Tag Archives: ottolenghi

tahini thumbprint cookies with a quick citrus marmalade

14 Jan

tahini marmalade cookies

It has been a quiet week at home. I have been baking to cure an undefinable ennui. (Sometimes I don’t want to know why I am sad, I just want to get my hands floury and bash some brioche dough into submission.)

This recipe was right at the back of Ottolenghi’s cult book, Jerusalem. And although it felt like sacrilege to mess with a master, I thought his simple tahini cookies could be made into thumbprints rather than flattened with a fork. And that a bitter, lemony marmalade to fill those thumbprints would complement the rich buttery, sesame flavour.  Also, pastry geekery, that a touch of cornstarch would make them more crumbly, shortbread-y. (Enough -y suffixes yet?)

Being right about all of those things (I am an I-told-you-so kind of person), and eating several cookies at once, made me feel instantly brighter. Give yourself a hit of butter, sugar, sesame and citrus in lieu of sunshine.

~~~

Tahini thumbprint cookies with quick citrus marmalade

Cookie recipe ever so slightly adapted from Yotam Ottolenghi’s Jerusalem, marmalade is mine. Use any citrus you like for the marmalade as long as it is relatively thin skinned (grapefruit would not work, for example). I have tried it with a tangerine and a bit of lemon, and with a whole lemon and half a tangerine. Depends how much you like bitter flavours! You can of course use a shop marmalade and mix the cookies by hand if you don’t have a food processor.

makes 30 

130g caster sugar

150g unsalted butter, room temperature

110g tahini

5g / 1 tsp fine salt

25 ml double cream / crème fraîche

250g plain flour

20g cornstarch

optional for decoration: sesame seeds

for the citrus marmalade:

150g citrus, including peel (eg 1 tangerine, 1/2 lemon)

150g sugar

Make the marmalade: halve the citrus fruits and pick out any pips. Then, in a food processor, blend citrus peel and all with the sugar, to a fine paste. Bring to the boil in a small saucepan, then simmer for 5 minutes, stirring occasionally. It will thicken and start to leave tracks on the bottom of the pan.

Preheat oven to 180C.

Using the same food processor, no need to wash it (it will give the biscuits a lemony taste): blend sugar and butter until soft and creamy but not fluffy. Add tahini, cream and salt, mix to combine. Then add flour and cornstarch to form a dough. You may need to bring the dough together with your hands: knead once or twice to make a smooth ball. Roll small balls (about 20g each) to make 30 in total. Space them out on a baking tray (or two). Firmly press a thumb into each one to make a generous dent. (Optional: dip the top of the cookies in sesame seeds.) Bake for 15 minutes until golden.

Fill dents in the cookies with marmalade. Should keep well for 4-5 days in an airtight tin.

 

NOPI’s burrata with peaches and coriander seeds

15 Sep

peaches, burrata, nopi

Being grown-up means eating Coco Pops whenever you want. It means buying unfashionable clothes for comfort. It starts with a desire to move to the countryside.

Being grown-up seems to mean more responsibilities, more spreadsheets. Except that when we were children, we didn’t dream of more chores, but more choices.

I have been canvassing friends for their opinion on adulting, whether they consider themselves to have reached adulthood yet or not. I got silly and sensible answers, each with a ring of truth. Mostly they didn’t revolve around the obvious milestones – marriage, children, graduation – they were instead more intangible realities. Like being in a position to teach an intern, to explain an illness, to create a new life in a new country. Not feeling guilty about not finishing projects. The freedom to drink a beer in your own garden.

At least this last week, my idea of being an adult has included:

Going out to dinner at my favourite restaurant in London, Ottolenghi’s NOPI. I had been once before, with friends and family, for my 22nd birthday. This time I paid, and it was worth every penny. We had polenta truffle chips, blackened aubergine with basil, one shortrib with caramelised horseradish, the lightest courgette fritters, and of course, the burrata, with peaches and coriander seeds. Going home with the recipe book, gilt-edged, like a precious manuscript.

Spending an afternoon in the Luxembourg gardens with ice cream, talking about adulthood, memories, the initial sparks of a friendship. A second ice cream on the same day, as a treat for an excitable three-and-a-half year old, and for us as well, because why not? This involved waving at metros (and the driver waving back!) and making ourselves moustaches out of the black sesame ice cream.

Taking the time to queue at the Italian delicatessen, to buy pancetta, pecorino, scamorza, delivered fresh from Italy the day before. Buying extra burrata, knowing that we would be having it on Sunday anyway. Not taking the time to sit down to eat it, tearing it apart while standing up in the kitchen with my flatmate. (We both rate burrata as our number favourite cheese of all time. If you have never had it before, it is like a generous mozzarella with an extra creamy centre. If you have never had it before, we may not be able to be friends with you. True friendship, as previously defined in our household: allowing the other person to eat more than half the burrata.)

Cooking nicely presented meals for one, spaghetti cacio e pepe, with a neat green salad.

The film Youth, by Paolo Sorrentino. Trampolining as a sport. A sculpture class. Speeding through Paris on a bike, and noticing a dozen things from my new perspective.

A meeting of the Grape Leaves Club, leaning on the kitchen counters, glass of white wine in hand, as we sterilised jars, simmered plums and sugar, and ladled jam into jars. Teaching the above almost-four year old to say JAM for confiture. Sitting down to supper and nearly weeping with laughter at some inanity. A moment of quiet as we each took a bite of our first course, burrata again, seasoned with dukkah, and served with sliced peaches à la Ottolenghi.

In summary, adulthood for me seems to mean mostly… dairy products? So the last word to my wisest friend of three and three-quarters: “no-one knows the difference between a kid and a grown-up,” but the latter “seems to have a lot of difficult things to do.”

