Yet Another Cycling Forum
Off Topic => The Pub => Food & Drink => Topic started by: mllePB on 01 January, 2018, 01:48:40 pm
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As an attempt at a bright side to start the year, here's an example of a recommended recipe from a few decades ago:
(https://farm5.staticflickr.com/4681/38549490135_e0c1019488_m.jpg) (https://flic.kr/p/21JudnD)
Tins of vegetable soup and stewing steak enlivened with Worcestershire sauce :sick:
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Probably best served with a light dusting of fag-ash.
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Who's been in my kitchen?
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"49p" so post-1971, then. Two tablespoons of 1970s L&P would have been pretty incendiary. I can remember spoiling a meal that way. Peely-wally stuff these days.
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I suspect L&P would have been far too exotic for my parents (remember, my parents won't eat pasta because it's foreign). The line was drawn with salt and white pepper (I don't think I knew black pepper existed until I went to university, though as I came from a mining town in the East Midlands, I could say the same about black people). The cutting edge of exotic condiments was HP, which in those terms was furiously spicy. I'm not sure how that got an exemption, it's full of dangerously esoteric ingredients like garlic and tamarind.
I am blessed with a nostalgia for 80s era British food – a time when most things came in orange breadcrumbs and could be cooked in the oven. Fish fingers, crispy pancakes, you name it. I sailed with the good Captain Birdseye aboard the HMS Findus. Potato waffles, they're wafflely versatile. Even mash came out of the package after all, for mash get Smash, and frankly what kind of right-thinking Martian would peel a potato.
It wasn't all bland though, we had packets of Knorr parsley sauce.
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My Dad doesn't like potato salad, too fancy and modern.
He also doesn't like anything with "seasoning".
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Typeface looks 1970s.
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I think if it was a eighties, the serving suggestion would be to sprinkle it on crispy pancakes or potato croquettes.
My dad went mental when he accidentally ate a mouthful of rocket and refused to eat anything else. It was that bad he's never eaten in a restaurant since (11 years, it was our wedding dinner, so way to go at acting like a dick, dad). I'm not even joking. My mum had to go and sit in the back room at Morrisons (where she worked) if anyone dropped a jar of any kind of coloured cooking sauce as she'd get sick from seeing it. These days she pretty much lives off white bread and mild cheddar just in case.
They cook steaks for 25 to 30 minutes, minimum, and believe olive oil is 'for your ears.' They both have such an aversion of to garlic that frankly even a vampire would find extreme. Except in HP sauce.
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My mother went from cooking superb Lancashire hotpots, deep-frying chips in lard, and generally cooking from scratch (okay, the veg would be boiled to a pulp) in the 1960s, to packaged, tinned, processed foods from the Co-op and tiny Tesco as the 70s drew nigh.
My father's proud boast was that he couldn't even cook toast.
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My mother-in-law is another who would never touch garlic or onions. She also believed that mushrooms "smelt of death". Those quirks aside, she was a very competent cook.
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You'd never use the words 'competent cook' and 'my mother' in the same sentence. She was quite good at chargrilled fish fingers. She'd even manage to burn boil-in-the-bag stuff. Her most advanced culinary construction was meat and potato pie, which as far as I recall was merely potatoes in bisto with a packet pastry rolled over the top. We'd try and find the piece of the meat that was allegedly in there somewhere.
Mushrooms are made out of dead people, so your mother-in-law is technically right about that. I don't much like them. I can't do food with weird textures. At least compared to my parents, I'm only modestly weird. I did eat my first curry at a youthful 22.
Not sure where I learned to cook either, I'm pretty sure our home economics class was mostly the teacher trying to stop use setting fire to ourselves or each other. She probably would have been more understanding, but that was during the blancmange lesson. I've no idea why they thought blancmange making was a life skill. At no point in my life to date have I sat back and thought this is a situation that calls for blancmange.
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They cook steaks for 25 to 30 minutes, minimum, and believe olive oil is 'for your ears.' They both have such an aversion of to garlic that frankly even a vampire would find extreme. Except in HP sauce.
