Visitandines

When I first came across visitandines I imagined that the name came from the fact that they were the perfect little cakes to take on a visit. That just proves how dumb I can be. In fact the cakes were first produced by nuns of the Ordre de la Visitation which was founded in the 17th century in Annecy. I have to admit that my knowledge of nuns is sketchy to say the least.

The cakes are very similar to financiers but have probably been round a fair bit longer. The key difference is that one is made by pious, peaceful nuns and the other is made for bankers who'd rather have their cake and eat it.

Some visitandine recipes call for browned butter (beurre noisette) and that will give the cakes a very fine flavour, although I think it makes the cakes taste a little too similar to some traditional madeleines. You may prefer them that way, though, so don't let me stop you.

Visitandines are commonly baked in barquette moulds but small, round muffin tins will work very well and may even be more traditional. This will make around 12 cakes, depending on the size of the tins. They keep well in an airtight container.

125 g plain flour, sifted
225 g golden caster sugar
100 g ground almonds
Very finely grated zest of 1 lemon
125 g very soft unsalted butter
200 g egg whites (or around 5 large egg whites)

Preheat the oven to 180°C.

Mix together the flour, sugar, ground almonds and lemon zest in a bowl. Stir in the very soft (and I do mean very soft) butter thoroughly. Don't beat the mixture so much that the almonds become oily, though.

Whisk the egg whites until they form firm peaks. Stir a couple of tablespoons of the egg whites into the mixture until it comes together and is reasonably smooth. Fold in the rest of the egg whites.

Spoon into the tins and bake for about 15 minutes or until a knife blade come out clean and the cakes have taken on a little colour.

Funnily enough visitandines are very good for taking on a visit (or a picnic or country walk) and piety is entirely optional.

Fennel Ketchup or It Might Be A Sauce

Every now and then I find that I'm tempted to use certain flavours more and more often until they become a bit of an obsession. Fennel has been a bit like that for me in recent times. This ketchup definitely satisfies the fennel craving with a serious hit of flavour.

I'm not sure that this is truly a ketchup and I've probably used it more often as a sauce for chicken, pork or seafood combined with pasta or rice. It's made using the same technique as a ketchup but with less vinegar and sugar than you might expect. As a result, it won't keep as long as a typical ketchup, so store it in the fridge if you're using it in the next few days, or freeze it if you need to keep it longer.

This makes around 350 ml of ketchup or 3 to 4 portions if used as a sauce.

1 onion (I like to use red onions in pickles and ketchups but it’s not really critical)
1 bulb of fennel
2 cloves of garlic (3 if they’re small)
¼ - ½ chilli (depending on how hot the chilli turns out to be)
1 tsp fennel seeds
A few turns of black pepper
¼ tsp salt
75 ml cider vinegar
1 tin of tomatoes (400 g)
15 - 30 g granulated sugar

Peel and chop the onion into small chunks. Cut out and discard any damaged or woody parts of the fennel and chop the remainder into small chunks or slices. Peel and finely chop the garlic. Finely chop the chilli.

Put all the ingredients except the sugar into a non-reactive pan (one with a lid), place on the heat and bring to simmering point. Cover the pan and leave to simmer gently for about 40 minutes until the fennel and onion are tender. Allow the mixture to cool a little then liquidise it. Pass the contents of the liquidiser through a fine sieve. 

Pour the liquid back into the cleaned pan and add a tablespoon of the sugar. Place the pan on the heat and stir until the sugar has dissolved. Taste and add more sugar if you think it needs it. Once the balance of sweet and sour is the way you like it, simmer the ketchup gently until it's as thick as you want it to be. I prefer to keep the ketchup on the thin side because I think it's more adaptable that way but if you want it to top burgers or something of that nature, then it's better to thicken it a little more. Whatever you do, though, make sure that you stir frequently at this stage because the mixture is quite keen on sticking to the bottom of the pan if you don't.

Place in suitable containers and either store in the fridge or freeze. Try it simply with whatever pasta you fancy, some cooked chicken or prawns and a sprinkling of parmesan.

