Strawberries & Cream at SW19

The view from Henman Hill-Murray Mount

Wimbledon is with us, and as I write, it’s piddling down in SW19 and Venus Williams, is flapping around in a disco-toga ensemble under the very sensible glass roof.  I make the pilgrimage every year (sob…sniff) except this one, and instead have to make do with the TV, whilst receiving texts from my sister who has bagged Centre Court seats so close to the celebrity box (ok sorry Royal box) that she can see the Duchess of Cornwall’s crow’s feet.
  

Sister & I slurping Pimms in the sunshine

What I love most about Wimbledon is how polite and well coordinated everything is.  It has manners.  Players in pressed white outfits on top of precisely trimmed grass, all against the seemingly garish but oddly demure purple and green backdrop.  You can't (well you could, but be prepared for frowns) turn up in cut off denim shorts and a ripped to the navel vintage Cure t-shirt.  Summer dresses and floppy hats with plenty of sunblock for when the sun shines.  You also have to consider the standard of your sustenance.  A Wimbledon picnic is not a ham sandwich and a bag of crisps transported in a carrier bag, even if it is from Waitrose.  Think breadsticks, crudités and olives with a good tub of hummus or sushi.  Go for salads in stackable boxes, try couscous with roasted vegetables and crumbled feta or a tomato laden pasta salad with a swirl of pesto.  If you really must have something between two slices of bread, try smoked salmon on a grainy, nutty loaf.  Strawberries are compulsory, so do all the prep work at home, bring a small pot of cream and a bag of crushed up pre-made meringues.  Plonk the lot into a bowl and you have your very own portable Eton Mess. Just remember the spoons.

This is my armchair homage to Wimbledon.  A little like scones, these strawberry shortcakes are a little cakier, due to the addition of cream to the mixture.  I followed Nigella Lawson’s version from How to be a Domestic Goddess. 

Shortcakes
325g plain flour
1/2 tsp salt
1 tbsp baking powder
5 tbsps caster sugar
125g unsalted butter, frozen
1 large egg
125ml single cream (or half & half will work if you are in US or Canada)
1 large egg white

Filling
1 punnet strawberries
1 tbsp caster sugar
250ml double cream/whipping or heavy cream

Pre-heat oven to 220c/425f/gas mark 7
Mix flour, salt, baking powder & 3 tbsps of the caster sugar altogether in one bowl.  Grate the butter into the same bowl and crumble it into the flour mixture with your fingers.

In a separate bowl (I use a measuring jug) pour in the cream and crack in one whole egg, then whisk.  Pour this into the flour mixture, a little at a time, using a fork to mix in.

Bring the dough together and tip out onto a floured board.  Roll it out to a thickness of 2cm.  Using a 6.5cm round cutter, dip it in flour and then cut out rounds.  You will need to keep re-rolling it, and will get 8 shortcakes.

Place the rounds on a baking sheet with at least 2.5cm between them.  Brush the tops with egg white, sprinkle with remaining sugar and bake for 10-15 minutes until they are golden brown.  Transfer to a wire rack to cool after cooking.

For the filling just whip up the cream with a tbsp of sugar.  Split a shortcake in two and fill it with sliced strawberries and a dollop of cream.


Come on Andy Murray!

Smoked Meat Sandwiches at Schwartz's Montreal

‘Oh it’s just like Paris’, everyone said, when I told people I was going to Montreal.  Curiously instead of bistros and brasseries, they implored me to try Schwartz’s, a Jewish smoked meat deli, more akin to New York I thought, than Paris.  So after a morning scaling the Parc du Mont Royal, our appetites slowly building as the gradient increased, Jerry and I lined up with other Schwartz devotees, sunglasses on, noses upwards, breathing in the beefy air with mouth-watering anticipation.   

After a swift thirty minutes of feet shuffling, spent mainly eavesdropping on the excitable bachelor party ahead of us, we were ushered in.  There’s no doubting this place is a Montreal institution, and in case you weren’t aware, there are reminders all about you.  Walls are papered with articles all agreed in their devotion to this 80 year old institution. Someone was so moved by the meat, they wrote a musical about it.  A place with such longevity doesn’t need 21^st century décor.  It’s elbows close dining at shared tables or a high stool at the counter.  Pop comes in cans and place mats double as menus.  Napkins are pulled from spring loaded dispensers and ketchup is squirted from a squeezy bottle. 

