The pie's the limit

Firstly, I've got some apologies to make.

To start with, I'm sorry about the title. Its corny and barely relevant to the content, but temptation got the better of me. Next, I'm sorry about the time lag between posts. This is purely down to morbid lethargy on my part, but hopefully I can make it better with the news that my last post "Baking Days" will be quoted as a testimonial in "Fork Magazine" as part of Aiden Chapman’s ongoing self-promotion. When I have the link I will post it on this blog. My last apology is that there will be a significant gap until the next post. Let me explain.

For my next post I intend to provide the definitive guide to Dorchester's take away menu. You might think this is a small task, but I will assure you to the contrary. The folk of Dorset love and cherish their food, and as a young, impoverished, public sector worker, I may well lack the money and time to eat out for lunch every day. I will try to keep the blog ticking over with small, punchy posts while I'm compiling this latest effort, but please bear with me.

Ok, that’s the admin out of the way and the loose ends tied up. This latest post is about my last project, the pork pie. I hope you enjoy it and as ever tell me what you think, I apologize to vegetarian readers, and make sure you forward my blog onto all your friends, colleagues, family, and any strangers you think might be interested.

Whether you relish its flavoursome jelly, or disregard the portly pastry, the pork pie has been an integral part of British cultural cuisine for centuries, so after I came across a recipe for traditional hot crust pastry pork pie how could I resist? If you aren't convinced a brief visit to Google might sway you. The two capitals of modern pork pie production today are Melton Mowbury, just outside of Leicester and Yorkshire. The former has had their method of making hand raised hot crust pastry protected by the EU, in the same way that champagne cannot be called by that name if it is not produced in that region, in a specific way. So next time you attend a wedding, birthday party or 50th wedding anniversary, and the bubbly gets flowing, think about this. In the eyes of the EU, the Melton Mowbury pork pie is just as worthy of your honour and respect. In fact in this vein, the Pork Pie Appreciation Society, who meet every week in the Old Bridge Inn, Yorkshire, have reported couples shirking their wedding cakes for tiers of pork pies!

This is part of a greater movement though, because not all of the pork pie's support is restricted to these extremes. Both Melton Mowbury and Yorkshire have clubs devoted to monitoring and rating the standard of pies from all around the country. Every year there is a national festival, where the best of the best are sampled, according to strict etiquette, and awarded based on their quality. This is taken very seriously, and if you expected regional bias toward the two centers, consider this; the current champion is Scottish. The tests are completely unbiased. The support group that exists in the North for this edible national symbol is obviously immense and it is good to see people bonded together by what started, two centuries back, as a convenient snack for fox hunters.

The manufacturing process is very interesting also. Essentially it falls into three fundamental parts of the pie; the stock, the meat and the crust. The stock must include pork trotters, split open, to release gelatin, so that when it is added to the pie, it will set into the jelly that is such a point of contention. Surely pork pie jelly must have been the forerunner to the love it/hate it marmite dilemma that we are everyday faced with now. In any case pork bones and trotters are boiled in water with a few spices, if so wished, for about three hours then the liquid is strained and reduced to a quarter of its volume. What the judges would be looking for here is a jelly that is firm, flavoursome and plenty of it. There should be a good layer within the pie. I found it best if you waited for the jelly to set entirely, scooped off the layer of rendered fat (perhaps for roast potatoes on Sunday), re-heated to its liquid form, then poured it into the pie, as I will come to later.

Next comes the meat filling, and again there is significant room for your own preferences. In Yorkshire they tend to go for more cured meats, preferring the hamminess of bacon, mixed with both lean and fatty pork. In Mowbury, however, the pie filling will typically have a grey-er colour, as the preference there is towards uncured meats. So play with the amounts of bacon, lean and fatty meat until you have found your own favorite. Texture counts too, so you might prefer to leave hunks of lean meat and mince the other two finely , as I did, or mince the lot, or have smaller chunks of all three. The official guidelines point towards the pie having full flavour, with plenty of seasoning, and a succulent moistness without being soggy. To prepare the meat, it is simply fried, ground up as desired, and mixed.

