On reaching the summit of fashionability

Some time ago I went all 'Heston' on the classic Prawn Cocktail and pushed the recipe to the limits.

Since then it has burst back into fashion.  Heston himself has 'done a Heston' on it, and even the sour-faced genius Mark Hix has promoted his own version.  Of course, it's all down to me.  I was first! Somehow I always seem to be ahead of the trends...  But that was some time ago.  I won't bore you with any more of that.

Fortunately, it being the Christmas season, I had a chance to top my own heights of perfection with a second round of dabbling.

You may find this strange, but despite being a child of the Seventies, the closest I ever came to a Prawn Cocktail was a bag of crisps.  It just didn't figure in my diet at all.  The first time I tried one was a few years ago in the Canary Islands.  After dining on that, my friends and I taught a local bartender how to make cocktails.

"They used to serve cocktails here", he moaned, "but now they just do this" - and swung a disparaging hand over the laminated menu of gaudy premixes.  Gesturing towards the rack of shakers, he wailed, "We haven't used these for years".  He had a distinct lack of ingredients, so the best I could muster was the Brain Haemmorhage (Archers, Baileys and Grenadine) which he proceeded to make in his largest brandy glasses.  The barman was so delighted he treated us to free drinks for the rest of the evening, and we didn't recover for days.

Which has little to do with Prawn Cocktail.  Making the perfect Prawn Cocktail is about as sensible as giving a pig a facial - really, it's a fairly lurid dish at best.  But making the perfect one is a whole bunch of fun anyway.  The more time you spend over it, the better.  Here's a few hints.

Make your own Marie Rose.  Make it with freshly made mayonnaise.  Make it with your own tomato sauce.  To do this, render down the most fragrant tomatoes you can find until they are pulp, then sieve and reduce with garlic, secret spices, vinegar and sugar until you have the richest tomato sauce imaginable.  Lots of mustard.  OK, I'll let you off if you don't make this too.  Tabasco.  More than you think you need.  A good dash of Pastis.  Nothing is better than a hint of aniseed behind the prawn.

All that's just par for the course.  Marinade the prawns with lime, garlic and chilli.  Fry off at the last minute with a dusting of cornflour.  At least some of them should be butterflied, and have their tails on.  A variety of prawns, in a range of postures, adds some panache.

Then, the garnish.  This is where it stands or fails.  A Prawn Cocktail should be ludicrously glamorous.  Stick an umbrella in if you can.  The ensemble should look like a tropical sunset.  A spring onion Palm Tree will is a vital touch.

Put it all together.  In a martini glass, of course.  Then devour.

There you go.

Merry Christmas all!

Dining with a legend

It was years ago that I first heard, in whispered tones, a mention of the Sussex Pond pudding.  The idea was so compelling, and yet so repellant, that it brought nightmares for weeks afterwards.  I never forgot it.  And yet, I never tried it.  I simply reserved it for dinner party snobbery, where I could, with a wry, knowing smile, say -

"And what about the Sussex Pond pudding?" - 

- safe in the knowledge that the answer would be - "What??".  And I could elaborate, watching the stench of my own superiority drift above the other diners.

Even now I struggle to believe that the genteel seaside drifts of Sussex could have given rise to the Sussex Pond pudding.  What deviant mind could have considered creating a steamed pudding with a whole lemon at its heart?  To boil an entire, unadulterated lemon - for a dessert - is surely the imagining of an unhinged mind.  And yet, in Sussex, they not only imagined it but named it after their own county!

And yet I never cooked one.  

The problem, quite simply, is that I am not one for desserts.  I like the play and complexity of savoury, I like meat.  If I do have sweet, it won't be on its own but with said meat.   Nothing beats a cherry sauce on a duck.

Desserts aren't really for eating, they're for impressing people - and  no matter how fine a steamed pudding may be,  it simply doesn't match up in the seduction stakes.  Nigel Slater's chocolate mousse, however, scores every time.  Even when declared  "too powdery", as one dinner guest did.  Had I used Slater's favoured Valrhona, I may not have walked for a week. 

A steamed pudding, however?  A suet pudding?  Just the word -  'suet' -  is about as romantic as a retirement home  - and that's even before you start contemplating what it is - the minced arse-end of a cow.  Hardly a top scorer in the ranks of seductive ingredients.  So I never cooked one.

Until now.

The other day, while wondering how best to wrap up a winter warmer of "Partridge & Pear" on what must have been the wettest, grimiest day of the season, I remembered the legend of the Pond.  Its rich, steamy heat beckoned.  So I ditched the snobbery and embarked on one of the last great culinary adventures available to man.  The Sussex Pond pudding.

I won't bore you with the details - what few there are.  Simply a suet pastry, a lemon, and enough butter and sugar to surround the fruit.  Steamed, for a good three hours (or more - a lemon isn't a frisky fruit, it takes time to warm up, soften and release its juices).  Turn out and serve.  A swift cut of the knife and the pudding reveals its heart, that hot lemon aroma will fill the air.

(Yes, it was small - this was supposed to be an individual version; in result, more than enough for two)

 

The heavenly lemony nectar runs forth

It really was a miraculous result.  I don't think I have ever tasted quite such a delight.  Indescribably sweet, sharp and juicy.  It may not look like much, but the Sussex Pond really is heaven on a plate.  Go try.  You won't be disappointed.