Good Cook (22 page)

The unique taste of an Alsatian Gewürztraminer wine is just the ticket when cooking mussels. Its fragrance—the smell of lychees always comes to mind—has a particular affinity with the sweet and salty shellfish, producing a sauce of the utmost savor. The chef at Bibendum, Matthew Harris, put me on to this idea, so many thanks to him.

Note: as usual, do not use any mussels that refuse to close when raw; also, any mussels remaining closed, once cooked, discard.

Take a very large pan that has a lid. Melt the butter and in it fry the onions until softened, then add the garlic and cook for a minute or two more. Pour in the wine and allow to come to the boil. Tip in the mussels, put on the lid and, holding the pan in both hands, shake it around a bit. Put on a high heat and cook for 2 minutes. Lift off the lid, have a look to see how the mussels are doing and give them another shake, attempting to bring the opened ones on the bottom up to the top. Place back on the heat, put on the lid and continue cooking for a further minute or two. When it seems that all the shells are fully open, tip in the chives and parsley, some pepper and, finally, the cream. Shake and stir around for the last time, then tip into a large, hot bowl. It goes without saying that you will need some best bread, here, as you dig in and eat.

I had always wanted to try to do mussels Rockefeller, in the same way as one would do the same for the classic recipe for oysters, originally hailing from the legendary restaurant Antoine’s, in New Orleans. The original recipe from there is, apparently, a closely guarded secret but, along the way, it emerged from somewhere because I managed to include a version in my book
Gammon and Spinach
(Macmillan 1998). The recipe was originally given to me by my friend Gay Bilson, the Australian cook, author and intellectual, who is now rightly regarded as one of that country’s living national treasures.

If you are familiar with how oysters Rockefeller are made—in essence, a pungent spinach purée spread on top of oysters, then baked—you will understand that to do this to dozens of small mussels would become an endless, tedious affair; I guess that if one could obtain some of those large Spanish mussels, the idea might just work, but I haven’t seen these in the UK for years.

So, still wishing to marry the lovely aniseed flavors of this spinach purée with mussels, I decided to turn it into a sauce—and jolly nice it is, too, if a touch messy to eat; have fingerbowls to hand, for the fussy.

Note: as usual, do not use any mussels that refuse to close, when raw; also, any mussels remaining closed, once cooked, discard.

Melt the butter in a large pot (large enough to eventually accommodate the mussels) and in it quietly fry the shallots and celery until softened. Tip in the mussels, increase the heat until the sound of sizzling emanates from beneath, then add the pastis, which will seethe. Ignite it (stand back) and, when the flames have died, pour in the sherry. When steam is rising from the base of the pot, give the mussels a shake, trying to bring the opened ones on the bottom up to the top. Place back on the heat, put on a lid and continue cooking for a further minute or two. When it seems that all the shells are fully open, immediately strain into a colander suspended over a bowl. Shake the mussels about a bit, so extracting all clinging juices, then put them to one side. Also, keep the pot to hand.

Now, pour the juices into a blender or processor and add all the ingredients for the Rockefeller mixture. Whiz until smooth and return this (now) green sauce to the mussel-cooking pot. Remove the empty half shells from the mussels and return the full halves to the green sauce. Briefly reheat and serve with thick slices of either toasted baguette or sourdough.

The inclusion of bacon in the soup, here, is a matter for you. Obviously, if vegetarian (also substitute vegetable stock, if so) or you are not allowed bacon, then it has to go. However, it does impart a lovely flavor to the soup, a nuance if you like, and it is not evident in itself once the soup is served.

The texture here is far nicer when put through a hand-cranked vegetable mill. As well as that attribute, a blender can often turn potato-based soups gluey. I would also like to mention that although many think that cultured crème fraîche is almost the same as sour cream, it is not. The texture of sour cream is softer, for one thing (better for melting into the soup), being less rich. And the flavor is more correct here, too: the perfect foil for chives, as always.

Melt the butter in a pan and add the bacon. Cook it gently until golden, then remove to a plate. Add the onion and stew until soft. Pour in the stock, then add the potatoes, seasoning and bay leaf. Bring up to a gentle simmer, skimming off any scum that forms on the surface, and reintroduce the bacon. Cook quietly for about 25–30 minutes, or until the potatoes break up a bit, when poked. Remove the bay leaf and bacon (keep in the fridge and grill until crisp for a bacon sandwich the following morning), then pass through a vegetable mill, using the finest mesh disc, into a clean pan. Gently reheat and ladle into hot bowls. Serve with a good dollop of sour cream and sprinkle with plenty of chives.

