The mathematically perfect sandwich

Oh dear. We’ve been naughty. Again.

As if state-sanctioned unhealthiness wasn’t bad enough, it appears even parents can’t be trusted to feed their little ones decent lunches and the great collective mother is going to have to step in again.

Of the four million children who take a packed lunch to school, just 1% of those lunches meet the government’s recommendations for nutritional content. Shock and indeed horror?

Well, no. Not in the slightest (although I doubt that will prevent some arbitrary figure regarding nutritional content being pulled from the air like gristle from a twizzler and a blanket ban on pies, crisps and artificially sweetened drinks).

As someone who was subjected to packed lunches throughout my school career (and I say subjected for reasons that will become obvious shortly), it makes perfect sense that barely a hundredth of the little tykes are bringing with them a lunchbox containing wholemeal bread (or maybe gluten free rolls?), salads, fresh fruit and some granola.

That’s not what children eat. And I should know. I was one.

Although more recent adventures may suggest otherwise, my career as a bold food adventurer has not been a lifetime in the making. I was, in no uncertain terms, a fussy little blighter when I was younger.

Every day I would open my Transformers lunchbox with trepidation, wondering what horrors lurked within, my mind already devising elaborate plans for their disposal, none of which involved ingesting them.

As my fellow diners chewed their way through sliced white bread sandwiches filled with neon pink ham, a bag of Walkers crisps (back when they were actually salty) and maybe some Iced Gems to finish, I was left pondering my homemade bread rolls or adoringly prepared salads.

Cautious nibbling of the sort that would shame a sparrow invariably left me sitting alone with just the dinner ladies for company as the sounds of playground football filtered through the windows. On occasion I would sit there for an entire lunch break, the start of afternoon lessons ending the torture with the sound of a bell.

After a number of false starts (‘accidentally’ dropping my lunch on the floor rendering it inedible or shifting chunks of sandwich to my pockets as my dad did with his own school dinner dumplings) I finally hit upon a foolproof scheme.

Wrapping my butties in paper towels and disposing of them in the toilet bin prior to lunchtime (or even after school) worked for quite some time. I could proudly show my empty box to both teacher and mother then set upon the cereal as soon as I returned home.

I was rumbled only by illness.

The day I was off school, there were no sandwiches in the bin. My teacher (the fabulously named Mrs. Spooner) put two and two together with the skill of Magnum P.I. and phoned my mother to inform her of my untruths. I almost felt as if I’d been caught in an FBI style sting. Except the powers of analogy and metaphor were beyond me at the age of six.

Trouble came my way. After an apocolyptic bollocking I was sent to school the following day with no lunch. Not that it made much difference – I rarely ate it anyway and my fellow packed lunchers took pity on me offering me nibbles of their own offerings. I sat that day quite happily enjoying a diverse picnic comprising of Space Raiders, custard cream biscuits and triangles of Dairylea.

Soon after that I moved school (not as a result of my inability to consume lunch) and left the tiny village primary behind. Huge sports pitches and exotic new friends were a joy (‘Mum, what do Jews do?’ I asked after my first day) but the real deal breaker, the pièce de résistance , was that there we no lunch monitors. No teachers of Orwellian imaging watching every morsel that passed my lips and making sure I’d eaten ‘at least half’ of everything. I could dine, or not, without impunity.

I tested my theory by asking for a school dinner one day, soon after the start of term. Request granted, I helped myself to three slices of cucumber and a scoop of pickled beetroot – a lunch that would leave even Karen Carpenter asking for seconds.

I ate about half, expecting reproach. But there was no stern face, no admonishment, no repercussions. I was no longer in lunchtime limbo.

The perfect sandwich

I don’t know what psychological barrier I put up that rendered me incapable of eating lunch within the confines of a school but it was a significant one. Things are different now. Lunch is an integral part of my day, in the same way that breakfast, mid-afternoon snack, dinner and supper are. I also make the GF a lunch each morning to unshackle her from the confines of the local café thus saving around £100 a month. I can only assume she doesn’t wrap it in paper towels before throwing it away.

Despite last minute surges from the likes of soup, sushi or salads (or as prêt so nauseatingly insist on calling them, ‘breadless sandwiches’), the sandwich remains the undefeated champ. But making a truly killer butty is a skill in itself.

