Outnumbered at The DuCane

Feeding time at the zoo. Sometimes there's no other way to describe it. Within seconds of placing the plate on the table, it can end up on the floor raising a chorus of laughter followed by a shriek of exasperation. On some occasions, the carrot in the spaghetti bolognese is missed and gulped down in the blink of an eye. However, more often than not, it is spotted and becomes an interesting decorative feature that slowly slides down the kitchen wall. Inevitably, bowls become interesting hats but never ever after the contents are actually finished. Which in turn prompts howls of protest in the bath later that evening as dried rice pudding is brushed out of matted, greasy hair. Yes, welcome to the world of feeding wee bairns.

Still we've come a long way from those heady days of mucky little mouths and foreheads, stubby toes dangling down from high chairs and the slumped exhaustion that comes from scrubbing the kitchen floor for the twelfth time that week. The twins have turned into quite a nifty pair of diners, quite happy to sit in grown up chairs and eat whatever is put in front of them at the table. OK, I am painting a rose tinted picture here. It can still be quite messy as clumsy hands try to co-ordinate spoon and fork Isla is a total carnivore, Finlay is the sensitive veggie and it can be a struggle to get them to wolf down the vice versa. Plus they've picked up this annoying habit of shouting "we want dinner, we want dinner", thumping their fists down on wood in unison. God knows where they've got that from...................

But by and large, meals around the table are fun and enjoyable and pretty much encapsulate the family scene that I've always dreamt of. I believe that eating at the table is important and as we all get older, I hope that table will become the same social focal point that I grew up with. Eating out however, away from the safe, secure, wipe down-able confines of home is a little bit different and perhaps a slight return to hair pulling days of old (er Mrs FU hair pulling that is). We found this out late last year when we visited The DuCane in Great Braxted for lunch.

The drive out into the picturesque countryside to The DuCane, which received a barrel load of awards at the 2010 Essex Food and Drink Awards including Best Newcomer Restaurant, was surprisingly quick from the badlands of Hornchurch. Luckily the twins are still of an age where the soporific motion of the car sends them to sleep. No "are we nearly there yet? are we nearly there yet?" Which probably helped. Although the excitement quickly escalated once we woke them from their slumber and skipped across the car park hand in hand. Looking from the outside, though smart, I'd hazard a guess that The DuCane has spent the best part of its life as a regular pub before becoming a full time restaurant. So as we entered through the door, I must admit the sparse, clean decor inside threw my scent off a bit. In a kind of 'oh balls, this looks a bit posher than I expected' kind of way. However, as soon as we stepped towards the bar area, we were approached by a staff member who was very warm and welcoming and totally ignored the fact that my daughter had her index finger fully wedged up her nose. Which put me back at ease.

We were sat down in a pleasant window boxed area and immediately we deployed the weapons of mass distraction; colouring crayons, sparkly stickers and paper, before perusing the menu. Having peeked at their website the night before to do some homework, The DuCane was true to its word, locally sourced produce was high on the agenda. Their list of suppliers is comprehensive to say the least. At the time, the restaurant was running a lunch special of two courses for £13.00 or three for £15.50 and it was pretty hard to decide. In the end I plumped for a Salad of Sautéed Black Pudding, Chorizo and Pigeon Breast with Raspberry Sauce and Roast Braxted Pheasant Breast with Savoy Cabbage and Game Gravy with English Bilberries and Crab Apple Jelly. Mrs FU decided to go snap on the starter but opted for the Linguine of Sea and Shellfish Braised in White Wine, Saffron and Herbs. The children's menu was equally impressive. Sure the old stalwarts were there, chicken goujons, burgers and chips etc etc but there was a reassuring byline that everything was fresh, made daily by hand. The offer of 'simply grilled fish with salad and new potatoes' appealed to our cosseting parental sensibilities so we went with that for the twins. Oh and we ordered some bread.

We shouldn't have ordered bread.