The food comes out in a teasing trickle, first pickles, with a crisp crunch and vinegar hit, then homemade frites, fluffy and sweet insides with nut brown skins.  The kitchen door swings open and an imaginary fanfare goes off in my head heralding the arrival of the sandwiches.  Hand sliced, medium-thick, the meat is layered at least eight storeys high between warm rye bread that balances precariously.  Such a mound might normally dictate the use of cutlery, but hunger triumphs over etiquette and we delve in with our hands.  The meat is gently smoked, not overly salty and beautifully moist and tender.  A generous squirt of bright yellow mustard, alternating bites of pickle and pinchfuls of fries is all that is needed.

I know it’s a good meal, if apart from the odd appreciative grunt or ‘oooh that’s good’, neither of us can face making conversation, since doing so, would slow down the flow of food.  I love a thriving friends and family dinner, but sometimes when the food deserves my full attention, I need a companion who understands I don’t really want to talk, I just want to inhale.  Save for the giggly bachelors (I assume something really funny must have happened last night), most diners adopt a similar semi-mute state, using hand gestures and eye rolling where applicable.

The best part? We feasted for just over $10 each. There’s nothing more satisfying than having a great meal when I don’t dread the arrival of the bill.

Kitchen carnage

"What should we do this afternoon?” I enquired.  After a morning watching a mediocre England play Switzerland against a rainy backdrop, I wasn’t exactly buoyed up to go bounding about.  I surprised myself: “how about we go down to Bills and get a lobster for dinner?” “Sure” says Jerry, already lacing his shoes.  He really ought to disagree with me sometimes; neither of us knows how to cook lobster. 

I’ve tank-shopped at Bills, an unassuming fishmonger hidden amongst Chinese grocers on Gerrard Street’s mini-Chinatown, but never had the courage to buy anything. We dillied in front of the ice laden trays of fish and dallied by the tanks of live lobster.  I was seconds away from copping out and buying some safe tuna steaks, when I saw some less intimidating, but still live prawns.  They looked like something I could handle. We might actually have a pan big enough for them. They were Spot Prawns, fresh from the British Columbia coast, and only in season for a short while.  I felt a little privileged. Bills lady said to cook them simply, put them in a bowl with wine and let them drink it for a few minutes, (I wasn’t sure what the purpose of this was, was it a marinade or to get them drunk so their death would be less excruciating?) then pan fry with garlic just for 2 minutes, no more.  “I was thinking of adding chilli, parsley and some lemon zest”.  She nodded in agreement.  “Just remember to suck out the heads.  It’s the best bit.”

We made a quick side visit to one of the Chinese grocers for lemons and eggs (I’d attempted to make banana oat muffins in the morning but stopped short at the instruction to crack in one egg), and up to that point I’d been confidently carrying the bag of critters, secure in the knowledge that there were three layers of packaging they’d have to claw through to escape. In the queue the ruckus started. There was in-fighting within the plastic and the bag began to shake. I set the bag down.  Ignoring them would make them behave. Jerry rolled his eyes and silently took the bag.  He’d deal with their death; I’d worry about chopping garlic and chilli.

We got them home and tipped their frolicking bodies into an icy bath.  That shut them up….a little bit too permanently.  The iced temperatures had killed them prematurely. Relieved I wouldn’t have to combat their escape attempts, I sliced up about 4 good sized garlic cloves, one long red chilli, grated the zest of a lemon and chopped a good handful of parsley. I let the chilli and garlic sizzle in some butter and olive oil for a few minutes before pouring in a glass of white wine and letting it bubble away for a minute or two more. The prawns were then packed into the pan and covered as they cooked for two to three minutes. I added some final colour with the parsley and lemon zest before swirling some cooked pasta through the sauce and serving. They are the creamiest prawns I’ve ever had. The heads have a hidden pocket of brain goo that’s like concentrated lobster bisque. Just like the lady from Bills said. It’s the best part.