Thankfully there is an equation to ensure perfect results, every time:

S(√CM+C/P) x (B2)+(M1 +M2) = The perfect sandwich.

So, ‘Sandwich’ = ‘Salad’ multiplied by root of ‘cured meat’ plus

Ten minute Tartiflette

Everyone loves leftovers.

From a rare beef sandwich that brings memories of yesterday’s roast flooding back to a slice of cold pizza, picked out of the box amidst the empty beer cans and overflowing ashtrays, leftovers can be a culinary experience worth savouring. Not to mention a winning hangover cure.

As a result, most nights I try and cook a little too much for dinner. Lunch often consists of a bowl of reheated pasta, liberally dosed with ketchup and extra cheese or a steaming plate of freshly microwaved noodles.

But, for me, it is potatoes that top the leftover tree. That hit of carbohydrate is just what I need as a late, second, breakfast or early lunch. Boil, roast or mash a few extra and your midday meal the following day is sorted: sautéed with a fried egg, dipped into pungent aioli or even squashed into cakes and fried, they are darn near perfect.

The absolute best way to use up leftover spuds, however, is to make a speedy tartiflette. Potatoes, bacon and cheese? That’s three boxes ticked and a guarantor of a very happy lunchtime indeed.

Dice a few rashers of bacon and fry in a little oil. Meanwhile, finely chop a couple of shallots or a small onion. Once the bacon has started to crisp up, turn down the heat and add the onion. Fry a few more minutes until it’s softened.

Add a handful of cooked potatoes to the pan and allow to heat through. If you get a few crisp edges then all the better. Top with a generous amount of soft cheese – camembert, brie, reblochon – and grill until the top of the cheese starts to bubble and the underneath has melted into a gooey sauce, slathering the bacon and potatoes in its cheesy goodness.

Eat immediately. And feel no shame if you squirt some ketchup on the side, it’s not like anyone’s looking.

For more sundry leftovers, why not follow me on Twitter?

Smoked Mackerel Pâté

Sometimes speed and convenience are quite important. Throw taste in there as well and you have yourself a near perfect lunch.

If this isn’t the quickest, easiest, most delicious-ist pâté you’ve ever had then I’ll happily eat my trilby (proof required before hat-eating will commence).

Take a smoked mackerel fillet.

Remove the skin

Flake the fish into a bowl.

Mash it up with the back of a fork.

Add a squeeze of lemon juice and a tablespoon of mayonnaise (or plain yoghurt if you are feeling the pull of the health-side). Season with black pepper (go easy on the salt).

Stir the whole tasty lot together and serve with oatcakes, perhaps?

For more quick fixes, follow me on Twitter

Salt & Pepper Oatcakes

I’m slightly concerned that you’ve been subjected to an overly meaty few posts recently, what with cheeks, tails, scratchings and butchery.

So here’s something to redress the balance – homemade oatcakes and a completely meat free post.

Oatcakes are great and are pretty much the ideal base for almost any cheese as well as being perfect for dipping into creamy, garlicky hummus.

They are also incredibly good for you – oats are a slow release carbohydrate and have a very low glycemic load. For a long time I used to have oatcakes and tomatoes for lunch almost every day – fresh, seasonal tomatoes with a little olive oil and a smattering of seasoning. Perfect.

There are plenty of great ones on the market (these made with smoked oats are a particular favourite) but they are also staggeringly easy to make yourself.

Making up your own batch means you can flavour them with whatever you like – herbs, spices, cheese, seeds – anything at all depending on what you are going to be serving them with.

They could be pepped up with a little grated Parmesan, for example, if you wanted them to accompany a broccoli soup or maybe a little cumin and ground coriander for dipping into hummus.

But to act as a base for great cheese, it’s best not to go over the top with flavourings. Keep it simple. So, with that in mind, here is a recipe for:

Salt & pepper oatcakes

Whilst the oatmeal provides a nice texture, the addition of a few porridge oats is a nice little touch, both visually and for flavour.

250g of oatmeal
50g of porridge oats
25g of melted fat (I used rendered pork fat – damn! So not totally meat free then…). Butter or even olive oil would work great.
¼ of teaspoon of bicarbonate of soda
salt and pepper
Some freshly boiled water (about 100ml)

Turn on the oven to about 180 degrees C.