Salade Polletaise

OK, I admit that some people would rather eat gravel than herrings but I love the little silver darlings and this dish is my way of celebrating some of the excellent marinated herrings produced in the UK. At one time the marinades plonked on this poor little fish could be used as an alternative to paint stripper but the products from some of the smaller suppliers today are a completely different kettle of herring. (You could create your own marinated herring and that would be a wonderful thing to do but I'm assuming that time isn't hanging heavy on your hands.) For this salad you need a good quality marinated herring without any overly strong flavours. A simple dill or light mustard marinade would be perfect.

This is actually a little offering from my Dieppe days. Le Pollet is the traditional fishermens’ quarter of Dieppe where old sea dogs sit mending their nets and telling colourful tales of life on the unforgiving sea. Actually, it may have been like that once when Walter Sickert prowled the area with paintbrush in hand and a lustful glint in his eye but those days are long gone.

The traditional food associated with Le Pollet is a dish of herring and potatoes. There's nothing wrong with that simple combination but you'll find much more elaborate versions of the salade in the upmarket restaurants and hotels around Dieppe. This is my attempt at a more refined but still straightforward version. You'll need a vinaigrette, some new potatoes, some marinated herring, chicory (or endive, if you prefer a more French sounding name), apple and some chives and parsley. I think it makes a very pleasing and, hopefully, impressive starter or lunch dish for remarkably little effort. I haven't given precise quantities here, because it's better to decide on the balance of flavours and amounts according to your personal taste and the size of appetites you're faced with.

First make a vinaigrette using the usual proportions of 3 to 1 oil to white wine vinegar with a little salt and pepper and for this dish add a small amount of Dijon mustard to the mixture. I use a combination of light olive and rapeseed oil but any neutral oil would do the job. It's probably sensible to make a little more vinaigrette than you think you might need, because warm potatoes have an impressive ability to soak it up.

Boil or steam some new potatoes. In Dieppe they'd probably be Ratte or Charlotte but if Jersey Royals are in season then I would use them. You don't have to peel them but I definitely would. Once they're cooked and as soon as they're cool enough for you to handle without damaging your fingers, slice them into rounds or small chunks and pour over some of the vinaigrette. Leave to cool.

Slice some chicory quite finely. (You could use another salad leaf if chicory isn't available but it should be reasonably crisp and just a little on the bitter side). Peel a crisp, eating apple or two, cut into smallish dice, place in a bowl with the chicory and mix in more of the vinaigrette. (Don't leave the apple sitting around too long without dressing or it will lose its youthful looks). Chop a generous number of chives together with a little parsley if you have some.

Now you just need to combine the lot. I make it into a fancy little stack but you really don't have to do that unless you're desperate to impress someone. Arrange a layer of potatoes, top with some of the herring that you've drained and cut into bite-sized pieces. Add a layer of the chicory and apple mix and sprinkle over some of the chopped dill and parsley. Don't overdo the amount of apple and chicory in the final dish or it might swamp the other flavours. If you were in Dieppe you'd probably get some baguette with this but I must admit that I prefer a slice or two of buttered wheaten bread.

If you want to get the whole experience then try a small glass of Pommeau as an aperitif and maybe even a little Normandy cider alongside the dish. You could also imagine that you're sitting in a restaurant on the Quai and hummng a De Palmas tune. (Sorry, I got a bit carried away for a moment there.)

Tourte or Pastis or Croustade of The Pyrenees

I've been reading Allyson Gofton's ‘Recipes from my French Kitchen’ and it's been pleasantly nostalgic for me because it talks enthusiastically of foods and places that I've loved in the south west of France.  It's also a bit odd because it's clearly aimed at an audience back home in New Zealand and New Zealand is much more of a mystery to me than France. How I came to be the owner of a signed copy of a book of French recipes written by a cook from New Zealand whom I've never met is just too long a story. As far as I know, the book hasn't been published in the UK.

I was reminded of many places and tastes but one in particular stood out. In the local markets and bakeries, especially as you start to get into the Pyrenees, you're pretty sure to come across a brioche-shaped cake called either a ‘pastis’ or a ‘tourte’ or maybe a ‘croustade’. It's a cake that I'd always intended to make but that I'd never quite got round to attempting and this book persuaded me to get on and do it.