~~~

Burrata with peaches and coriander seeds

A simplified version of the recipe from NOPI by Yotam Ottolenghi and Ramael Scully (no lavender oil). If you can’t find fresh burrata, buy the best mozzarella you can get your hands on. And if you have some dukkah on hand, it makes for a wonderful, toasted, spicy crunch on top. Otherwise coriander seeds, as in the original recipe, are great.

serves 4-6 as a starter

2 fresh burrata, 300g each

2 peaches

olive oil, lemon juice, salt

2 tsp coriander seeds OR 2 tsp dukkah

Boil a kettle. Gently score the peach skin as if you were about to cut the peaches in quarters. Place in a bowl. Pour the hot water over the whole peaches to cover. After thirty seconds, test to see if the skin slips off. Run peaches under cold water, peel and slice thinly. Toss the slices in a little olive oil, lemon juice and salt, to taste. Toast the coriander seeds in a small frying pan until fragrant. (No need to toast dukkah as it has been toasted already.) Gently tear the burrata in half/thirds and place a piece on each plate, sprinkling the coriander or dukkah on top. Add peach slices.

~~~

To buy burrata in Paris: Cooperativa Latte Cisternino – 108 rue St Maur, 11ème / 37 rue Godot de Mouroy, 10ème/ 46 Rue du fbg Poissonière, 9ème / 17 rue Geoffroy Saint Hilaire, 5ème. Delivery from Italy on Thursdays.

spring supper

2 Mar

spring, cherry blossoms

Two days in bed with a bad cold and my brain went to mush. The extremely nice flatmate brought me tisanes and yoghurt and pretended to understand my French. (“No, he wasn’t telling the truth, he was telling candles. Wait, what?”) Eventually she judged me well enough for a short walk into the outside world. We went to the canal, as always, over the cobbles. The sky wasn’t quite blue, a typical Paris grey with a bright edge to it.

A very few cherry blossoms decorated some bare black branches. Slim daffodils surrounded the trees down the avenue. “It’s the first of March! Pinch and a punch!” I demonstrated, twice, to teach her the English phrase. We squeezed into the busy Ten Belles for cappuccinos with foam hearts, and a cookie. Bought a bag of fresh-ground Belleville Brulerie coffee for home, to go in our matching Moka pots. (Tasting notes: chocolate and forest fruits.) Then we walked and talked and walked some more.

Once home again, to celebrate my new ability to stand upright, I made a batch of the best cookies in the world. (Though Ten Belles’ version was pretty damn good: thin, crisp and chocolaty.) The recipe that uses nearly 600g dark chocolate, enough to fill a chopping board and spill over the edges.

spring, chocolate chip cookie

Three things I have learned since I first wrote about them: 1) to soften the butter, sandwich it between grease-proof paper and beat it with a rolling pin, v. satisfying; 2) to stop brown sugar from drying into a hard clump, peel a lemon with a vegetable peeler and stick a strip or two in the bag; 3) my oven will only bake 4 cookies at once (restraint) but I am not immune to eating frozen, raw cookie dough (total absence of self-discipline). Now there are thirty-something cookie balls in the freezer for me and the chocolate-obsessed flatmate, with control-freak cooking instructions posted on the door.

~~

For the perfect spring supper then: start with an afternoon of fresh air. Take frequent gulps. Then go home to a warm apartment. Have a friend or two come over with a fresh baguette and some Tomme de Savoie cheese. Slice a crisp apple. Alternate bites of bread, cheese and apple. Throw together a slapdash version of Ottolenghi’s pea and yoghurt pasta, miraculously made of items in cupboard and freezer. Boil some water, salt it. Have your friend or flatmate chop some almonds while you blend frozen peas, yoghurt, olive oil and garlic. Toast the almonds with more olive oil and chili flakes. Cook spaghetti. (Keep sneaking bread, cheese, apple.)

spring, ottolenghi pea and yoghurt pasta

Toss everything together: pasta, peas, yoghurt sauce, mint, spicy oil and nuts and serve with some mâche (“lamb’s lettuce,” a nutty soft salad leaf) and a squeeze of lemon. Grate any cheese you haven’t eaten on top. Preheat the oven while you eat and admire the bright green meal. It has all the comfort of winter carbohydrates without the heft, a creamy sauce that isn’t rich, and a serving of spring-y vegetables without tasting smugly virtuous. The flavours were so clear and well-rounded that the cheese was almost superfluous. (I wouldn’t even add bacon, which normally improves everything.) It is the kind of vegetarian food where you forget there is a meat alternative, the reason Ottolenghi was such a success in his New Vegetarian column.