The finest gnocchi I have ever eaten were those made by Toni Vianello, when he was cooking at his place in Paris, L’Osteria, in Le Marais. As far as I understand, he is no longer there, but I hope that the gnocchi remain as good, whoever is cooking there now. Toni once allowed me to watch them being made, but I have never been able to achieve their exquisite lightness and almost fudgy interior.

The amount of flour given here is a maximum amount, so don’t use all of it if you feel that the texture needs no more; practice and experience makes for perfect gnocchi. I still have trouble from time to time, which is mainly due, I believe, to the age, variety and texture of the potatoes. I have a vague memory of Toni using large Belle de Fontenay potatoes, and storing them in a cool, dark place for some time before use, so that they dried out somewhat—which makes sense: excess moisture is the enemy of fine gnocchi.

Steam (or simmer) the potatoes in their skins until tender. Once cool enough to handle, peel them and then directly put through a potato ricer or vegetable mill on to a lightly floured kitchen surface. Allow to cool, then loosely gather the potato together and make a well in the middle with your fingers. Drop in the egg and sift over the flour with the salt. Now gently bring everything together using your hands and knead deftly to a soft dough. At this stage you may need a little more flour, both
on the surface and in the mixture. The correct consistency should be similar to soft pastry.

Now roll the dough into long sausage shapes about 2.5cm in diameter, and cut into 2cm pieces. Dust lightly with sifted flour and put on a tray. Refrigerate for 30 minutes, then begin to shape them. Take a fork and, holding it in the left hand, prongs pointing uppermost, pick up one of the pieces of dough. Using your thumb, push the dough down the prongs to make a ridged surface, while simultaneously flicking each piece (a gnocchi) off the tines on to the work surface; this will also form a depression on the other side from your thumb. Once the gnocchi are formed, return them to the floured tray.

Bring a large pan of unsalted water to the boil and drop in about a third of the gnocchi. Simmer until they float to the surface, then give them a further 20–30 seconds. Lift out with a slotted spoon, drain well and place in a heated dish, together with a scrap of butter. Keep warm, cooking the remaining gnocchi in 2 further batches.

Melt the butter with the garlic slices and pine nuts and cook until pale golden. Remove them to a plate, then add the sage leaves to the butter, allowing them to froth and crisp up. Return the garlic and pine nuts. Spoon this buttery mass over the gnocchi, grind over plenty of black pepper and dust with Parmesan. Serve without delay, on hot plates, handing extra Parmesan at table.

The most important thing to remember when making a fine potato salad is to add the dressing while the potatoes are still warm. And please, please,
please
use peeled potatoes. You may follow the instructions given below, peeling the potatoes once cooked, or peel them from raw, but there is absolutely nothing worse than irritating little bits of potato skin in a potato salad, getting stuck in your teeth and ruining the entire, luscious assembly.

One of the most bizarre memories of potato-skin incidents occurred about a decade ago, when I had been stood up for a lunch at a grand, London West End hotel dining room. I decided to have my lunch anyway, sitting happily and solitary at a generous-sized table; it was, after all, to have accommodated two. Well, it was early June, with Jersey Royal potatoes in all the shops everywhere. And what was I given with my roast saddle of spring lamb from the trolley? Imported new potatoes, thin and papery skins fully attached. As I sat there, patiently peeling the skin from my own potatoes on to a side plate, not one waiter approached to ask if I was quite happy getting on with this kitchen task. Oh yes, there were occasional strange looks
en passant
, but not the slightest suggestion of this chore being given to a commis chef, rather than a paying guest. An astonishing occasion, to be sure.

Note: you will probably have some of the salad dressing left over, so store it in a screw-top jar in the fridge where it will keep happily for several days or longer; it is just easier to make the dressing in a larger quantity than you might necessarily need.

To make the dressing, put the mustard, vinegar, seasoning and a couple of tablespoons of the warm water into a small blender or food processor. Process until smooth and then start adding the oil in a thin stream. When the consistency is creamy, have a taste. If you think it is too thick, add a little more water; the consistency should be one of thin salad cream.

Put the potatoes to simmer in salted water. When evenly cooked through, drain and leave until you are able to handle them, then peel; peeling potatoes while still warm is easier and, furthermore, warm potatoes soak up the dressing much better than cold ones. Slice or roughly cut the potatoes into a warm dish, sprinkle over the spring onions and parsley, then spoon over the dressing and mix together quickly, while still warm.

I find that I can always eat this salad just as it is. However, it is also very lovely with cold and hot ham, rare beef, salmon—all kinds of cold cuts, in fact.