To me the tourte resembles a sort of Madeira cake that you can enjoy up a French mountain. It's a simple recipe that's often flavoured with vanilla or booze such as rum or pastis (the drink) and sometimes contains extras such as blueberries. Of course, the blueberries should be wild and foraged from the mountainside but I foraged for mine in the supermarket on the High Street.

The three different names for essentially the same cake are pretty confusing but here's my highly questionable interpretation just in case you're interested. It was probably called ‘tourte’ because that word was often attached to special occasion (especially birthday) cakes or pastries. The name ‘croustade’ possibly came about because it does have a sort of Madeira cake style light crust. The word ‘pastis’ probably has nothing to do with the famous aniseed drink, although the cakes can be flavoured with the drink and some say the drink got the name from being used to flavour the cake. The word ‘pastis’ actually seems to derive from an ancient Gascon word for dough or batter and, by extension, cake. If you happen to find yourself among the pine trees of the département des Landes, then pretty much the same cake will probably be called a pastis and, as likely as not, will be flavoured with orange. Now that’s as much dubious food history as I can cope with while sober.
There are many different ways of producing this sort of simple cake and this isn't actually Allyson Gofton's recipe (not that there's anything wrong with it). My version is based on an amalgamation of recipes from the area that I've collected over time.

3 eggs
180 g caster sugar
150 g butter, melted and cooled
1 tbsp dark rum
2 tsp vanilla extract or paste
2 tbsp milk
200 g plain flour
50 g potato flour
1 tablespoon baking powder
70 g blueberries
1 tbsp  pearl (nibbed) sugar (optional)

This cake looks the part if made in a fluted brioche tin, although a simple round tin will do just fine. The one I use has a diameter of 20 cm (at its widest) and a capacity of around 1.25 litres. If it's a non-stick tin, then so much the better, but I think it's still best if it's buttered thoroughly. (If you see this cake being sold at a French market, there's a good chance that they'll be in paper liners which could save on the buttering business, but the liners are not widely available in this country).

Preheat the oven to 160ºC. Separate the eggs. Whisk the yolks and the caster sugar together until the mixture is very pale. Add the melted and cooled butter, the rum, vanilla and milk and whisk in. Sieve the flours and baking powder together and add to the mixture. Stir in thoroughly. (If the mixture seems very stiff, then add a little more milk). Stir in the blueberries.

In a separate bowl, whisk the egg whites until they form stiff peaks. Stir a large spoonful of the egg white into the cake mixture to loosen it a little, then fold in the rest of the egg whites gently but thoroughly. Pour into the tin and sprinkle the top with pearl (nibbed) sugar if you have any. Bake in the preheated oven for 45 - 60 minutes. Test with a knife or skewer in the usual way. Allow the cake to cool in the tin for about 15 minutes before removing and cooling completely on a rack.

You really don't have to be up a mountain or in New Zealand to enjoy this.

London Pie - Sort Of

I was reminded of this dish while meandering along the back alleys of some old cookbooks. It's a variation on cottage pie and the most obvious difference is that you don't usually get fruit in a cottage pie. I don't know the exact history of this recipe but I'm sure that this pie was around in some form during the period of rationing after the war. At that time small amounts of meat were often mixed with any available veg and fruit to make it go further. I can remember eating something like it in the 1970s but it seemed to fade away around the end of that decade. Meat combined with fruit has a very long history in British food and is common enough now in more fashionable, imported dishes so I thought I'd try a personal London Pie revival.

Less sweet varieties of apple are best for this recipe in my opinion and I've used both cooking and eating apples to give a contrast in texture. The sour quality of the apples is offset by the dried fruit and the sweetness in the topping. A pure potato top would be much more traditional but this variation is sweeter, lighter and adds a bit of colour. I've used types of dried fruit that I like and that I happened to have in the cupboard but other types would work just as well.

Of course, the flavourings I've used aren't typical of the 1950s, especially not the chilli sauce or the cumin, but they're what you might have lying around the place in these non-rationing days. Unless you really love chilli it's probably best to use a mild chilli sauce - I used one that I picked up in The Little Chilli Shop on Anglesey and that's well worth a visit if you're in the area. This will serve 2 pretty generously.

