with soya bean paste is a dish you assemble in the form of self-constructed pancakes, and is a crowd-pleasing mixture of sweet, rich and meaty. Lamb isn't a Chinese favourite, and nor is cumin, so I don't know where the idea of fried lamb with cumin came from, but it was a sticky hit.

All the Chinese menu mainstays – crispy duck and the like – are here, too, but my main complaint about My Sichuan is the number of more exotic dishes I haven't had a chance to try. Sea snails with Sichuan green pepper, dry fired pig's intestines (maybe that should read "fried", but not to worry), sliced pig's ears with sesame oil, fried bullfrog with pickled chilli pepper, assorted hot and spicy crabs… I can't wait to go back. I tell you what, I bet they'll also fry you one hell of an aborigine.

Restaurant review: Viajante

Sun, 05 Feb 2012 00:08:02 GMT

Sometimes it's a fine line between bold cooking and food that doesn't work – and sometimes it's not such a fine line

Patriot Square, Bethnal Green, London E2 (020 7871 0461). Meal for two, with wine and service, gulp, £200

The problem with surprises is that not all of them are nice. A pink macaroon flavoured with Iberico ham served as a petit four is a complete surprise. It's definitely not a nice one. When you are left thinking: "I wish that had been lemon or raspberry or anything other than this", something is up. Sure, I can admire the technique by which all that hammy flavour is slipped into one of those sweet crisp meringue almond confections. That doesn't make it more pleasant to eat. Equally a tiny chocolate roulade with a sweet cream flavoured with ceps served as a dessert is eye-achingly clever. But that doesn't make either one pleasant to eat. When you find yourself reaching for the word "challenging" to describe your dinner and wanting to shout: "Who put all the bloody mushrooms in my pudding?", it's time to get your coat.

It is a shame our meal at Nuno Mendes's restaurant Viajante ended this way. Portuguese-born Mendes is an interesting chef: dark-eyed, intense, uncompromising, eager. A few years ago he attempted to bring his brand of playful modernism to a Hoxton pub. They advertised it as "fine dining in trainers". Few wanted his version of fine dining – curious flavour combinations, lots of sous-vide, liquids dehydrated unto clammy powders – regardless of their footwear. The pub dumped that menu, and Mendes moved on, eventually surfacing amid the grandeur of the former Bethnal Green Town Hall. Here, from an open kitchen, he serves "surprise" tasting menus of six or nine courses to gently hushed dining rooms.

It's not cheap. It's not on nodding terms with cheap. It couldn't even send cheap a postcard. Six courses is £65, and we could find nothing on the wine list below £30; a Marlborough Sauvignon that Majestic would flog me for £7.99 was listed at £32. For this money you get glorious moments and intriguing moments and moments that make you sigh and roll your eyes and want to stick a fork in the back of your hand.

At its best Viajante – it means "the traveller" – is very good indeed. Thai Explosion II may be a stupid name for a canapé, but this rich mousse of confited chicken flavoured with lemon grass, sandwiched between squares of crisp chicken skin and a coconut tuile, was a "blimey" moment. Crunchy biscuits of toasted amaranth smoked over hay with a wood sorrel purée were dense and musky. There were very good breads with a killer quenelle of smoked butter crusted with walnuts. There was a slippery bit of squid with the most extraordinary jellified texture despite having been chargrilled. Of the more substantial dishes the most pleasing was some crisp-skinned but rare trout with bright orange roe and an acidulated julienne of crunchy vegetables. There was a perfectly cooked piece of lobster with leek and milk skin – Mendes likes fiddling with milk – and a curiously traditional dish of cod with parsley and potatoes which was soft and gentle and soothing.

Other things were less successful. Telling us that parsnips have been treated like meat doesn't make them meat, even when you serve them with smears of truffle and onion and squishy beads of vinegary tapioca. It just makes for a brown starchy plateful that looks like it's ready for the dishwasher before you've got started. Planks of pigeon breast cooked sous-vide had that gelatinous texture which, whatever the reality, made it feel uncooked. And when they grandly presented the Viajante olive, and it turned out to be something like a kumquat stuffed with cream cheese wrapped in an olive green gel (it could have been all of these things, or none of them whatsoever), you could hear my eyeballs rolling back in my head. And then came those odd desserts.

In its eagerness to be so very now and forward thinking, the food at Viajante manages at times to feel curiously dated; it recalls the first flush of Hestomania, when even he has moved on and is now cooking up big platefuls of heartiness at Dinner.

Modern techniques are great. They're brilliant. If you want to cook my steak by banging it round the Large Hadron Collider, be my guest. Dehydrate my pig cheeks. Spherify my nuts. But only do so if the result tastes nicer. At Viajante deliciousness is too often forced to give way to cleverness. And that really is the biggest surprise of all.

Email Jay at jay.rayner@observer.co.uk or visit guardian.co.uk/profile/jayrayner for all his reviews in one place

Store Wars: Aldi and Lidl

Fri, 03 Feb 2012 07:30:00 GMT

Each week we look at retailers competing in the same sector. This week it is discount grocers Aldi and Lidl

Family life

Sat, 04 Feb 2012 00:04:02 GMT

Readers' favourite photographs, songs and recipes

Snapshot: Uncle Tommy, our hero

I recently went to the Coriano Ridge war cemetery in Italy to visit my uncle's grave. Thomas Cyril Walter Dabner, my mam's only brother, was killed in 1944, 14 years before I was born. My mam, Betty, died in 1984 and I know she felt his loss to the end. She never had the chance to visit his grave and I wanted to go to pay her family's respects to our hero, the first member of my family to do so.

