When Good Things was first published in 1971, I was consumer editor of Time Out in a very run-down King’s Cross. We lived on a pittance but I was learning to cook, often inspired by Jane Grigson’s column in the Observer colour magazine. One of my first successes was the curious sounding curried parsnip soup. I learned to trust Mrs Grigson and appreciated her eclectic choice of recipes, sometimes quick and modest, other times a dish worth labouring over.
Whatever the topic, I enjoyed her literary style, essays informed by research and an obvious love of food, its heritage and seasonality. Early recipes from her Observer column – written between 1968 and her death in 1990 – were the basis for Good Things, Mrs Grigson’s second book. The first, Charcuterie and French Pork Cookery, set the tone for an impressive catalogue that includes English Food, The Mushroom Feast and her exhaustive Vegetable, Fruit and Fish books.
Quite by accident, I cooked dinner for Mrs Grigson’s editor when I was firmly established as a restaurant critic, and as a result she commissioned my first cookbook. There is no doubt that Good Things inspired the way I tackled In Praise of the Potato and my subsequent work. I took to heart Jane Grigson’s introduction in which she says it is about enjoying food. Its quality, she goes on, its origins and preparation, are something to be studied and thought about in the same way as other aspects of life.
I own two copies of Good Things. My original, a 1973 paperback edition, is battered and worn. The dog-eared cover is a beautiful photo of some of the “good things” inside: prunes, kippers, walnuts, celery, lemons and a slice of pork pie, but there are no recipe photos. The flimsy, yellowing pages fall open at favourite recipes: the curried parsnip soup (using curry powder), baked kippers (foil-wrapped to save on washing up), Cornish leek pie (like flamiche but with bacon), pigeon with grapes and avgolemono soup, to name a few. As I flip through now, I’ve rediscovered walnut biscuits (perfect as I have leftover egg whites and nuts).
The other copy, given to me by Jenny Dereham, Mrs Grigson’s editor, is an almost pristine 1990 hardback. It’s set in a different typeface though the original line drawings (by MJ Mott) remain. It includes an additional heartfelt introduction by her friend, the novelist Paul Bailey. Tucked inside is a copy of the Service of Thanksgiving for the Life and Work of Jane Grigson, 13 March 1928-12 March 1990. Both books are treasured possessions.
Beefsteak, kidney and oyster pie
An interesting thing about Roman cookery is the ubiquity in recipes, both sweet and savoury, of a substance known as garum or liquamen. It was the monosodium glutamate of ancient times, a taste-sharpener invented by the Greeks, but developed by the Romans to the point of being produced in factories, and sold in trademarked containers. The basis of this relish and its variants was the fermented liquor of salted-down fish entrails.
Disgusting, you may say. But was it? I think liquamen served the Romans better than monosodium glutamate serves us. Think of beefsteak, chicken or rabbit pie, all improved by oysters until the middle of the nineteenth century, when their rising price put them out of the seasoning category. Think of anchovy essence used in meat pâtés, and in pork pies around Melton Mowbray. These fishy additives lose identity in such dishes, giving up individual flavour to increase the general richness.
For 6
For the shortcrust pastry (this recipe makes double the amount needed)
1lb (450g) plain flour
2 scant tablespoons icing sugar (optional)
½ teaspoon salt
¼lb (110g) each butter and lard
cold water
egg
For the filling
12–18 oysters
1½–2lbs (700-900g) chuck steak
8oz-¾lb (225-350g) ox kidney
1oz (25g) butter
6oz (175g) chopped onion
heaped tablespoon flour
6oz (175g) mushrooms sliced
beef stock
Harvey’s, Worcester or soya sauce
salt, freshly ground black pepper
To make the pastry, sift flour, sugar and salt into a bowl. Rub in the fat until the mixture is crumbly. Using as little water as possible, mix to a firm dough. Leave in a cool place for an hour at least. Roll out and line a greased loaf tin, or pie dish of about 2 pint capacity.
