Tourists and Courgettes

I'm pleased to report that it is not just the British who sometimes behave like a bunch of arrogant feckwits while on holiday. I've spent a bit of time lying in the sun down on the petite-cote since I've been back, trying to shake out the stress of being on overdrive in Rwanda for the last four months. By god I wish I'd taken a shotgun with me.

Hiding behind my sunglasses and my book (Joanna Blythman's superb 'The food we eat') with some serious tunage on my baladeur, my fellow tourists just looked like the overweight, sunburned, British scum that are familiar to anyone who has ever been to the Greek Islands or parts of southern Spain. Except these folks wore French football shirts, and spoke, rather shouted, in French. Meanwhile a banlieu outside Paris is ablaze. I wonder what the Senegalese make of these idiots. Does it put them off applying for a visa, or getting into an overcrowded pirogue and braving the atlantic for a chance at getting a job cleaning the floors for these people.

It was down on the petite-cote that I discovered my 'new favourite courgette recipe'. If you've ever eaten sunday roast chez jiffler then chances are you've tried one of my many sauteed courgette variations - chilli courgette, mushroom and courgette, cherry tomato and courgette in balsamic vinegar, courgette enema. All good. There is something I love about the humble courgette, it always seems to bring another taste dimension to a sunday roast, without looking out of place on the plate.

One sweltering lunchtime I found a charming little restaurant outside my hotel in Saly, where I enjoyed a seafood pasta lunch and good coffee overlooking the beach. It was quiet, and there were no interruptions from bumsters, prostitutes, or other tourists, so I decided to return for dinner that evening, satisfied that I could read my book alone and enjoy cracking the tops of a few bottles of Gazelle lager.

I'd tipped the waiter handsomely at lunchtime and was pleased to see his shift hadn't finished when I arrived for dinner. He made a small table available for me outside with a view of the waves and a pleasant breeze. The restaurant was almost empty, and the owner, a white Senegalese, came out to greet me cheerfully. After apologising for my wooly French, we exchanged a few pleasantries and set about discussing the menu. Sadly the steak was off, and I'd already had the recommended seafood pasta for lunch. Settling for Pork chops with a sauce of brie, sauteed potatoes and courgettes, I ordered a gazelle and took a brief wander onto the deck outside to examine the sea.

Returning to my seat, and cold frothy beer, I noticed the restaurant had started to fill with other pinkish foreigners. Older couples mainly, one couple accompanied by a twenty-something daughter who shot a look of bored resentment in my direction. Over in the bar area, a large and cheerful looking man settled himself alone into an overstuffed couch and set about lighting a cigar as fat as his fingers. He sported a magnificent moustache, bushy, handlebar-esque, the sort that makes wearing a motorcycle helmet very difficult. I imagined him as some sort of Jose Bove-type character, a man who enjoys his food, a fine wine, a well made cigar.

I was disturbed by a sort of light grunting from the ground nearby and leaned over the table to witness two cats rutting away energetically. I'd never seen cats on the job before and watched with curiosity for a few seconds chuckling into my beer. The man at the table adjacent stamped his foot and frightened the fornicating felines away. I looked up at his wife sitting across from me, shrugged and smiled "C'est tout naturel, eh?". She responded with something gutteral in French that was beyond my vocabulary. From the look on her face she didn't seem to find the situation at all amusing, and I exchanged raised eyebrows with the waiter.

My food arrived, and I stuck my knife into the pork. Tough. It served me right for ordering pork in a muslim country. Luckily the cheese was thick and rich enough to make up for this. Sauteed potatoes were competent, and the sauteed courgettes packed tightly into a small glass ramekin. Interesting... I tipped out the courgettes and scooped up a forkfull, and instantly - Courgettes, garlic, olive oil, thyme. Fantastic - why hadn't I thought of that before? Thankfully the chef had known in advance what my reaction would be and had given me too much in my little ramekin. Compliments indeed.

I looked up from my courgette epiphany and saw that the moustache had been joined my a young, slim Senegalese woman. No older than sixteen at best. I pondered if she were a relative, or friend, but was disabused of this by his wandering hands. My gourmet hero was just another tourist pervert, getting his rocks off on the cheap down on the petite-cote.

I finished my coffee and hit the hotel bar.

Roast chicken supper - with courgettes and thyme.

The French butcher in Yoff-Virage probably does the best meat in town. It is claimed that the chickens are Bresse, imported and bred locally. At five quid a pop, even at local prices, I doubt it, but the yellow-ish tinge to their flesh is enough to convince me that they've been brought up well, and I take a largish one for a sunday roast.

Ingredients:
(Use your common sense and the art of zen for quantities here. I always cook too much chicken, so I can graze off the carcass for a couple of days)
1 chicken, a good one. Organic if possible. Spend some money on this and make the most of it. £2.99 supermarket chickens are vile, pumped with fat and water, raised in shitty conditions, full of chemicals, and tasteless.
Roasting potatoes - Desiree, or King Edwards. Maris Piper is a good all rounder.
A big courgette, or a couple of small ones.
Some carrots.
Garlic
A lemon
Butter (unsalted)
Olive oil
About half an inch of fresh ginger root
Fresh coriander chopped.
Fresh or dried thyme
Colman's mustard powder
A large pinch of flour
Salt and pepper
Some wine, or Marsala for the gravy.

Roasting the chicken:
Let the chicken come up to room temperature and stuff its cavity with half of the lemon and a few cloves of garlic. salt and pepper. Rub butter or olive oil all over the bird, massaging it into the skin. Roast in a hot oven for 30 minutes breast side down under tin-foil, then invert it and cook it uncovered for the remaining time (depending on the weight of your bird...). Baste occasionally with the juices.

The potatoes:
Peel the potatoes and cut into two-bite sized chunks. Parboil until the edges are softening, then drain and return to the hob to dry for a couple of seconds. Mix a level table spoon of mustard powder with the same amount of flour, a pinch of salt and pepper. Place the lid back on the pan and gently shake until the edges of the potatoes are bashed and coated with the flour-mustard mixture.

Heat some olive oil in a baking dish, and when it is very hot, empty the potatoes in, shaking to coat in the oil. Bake with the chicken for 50mins to an hour, shaking the pan and turn the spuds occasionally. (If you have goose or duck fat, or perhaps beef dripping, this makes an even better alternative to olive oil).

