How to Eat

by Nigella Lawson

  Other times, when there are two of you, you might want something not exactly fussier but more elegantly composed, dinner rather than supper. Actually, I’d have no compunction about making this chicken with morels just for me; it’s hardly difficult, and I don’t know what there is about it—maybe the creamy old-fashionedness—that makes me sometimes, definitely and distinctly, yearn for it. I have a feeling, which memory doesn’t actually ratify, that my mother or grandmother must have cooked something similar. Anyway, this is what I do.

  CHICKEN WITH MORELS

  ¼ cup dried morels

  1 tablespoon unsalted butter

  1 teaspoon garlic-infused olive oil (see page 459) or ordinary olive oil

  4 chicken thighs

  1 small onion, minced

  1 garlic clove, minced, if not using garlic-infused oil

  2 tablespoons Marsala

  1/3 chicken bouillon cube

  1–2 tablespoons mascarpone

  salt and freshly milled black pepper

  1–2 tablespoons chopped parsley

  Put the morels into a measuring cup and pour over hot (but not boiling) water to reach the 1-cup mark. Leave for at least 30 minutes.

  Put the butter and oil into a frying pan that has a lid and in which the 4 chicken thighs will fit snugly enough, and, when hot, put the chicken pieces in, skin side down. Cook for about 10 minutes, maybe slightly less, until the skin has lost its goose-pimply pallor and has become a warm golden brown. Remove to a plate, skin side up.

  Into the pan now put the onion and garlic, too, if you haven’t used that incredibly useful standby, the garlic-infused oil, and cook at a low to medium heat until soft.

  Drain the morels, reserving the soaking liquid. Strain this brown and aromatic water (I use a tea strainer) into a small saucepan and heat. Inspect the morels (you can do this by feel, using fingers), remove any grit or gravel, and add the morels to the pan with the onion. Put back the chicken pieces, this time skin side up, and add the Marsala. To the mushroom-soaking liquid, add the 1⁄3 bouillon cube and dissolve. Pour this into the pan too and put the lid on. Let it bubble away, but not vociferously so, for 20–25 minutes, by which time the chicken should be cooked through. Remove the chicken thighs to a plate while you reduce the sauce. You needn’t remove the morels (though you can), but do push them to the edges of the pan so they don’t get hit by the full blast of the fire. Using an ordinary tablespoon, ladle out any fat you might see collecting about the edges of this still-fluid sauce; some chicken pieces can give off a lot of watery fat.

  Turn the heat up high and let the mushroomy, chickeny, Marsala-deepened sauce thicken; depending on the dimensions of your pan, the material it is made of, and the burner you’re using, this could take 5 minutes or it could take 15. And it depends on how much sauce you want at the end. I stop when the sauce in the pan looks as if it could be generously spooned over and around the chicken pieces without turning it into soup. When the sauce is the right consistency to your mind (and this isn’t a crucial decision: it will taste delicious whatever), add the mascarpone. One heaping tablespoon should be enough, but add more if you want a paler, richer, more buttery sauce. Sometimes I add a glug more Marsala too. Taste and season with the salt and pepper.

  Put the chicken pieces back in the pan, spooning the oaky-brown sauce over them. Sprinkle with the freshly chopped parsley and serve—with plain boiled or steamed waxy potatoes or a floury mound of absorbent mashed potatoes, or just plain boiled rice—and eat a pale, crisp, and astringent green salad after.

  Serves 2.

  STEAK BÉARNAISE

  The essence of cooking for two exists in just one word: steak. I’m not saying I wouldn’t cook it just for me, but there’s something solid, old-fashioned, and comforting about the two of you sitting down and eating steak. Too often, when I’m at home alone, I waft along, as you do, in a tangle of noodles, lemongrass, and suchlike. Steak béarnaise is my dream. Fry a steak as a steak is meant to be fried, in a hot pan and for a short time. Turn to page 16 for a recipe for béarnaise. I don’t do frites. Green salad made bloody with the steak’s juices and some real baguette more than make up, in my book, for my french-fry deficiency. Just as I think that roast chicken is so good that I need a lot of persuading to cook a chicken any other way, so I feel about steak that it is perfect simply grilled or fried. But steak au poivre, aux poivres, peppered steak, whichever handle you like to put on it, is, in shorn form, a forceful contender. For me, it’s better without the addition of cream; I like my steak butch, brown and meaty. This is hardly the orthodox approach, and I can see that you might feel a culinary classic ought to be respected. Sometimes I’d even agree. Just go cautiously. You don’t want to feel you’re having dessert at the same time.