When you have scraped your plates, bake a ball of cookie dough each for exactly 17 minutes. By which time, your appetite will be just about piqued again. And a warm cookie on a paper napkin will be the right way to finish the meal. (Really it is a disc of melted chocolate with a thin cookie shell as a disguise.)

Be happy you can taste fresh air and pasta and cookies again, and look forward to the day when you can have exactly the same supper but outside, legs dangling over the canal.

spring, obsessive cookie instructions

Ottolenghi’s pea and yoghurt pasta

makes enough for 2 hungry people or very 3 polite ones

The original version calls for fresh garlic, pinenuts, basil and feta, none of which I had in the house. Orecchiette (ear-shaped pasta) collects the sauce better, but spaghetti is no less delicious. The beauty of this recipe is that it adapts well to whatever you have in your cupboards or freezer. I suggest freezing a bunch of mint for later use, for though it doesn’t look as pretty when defrosted it is useful in a hunger-emergency.

250g frozen peas (divided into 50g/200g)

250g plain natural yoghurt

2 tsp garlic-ginger paste

75ml olive oil (divided into 45ml/30ml)

30g whole almonds

scant 1 tsp chili flakes

250g spaghetti, or favourite pasta

handful mint leaves, roughly torn

salt and pepper

50g-100g mild cheese, grated (Tomme de Savoie)

half a lemon

(optional: several handfuls mâche, or lamb’s lettuce)

Put a large saucepan of water on to boil. (Or boil kettle, faster.) Blend 50g peas with yoghurt, garlic paste and 45ml olive oil until smooth. Tip into large serving bowl. Generously salt boiling water and add pasta. Heat remaining 30ml olive oil with chili flakes in a small frying pan. Roughly chop almonds and toast in the oil until golden-brown. Remove from heat. When pasta is nearly ready, add remaining frozen peas for a minute or two. Drain well. Toss half of pasta in sauce to coat well, then mix in the rest as well as the mint. Salt and pepper to taste. Drizzle chili-oil and almonds over the top. Serve with grated cheese and a squeeze of lemon, a handful of mâche on the side of each plate.

je brunch, tu brunch: sweet

23 Sep

brunch sweet 2

(Following on from je brunch, tu brunch: savoury)

For sweet teeth, two cakes to start with: a round chocolate and a square upside-down pear and pecan (from Diana Henry). Both rich and full of flavour, stand-alone cakes – no need for icing or frills.

When cooking for a crowd in a miniature oven, it is best to choose at least one simple recipe that you know off by heart, that you can mix together in five minutes and have in the oven straightaway while you read and measure the next, new recipe. Then you have time to slice pears and caramelise them, and to whip up a fluffy buttermilk sponge.

My chocolate fondant recipe is a piece of cake (ha) and so decadent it tastes like a lot of effort went into it: Melt 200g chocolate and 200g butter over a bain marie. Whisk 170g sugar and 5 eggs in a large bowl. Stir in chocolate mix and 125g ground nuts (hazelnuts are nice). Pour into a 22cm greased and papered tin, bake for 25 minutes at 175C until just starting to crack, not wobbly but still soft. Optional extras: orange zest, cinnamon, 2 tsp instant coffee dissolved in 1 tbsp boiling water. Slice very finely and decorate with icing sugar.

Another easy option: the Nigella clementine cake. Instead of boiling the fruit for two hours as traditional, you microwave them, covered, for eight minutes, turning once. Then blend, add sugar, eggs and ground almonds. Done. Simple but with a depth of flavour; moist and fragrant, both dairy and gluten free.

brunch sweet 1

Meringues keep well and can be prepared a few days in advance. Pipe bite-sized versions in neat swirls for a professional finish. Ottolenghi’s brown sugar and cinnamon meringues have you dissolve all the sugar in the egg whites over a bain-marie, which creates glossy meringues that are delightfully sticky on the inside.

So, on the sweet side of the brunch table, there are already two cakes and some meringues. Maybe some cookies dug up from the freezer. I like making logs of shortbread mixture and freezing half for a later date, to slice and bake as many as needed.

And finally, a fruit compote for the glut of produce in the markets at the moment: for autumn, figs and plums cooked in syrupy red wine, sprinkled with fresh purple grapes (Henry again). I didn’t follow the recipe properly but the result was still lovely: I cooked a dozen large figs, halved, with a dozen fat plums, in red wine with sugar and a bit of liquorice vodka until soft. Then removed the fruit, simmered the sauce to a thick syrup and decorated with red grapes. All in a luxurious velvety purple, sweet and ripe. Delicious with fromage blanc.