My maternal grandmother was a lady's maid, so my mother inherited very clear ideas of what was "correct" and what wasn't. She would never have allowed a bottle of HP on the table, frowned at L&P and referred to the EPNS cutlery as "the silver". She was a dab hand at turning steak into kevlar before kevlar was invented. My dad once put her into terminal miff by asking for the last.
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Of course some British food is still awful. I could mention a few cafes and pubs in the SW where the food is comically bad.
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They cook steaks for 25 to 30 minutes, minimum, and believe olive oil is 'for your ears.' They both have such an aversion of to garlic that frankly even a vampire would find extreme. Except in HP sauce.
My maternal grandmother was a lady's maid, so my mother inherited very clear ideas of what was "correct" and what wasn't. She would never have allowed a bottle of HP on the table, frowned at L&P and referred to the EPNS cutlery as "the sliver". She was a dab hand at turning steak into kevlar before kevlar was invented. My dad once put her into terminal miff by asking for the last.
My paternal gran was a brilliant baker, but a horrible cook. My dad had no idea vegetables had different colours, flavours and textures until he left home and joined the airforce. My brother once asked her for another slice of rice pudding.
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My father's proud boast was that he couldn't even cook toast.
Some time during her late 80s, my mother fell down a flight of stairs and broke her leg so spent some time in hospital. That was the only time, I think, in their 64 years' marrid, that he had to look after himself. My older daughter was in the sixth form at the time and, since it was her summer holiday, went over with one of her pals to give my dad a hand with domestic chores (he would have been in mis mid-80s at the time).
They happened upon him in the kitchen with some food under the grill. It was a piece of bread, covered in baked beans. He fancied beans on toast for lunch.
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My grandmother had to even extract the biscuits from the packet for my grandfather. And she'd make his coffee (Camp, of course) in the morning and afternoon. After she'd got first, lit the fire, warmed the house etc. All meals had to happen at precise times.
I dunno how she did it. I'd have bashed him over the head. Considering how he died, quite possibly she did.
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My dad taught my mum to cook after they got married.
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My paternal gran was a brilliant baker, but a horrible cook.
That's me, that is. We play guess the veg- will they be mush or raw.
Cooking's dull. Baking's magic.
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I grew up in a dessert desert. Which probably explains why I mostly don't like sweet things. The only cake I remember was the occasional Victoria sponge my mum would bring home on a Saturday and I'd always get told off for getting cream on my nose. Mind you, as kids, we'd mostly eaten two kilos of broken biscuits each by that point in the proceedings, so really didn't need more sugar. Do they still sell broken biscuits on the market? Every Saturday, me and my cousins (and given my mother has eleven siblings, there were a lot of us) would do the matinee at the cinema and then get a large bag of broken biccies from the market and go create sugar-fueled sundry unsupervised mayhem.
Anyway, in our tenure together, my wife has cooked only the one meal (when we first met). It's not something I'm planning the repeat. The microwave gets some exercise every time I'm away.
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and believe olive oil is 'for your ears.'
When dating my mother in the 1960's the only thing my father used olive oil for was to slick his hair back. Apparently it went quite runny under the hot lights in the Café Dansette!
These days though they are both quite adventurous cooks so it's not all bad.
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Indian women use olive oil as a hair conditioner, it's good for achieving the black, silky look which is the epitome of Indian women's fashion.
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and believe olive oil is 'for your ears.'
When dating my mother in the 1960's the only thing my father used olive oil for was to slick his hair back. Apparently it went quite runny under the hot lights in the Café Dansette!
These days though they are both quite adventurous cooks so it's not all bad.
The olive oil available in the 60s was probably only fit for external applications.
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I suspect L&P would have been far too exotic for my parents (remember, my parents won't eat pasta because it's foreign). The line was drawn with salt and white pepper (I don't think I knew black pepper existed until I went to university, though as I came from a mining town in the East Midlands, I could say the same about black people). The cutting edge of exotic condiments was HP, which in those terms was furiously spicy. I'm not sure how that got an exemption, it's full of dangerously esoteric ingredients like garlic and tamarind.
