Dastardly deeds

You may well recall my recent mention of the surly, yet well-fed, folks at the Kentish Town farmers market. In my excitement over the oysters I left aside a brace of plump, bleeding wood pigeons for another day. These I pulled from the icebin yesterday, in order to indulge. Pigeon is a fine bird, but not one I have cooked in the past - so my culinary antics were, perhaps, a touch experimental.

Other than breast there is little of note on a pigeon - on a plucked one, at least. The live variety also comes equipped with a beady eye, an infuriatingly monotone whoop and a supernatural skill at dodging air rifle shots. So I removed the breast.


The carcasses I then fried off and threw into a pot with veg, for stock.



I took enough breast for a man like myself (three, it turns out) and pan fried it briefly, to keep it pink. Too briefly, I discovered - I had to pull a last minute manoeuvre to temper the rawness at their heart. I served them on a bed of spinach, with a (slightly moribund) blueberry jus and a hearty accompaniment of wild mushroom linguini.



And what of the rest?

So, to day two, where I spent the journey home suffering febrile dreams of dry, fibrous scraps of meat bound to the tangled legs of al-dente pasta. I had somehow to make it real. I couldn't quite envisage how to soften the blow until a leek danced before my eyes. I then dallied with an artichoke at the greengrocers stall, and my triumvirate was complete.

A pasta should never have more than three key ingredients - and even three is often one too many - so this was dicing with risk at its best.

I shredded the scraps from the stock bones and whipped up the remaining breast into something of a pulp in my new mini blender (oh, the joy). Armed with shreds, pulp and stock I set to.


The leek I shredded as finely as possible (I am a dab hand with a sharp knife as my scars will attest, but leek slices do have an irritating habit of rolling asunder), and sautéed these off in butter. Removing the leeks, I lobbed in the pigeon meats with a touch of garlic. Fried up, add the stock, throw the leek back in and boil it off. Chopped up marinaded artichoke heart thrown in at the last minute.


And this, a truly sublime dish of pigeon linguini, could not be beat. Enjoy.

Pieces of eight

What better way to celebrate spring than with a handful of oysters?

I picked these up from the Kentish Town farmers market. They like to think of themselves as the Parliament Hill farmers market, but I don't. It has a slightly shabby air with none of Borough's bare faced glamour. No more than a few stalls pitched in the back end of a car park, their forts held by some sour-faced and heartily obese individuals (from the farms, presumably). Both times I've been, the atmosphere has been pervaded by sausage smoke and the incessant whining of a dog, tied up against the back fence. I'm not sure if the dog is a 'feature', but there is definitely a chalk-board announcing its presence.

So, to the oysters. Anyone who has never eaten them should do so. With my inlander's long-bred fear of anything watery and raw I steered clear for years, until I was convinced that it was time to break that taboo. Tasting them that first time was an absolute revelation.

I went on, not long after, to visit Paris, where I ate two dozen for breakfast. This was on the pavements outside a small Montparnasse café where a man shucked 100 every minute, and Parisians balanced their plates on the bonnets of parked cars. I made that trip for two reasons only, the oyster-eating being one of them.


Shucking, of course, is an art, and is best done with the correct tool. Not willing to risk snapping a Global, I considered my trusty Spyderco. This is my third - the first was lost and the second confiscated by an overzealous customs official. I soon realised the blade was too slender, and so rummaged instead for a Reindeer knife, brought back Finland by my mother, which was perfect for the job.


So after a brief tussle (and not a little mess), my nose was filled with the pure, heady scent of estuary waters, tidal flats and drifting weed. This is what oysters are all about. The sea, in a shell.

What a delight. This really is heavenly joy.




I know some scour their oysters with tabasco, but that is missing the point. Even more than the slightest squeeze of lemon is too much. And for the beginners out there - no, you do not swallow them whole no matter what they said back in the 1970's. It's in the chew that the taste comes alive.