Don't get me wrong, when it promptly arrived, the bread tasted fantastic, the tiny bit I tried. And the portion was plentiful too. Maybe too plentiful and tasty because the twins attacked it and after a gremlin-esque five minutes, it was gone. Naturally, with bellies distended with dough (and not to mention freshly pressed cloudy apple juice) their hunger factor had somewhat diminished. And from then on it became increasingly difficult to keep them amused at the table. When our very pretty looking starters arrived, I managed to keep meat eater Isla sat still for a short while by feeding her a few morsels of chorizo and pigeon but the allure of the toilet became too fascinating. It took five visits to realise that she was more interested in dancing under the hand dryer, having her hair whipped up like some pre-school Hannah Montana than actually going for a wee-wee. Fin on the other hand was convinced that the Gruffalo was in the garden and kept peering out through the window, shouting at said imaginary creature and clutching a round candle holder from our table like a hand grenade. Although he did also try some of the starter and wound up fashioning a neat little red moustache from the raspberry dressing on his upper lip. And then for some reason via some kind of mental telepathy that only twins possess, the two decided they should have an ugly face competition complete with fits and giggles.

So it pains me to say that when our main courses came along, everything was scoffed at high speed as Mrs FU and I plunged into the free fall of stressed parents worrying that their kids behaviour was going to affect the other customers. Yes some of us do care you know. The food was certainly delicious, my pheasant was beautifully moist but I'm afraid that the plates were cleared without much consideration. The fact they were cleared is a good sign but I do know that Mrs FU suffered from indigestion afterwards. I ended up polishing off the kid's fish with no side effects at all (it was lovely). But what, surely what could possibly get us so uptight that we felt had to rush things so? I mean Christ, they're only kids after all.

All eyes to Fin for this one, a dead ringer for Daniel Roche. Towards the end of our very brief stay, he decided to stand up on his seat and produce a perfectly melodious one-note piece of french horn from his bottom. I don't know if he did it because he was feeling uncomfortable or if it was purely for entertainment reasons but I do know that the elderly couple on the adjacent table heard it. And they weren't amused. I looked Fin sternly in the eye and said "Finlay! What do you say?"

"I farted", he replied.

As if it was the most obvious thing in the world. Seeing as he was being so honest, the only response I could muster was to stoically and sagely nod, left eye twitching. Firstly at Fin. Then to the grim faced couple. And then to the table. Trying not to burst out laughing. Thankfully, our waitress came along shortly after with the very reasonable bill and we all dashed out. I am sure we shall return in the near future as the plaudits heaped on The DuCane are certainly justified. But perhaps it will be just the two of us.

And have no fear, of course we shall continue to take our beloved pair to eat out more often. It's educational and fun for them and also for us, though I suspect it'll be a long while before we can expect anything remotely civilised. Like I said before, God knows where they get it from.

The DuCane

Salad of Sautéed Black Pudding, Chorizo and Pigeon Breast

Linguine of Sea and Shellfish Braised in White Wine, Saffron and Herbs.

Roast Braxted Pheasant Breast with Savoy Cabbage and Game Gravy with English Bilberries and Crab Apple Jelly

Simple Grilled Fish with New Potatoes and Salad

Daniel Roche gets bored easily

And Hannah Montana likes to draw

The Gluttony and The Resolution

It is morning. I know it is morning because daylight is starting to peer through the curtains. That much my brain can work out. I also know that it's Boxing Day. But any more than that, my mind draws a blank. Above the sheets hangs a sour, stale cloud of vaporised port, peppered with a fine water biscuit dust. Underneath the sheets, it's a veritable sulphurous Hades. The Brassicaceae peninsula has been breached and plumes erupt from dark chasms, spewing forth poisonous gases. In the corners of my mouth, a strange white residue collects, similar to creamy cottage cheese even though my throat is bone dry. My head thuds in metronomic time to the rhythm of an invisible Big Brass Band and it feels like the Chattanooga Choo-Choo is going to cleave my skull in two-two. Somewhere out there in the vastness of space, a small voice pokes me in the eye and asks if Santa has come to our house again. And could they also have some toast. I just want to lie there in my bed and let my broken, bloated body knit itself together. However, a little voice inside my head says that I have to get up. I have to get moving. I have to look at myself in the mirror and slap my pale, moribund face and shake myself out of this stupor because a new day lies ahead. This is the most queasiest, most painful part. Because suddenly all becomes apparent. I know I have to do it all again. Such is the turgid treadmill that is Christmas and celebrating the birth of little baby cheeses.

