A Long and Messy Business. Rowley Leigh

      STEAK AU POIVRE

      Always best as a dinner for two in my book: considering the

      expense, this is perhaps wise. Some people prefer using

      white peppercorns; it is a matter of taste.

      Serves two.

      2 fillet steaks, weighing at

      least 225g (8oz)

      2 tablespoons black

      peppercorns

      40g (1½oz) unsalted butter

      2–3 tablespoons oil

      30ml (1fl oz) brandy

      50ml (13⁄4fl oz) white wine

      100ml (3½fl oz) stock (beef

      or chicken, quite strong)

      50ml (13⁄4fl oz) double cream

      a squeeze of lemon juice

      salt

      Bring the meat to room temperature for about an hour.

      Pound the peppercorns in a mortar with the pestle until

      they are all broken – no more – then sieve out the dust,

      saving this for another purpose. The peppercorns can be

      ground in a blender or spice grinder, but great care needs

      to be taken to ensure that they are merely broken so that

      they do not burn.

      Spread out the pepper on a plate. Press the fillets into

      the peppercorns, pushing down so that the pepper adheres

      to one side of the steak, and season the same side with salt.

      Melt half of the butter in the oil in a small frying pan. Once

      the butter is foaming, place the steaks, pepper-side down,

      in the pan and let the meat colour for a couple of minutes.

      Do not be tempted to move it around. Once nicely

      browned, salt the exposed side of the steaks, then turn

      them over and colour the other side. Once they are rare

      (when pierced in the centre with a metal skewer that is

      held to your lip, it should be just over blood heat:

      42°C/108°F, if you prefer to use a meat thermometer),

      remove them from the pan. Allow to rest on a plate in a

      warm place, ideally a very low oven.

      Pour out the fat from the pan and return the pan to a

      high heat. Pour in the brandy and carefully set it alight.

      Pour in the wine immediately and scrape up any

      caramelised juices with a wooden spoon. Allow the alcohol

      to evaporate to a syrupy glaze, then pour in the stock.

      Quickly reduce this by half before whisking in the cream

      and reducing slightly. Salt to taste, add a squeeze of lemon

      juice, then whisk in the remaining butter and any juices

      that have escaped from the resting steaks.

      Serve the steaks with plenty of this excellent sauce,

      some green beans and good chips.

      WINE: Pepper won’t hurt good wine but the richness of

      the sauce will require it to be matched with a bit of acidity

      and freshness. Older wines may therefore suffer a little. A

      Chianti or Brunello five to seven years old might be ideal.

      34

      Breaking the Rules

      Pork Cheek Vindaloo

      The first thing to remark upon is that vindaloo is usually,

      but not always, made with pork. Perhaps because of Goa’s

      mercantile history, perhaps due to an insensitive attitude,

      the Portuguese had little respect for local habits, ignoring

      both Hindu and Muslim proscriptions against the pig.

      However, vindaloo’s singularity does not stop there. There

      are lashings of vinegar and buckets of garlic, black pepper

      and tomato. The more one looks at it, despite the spicing

      that one expects – cumin, coriander, cardamom and

      turmeric – it begins to look like a cover for what is

      essentially a European dish, until one realises that it isn’t

      very European either. Unlike British ‘curries’, bastardised

      and adapted from Indian originals, it is a true hybrid.

      Even within the extraordinary diversity of Indian

      cooking, vindaloo sticks out like a sore thumb.

      Synonymous in English culture with extreme piquancy –

      at university we would compete to see who could eat

      the hottest curries, a turbocharged vindaloo being the

      ultimate test, one that I soon learned to flunk – a vindaloo

      need not be that hot. But it should pack a punch.

      I had been meaning to take on vindaloo for some time

      when I was prompted by a reading of Fresh Spice, an

      invigorating tome by Arun Kapil. Arun would appear to be

      a bit of a hybrid himself, half Indian, half Yorkshireman;

      he worked in London before settling in Ireland, thanks to

      romance and the good offices of the Ballymaloe Cookery

      School. His book attracted me not because it is eclectic –

      I don’t want turmeric with ham, gherkins and Vacherin

      Mont d’Or, thank you very much – but because of the

      respect and attention with which it deploys those spices.

      Not only should we be a great deal more circumspect in

      sourcing proper fresh spices, we should also take a great

      deal more care of them once we have them. Having

      patiently