Fish and Chips

I have, I will admit, been terrible at keeping this blog up-to-date recently. I hope I manage to keep going at it; this post is from some time ago, but I though I may as well post it up. This marks the return of the deep-fat-fryer to kitchen proceedings in our house, spurred on largely by my housemate. I must mention at this point that this was a collaborative effort between he and I; we've found that when deep frying things in the past, it's easier, quicker and safer to have one person watching the fryer and the other free to get things ready.

On the way home from work, we saw some Plaice which provided my housemate with a sudden craving for battered fish. His suggestion was to have this with mash, though I insisted that if we were to learn how to batter fish, we may as well do it properly and fry up some chips, too. I never cared about my waistline, anyway. Equipped with Plaice, a bag of Maris Pipers and a tin of mushy peas (essential, no?), we headed back home to read up on the intricacies of frying fish and chips, and quickly decided to ignore Heston Blumethal's advice; as it was just too complicated for a Monday evening.

Instead, we cooked the chips using our existing knowledge, and took a batter recipe from the BBC Good Food website, making the rest up as we went along. So, the batter was made using flour, salt and enough cold sparkling water to make a mixture that was the right thickness. The fish were floured, dipped in the batter, and fried until golden; about 5-6 minutes. The chips were cooked in the same way as my previous article on steak frites, but were this time slightly thicker cut. The results shocked us rather: the fish came out with a crisp batter, reminiscent of a good fish and chip shop. There was something lacking, though. The batter had a very 'clean' taste compared with that from a shop; maybe I need to change the oil in my deep fat fryer less often...

Chicken Noodle Soup

At the risk of sounding like everyone that has ever written about food, there really is something very comforting about having a cold roast chicken in the fridge. All too often, I fry left over boiled new potatoes up in some butter and olive oil, and eat these with slices of the breast meat and garlic mayonnaise, though this is a guilty pleasure I normally indulge in when alone. Last night something a little healthier, more restorative, was called for, and this chicken noodle soup really fits the bill; chillies provide a warming kick, parsley and lemon give a sharp, clean taste, and the noodles, chicken and vegetables lend some body. Cook it for someone who's feeling a little under the weather and they'll love you forever.


Serves 2, generously

A left over chicken carcass, stripped of any remaining meat
2 onions
1 carrot
2 sticks of celery
1 big leek
Half a cabbage
Handful of frozen peas
2 portions of dried noodles
3-4 of chillies
Bunch of parsley
1 lemon

Firstly, make up the stock, which is going to be the base of the soup. If I'm making this for dinner when I get in from work, I don't make the stock correctly; I just throw the carcass in a pan with chopped onions, carrot and celery, a couple of bay leaves and a sprig of thyme, then cover this with water and simmer it for about an hour and a half. Not the best stock in the world, but good enough for this soup and the longer you can leave it on the hob, the better it will be. Whilst the stock bubbles away, get the rest of the ingredients chopped and ready to go in to the soup. Trim and wash the leek, cut in half and thinly slice, do the same with the cabbage, roughly chop the chillies (I tend to leave the seeds in) and parsley, and shred any meat you salvaged from the carcass. When the stock's ready, strain to remove the carcass, meat scraps, and vegetables, then return to the pan. Add the leek, cabbage, chillies, peas, noodles and chicken and simmer for 5 minutes. At this point, check the seasoning; it will need salt and probably pepper, and add lemon juice to taste. Add the chopped parsley, stir through, and that's it, finished. Share between two large bowls, and you'll need a fork and spoon to tackle it or, if you're that way inclined, use chopsticks and drink the soup from the bowl...

Flapjack

I'm not much of a baker, really. Despite being a scientist, I'm not really one for weighing things out accurately or following recipes religiously, so this is my first stab at baking in a good long time, inspired by my friend Joe who has been providing colleagues with his home-baking recently. I chose flapjack as it was something I hoped I would struggle to mess up; even I can melt stuff in a pan, stir in oats and put it in the oven. The entire contents of the tin disappeared over coffee at work today, so I think they turned out OK. Hopefully this marks the the start of me baking more regularly...