  I use either black peppercorns, half black, half white or, more often, a many-berried pepper mixture; some of the mixture isn’t strictly speaking pepper at all, but I like its warm aromatic quality, rather mellower than the heat of pepper alone. I have been meaning for years now to buy a coffee grinder especially for spices, but still haven’t managed to do so, and use a pestle and mortar.

  STEAK AU POIVRE

  2 boneless strip steaks (12–14 ounces each), about 1½ inches thick

  scant tablespoon olive oil

  3 tablespoons peppercorns, coarsely ground (see above)

  3 tablespoons unsalted butter, plus more if desired

  3 tablespoons brandy

  salt, if needed

  Using a pastry brush, if you’ve got one, paint the steaks on both sides with oil; you should need not more than a teaspoon on each side. Then dredge the oily steaks in the ground peppercorns—you want a good, crusty coat. If the peppercorns are too coarse, they’ll just fall off; if they’re too fine, you won’t stop coughing when you eat them.

  In a heavy-bottomed frying pan, put the remaining oil to heat up. Add the steaks and sear over high heat on each side; then, over moderate heat, add the butter and another drop of olive oil and cook the steaks for about another 3 minutes a side or to requisite bloodiness. Remove to warmed plates. Turn the heat up to high again, then pour in the brandy, stirring well all the time to deglaze the pan. When you’ve got a thick syrupy glaze, taste it; you may want to add salt, and you may want to whisk in a little butter just to help it all taste and look smooth and amalgamated. This, too, is where you could add your dollop of cream if you wanted. I’ve also, instead of the brandy, used Marsala, without which I’m pathologically incapable of existing, and it was dee-licious.

  Serves 2.

  Real carpaccio, as invented by Harry’s Bar and served up in modish joints all over the northern and southern hemispheres, really is restaurant food—though for mechanical rather than culinary reasons. If you’ve got a slicer or can otherwise be sure of producing the correct, tissue-paper-thin slices, by all means try it. Otherwise, do what any sensible, greedy person would do and work along the lines of the recipe in Richard Whittington and chef Alastair Little’s seminal cookbook, Keep It Simple. This is my adaptation; some quantities are changed, ingredients modified. I don’t use the truffle oil the authors specify because the first time I did this, I didn’t have any. Now I feel that it might interfere, so I use olive oil to dress the salad and replace their specified balsamic vinegar with lemon juice. And I use less cheese. But that’s what you should do when cooking—you draw on your own tastes and adapt according to your personality. I wouldn’t suggest substituting like for unlike, or not paying respect to the natural lie of a dish, but lemon, vinegar, oil, schmoil—don’t get het up.

  HOME CARPACCIO OF BEEF

  ½ pound beef fillet, cut from the tail end

  vegetable oil

  4 tablespoons peppercorns, coarsely ground

  3 cups trimmed arugula (or other soft leafy salad green)

  2–3 tablespoons olive oil

  salt

  ½ lemon

  2–3 ounce piece Parmesan

  If the meat’s been in the fridge, take it out a good 30 minutes
before cooking. Put a griddle or cast-iron frying pan over high heat to get really hot. Brush the fillet all over with a little oil, then dredge to coat with the peppercorns.

  Fill a bowl with ice water. Put the fillet to sear in the hot pan, and give it 60 seconds on each side—and that’s all six sides, the ends as well as the top and bottom, so that it’s encased in searedness. Use tongs, ones that won’t pierce the meat, to turn and hold the meat in place as you sear. Plunge the seared meat into the ice water, then take out, pat dry with paper towels, and leave to cool. You can do this in advance and put it in the fridge for a few days.