The carrots:
Slice the carrots julienne style, and press the ginger through a garlic crush. Stir fry the ginger and carrots in olive oil for a couple of minutes before adding the chopped coriander and stir-frying a minute or two more. The carrots should still have some bite, and the colours of the coriander and carrots should still be bright.

Courgettes:
Dice the courgettes into cubes no larger than 1cm. Press the garlic. If using fresh thyme, strip the leaves from the branch and chop finely. With dried thyme, follow the same approach beach give the dried leave a good grinding in a pestle and mortar. Stir-fry the courgettes and garlic in olive oil for a few minutes until the courgette is softening and then add the thyme for a couple more minutes.

Gravy:
When the chicken is done, remove it from the roasting dish and leave it to rest for a few minutes. Place the roasting dish over a medium to high hob, and add a generous glug of red or white wine, marsala, cider... whatever you have. Heat until it starts to bubble a little, and use a flat whisk to bring the booze and the juices together. After reducing to your desired consistency, skim off any excess fat, and pass the gravy through a sieve before serving hot. Do not use flour or gravy browning. If I find out that this has been going on I will come round your house and give you a stinging slap on the back of the legs.

Marrakech part II.

Stepping out of the bar onto the street with our new friend, I turned to wink at the Count and warn him to keep his hand on his ha'penny. A paving slap the size of a toilet seat shattered on the pavement between us, and we both leapt back assuming a fighting stance (The Count had neglected to carry his usual walking cane, which would have offered us something of an advantage due to the eight inch blade concealed within its shaft). A cropped haired youth looked us up and down and laughed, before bending down to pick up brick-sized lumps of the paving slap. Two of his troglodyte friends followed suit and started lobbing the brick-grenades at another group of youths on the opposite side of the street. They returned fire and the Count and I beat a hasty retreat up the road. Rashid had disappeared.

Along the road we encountered the Chesterfield 'English Pub' and ducked inside to escape further cement bombardment. It was less of an English pub than a smartish hotel bar, serving pints of Moroccan brewed Flag Speciale with a soundtrack of expats and an unlimited supply of olives. Therein we relaxed and got quietly wasted, chugging back pints of flag. It was a long walk back to our respective riads, so we had one for the road, and made our way through a silent maze-like medina, where the only sounds where the rattle and scratch of hundreds of tramp-cats, the occasional murmur of a security guard reading his Koran in the darkness, and the thud of our feet on the cobbles.

Back to the food. I do strongly recommend trying a pastilla. Sort of a locally made flat pie resembling a large Eccles cake. The filling varies but often involves Chicken, egg and lemon, wrapped in a thin flakes of sweetened pastry dusted with icing sugar.

If you're looking for the best Tagines in the Medina I would stay away from the main tourist drag and find the filthiest, scariest looking shithole cafe you can. I can recommend a suitably wretched unnamed place: From the PLace Ben Yousef, head Northish through the Medina away from the leather souks. You'll pass a woman selling slices from a massive flat bread that resembles, and tastes like, a giant chapathi. There is a bit of street that smells of drains, and then directly ahead, where the street bears right, you will see a group of old men sitting around smoking, and a young chap with a grill and a dozen tagines chuntering away. Before you take a plastic chair you may encounter an aggressive alsatian dog, who responds promptly and respectfully to a sharp kick in the neck. Order a tagine and see what comes. I had a beautifully herby and tender lamb tagine which set me back about £1.50. Don't drink the water - it smells vile. A boy will run out and get you a bottle of lemonade or something for a small tip. Don't worry, its not a hive of scum and villainy - its all very friendly. Keep an eye on that dog though.

I did have something of a jam-related epiphany while staying at my Riad. Each morning I looked forward to our breakfast selection of jams. Not for the Moroccans the jellified, oversweetened petri-dish muck beloved of many British and Continental Bed and Breakfasts (an easy way to judge the standard of a British hotel is to inspect its preserves), proper compote-like jams - of figs, oranges and strawberries, unctious, almost drinkable, served in bowls with marvellous slightly chewy flatbreads. My mouth is watering at the mere thought of tearing apart the flatbread and ladling on a glossy vin rouge-coloured dollop. Watching as the pockets of air within the bread take up the sweet preserve, before wolfing it, greedily, with sticky fingers and chin.

Enough food porn. I'm thinking of getting into jam making at some stage. Sadly, here in Dakar tis the season for Watermelons, which I doubt will make good jam. Indeed, after the first slice of watermelon one has had enough and wonders what to do with the rest of the basketball. Mrs Jiffler has the perfect solution, and we're off to the roof of an office block downtown where, on a quiet day (perhaps during Friday prayers), you can drop your unwanted melons 18 stories onto the pavement below. They make a feck of a lot of mess I can assure you, especially if you get a bit of spin on them. I've heard rumours that the US Embassy downtown is building higher fortifications around its premises in the event of a watermelon catapult being employed in anger. I reckon a decent sized melon could take down a helicopter, so any Saigon-style evacuation would be thwarted.

A jiffling hiatus

Yes, yes... its been about 6 months since the last post, but I've been in Rwanda: the land of a thousand hills, with work. Rwanda is also known in the jiffler household as the land of a thousand mediocre meals. This otherwise fine country was after all the scene of the goat'n'chip omlette, served to a bleary eyed Monsieur et Madame Jiffleur prior to a trek through the bush in search of gorilla action. I haven't forgetten about that, oh no.

Now back in Dakar, its time to renew-things blogwise. I've feck all else to do until the next contract, so this should keep me out of trouble (thinks Mrs Jiffler).

Hmm. we'll see.

Anyhow, I've accidentally imbibided the spirit of Hunter S Thompson while I've been away, so forgive me if some or all of the blog is made up gonzo bollocks. It will only get worse as things proceed. There will still be recipes, but they will be gonzo recipes. OK?

Back in Senegal things are different to Rwanda - the Francophones hung around here and didn't play nasty games with the lives of innocents. There are nice beaches here, so Jacques and friends have bought up the best stretches, and withered ballbag-like French matriarchs can now enjoy front row deckchairs on the sand.