Thirdly, the pastry is where I found myself most out of my comfort zone. For me pastry is butter and flour, and requires delicate handling, with cool temperatures. Here there is none of that. A block of lard is melted into some water and left to boil. To this water and salt is added until a smooth dough ball is formed. This is then turned out onto a floured surface and kneaded before being rolled, bashed, pressed and all-round persuaded to fit into a tin. The pie shape is formed, the filling added and the top glazed. A hole the size of a pencil is left, while the pie is baked for about 1 1/2 hours. This is a concoction you can be rough with. There are no fiddly layers or worries about centigrade, what matters is the right amount of flour and that you don't let your pie look too much like its already been chewed by the dog. The judges want the right hot-crust "snap" and the a pastry that looks and is fairly robust. It was originally eaten on the move, and this heritage is preserved in the want for a hardy, prod proof shell.

Once baked the pie is left to cool for two to three hours and then the stock is poured in though the pencil sized hole in the top. The stock will later set as jelly where the filling has left gaps.

Now for my attempt. I went for big chunks of lean pork, and mined up bacon and belly pork and was pleased by my attempt at the pastry. The crisp snap that is so singular to the hot crust was clearly evident, and the thickness too was enough to stand up to a bit of abuse, but not enough to become cloying in the mouth. I would say that my filling could have done with more flavour, moisture and jelly, but as a first attempt I was very pleased. It went down exceedingly well with a little homemade apple chutney, embracing that long loved pairing of sweetness with the salty pork. I’ve pictured the result below so you can inspect it yourself.

This one however really took some time. As you can tell from the cooking times, things are done by the hour, not the minute and you really need to set aside an entire day. But on the other hand, the whole notion of the pork pie is bound up with time isn’t it? Its an edible of tradition, a throwback to the medieval banquet pies that pop up in Arthurian tales, but it has stuck stubbornly to its ways in modern times. No matter how supermarkets try to rip it off the pork pie will always have a dedicated support network to preserve it for future generations. Nothing like it is produced elsewhere in the world as well, so in that way, the pork pie is a timeless feature of British food. It’s not posh or fancy, just good hearty fare.

As ever, I hope I’ve informed and entertained you for a few minutes. Thank you for taking the time to read r3review and I’ll get the next blog out as soon as I can.

Jane Pettigrew's Crumpets

For quite some time now there has a book called "Jane Pettigrew's Tea Time" hanging around in the recipe book stack. Occasionally I would have a flick though with a mind to clearing out books that were never used, but this one is so sweet that I hadn't the heart. In my most recent attempt to remove some of the accumulated junk, I came across it again and fell to flicking through.
It really is a lovely book. It is now out of print and only available on Amazon's used site, but within its covers there are explanations of how to brew tea, a little social history of tea and recipes for the perfect high tea at any time of year. She covers sandwiches, cakes, bread, snacks, canapés, all the different types of tea, with a daintiness that is almost touching. In her chapter on sandwich she gives the reader suggestions for types for which types of bread and butter should be used with each filling, and whether or not the crusts should be left on or off. Jane is a strong advocate for tea time as "a restful, social occasion with the refinements of a pretty table cloth, napkins, fine china and a vase of flowers on the table", and continues to campaign through tea master-classes and her blog on www.worldteanews.com.
Her recipes include some real old favourites, the much lauded stuff of a past age. This book belongs really in a Beatrix Potter books or in Mr Jeeves' day case. Specifically, I was most exited about eccles cakes, cornish fairings, maccaroons, oat bread and crumpets. So I finally decided to get going and try one. After much agonizing I chose crumpets, because I have honesty never seen anything but a pre-packaged crumpet from Warburtons. In any case this isn't really something I'm into, so I decided to try it out for myself.
My first attempt was a bit of a disaster. I attempted the recipe with improvised crumpet rings, made from cut up baked bean cans, and this was a big mistake.The crumpets stick too much to the metal,m because it is ridged and there are far too many sharp edges for my liking. I've seen recipes on the internet using old tuna cans, with top and bottom removed, but I found pastry rings were the best. In addition to this I would advocate letting the batter rise four times rather than Jane's three times, as this makes for a far better bubbly crumb in the crumpet.