Forgive me if that sounds a little negative, I did really enjoy myself this year. The look on the twins faces when Father Christmas (future brother-in-law) came bounding into the room on Christmas Day would melt the most cynical of hearts. And being a 'faaamlee' kinda of guy, I revelled in the banter and social play that comes when you meet up with your loved ones, shouting and laughing over Trivial Pursuit. Plus I had a hearty two week break from work so I shouldn't complain but I have to admit the endless cycle of eating and drinking has really got to me this time around. So much so that over that last few days, Mrs FU keeps finding me slumped in front of our fridge, whimpering "Why? Why won't the Stilton go away?"

Believe me, the feasting really has been ridiculous this year. Intense. Heathen. Bacchanalia(ical). Proper pagan I tell thee. Over this festive period, my eyes have fallen up platter upon platter of meats, fish, vegetables, breads, cheeses, pickles, crisps, sweets and I have gorged and chomped and savoured to my hearts content. Yet in some respects, I feel like I have almost been sleepwalking through it all. After a while you kind of go on autopilot, nosing cupboards and fridges, wandering from room to room, picking from random bowls along the way. Because after the main event, there is still so much food going around. At one point yesterday, I even considered the merits of installing a bowl of Twiglets in the loo just so I could get my marmite fix whilst pointing percy at the porcelain. Of course this idea was born out of the last drop of Prosecco that was finally drained away down my throat last night.

But now it must stop. The eating, the drinking, the sheer gluttony of it all. My resolution is to lose at least a stone. Tomorrow I shall throw my running shoes on. Tomorrow I shall throw away that poxy Stilton. Tomorrow I shall become a new man.




I would also like to say that this decision is in no way linked to Mrs FU's fawning over a pubescent, bare chested pipsqueak who thinks he's a wolf.

And whoever bought her the Twilight Trilogy on DVD, thanks a fucking bunch.

Pig Crazy

There is something about this holiday season that has made me go pig crazy. Not that I don't ordinarily revel in every imaginable piggy part, but I seem to be eating pig in some form at every meal lately. There was the beautiful shoulder ham I smoked for Christmas, which was sliced, fried and deglazed with rootbeer as leftovers. Not to mention the salamis for breakfast. Or the can of boudin noir I brought back from Paris. Oh, or the great pork chop I had for dinner last night.

Well, the other day Vanessa Barrington, author of DIY Delicious (a cookbook that is in most respects very much like my own; a truly kindred spirit), came over to play in the kitchen. We tried some smoked and pickled vegetables, which I'm still letting mature, but it was mostly a pig day. She brought this pickled Portuguese pork for me to taste, which was unbelievable. And we just wacked up a ton of pig for some pates, guianciale, bacon. And FINALLY, some liverwurst, which you see here. The liver was huge and very frightening, to tell the truth. But the technique could not have been simpler. It is just pork butt, lightly poached liver, onions and spices, pounded to a paste, put in a beef middle, and smoked for about two hours over oak. I'm letting it mellow for a couple of days in the fridge. Maybe it will make it all the way to New Years, that is if I do! Have an Oinky New Year!

Eels

After a recent discussion about the pleasures and perils of eels, I decided to share some of my friends. Ceci ne'st pas un eel. Not even eels, nor even elvers. Isn't that the cutest name? No, they're basically noodles in oil, vaguely garlic and fish flavored, sold to Spanish people as baby eel surimi. Replete with a little silvery stripe down one side. Who are they kidding? Don't buy it.

And alas, we are told not to buy the endangered Anguilla anguilla, close relative of Magilla gorilla, which some people, like our friend Janet, live in mortal fear of. Along with dangling prepositions. Is it anything dangling perhaps, asks Dr. Freud? Sometimes a pipe is just an... eel.