1 onion, chopped
3 carrots, chopped into small dice
250 g lean minced beef
1 small cooking apple, peeled, cored and roughly chopped
1 small eating apple, peeled, cored and roughly chopped
2 tbsp sultanas
30 g dried pears, chopped
20 g dried apricots, chopped
1 tsp cumin
1 tbsp Worcestershire sauce
100 ml mild chilli sauce
1 tbsp sherry vinegar (optional)

For the topping:
     2 potatoes, medium or large
     350 g butternut squash flesh in chunks
     3 tbsp mango chutney
     A squeeze of lemon

Start the onion and carrot frying in a little oil then add a couple of tablespoons of water to the pan. Keep cooking until the water has evaporated then stir in the beef. Fry until coloured then add the apple, dried fruit, cumin, chilli sauce and Worcestershire sauce. Season with salt and pepper, add around 4 tablespoons of water (you need the dish to be nicely moist rather than swimming in water), cover the pan and cook gently for around 25 minutes. If your apples are not sharp then add the sherry vinegar. Remove the lid and continue cooking until any excess liquid has evaporated but the mixture is moist and all the ingredients are cooked through.

While the filling is cooking, prepare the topping. Peel and chop the potatoes and steam (or boil) along with the butternut squash. When they're both softened, drain thoroughly and mash. (I use a potato ricer because I find that it’s easier to get rid of any excess moisture that way but it's just a personal preference.) Once mashed to your liking, season with salt and pepper, stir in the mango chutney and the dash of lemon juice.

Place the filling in your chosen ovenproof dish and top with the mash. I prefer to leave the mash looking a little rough on the top. (You could dot with butter if you don’t mind the extra fat). If you want to make the dish in advance then you could chill it at this stage until ready to cook or, probably better still, chill the filling and topping separately.

Preheat the oven to 180ºC. Bake in the oven for around 30 minutes (you may need a little longer if the mixture is chilled) or until it’s thoroughly hot throughout and the top has a little bit of brown here and there. Personally, I don’t think you need anything with it, but a little green veg will give a nicely contrasting colour.

Munich Pudding

Every so often I come across a historic recipe that sounds barmy but just can't be ignored. I really want to know what it tastes like. This is definitely one of those ‘can't pass it by’ sort of recipes. Essentially it's a variation on a bread and butter pudding but the twist is that it was meant to be cooked in a paper bag.

The original recipe is from Nicolas Soyer's ‘Paper-Bag Cookery’ first published in 1911 and is described as ‘Pudding à la Munich’. This book has been the subject of a fair amount of (mostly academic) ridicule over the years but I think that's unfair. Nicolas Soyer was the grandson of the renowned chef Alexis Soyer but he has a claim in his own right to be the original ‘modern’ celebrity chef. He was probably the first to understand the power of marketing and branded goods. If you wanted to make some of the recipes in ‘Paper-Bag Cookery’ then you really needed to get hold of some of Soyer's own paper bags which came with his signature printed on the outside (I don't think even Jamie's tried that yet). As I understand it these bags were made of some sort of strong greaseproof paper and, in effect, Mr Soyer was promoting a form of en papillote cooking years before it became fashionable. Paper bag or not, I haven't come across Pudding à la Munich anywhere else. And, in fact, I couldn't bring myself to try cooking this in a bag (sorry Mr Soyer).

Admittedly some historic recipes taste very odd when you make them but this was far better than I'd feared. In fact, it left me wanting more. I also admit that I haven't quite stuck to the original recipe. I've added maple syrup to the golden syrup of the original, for instance, and I used quite a dense sourdough to add some very welcome texture.

I've not given very precise measurements in this recipe - it's really not that kind of dish - so just add more or less of the ingredients as you fancy (within reason). It's a very easy pudding to put together, especially if you decide to use ready-made custard and should provide plenty for 2 people. A ceramic pie dish (an oval dish 16cm x 11cm with a depth of 6cm) seemed to work well for me but an enamel dish will be fine too. 

