chapter VII - the candyman can

sunday at rosie's

Then there was Rosie's; the local cafe, run, as many if not most were by an Italian family. It was here at a tender age of five I was introduced to coffee, real coffee. Rosie's had a true Italian espresso maker. Large, shiny, fascinating, steaming and very noisy. The mere aroma of espresso always takes me on a magic carpet ride back to Rosie's, for when you walked into her place that was all you smelt, it was and still remains a hypnotic small for me. In my later childhood years, mother would always make what she referred to as 'milky coffee' whenever a treat / special occasion was called for. Instant coffee powder, sugar and boiled milk; her version of a latte years, decades before they became fashionable. And if on the rare occasion she had spare pennies, it was made with Camp coffee; a liquid coffee essence with chicory. Now that was a rare treat, that was a special occasion when the Camp coffee came out. 

But the main reason Rosie's holds a permanent place in my food memory, is that most Sunday afternoon's was us kids' treat time. My father would take us three children up there sometime after the family Sunday roast. All eagered eyed and excited we would with dad, skip along the road, and be treated to an ice cream cone. An Italian ice cream cone at that, I only recollect it ever being white in colour, so it must have only ever have been vanilla. That ice cream always had a special memory for me, maybe it was because it is one of the rare memories I have of my father.

We had a pet back then, a dog, a Pekinese, by the name of Chan. Chan also loved ice cream and on occasions, Chan would also be bought a small ice cream. When we got home, along with my sisters I would take turns holding the cone, while this pug faced dog would poke out his little pink tongue and lap up (in every sense of the word) the creamy, icey treat.

Those Sunday's bring to mind one more memory, a strange one at that. As with most families in the 60's, after enjoying a Sunday roast at lunchtime, Sunday tea was always special. A high tea, I guess you could call it, sandwiches, cake etc. I don't recall what we had, but for some inexplicable reason I link three things to those Sunday afternoons; tinned strawberries, smokey bacon crisps and a TV show about ye olde days of pirates, galleons, cannon fire etc. For some reason Sir Francis Drake lurks in the dark recesses of my mind. I guess we all have childhood memories like that, one's that only make sense in our own heads but is hard to explain or justify to others, one's that cannot be verified but for some reason we just know to be true. 

these are a few of my favourite ....
No childhood memories of course would be complete without memories of sweets, lollies, candy and all things sugary.

Just up the road from us in our little village in Penrhiwceiber, were two shops. Firstly there was a general store, a corner store, a newsagent, the type of shop so wonderfully portrayed in that classic British comedy 'Open All Hours'. Call it what you will, all I knew was that it sold sweets! It was here that my sisters and I would go on the rare occasion we were given pocket money. But when we did, I seem to remember it was a 'threpenny bit' ; a single coin worth three old pennies, an amazing coin that was small, brassy in colour and had twelve sides.With this single little coin as I remember, I would get a plastic beaker of (soda) 'pop', (there was no choices, from what I could make out it was whatever the shopkeeper decided to give us, or whatever bottle he had open) Usually this was dandelion and burdock (my favourite), lemonade or ginger beer (my least favourite) I remember how it would burn my throat, so I didn't really care for it, although I love the stuff now. We would have to stand there, in the shop, drinking it, from a plastic beaker that god knows how many kids had drunken out of, god knows if it ever got washed!

We would also get a cone shaped, tuppenny bag of mixed sweets; bulleyes, fruit salad or blackjack chews, refreshers, parma violets, toffees, licquorice etc. Whatever the shopkeeper had put together.

chapter VI - jones the baker

welsh cakes
Another anticipated arrival to our street was the bakers van, selling his wares. Who knows what his name really was, but traditionally in Wales everyone was known by their name and profession

Ahhhhh, the smell of any bakery now takes me back to that van. Peaking in and seeing all those delicious products, that as a kid one could only dream about; loaves of still warm breads, doughnuts, pastry items and all manner of sweet cakes. All proudly displayed on wooden trays. Amongst them of course would be Welsh cakes, but we never bought them because no one made better Welsh cakes than my grandmother. My father’s mother was a Welsh cake maker extraordinaire. Cooked either on a coal range or in its oven using a round thick cast iron ‘stone’, which I believe my grandfather made her. I am lucky enough to now be the very proud owner of that stone.

A great aunt of mine; my Auntie Lynne (wife of my grandmother’s brother) was also a dab hand at baking these great delights. Right up until her passing, whenever I visited Wales as an adult, she would always have a batch of picau ar y maen made for me.