I am blessed with a nostalgia for 80s era British food – a time when most things came in orange breadcrumbs and could be cooked in the oven. Fish fingers, crispy pancakes, you name it. I sailed with the good Captain Birdseye aboard the HMS Findus. Potato waffles, they're wafflely versatile. Even mash came out of the package after all, for mash get Smash, and frankly what kind of right-thinking Martian would peel a potato.
It wasn't all bland though, we had packets of Knorr parsley sauce.
I have fond memories of crispy pancakes -semi deep fried, but I'm going to leave that nostalgia in the same closed box as most of the bands of that era I enjoyed.
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[Visions of playing a crispy pancake at 45 rpm]
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I believe the esteemed Crispy Pancake made a comeback a year or so back, riding the hoofless narwhal of nostalgia across the waves of time. Aye aye, Captain Birdseye (it's not the same when you learn his name was actually Clarence Birdseye). I always imagined him as a savoury pirate, a breadcrumbed brigand. Clarence makes him sound like a man who eats vegetables.
I confess I've no had one for years, you probably have to go poor people supermarkets or the blasted wastelands and lard mines of the north. I do have a hankering though. They're pretty good in a sandwich. I say that about most things, admittedly, I'm probably the world's leading proponent of sandwichification. But it's true. Minced beef and onion were the best.
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Last time I had a Findus Crispy Pancake was as a student in the early 90s, when a bunch of us thought it would be great larks to rediscover our childhood dinnertime favourites. They proved to be disappointingly insubstantial.
I've often thought about trying to make them myself. The bit that concerns me is how you seal the pancake so it doesn't leak. The only recipe I've found online merely says 'press the edges together' but that sounds unsatisfactory to me. (ETA: found another recipe that says to brush the edges with egg to make them stick together.)
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Didn't some celebrity chef do some kind of pimped-up crispy pancake? I don't watch proper telly, so I might have dreamed it. I never actually remember my dreams, but odds-on they feature crispy pancakes. I kind of hope they don't feature Captain Birdseye. Freud would have less of a field day and more of a sabbatical.
Insubstantiality was a theme of childhood foods. My mother wouldn't understand that two crispy pancakes wasn't enough (nor for that matter was four fish fingers). What with those the bisto and potato pie, for god's sake there's probably more mince in a Gregg's pasty. Of course, we made people small back then through starvation so we could send them the pit. One of the most fabulous things about being a grown-up was buying my own full-sized Fray Bentos pie in a tin and eating it all myself.
Like so many aspects of being an adult, it turned out not to taste very nice. Ah, the difference betweens dreams and reality.
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Didn't some celebrity chef do some kind of pimped-up crispy pancake?
In googling for recipes, I discovered two celebrity chef versions - Hugh FW and Phil Vickery. I dare say there are others.
One of the most fabulous things about being a grown-up was buying my own full-sized Fray Bentos pie in a tin and eating it all myself.
Like so many aspects of being an adult, it turned out not to taste very nice. Ah, the difference betweens dreams and reality.
Same here - I was fascinated by Fray Bentos pies when I was a kid (a pie in a tin? how cool is that?) but never had one until I was an adult and bought one for myself. Tbh, I was expecting it to be much worse than it was.
Fish fingers are still a staple of my diet. In a sandwich, ideally. At least four. With lots of ketchup. Has to be proper kids' fish fingers, none of your stupid modern grown-up artisanal nonsense.
Last night for dinner, we had ham, egg and chips. It was ace.