Thomas enlisted in the Durham light infantry in 1939, part of the ill-fated 11th Durham light infantry, which, despite being poorly equipped and lacking essential training, put up strong resistance during the British Expeditionary Force campaign in France during 1940, using rifles to snipe at the oncoming German panzer commanders.

Thomas was, like hundreds of others, captured. He was forced to drive a lorry of wounded British soldiers between two panzers that were escorting them. During the night, Thomas made a dash for freedom, turning his lorry off the main road and making good his escape, despite heavy German retaliatory fire. He delivered the wounded men into the safe hands of the Royal Army Medical Corps before completing his journey back to England via the Dunkirk beaches.

Thomas Dabner was awarded the military Medal for his actions that day, 21 May 1940. Back in England, he remained with the 11th Durham light infantry and as part of the 49th ("Polar Bear") division, spent 15 months in Iceland where this photograph was taken.

On his return, Thomas was promoted to corporal and transferred to the 16th Durham light infantry.

Later, and promoted to sergeant, Thomas, took his place alongside the rest of the 16th Durham light infantry as they stormed ashore in the footsteps of the Hampshire brigade at Salerno on 9 September 1943.

On 12 September the following year, 4457133 Sgt Thomas Cyril Wallace Dabner MM, aged 25, was killed in action near Gemmano in Italy.

The cemetery is in a beautiful setting and immaculately kept. Thanks to the internet, I knew the exact location of his grave and found it easily. I felt very emotional and shed quite a few tears. My sisters had given me an angel to place in the soil, poppy bulbs to plant and some British Legion poppy crosses. Once I'd completed this, I stood for a while, thinking of my mam and the pain she must have gone through in losing her only brother, and how I wish I'd asked more questions about him when she was alive. I said a prayer, and read the inscription on his grave – "He gave his tomorrow for our today."

Thank you, Uncle Tommy, although we never met you, your family will never forget you. Tina Hutchinson

Playlist: Time out with my brother

Time Out by Dave Brubeck

Dave Brubeck's Take Five from the album Time Out is one of the eternal jazz greats. But on a cold winter's day some time around 1960 in rural Somerset, it was somewhat off the radar.

In fact it was more under the door than off the radar. Because under the door was where I first heard it. It was swinging from under my brother Kit's chipped cream bedroom door, from a place strictly off limits. Kit was an art student and I was six years younger. The gap when you're those ages – especially in taste terms – is huge.

On Friday nights or Saturday mornings, my brother would unpack the goodies he'd bought in the week when he'd been at art college. Where did he get the money for this stuff, I wondered? Out of the bag, along with his dirty socks, came the Woodbines, a Françoise Sagan or Bob Dylan (droning and more droning). This week, it was the record with crazy modern art for its cover: Time Out.

New to grown-up cultural toys, I was a bit wide-eyed. Kit played the aloof elder brother. I had to sneak into his room and play Time Out secretly. The door always ajar, one ear listening to the music, the other for his feet on the stairs. I had to be careful not to scratch Brubeck, keeping him shiny black without trace of a thumb print.

If music can be happy, Time Out was it. If music can be playful, Time Out played you along. It made you tap your feet. Its charm was its whole point. I'd no idea what it meant – this music made me feel free. Kathy's Waltz was one of its tracks. A waltz? Did I like waltzes? Crazy! All I knew was that Brubeck and his sidekicks were the kind of people I'd like to hang out with one day.

I don't even know what Kit's musical taste is now – what matters is how Time Out threw me head first into jazz. Oh, so much better, so much more sophisticated, than Eddie Cochran or Elvis! For that I'll always be indebted to Kit.

When I hear Take Five and Time Out today, the music takes me straight back to that scuffed door at the top of our landing. More important is how Brubeck still hits the spot, just like he did then. Still the epitome of cool. Time Out was the first. It was the best.

Nick Durston

We love to eat: Butter chocolate sandwich

Ingredients

Two slices white bread

Butter

Your favourite chocolate bar

Take two slices of white bread, butter them thickly, put in a whole bar of chocolate, squidge together and enter choccy heaven.

Fry's Chocolate vending machines – what memories they bring when I see one in the railway museum. An excited small boy decked out in best white shorts and shirt waiting with Mum, Auntie and Teddy my dog on Bromley South station waiting for the mighty steam train that would take us to Margate. There, standing by the wall was a green iron machine resplendent with ornate cast lettering promising a bar of chocolate for a penny.

I had a penny; in fact I had my shilling pocket money in pennies, all 12 burning a hole in my pocket. The drawer for a coin was at eye height. I placed a penny in the tray and with a great heave forced the slide into the machine. I waited; nothing came. Mum called, "Alan, the train is coming.Quick, here."

I put my hand up the chute looking for my precious bar. It was empty, there was no chocolate and my penny was gone. I began to cry. The train roared into the station with a loud hiss of steam, smoke billowing, cries of the guard, porters running. Auntie dragged me away from the machine, much to my disgust and howls of disappointment. I was pushed into the carriage where I told Teddy how the machine was a cheat and had stolen my precious money. Mum tried to explain that, one day, rationing and the war would end and Fry's chocolate would be in every machine and shop.

When rationing did end, I bought my chocolate and had the special treat, which even now I sneak when no one is looking – a chocolate buttered sandwich. Don't tell the wife, though, she'll bang on about cholesterol. But I reckon a little bit of what you fancy does you good. Go on, try it.

Alan Moser-Bardouleau

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