Wednesday, 22 August 2012

News From The Food Urchin Supper Club

Hola Amigos

It has been very quiet on the Food Urchin Supper Club front lately. Mostly because I have been a busy man. A very, very busy man. I have been keeping this under my hat but well, you see, one of my many, many part-time jobs involves shaving legs and most recently I was the leg barber for various members of Team GB's cycling team. Yes, I was the person chiefly responsible for keeping thighs and calves silky smooth, in order to gain those extra, vital seconds. And if it wasn't for my efforts, the likes of Wiggo and Hoy would never have got those gold medals. It was a dirty job* but someone had to do it and now that the games are over, I have more time on my hands to concentrate on cooking, feeding and other epicurean adventures.

So, after some consideration and some consultation with Catalan Cooking supremo, Rachel McCormack, I have decided to press ahead with a Spanish themed wheel barrow bbq supper club which will be called "The Spanish Themed Wheel Barrow BBQ Supper Club."

Yes, essentially cooking food on a wheel barrow.

And why not.

It will be held at FU Towers in Hornchurch** on Sunday 16th September, a bit of a depart from the usual Saturdays with an earlier start of 1:30PM and the four course menu is as follows:

Flame grilled leeks*** and Romesco sauce

Monkfish Paella with Saffron

Grilled Meats with Aioli and Roasted Peppers and Aubergines

Chocolate and Apricot Tart

All for the handsome price of £25 per head, including free tap water and home baked bread.

If this has got your taste buds tingling and the ol’ mouth watering, then please contact me at to book a place.

Grassy Arse.

The Furch (as those flying, cycling boys used to call me)

 Grilled Leeks with Romesco Sauce (which should be slightly blacker according to Rachel)

Just look at those legs, that's my handy work that is

*I wouldn't mind, I only went in for the job to get the chance of shaving Victoria Pendleton's legs but she wouldn't let me anywhere near her, nor would any of the other girls.

** Just a stone's throw from central London (well 30 mins on the c2c)

*** The leeks are a substitute for calçots, which, as you may or may not know, is an allium or onion-like vegetable popular in Spain and traditionally eaten in Spring. Very delicious and very messy after dipping in the romesco sauce, we'll supply bibs and paper towels.

Tuesday, 21 August 2012

Runner Bean, Apple and Shallot Salad

Runner beans
In terms of growing fruit and veg, this year has been a very tough one down at Norfolk Road. The enveloping greyness and perpetual drizzle that we have encountered for most of the summer has really taken its toll, not just on our plot but across the allotment as a whole. Yields are down, weeds are up (vine weed in particular) and the onslaught from pests and disease has been merciless. The hatred I have developed for slugs and snails is now bordering on the psychotic. Not content with leaving tiny turquoise pellets of death, scattered upon the ground, I have taken to wielding my shovel, like Sláine of 2000AD fame, muscles warping and spasming as I go into berserker mode, at the merest sight of these damn molluscs. The gleeful crunch and splatter is hardly humane but have you seen what these parasites have been doing my cabbages?

The damp and warm conditions have also given rise to the deadly occurrence of Phytophthora infestans or blight as it is more commonly known. A couple of weeks ago, when I popped down to check on the courgettes, I noticed a sign on the main trading hut that, in short, went along the lines of:


So I ran around to our plot and there before me lay a desolate wasteland of withered shoots, seemingly besmirched beyond repair. However, after dusting off my knees and wiping my eyes, I had a chat with some of the veterans. They told me that as long as we took quick action to cut and clear the offending shoots, taking them well away from the site to the local dump, then hopefully, fingers crossed, that would be enough to stop the fungus from entering and ruining our beloved spuds. So at present we are keeping a very close eye on them. Even so, in issuing words of advice, the old guys uttered them with a slow, disbelieving air, shell-shocked, staring a thousand yards off into the distance. They were obviously hit by blight too. Oh yes, baneful 2012 will go down in folklore at Norfolk Road, with sad recollections over pints in the pub, ending in “You weren’t there man, you weren’t frigging there.”

