Ravneet & Jaswinder Gill & Jit Atkar
Ravneet Gill is a pastry chef who has worked at St John and has her own pop-up bakery, Puff. She is the founder of Countertalk, a platform that connects chefs and advocates supportive and healthy work environments in the industry, and her first book, The Pastry Chef’s Guide, is out next month. She grew up with her mother, Jaswinder, and grandmother, Jit, and learned to cook in restaurants before she ever cooked with her mother.
When Ravneet Gill was about 14, an astrologer told her mother that Ravneet would work in the food industry. Jaswinder thought of the girl at home, so picky she’d only eat jam sandwiches for lunch. It was such a ridiculous prophecy, she forgot to tell her until last year, when Ravneet was 27 and had been a chef for seven years.
“She was so fussy, she never helped out,” Jaswinder says, explaining why they never cooked together when Ravneet was growing up.
“You would never let me help you,” Rav shoots back. Rav is having afternoon tea with her mother and grandmother Jit, who they call Biji. She and Jit think that Jaswinder is too particular in the kitchen – “control freak” is the exact phrase, repeated with much teasing.
“Mum considers me messy but a normal person would consider me very clean,” adds the chef, so adept in the precision of the pastry section that she works as a consultant for new businesses.
“She is still messy,” mutters Jaswinder.
Jit doesn’t speak much English but knows what they’re talking about. How are her kitchen habits? The question brings a shrieks of laughter from the others.
“Very messy!”
“So messy!”
“She gets told off every day for her mess,” says Ravneet.
Discussing who, really, is the best cook brings more laughter. Jit loves her granddaughter’s cakes (“plain sponge,” says Ravneet, “she hates chocolate”) and Jaswinder’s pakoras. Nominating Jit’s best dish is immediate and unanimous: “Her saag!” – a Punjabi recipe of lots of greens, lots of butter, lots of onion, ginger and garlic.
“She loves making it,” says Ravneet, as Jit demonstrates how to hand-press the chapatis that go with it. “But we get upset because it stinks the whole house out.”
“Boiled greens and lots of fenugreek,” Jaswinder shakes her head and rolls her eyes in only partial mock exasperation.
But, Ravneet says, it is acknowledged through the extended family that – “hands down” – Jaswinder is the best cook: “All my dad’s brothers’ wives are from India, but Mum is from Kenya, so she’s got more of an edge when it comes to spicing.” Jaswinder explains that Indians will often only cook the food of the region they’re from, but growing up in Nairobi exposed her to different ingredients and cuisines, so she might draw on Swahili or Gujarati elements.
After her husband died, Jit moved her family to the UK in 1974, when Jaswinder was 14. Jit worked in a sewing factory in Aldgate, so it fell to her daughter to do the cooking and shopping. “We had to get on with it,” Jaswinder shrugs. She found that not only did she enjoy cooking, but people loved her food.
“All the ingredients in Kenya were fresh and organic,” Jit says, adding that she’d never cooked anything from the freezer before moving to the UK, and has still never used an oven. “We cooked with coal there, but when we came to England the hobs were gas.”
Ravneet became more interested in cooking in her late teens, especially baking cakes. After completing a psychology degree, she trained as a pastry chef. She still didn’t cook at home, and didn’t learn how to cook Indian food until she worked at London restaurant Jamavar.
“My Indian food is way different to theirs,” says Ravneet. “I’ve learnt so much about all types of cuisines, yet I have this Indian background, so I love taking seasonal ingredients and making curry with them in a way my mum and Biji wouldn’t, like a delica pumpkin one I made.”
“You roast your pumpkin first, don’t you?” Jaswinder asks, explaining that she’d use raw pumpkin, peeled then added to mustard and cumin seeds toasted in oil with (always) onions, ginger, garlic and chilli. Ravneet describes her more cheffy approach of making different elements: roast the pumpkin, make a base, then a sauce – before putting it all together. She might use coconut, which Jaswinder and Jit would eat happily but not think to cook with. These days, at 90, Jit is more likely to squirrel away the pumpkin seeds, scattering them in the garden without telling the rest of the family. “Last year she went mad,” laughs Ravneet, as her mother shakes her head, again. “There were pumpkin plants everywhere. Next door had them growing up into their trees.”
The leftover dal parathas, below, , is a recipe they all make, though Jit uses gram flour, which Jaswinder doesn’t, and she doesn’t put chilli in her dal, which Jaswinder does. Ravneet has shown her mum how to make Indian dishes that she’s learnt in restaurants, like chat, and they now work together well enough to host dinners, splitting cooking duties. “She finally let me make samosas,” jokes Ravneet.