  When you’re ready to eat, take the meat out of the fridge and let it get to room temperature. Strew the arugula on 2 plates. I never wash salad greens if I can get away with not, but arugula can be sandy, so wash it. Dribble the olive oil over the salad, sprinkle some salt and squeeze some lemon juice on, and, using your hands, turn to coat well but lightly.

  Carve—cutting slightly on the diagonal—the fillet into thinnish but not waferlike slices, but you can go chunkier if you want, and divide between the plates. Using a vegetable peeler, shave the cheese into thin curls and let them fall over the top of the steak and salad. I rather like this with some steamed waxy potatoes that, when cooked, are peeled and sliced into thick coins and laid, warm, on the plate with the salad, under the cold dull-ruby slices of fillet.

  Serves 2.

  Man cannot live on steak alone. Anyone who really likes eating likes stew. This one, which comes via English food journalist Nigel Slater’s Real Cooking, is as wonderful as you’d expect anything of his to be. I love his writing and his food, both of which inspire and comfort—and at the same time, which is more than most of us deserve. This particular recipe has another virtue—it’s the perfect amount for two slathering, stew-deprived people or even one, as I can testify.

  LAMB AND BEAN BRAISE

  Apart from some initial rough chopping, this is an almost hands-free exercise—low effort, high yield. You do need to soak the beans and steep the lamb, but if you do them before you leave for work in the morning, you’ll be ready to go when you get back in the evening. I suppose you could always use canned beans, but I can’t honestly say that turning on the tap, and later the stove, are either of them fearsome strains.

  1½ cups dried cannellini beans

  2 shoulder lamb chops, each about

  2½ inches thick

  1 medium onion, cut into wedges

  2 bay leaves

  few thyme springs

  2 celery stalks, sliced

  2 medium carrots, peeled and sliced

  3 garlic cloves, squashed with the flat

  of a knife

  5 peppercorns

  1 large dried chili, or 2 small

  1 orange

  1 bottle red wine

  3 tablespoons olive oil

  2 portobello mushrooms, quartered or cut into eighths, depending on size

  1 tablespoon balsamic vinegar

  salt and freshly milled black pepper

  Soak the beans in cold water for a day or overnight. Put the lamb, onion, herbs, celery, carrots, garlic, peppercorns, and chili in a large bowl. Shave off some orange peel—2½ inches or so, it isn’t crucial—with a vegetable peeler and add it to the dish of meat and vegetables, along with the rest of the orange, pith, peel, and all, sliced thickly. Pour over the wine to cover. If you want to drink wine with the stew, get two bottles (or indeed more). Put the bowl of meat and vegetables somewhere cool or in the fridge.

  When the beans have soaked and the meat steeped, drain the beans, put them in a saucepan, cover by about 4 inches with cold water, bring to the boil, and then let boil for about 20 minutes. Put the lid on and remove from the heat.

  Strain the meat and vegetables over another bowl; in other words, reserve the wine. Throw out the orange slices, but keep the strip of peel; I get rid of the chili at this stage, too.

  Now get a heavy-bottomed casserole with a lid that goes with it and heat the oil in it. Pick out the bits of lamb from the sieve or colander and brown on all sides. Remove to a plate and put the rest of the stuff that you had marinating in the casserole to soften, adding the mushrooms. Cook for 10 minutes or so and then pour in the wine from the marinade (and the rest of the bottle, if you didn’t use it all earlier). Add the drained beans.

  Bring to the boil over medium heat, but turn it down just before it actually boils. Add the balsamic vinegar (though it’s wonderful without, too) and put the lamb back in. Cover the pot with foil. Stick on the lid tightly. This is to help stop the liquid evaporating.

  Leave to simmer gently for about 1½ hours. The meat should be tender enough to come away from the bone and the beans soft enough to squish, at the push of a wooden spoon, against the side of the dish. Prod both meat and beans to check.

  Turn up the heat and cook, uncovered, at a vigorous bubble until all of a sudden the juices thicken. This may take about 10 minutes, but be vigilant; it may not need to be much more concentrated than it is already. Season with the salt and pepper. I eat this in a shallow soup bowl, with a hunk or three of good bread, buttered or not, as I feel.

  Serves 2.