It hasn’t been total doom and gloom though, as some crops are doing quite well. Varieties of chard and spinach continue to shoot through with spirit, cavolo nero and kale remain robust and after the recent burst of sunshine, our sweet corn is looking very good indeed. And we’ve got tons and tons of runner beans. You might deadpan a cheer and unenthusiastically wave a flag at the mention of these legumes but I am becoming quite partial to them, especially when they are young and fairly small. I recently made a batch of runner bean chutney, using a recipe by the great Fnar himself, ValentineWarner and found myself pleasantly chomping away on raw tidbits as I was chopping away. After commenting on Twitter on how surprisingly sweet they were, a young lady named Pooble Moo (not her real name, I am sure) replied, saying that runners were her one of her favourite vegetables and that she often ate them raw in salads. She expounded with further suggestions and I tried one last night. So seeing as I haven’t done a recipe post in a while, I thought I would pass this on, as it is rather good and very simple. A sort of crunchy, fresh, green coleslaw, to accompany roast chicken or to eat on its own.

One note though, if you try this with larger runner beans, a quick blanch in boiling water for 30 seconds and refreshing in ice cold water wouldn’t go amiss. And having one of those nifty bean slicers would make lighter work. I did start off by slicing neat, even juliennes of crisp bean but then I became very impatient and began chopping with furious abandon.

No finesse, that’s me.

Runner bean, Apple and Shallot Salad – serves 4

500g of young runner beans, sliced thinly (try and discard the actual pink beans within, not too fiddly really after rinsing under a tap in a colander)

2 Granny Smith apples, cored and sliced thinly

1 banana shallot, sliced thinly

Handful of toasted hazelnuts, roughly chopped

1tbsp of chopped parsley

50ml of extra virgin olive oil (I used Nudo)

Healthy glug of white wine vinegar

Salt and pepper


Combine the sliced runner bean, apple and shallot in bowl; add the hazelnuts and parsley combine a bit more.

Mix together the olive oil, vinegar, salt and pepper to make a light vinaigrette and combine with all the other ingredients. It’s all about combining really.

Serve with roast chicken.

Told you it was simple.

Don't forget to combine those ingredients

Runner bean, apple and shallot salad with roast chicken and unblighted Charlotte spuds

Friday, 17 August 2012

The Food Urchin Caters For The Wedding of the Year

There are physical challenges and then there are mental challenges. Sometimes there are mental challenges that leave you feeling physically drained. Sometimes there are physical challenges that leave you feeling totally mental. But in order to achieve greatness; absolute, legendary, supreme greatness, challenges in life must be met. And prior to standing aloft that summit of triumph with flag in hand, upon that pinnacle of achievement, upon that mountain of grace, we must first plummet into the depths of hell. To sacrifice all, to push boundaries, to sweat tears and blood, to rake our backs, bruise our knees and chafe our wrists, to drown and keelhaul our very own souls. Only then can we resurface to claim the prize, the glory, forever more and after, and then some more. Olympians know this. Usain Bolt knows this. And now the Food Urchin knows this. For last week he gave his all. With every last breath and seething sinew, he pushed himself to the ultimate limit and smashed through that ticker tape and to tremulous, thundering applause; he leapt on that podium to receive his gold. Yes, the Food Urchin has now catered his very first wedding and on several occasions, he very nearly came a cropper. Even stepping down from that three-tiered platform was fraught with danger. One illusive splodge of wet, mashed potato on the floor, one mistimed step and whoosh, he would have gone arse-over-tit and smashed his teeth to smithereens on stainless steel, were it not for the invisible hands that held him up along the way. This is how events of the day unfolded.

Way back in some distant time and place, two young and very lovely girls approached the Food Urchin with a proposition. Not that kind of proposition mind, however titillating that might have been. No, these ladies only had eyes for each other and they wanted to cement their relationship with a declaration of love, a civil ceremony and they wanted to know if the Food Urchin would be up for catering for their small wedding of 20 odd guests. “Sure,” came the reply, because the Food Urchin is pretty muddyfunking cool at cooking and shizz but as the date loomed and the numbers increased to 50, the utterances soon turned to “Shiiiiiiit!” Luckily, the meal wasn’t to be too complicated and with planning and dry runs and plenty of prep, morale and confidence was running high. Plus the Food Urchin had assembled a crack team to nail the job on the head. Namely his wife, parents, cousin and cousin’s girlfriend, with the latter pairing having lots of experience in wedding catering and who were arriving later in the day.