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We used to eat Fray Bentos pies a lot. But, and this is an awful tale of childhood deprivation so reach from your tiny violins now (my memoirs are headed direct to the WH Smith misery porn shelf), we shared a pie between the four of us (which meant my dad got half, we got the rest, fortunately my mother never really ate food, she mostly survives on tea and cigarettes). That wasn't nearly enough pie. Anyway, I used to love the crispy top that you could pull off to expose the soggy, yet strangely tasty and contrasting, hammock of pastry underneath. My adult pie experience (oh, if I had a porn-theme park†, and trust me, I'm planning it) was just a bit disappointing and it turned out that I really didn't want an entire pie and that damp undercarriage of pastry was just that. Part of the nostalgia was that very whiff of portion deprivation. I expected a lot more from an entire pie. I think that's something every adult has to face. The disappointment of pies*.
Corned beef. I don't actually know what it is, but that was amazing. I mean, you needed a key and opening ceremony to get at it. You'd shake the can until it popped out, entire and solid, with a hefty, meaty counter-rattling thunk onto the plate. In another tale of adult culinary debauchment I tried to eat an whole one too (on bread, I'm not a bloody libertine). There is, it seems, a threshold for corned beef.
In my next episode, meat paste.
*apart from the people of Wigan, of course. But then if you're from Wigan, your threshold is a lot lower.
†Throblands? DildoWorld?
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Corned beef is the work of Stan. Truly hateful stuff. Reminds me of prep school dinners. :hand:
One of my colleagues (a guy in his early 30s, no less), has it in the sandwiches that we get daily from the sarnie shop (a perk of working for a profligate generous employer).
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Corned beef is smashing. Makes great sarnies with salad cream.
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Corned beef is smashing. Makes great sarnies with salad cream.
This is the most correct thing said on the internet today. Possibly ever.
Anyway, meat paste. My gran used to bring it hope in a pot from the butchers. It was lovely. I think they just blitzed all the bits of a cow they couldn't sell into a suitable mush. You could get it from Princes or curiously stuttery M-m-mmmatterson's but it wasn't the same as the butcher version as that included real cow parts. The pot of beef dripping on the other hand, barf-a-rama.
A curious fact, no one in Britain ever put veg on a sandwich until 1983.
Nowadays it's all fancy artisanal patés and terrines that send people scurrying for their sourdough.
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The Crispy Pancakes of my youth were molished by Findus. They probably contained minced horse. Hear that? That's the sound of me not caring.
Corned beef is teh aces, especially in a hash. Nom. Tinned ham, however, is the Jbex of Stan, coated with horrible gloop. No, no, a thousand times no! But you've never lived until you've eaten the sausage, tinned, HM Armed Forces for the feeding of. Half a dozen or so in a can, the rest of which being filled with Lard, to stop the sausages from rattling and giving away your position to the Enemy. They made horriblemarket own-brand bargain basement bangers seem like artisanal organic hand-crafted poncery in sausage form :sick:
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Corned beef is great. Especially in fritter form - another childhood favourite I've not had for years.
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I've just trawled this (https://www.princes.co.uk/our-products/pastes-and-fillers/pastes/) website, not so much in the interests of nostalgia, but more because I'm sure they used to do small jars of something identified only as 'Sandwich spread'.
Nothing more specific than that.
Genius. The contents of that could change from week to week, depending entirely on whatever was left over in the purée factory.
No contravention of description of goods ever took place.
I don't think I ever ate any.
Anyone else remember it?
It may've been from someone other than Princes.
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I've just trawled this (https://www.princes.co.uk/our-products/pastes-and-fillers/pastes/) website, not so much in the interests of nostalgia, but more because I'm sure they used to do small jars of something identified only as 'Sandwich spread'.
...
It may've been from someone other than Princes.
Sandwich spread was made by Heinz. And was totally awesome. Despite looking and smelling like vomit. It's a lot like Russian salad but made with salad cream rather than mayonnaise.
Other favourite sandwich fillings of my youth:
Shippams crab paste
Primula cheese and ham spread (often squirted straight from the tube into the mouth, bypassing the bread altogether)
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Boggle!