10 - 12 thinnish slices of baguette, slightly stale is fine and I think that sourdough is best
Unsalted butter
A handful of mixed sultanas and raisins, roughly chopped
Golden syrup
Maple syrup
Either milk, vanilla, sugar and an egg yolk to make a custard or around 250 ml of ready-made custard if you’re pressed for time (and who isn’t?)
1 egg white
60 g icing sugar

Butter your chosen dish. Lightly toast the slices of baguette and spread them quite thickly with butter. Drizzle the bottom of the dish with golden and maple syrups and sprinkle on some of the sultanas and raisins. Cover with a single layer of the buttered toast. Cut or tear the toast to give a reasonably even covering. Drizzle the toast with more golden and maple syrups and sprinkle on some more of the sultanas and raisins. Repeat the toast, syrups and fruit layer and, hopefully you'll be somewhere near the top of the dish (although, don't worry if you're not – this is a relaxed sort of dessert).

You now need around 250 ml of fairly thin custard. So separate the egg and use the yolk to make a simple custard. Well that's easy to say, but in my view it's a bit of a pain to make a custard with just one egg yolk and I should know because I did. So I'd recommend either making a larger amount and using any leftover custard elsewhere or buying a ready-made custard from your local supermarket. If you decide to make your own and don't have your own preferred method then Delia's can't really be bettered. If you use  ready-made custard then you might want to add a little milk if the custard is particularly thick. Mr Soyer doesn't specify adding vanilla to the custard but I really think that plenty of vanilla in this dish is close to essential. However you produced your custard, pour it into the dish until the bread and fruit is just covered.

Preheat the oven to 160ºC and make a meringue mix with the egg white and icing sugar. (Yes, it's also a bit of a pain making meringue with a single egg white but even that small amount is probably going to be more than you'll need). Whisk the egg white to the firm peak stage and then gradually whisk in the sugar until the mix is glossy. Spread a layer of the meringue over the pudding. I think a thin layer of meringue is best because the pudding is already as sweet as a sweet thing.

Bake for 25 - 30 minutes or until the meringue has a light brown crust and the pudding is nicely heated through. Serve straightaway or, if you're odd like me, cool and chill in the fridge before serving cold. I think most people will prefer it hot (or at least warm) but try any leftovers cold - you might be as odd as I am.

Pain de Gênes

Most people I know are not only deeply suspicious of fat these days but are also putting on false beards and crossing the street to avoid bumping into sugar and so I suppose it's not surprising that I haven't added a cake recipe to the blog lately. But here's one that I've had around for a while. For some incomprehensible reason I was reluctant to publish this recipe because I thought that it wasn't an authentic Pain de Gênes. That's the first time I've been bothered by authenticity and, to be honest, it will probably be the last time too.

The original and authentic Pain de Gênes should be made with almond paste unless I'm much mistaken (and I could be) but this recipe uses ground almonds and no flour. Oddly enough, I first came across this style of Pain de Gênes in my venerable copy of the 1950's classic 'Constance Spry Cookery Book' but since then I've seen a number of French recipes that are made in a similar way. It's a beautifully moist cake with an excellent almond flavour and, even better, it's really easy to make. It works either with afternoon tea or as a dessert with fruit and maybe some creamy substances.

So here's my version of a Pain de Gênes but please note that authenticity is not my strong point.

110 g unsalted butter, softened, plus a bit more for the tin
130 g caster sugar
100 g ground almonds
3 eggs
3 rounded tbsp potato flour
2 tbsp amaretto liqueur

Butter an 18 cm or 19 cm round tin. Preheat the oven to 170°C.

Cream the butter and sugar together thoroughly. Briefly beat in the ground almonds until well combined. Beat in the eggs one at a time. Lightly but thoroughly stir in the potato flour and the liqueur. Pour into the prepared tin, level the mixture and bake for 30 – 35 minutes. A knifepoint inserted in the centre should come out clean. (See, I told you it was easy to make).

Allow the cake to cool in the tin for a few minutes before turning out onto a rack to cool completely. The top of this cake is prone to cracking but I don't mind a few cracks so I don't try to cover them up. As far as I can tell the plain and slightly cracked top is traditional but I've also seen Pain de Gênes decorated with flaked almonds or showered with icing sugar if you feel it needs something.