Probably another dying art is the home made welsh cake. Because on my more recent trips home, they are for sale everywhere and sell, well like hotcakes. But as with anything, nothing beats homemade. Maybe the decline in cooking a batch of homemade welsh cakes is not due to laziness, but more to do with the closure of the collieries, and the decline of coal burning stoves. At least, I would like to think it is, it is certainly a more romantic notion with which to wax lyrical about anyway.

The trick to a great welsh cake is to ensure they are cooked throughout without burning them, but at the same time, they should be more than just a light golden brown. A good dark golden brown is best, this imparts the true flavour to them. If they are too light in colour, the flavour can be rather bland.

recipe - welsh cakes
200 gm flour

½ tsp baking powder
¼ tsp mixed spice
050 gm butter
050 gm lard
075 gm castor sugar
050 gm currants
001 pc egg
030 ml milk

preparation method

sieve the flour, baking powder and mixed spice together. Rub in the lard and butter. Add the sugar and the currants, then the egg and sufficient milk to form into a firm paste. Roll out on a floured board to a thickness of 1cm and cut into rounds. Cook on a greased griddle or a heavy based frying pan for about 3 minutes on each side or until a golden brown. Cool and sprinkle with sugar if desired

chapter V - cockles & mussels alive...

when the breadman cometh
During those childhood days in Wales, there was during the week, six eagerly anticipated visits to our street. Four of them food related; the cockleman, the baker’s van, the butcher’s van and of course the chimes of the ice cream man.

The two non food related visit were that of the sound of the bell ringing of the rag and bone man, who would sharpen all your knives and scissors and then there was the arrival of what can only be described as a mobile market stall. A large flat bed truck, parked on the road at the bottom of a gully, that would sell (London market stall style) anything and everything. From stockings to kids clothing, from toys to kitchenware. All no doubt dodgy items, that had fallen off the back of another lorry. People would come from all the other streets around, assemble on the hillside and bid or buy for what they wanted.

The first of the food related visits was that of the cockle man. A small white van as I remember, that would come selling freshly cooked seafoods gathered that day from the rich seafood beds of Wales. I don't know where exactly they came from, but I always imagined it to be from Porthcawl. Probably because that’s where we holidayed, and I just associated seafood with the only seaside I really knew.

It wasn’t a common treat, we didnt get them every week. But just once in a while I was bought a small paper bag of juicy, succulent, sweet cockles. The bag always ending up being soaked through with either the cockles own juices, or from the copious amounts of salt, pepper and vinegar that we would put on them. I love all manner of seafood now, and have eaten just about everything there is. Maine lobster is fine, French oysters are ok, moules mariniere are all well and good, Cornish crab might be luxurious and delicious, but cockles still have to rate as numeral uno. 


We only ever had them as I remember off the van, and only ever ate them straight from the bag but these days I do love to do so much more with them. Cockles are similar to the New Zealand pipis (pip-ees) and tuatua (two-ah-two-ah) which make great fritters, but for me Welsh cockle soup has the edge. A big bowl of that with a good crusty bread on a cold day for lunch, really will warm the cockles of your heart. This is my version of a Welsh classic, cawl cocos, which is similar to the American Boston Clam Chowder

recipe - welsh cockle soup
500 gm cockle flesh

050 gm butter
025 gm flour
001 pc carrot
001 pc onion (small)
001 pc celery stalk
002 pc potatoes (medium sized)
100 lt light chicken stock
100 ml double cream

preparation method
Finely chop the vegetables or blitz in a food processor (do not puree) and cut the peeled potatoes into small dice. Melt the butter over a low heat, in a thick bottomed saucepan, add the vegetables and cook gently until slightly softened, add the potato and flour and cook gently for a few minutes. Slowly add the stock, stirring constantly until a slightly thickened, lump free consistency is achieved. Add the cockles and simmer gently for 15 minutes, ensuring it is stirred frequently to prevent the cockles sinking and sticking and burning to the base. Taste and season as required, finish with the cream.

chapter IV - everything but the moo

offal memories ......

In by gone days, offal were a staple of most people's diet, mainly dur probably because it was cheap and nutritious. Three of my father’s favourite dishes apparently were offal based. Tripe and onions, chitterlings and faggots.

Three dishes that often strike dread into most people, but my father loved them and maybe explains why I will eat anything. And trust me during my culinary travels around the globe, I have eaten some wild and wonderful things, many of which make these three dishes seem like ambrosia. I don’t remember ever trying them as a child, or even my father eating them, but only that my mother telling me they were his favourites. So I guess I can include them as a memory, especially as I really enjoy them. Without the memory of my father liking them, maybe I wouldn’t have tried them and enjoyed them as much as my father did.