:jurek:
Heinz sandwich spread is still a thing (https://www.sainsburys.co.uk/webapp/wcs/stores/servlet/gb/groceries/heinz-sandwich-spread-270g?langId=44&storeId=10151&krypto=y4%2BQRexSb9vTCySPki8Nq7Rqew3SVFQS1MN2CTfoyaUit0e9wTTuQ5McSxKgCm2%2BY253VB08yOq9y3kkK5WuhYNM49bTNMyDDoNezKsPTwjpfDT6YlGJZzvyc5G5Hj4T&ddkey=https%3Agb%2Fgroceries%2Fheinz-sandwich-spread-270g).
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:thumbsup:
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The best thing about meat paste was that it was just 'meat.' Like those slightly dodgy curry house blackholes that suck in drunks with the promise of 'meat vindaloo.' No further definition was given. Pretty much anything with a spine qualified but slap it on white bread slathered with half a pound of butter and it was the unctuous ambrosia of my childhood.
Reminds me, it's on p137 of my memoirs, but the day I discovered that tongue really was tongue. That was disturbing.
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Like those slightly dodgy curry house blackholes that suck in drunks with the promise of 'meat vindaloo.'
'Meat' on an Indian menu usually means lamb (or goat). It's not obfuscation or deliberate vagueness about what you're eating, more a cultural thing, since they don't eat much beef or pork in most parts of India. And chicken isn't regarded as meat.
Vindaloo, however, has its origins in Goa where they do eat pork, and indeed is most authentically made with pork.
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Like those slightly dodgy curry house blackholes that suck in drunks with the promise of 'meat vindaloo.'
'Meat' on an Indian menu usually means lamb (or goat). It's not obfuscation or deliberate vagueness about what you're eating, more a cultural thing, since they don't eat much beef or pork in most parts of India. And chicken isn't regarded as meat.
Vindaloo, however, has its origins in Goa where they do eat pork, and indeed is most authentically made with pork.
Strictly speaking, the original version of the dish comes from Portugal. Colonists introduced a dish called vinha d'alhos (pork marinated in wine vinegar and garlic (alho) to Goa in 1496. The locals found it a bit bland, so they upped the garlic quotient and added spices, especially chilli.
The current form of vindaloo comes courtesy of the Punjabi restaurateurs in the early evolution of the British curry house, who looked to southern India for naming the hotter dishes that punters were demanding. They settled on "vindaloo" as being the intermediate-strength curry between Madras and Phall (neither of which exist in India). Of course, pork and and wine were right out on religious grounds, and potatoes were put in because of a mistranslation, aloo being "potato" in many Indian languages.
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'Sandwich spread' in Oz was a kind of mystery meat pink paste. I loved it as a kid. Preferably with cucumber. I was a weird kid; did I mention I also liked raw potato?
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Strictly speaking...
Well, yes, it's a general truism that dishes on the average British curry house menu bear very little resemblance to authentic Indian cookery. And as for Vesta curry...
In our house, curry was a Saturday dinner tradition - my dad would spend all afternoon in the kitchen knocking up some fantastic dishes from Madhur Jaffrey's recipes. Again, very anglicised versions of Indian dishes but fantastic none the less.
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Like those slightly dodgy curry house blackholes that suck in drunks with the promise of 'meat vindaloo.'
'Meat' on an Indian menu usually means lamb (or goat). It's not obfuscation or deliberate vagueness about what you're eating, more a cultural thing, since they don't eat much beef or pork in most parts of India. And chicken isn't regarded as meat.
Vindaloo, however, has its origins in Goa where they do eat pork, and indeed is most authentically made with pork.
Indeed though I suspect in the case of some of the curry houses I've ventured into, the 'chef' might simply have been unsure once he'd verified that he had all his fingers still attached.
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Primula cheese and ham spread (often squirted straight from the tube into the mouth, bypassing the bread altogether)
Keto-snack of choice
:-[
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Strictly speaking...
Well, yes, it's a general truism that dishes on the average British curry house menu bear very little resemblance to authentic Indian cookery. And as for Vesta curry...