“I made mogo [cassava chips],” says Jaswinder. “You boil it and deep fry it, and add a spicy garlic paste, sprinkle it with lemon juice and coriander, so it’s these African-Indian flavours.”
“That’s good, we love that one,” murmurs Ravneet. “It was only a few years ago that I realised what amazing cooks they are, and how lucky I am.” HO
Dal and fenugreek parathas with lemon pickle and yogurt
Ravneet It would be a complete lie to say that we work in harmony in the kitchen. Instead, our kitchen consists of three women who think they know more than the others. My grandma is extremely messy, loves pickling and hates throwing anything away. My mum is obsessed with cleaning and always puts too many chillies in our food. I became a chef but it hasn’t earned me any credit with them yet. I grew up watching the two of them bicker and cook fantastically.
One of my favourite things to this day is these leftover dal parathas, and we all make them slightly differently. They are so comforting and all you really need is a big bowl of natural set yogurt and some pickle to enjoy them.
We eat these with my grandma’s lemon pickle, which takes at least one week to get going; she has jars of the stuff on the go constantly.
You can make the parathas vegan by adding oil instead of butter, and they’re a great way of using up any leftover dal. There’s lots of room to play here, so adjust according to your palate.
Makes 4-5
For the parathas
chapati flour 200g, white or multigrain
fine salt 1 tsp
potato 1 small, boiled, then mashed
white onion 1 small, peeled and minced
green chillies 2, finely chopped
coriander seeds 1/4 tsp, crushed
ajwain (carom) seeds 1/4 tsp
fresh coriander 25-30g, chopped
fresh fenugreek 15g, chopped (optional)
melted butter 1 tbsp, or neutral oil, plus extra to brush the parathas
leftover cooked dal 200g, we like to use yellow dal that has been seasoned properly so it’s super flavourful
For the lemon pickle (makes a large jar which should last a month or so)
lemons 5 large
bird’s eye chillies 20
vegetable oil 200ml
yellow mustard seeds 2 tbsp
nigella seeds 2 tbsp
turmeric 2 tbsp
red chilli powder 1 tbsp
fine salt 100g
white wine vinegar 250ml
caster sugar 2 tbsp
asafoetida 1 tsp
To serve
natural set yogurt
lemon pickle (see above)
To make the pickle, cut the lemons into pieces the size of a 50p coin. Keep the chillies whole. Put them in a heatproof bowl. Heat the oil, then add the mustard and nigella seeds and heat for a few minutes. Pour the hot oil over the lemons and chillies, and add the remaining ingredients. Stir, stir, stir. Decant into an airtight, sterilised jar, and leave for 2 weeks before eating. Make sure you keep stirring the pickle every few days.
To make the chapatis, mix together the flour, salt, potato, onion, chilli, and spices and herbs.
Add the melted butter and the dal, and mix with enough cold water to form a dough, not too sticky and not too dry. We add the water by eye because the mix varies each time depending on the other ingredients. Leave to rest for 1 hour.
To cook the parathas, roll out pieces of the dough into a circle (about 15cm in diameter), brush with a little melted butter or neutral oil. Fold it up, sides in first then the top and bottom down. Roll it out again into a circle (15cm) and brush again with melted butter or oil. Cook the parathas in a large frying pan over a medium heat, brushing with extra butter or oil if they look dry at any point, until cooked. It will be nicely browned and slightly puffy with no raw spots. Transfer to a plate and cover with a tea towel to keep warm while you repeat with the remaining dough.
Serve the parathas with yogurt and the lemon pickle.
The Pastry Chef’s Guide by Ravneet Gill (Pavilion, £18.99); countertalk.co.uk
Jessie & Lennie Ware
Musician Jessie Ware and her mother Lennie host the Table Manners podcast, cooking and talking with guests, which they will soon take on tour. They’ve also just published a book with recipes from the podcast as well as family favourites. “I don’t know if we’ve ever talked about food so much in my life as in the last two and a half years,” Jessie says. “Actually, that’s a lie. We’ve always talked about food.”
Jessie Growing up, Mum was very much head chef. I don’t even know if I could call myself sous chef, but I was observing, picking things up. She was constantly in the kitchen making something and I’ve inherited that from her. When I was 10 or 12 I felt I could have more independence and make my own food, but actually my mum always cooked dinner – and I’m very appreciative of that.
Lennie I cooked every night for dinner and we’d all sit down to eat.