Makes about 12 squares

150g of rolled oats
100g of golden syrup
80g of unsalted butter
2 tbsp of muscavado sugar

Pre-heat the oven to 180C and, while waiting, place the syrup, butter and sugar in a pan and place over a medium heat. When molten, pour the liquid into a bowl with the oats and stir together. Grease the inside of a brownie tray (or similar: I used a 25cm ceramic Le Creuset baking dish), pour in the mixture and spread out to an even thickness. Place in the oven for 20-25 minutes and, when done, take out and leave to cool. Once cold, slice the flapjack into squares, fingers... whatever you fancy, and store in an airtight tin. Should keep for a few days, will last a few minutes...

Pesto

I am lazy. I am lazy enough that home-made pesto is something I wouldn't normally think to make; it's easy enough to pick some up from the Italian deli or, failing that, a jar from the supermarket. Our organic box this week had a big bunch of basil in which needed using up, so in a fit of domesticity I decided to give making my own a try. It really is very easy to do and I think I may even stick to making it from fresh in the future; it has a much more vivid colour and fresh taste when it's just made. One last thing: excuse my very rough measurements, as I was making it up as I went along.


Makes enough to fill a small kiln jar

A large bunch of basil
A handful of pine nuts
A half-handful of Parmigiano-Reggiano
Olive oil, probably around 100ml

Put the basil, pine nuts and parmesan into a food processor, and blitz until everything's smooth. Start adding the oil, and keep checking the consistency of the pesto; you're looking for a fairly runny paste, but stop adding oil before it becomes entirely liquid. When it'd done, spoon the pesto into a sterilised jar, and pour a thin film of oil over the surface, which should stop the top layer discolouring over time. In the fridge, it should last for a couple of weeks.

Pork Chops with Lemon

Into a frying pan, a large knob of butter and a slug of olive oil to keep it from burning, followed by two thick, fatty pork chops, seasoned heavily with salt and pepper on both sides, when the butter was starting to froth. They sizzled for a moment, and then started gently cooking, the pink flesh turning first opaque, then taking on a gentle golden colour. As the generous curve of fat started to crisp slightly at the edges, they were done, and placed on warm plates to rest for a moment. A squeeze of lemon juice into the pan was enough to loosen the exciting crusty bits from the base, producing a sharp but deeply savoury sauce to pour over the chops. We ate these with sautéed potatoes and some bitter leaves to mop up the remaining juices. Gnawing on at the bone, the remaining shreds of meat coated with the remnants of the sauce, was undoubtedly the highlight of the meal.

Baked Cod in a Buttery Parsley Sauce

I had a rather indulgent weekend; my birthday celebrations having started with a bottle of champagne with breakfast at 11am on Saturday, I rolled home from a night out at 3am on the Sunday morning. Needless to say, Sunday was a struggle, and Monday wasn't an easy ride either. Dinner on Monday called for something simple, light, tasty and, possibly most importantly, easy to prepare. I had a giant bunch of parsley in and, looking towards it for inspiration, white fish seemed to fit the bill perfectly, so this is a really simple way to cook a couple of nice cod steaks or fillets; it takes no time at all and tastes delicious, too.

Serves two

Two cod steaks or fillets
A glass of dry white wine
75g of unsalted butter
A large bunch of parsley
Juice of half a lemon

Set the oven to 220C, and meanwhile get the fish ready. Place the steaks in a small roasting pan (If they're fillets, skin side down), pour over the glass of wine, and dot the fish with half of the butter, cut into small cubes. When the oven's hot, put the fish in; it should take 10-15 minutes to cook through, but give it a baste half way through. While this cooks, remove the stalks from your bunch of parsley, and roughly chop the remaining leaves. When the fish is cooked, pour out the juices into a sauce pan and return the fish to the now-turned-off oven to keep warm. Throw the remaining butter and the lemon juice into the pan, and whisk for a minute or so until the sauce thickens slightly. At this point, add the chopped parsley, and stir in. Serve the cod on warmed plates, the sauce poured over, with some boiled new potatoes on the side.