So far, so good and so after rocking up to the venue on a sunny, warm morning with loaded cars and vans, the Food Urchin immediately sets to the task of cranking out a couple of bacon rolls, for he knew his team couldn’t go to work on empty stomachs. Now at home, any ordinary citizen would simply switch on the gas hob and whack a frying pan on to get those sheets of streaky crisped up but in a professional kitchen, it seems that things are slightly different. Due to (open fingers) health and safety (close fingers), it seems that no appliances, including scary, behemoth cookers will become operational until a myriad of flicks and switches have been twisted and turned. Cue a frustrating 10 minutes of twisting and turning, peering and listening for gas, tentative padding of hot plates with fingers and gnarling sense of desperation as our tummies begin to growl. Eventually, the Food Urchin, somewhat embarrassed, pops his head into the venue’s management office to ask for help and a bored, belligerent staff member swans in and turns a switch on the wall that was always there, staring at the Food Urchin in the face. The Food Urchin utters his very first swear word of the day but then gets on with the business of breakfast.

Appetites sated, the Food Urchin and team begin to unpack and get organised. Pot and pans are distributed, contents of cool bags emptied into fridges, the dry ingredients larder is sorted and a host of knives and other utensils clatter on steel surfaces. Immediately it becomes apparent that some tools are missing, such as a wooden rolling pin but the improvisational Food Urchin doesn’t sweat it, there are bottles of water in the fridge, who needs a rolling pin when you’ve got a heavy, round, hard water bottle that will do the job? HA! No sweat. A radio gets switched on and heads bow down as ingredients get sorted, chopped and scraped and the air in the kitchen is calm and industrious.  Until it becomes apparent for the second time that the Food Urchin hasn’t brought as much yeast as he thought for making bread and suddenly the air is punctuated with the second shrill swear word of the day. Trying to take these minor setbacks in his stride, the Food Urchin decides to crank out the remainder of the dessert (a trio of chocolate brownies, key lime pie and homemade ice cream with raspberry coulis, no less) and to smash into dicing some cucumber for the prawn cocktail. The kitchen starts to warm up, as do the ovens and then some sort of time displacement happens. 

Blinking up, through a beaded brow, the Food Urchin frowns at the clock at the wall. “Surely it hasn’t taken me an hour to chop some fracking cucumbers?” the Food Urchin thinks to himself. And then the wedding organiser enters and announces gleefully that according to her schedule, the guests should be ready to sit down in a couple of hours. At that precise moment, a dolly zoom brings the Food Urchin’s pristine bald head and horrified face into focus. A raised eyebrow and wandering eyes scan all over the kitchen, conducting several thousand calculations in a second and then boom, the Food Urchin is gone, screaming “DON’TWORRRYI’LLBEBACKINAMINUTE!!!!!!” as he races out the door. 

Now, tearing down country roads in his battered Megane, the Food Urchin is on the lookout for a shop, any sort of shop that might sell bread. Pain de campagne, French stick, Mighty White, any sort of frigging bread but all that rushes by are trees and fields and the occasional quaint, picturesque, sodding cottage. Then suddenly, it appears. A bloody farm shop! Executing a right hand brake turn at 70 miles an hour, the Food Urchin screeches into the car park and leaps out through the window, without opening the door. Running in like a man possessed, he then jumps and bursts through the multicoloured fly curtain and practically lands on the deli counter.

“DO YOU SELL BREAD?” he yells at a nervous woman standing behind the counter. She fearfully clutches her apron up to her chin and simply nods yes. 

“THEN GIVE ME ALL OF YOUR BREAD!!!!” he says, pointing and bellowing at the top of his voice. Shaking, she manages to scoop up several crusty bloomers and a rather good looking, rustic boule into carrier bags. The Food Urchin thrusts a crisp note forward before spying some delicious, homemade pork pies.


And then the Food Urchin is gone, tyres squealing off the forecourt, leaving a squall of dust. 