On the plus side, this means the restaurants outshine our friends in the Great Lakes region. There is good bread, an abundance of seafood, and mayonnaise with your frites. Tres Bon.

But before that even, there was a trip to Marrakech, for a neb around the souks and some general loitering in the Djemma el fna. A certain distinguished Count Parker accompanied me on this particular trip, and it was non-work related I'm pleased to say.

A talentless chef swine once said that Moroccan food was the 'fourth of the three great world cuisines'; the three being French, Italian, and Chinese (honestly, if I ever meet said chef I shall set about his hands and face with a stale baguette). I'll concede that Moroccan food does have a certain something though, if you can find your way around the blanded-out tourist slop and ubiquitous pizza margherita. Better still though, Morocco is a great place for eating, rather than just the food.

Sitting on the top floor of the Cafe de France in the grand place Djemm el fna, watching the ebb and flow of the masses in the market area below more than makes up for chewy beef brochettes. Snake charmers charm, little feckers with manky monkeys on strings creep up on, and scare the living shit out of tourists, and everything is for sale... you want hashish? Hashish my friend, very good hashish, best hashish, good price for you my friend. Hashish?

Or perhaps a supper in the place itself? If you're not brave enough to pop a sheep's eye ball in your mouth, or even work your way through the whole head, you can scuttle over to stall number 114 of the many identical food stalls. There, the tout speaks some Welsh, enjoys watching Only fools and horses, and (if he is to be believed) is the love-child of Jamie Oliver and a Berber. Make your own dirty minds up. It'll be in Heat magazine next week no doubt.

Stall 114 serves up an array of cheapo dishes. Order all your bits separately - roasted sweet peppers with a dash of crunchy sea salt is worth ordering twice, between little bowls of spicy sausages, aubergine, squid, and tomato salad. These were shared with the Count while we watched tourists and touts fight it out in the grand place. I'm amazed by the ability of the touts to determine the nationality 9 out of 10 of the tourists walking past, and then call out to them in their native tongue. The count and I mused on this for a while, but I'll save our conclusions for the pub.

Ah yes, the pub. There we find the fundamental flaw in Marrakech's nightlife. Unless one wishes to go to some of the finer hotels to sit with the tourists and the occasional braying expat shite (I can spot my own kind a mile off), there is little choice but to enter into a sort of grotty tobacco stained underworld of sullen-looking middle aged Moroccan gentlemen in grey anoraks and dirty moustaches. The Count and I entered one such establishment, chests out, with an eye on the exit. We were left in peace for the first half of a rather violent local football match on TV, before being accosted by one of the moustaches at half time. After three bottles of Stork lager my bad French is pretty appalling, and the Count merely nodded and muttered 'Oui' occasionally, while maintaining the air of an aristocrat.

Our new friend, Rashid, was a friendly sort, if a little inebriated. He earned his beer money by fixing the many pinball machines to be found in Marrakech. After some messy communication and the appropriate hand signals, he offered to take us to a nearby club where there is belly dancing of the sort where you can both look and touch. The Count is the sort of chap who couldn't possibly be seen dead in such a place, and I've had to fight my way out of such places in the past.

So we agreed to go.

Guilty Pleasures…

Despite my usual moral high ground stance to food, there is the odd thing that slips through the net. These guilty fixes of trashy processed crud that would normally be met with a cynical barracking, and some half baked theory about why they spell the end of civilisation as we know it etc.

For some reason, and only when I’m abroad, I have this weird penchant for La Vache qui rit – also known as the laughing cow cheese: http://www.lavachequirit.com/la-vache-rouge/fr/accueil.html Each little cheese comes individually wrapped in a foil triangle, rather like those filthy little Dairylea triangles that we get in the UK. I really have no excuse for eating this rubbish, back home I would have recoiled in horror at the disc-shaped cardboard boxes, but here for some reason, the cheerful cow draws me in, and I find myself standing in front of the fridge at 5pm stuffing one of the salty little triangles into my mouth, rather like a boy who has just got in from school.

Next up are Biskrem. These where recently recommended to me by a Canadian friend, and I’ve subsequently noticed that you seem to be able to buy them all over town. What my Canadian friend didn’t warn me about was that Biskrem contain a secret ingredient which seems to be more addictive than crack cocaine.
http://www.ulker.com.tr/ulkerportal/en/products/product_group/default.cfm?id=39&sayfa=11

Biskrem are a sort of sugary cookie, filled with chocolate cream. They have the advantage of not melting in the heat here, while providing a fairly legitimate crunchy chocolate fix. A packet of these boys won’t last a day in our house. I was going to take a photograph of a packet to post online, but by the time I got to the fridge it was gone…

P.S. Is it me or is the new blogger/google relationship more trouble than its worth? I can't seem to log in smoothly, and my dashboard comes up in French, even though I have set it to English... comments / recommendations for alternative sites welcome please!

Delights of Dakar...

Sometime ago, I think it was in 2001 or 2002, I was badgering various mates to come and see Senegalese Afro-rhumba group Orchestra Baobab play in London. There wasn’t much interest, and I was a bit disappointed not to go in the end. It never occurred to me that my next encounter with the group would be sitting having lunch with singer and founder member Rudy Gomis, chewing the fat about premiership football.

Anyhow, I won’t turn this into a music blog – it would probably end up with me in court after getting carried away and revealing which one of the surviving Beatles I’d like to chase around a warehouse with a shotgun. Go to: http://www.orchestrabaobab.co.uk/ and see what you think is all I’ll say.

Anyhow, this is food related. Last night Mrs Jiffler and I were invited to celebrate the Dutch Queen’s Birthday at the Dutch Ambassador’s residence downtown. I realise this sounds slightly ridiculous, but for those uninitiated into expatriate life, the birthdays of our royal rulers are often marked with rather lavish ambassadorial functions. Our own Queen’s Birthday Party is due in June I think, were I will be gathering with other Brits, selected Europeans and Americans, and the great and the good of Senegalese society to drink free champagne all night and talk rubbish in the Ambassador’s garden. What a fine use of taxpayer’s money.