Hot Smoked Chicken

In contrast to the weather we've been having recently, last Sunday was glorious. Instead of a typical roast lunch, it seemed fitting to cook outside and I decided that I'd try to hot smoke a chicken in the barbecue. This is something I'd seen done before, though had never read about, and my reckoning was it couldn't be too tricky; I therefore decided that I didn't need to do any further research on the matter, which would soon transpire to be incorrect. Barbecue lit and left to its own devices as the coals settled, I got the chicken ready in much the same way as I would normally roast a bird. I put half a lemon and half an onion in the cavity, rubbed the whole thing with butter and added some salt and pepper to the skin, thinking that that my first try at doing the hot smoking thing should be carried out with straightforward flavours. When the coals were all white I put the grill on the barbecue, placing the roasting tin on top, shut the lid, crossed my fingers and reckoned on the chicken being ready in an hour and a half. Disappointed by the lack of crispy skin at this point, we soldiered on, carving it anyway. It wasn't, as such, cooked. Not just a touch pink next to the bone, but really quite raw around the whole thigh. Another twenty five minutes did the trick. The skin still didn't crisp up in the way I would have liked it to, though.

The four of us ate it with a potato salad, grilled courgette and hunks of crusty bread to mop up the pan juices. The meat was succulent, with a subtle smoky flavour that really suited a warm afternoon in the sun. That damn skin wasn't crisp, though. This I put down, very obviously, to the barbecue not being hot enough. Now, I'm not sure how i can make my barbecue hotter. It's only a simple charcoal burning thing, and I'm a little unsure how I can make air draw through it more quickly to warm things up. If you have any advice, please leave a comment, and in the meantime, I must ask my friend Chris how he smokes his chickens so beautifully; his having crisp skin to go with that beautiful smoky flavour. All in, neither a success nor a failure; more a learning exercise.

A Warm Bruschetta

This idea came about somewhat by accident; I needed a quick dinner before heading out to some birthday drinks and originally planned to just grill some cherry tomatoes with a little olive oil, salt and pepper until they blistered and began to pop open, eating the results with some crusty bread to mop up the juices. As it turns out, I got bored while waiting for the tomatoes to grill and decided to turn it into a hot bruschetta. It made a large plateful for one, bursting with summery Italian flavours, but would make a great snack for a couple of people. I'm going to try serving it as a starter at some point, as it makes a really interesting change from a normal cold bruschetta.


Serves one as a meal, two as a snack.

250g of cherry tomatoes
3 garlic cloves
handful of basil leaves
grated parmesan, about 1 tablespoon full
a half baguette or ciabatta
olive oil

Turn on the grill and, while you're waiting for it to get hot, halve the cherry tomatoes, placing them in a roasting tin cut side up, and drizzle with olive oil. Smash two of the garlic cloves, roughly chop, and scatter over. Add a sprinkle of salt and a grind of black pepper and pop the tomatoes under the grill.

While the tomatoes cook, cut the bread into 2cm thick slices at an angle and cook on each side in a dry, pre-heated griddle pan. They should just start to brown, maybe charring just a touch in places. When they're done, cut the third garlic clove in half and rub the top of each slice with the cut side of the garlic.

Check the tomatoes after five minutes; they should be releasing their juices, blistering just slightly at the edges, with the skins about to fall away. If they're not at this point, leave them another minute or two and check again. If they're ready, sprinkle over the parmesan, replace under the grill and leave for a minute so the cheese becomes golden.