Mix the dry ingredients together. A couple of pinches of salt and a few turns of the pepper mill should be more than enough. You don’t want to detract from the flavours of the cheese that will grace these little crunchy delights.

Add the melted fat and start to mix it in. Slowly start adding the water until the dough just begins to come together. You might need a little more or a little less but don’t fret too much. You can always add a little more oatmeal if you get a juicy slop.

Knead the ball of dough for a few minutes. It should be relatively dry and quite hard. Roll it out to about half a centimetre’s thickness and use a cutter to press out the rounds. Bake on a baking sheet for about ten minutes until the oatcakes just start to brown. Let them cool and then top with decadent wedges of your favourite cheese.

This is a Stichelton – an unpasteurised blue cheese made using traditional methods. Allegedly it is everything that Stilton once was before it became sanitised. It’s fantastic and well worth seeking out if you can.

Blogwatch

I read a lot of food blogs but occasionally one pops up on my radar that really makes me smile.

I devoured the whole of Ryan Adams’ Nose to Tail at Home in a single sitting. This bold culinary adventurer, as well as being the namesake of one of my favourite musicians, is bravely cooking his way through Fergus Henderson’s superb cookbook.

Inspired by the exquisite efforts of Carol Blymire to cook her way through The French Laundry Cookbook, Ryan is taking on the Whole Beast. I urge you to head on over right away.

For more culinary capers, follow me on Twitter.

A Quick Lunch – Fried Tomatoes and Bacon

I know it’s Friday and today’s nibble is on the way but I just wanted to write up a quick post about lunch and simplicity.

We had some bacon offcuts left over (we tend to buy them to put into soups, stews and ragus. They are insanely cheap and just as tasty as the real deal) and they either needed to be frozen or eaten sharpish before they turned a disgusting shade of ming and made their way to the outside bin.

So I fried them up in their own rendered fat and then stuck in a couple of tomatoes I was given yesterday (another story for another day – I spent a couple of hours on a pig farm chatting to the delightful Simon and Amanda of Pigs in Parcels) and served it all with a hunk of home baked bread and a dollop of brown sauce.

I know this is little more than a bacon sandwich with a rustic shaped ego but it was so very tasty. Highly recommended, plus the chunks of bacon offer more bite and, ultimately, a modicum more satisfaction thanks to their thick meatiness. It’s not big, fancy or clever but sometimes simplicity is all that’s needed.

Lunch

Lunch always used to be a hurried affair. Most days I would wander out of the office and head down to the butcher or fishmonger (unless it was a Monday when both were closed) and see what looked tempting but I would never be more than ten minutes out of the office before I was once again sat in my swivel chair. And I don’t think this is unusual in any way. I know of no-one who takes a full hour, or even half an hour unless they have an ‘excuse’, like having a tooth extraction or undergoing hip replacement surgery. In the UK, at least, the lunch break is something of a misnomer.

Pity the poor French who still have the sacred lunch hour entrenched into their statute books. I expect it is hewn into solid rock, or at least written in indelible ink alongside the one that ensures a thirty-five hour week and instant capitulation in the event of invasion.

Those in Mediterranean Europe don’t fare much worse. Granted, it is rather hot during the midday hours, but there is no doubt in my mind that having a siesta after a lazy lunch is a better way to pass an hour or two than nibbling a sandwich al desko. They may work longer into the night but sacrifices have to be made to enjoy a more sedate pace of life.

So, now that I am no longer shackled to a desk and the sun has returned, lunch time has become a glorious window in the middle of the day. It shifts, tide-like, between the hours of about midday and half past two and often encompasses something from the vegetable patch.

This morning saw me tackling some of the more laborious tasks in the garden. We had neglected it somewhat recently and as a result there was a significant amount of work to do. The pea plants, having been decimated by three nefarious and hungry pigeons, had to be removed. They’d furnished us with no more than a token number of pods which, although sweet and tasty, it won’t be enough to grant them a place in our garden in the future.

In their place I planted some coriander and more beetroot, kale, spring onions and purple broccoli which has also been annihilated by the same pigeons that put paid to the peas. The grass was getting a little out of hand as well so I took the mower to it before heading into the kitchen with an armful of produce from the more productive of the two vegetable patches.
Sitting proudly at the centre of the nest of leaves on the kitchen counter were two shiny courgettes, dark green and still warm from the sun. Food as gloriously fresh as this should be eaten as unadulterated as possible and allowed to sing its own song, not lost amidst a choir of other ingredients and flavours.