As he bounds back into the kitchen, the Food Urchin’s parents look noticeably relieved and though the clock is ticking, the Food Urchin now starts to feel invigorated, that nothing is standing in his way. It is now time to prep the canapés and make some crostini so the Food Urchin opens the door to the oven to check temperature and promptly burns his forehead. No matter, adrenaline is starting to kick in now and with a vivid red stripe across his spam, the Food Urchin relays orders to the team, masterfully, purposefully and by this point, somewhat sweatily. Huge stock pots and saucepans are placed upon the hob and industrial strength food bags from IKEA are emptied. Bags containing luxurious soup, beautiful beef, braised in beer, sublime mushroom stroganoff and exquisite sauces. And mashed potato too, creamed, fluffy and light, though they remain inside the bags. The idea is to heat the mash through in a water bath, sous vide style and then cut the corners of the bags to pipe onto warm plates; an ingenious idea. The Food Urchin lights all the rings on the gas hob, echoing the words “FLAME ON!” with each deft click of the butane lighter, winking at his team with every squeeze. The atmosphere is still busy but smiles abound the place and everyone is cool and relaxed. The Food Urchin’s cousin arrives with his girlfriend and asks is there anything he can do.

“Chop some parsley if you like, show us your skills,” the Food Urchin grins, nonchalantly.

Guests then begin to arrive in the courtyard, full of joy and laughter having just seen the happy couple exchange vows of matrimony. Canapés are passed out and chilled glasses and bottles chink in the gorgeous sunshine. The tipping point of service edges into view and slowly but surely, guests enter the main banqueting suite. The starters are plated up, Food Urchin and the gang are ready to go.

But then the Food Urchin notices something in the corner of his eye. The DIY sous vide mash, sitting in its water bath of gently simmering water doesn’t look quite right. Well not the mash itself, but the water. The water looks, well, the water looks a little bit cloudy.


And then, pandemonium. 

The pot is seized from the stove, with steaming hot water sloshing everywhere and is placed into a cavernous sink. The Food Urchin dips his hands in to retrieve the scalding hot potato and immediately screams, holding pink, stubby hands into the air. The Food Urchin’s Dad then dips his hands in to retrieve the scalding hot potato and immediately screams, holding pink and familiar stubby hands into the air. A colander is thrust upon the pair from out of nowhere and amid a blur of arms, elbows and feet, as if by some magic touch; the mash is saved. Albeit with some thorough whisking and a hefty dose of salt.

Collectively, the team sighs a breath of relief and the starters begin to filter out of the door but by this point the Food Urchin is starting to feel the pressure, cracking the eggshell of his fragile demeanour, revealing the demon within.


The Food Urchin’s loved ones simply stare back at him and then get on with their work, sadly ruing inside that the inevitable has happened. Their husband/son/cousin has turned into a twat. Or worse still, he is beginning to turn into Gordon Ramsay.

Thankfully, a smooth momentum begins to take hold again and as empty bowls and plates come back, the mains start to go out with efficiency and speed. The Food Urchin, eager to keep the tempo up and to perhaps make amends for his earlier briskness, barks surreal words of encouragement, whilst mindlessly piling mash into presentation rings.


The others just glance at each other, as if to say ‘no, it really has happened’ but the Food Urchin just keeps ploughing on. And on and on and on.


Now the Food Urchin is making a speedy decent into total meltdown, yelling at an empty stock pot, calling it no amount of obscene words. To the sound of a heartbeat, the kitchen starts to fade into black and out again. Back and forth, back and forth. Time slows down and so do all words and sounds, morphing, as if someone is dragging a thumb on a record.  Then suddenly, all goes pitch black, as if someone just switched off a light. And it remains dark for some time.

Then slowly, like a new dawn, light begins soak back through, peeping in from the edges. A tap-tapping sound resonates in the Food Urchin's ears and as he opens his eyes, he looks down and can see that he is holding a chef’s knife, chopping against a plain wooden board and nothing else. A hand appears on his shoulder and whispers into his ear, “You can stop now Dan, we’re all done, everyone loved the food. Even the ones who had crushed new potatoes instead of mash! Come on, the buffet is out now and the evening guests are here. Why don’t you stop, go outside and take a breath of fresh air.”