To assemble, place the breads on a plate, and spoon a heap of tomatoes onto each slice. There should be some exciting juices on the bottom of the tin; spoon a little of this over each bruschetta. Finally, add a grind of pepper and tear a handful of basil over the whole plate.

Veal Escalopes with Artichokes, Broad Beans and Peas

I've been in Paris with work for the last week and was lucky enough to spend the weekend with a friend, Paula, who's living there over the summer. She is a far better cook than I can ever hope to be, so I had been looking forwards to spending the weekend at her flat, hunting around food markets, poking around butchers and cooking in the evenings. I arrived at hers later than intended on the Saturday, so her local market had closed, but her fridge was full of things she'd found earlier that morning, and she'd already partly decided what we were going to eat for dinner. On that note I should mention that this post is mostly due to her; praise or, indeeed, criticism, needn't be steeped upon me.

Anyway, on with the food. We had some lovely artichokes, broad beans and petit pois, which we cooked up in what is a classic Roman style; the artichokes slowly cooked with some onions and white wine, the beans and peas added at the end, providing a soupy side dish of beautiful summer greens, with a little mint added at the end to lift the whole thing. We decided to eat this with escalope of veal, largely because we rarely have it when back in Britain, lightly flavoured with thyme. It combined to provide a beautifully light, refreshing dinner on a warm Parisian evening. A nice glass of white wine and some crusty baguette to mop up the pan juices are pretty essential here. These vegetables would go beautifully with chicken, pork, veal, or maybe even a fairly robust piece of grilled fish, too.


Serves two

2 veal escalopes
6 medium size artichokes
a large handful of broad beans
a slightly smaller handful of petit pois
a large onion
5 sprigs of mint
1 sprig of thyme


If you're cooking pork or veal escalope, take your meat one piece at a time, place it in a freezer bag, and bash it with a rolling bin until it's about half a centimetre thick. Place in a dish, pour over a decent slug of olive oil, sprinkle with a little salt and pepper, add some herbs if you feel so inclined (we added a little fresh thyme to our veal) and put to one side while you sort out the vegetables.

Having removed the tough outer leaves, halve the artichokes, removing the choke, and shove into cold water so they don't go brown. Pod the broad beans and petit pois. If you're over-keen, have very large broad beans, or have Paula bossing you around, you may want to shell the podded broad beans, too. This is a lot of effort, but the dish is much the better for it.

Peel and thinly slice a large onion, and throw it into a large frying pan, for which you have a lid, with a glug of olive oil over a medium heat. Soften until sweet and tender, but try not to colour them too much. When you get to this point, add the artichokes and a bay leaf, stir, and cook for a few minutes. Turn the artichokes, and cook for a few minutes more.

Pour in a generous glass of white wine, stir everything around, and place a lid on the pan. Check the artichokes after about fifteen minutes to check how they're getting on. You want them to be soft, but not falling apart. If they're not ready, leave them for another five minutes and check again. If they are ready, throw in the beans and peas, and cook for a couple of minutes. Handily, this is about the time it takes to cook the veal.

Get a frying pan hot and add the veal to the pan. You definitely want to make sure you don't overcook it, so turn it after twenty to thirty seconds to make sure each side is nicely seared before it's had chance to cook through. As a rough guide, let all the pink disappear on the outside edge of the escalope, which should leave a slight blush in the centre. Failing that, it will at least still be extremely moist and tender even if it isn't slightly rare in the middle. Plate up the veal, stir a handful of chopped mint through the vegetables, and serve them at the table with some crusty bread on the side.