Well, this beauty is my friend Harold. Part pet since I've had him so long and say hi every morning. Yes, there was a Maude. I ate her. Harold, is now old dried up, smoked too much. So I haven't the heart to let him go. But I do take him for walks every now and then. See the leash? In case he wants to snap at friends.

Hispanic Hipstamatic

Karma is a bitch sometimes and has a nasty habit of biting you on the arse. Especially when you have been bragging to all and sundry that you're off to Spain for a Christmas jolly, all paid for by your employer. I should know better by now. Still after spending 6 hours stuck in a tiny seat on a crowded stuffy plane because of a 10 minute blizzard, when the captain announces that you are finally about to take off, you would expect to feel exhilarated wouldn't you? Well I didn't. Because our Captain also announced that further expected weather conditions would probably close the airport, Gatwick in our case, for a couple of days. He was only trying to cheer the passengers up by saying how lucky we were to be getting out of there. But believe me when I heard him say that, that proud boast palled in my stomach like an acrid turd of sadness, worry and regret. All I could think was 'how am I going to get back home, to Mrs FU and the kids?'

Subsequently, I went through the weekend in a bit of a daze, trying to get into the spirit of things but my heart wasn't really in it. We went to some nice places to eat, Taller de Tapas and Los Caracoles. The former served up some fine tapas, as you would hope to expect with their tortilla, braised octopus (pulpo a la gallega) and salt cod (esqueixat de bacalao) being the stand out dishes for me. The latter sold itself as an instution in Barcelona and yes the food was good, I loved their monkfish with prawns (rape con gambas y salsa de alemdras). Also the open 19th century kitchen, complete with coal fired stoves, that you walk through to get to your table was definitely a spectacle but alas this restaurant was too much of a tourist trap for me spoiled by sullen, arrogant service.

I didn't take any photos of the food in either place though. Due, I think to the aforementioned lack of enthusiasm but I did get plenty on my iPhone when I got the opportunity to wander around La Boqueria by myself for an hour or so. I could have stayed all day. La Boqueria is the biggest and most famous food market in Barcelona, although there are other smaller ones, situated off the main drag that is Las Ramblas. A heaving, crammed, intense, noisy cauldron of bodies but so so far removed from food markets like Borough back home, which really is a tourist trap these days. Interestingly, the trusty guide book I had in my pocket alluded that La Boqueria was just as much a mercenary holiday rat-run but I didn't get that at all. Instead I got a palpable sense of commerce, life and community fusing together, watching the shoppers and market workers interact, going about their business. Conversation at stalls, largely between women could have been about everything and anything. It was often long and drawn out as I soon discovered, waiting for my turn to point at some jamón. Unfortunately, I don't speak Spanish (or should that be Catalan?) so what they were actually saying to each other is anyone's guess. But I suspect that their male counterparts who propped up the tapas bars towards the back of market, cradling a vino tinto figured somewhere in their rapid, machine-gun chatter. And it wouldn't have been anything good I'm sure. And after visually feasting on the marvellous, vibrant displays of produce all around, trying and buying (along with some confused poking at foreign objects) I have to say that La Boqueria really cheered me up.

Well maybe not as much as touching down at Gatwick, late on Sunday night but here's to a fantastic market anyway. And here's to all the people stranded, hoping to make their way home, hoping to see loved ones at Christmas time. I hope you make it.

(Obviously I didn't use the Hipstamatic app for the last photo but they look happy piggies don't they! I wonder why?)

Pottage of Fat Goose with Pureed Peas

If you perchance peruse historic goose recipes, going much further back than Dickens’ roast goose served on the Cratchit’s Christmas table, you will find a panoply of intriguing techniques. There is goose baked whole in a pastry crust in 16^th century Italy, goose stuffed with oats and boiled, geese semi-roasted, slashed and finished on the grill in what was known as a carbonado in Restoration England, goose ragouts and others served in a staggering variety of sauces. But one in particular caught my attention. It hails from Le Cuisiner of Pierre de Lune, published in 1656, and involves salted cured goose, served in a “pottage” of puréed peas. Here is the recipe, translated from the original:

Potage d’oie grasse aux pois passés

If the goose is salted, do not lard it; if it is not, then lard it with bacon; then cook it in a pan with lard, and then cook through with bouillon, and a bundle (of herbs). Cook your peas separately and pass through a seive with the goose bouillon, parsley, a bit of pepper, and a morsel of green citron. Garnish with fried bread and little bits of crumbled bacon.