  PEAS

  Every day I thank God, or his supermarket stand-in, for frozen peas. For me, they are a leading ingredient, a green meat, almost. I don’t eat them that much straight as a vegetable, but I’d hate to have to cook without them. The almost instant soup—a handful of peas, some stock, a rind of cheese, whatever’s to hand—that I make for a sweetly restoring supper is itemized in Fast Food on page 159. The pea risotto that follows is another regular. Risotto is best suited to two. I like relative peace in which to cook it, and I prefer handling small quantities. It is also the world’s best comfort food.

  The quantities I use might be nearer those ordinarily specified for four, but when I cook risotto I don’t want to eat anything else after. And I feel a pang if there’s only enough for one middling-sized flat puddle of the stuff.

  PEA RISOTTO

  I specify frozen young peas, simply because that’s what I always use. I have used real peas, just shelled, to make risi e bisi, the fabulously named Venetian slurpily soft risotto, or thick rice soup, however you like to think of it, complete with pea-pod stock. But to be frank, if you don’t grow peas yourself, then there is not a huge advantage in using fresh ones. By the time they’re in the market, they’re big and starchy and without that extraordinary, almost floral, scent, that heady but contained sweetness of peas just picked from the garden.

  On the whole, I take the peas out and let them thaw before using them. But I don’t see that it makes much difference.

  As for stock: I haven’t specified any in particular. When I can, I use ham stock—which, because of my stock-making obsession, I usually have in the freezer; otherwise I make up some using vegetable bouillon cubes. I wouldn’t use a dark beef stock here, but any chicken, veal, or light broth would be fine.

  4 tablespoons (½ stick) unsalted butter

  1 cup frozen young peas

  4 cups stock (see headnote), hot

  2 tablespoons freshly grated Parmesan, plus more for the table

  freshly milled black pepper

  whole nutmeg

  drop of oil

  2 shallots or 1 small onion, minced

  1 cup arborio or Canaroli rice

  1/3 cup white wine or vermouth

  salt and freshly milled black pepper

  Put about 1 tablespoon of the butter in a saucepan and, when it’s melted, add the peas and cook, stirring every now and again, for 2 minutes. Remove half the peas and to the remaining half in the pan add a ladleful of the stock. Put a lid on the pan and let cook gently for about 5 minutes or so till soft. Purée this mixture—I use the miniprocessor I used to use for baby food—with 1 tablespoon each of the grated Parmesan and remaining butter and a grating each of pepper and nutmeg.

  Melt another tablespoon of the butter, with the drop of oil in it, in a pan. Cook the shallots, stirring with a
wooden spoon, for about 4 minutes, then add the rice and stir till every grain glistens with the oniony fat. Pour in the wine or vermouth (last time I did this I used Chambéry and it was fabulous; it seemed to add to the grassy freshness of the peas) and let it bubble away and absorb. Then add a ladleful of the hot stock (I keep it on low on the neighboring burner) and stir until this too is absorbed. Carry on in this vein, patiently, for another 10 minutes, then add the whole, just sautéed peas, and then start again, a ladleful of stock at a time. In about another 8 minutes or so, the rice should be cooked and the risotto creamy. Taste to see if it needs any more cooking or liquid. It’s hard to be precise; sometimes you’ll find you have stock left over, at others you’ll need to add water from the kettle.

  When you’re happy with it, add the buttery pea and Parmesan purée and beat it in well. Taste, season with the salt and pepper as needed, then beat in the remaining Parmesan and butter. You can sprinkle over some chopped parsley (and as I’ve got it growing in the garden I have no reason not to), but the lack of it won’t give you any grief.

  Serves 2.

  The first time I made pea soufflé (in response to an urgent request), I had no cheese in the house other than some processed Gruyère and Emmental slices, and so had to chop those up small in place of the real grated stuff—and may I tell you they were absolutely delicious. I now keep them in the fridge and I always have egg whites in the freezer. Making a soufflé is no longer a kitchen requirement for the aspiring hostess, but it’s always worth tackling recipes that scare you with their attendant mythologies, just so that you’re no longer cramped by that lurking fear. Read carefully and you’ll see that absolutely no culinary pyrotechnics are called for.