Warm Potato and Pancetta Salad

I was in a rush for dinner last night, as I spent too long lounging around in the park in the afternoon and then had to head across town for a drink in the evening. This was the outcome of my cooking under time pressure, and I thought I'd share it with you as it was actually remarkably tasty. I sliced some new potatoes quite thinly, so they would cook quickly, and fried them up in a little butter over a moderate heat along with some pancetta that I was happy to find in the fridge. I tore up the leaves from a baby gem lettuce, and added a good handful of parsley leaves, left whole, tossing it all in a dressing which was half red wine vinegar, half olive oil, salt and pepper. I was banking on the butter and juices from the pancetta to add enough extra oil to the dressing to make it all balance out. The leaves went onto a plate, and the potato and bacon scattered over the top as soon as ethey were both turning just golden, leaving some of the greens just wilting under the heat. A glass of cold white wine to go with it, and I was cooked, fed and ready to go within twenty minutes. A few shavings of parmesan and some nice little cherry tomatoes would have set it off a treat, and turned it into a pefectly presentable light lunch or dinner to serve to visitors, but I had neither. I coped.

Baked Camembert

Not really a full post, more a quick sharing of a good idea. The other day we had a Camembert which, it transpired, wasn't quite ripe enough for eating. This is not as much of a problem as you may think. Place your cheese in an oven proof dish which it snugly fits in, stabbing some holes in the top with a little knife. Stick a few sprigs of your herb of choice into the holes (I thoroughly recommended thyme, though rosemary can be almost as good) and shove it in an oven pre-heated to 180C for 10-15 minutes. Dig in with some crusty bread, a few cornichons on the side, and maybe a cold beer close to hand. A great snack for two, a ridiculously unhealthy dinner for one.

Rhubarb and Ginger trifle

I love rhubarb. I especially love stewed rhubarb. I have in the past found myself standing with the fridge door open, teaspoon in hand, shovelling the stuff into my mouth just before going to bed after a trip to the pub. Or first thing in the morning. Or as I'm cooking dinner. I need little excuse. My parents visited a week ago and they bought with them a large bundle of the stuff from their garden, which will be some of the last as it's getting close to the end of it's season. A celebration of this fine vegetable was in order. I normally add a little ground ginger to my stewed rhubarb as the flavours of the two sit so well together. Chatting to my friend Paula, we came to the conclusion that stewed rhubarb could make a fine trifle, and it seems obvious to me to carry on the marriage of flavours I just mentioned. I flicked through a few recipe books and couldn't find such a trifle, so I had to make my own up. I won't write a full recipe out, as I can't be bothered to detail how to stew rhubarb or make custard and I'm sure you're more than capable of doing these things, or at least finding out how to. Instead, I'll discuss the layers, starting from the bottom up.

The Base : When I was little, we used to have McVitties Jamaican Ginger Cake with custard as a quick pudding; It's so beautifully sticky, gingery and comforting and I thought it would make an excellent trifle base. I cut it into slices about half an inch thick and lined the bottom of my trifle bowl with it, sprinkling over a good dash of Stone's Ginger Wine. No trifle is complete without a little booze.

The Fruit : Simple, stewed rhubarb, poured over the cake base whilst still hot. About six medium sticks of rhubarb, a few tablespoons of sugar, and a splash of water is all I used, cooking it for a little longer than normal, hoping that if it was more liquid it may soak into the sponge a little more easily.

The Custard : I made up my own custard using half a pint of cream, half a pint of milk, three egg yolks and four tablespoons of sugar. I left it to cool for as long as possible before pouring it on to the rhubarb so as to make sure it wasn't too runny.

The Cream : Half a pint of double cream, with a little of the syrup from a jar of stem ginger added for good measure, whipped until it drifted lightly, then spooned over the custard.

Decoration : Every trifle must be decorated. Here, I cut some stem ginger from the jar into little matchsticks and sprinkled them over rather haphazardly.

I don't know quite what to say. I think this is one of my proudest achievements in my limited cooking history; I thought it was fantastically rich and luxurious, the flavours sitting beautifully together, tempting me back for thirds. One to avoid if you're on a diet, though. That said, don't come to my house for dinner if you're on a diet.