Ok here goes:
Ingredients
350g plain flour
dash of sugar
the smallest pinch of salt
25g fresh yeast (it would probably work with dried but I haven't tried)
425ml warm milk
150ml warm water
2 medium, beaten eggs

Makes about 20, depending on your rings.

Mix the dry ingredients together in a bowl. Dissolve the yeast in a little of the warm milk. Then whisk all ingredients together to form a smooth batter. Leave in a warm place for 30-45 mins. Go and watch some "Yes Minister" to get into the mood.

The mix should have a sort of foamy top to it now, if not move it to somewhere warmer and wait a bit longer. Once this top is achieved, grab the whisk again and knock it back down to size. Leave for 30 mins to recover the head, and repeat the process. Repeat twice more after this.

Heat a heavy frying pan over a medium hob with a little butter. Let it achieve a nice even temperature across the pan. Place your crumpet rings on the pan, leaving a little space for flipping them over and poking them around a bit. Make sure they are really well greased.
Spoon in your batter, perhaps two tablespoons per ring, depending on your rng size. Remember they will rise so don't over fill, after the fist couple you will find the right amount.

Let them cook for about 6-8 mins, until the batter is set, and bottom is nicely browned and big bubbles have broken the surface.

Once crumpets look thus, pop them out of their rings and flip them over. They will probably need some encouraging with a palate knife. Let the top brown slightly for 6-8 mins and let them cool on a rack.
Regrease the rings and repeat until all the batter is used up.

Tuck into your crumpets immediate, or save them till breakfast, either way make sure to toast them and eat them with unhealthy amounts of salted butter.




All in all, Jane Pettigrew opens a window through time, so we can view the accumulated habits of an imperial nation, come four o'clock in the afternoon. The daintiness with which it approaches its subject is something that is very rare in todays world and it is lovely to find literature of this ilk hiding in the clutter of our lives.

Heroes. Little chocolates, not Sylar.

