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.