The Food Urchin looks up and he sees his wife’s beautiful face smiling back at him. She rubs a damp, dirty tea towel over his face and pinches his nose before ushering him out into the courtyard. But before he has a chance to walk through the door and grab a cold, well deserved beer, she stops him and takes his hand, still smiling sweetly.

“But listen to me Dan, if you ever call me that word again, we’re getting a divorce, OK?” 

Wednesday, 1 August 2012

Great British Chefs Summertime App

I tell you, the terrible wet weather that has plagued us this year has left me feeling pretty blue of late, feeling all despondent and alone, like poor little Margot in All Summer in a Day, which is a short story by sadly deceased science fiction writer, Ray Bradbury. I would summarise in my own words but this passage from Wikipedia explains the tragic tale far more succinctly than I could ever manage so please take the time to read and absorb: 

The story is about a class of school children on Venus, which in this story is a world of constant rainstorms, where the sun is only visible for two hours every seven years.

One of the children, Margot, moved to Venus from Earth five years earlier, and she is the only one in her class to remember sunshine, since it shone regularly on earth. She describes the sun as "a penny", or "like a fire in the stove", and the other children, being too young to have ever seen it themselves, refuse to believe her accounting of it. Out of jealousy, she is bullied and ostracised by the other students and finally locked in a closet during the time the sun is due to come out.

As the sun is about to appear, their teacher arrives to take the class outside to enjoy their only hour of sunshine, and in their astonishment and joy, they all forget about Margot. They run, play, skip, jump, and prance about, savouring every second of their newly found freedom. "It's much better than sun lamps!" one of them cries.

Suddenly, a girl feels a raindrop on her. Thunder sounds, and they run back inside. Then, one of them remembers Margot, who is still locked in the closet. They stand frozen ashamed for what they have done, unable to "meet each other's glances."

The precious sun has come and gone, and because of their despicable act, Margot has missed it. They walk slowly and silently towards the closet, and let her out.

A very sad, melancholic and moving story, I think you'll agree and it is one that I can emphasise with strongly because I know what it feels like to be Margot, trapped all by herself in that cupboard, weeping softly, whilst all the world around make hay in the beautiful sunshine. And that is because I am a ginger, a carrot top, a Duracell battery, a Ron Howard. It's bad enough to be confined indoors whilst it is hammering down but can you imagine what it feels like to be cuckolded for your pale skin and told to remain in the shade, covered up from the glorious rays, breeched in sack? It's terrible I tell you, so surely you can understand why I felt particularly aggrieved when Mrs FU banished me from the garden last week? It's been raining for 7 sodding years and finally it stops and she wouldn't let me come outside.

This time around though, I had a bargaining tool. I had just downloaded the new Summertime App from Great British Chefs in partnership with Ocado. and tapping on the kitchen window, I caught her attention and promised that if she let me come outside, I would fire up the barbecue and cook for her and the children, a couple of the delicious dishes featured. Such as Josh Eggleton's BBQ Pork Ribs marinated in soy sauce, ketchup and black treacle. Or Matthew Tomkinson's Beef Burger with Stilton Rarebit and home made burger sauce.

"You mix the mince with Worcestershire and anchovy sauce," I sobbed. "It has Stilton cheese melted all over it!" I cried, mouthing all over the cold pane whilst pitifully waving an iPhone.

Thankfully, she let me out. On the condition that I wear my Nigella burkini. And it was a wonderful afternoon, gallivanting around the garden with the twins, drinking cool wine and grilling meats over hot charcoal whilst our star warmed my delicate, covered bald head. I shall carry the memory with me always.

It's raining again today but at least I have one over poor Margot, I wonder if she did ever get to see the Sun in the end?

NB: I should add to this rather odd and random post that proceeds of the Summertime App, which features great recipes from Marcus Wearing, Tom Aikens and Nathan Outlaw (amongst many other chefs) will go towards Action Against Hunger, a global charity committed to ending world hunger while saving lives of malnourished children; a very worthwhile cause.

Clearly, the weather is starting to get to me. Either that or I've been sniffing too much copydex again.

Pork Rib marinade

Basting ribs

Burger Sauce and Gherkins



Ribs and Burger