The Kitchen Diaries II. Nigel Slater
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themselves. They will develop a surface patina of burned-on oil that will be both non-stick and non-rust. I speed the matter up by putting a new wok, coated in groundnut oil, into a hot oven and leaving it for an hour or so for the oil to burn on. I then wipe the surface with kitchen paper without washing it and let the wok cool. I sometimes do this several times, depending on the progress. If the wok has a wooden handle, then it’s a case of doing it on the hob. A smoky business.
Oyster sauce, in particular the Lee Kum Kee brand, is one of the sauces that are always present in my fridge. Dark, velvety and not as fishy as it sounds, it keeps in good condition for a few weeks. Its destination is usually a last minute stir-fry – tonight, one of cubes of pork, too much garlic and some mushrooms. As a simple supper, it is difficult to beat.
Pork with garlic and oyster sauce
Plus greens somewhere.
flavourless oil: 5 tablespoons at least
cubed pork shoulder or fillet: 350g
garlic: 3–4 cloves
shallots: 2
small, hot red chillies: 4
mushrooms, shiitake, chestnut, whatever: 150g
oyster sauce: 3 heaped tablespoons
Shaoxing wine: 3 tablespoons
Heat the wok. Add 2 tablespoons of oil. When it starts to smoke, add half the meat and let it colour, removing it as it turns golden at the edges. Repeat with the second batch of meat, using a little fresh oil if you have to.
Meanwhile, peel and finely chop the garlic and peel and slice the shallots. Finely chop, but do not seed, two of the chillies. Leave a couple whole to add a deeper, subtler flavour. Get the wok hot, pour in the remaining oil and let it start to smoke, then add the chopped garlic, shallots and chillies, stirring as they cook. Fry them for a minute or two till they start to colour. Add the mushrooms, whole or torn up if they are large. Continue stir-frying till they are soft and lightly coloured, then return the meat to the pan. Once the meat is thoroughly hot, stir in the oyster sauce and the wine and bring to the boil. Let the resulting sauce reduce for a minute, maybe two, then serve.
Enough for 2
FEBRUARY 25
In the squeezing of a lemon
A warm lemon will yield more juice than a cold one. So it is better to keep them at room temperature than in the fridge. More importantly, a ripe or even slightly overripe fruit will give up more juice than one so hard you can barely squeeze it. Many lemons are sold unripe. A ripe lemon is often a deeper yellow, and yields gently under pressure. I roll my lemons on the work surface before juicing them, pushing firmly down on them with the palm of my hand. I seem to get even more juice that way.
The standard domestic glass lemon squeezer, the one with a moat to catch the juice and tiny beads to hold back the pips, works well enough. The deeper, stainless steel versions are good too, letting the juice fall through into the base. Yet I get the best results with a wooden lemon reamer. The simplicity appeals, a pointed ridged cone with a beech or olive wood handle, and the fact that it has been made by hand rather than machine. Some are made from one piece of wood rather than two (the handle is often made separately from the ridged cone). But what sets it apart from the others is its simplicity and, in some cases, its beauty. Of course, the pips escape into the juice. You simply fish them out with your fingers.
Lemon tart
The tart case needs to be made with care, so the edges don’t shrink as they cook, otherwise it will leak once the filling goes in. I keep a little bit of pastry aside for patching, so that if any cracks or gaps appear I can patch them before I add the lemon custard.
For the pastry:
plain flour: 180g
butter: 90g
caster sugar: a tablespoon
a large egg yolk
a little water
For the filling:
eggs: 4, plus 1 extra egg yolk
caster sugar: 250g
zest of 2 unwaxed lemons
zest and juice of a small blood orange
lemon juice: 160ml
double cream: 180ml
Make the pastry: put the flour into a food processor, add the butter, cut into pieces, and blitz to fine breadcrumbs. If you prefer, rub the butter into the flour with your fingertips. Add the sugar and egg yolk and just enough water to bring the mixture to a firm dough, either in the machine or by hand. The less water you add, the better – too much will cause your pastry case to shrink as it bakes.
Tip the dough on to a floured board, pat it into a round, then roll it out a little larger than a 24cm loose-bottomed tart tin. Lift the pastry carefully into the tin, pushing it well into the corners and making certain there are no holes or tears. Trim away any overhanging pastry, then place in the fridge for twenty minutes.
Set the oven at 200°C/Gas 6. Put a baking sheet in the oven to heat up. Line the pastry case with foil, fill with baking beans and slide it on to the hot baking sheet. Bake for twenty minutes, then remove from the oven and carefully lift out the beans and foil. Return the pastry case to the oven for five minutes or so, until the surface is dry to the touch. Remove from the oven and set aside. Turn the oven down to 160°C/Gas 3.
Make the filling: break the eggs into a bowl and add the egg yolk and caster sugar. Grate the lemon and orange zest into the eggs. Pour in the orange and lemon juice. Whisk, by hand, until the ingredients are thoroughly mixed, then stir in the cream.
Pour the mixture into the baked tart shell and slide carefully into the oven. Bake for thirty-five to forty-five minutes till the filling is lightly set. Ideally, the centre will still quiver when the tray is shaken gently.
Enough for 8
FEBRUARY 26
A little meal of peace
Sometimes, I rather like noise. The testosterone-fuelled roar of a football match heard from my back garden; the tired and blissfully happy sounds of a crowd singing along at a festival; the swoosh of a barista’s steam wand. But most times I prefer peace and quiet. The sound of snow falling in a forest is more my style – something I have yet to hear this year.
There is quiet food, too. The tastes of peace and quiet, of gentleness and calm. The solitary observance of a bowl of white rice; the peacefulness of a dish of pearl barley; running your fingers through couscous. The thing these have in common is that they are grains or something of that ilk. What is it about these ingredients that makes them so calming? Could it just be that they bring us gastronomically down to earth, show us how pure and simple good eating can be? This is food pretty much stripped of its trappings. It is, after all, the food that many people survive upon.
The peacefulness of grains, their earth tones and the fact that they don’t snap or crunch between the teeth, is what makes them food to eat when we are looking for solace and calm. The fact they are not from a dead animal probably has something to do with it, too.
More and more, I make a main course of what is generally thought of as an accompaniment. Tonight, I make a dish of pale bulgur wheat, cooked with chopped onions, bacon, mushrooms and dill. It is a bit of a hybrid (pork and bulgur are not often found sharing a plate) but it turns out to