Its mid January and resolves are beginning to break. The post- Christmas fitness regime means all that stashed Christmas chocolate is calling out from the box, a bit like The beating of Edgar Allen Poe's Tell Tale Heart. In this time of possible guilt and naughtiness, I thought I'd elevate the tone by adding to the already extensive criticism of those highly popular chocs, Cadbury's Miniature Heroes.
Just a quick Google search will show anyone interested, that I am embarking on a topic of much discussion and strong opinions upon which reputations have been shaken, grudges born and dreams shattered. On the monumental decision to change the composition of the selection away from the lighter chocolates, Cadbury's email box was crammed full of Dream devotees wailing in disgust and Eclair fans applauding them. All I hope to do in these few lines is venture my humble opinion.
There are always those in the selection who are the runts. The ones that are stuck at the bottom, after the searching fingers have gone through pleasure, to the point where any possible enjoyment to be had is just not worth the sickness and nausea. Typically these are the sicklier cremes. In Heroes, nothing changes. The Twisted disaster and the Dairy Milk Caramel are the weak points in the current selection on offer. Diary Milk Caramel might perhaps some hard core fans, but these are a splinter group, probably very much isolated in their familial groups, the black sheep in the herd. If anyone has any sense, they would cast down these two horrors to the bottom of the box. Lets be honest here, no one really wanted the creme egg. We bought it because of the "How do you eat yours?" advertising campaign, in hindsight the main appeal of the thing, started to eat it and decided to take the challenge and wade all the way through. With this in mind who would buy the Twisted candy bar? The advert clearly isn't any good, probably giving little kids nightmares and boring the rest of us, and the thing itself is far too sweet, with too much creme and not enough chocolate. Why on earth then do they make them smaller and hide them in Heroes boxes? Clearly they launched the full size bar with high expectation mid-2009, and then had a vast amount of left over creme come Christmas. It doesn't even fit into the name, Heroes. That crap television advert clearly portrays a villain, a monster, a mutant.
Compared to this the Caramel is merely a snickering sidekick. Here my objection is that the caramel withing the chocolate is not caramel, as i know it. For me caramel oozes, whereas this is far too fluid. More importantly, caramel should taste and look like slightly burnt sugar, a deep amber, that hides under thick chocolate in a millionaires shortbread. Here the caramel is a bright white gold and attacks the eater with a high pure sweetness. Its too goodie goodie, its too brash; if it were to be personified, it would be one of those people who are too nice, so nice in fact that you consider them either to have a sinister hidden purpose, or be actuially mentally infirm.
Now let us leave that nastiness behind us and discuss fallen heroes. Not the rubbish ones like the Dream, probably the conniving sister of the caramel, but the noble fallen, like the Crunchie and the Picnic. The fall of these two has caused much controversy. Accusations of profiteering and skimping have been levied. As far as I'm concern I wholeheartedly agree. Why do they weigh down our selections with the villains above, when these greats could be revived suppose what I am looking for is interesting texture, rather than the gooey texture-less coating of the two above. These two offer this, a bit of excitement to find in amongst the appreciated, but texturally bland solid chocolate numbers. I agree that perhaps the Dairy Milk Whole Nut could be dropped, for those with allergies, but these two are vital quirky variations and the selection suffers without them. Currently the role is taken up by the Eclair and the Fudge, which try their best to cover the base. But where is the crunch? Where is the knobbly toughness?
I will however say a few positive things about the current selection. I am a fan of Bourneville, as a dark chocolate, obviously it is atrocious, but you enter the box with the knowledge that this is going to be a baser taste. Sweetness is the staple, there will be no subtlety, only populist appeal is sought. Therefore the Bourneville is a welcomed addition as an interesting throwout to those who might have slightly more defined palates, to draw all manner of people into the communal sharing of the box. Then we have the Dairy Milk. Who can deny the appeal. This little gem is like the Dr Xavier of the box. It was where it all started, its probably where it will all finish. When the Dairy Milk falls, so will Cadbury. And finally the Twirl. Obviously just a variation on the Dairy Milk, but an worthy one and a worthwhile addition.
Overall though, do we really want the box to change for the better? Whether it is intentional or not, Cadbury have created a pantomime in a box. We have the Heroes and the Villians, the sidekicks and the henchmen. The selection is a topic of discussion, that all can join in on. It is Christmassy in its essence, being both communal and cabaret. The fact that they are consumed in January as the fitness regime crumbles might do worse than console us with happy memories of that joyous time, to assuage our angst about our unconditioned bodies. Happy New Year!

Review for The Wild Garlic, Beaminster

Through thick banks of fog and over icy hillock we tumbled that dark mid-winter Dorsetshire night. For all we knew we could have been almost anywhere, but soon, looming cheerily out of the murk appeared the pastel front of Masterchef Matt Follas' restaurant The Wild Garlic.

On entry the cold is blasted from us by a glowing wood stove on one side of the room, our coats are taken and we are seated at the thick, wooden tables. We are immediately presented with complimentary bread and oil, along with a small dish of wasabi peas. I feel that we have been drawn into a friendly space, somewhere relaxed, but luxurious. The place allows for quirks to discuss, with the nibbles and the tables, which are carved with lists and phrases, but is ever inoffensive. Quite often when establishments try to aim for a relaxed style they can inadvertently appear confrontational, forcing their relaxation on their customers, but not here. Any expression is kept at a ubiquitous light touch, so that they are there, but only if you want them.

