teaspoon fennel seeds
200ml (7fl oz) cider vinegar
10 garlic cloves, peeled and
grated
125g (4½oz) piece of fresh
root ginger, peeled and
grated
2 onions, peeled and grated
1 tablespoon tomato purée
2 teaspoons chilli flakes
2 teaspoons ground turmeric
1 cinnamon stick
2 teaspoons golden caster
sugar
100ml (3½fl oz) vegetable oil,
plus extra for cooking the
onions
3 onions, peeled and finely
sliced
juice of 1 lime
1 bunch of fresh coriander
leaves, roughly chopped
salt
Trim the pork cheeks, removing any really tough sinews,
then cut each one into three or four smaller nuggets.
Prepare the marinade. Grind the peppercorns,
coriander seeds, cardamom seeds, cumin, cloves and
fennel seeds using a spice grinder or mortar and pestle.
Place in a large bowl and add the vinegar, garlic, ginger,
grated onions, tomato puree, chilli flakes, turmeric,
cinnamon and sugar and mix to a paste. Add the pork,
massaging the paste into the meat well. Cover with
clingfilm and refrigerate overnight, or for at least 6 hours.
Preheat the oven to 140°C (275°F, Gas Mark 1). Add
500ml (18fl oz) water to the marinade, enabling you to lift
out the pieces of meat. Dry these on kitchen paper, then
season well with salt. In a heavy-based frying pan, fry the
meat, in batches, in the vegetable oil, taking care to colour
them on all sides.
In a heavy casserole dish, stew the finely sliced onions
gently in the extra oil for about 15 minutes, or until soft,
then add the fried meat before pouring in the marinade,
stirring well and bringing to a simmer, making sure there
is enough water to cover the meat.
Cover carefully and cook the stew in the oven for
3 hours, or until the meat is completely tender. The stew
must not boil but cook at a very gentle temperature. Check
the seasoning for salt and sharpen the flavour with lime
juice. The vindaloo should be very piquant but not
burningly hot. Sprinkle with the chopped fresh coriander
leaves and serve with plenty of plain boiled basmati rice.
WINE: Whereas I don’t think chilli necessarily spoils wine
the cumulative effect of the chilli and vinegar will destroy
all but the most alcoholic blockbuster Shiraz or Zinfandel.
A cold lager or lassi might be a better option.
38
French Nursery Food
Far Breton, or Custard Cake with Prunes
When we think of nursery food, most of us are acutely
nationalistic. One cannot imagine toad-in-the-hole, milk
pudding and junket being consumed in any other country.
Some of us never escape the grip of the nursery and are
happier eating very bad food than going to any damned
foreign restaurant, while others so loathed the food of
their childhood that they are forever sworn against it. If
anything, I belong in the first camp, even if I have happily
migrated from the world of club food and institutionalised
deprivation. I liked almost everything I was given as a
child, from Nanny’s Mess (a sort of Irish stew with scrag
end of lamb and pearl barley) and spam fritters and, not
even but especially, prunes and custard.
I am always surprised by the degree of animosity the
poor old prune provokes. Even the great Jane Grigson
seems to have been infected with this loathing: ‘In a
masochistic and patriotic egotism of suffering, I had
always thought that prunes and rice pudding were unique
to Great Britain (like strikes). Alone in the world we
suffered, or made our children suffer.’ Yet, soaked in hot
black tea – brought to a simmer after twenty minutes for
an extra little nudge towards plumpness – and served with
custard or cold double cream, prunes are a quietly enjoyed
pleasure, each stone arranged on the rim of the soup plate
to determine future fortunes (‘tinker, tailor…’). This is
purely subjective, but the objection, made with a snigger,
that prunes are unduly laxative, is a low and unkind slur
on a discreetly helpful fruit.
The prune is not
