When Dean Street Townhouse opened in Soho three years ago, some people made an awful lot of fuss about the fact that its menu was graced by the dish "mince and potatoes". Who would go to an expensive restaurant to eat mince and potatoes? they asked. How pretentious, they said. Hmm. It doesn't sound quite so silly now, does it? I bet it's selling like crazy.
A peculiar side effect of the horsemeat crisis is that the world has suddenly gone daffy for mince. It's counterintuitive, but the more we hear about ground meat in all its various forms, the more people seem to want it. This is true at both ends of the market. In the days after the scandal broke, some supermarkets reported an increase in demand for certain ready meals. Meanwhile, sales of meat grinding attachments for food mixers are said to be up by 50%.
I'm part of this trend: I got a mincer the other day. I'd been longing for one for years; hoofgate gave me a final push. It goes on top of my Kenwood Chef. Am I pleased with it? You could say that. It makes me feel like my bright yellow Walkman used to do when I was about 15, which is to say: giddy with pleasure. "Look!" I shouted at T, the first time I used it. "I'm mincing. That's my own mince coming out of there! I'm basically a butcher."
As you may or may not recall, T is a slightly less robust type than me. He looked carefully at the stringy pinkness – a sort of primordial bubblegum – oozing from the grinder's nozzle. "That's great," he said. "But I think I would rather see it when it is cooked."
For its first outing, I made steak hache, aka posh burgers. I bought sirloin from the butcher and chucked it through the machine, fat and all (I wanted the fat both for flavour and for succulence). Yes, the price of sirloin is pretty gasp-inducing in a mince context; regular mince is made from cheap cuts like neck, shin and clod. But remember: as treats go, it's still a lot cheaper than dinner at a chain like Byron. The grinder didn't deal with the fat brilliantly, but the mince I ended up with smelt – and felt – fantastic.
Supermarket and even some butcher shop mince has been sitting around for a while, with the result that it is quite dry. Freshly made mince is super-moist, and therefore plenty sticky enough to mould into rounds – I refuse to use the word "patties" – without any help from an egg.
The hard part was resisting the temptation to add anything else to the mix save for salt and pepper. I put nutmeg and parmesan in meatballs, and Worcester sauce in shepherd's pie. But when it comes to posh burgers, you need the courage to let the meat speak for itself: olive oil and perhaps a clove of garlic in a heavy pan, and then five minutes either side, so the burger is rare in the middle, but has a good, dark, sweet crust on the outside. Ta-dah! That's it. The result was so delicious, I doubt I will ever eat a burger out again.
Is the machine a faff? Not really. Mincers are fairly sophisticated these days – the one I faintly remember my mother using looked like a small mangle and probably brought on tennis elbow – but they aren't difficult to assemble. The hardest part is washing it afterwards, though if any member of your household is an enthusiastic user of "dental sticks", this is the job for them. They will undoubtedly find it hugely satisfying.
Was it expensive? It depends how you look at it. Divide the cost by the days in a year, and it works out at about a pound a week. Use it regularly and efficiently, and it will actively save you money. In theory, mine should make the shameful moment when I throw away the dry, grey remains of a roast shoulder of lamb a thing of the past. It also has a sausage maker, and a kibbeh attachment, and for all that I'm not one of those tedious, show-off food DIY-ists – "Yeah, I make all my own charcuterie…" – I really do think I might have a go at using them some time soon. They certainly won't go the way of the pasta machine, doomed to all eternity in the graveyard that is the cupboard under the stairs.
In the meantime, my place is rapidly turning into gherkin central, a regular burger joint. I just looked on eBay, and for less than a tenner, a "vintage" stainless steel paper napkin dispenser plus 250 towels to stick inside it could be mine. It's so tempting. Should I click on "buy now"? You know, I think I might have to.