In our house, curry was a Saturday dinner tradition - my dad would spend all afternoon in the kitchen knocking up some fantastic dishes from Madhur Jaffrey's recipes. Again, very anglicised versions of Indian dishes but fantastic none the less.
As ani fule kno, the only Vesta meal worth cooking was the Chow Mein with the crispy noodles. :demon:
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Primula cheese and ham spread (often squirted straight from the tube into the mouth, bypassing the bread altogether)
Keto-snack of choice
:-[
It's the only way humans have discovered to eat celery*. You simply fill its entire concave length with the maximum amount of Primula cheese and ham spread.
*I actually am the person who likes celery†, cheesed or not
†overshare no.2 this week
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Have we had brawn yet? My mum used to make it. Take one pig's head, etc.
Food of the gods.
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From the 1953 edition of the Farmers' Weekly cookbook.
(https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-SlTVa4I7y-4/VlHil_3IRrI/AAAAAAAANXc/N-ObF8WigcU/w530-h298-n/DSC_0298.JPG)(https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-Pi2s99d99fI/VlHip0FkvDI/AAAAAAAANXI/85nbWM0g7_8/w530-h298-n/DSC_0299.JPG)
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My first ever website was the 'Animal Head Cookbook.' True fact. Probably early nineties. Well, why restrict myself to writing online erotica, I'm a veritable polymath. My google-fu isn't good enough to find if it's been archived (hosted by demon, mid-nineties). Which is a shame, because I think I had l33t HTML skills. There's nothing you can't do with frames and blink tags. That's how I first raised Finestre, the Demon of Such Things. I think we've all had one of those nocturnal accidents on the internet.
Anyway, it was based a cookbook I found which was full of recipes like the one above. I always wanted to boil a pig's head for an entire day but never found the opportunity. Head cheese, brawn, and a frankly astounding and terrifying anglicised version of mannish water. I confess I never tried any of the recipes. Mind you, I never tried much of the erotica either. Anatomically unfeasible said she.
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The Crispy Pancakes of my youth were molished by Findus. They probably contained minced horse. Hear that? That's the sound of me not caring.
Corned beef is teh aces, especially in a hash. Nom. Tinned ham, however, is the Jbex of Stan, coated with horrible gloop. No, no, a thousand times no! But you've never lived until you've eaten the sausage, tinned, HM Armed Forces for the feeding of. Half a dozen or so in a can, the rest of which being filled with Lard, to stop the sausages from rattling and giving away your position to the Enemy. They made horriblemarket own-brand bargain basement bangers seem like artisanal organic hand-crafted poncery in sausage form :sick:
I'm wondering, given Mr L's extensive road trips in Leftpondia & Canuckistan, if he has experinced 'authentic' corned beef at a roadside diner. I have a hankering for a similar kind of holiday, mostly inspired by this Guy (http://www.foodnetwork.co.uk/tv-shows/diners-drive-ins-dives.html)*. Potential downsides are endless travelling on boring interstate highways and possible needing two seats on the aeroplane home . . .
*I really like the show but imagine some of the portions served would be sufficient for an entire family. I hate wasting food, probably the reason I resemble a house end instead of a racing snake.
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I always wanted to boil a pig's head for an entire day but never found the opportunity.
I did, once. Over 20 years ago, in the south of France. The pig's head in question being a particularly impressively hairy and toothed one, one of the accidental cross-breeds that resulted from the local hunters releasing a reproductively entire male sanglier into the woods where the farm that I worked on kept their noirs de Gascon sows in electric-fenced enclosures. There was reason to believe they planned this...
The pan wasn't quite deep enough resulting in piggy wiggy's snout slightly protruding and bubbling gently, as if it were still breathing. I turned it into pâté de tête and soupe à la tête de cochon. The rest of the piggy wiggy got butchered (not by me) mostly for the freezer, but the relevant bits got made into jambon sec, and I learnt how to make boudin noir (which from memory got cooked by dangling it off a wooden spoon into the broth in the boiling pig's head pan) and sossidges. Key point for the latter two - remember BEFORE filling to add the seasoning because it's very dull to have to empty it all out and start again.