A simple green bean salad

Nothing fancy, this, just a straightforward side dish. I cooked some fine green beans and sugar snap peas in boiling water for four minutes, until cooked but with just a little bite left to them, and rinsed them in cold water straight away. I added a simple dressing of one part red wine vinegar to three parts olive oil, and a handful of very finely chopped red onion (I would have gone for shallots, but I didn't have any in). Piled onto a plate for people to help themselves to, we ate them alongside a roast leg of lamb, but they would go beautifully with cold roast chicken or a nice piece of grilled fish.

A refreshing summer salad

The sun has been threatening to make a real appearance over the last few days and, at times like this, a clean tasting salad is all I could ask for. Here, the refreshing flavour of peas and parsley sit beside the earthy notes of lentils and a creamy piece of welsh goat's cheese. I actually made this up as a starter for Sunday lunch yesterday and it served as beautifully light introduction to the meal but, to my mind, it would also make a wonderfully light summer lunch served with a cold, crisp glass of white wine. It is very simple, and can mostly be put together ahead of time. Here's a rough outline of what to do:

> Rinse 150g of Puy lentils, tip into boiling water and simmer for around 20 minutes.
> Drain the lentils, place them in a bowl and toss in a nice olive oil; it will smell beautiful.
> Boil 150g of peas until tender, rinse under cold water, and add to the lentils.
> Add a squeeze of lemon juice, salt and pepper to taste, and enough extra olive oil to give the whole thing a nice sheen.
> Just before serving, tear off the leaves from a small bunch of parsely and stir in to the pea and lentil mixture.
> Divide the salad between the plates, topping with a slice or two of your favourite goats cheese.

Serves six as a starter, or three as a main.

A Sunday lunch for the end of spring

Four of us for lunch, all boys, and a rather boozy affair it was, too. As people arrived, we all sipped at a gin and tonic, and what better to go with that pre-lunch gin and tonic than a bowl full of home made crisps? I am lacking a mandoline, so i sliced potatoes by hand, trying to keep them thinner than a one pence coin and I also took thin slithers off a parsnip using a vegetable peeler. Dunked into cold water to remove some starch, they were then deep fired until golden, drained, and sprinkled with salt. Alarmingly simple, unhealthy and rather moreish. My only concern is that some were left in the fryer a little too long. Maybe I should have been a little slower with my gin.



I am well aware that I haven't cooked much asparagus this spring which is such a shame, as it's a real favourite of mine. I always think that it's a vegetable that cries out for simple cooking, and that's what I did here, taking a cue from Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall. The asparagus was drizzled in olive oil, seasoned with salt and pepper and roasted for 10 minutes at 180 and at the same time, I soft boiled four eggs. At the table, everyone got to chop the top off their egg, add a little butter and cider vinegar, and plunge spears of asparagus into the runny yolks. The butter and vinegar combine to make an impromptu hollandaise. And an awful lot of mess. There's a certain theatre to serving this as a starter, which I usually tend to shy away from, but this time we all revelled in it, sipping cava as we ate and reminisced about eating boiled eggs with toast soldiers as children. Then I had to wash the egg yolk off my face.


Feeling rather lazy, I opted to roast the loin of pork I'd picked up from the butchers in the same tin as the potatoes. The idea being that the the pork will provide just enough fat for the potatoes roast nicely, whilst also meaning no par-boiling and less washing up. Fantastic. I dried the skin of the pork and rubbed a decent amount of salt in since I don't believe there's any more of a secret to getting good crackling than this. The pork then sat in the middle of the tin, it was surrounded by waxy little new potatoes, sliced in two if they were on the large side, a couple of lemons cut into wedges, a sprinkle of fennel seeds and a handful of lightly crushed garlic cloves. All this went into a hot oven for half an hour, which was then turned down for the rest of the cooking time (about 2 hours in total for 1.5kg of pork). I'm very keen on cooking like this, as I like being able to sit and chat to people that have come round to eat with me, rather than spending half my time slaving in the kitchen. As the pork finished cooking, it came out to rest for 15-20 minutes, allowing enough time to make some gravy with the pan juices and cook some greens. For the gravy, I added a glass of white wine to the pan, scraped the tasty bits off the bottom, and let the mixture bubble for a few minutes. For the greens, I cooked some broccoli and peas together in the same pan for four minutes. As I said, I was feeling lazy. How did it all turn out? The pork was juicy, the crackling close to perfect. The lemony potatoes would have been too much by themselves, but cut through the pork really well. The gravy managed to be a touch overpowering due to the lemon, though this was almost offset by the last minute addition of a touch of honey. Most importantly, people dived in for second helpings without asking. Always such a compliment.