For the filling, first open the oysters, taking the precaution of wrapping your left hand in a tea towel. Put them with their liquor into a basin. Then cut the steak into cubes and the kidney into chunky slices, discarding all fat and skin. Season the meat with salt and pepper, and brown quickly in butter with the onion. Stir in the flour and cook for a moment or two until it has taken up the fat. Add the oysters and their liquor and the mushrooms, and enough stock until the consistency of the sauce is like thick cream (the mushrooms and meat will exude a certain amount of juice, bringing the sauce to a thinner consistency). Season with salt, pepper and a dash of Harvey’s, Worcester or soya sauce. Transfer to the lined pie dish. Pack in the filling, mounding it up so that the lid will be nicely shaped, and moisten the rim of pastry. Lay on the pastry lid. Knock up the edges and make a central hole for the steam to escape (keep it open with a rolled card). Decorate with leaves and a rose (a roll of pastry rolled up, then pinched together at one side so that the other opens into a flower-shape). Brush with beaten egg and bake at Mark 2–3, 300–325°F, for 2 hours. Protect the crust with brown paper as it browns.
Alternatively the filling can be pre-cooked for an hour, in a covered casserole, and allowed to cool a little – or completely, overnight. Transfer to the pie dish, cover with pastry and bake for 30 minutes at Mark 5–6, 375–400°F. The first method is better from the point of view of flavour, I think, but the second may suit your convenience or your stove, better.
Rabbit and some fat bacon, cut in pieces, may be substituted for steak and kidney (this used to be done in Shropshire, and is still done in Scotland I believe). A longer cooking time will be required if the rabbit is mature; less time if it is very young and tender.
Rabbit with mustard
This is one of the best meat dishes I know for piquant contrast of flavours.
For 4
1½lbs (700g) pork belly
3 medium carrots, chopped
½-¾lb (225-350g) chopped onions
1 large clove garlic, crushed
1 tablespoon thyme, or wild thyme
1 bay leaf
1 tablespoon chopped parsley
saddle and hindquarters of 1 rabbit, saddle halved
¼ pint (150ml) dry white wine (or chicken stock plus dessertspoon wine vinegar)
2 liqueur glasses brandy
1 egg yolk
3 tablespoons double cream
1 tablespoon Dijon mustard
extra parsley to garnish
salt, black pepper
Skin, bone and slice pork. Mix carrot, onion, garlic and herbs. Lay half the pork in a casserole, then half the vegetable mixture. Season well. Add the rabbit, then the rest of the vegetables, then the rest of the pork. Season. Lay the pork skin on top. Pour over wine and brandy, cover tightly and cook in a slow oven, Mark 2, 300°F, for 2½–3 hours, until the rabbit is tender. Arrange meat and vegetables, well drained, on a serving dish, and keep them warm. Skim fat off the cooking juices. Beat yolk and cream together, add the skimmed juices and cook gently. Stir this sauce well, but don’t let it boil. When it’s thick, add the mustard. Pour over the rabbit, sprinkle with parsley, and serve with some plainly boiled potatoes.
Artichokes Clamart
By a happy arrangement of nature, since their flavours go so well together, artichokes and peas are in season at the same time. This is a special dish, for a special meal.
The name Clamart is a souvenir of the days when Paris, like London, was ringed with market gardens. Different areas specialised in different vegetables, Clamart, to the south-west of Paris, being famous for peas. Every morning before sunrise carts from the suburbs would clatter into Paris with produce for the central markets, until in the nineteenth century the monstrous belly of the capital was no longer satisfied with young vegetables, and swallowed the gardens as well. It was the same with London – have you ever seen asparagus growing in twentieth-century Battersea? Most of the petits pois in Clamart these days are, I am sure, to be found in tins. But the name survives piously on menus and in cookery books; it still means “garnished with the best young peas”.
For 6
6 large artichokes
2 tablespoons wine vinegar
1lb (450g) shelled peas cooked in the French style, see below
heaped tablespoon chopped parsley
4oz (110g) butter
lemon juice
For the French-style peas
8 large lettuce leaves
1lb (450g) shelled peas
6 spring onions roughly chopped
tablespoon chopped parsley
½ teaspoon salt
3 tablespoons butter
4 tablespoons water
2 very young carrots, finely chopped
sugar
Cut the artichoke stalks off close to their heads, and put them into a large pan of boiling salted water. Add the vinegar, cover the pan and cook for about 40 minutes, until a skewer goes easily into the base of the artichokes. Rinse them quickly under the cold tap, so the leaves can be stripped off (keep them for another meal, to eat with vinaigrette sauce), and the hairy “choke” removed. You will be left with 6 saucer-shapes of greyish-green artichoke – the best part, the “fond” or heart.