To help recreate this dish, here is a full description of the technique: Carefully remove each half of the breast from the goose with a sharp boning knife. Keep the skin attached. Remove the legs and thighs intact for another use, such as confit. Use the bones and giblets for a light stock, which you can freeze for use later in the recipe. (Reserve the liver for yourself, seared and served on crackers.)

Mix 2 tablespoons of fine sea salt with 1.5 tablespoons of unrefined sugar, 1/2 teaspoon of instacure #1 (or “pink salt” which can be bought on line or at specialty grocers, or celery powder cure which works fine), 1 tablespoon ground pepper and a tablespoon of crushed juniper berries. Liberally coat the breasts, put into a large gallon-size ziplock bag and store in the refrigerator for a week to ten days. Turn the bag over every day.

Remove the breasts from the fridge, rinse off and pat dry. Brown them gently in a pan with a 2 tablespoons of melted lard (or goose fat). Toss in a bouquet garnis tied with string. Pour over goose stock to cover half way and cook breasts through very gently, with the pan covered, about 15-20 minutes. The final texture and taste will be remarkably like cooked ham.

Meanwhile boil a pound of green or yellow split peas in the bouillon with some parsley, pepper and candied green citron. Pass through a seive or purée in a blender or food processor. To serve, put the peas, which should be fairly thick, in a large deep platter and lay the goose breasts, thinly sliced, on top. Scatter croutons and bits of crumbled bacon on top for garnish. Serves 4-6 people.

Hi-Diddle-Dee-Dee (An Actor's Life for Me)

Ah the roar of the greasepaint, the smell of the crowds! Just standing there in that wide open space brought it all back to me. The many, many...... many, many, many characters I played. Gosforth in Confusions, Charles Condomine in Blithe Spirit, Harrison Bracewell in Murder in Play, Sir Richard Ratcliffe in Richard the Turd and not forgetting, Frances, the aging queen forever on the hunt for "young chicks" in Elegies. Happy days. But alas no more. You see there comes a time in a young mans life, when he quite reasonably says to himself, "I shall never play The Dane!" It is at that moment that all ambition ceases to exist. Uncle Monty was right, it is devastating to realise that you are not cut out for an actor's life.

Well, OK that wasn't exactly the case. I had to give up treading the boards and the heady heights of amateur dramatics because once two little urchins arrived on the scene, I simply didn't have the time. And to be honest, I don't really think I have the calling. The kitchen is my stage now darling. But then my alma mater got in touch recently asking for help. I cried "What do you need? What part is it? Do I have time to immerse? Where's my lines?" But all the folk at the Brentwood Theatre wanted were volunteers to help feed the troupes during panto season. This year it's all singing, dancing, slugs, maggots and ladybirds in The Plotters of Cabbage Patch Corner. So I replied "OK........but just this once" before retiring to my boudoir.

Actually there were lots of reasons why I was happy to get involved. The Brentwood Theatre is a small community theatre and a fantastic outpost for the arts in our area, run on a shoestring but with plenty of passion. Also there have been lots of changes since I was last there, building work and such so I was keen to inspect the new dressing room facilities. Particularly as I have many painful memories of standing in a hut, shivering in just my y-fronts. And plus Mark Reed, the theatre's general manager, tickled me with his email appeal to feed starving starlets. "An actor, unlike a dog, is only for Christmas." Aw. So with a budget of £3 a head, last week Mrs FU and I set about providing a heartwarming lunch. Luckily the dietary requirements weren't too fussy, well for actors anyway. No egg white omelettes or requests for organic WHO certified raw Peruvian guava guava pulp so we settled upon a lunch of Lemon Butternut Squash Lasagne (recipe taken from The Kitchen Revolution and at the end of this post) and Chickpea and Chorizo Stew (recipe taken from this dodgy former Essex residing beard). Served up with a green salad and coriander rice. And Mrs FU got the chance to show off her baking skills knocking up some Triple Choc Muffins and a fine Marmalade and Poppy Seed cake.

