Gordon Ramsay's Ultimate Cookery Course (9 page)

2 large shallots or 1 onion, peeled and chopped

2 tbsp olive oil

40g butter

1 large thyme sprig, leaves only

4 tbsp Noilly Prat or dry vermouth

2 tsp Pernod (optional)

4 tbsp plain flour

250ml fish, chicken or vegetable stock (a stock cube is fine)

200 ml milk

4 tbsp double cream

3 tbsp chopped fresh parsley

180g skinless salmon fillets

250g skinless cod or haddock fillets

200g queen scallops

150g king prawns

1 tbsp fresh lemon juice

Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper

FOR THE MASHED POTATO TOPPING

750g Desirée potatoes, peeled

75g butter, cubed

50ml hot milk

2 large egg yolks

75g medium Cheddar cheese, grated

1kg fresh mussels

Olive oil, for frying

3 spring onions, trimmed and chopped

1 banana shallot, peeled and thinly sliced

1 celery stick, trimmed and finely diced

2 garlic cloves, peeled and thinly sliced

1 fresh red chilli, deseeded and finely chopped

4 thyme sprigs, leaves only

1 bay leaf

1–2 tbsp vermouth

150ml dry white wine

2 tbsp crème fraîche

Small bunch of flat leaf parsley, roughly chopped

Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper

Crusty bread, to serve

FOR LOTS OF PEOPLE,
A MEAL ISN’T A MEAL
WITHOUT A PIECE OF
MEAT AS ITS CENTREPIECE.

My generation was brought up on ‘meat and two veg’, and it’s a tradition that lives on in houses up and down the country. I still remember the Sunday roasts I sat down to as a child, but the rest of the week would be punctuated by meat of some sort too, whether it was a piece of gammon, a cottage pie, or the occasional steak as a treat.

What has changed is our understanding of what constitutes good meat. In the old days, in the absence of chemical fertilisers and growth-promoting hormones, all meat was by definition slow-reared and organic. But things went a bit wobbly in the second half of the last century, when speed and efficiency took priority over compassion and taste. In a world with a fast-expanding population and ever more mouths to feed, I can see how that happened, but I’m pleased that many farmers have started once again to value slow-growing traditional breeds over their more intensively reared cousins. The rewards in terms of animal welfare and taste are amazing. There’s a price implication in that, of course there is: free-range and organic animals will always cost a premium, but it’s fantastic that we once again have the choice.

I don’t want to get on my high horse and tell you to buy only this or that type of meat because we all have budgets we have to live by. What I will say is that personally I’d rather eat meat less often, but buy better-quality meat when I do, than eat cheap meat every day. Everything in an animal’s life, from the moment it is born to the way it is slaughtered, will have an effect not just on its well-being but on its flavour. If a producer is having to cut corners to keep the price down, the end result is bound to suffer, and as a chef I know my cooking can only ever be as good as the raw ingredients I start with.

Does that mean I always buy organic? Not at all. Organic is a useful label that suggests more careful husbandry but it can only ever be a guide. You can get good organic farmers and you can get bad organic farmers. What is far more important is to find a supplier you can trust, someone who knows all his animals and wants to do his best by them, who really cares what you think of his produce. That way you are sure to end up with better-quality meat. I remember visiting my chicken supplier in Essex and asking if he had thought of upgrading from free-range to organic. ‘Why would I want to do that?’ he asked. ‘I already treat my birds the best I possibly can, and I don’t need a certificate to prove it. You can taste it in every mouthful.’ Equally, he wanted to know that if one of his birds did get sick, he’d be able to give her antibiotics to make her better. That’s what you want. The very definition of compassionate farming.