Pudding was an old faithful Nigel Slater recipe. I'd picked up some of the first peaches I'd seen this year the previous day, knowing they'd be a little ropey to eat by themselves but that they could be brought alive with a little cooking. Taking a peach per person, I halved and stoned them, placing them skin-side-down in a little roasting tin and each half got a little dot of butter in the centre, a dollop of honey, and little squeeze of lemon juice. Grilled until the edges were just catching and the honey was bubbling in the bottom of the pan, they were done. I stirred a little chopped stem ginger into some crème fraiche to serve with them. My house mate laughs about how unhealthy this is every time I make it, but then finishes the leftovers from everybody else's plates. I think he approves.

Steak Frites

A first post, with a suitably straightforward meal to start with. I've cooked steaks far too many times in the past, and normally they've been very good. The persistent problem is just what to have with them. Often I've sautéed some potatoes, occasionally I've had some nice Jersey Royals, and once I even tried a baked potato. The baked potato was a shit idea.

The obvious answer is to have chips, fries, frites; call them what you will. In a restaurant, there is no better idea. At home, this normally means grabbing a bag of the nicest looking oven chips i can find and hoping that they turn out OK. However, my house mate recently bought a deep fat fryer; it sits on the kitchen work top, tempting us most evenings to be ridiculously unhealthy. So far all it has been used for is some prawn crackers and a hand full of tempura prawns. A couple of beers after work this evening left me wanting a steak. I thought it was time to try out the deep fat fryer properly, and see how chips would turn out.

I returned home with two rump steaks, a bag of fairly standard white potatoes, some green beens, and a big bunch of tarragon. I was a little upset that i didn't get hold of some nice Maris Pipers, as they apparently make great chips, but I thought I'd soldier on regardless. My house mate got down to making the bernaise sauce, and i read the frites section of the Les Halles Cookbook by Anthony Bourdain. I dutifully followed his every word, not trusting myself to do otherwise. I don't intend this to be a blog of recipes, but I'll outline what happens during the cooking process:

> Roughly peel the potatoes. More than you than think you can eat, obviously.

> Slice to your required thickness, then slice again to get your chips (Anthony suggests 1cmx1cm).

> Plunge your chips into cold water straight away and leave them for a while. Rinse to get rid of the starch.

> 'Blanch' your chips in the oil first. This should be at 140C, for about 8 minutes. Do this in small batches. Take them out and leave them to rest on a baking tray for about 15 minutes.

> When you're ready for the chips, fry them again, at a higher temperature of 190C, for about 2-3 minutes. Again, this should be done in batches. They should be golden brown. Drain on kitchen towel, then toss in salt.

The second frying was done while we were cooking our steaks/letting them rest. The result? Arguably the best chips i've ever eaten at home. However, they weren't quite up to restaurant standard. I suspect this could be for a couple of reasons. Firstly, my choice of potato let things down. Maris Pipers next time, i think. Second, I don't think they were cooked for long enough on the second frying. Though beautifully golden, they just weren't crispy enough on the outside. Let's not be too negative, though. The depth of flavour offered by a home cooked chip, even if it isn't ideally crispy, beats an oven chip hands down every time. And the smug feeling gained by having home made bernaise and fries with your steak, well, that's hard to beat...