The most important remit was to arrive at noon sharp after the actors had run their first performance of the day. So it was straight out of the oven, into the car, foot to the gas, out of the car and up to the theatre's gleamy new studio which served as a makeshift canteen. As the cast trotted in I must say it was pretty surreal to serve up food to grown-ups in make up and tight leggings. What does this mean? Am I now really so far removed from the theatrical world these days? I shouldn't be because I still dress up like that at home. Maybe it was the inner child in me that got confused. "Wait a minute, you....you.....you're not really a slug???"

Lunch went down very well with many going back for seconds, some thirds, such is the life of an impoverished thesp. Well you just don't know where your next job/meal is coming from? So best to fill up while you can. And besides, money is far better spent on things like red wine. And white wine. Don't forget the white wine. I must admit whilst sitting there, watching everyone tuck in, the romanticism of it all started to draw me in again. What better life could there be than to jump, dance, sing and prance on the stage, pretending to be someone else. It must have been etched on my dopey grinning face because Mrs FU gave me a sharp slap and told me to give her a hand carting the pots and plates back down to the car. The room was empty. But maybe I will tread the boards again one of these days, there's a Hamlet in me yet. Or a Porter at the very least.

The Plotters of Cabbage Patch Corner at The Brentwood Theatre runs until the end of December.

The Plotters of Cabbage Patch Corner (who are in fact human beings would you believe)

Going, going....

Nearly gone

Eyelashes

Mrs FU's Marmalade and Poppy Seed cake

The set

Lemon Butternut Lasagne

ingredients

2 medium butternut squash (approx 1.2kg)

8 leeks (approx 1.2kg)

1 lemon

2 sprigs fresh thyme

3 sprigs fresh sage

300g mozzarella

170g Parmesan

75g pine nuts

2tbsp olive oil

20g butter

500g ricotta

250g mascarpone

a little splash of milk

pinch of nutmeg

10 sheets of lasagne

salt and pepper

method

First, cook the squash and leek mixture. Peel, deseed and cut the squash into 1cm thick slices. Cook in boiling salted water for 3 minutes. Meanwhile wash and slice the leeks.

After 3 minutes add the leeks to the squash and cook together for another 6-8 minutes until the leeks are soft and the squash is collapsing.

Preheat the oven to 200c/400f/gas mark 6

Cook the sheets of lasagne in boiling water according to packet instructions.

While the leeks are cooking, zest and juice half the lemon. Strip the thyme and sage leaves from their stalks and roughly chop the sage. Coarsely grate the mozzarella and finely grate the Parmesan. Toast the pine nuts in the oven as it warms up. Watch them like a hawk so that they don't burn.

When the leeks and squash are ready, drain them very well. Once drained, toss both the leeks and the squash with the oil, butter and herbs. Add the lemon juice and zest and season well with salt and pepper. Now add the mozzarella and one-third of the Parmesan.

Next, make the ricotta mixture. Mix together the ricotta and mascarpone and loosen them with some milk so that you have a dropping texture. Stir in another third of the Parmesan and season with the nutmeg and salt and pepper.

Now the lasagne can be assembled. Take one large dish (a rectangular lasagne dish would be good) and place half of the squash mixture in the bottom, spreading it around evenly. Sprinkle over half the pine nuts and then cover with a layer of lasagne sheets. The sheets can overlap a little and be cut to fit the shape of all corners. Add a layer of half the ricotta mixture over the lasagne. Repeat the process once more, finishing with the ricotta mixture on top. Finally, sprinkle with the remaining Parmesan.

Place in the oven for 30 minutes until the top is golden and a knife inserted into the middle meet no resistance. Serve with green vegetables or salad.