Our Dutch cousins put on a good spread – the aforementioned Orchestra Baobab were the house band, and there was some amusing Dutch art. The food though… well whoever came up with the ‘Food Design’ concept is probably still recovering. Check out their food art website here: http://www.proefrotterdam.nl/proef_nederlands/proef.html

Fun though it was to eat bits of sausage from long bendy forks stuck into the lawn, or strawberries from spoons gaffer taped to the wall, I spent much of the evening wondering where I could stop for some food on the way home, and was rather pleased when waiters came round with cones of chips and mayonnaise later in the evening.

I’m glad to be back in the unreal world again anyway. I was almost getting comfortable back home.

All the Coque you can eat.

Fnar, fnar. Yes the French for cockle is indeed ‘Coque’. This causes untold amusement and hilarity at the dinner table as we tuck into a tray full of coque. The French left something of a gourmet legacy here in Dakar, which has endured since independence. Many of the pretensions that the French insist on attaching to food have been discarded in favour of a more simplistic approach – and I’m all for that.

So for roughly a quid fifty, four of you can pick at a massive tray of cockles served with a squeeze of lime. Or perhaps oysters might be more interesting, picked fresh that day and served with shallot vinegar, some of them are almost too big to slip down the throat. What else have I tried here… lobster, cuttlefish, sea bream, grouper, sardines, monkfish… I’ve got my eye on some sea urchins at one place as well, although I’ve no idea how you eat them.

What else… A bakery on every corner, nice cakes, imported European cheese (although no British cheeses, I shall have a word), a lovely, albeit expensive butchery. I don’t think I’ll have too many problems keeping the jiffler updated here, unless I spend too much time eating out…

Senegalese Food:

It’s a good job I like fish. Mrs Jiffler has already given a fairly comprehensive overview of the most popular national dishes in her February ‘Senegrub’ blog. I would add the rather marvellous Daxine (pronounced ‘Dahcheen’, with the ‘ch’ sounded as in ‘loch’) to Mrs Jiffler’s list as this is my current favourite. It consists mainly of a porridgy rice stew, with small bits of beef and spices. It tastes a bit similar to steak and kidney pudding, which might explain its appeal.

I’ve been eating Senegalese food pretty much everyday at the Baobab Centre (http://www.acibaobab.org/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=18&Itemid=31) where I am currently learning French. Eating here is a very social activity where one digs into a communal bowl with fingers or a spoon. With any luck I’ll get the health benefits of eating plenty of fish. Unfortunately, in many places in Senegal there is a tendency to use a strongly flavoured, salty, stock cube called ‘jumbo’. Its used in lots of dishes and I think many Senegalese are addicted, and perhaps so will I in a few months time…

One more thing, of all the fast food chains that could set up shop in Dakar… No golden arches, no KFC, no BK, Steers or Wimpey… Dakar’s global franchise is none other than Nandos…

An alternative houmous, and some ranting.

I’ve a love-hate relationship with Houmous. I love eating it, dipping crusty bread, pitta, vegetables or even fingers into a bowlful. Though I prefer to make my own, which is a pretty straightforward task, I’ll even admit to occasionally buying a plastic pot from the supermarket and munching the whole lot in one go.

The supermarket stuff, or at least the more upmarket products, can be a reasonable approximation of the real deal – quite unlike their cousin on the dip shelves, the so called ‘taramasalata’. Supermarket ‘taramasalata’ comes nowhere near the strong flavour and grainy texture of the real thing. The only satisfaction I can imagine one could possibly gain from a tub of this muck would have to involve catapulting it at the windscreen of one of those black tinted Range Rover-type vehicles which seem to be de rigeur with the bottom feeding Thatcherite pigs that live in my particular part of England. Thwack-splat, and a satisfying pink smear. Its hard to pull off the minor celebrity / drug dealer look with fishy pink jizz clogging up the wipers.

The ‘hate’ side of my relationship with houmous largely stems from its ubiquity in gatherings of young middle-class types. I don’t know how many times I’ve been given a plastic pot of houmous, with a few bits of carrot, as a starter when at social functions. I’ve no problem with eating shop-bought desserts (in fact bring on the Viennetta and tinned peaches), or eating houmous in a sort of pre-dinner ‘nibbles’ capacity, but plonking down a tub of houmous as a part of your meal? What can we expect next, fish fingers and oven chips? McCain’s Pizza in the shape of dinosaur feet?

I know of one person who thinks that serving a tub of houmous, and maybe some ‘sour cream and chives’ (what the feck sort of baby food is that exactly?) actually constitutes a meal worth inviting people round for. I have promised myself that if this person ever comes to dinner at my place I will insist on starting with chilli roasted pig trotters or something equally glorious. Then I’ll fire up the taramasalata cannon and we can go and have some fun in Tesco’s car park.

Anyhow, where was I? Yes, houmous – easy to make at home. I had a tin of butter beans that needed seeing off in the cupboard, so I thought I’d knock out an alternative non-chickpea houmous. Something a bit special to dip your finger in when you find yourself on a midnight fridge-raid.

Mint, Lime and Butterbean Houmous.

1 tin of butterbeans
1 Lime
Extra virgin olive oil
Small handful of fresh mint leaves
1 large tablespoonful of tahini
Big juicy clove of garlic, or two.
Pinch of cayenne pepper
Salt to taste.

Rinse the butterbeans and place in a blender. Add the garlic, tahini, cayenne pepper and mint. Squeeze in the lime and add enough olive oil to provide enough lubrication for the mixture to blend steadily. Pulse the blender until you have the desired consistency (I prefer mine quite coarse), adding more oil if the mixture needs it. Add salt to taste, but I doubt it will need any.

This tastes great straight away, but will benefit from a few hours, or overnight, covered tightly, in the fridge. It should last up to two days in the fridge.

Serve with a drizzle of extra virgin olive oil, and some warm pitta bread – or whatever nibbles you prefer.

Far Eastern Curry

A quickie curry/soup thing.

(zen quantities, this will make about two bowls of curry)
Two chicken breasts (I used some port escalopes in mine, for something a bit different), cut into strips.
Egg noodles
200-300ml of coconut milk.
About two large ladles of chicken stock
Nam Pla
Groundnut oil
Tsp of sugar
A couple of cherry toms, halved and some mange-tout
Maybe some spinach leaves if you fancy

For the curry paste:
A couple of small red chillis
Two blades of lemongrass
Large pinch of Cumin
A large shallot
Two cloves garlic
Two limes
Tsp of paprika
Handful of fresh coriander leaves.