BUYING

CHICKEN

is far and away the most popular meat in this country, the staple of countless fast-food takeaways, sandwich fillings and Saturday night curry houses. As a result, it is one of the most open to abuse. At its best it can be the Rolls-Royce of meats – rich, dense and versatile – but equally it can be produced as cheap protein fodder devoid of all flavour. That’s why of all meats, I think the difference here between free-range and intensively reared is the most obvious in both appearance and flavour. A battery bird killed at six to seven weeks, with its pumped-up breasts and legs weedy from all that sitting around, is never going to have the personality of one that’s lived a little. Naturally reared birds aren’t killed until they are about 12 weeks old. That means an extra six weeks scratching in the dirt, pecking at seeds and grains, and working those leg muscles to build up a rich depth of flavour. We use poulets de Bresse in the restaurants – they’re imported from France because we need them in such quantities, but there are plenty of good suppliers in Britain now. Do check out farmer’s markets and farm shops.

If you are struggling to find a bird with real depth of flavour, look out for guinea fowl instead, which has a slightly gamier taste but can be cooked in exactly the same way. A lot of people say it tastes the way they remember chicken used to taste in the old days.

PORK

has also had a bad time of it recently, with many pigs kept in atrocious conditions on the Continent – hemmed into concrete-floored pens too small for them to turn around in. British standards are much higher and we owe it to our farmers to support them. As ever, happy animals make for happier eating, and slow-growing rare breeds that have been allowed to do what pigs do best, rooting around in the mud, are what we should be buying. Whatever recipe you are making, be it a spiced slow-roast belly, a rack of chops or smoked back bacon, you’ll always notice the difference. I’m a particular fan of Berkshires (first bred for Queen Victoria), Gloucester Old Spots and Tamworths.

LAMB

is a less controversial meat because sheep are naturally less intensively reared as they are happy grazing on scraggy hillsides that can’t be put to any other agricultural use. Lamb from the harshest, most exposed countryside, such as the Black Mountains in Wales or the Yorkshire Dales, is among the best because the animals have to lay on extra layers of fat to protect themselves from the weather, and this translates as extra moistness and flavour when they are cooked. I’m also a fan of salt marsh lamb from Romney in Kent. The sheep feed on the salty grasses and samphire that grow on the coastal plains and take on a sweetly delicate flavour.

Spring lamb (from animals born before Christmas but slaughtered in March or April) is the most prized, but the flavour’s better later in the summer, once it’s had time to mature and be fed not just on its mother’s milk but on that mineral-rich grass as well. A lamb that’s lived through to a second summer is called a hogget, and by its third summer it’s known as mutton. These older animals need slower cooking as they will be tougher, but they can be more rewarding in terms of flavour.

We use a lot of the presentation cuts in the restaurants, such as loin, saddle and best end (or rack), which cook very quickly. At home, I love things like leg, shoulder and shanks, from the lower rear legs, which all need longer in the oven. Breast is another lovely cut, but is quite fatty, so benefits from slow roasting.

BEEF

is the meat that throws up the biggest divide in opinion, mainly because the same cut can taste so different depending on how it has been produced. Again, I favour slow-growing rare breeds, such as Aberdeen Angus, Longhorn, Dexter, or White Park, which have a good marbling of fat throughout their meat. People are scared of fat these days, but it is so important to flavour and texture. Not only does it protect the meat from the heat of the oven or the pan and stop it burning, but it melts as the muscle fibre cooks, adding flavour at the same time as keeping the meat moist. You’ll find less marbling in young animals, and in cuts from muscles that aren’t used as much, such as fillet steak. That’s why these cuts need more careful cooking, as they can go dry and tough if overdone.

Hanging beef for anything up to 35 days is important as it gives time for enzymes to start to break down the muscle fibre, making it more tender and allowing the flavour to develop. Your butcher should be able to tell you how long his meat has been hung, but colour can also be a clue. Well-hung beef should be a dark ruby colour, rather than a bright, bloody red. You should know that supermarkets are less likely to age their meat, not only because the delay in getting it to the shop floor costs them money, but also because meat loses moisture as it hangs, so reducing its final selling weight. As ever, farm shops, farmer’s markets and traditional butchers are the best places to buy.