Whilst I boiled some pasta, I sweated off half a red onion and some garlic in a generous glug of olive oil. After five minutes, in went the courgette, now roughly diced, and some quarters of cherry tomato. By the time the pasta was cooked al dente, the veg was ready. It was finished off with a few leaves of Greek basil, whose small leaves are packed with the unmistakable taste of basil, a little more chopped garlic and a handful of grated cheese.

I ate it lying on the freshly cut lawn, a fork in one hand and a book in the other, with the sun gently warming the backs of my legs; a world away from a pre-packaged sandwich hastily chewed down in front of a computer screen.

Lunch is just around the corner…

Being so relatively compact, Stockholm is a gloriously walkable place. It is quite possible to go from one side of the city to the other within about an hour without having to break a sweat. The realisation that you’ve forgotten your camera/guidebook/lip balm/ear muffs/intercontinental ballistic missile back at the apartment doesn’t quite result in the same level of frustration and you are never too far from where you want to be.

It also encourages you to see much more of the city, take in the feel and ambience of the place without having to zip from one tourist hot spot to another, avoiding everything in between. The pace is more sedate but it genuinely feels like you have done more. Especially when massaging your tired feet at the end of the day before falling asleep at eight thirty thanks to sheer exhaustion.

Conversely, because it feels so compact it is easy to kid oneself into thinking a destination is much closer than it really is. A glance at the map can easily result in the mistaken assumption that that little place you saw yesterday – you know the one, where the food looked so good – is a mere stroll away. The cold hard reality of the situation, that it is still four miles away, only becomes scathingly apparent when hunger begins to cripple you, slowing your progress even further.

But at least you arrive hungry. And that is exactly how we arrived at Östermalms Saluhall, Stockholm’s foremost food market. Dating from 1888, this incredible indoor hall is a true temple to gastronomy – the sort of place that I can only dream about spending all eternity in when I shuffle off this mortal coil. The quality and range of the produce on offer was staggering and in between the fishmongers, grocers and butchers were four or five eateries offering some of the finest traditional Swedish food in the city.

I left the final decision as to where we ate up to the birthday girl but we had to wander round a couple of times, open mouthed, desperate not to miss anything, before we finally chose Lisa Elmqvist.

Lisa Elmqvist has been selling fish in Stockholm since the 1920s and from a single stall on the harbour front, the ‘empire’ quickly grew to include a restaurant, fishmonger and deli all housed in one corner of the Saluhall. Although it comes highly recommended, the restaurant looked a touch starched, especially for a couple of tourists how had trekked slightly too far to still appear as effortlessly cool as was necessary, judging by the clientele already eating there. Less formal, and less expensive, than the restaurant is the delicatessen offering similar wares without the pretence, table service or starched tablecloths.

Here it is possible to eat a light lunch for about ten pounds, including a beer and as much rye bread and knackerbröd as you can comfortably consume whilst still maintaining the requisite level of sophistication. We ordered at the bar and took a seat at a high table, balanced precariously atop tall stools. Two beers provided some much needed liquid refreshment and we nibbled on some of the delicious crispbread as a surrogate starter whilst we waited for our order to be called out.

We didn’t have to wait long. A shout rang out from the counter and informed us that they were ready for collection. My herring plate consisted of four different types of the cured fish complete with cheese and a hard-boiled egg garnished with tiny jewel like salmon roe. As a youngster I couldn’t abide the intensity of cured herring, nor could I understand the appeal. But, as with coffee and whiskey and a whole host of other foods, time has altered my palate and I can’t get enough of this northern European staple.

The selection in front of me was delicious, although when I tasted my girlfriend’s skagen I was in two minds as to whether I had made the right choice. Tiny crayfish tails, stirred into a light sauce of mayonnaise and crème fraîche and flavoured with dill, skagen is a real taste of summer and one that is worth replicating at home, especially as midsummer is just around the corner.

We both finished our plates, mopping up any remaining sauce with a thin slice of dense black bread and decided on how to spend the rest of the day – ‘There’s that great little gallery we went past yesterday, I’m sure it’s only a short walk away.’