To make the curry paste, chop and deseed the chilli and place in a blender, add the spices, coriander leaves, garlic and the chopped shallot. Peel off the hard outer layer of bark from the lemongrass, and cut off the thinner part of the stem (this can sit in your curry, for extra flavour while it cooks), add to the blender. Grate the rind of one of the limes into the blender, then add the juice from both limes. Blitz into a coarse-ish paste and set aside.

Heat the groundnut oil in a pan and add the chicken/pork. Stir-fry for half a minute and then add the curry paste and the toms and mange-tout. Stir quickly to heat through and release some of the lovely fresh aromas. Then add the coconut milk, chicken stock, a healthy slosh of nam pla, and a pinch of sugar. Let this chunter away for about 10 minutes, being careful not to let it boil too vigorously, as this can cause the coconut milk to separate. Add the spinach if you like, and cook for another 2 minutes.

While the curry is cooking away, cook the egg noodles according to the packet. Drain and drop the noodles into the bottom of some bowls. To serve, pour the curry over the noodles and add a leaves of coriander to garnish.

Mayonnaise

I enjoyed some cookery chat with friends at a recent meal at the Mogul in Hemel. It transpired that folks are fans of mayonnaise, but are buying the stuff in a jar. Its OK for convenience I guess, and sometimes can taste pretty good, but take a look at all the weird stuff on the label… what the hell(mans) is all that about? Can I use it to clean the oven?

Making mayonnaise is easy once you’ve done it once. You can make interesting garlicy varieties, and its much more satisfying to sit down to a salad, or smoked salmon, or a sandwich made from bits picked off Sunday’s chicken, when it comes with lashings of your own homemade aioli.

Jiffler Senior’s recipe

This is a rough approximation of my Dad’s recipe. He is a mayonnaise demon and won’t touch the stuff in a jar. All the ingredients should be at room temperature, otherwise you will have all manner of splitting and fiddling.

1 egg yolk
Groundnut or olive oil (or a combination) about 150-200ml
About a tablespoon of white wine vinegar
Half a teaspoon of Colman’s mustard powder
A healthy pinch each of salt and pepper

Beat the yolk with the salt and pepper in a a round bottomed bowl, add a drop of the oil and whisk it in, keep doing this, drop by drop, slowly whisking, building up to a steady trickle of oil – keep whisking throughout (its good to have a bit of help with this). Once the mixture is of a thick, wobbly consistency, whisk in the mustard and the vinegar (which should lighten the colour).

A garlicy alternative

Beat in some crushed garlic before the oil goes in. You could substitute the vinegar for lemon juice here.

If it all goes wrong, and the mayonnaise splits, don’t panic. Start again by adding another egg yolk to a clean bowl, and slowly add your previous mix, with addition oil if necessary.

Comments

I know, I know, I've been slacking again... Thanks for the comments and emails so far folks. Its a real pleasure to see that people are trying out and - hopefully - enjoying some of the recipes on jifflings. Feedback and recipe ideas are always welcome.

3s – you were right about the Roquefort and crackers. Like Stilton and many other blue cheeses it is best enjoyed with a sweeter digestive style of biscuit. My personal preference would be with McVities digestives, but the Hovis brand, and M&S digestives are good as well.

Roquefort salad

I’m in the butcher’s with D from work, stocking up after a weekend away. At the cheese counter my eye wanders from my usual Cambozola to a rather inviting looking half round of Roquefort, and before I know it there is a slab sitting on the scales looking ripe and pungent.

On my walk home from the office I muse upon one of my favourite food memories. About seven years ago, I was in Paris having a miserable time trying to understand a relationship that was breaking down there and then, in what is supposed to be the world’s most romantic city. After a morning earful of venom, reciprocated with vicious sarcasm, I struck out on my own to wander around a gloriously sunny Paris. At Beaulieu I stopped at a cheap bistro for lunch - a Roquefort salad and large carafe of rose wine. The meal had a rustic simplicity and beauty, and I found that I could suddenly articulate what was slowly occurring to me that morning walking around Paris – that everything was just beginning, not ending. The vino might have helped a bit as well.

I had a go at recreating that salad. Got somewhere near, but it has been seven years:

Roquefort Salad:

Ingredients (zen as usual – the quantities below will feed a hungry bloke):
100g of Roquefort cheese
A handful of walnut halves, bashed up.
A small shallot
A few handfuls of watercress
Mustard (you can get away with French mustard here, but colmans will do the job as well)
White wine vinegar
Extra virgin olive oil
Butter
A small pear (conference seem to be good at the moment)
Some cherry tomatoes, halved.
Black pepper (you don’t need salt as the cheese is pretty salty)

Toast the nuts in the oven to bring out some of the sweetness, and set aside.

Slice the pear in eighths and sauté gently in the butter for five minutes or so until they are colouring slighty.

While the pears are cooking, roughly chop the watercress and toss in a bowl with about 80g of broken up Roquefort (save the remaining 20g to have on crackers after the pub one night) and the cherry tomato halves.

To make a dressing, press the small shallot through a garlic crusher, and mix with a healthy slosh of olive oil and vinegar. Mix in about half a teaspoon of mustard and a grinding of black pepper.

Remove the pears from the pan and drain quickly on kitchen paper. Toss while still hot with the watercress salad, nuts and the dressing so that the cheese is melting slightly.

If you’re entertaining you might want to tidy things up a bit by layering the ingredients on the plate, and thinning out the dressing a bit so that it can be more successfully ‘drizzled’ on the plate. Either way - serve with copious amounts of wine.

A weekend in Wales.

I know, I’ve been slacking again, but its been a week or so of quick bites and general business. There was a nice warming bowl of chilli last week, but chilli is chilli.

A weekend back in Wales is more promising. My favourite chef is Jiffler Senior, and we’re having a few guests this week so he will no doubt be trying something daft out on us.