If you are buying for a traditional Sunday roast, I’d always recommend a sirloin or rib joint, from the middle of the cow’s back. You’ll often see topside and silverside, from the top of the thigh, dressed up as roasting joints, sometimes with an extra layer of fat stitched on top like a poor man’s hairpiece. These cuts are never as flavoursome and can be very tough. They are better suited to slower pot-roasting, with a bit of liquid in the pan to keep them moist.

STORING

Once you get your meat home, you need to keep it correctly. Meat needs to breathe, so remove any plastic wrapping straight away. This is particularly important with vacuum-packed cuts, which will otherwise marinate in their own blood and take on a nasty metallic taste. Put the meat on a plate loosely covered with paper or cling film pierced with a few holes and place it at the bottom of the fridge so it can’t drip onto any other foods.

If you choose to freeze meat, wrap it up tightly in cling film to stop water crystals forming on the surface and chill it as quickly as possible. Always defrost meat slowly, ideally in the fridge or at room temperature. Never defrost raw meat in the microwave or all the juices will seep out and the meat will toughen.

PREPARING

The meat that’s likely to need the most fiddly preparation prior to cooking is chicken. I always buy my chickens whole and then joint them myself. It works out so much cheaper and you’ll be amazed how far they go. The method described below will produce six joints of dark brown meat (wings, thighs and drumsticks) and two beautiful plump breasts. I’ve also given instructions for deboning, but this is altogether a more complicated affair, and, unless you’re brimming with confidence, is probably best done by your butcher.

HOW TO JOINT A CHICKEN

1
. Open up the chicken legs and pierce the skin where the thigh joins the body. Holding the bird steady, pull the leg out and down until the thighbone pops out of its socket. Cut through the skin and sinew with a sharp knife until you can pull the thigh and drumstick off in one piece. Turn the bird around and repeat with the other side.

2
. With your thumb, feel where the knuckle is between the thigh and the drumstick and slice through, letting the weight of the knife do the work. The thigh is great for roasting or barbecuing, but the drumstick is the most difficult part to cook evenly. A trick is to slice through to the bone about halfway down the drumstick, where the meat gives way to skin and sinew. Scrape away the tendons until you expose a length of bare bone. Now cut off the end of the knuckle by placing your left hand on top of the knife blade and banging down hard to cut through the bone. Keep the knuckle for making stock.

3
. Pull out the wings and feel with your thumb for where the bone joins the body. Slice through and take off the wing. You can also slice off the wing tips for stock if you like.

4
. Place the chicken on a board with its neck end towards you. With a nice dry knife to stop it slipping, slice down one side of the breastbone, starting at the leg end and keeping the blade as close to the bone as possible. When you reach the wishbone, pull the knife out slightly, tilt it slightly upwards and, using your other hand to guide the blade, push it through the wishbone. You should now be able to work the breast free of the breastbones. Turn the carcass round, and repeat with the other breast, again cutting through the wishbone and keeping the knife as close to the carcass as possible so as not to leave any meat behind. Keep the carcass for making stock.

HOW TO DEBONE A CHICKEN

Place the chicken on its front, and cut down through the skin to expose the whole length of its backbone. Using your knife to loosen the meat from the bones, pull the chicken flesh away, as though ripping open a shirt, to expose its ribcage. Cut through the thighbone at its joint and, using your fingers, pull the bone out of the thighs, pulling the thigh meat inside out as you do so. Repeat on the other side. Now continue to work around the ribcage, releasing the wing bones as you do so, until you have released the breastbone from the breast. Cut the two tendons at either end of the ribcage and you should now be able to remove the carcass, leaving a single piece of meat, all of uniform thickness.

COOKING

Meat lends itself to every type of cooking, from roasting, grilling or frying to poaching and braising. As a rule, the leaner and more delicate the cut of meat, the quicker you want to cook it, or else it will toughen up and dry out. Fattier cuts need slower cooking so that the fat can melt into the meat and imbue it with flavour.