Slightly disconcerting for the 22 year old me, with my (at the time) 15 years of vegetarianism...
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I am utterly unadventurous when it comes to nosh in Leftpondia, though this may have to change if the plan to do the Alaska Highway this year comes to fruition. I expect moose may be involved.
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Yes, the first time I got corned beef in the US I was so shocked I had to shoot everyone responsible. It's what they would have wanted. It wasn't what I wanted, however. Admittedly, it's worth it for when Americans order corned beef in the UK (admittedly not a common phenomenon). On a similar theme, my ex- once asked for sour cream to go with a jacket potato so they – neither understanding her or likely having any sour cream – slopped a big dollop of salad cream on top. Oh the look on her face when she tasted that.
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US corned beef was a really nice surprise. Not that I don't like UK corned beef when I can get it, but the US stuff was an order of magnitude better. We even made our own at home for a while after I came back. Rueben sandwiches, nom.
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It is nice, but it's just not our corned beef. I think it's more of a shock the other way around, when you're expecting something that looks like actual meat.
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No one have cabbage and ribs as a child?
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No.
Though I did live in perennial fear of liver.
I liked kidneys until someone told me that they left all the wee inside them.
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Reading Ian's posts has reminded me that when i was a small I used to eat haslet and vinegar sandwiches.
??? :sick:
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Reading Ian's posts has reminded me that when i was a small I used to eat haslet and vinegar sandwiches.
??? :sick:
Wiki: "from the Old French hastilles meaning entrails".
I did not know that. Rhymes with pastille and Bastille, too, which could come in handy.
I wonder if that's what they put in hasty pudding...
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I used to like haslet* (not sure about the vinegar, I used to put that on crisps, which is good and right). Not had it for years. After my discovery about tongue being, well, a tongue I'm a bit wary.
Liver though. Horrid texture and taste anyway, but when my mum had been let at it, she'd cook it until it was basically a piece of leather, you needed jaws that could gnaw through a shoe. And the veins and arteries and stuff. They'd get stuck between your teeth and were basically unchewable. My sister had one caught once and frantically trying to extricate herself from a lump of attached liver pinged it right into her eye and had to be taken to the doctor.
That was 70s/80s UK food summarized.
*I think British haslet is just a kind of pork stuffing.
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British food isn't rubbish anymore because it's no longer British. At least if you go out to a restaur (https://ru.restaurantguru.com/)ant or try to find a cafe that serves anything other than food from the continent or from Asia. not to mention the bloody burgers.
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British food isn't rubbish anymore because it's no longer British.
Only 442 days to go though!
Maybe we can still have some food from the colonies. For a bit of variety.
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British food isn't rubbish anymore because it's no longer British. At least if you go out to a restaur (https://ru.restaurantguru.com/)ant or try to find a cafe that serves anything other than food from the continent or from Asia. not to mention the bloody burgers.
Not true though. There is a resurgence in interest in food that is 'locally sourced' and 'local traditional' etc.
Last 'posh' meal I had was mostly local ingredients (the samphire coming from Norfolk rather than Yorkshire, the sea bass coming from the sea) and most of the food traditional yorkshire recipes.
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During a cookery shelf tidy in my library, I located The Penguin Cookery Book reprinted 1971 which includes a real classic curry. To avoid legal issues with their copoyright on such inspiration , I'll just giev you the ingrediant list:
- 2lb Beef or lamb or 1 rabbit
- dripping
- flour
- stock
- curry powder
- onions
- lemon
- salt, sugar
- 1/2 clove garlic
- apples
- raisins or sultanas
- desiccated coconut
- tomato
Method is basically fry in dripping then cook for 2-3 hours with the stock.
Add gravy browning if a darker colour curry is preferred.
Serve with boiled rice and chutney (types unspecified).
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A whole 1/2 clove of garlic. Daring!
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I never saw a clove of garlic until I was well into my twenties.
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But when did you see them uncloved?