Arriving home after a day working in Cheshire we sat down to a huge plate of spaghetti carbonara – cooked fairly classically – which barely touched the sides. The mushrooms had dried out a bit and gave the carbonara sauce a bit of intensity.

The main event came on Friday night though with five mouths to feed. Despite feeling slightly battered by bad weather in Snowdonia, we got a bit creative in the kitchen and started by blanching shredded celeriac before mixing it with a thin, homemade, garlicy mayonnaise. The flavours here were remarkably subtle, and sat beautifully with ribbons of quality parma ham.

The main course was an altogether more robust outing. A combination of a French recipe stolen from Rick Stein, and given a Tuscan twist by the younger Jiffler. It started as a basic ragu-type sauce thickened by cooking very slowly with lamb shoulder and a generous amount of red wine. This was then left overnight, before the addition of a couple of tins of lima beans and some gentle heating. At the last moment we stirred in some finely chopped garlic and parsley and served it up with giant penne, to much critical acclaim.

I was somewhat disappointed that the traditional cheese and biscuits had to make way for some posh ice cream with crushed up almond biscuits.

A visit to Wales means a night out in Bangor on Saturday with 3s. This time we have the pleasure of our friend H, who has travelled down from Manchester to celebrate getting a new job.

These night outs always follow an amusing arc, bending towards drunken oblivion on a slippery dance floor, and Saturday was no exception. The Fat Cat is fully booked, so we take a chance at getting a table in the Harp. Previously I’ve praised the Harp as having the finest pub food in Bangor. Since then its been taken over by new management, who it seems have stripped the love and creativity out of the menu.

The three of us order burgers, with 3s opting for the ‘Mega burger’. They arrive huge, and freshly cooked. The mega burger is not so much a burger as a mixed grill in a bap, with burger, bacon, cheese, egg, onion rings, and a live octopus all spilling out on to the plate.

The company is good, and the conversation irreverent and intelligent. The food was sufficient to provide fuel for the next 8 hours of drinking without us feeling too greasy, but the Bangor pub grub crown has been snatched back by the Fat Cat.

Mrs Jiffler's Blog

Mrs Jiffler has finally entered the blogosphere:http://seneblog.blogspot.com/

She's in Dakar, and will be keeping us posted on all things Senegalese. I'm rather concerned that she's been surviving on a diet of donuts though... I should be joining her soon to sort this out.

She reckon's Experimental Jifflings is 'Wacky'. Clearly she can't identify gonzo food writing when she sees it.

Rabbit and Chorizo Risotto

No actual rabbit bits in this recipe, but the stock from Christmas eve’s feast provides enough of the flavour to make this risotto a bit different:

Ingredients:
(once again, this is a zen operation – adapt depending on how many you’re cooking for)

Rabbit stock (if you don’t have much you can top it up with white wine, or water)
Risotto rice – I used carnaroli this time
A small onion, or shallot, chopped
Chorizo sausage, chopped into half slices (semi-dry is fine, or fresh if you can get it)
A pinch of cayenne pepper – if using a mild chorizo, otherwise you can leave this out
A bit of courgette, finely sliced.
A bit of butternut squash chopped up into small cubes.
A healthy chunk of butter
Grated parmesan cheese

Heat the butter and start frying the onion and the chorizo. Once the onion has softened and the chorizo is imparting a bit of colour to the butter, throw in the rice and let it coat in the butter. Add the squash and spices and stir a few times.

Add the stock in a bit at a time with a ladle, stirring gently and allowing the rice to soak up the liquid before adding more stock. Keep doing this until the rice is fat and tender. About halfway through, throw in the courgettes and stir. At the end, add the parmesan, and stir it in until it is melted and creamy.

I had a pleasant surprise with this risotto, as the squash disintegrated slightly and became part of the stock, giving a creamy texture and a sweet flavour which was very more-ish in the same way as a good rice pudding. With this in mind, I enjoyed eating this out of a bowl with a spoon…

Duck with quick orange sauce

Asdas in town is knocking out two decent sized duck legs in a plastic box for £2.10. Normally I’m fussy about meat in plastic boxes, but this semi-bargainous treat appeals to me on some level. Its in the basket and through the checkout before I have chance to think it through.

Anyhow, it seems appropriate as a Friday supper, and as the oven warms up I scan the fridge for something to put alongside them. Mash seems like the obvious choice, with the remains of the wholegrain mustard thrown in, and I decide to get a bit cheeky with a lo-fi orange and ginger sauce made from orange juice out of the carton.

The meal satisfies, but the oven is being a temperamental shite. For some reason its only cooking at furnace–like temperatures, so all of the fat that I’m collecting as it runs off the duck is burning, producing acrid smoke that fills the kitchen and makes my eyes water. The skin crisps up nicely but the meat remains partly cooked on the inside and requires all manner of fussing and re-timing. I’m beginning to suspect that the oven is haunted by the ghost of a miserable old bastard.

The recipe is as follows:
Two duck legs (one each will just about do, or two if you’re hungry like me)
Spuds
Orange juice
Ginger
Sugar
Salt and pepper
Butter
Milk
Colman’s Wholegrain Mustard
An obedient oven.

Rinse out the duck legs and pat them dry with kitchen paper. I like to rub them with some salt before they go in the oven on about 190 degrees (or about 600 degrees in my oven). I like to cook them directly on the oven rack, placing a terracotta dish or similar vessel on the rack underneath to collect the fat as it runs out (don’t put this on the bottom of oven as you will have all sorts of problems with burning). The fat is good for roast potatoes in the same way as goose fat, or if you’re feeling decadent one Sunday morning, you can use it to fry eggs.

Those with well-behaved ovens can leave the legs for about 40 minutes, or until the juices run clear, as they say. Its worth keeping an eye on the collected fat, perhaps emptying it into a jar once or twice to stop it smoking.

Mash is as per usual, but I recommend the addition of wholegrain mustard to this one for a little bit of heat.

To make the lo-fi orange sauce, peel a piece of ginger – about half as big as your thumb, and press it through a garlic crush. Pour a large glass of orange juice into a small frying pan, add the ginger and a couple of large pinches of sugar. Over a low heat allow the mixture to gently reduce, stirring occasionally until you are left with fragrant syrup of a gravy-like consistency.

