1.4 kg boned shoulder of lamb
2 large Spanish-type onions
4 tablespoons butter
a generous pinch of saffron
625ml beef stock
4 tablespoons lemon juice
salt and pepper to season
2 bunches of fresh flat-leaf parsley
6–8 sprigs of fresh mint
450g rhubarb, cut into 2.5cm pieces
The khoresh has different cooking times for different stages. I like to think that you are building up the flavours.
Deal with the meat first by chopping the shoulder of lamb into 5cm chunks. Trim off any bits you don’t want, but remember you need the fat to flavour the meat. Next chop up the onions and sauté them gently with two tablespoons of the butter in a large flameproof casserole until they are transparent. Once cooked, remove from the pan and set aside. Now turn the heat up a little more and quickly seal the lamb pieces in the casserole, using the pan drippings from the onions to fry and brown the meat. Lower the heat again, then add the saffron strands to the meat and stir well. Now reintroduce the onions to the pan. Add the beef stock and lemon juice. Season with salt and pepper. Bring everything to the boil, then turn the heat down, cover the pan and simmer the khoresh gently for about 1 hour.
While you wait, chop the parsley and mint. Set aside some of the herb mixture for garnish, then sauté the rest of the leaves briefly with the remaining butter and add to the casserole for another 30 minutes.
Add the chopped rhubarb to the casserole for the last 15 minutes. Test the meat for doneness and check the seasoning. The final element of flavour is added when you concentrate the sauce. Use a slotted spoon to remove the meat mix to a serving dish. Keep it warm. Skim the fat from the top of the remaining pan juices and boil the liquid hard until it is reduced by one third. Pour the thickened juices over the meat, and garnish with the saved mint and parsley. Serve with basmati rice and salad.
Mrs H’s recipe for savoury rhubarb sauce
Based on a recipe from Rhubarb: More Than Just Pies, this was a revelation. Although we served it with pork, I cannot see why it could not accompany other meats. This recipe should be sufficient for four. The pork was grilled and marinated in olive oil and the juice and zest of an orange. We had a fresh spinach and asparagus salad for veg.
4 rhubarb stalks
250ml red wine
125ml red wine vinegar
180ml chicken stock
Chop the rhubarb into smallish pieces and transfer to a saucepan. Mix in the red wine and vinegar and let everything marinate for 30 minutes. Add the chicken stock to the pan and bring everything to a slow boil. Stir the sauce now and again to prevent it sticking. Cook for around 20–30 minutes, by which time the rhubarb should fall apart and the liquid be reduced enough to coat the back of a wooden spoon. Keep the sauce warm until it is ready for use. Spoon it over the meat and wait for the taste explosion.
THE PUB STEADILY BEGAN to lose its allure, as I stayed in for Mrs H’s casseroles and soufflés. During summer, she toiled away over the hibachi, a primitive but effective form of barbecue. As a form of recompense, I attempted a fashionable dish of that time. Mrs H has often recalled it over the years. It was the moment she realised what she had got herself into. Always keen on soups, I decided to attempt French onion soup, regarded as excitingly bohemian twenty-odd years ago. Desiring to bring a whiff of the old Les Halles to the suburbs of south London, I peeled a mass of onions, sliced them into fine discs and started gently frying them in Mrs H’s biggest pot. Nothing too unusual there, surely? Except Mrs H came downstairs, poked her head round the kitchen door and asked, ‘What on earth are you doing?’
‘Making French onion soup.’
‘But it’s four in the morning.’
‘Couldn’t sleep.’
‘So you decided to make some soup.’
‘I was trying to be quiet. Didn’t want to wake you.’
‘Well, you have.’
‘I never knew you could be woken by a smell.’
Afterwards I restricted my soup-making to more social hours.
The main thrust of my culinary proposals concerned the foods of northern England. I was particularly pleased when she showed enthusiasm for pork pie, a delicacy that continues to hold great appeal for me. I had less success in persuading her to enjoy another northern treat. ‘No! I am not eating that. It looks revolting.’ It was the first sighting of an eruption that became more familiar in subsequent years. Who would have thought that a plate of chopped honeycomb would have prompted such antagonism?
Maybe I should explain that the honeycomb in question was honeycomb tripe. In retrospect, I’ve come round to her view. Over-bleached and tasteless, English tripe is rubbish, but Italian tripe from veal calves is sensational and French tripe is pretty good. Persisting in my campaign to convert Mrs H, I secured a tin of tripes à la mode de Caen (cooked with carrots, onion and leek). While she was otherwise engaged, I opened it, emptied the contents into a saucepan and secreted the telltale tin.
‘A bit curious,’ she said warily as she tasted a spoonful. Moments later, my ploy ended in disaster. ‘Argh! What have you made me eat?’
‘It’s just a tin of French stew.’
‘I’ve just found a hairy bit.’
‘It can’t be hairy. There aren’t any hairs in tripe.’
‘TRIPE!’
It took several minutes for the plaster to stop falling from the ceiling. Even now, Mrs H insists that she found a hairy bit in the French tripe.
I realised that I would have to change tack pretty rapidly if my toothbrush were to retain its position in Mrs H’s bathroom. Luckily, I had a sure-fire weapon in my culinary armoury. There was a certain savoury that Mrs H received with such enthusiasm that it would not be overstating the case to describe her reaction as ecstatic. It occurred to me that it would do our relationship no harm if I were to try every known variation of this dish. The path to Mrs H’s heart was paved with Welsh rabbit.
‘IT’S MY IDEA OF HEAVEN.’ Mrs H’s rapturous reception of my cheese on toast could prompt a new direction for theology, though I must admit that my productions in this department are occasionally satanically singed. ‘I can’t make it at all,’ she admits. ‘I know it involves Worcestershire sauce and there’s a lot of washing-up after wards, but I don’t know your secret method on account of lolling in bed like Lady Muck while you make it.’
Where better to eat toast covered by a blanket of molten cheese than when one is covered by a duvet? It is one of those rare situations where dish mirrors diner.