Jessie She’s so self-sufficient, so it was like: “Why would I need your help, I can do 10,000 things at the same time?”
Lennie I’m also super bossy and controlling.
Jessie She said it.
Lennie I’ve got better at delegating as I get older. Last week, when I got ill, and you had to cook, and I couldn’t boss you around …
Jessie And it was quite good, wasn’t it?
Lennie It was great.
Jessie Mum’s chicken soup is 68 years of …
Lennie It’s not 68 years, I didn’t start cooking it when I was born.
Jessie All right. Fine. When did you start cooking it?
Lennie Probably when I left home. Because I had to, because I was so desperate for it.
Jessie Would you do Friday night dinner without your mum?
Lennie Yes, latterly. Mostly after you were born.
Jessie Mum would make it for her friends, whereas I would bring my friends round to Mum’s. I started making it when I had children – as much as she is eager to Uber it over. There’s nothing better than my mum’s one, especially if you’re poorly. Everyone thinks their mother’s is the best, but …
Lennie Mine is.
Jessie Hers really is. Jamie Oliver confirmed that when we made it for the podcast with him. We’re living together at the moment, and I think the best way cooking works is if we avoid each other at all costs. Otherwise it just ends in …
Lennie Out-bossing.
Jessie Well, I don’t boss.
Lennie You do boss, Jessie.
Jessie I just go quiet and very subservient.
Lennie You go quiet and you get cross.
Jessie Inside. I wouldn’t show it to you.
Lennie How do I know you’re cross then?
Jessie Because of the silence. Because I’m never quiet unless you’re telling me off.
Lennie The big problem is, Jessie’s very messy. If Jessie cooks, I’ve got to be sous chef and just tidy up after her constantly.
Jessie And that kind of suits me.
Mum makes things look so effortless. She’ll execute five or six different dishes – an array. And I’ve inherited that generosity, but it’s slightly optimistic.
Lennie Jessie is much better at flavours; she’s much more adventurous. I can rescue things; I know how food works.
Jessie She can rescue anything. The challenging thing with the cookbook was that we’ve never really written down recipes. It was memories, “a bit of this and a bit of that”. With the matzo balls, you’d never taught me how to make them. I’d just watched you do it.
Lennie When I had to write the recipe down, I got it completely wrong. Because I just used to shake things in. Now, having to repeat it and write it for the book, I’ve got it absolutely perfect. I learnt it from my mother. With the soup, she would have never used chicken thighs, she would have had a kosher chicken – a boiling hen – and the giblets. I learnt from friends, if you leave the skin on the onions, it gives it a darker colour. And I have my soup completely clear, my mum would have left the onions in. She wouldn’t have wasted bits of chicken and onions, whereas I throw it all away. By the time you’ve boiled the shit out of it for five hours, you can’t eat the chicken.
Jessie See, I would have kept the chicken in, all shredded.
Lennie I’d put a shredded chicken breast in extra, if you want it.
Jessie You never do though.
I probably wouldn’t make the matzo balls at home. I Iove having my mum’s soup, hers is the supreme, but mine might be more hearty, verging on a stew. I’m no good at puddings. It’s the thing that least interests me.
Lennie But everyone loves puddings, Jessie. We went to friends’ last weekend and there were six different puds.
Jessie And I ate all of them, but I’m not a big pudding person. So if I’m doing the main, Mum will do the pud, and she will just get on with it, and that’s helpful. Quite annoyingly everything that she does is pretty excellent. But I’m better at curries than you.
Lennie Yes, you are. You could make some this weekend.
Jessie OK, I will. HO
Lennie’s chicken soup
The soup may not be completely clear (and it doesn’t really matter), but if you want to make it as clear as a consommé then you can either put it all through a tea strainer (as I did when Jay Rayner was our guest) or you can use one or two egg shells from the matzo balls and put them in the soup as you bring it back to the boil – fish out the egg shells before you put the matzo balls in.
Serves 6 (makes about 2 litres)
kosher boiling hen 1 (if you can’t buy one, use about 3-4kg chicken thighs, legs and wings)
large onions 4, skins left on, halved, cutting off the rooty bit
carrots 8, sliced about 2-3cm thick
celery sticks 4, with leaves, halved
leeks 2, halved
swede ½
Telma chicken soup mix 2 tbsp (available from a kosher shop or online) or 2 good chicken stock cubes
whole black peppercorns 1 tsp
salt 1 tsp
matzo balls (see below), to serve
Put the chicken and all the vegetables in a stockpot or very large pan (about 5 litres capacity) with enough cold water to cover everything by about 5cm (about 3 litres) and bring to the boil. When boiling, skim off all the frothy scum until there is none left. Add the soup mix or stock cubes, the peppercorns and salt, bring back to the boil and then reduce the heat and gently simmer for 2-3 hours.