Lay the duck legs on top of the mash and pour over the orange sauce. You could pop a few steamed green beans, or peas on the side if you feel like it.

So-so Sushi

Its been a week of random ‘Do you fancy a pint?’ moments, which is always good. An invitation to half price sushi and some beers in London with a couple of old mates from Guyana appeals, despite meaning a school night trip into London.

Meeting in the Porterhouse in Covent Garden, M and I discuss our latest culinary experiments and failures. M was famous for his shark curry, and as the inventor of the pink Russian cocktail. I’ve been meaning to do his Basque chicken for a while. K joins us for another couple of pints of Porterhouse red and we move on to Yo Sushi near Trocadero for a bite to eat.

Yo Sushi currently has a half price meal offer that requires you to print out a personalised voucher from the internet. M goes under the name of ‘Sinclair Le Geyt’, while K and I play safe with our real identities.

I’ve enjoyed Japanese food before, and rather like the whole conveyor belt experience. M and I order a jug of Sake, which is hot. creamy and smooth, but goes down as quick as my first coffee of the morning. A mistake that became apparent the following morning.

The busy conveyor belt brought an array of colourful dishes, which went beyond my limited Japanese food vocabulary. I tucked into a few plates of sushi, sashimi, hot fried rice, and those funky little rice rolls with sesame seeds on. I probably hit the wasabi and ginger a bit more than I should have, but nevertheless enjoyed a bit of variety and watched the assembly line at work.

Not sure I would have been too pleased with my bill if I was paying full price mind. My appreciation of Japanese restaurants and sushi in general is partly down to the generally calm arrangement of things and a sense of artistry in the food. Yo Sushi was sadly lacking on these fronts, as we watched the mass prepared fish portions being assembled in front of us, along with plenty of nudging and shouting from the staff.

Post nosh we retired to a nearby pub populated mostly by theatrical types. A couple of pints of Timothy Taylor’s slipped down easily in good company, and the train back to Hemel passed by without anybody eating a smelly burger in my carriage.

Cookie Monsters

There was some cookie experimentation on Sunday afternoon. Normally cakes and cookies are Mrs Jiffler’s area of expertise, and I stay out of the way until my services are required in ‘testing’. Mrs Jiffler makes great smarties cookies, much better than the weirdly chewy ones you get ‘fresh’ from the supermarket.

There is a recipe in the Guardian for ‘Customised Cookies’ by some chap I’m unfamiliar with. Normally I would skip over this sort of recipe, and head for the restaurant reviews (cue much swearing and shaking of head as yet another restaurant in South London with parsnip crisps and cauliflower foam on the menu gets an above average review), but this time the Guardian has opted for a very sympathetic photo of said customised cookies, and I imagine myself standing in a sweet smelling kitchen wearing my apron and shaking a tray of cookies, looking very pleased with myself.

The recipe is as follows (I’m sure the Guardian won’t mind…):

(measurements aren’t zen this time. I think you have to be a bit more precise with this sort of thing)
125g unsalted butter
100g unrefined granulated sugar
75g light muscovado sugar
1 egg
2 tsp vanilla extract
150g plain flour
half tsp baking powder
pinch of salt
100g extras – chocolate chunks, raisins, dried fruit, nuts etc etc.

Melt the butter and pour over the two sugars in a mixing bowl. Beat together, then break in the egg and the vanilla flavour. Beat again, then add in the flour, baking powder, salt and the extras, and mix.

Drop dessert spoonfuls of the mixture on a baking tray lined with baking paper, leaving lots of space for them to expand (lots of space – they go massive!), and bake at 190 for about 10 mins or so. Let them cook so they harden up – although I can guarantee that you’ll have at least half of one in your gob already…

My extras where 50g-ish of white chocolate chunks, 50g-ish of dried cranberries, and most of the zest of one lemon. The smell in the kitchen was great – soft and sweet and very appropriate for a Sunday (later giving way to roast chicken, then chicken stock). I even left the flat for a minute to take the bin out just so I could come back in and smell it fresh again.

Although a bit soft in the middle, the cookies came out well. The flavours were nicely in tune, although I felt they were a bit too sweet for my tastes (I have to add water to fresh orange juice in the morning otherwise it’s a bit too sweet…). I thought I’d take a few in to work the following day to get the opinion of a few colleagues.

Said colleagues set about the cookies like they were going out of fashion, and a general thumbs up was awarded, along with significant pressure for a repeat performance…

Well I suppose I’ve got some leftover cranberries to use up…

Latest Carrot Fad

Mrs Jiffler is currently in Mauritania, being generally jammy, and hopefully enjoying the privileges of our work by having a good neb around the Parc National Du Banc D’Arguin (an important wetland and stopover for migrating birds). Despite being stuck in Hertfordshire, I’m still in the habit of doing a solo Sunday roast, partly for the fun of it, and partly because it means I can use up the stock and leftovers for my lunch and tea for the next few days. This Sunday seemed an appropriate day to do a roast as a walk in the hills around the town had given me an appetite. It was the music monthly magazine in the Observer as well, which I enjoy cynically flicking through in the kitchen while waiting for the oven to warm up.

The purchase of the mini-wok from Lakeland (http://www.lakeland.co.uk/product.aspx/kitchenideas/potsandpans!10985) has brought a few changes to my usual Sunday roast routine. Carrots of course are an essential part of the deal with a roast, and I’ve played around with various ways of preparing them. With a roast dinner, the meat is obviously the main event, the reason for the whole show; while potatoes (and Yorkshire puddings) provide a balance of textures (crunchy on the outside, fluffy in the middle) and also a platform for a good gravy to work its magic. Green veg lend a veneer of healthiness to the meal, but would almost certainly be the first thing we’d sacrifice if we had to. Parsnips should always be used in moderation - its woody sweetness should be more of an occasional surprise rather than dominating the plate. The carrot’s role in the whole roast dinner medley should be to bring along a bit of glamour to the conservative sturdiness of the meal – an eye catching orange sunrise at one side of the plate.