Cook the peas in the French style. Cut the lettuce into strips, and put with all the other ingredients, except the sugar, into a heavy pan. Cover tightly and simmer for about 20 minutes, or until the peas are cooked. There should not be much juice left in the pan. Taste and season with extra salt, and sugar if necessary (don’t make the dish too sweet).
Quantities and timing are for middling peas. Small (or frozen) ones will need less time to cook, and half the amount of water. Keep an eye on the peas, to see how things are going; it’s a mistake to overcook them.
Add the artichokes for a few moments at the end to reheat. Mash the parsley and butter together, seasoning with lemon juice. Arrange the vegetables in a hot serving dish, with a knob of parsley butter in the hollow of each artichoke heart.
If you grow your own artichokes, you may find it more convenient to use 18 of the very young ones. Slice ¼ inch (½cm) from the pointed leafy end of the artichokes, and boil them quickly in salted water until tender. Drain, and mix into the cooked peas. Stir the parsley butter into the pan before turning out on to a serving dish.
Cock-a-leekie
For centuries, souplike stews kept most of Europe alive – just. Within present memory “stew” has still meant a great deal of water, barely flavoured with vegetables, and a scrap of meat on Sundays. Potatoes, pearl barley or bread, sometimes oatmeal, were added to deceive the belly into temporary quiescence. No wonder stews have a poor reputation with many people today.
This is a pity. When these old survival recipes are well made, with enough meat, they can be delicious. Welsh mutton cawl is one example, cock-a-leekie from Scotland an even better one. No doubt it often provided a last home for the ageing rooster, but made with a younger bird of flavour it has earned smart gourmet approval for over a century and a half.
A capon produces the finest flavoured cock-a-leekie. Next, in order of merit, come a roasting bird, a really good boiling fowl (cooking time will need to be increased), a deep-frozen chicken, and lastly those egg-tired birds euphemistically known as “steamers”.
For 6-8
1lb (450g) prunes
1 capon or chicken
2–3lbs (900g-1.35kg) leeks
Beef stock, or a 2lb (900g) piece shin of beef and water
Soak the prunes overnight. Next day fit the bird, breast down, into a pot, with the piece of beef if used. Cover with water, or beef stock, and bring slowly to the boil. Skim off any brownish-grey scum. Meanwhile prepare and slice half the leeks; wash the rest, leaving them whole, and tie into a bundle – add these to the chicken pot after skimming. Simmer until the meat is almost cooked (if a very young bird has been used, it’s best to cook the beef for 1½–2 hours first before adding the chicken. The point being to have them ready together). Correct the seasoning, and add the prunes, stoned. Simmer for 20 minutes. Add the sliced leeks, and simmer for 5–10 minutes. Remove and discard the bunch of leeks.
By tradition cock-a-leekie is served in bowls – a slice or two of chicken and beef, a few prunes and some leek, plus the delicious broth, everything all together. However the broth is so excellent that it can make a first course on its own (with an extra flavouring of freshly ground black pepper), followed by chicken, prunes and leeks as the main course. The beef can be left to cool in the remaining broth and provide a meal next day. Talleyrand, the French foreign minister, considered that the prunes should be removed before serving. While from the gourmet point of view, this may be a good idea, I think this is a shame. Because the prunes look so beautiful against the green of the leeks and the pale chicken.
Some modern recipes omit the prunes altogether. Was this considered a refinement, I wonder? To do so is a pity because they add a wonderful richness. A description of a knight’s table in country Scotland in 1598, by Fynes Moryson, mentions that while the servants and lower tables had broth with a little bit of stewed meat, the “upper messe, insteede… had a Pullet with some prunes in the broth”. He did not consider, as Talleyrand did, that this dish came within the “art of cookery”, any more than the oatcakes baked on the hearth, which everyone below the “best sort of citizens” ate.