brunch sweet 3

Enough to feed an army yet? With a few added extras – homemade lemon curd, some iced coffee –  your brunch should leave your guests in a happy (comatose) heap on the sofa…

je brunch, tu brunch: savoury

19 Sep

potato, rosemary and bacon quiche

I like to play hostess. Whatever your kingdom of nerdery may be – knitting, formula one, tumblrs of George Harrison looking awkward – I will let you have it. I will be daydreaming on the metro about menus. Maybe a week beforehand, I will be going through a stack of recipe books and post-it pages. I will make lists and lists of lists, of ingredients and guests. I will carefully calculate oven real-estate, because it is so small I can only make or heat one cake or tart at a time.

(In reality, the lists are only useful half the time, because often I get distracted with an aperitif and a friend and forget to prepare the the meringues three days in advance. I miss the market and have to get up early on the day, buying grapes because blackberries are nowhere to be found.)

The people that eventually arrive are secondary, sometimes, to the quiet pleasure of an evening juggling in my tiny kitchen, piling plates onto the washing machine and restacking the fridge to fit tart shells, bowls of whipped cream, cold-brewed coffee. Sometimes I weep into the washing-up when there is just no space left.

Brunch has the most scope for me – an amorphous meal that can encompass all of my latest favourites, savoury and sweet, mostly prepared in advance. Friends can drop by whenever with baguettes and flowers and help themselves to the spread.

For my three year Franceversary (three years! how?) I wanted brunch. For all of the above reasons, and for the fact that the last two years meant waking at 5.30 a.m. on Saturdays and Sundays. So no time for lazy brunches. In the cookbook pile this time was Ottolenghi’s The Cookbook, my old favourite of Diana Henry’s Roast Figs, and Bill Sewell’s Food from the Place Below. And my mother’s book, for reference.

ottolenghi's fennel feta and pomegranate salad

Here is my planning then, for a brunch to feed 10-15, with minimal effort on the day:

You need something savoury but breakfasty, probably with eggs. I have hated French toast ever since Scout camp when we called it “eggy bread” made of the polystyrene white sliced. I do love eggs benedict, or a stack of corn fritters but if you are serving more than four you cannot make to order.

Quiche is easiest for preparing ahead, and infinitely variable. Bill’s blog has the perfect quiche ratios and rules – the right combination of roast vegetables, always lots of cream, no milk. When I worked at the Café at All Saints I would invariably choose his quiche for lunch, crisp and golden on top, with scalloped edges of wholemeal pastry. The vegetables would invariably be roasted first to release a lot of water and concentrate their flavour – perfect for a sturdy quiche.

Mine was potato, rosemary and bacon quiche made with an extra ripe camembert. The night before I sauteed roughly chopped onion with lardons, then added some parboiled sliced potatoes (because my oven was too busy to roast them!) and at the end, rosemary and mustard. The wholemeal pastry was prepared overnight and left in the fridge to chill. The next morning I rolled it out, baked it blind and then filled with the potatoes and smelly cheese. I mixed eggs, cream and a good dollop of mustard (see Bill’s blog for the quantities). I made the mistake of filling the quiche to the brim and spilled some cream moving it to the oven: it is much easier to top it up in the oven.

That makes 10-12 slices as part of a larger meal (or 8 with plain green leaves for lunch). Then an enormous and colourful salad – four thinly sliced fennel bulbs tossed with 200g feta and some sumac, topped with the seeds of a pomegranate (Ottolenghi). I had an early arrival make the salad for me – trick your guests into being useful!

One more easy savoury item: a herby cornbread from my mother’s repertoire. The dry ingredients were weighed the night before so in the morning I just stirred in yoghurt, eggs and oil. It was ready in 45 minutes, served warm and fluffy with a delicate bite from the cornmeal.

brunch savoury 3

Next, of course, sweet things: cakes biscuits and a killer chocolate spread…

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