Season the soup to taste, then leave to cool. Pour the soup through a colander into a large bowl. Carefully retrieve the carrots from the colander and add back to the soup. Give everything else a good squeeze to release the juices. Some people put a little of the chicken into the soup, but I’m not sure it has much taste after being boiled for so long – and you will make your cat/dog very happy if you give them the bone-free chicken meat.
Put the clear soup and carrots into the fridge for at least 2 hours or overnight. When it’s well chilled the fat will rise to the top and you can easily skim it off.
To serve, bring the soup to the boil over a medium heat and add your cooked matzo balls just before serving.
Matzo balls
Of course, you can cheat and use the ready-made packets, which are sometimes sold under the name “kneidl”.
Matzo balls are very divisive: some prefer them fluffy like clouds, some prefer them dense like bullets. Some have them in the soup, others save them till after. But if you start by saying “I’ll only have one” you will always submit to the second. Delicious and crucial to chicken soup.
Makes about 15 balls
medium matzo meal 100g
baking powder 1 tsp
salt a pinch
white pepper a pinch
eggs 3 large, beaten
rapeseed oil 1 tbsp
hot chicken soup or boiling water 4 tbsp
Put all the dry ingredients in a bowl, gradually stir in the eggs and oil and then gradually add the chicken soup, mixing until smooth. Cover the bowl and chill for 30 minutes – it will firm up slightly.
Line a tray with baking parchment. Bring a large pan of salted water to the boil.
Wet your fingers and take small pieces of the mixture to make soft balls, about 2cm in diameter, placing them on the lined tray until you have used up all the mixture.
Drop the balls into the boiling water, turn down the heat and gently simmer for about 20-25 minutes until they are soft.
They should swell up slightly, rise to the surface and look like little clouds.
Lift out using a slotted spoon and serve them in chicken soup.
From Table Manners by Jessie Ware and Lennie Ware (Ebury, £22)
Tom & Jenny Adams
Tom Adams co-founded the acclaimed London restaurant Pitt Cue, which started as a pop-up. With his wife Lottie, he now runs Coombeshead Farm, a guesthouse and bakery with 66 acres of land in Launceston, Cornwall. He grew up on a farm in Winchester, where he was taught to cook by his mother, Jenny.
Tom I think anything that we do at Coombeshead Farm has a fundamental grounding in what Mum’s done for many, many years. Whenever she comes down there, I suspect she thinks it’s a rip-off of her.
Jenny No, I don’t, actually, Tom.
Tom You, for example, find it very odd that cordials can be purchased in a shop. You have fundamentals in how to manage a larder.
Jenny But you’re a much better cook, making things people wouldn’t have tried. That’s what’s exciting about you, Tom. If I make elderflower cordial it’s maybe very good but it’s normal, but you put a twist on it.
Tom I’d say less so nowadays. The more I’ve cooked, the less I’m interested in messing around during it. The processing is more interesting than cooking now. I get much more excited making cheese or bacon than cooking with cheese or bacon.
Jenny I just made stuff to eat.
Tom It’s the same thing. Subsistence is the fundamental. That’s what it’s all about – feeding people well.
Jenny And treating the land well. All the fruit in my garden is absolutely used, isn’t it? I hate waste.
Tom You had quite a go at me yesterday, for not putting the small top of a leek into the compost.
Jenny You’ve been chopping vegetables from an early age. But you really got into cooking things when you went to university to do some classical civilisation thing.
Tom Well, the course had some elements of Greek and Latin poetry. But I’d say cookery became my passion at 15 or 16, like daily pancakes did at age nine and tomato sauce at 10. You were pretty tight about switching on the heating at home, so the kitchen was the warmest place to be – and watch. As far back as I remember, there was always something bubbling away and the Aga is good for putting your bum against. I loved raiding the pantry.
Jenny I had to put a lock on the door. But cooking together was pretty happy and natural times, wouldn’t you say, Tom?
Tom It was more like being an understudy. And going out and picking stuff like rhubarb and being taught how to.
Jenny He became obsessed by pigs.
Tom I got a subscription to Practical Pigs and in the back there was a lot about the breeds available.
Jenny We gave him four piglets for his 18th, rather than a car.