Asparagus and egg tart
This recipe provides a good way of stretching a small quantity of asparagus. Don’t use the finest quality, thick asparagus, but the thinner kind with spears about ¼ inch thick: out of season, frozen asparagus may be used.
shortcrust pastry, case, 9 inch diameter (see beefsteak pie recipe)
½–1lb (225-450g) asparagus
8 eggs
2oz (50g) butter
1 small clove garlic, crushed
2 tablespoons cream (optional)
salt, pepper
Bake the shortcrust pastry blind, in the usual way; clean and boil and drain the asparagus, having first trimmed it to 4 inch lengths (use trimmings and asparagus water for soup). Beat the eggs just enough to amalgamate yolks and whites; melt the butter slowly in a heavy pan with the garlic, and add the eggs. Stir them with a wooden spoon over a very low heat until they start to look scrambled, but are still rather liquid. Then remove the pan from the heat and add the cream if used (the eggs will continue to cook in their own heat). Season with salt and pepper.
While the eggs are cooking, reheat the pastry case in the oven, and the asparagus in a little of the cooking water. Turn the scrambled egg into the pastry case, and arrange the asparagus on top. Serve immediately.
If you wish to serve the tart cold, put all the ingredients together just before serving so that the pastry has no chance of becoming soggy.
Walnut biscuits
Almonds are so often used to make biscuits, and so successfully, that walnuts are overlooked. They produce a stronger flavour than almonds which goes well with coffee, and a delightfully chewy texture. A good accompaniment too, to coffee, walnut or chocolate ice cream.
4 egg whites
4oz (110g) grated walnuts
2oz (50g) chopped walnuts
4oz (110g) brown sugar
2 heaped teaspoons plain flour
4 sheets rice paper
Whisk the egg whites until they are stiff. Fold in the other ingredients carefully. Arrange the rice paper on two baking trays and spread spoonfuls of the walnut mixture on it (it does not run much in the baking, so the spoonfuls can be set fairly close together).
Bake at Mark 2, 300°F for about 20 minutes, until lightly browned and firm. Tear away from the uncovered rice paper, and cool the biscuits on a wire rack.
Gooseberry fool
Everybody knows that gooseberry fool, like steak and kidney pudding, is a truly national dish. What many people don’t know is that “fool” comes from the French verb fouler, to crush. In France grapes, not gooseberries, are foulées, crushed, or rather mangled on their way to the winepress. This, I think, gives a good idea of how a gooseberry fool should be made. Too often gooseberries are overcooked, then sieved or liquidised to a smooth slop. Ideally, they should be very lightly cooked, then crushed with a fork, before being folded into whipped cream. Egg custard is an honourable, and an ancient alternative to cream; commercial powder custard is not. Don’t spoil this springtime luxury. It’s better to halve the quantities, than to serve a great floury bowlful.
For 4-6
¾lb (350g) young gooseberries, topped and tailed
2oz butter
sugar
½ pint (275ml) double cream, whipped, or: ¼ pint (150ml) each double and single cream, or: ½ pint (275ml) single cream and 3 egg yolks
Stew the gooseberries slowly in a covered pan, with the butter, until they are yellow and just cooked. Crush with a fork, sweeten to taste and mix carefully and lightly into the whipped cream.
To make the custard, bring single cream (or rich milk) to the boil, and pour on to the egg yolks, whisking all the time. Set the bowl over a pan of hot water and stir steadily until the custard thickens to double cream consistency. Strain into a bowl, and leave to cool before folding in the gooseberries.
Serve in custard glasses or plain white cups, with some homemade almond biscuits or macaroons.
Gooseberry fools can be frozen and served as cream ice: in this case, sieve the fruit as the pieces of gooseberry produced by mashing would spoil the texture of the ice. Later in the year other fruit may be substituted for gooseberries, uncooked raspberries and strawberries and peaches for instance, and in the autumn cooked purées of apple flavoured with apricot jam, and of quinces. Use just over half a pint of purée to half a pint of cream or custard.
Good Things by Jane Grigson (Grub Street, £14.99). To order a copy for £12.74, go to bookshop.theguardian.com or call 0330 333 6846. Free UK p&p over £10, online orders only. Phone orders min. p&p of £1.99.