The waiter quickly takes our drinks orders and presents us with the menus, pointing out the specials blackboard at one end of the room. Our friend, who has a nut allergy, is quickly and quietly run through the options. This is pleasant, but brings me to a criticism. The majority of the menu is unavailable, including the more signature dishes, such as the slow roast pork, the plaice and the venison. We visited in that strange period between Christmas and New Year, so I suppose some leeway could be given but it was disappointing in any case.

The orders are taken; the drinks arrive in good time and the starters after a comfortable conversation period. I have a Trio of Smoked Fish and Pheasant with a Dill Sauce. The dish is pleasing to the eye; the fish arranged in a diagonal with the sauce to a side. It is pleasing also to see eel making a comeback, but as with everything it is only one small piece sitting un-confrontationally centre stage. It seems to appeal for unbiased trial. Eel has developed a bad name for itself following years of jellifying, but here it is on its knees, having turned over a new leaf, "Please, give me one more chance", it pleads. The trio is delicious, all displaying a different mysterious smokiness, which is daintily elaborated upon by the sauce. My query with the dish is about the pheasant, that is, why is it there? By itself it is great, served with tangy pickled red onions, but there it is, sitting stubbornly on the unoccupied corner of the plate, isolated both physically and in flavour.

My companions all have soup, of which there are two kinds; wild mushroom or tomato and seafood. These goes down without touching the sides and their reception is hearty. These are again cleared away and, to our surprise we are presented with interim nibbles, this time quails eggs on a bed of seaweed. Matt's enthusiasm for interesting foraged food shines out here. It is as if he's just run in, flushed, foraging book in one hand and a bunch of something he's picked from a hedgerow in the other, eager to share and explore a new taste or texture. It is exiting and as customers, partly because it is complimentary, you get drawn in to a more daring, open palate. For the record, the nibbles were well received, the salty, slightly chewy seaweed curling up with the delicate, soft eggs. What can I say? Opposites attract.
Then the moment we'd all been waiting for, the main course arrives. All are exquisitely presented, in perfectly sized portions. The plates walk that difficult tight rope between feeling like you need to pop down the pub for a bar snack, and bloating to the point of haemorrhage. I have a beautifully cooked and rib eye steak accompanied by the secret-recipe smoked mash and roasted veg. The vegetables could have done with just a few more minutes, but this is being pedantic. The gutsy smoked mash and frankly godly steak more than make up for slightly less than perfect veg.

Whilst I am in an ecstatic dream world, the rest of my table join me. The mode dish is duck breast with kumquat compote and smashed new potatoes. Again the meat is cooked perfectly, with just a tinge of pink in the centre and the kumquat gives the dish a lightly candied quality. The two bond as if fate had written their meeting in the stars. Similarly for liver fans, the calves liver dish was gulped down with unadulterated enthusiasm and much approval.

To finish the table shares a hot chocolate pudding and a cheese board. The pudding has a cute tiny perfection and is served with a slightly curled shortbread star, and the cheeseboard is well stocked with interesting local cheeses. While we're savouring these Matt himself wanders out of the kitchen to check if we all enjoyed our meal. Talking to him he emanates the quiet confidence his restaurant and food does. He encourages change and open mindedness, but in a way that is unobtrusive. He expresses his opinions strongly, but quietly, hoping that you might only try, but on your own terms and in your own time.

On the whole, The Wild Garlic was a pleasure to dine at, a place where exploration and comfort meet. The serving staff are attentive and friendly, but never obtrusive and the food, despite some minor criticism, is delicious. The Wild Garlic offers a new compromise between hard line radical new formats and overly formal stereotyped service, where waiters wither grovel or sneer. I wish the best of luck to Mr Follas in the New Year and hope he has all the success he so clearly deserves.