Little mini carrots are very aesthetically pleasing when roasted with the green stalks just slightly trimmed, although I find this sort of thing can be a bit trendy. Once, when I was an undergraduate, I did some experiments growing carrots in pots, spacing them very close together without fertiliser. The resulting stunted carrots were about 3cm long and 4mm at the thickest part. With enough pots (occupying most of one corner of the massive university green houses) you had enough for a couple of good portions, quickly stir-fried, with your Sunday dinner. The flavour was immense, like being poked in the eye with a carrot.

Anyhow with this in mind, and the mini-wok in hand, I set about cutting up my carrot into matchstick sized bits, and stir-frying in olive oil with ginger, throwing in some coriander right at the end. It’s a marvellous way of bringing some new flavours into the Sunday roast and takes no time at all. It looks rather pleasing on the plate as well as the stir-frying really brings out the colours.

I’d recommend the mini-wok anyway. Perhaps through this blog I can do what Delia did in the 90’s for sales of Lakeland’s marvellous omelette pan. Its works marvellously and is ideal for doing side portions or quickie lunchtime stir-frying (I even cooked greek elephant beans in it once). Its handle is slightly too heavy though so you have to be careful it doesn’t tip over if using on a gas hob.

By the way, if you’re planning on making the rabbit casserole from the other week, keep the bones for a stock (you can freeze them, or make up the stock and freeze that). I’ve got a rabbit and chorizo risotto on the horizon for next week which may very well be worth a go.

Mid-January Crabcakes

Mrs Jiffler has just returned to Senegal, and I’m mooching a bit. I need cookery distraction, but can’t face going out in the rain to Asda as my back hurts as a result of a struggle against violent weather in the Brecon Beacons. An audit of the cupboard and fridge is uninspiring, but the discovery of a tin of white crab meat (when did I buy that?) at the back of the cupboard leads to the creation of these thai-style crab cake things:

Thai style crab cakes:

Ingredients:
(as usual, Zen measurements apply)

One baking potato
Some spring onions, finely chopped
A small red chilli, finely chopped
Nam Pla
Sesame seeds
Parsley, finely chopped
Butter
Flour
An egg
One small tin of crab meat (mine was 112g)

Bake the potato, then split and scoop the potato out of the skin. Use a tea towel to hold the potato otherwise you will burn your hands, and nearly drop the potato on the kitchen floor.

Let the potato cool a little, and mash in a knob of butter with a fork. Mix in the chilli, spring onion, the parsley, a teaspoon or two of nam pla, salt and pepper and the white of the egg.

Mix well and roll the mixture into little balls (two big ones will be good for a meal for one, or starter for two. I would roll into four small balls for a starter for two). Flatten these into burger shapes, and dust either side with flour and sesame seeds. Leave in the fridge for an hour or two to set.

Use an oiled griddle, or a non-stick pan to fry for five minutes or so on each side and serve with a dash of thai sweet chilli sauce and a salad (I reserved the potato skins and let them crisp up in the oven with some olive for a bit extra).

Happy New Year

Happy New Year! By now I should have made a few changes to Experimental Jifflings – I felt a bit of reformatting was in order to brighten things up a little. I’ve a vague New Year’s resolution to change the content a bit, by including more recipes as well as the usual ranting. Hopefully readers will enjoy some of the recipes as much as I have, and will maybe send feedback, or ideas for new things. It would be great for people to send me their favourite recipes so I can have a go and maybe publish them on the blog.

Anyhow – to catch up a little – Christmas came and went with the usual levels of overindulgence. Christmas Day was spent at the Ship and Shovel restaurant (a name easily satirised as I’m sure you can imagine) in Sleaford, Lincolnshire. I managed to dodge around the turkey options and ended up enjoying a juicy bit of pork. I’ve some admiration for the food in Lincolnshire – if you stay with British meat and two veg you’re generally in for a treat. Everyone was pretty satisfied in any case, and it was Christmas, so I won’t be a picky bugger (smoked salmon under heat lamps, packet salad, rubbery cheese, bah humbug etc).

We also managed to get through a goose while in Anglesey, which was a nice treat. Our starter of Langoustines really got me going though. Dad has managed to find some in Aldi, or Lidl, or one of those weird shops where you have to go on the right day to get the good stuff. The Scottish fishing industry depends heavily on langoustines, but sadly they are mostly exported to France, Spain and Italy, where they are prized and are a feature of many a menu. You rarely see them here, although the fishmongers at the Arndale market used to have them now and again.

They take no time at all to cook, in butter, garlic, and a bit of white wine and a squeeze of lemon. We tucked in at the table and enjoyed the ripping and rendering to get at the lovely sweet flesh inside. Chunks of crusty white bread mopped up the juices, followed by satisfied smacking sounds as we sucked our fingers clean.

Rewinding a little, Mrs Jiffler arrived back from Senegal on Christmas eve. With no plans to travel until Christmas morning, I spent a good chunk of the day preparing a very British supper of rabbit in cider. The smell that filled the kitchen while it was cooking immediately took me back to childhood winter visits to my Uncle Harry in Wigan, with my parents trying to fob me and my sister off that we were eating chicken. Likely story.

A recipe for Rabbit and Cider Casserole

Ingredients:
As always, quantities are approximate, and a zen approach to measurements should be adopted.

A rabbit, jointed with the bones left in (get the butcher to do this). About 1 kg in weight.
A bottle of cider (about 400 ml) – I used Bulmers as it was on offer.
A handful of shallots, sliced.
4 bay leaves
Some plain flour
Groundnut oil
A couple of parsnips
A couple of carrots
Two tablespoons of wholegrain mustard (Colman’s of course)
Salt and pepper.

Start off by cleaning the rabbit. A rinse under the tap should see off any excess bits of blood etc.

Place the rabbit in a bowl and add the cider, mustard, onions and bay leaves. Top up with water if required. (At this point I decided to resist the temptation to throw in some dry chorizo that was in the fridge – I decided to stay British, but you could easily take this in a more Mediterranean direction). Cover and leave overnight in the fridge.

Remove the rabbit joint, pat dry and toss in a little seasoned flour. Heat the oil in a frying pan and brown the joints. Pop the joints into a casserole dish with another large pinch of flour, add the chopped carrots and parsnips, and the marinade, then bring up to the boil on the hob.

Cover the casserole and bake for about an hour at 180. Season to taste and serve with mash and beer or cider.