Tom I’d grown up with sows the size of a sofa. I’d ride Empress and imagine she was a dinosaur when I was nine or 10. But with the four piglets it was about the whole processing. Pigs are not the original farmhouse staple for nothing. There aren’t many animals which can sustain a household for a year – with hams, sausages, bacons, offal, pâté, you name it. I bought 18 pigs from a breeder in Lincoln. We had a wood at home and I kept them there but left mum to look after them when I was working in London.
Jenny Thanks Tom.
Tom Yes, taking care of 18 fairly wild pigs is not the easiest task. Mum was a bit “Er, you need to deal with them, Tom”. I’d moved to London and taken a job first on Clapham High Street in a burger kitchen as a dishwasher and then Neal’s Yard Dairy in Borough Market, in wholesale. After a while a friend and I got a four-month pitch under Hungerford Bridge – with an alcohol license – and hired a barbecue trailer and Pitt Cue began and grew.
Jenny And I made all the pickles at home.
Tom Since the farm, restaurant and guest rooms have been set up in Launceston, she’s arrived and said things like “The garden’s a shambles”, “The bathroom tiles need bleaching” and also: “Don’t get any more pigs, please.” I get my work ethic from you.
Jenny I’m worried that he takes on too much. He does animal husbandry to a very high level and it takes time. And now him and Lottie have a five-month baby. And he’s wanting to do four more rooms in one of the barns and another orchard and vegetable patch.
Tom Each part makes the whole better. I’m not a huge fan of expansion for its own sake. I mean, I’ve worn the same jeans for two years.
Jenny I can tell, Tom, I can tell. JH
Beans, bacon & tomato
A one-pot wonder occupying that nourishing space between a stew and a soup, and ideally fortified with a good bread. While dishes akin to this are found all over Europe – countless countries have a dish founded upon a humble legume, fresh tomatoes and some piece of salted and preserved pork – for me at least, this is synonymous with my mother, and the kitchen of my childhood home in rural Hampshire.
My mother has wonderfully green fingers and that rare but vital ability to build a larder of beautiful things from what is farmed, grown, foraged and gathered through the seasons. During my childhood, there was rarely a moment when something was not bubbling away on the stove, salting in the larder or being frantically bottled. A simple dish of braised beans and tomatoes from the garden – sometimes with bacon if available, sometimes not – was a constant presence through late summer, and even well into winter thanks to a freezer stocked with enough batches of summer tomato sauce to last through an apocalypse. A cast-iron pot would slowly tick away over the course of a few hours, often left on top of the Aga to keep hot for for any of us kids to help ourselves as we passed through the kitchen. It regularly made for an ideal lunch with some aioli, fresh leaves and a warm baguette, and often became a fine dinner with additional steamed greens and some slow-roasted poultry. It’s also one of those dishes that benefits from a day or two in the fridge before being reheated.
This dish is a lesson in the importance of great ingredients and, in hindsight, was perhaps the most important thing to understand from watching and helping in the kitchen and garden at home. When made with tomatoes at the peak of their power, fresh herbs and fine bacon, this is a thing of unbelievable satisfaction. On the other hand, substitute the vitals for tinned tomatoes, poorly dried herbs and soggy wet cured bacon, and this will be a most ordinary affair. And therein lies the beauty of the simplest of foods.
Serves 4 comfortably
extra virgin olive oil
smoked bacon 100g, diced
onions 3 medium, peeled and diced
garlic 6 cloves, minced
celery 6 sticks, diced
bay leaves 2
rosemary 2 sprigs
thyme 2 sprigs
smoked paprika ¾ tsp
tomatoes 250g, fresh and nicely ripe, roughly diced
dried haricot beans 250g, soaked overnight, or fresh beans if available
chicken stock 500ml
salt to taste
crusty bread to serve
aioli to serve
Preheat the oven to 160C fan/gas mark 4. Place a heavy bottomed pan on a medium heat, add a good glug of olive oil, the smoked bacon, onions and garlic, and let them sweat until they begin to gently caramelise.
Add the celery and keep cooking until softened. Add the bay leaves, rosemary, thyme and paprika. Keep cooking for another 10 minutes. Add the fresh tomatoes, and allow them to cook for 30 minutes until they are fully broken down. Season to taste at this stage.
Add the soaked and drained haricot beans and the chicken stock, and bring to a gentle simmer on the stove.
Move the pan to the oven with the lid off and bake for 2 hours until thick and unctuous with a nice crust.
Taste again and season accordingly with salt.
Remove from the oven and allow to mellow for an hour. Pour a good glug of olive oil all over before serving with some crusty bread and aioli.