Tripe is the stomach lining of the cow, and my least favourite of the three. I will eat it if it is cooked for me, available on a menu etc, but not something I would cook for myself. There are two main types of tripe; smooth, which comes from the rumen or first stomach and the honeycombe, that comes from the reticulum or second stomach. 

It is as tough as boot leather, and essentially just as tasty. So why eat it? Well, like chitterlings, liver, or any offal, when times are hard any source of meat protein is better than than none. it is said the Chinese eat everything of the chicken apart from its cluck; waste not, want not and all that. To make it palatable, tripe must be thoroughly washed and then simmered gently for hours on end to make it at least somewhat tender, during which all windows will need to be left open, as the stench can be quite unpleasant. It is then cut up into pieces and finished in a white sauce with copious amounts of onion.

recipe - tripe

450 gm tripe
3 pc onions
600 ml milk
25 gm butter
25 gm flour
bayleaf
grated nutmeg
chopped parsley

preparation method
Place the tripe in a large saucepan and cover with cold water. Bring to the boil and simmer for 2 hours until tender. Cut into small pieces. Melt the butter and add the sliced onions, cooking very gently until the onions are tender. Mix in the flour, gently cook for a few minutes before adding the milk slowly while stirring. Simmer for approx ten minutes. Add the cut tripe and simmer for another 10 minutes, add the chopped parsley, stir through and serve (or as people might say; empty into the bin and eat the pan. It will be tastier and more tender!)

                                                                                                                                              

chitterlings on the other hand are the intestines of animals, often the pig, but those of the calf and lamb are also used. In the UK, it seems to have been popular more in the northern areas and of course Wales. But we are not alone, they are eaten by many people in many countries, and known of course by many names

• chitlins are favourite of the African Americans in the southern states of America, for those that are into what is known as “soul food”. Where after boiling, they are often battered and deep fried and served with a vinegar and hot sauce 
• gallinejas in Spain, and is usually the sheep’s intestines, spleen and sweetbreads, cooked together 
• in France, there is dish called tricandilles, made from pigs intestines 
• chinchulin in Argentina
• chunchule in Chile 
• and of course used extensively throughout Asia

recipe - chitterlings

500 gm chitterlings

001 pc onion

002 pc garlic cloves

001 pc bayleaf

001 tsp cider vinegar

001 tsp salt

001 pkt potato crisps (large packet)

½ cup flour

002 pc eggs

preparation method
place the chitterlings in a large bowl of cold water, invert and carefully remove any traces of foreign matter and then under running water remove excess fat. Soak the cleaned chitterings in fresh cold water for 10 minutes, rinse and soak again for another 10 minutes. Repeat until the water remains almost clear.

Drain and place in a large pot of cold water with the chopped onion, garlic, bayleaf and vinegar. Slowly bring to a boil, then add the salt (do not add before or the salt can toughen the chitterlings. Simmer gently for approx 2 hours until tender. remove from the heat, strain and rinse under cold running water. Cut into bite sized pieces.

Coat with the flour (mixed with a little cracked pepper it chilli flakes), dip in the beaten egg and finally coat with the potato chips that have been crushed into crumbs (I prefer bacon flavoured, but plain salted is fine or whatever suits your taste) Heat approx 10cm of oil in a large saucepan to 180°C, carefully place in the coated chitlins and fry until golden brown. Remove with a slotted spoon onto paper towel to drain and serve with tartare sauce, or vinegar and tabasco.



faggots

A staple food of the Welsh diet, sold in markets, butchers, supermarkets. Also a very popular item in fish and chip shops, where they are usually served with mushy peas and chips, slavered in plenty of salt, pepper and vinegar.

Of course in this more modern times, the term faggots is a strange word and always brings giggles when I mentioned them to my trainee chef students in New Zealand. But the term simply means a group or bunch of, often in a kitchen we refer to faggot of mixed herbs, or what the french call a bouquet garni. In this case it is a combination of various animal parts, all minced together and wrapped in caul (a fatty membrane that surrounds the intestines of the pig). Essentially they are just a type of meatball.

The most memorable of them, maybe the most famous commercially was always “Brains Faggots”. Named not because of what they are made from, but simply the brand name. Brains of course, also being a very popular brewery in Wales, at least it was when I was growing up in the valleys.

More often than not they are bought pre-made these days, but like all chefs if there is a recipe for something, we have it. It is many a year since I last made them, and that was in a cooking class I taught in New Zealand, a class based around offal dishes.

I have no specific memory of faggots, but they are a great favourite of mine ever since I was a kid in Wales. They always just evoke a general nostalgic feel of living in the valleys, growing up in a mining village, being a snotty nosed kid playing on the mountains, in gullys and spending endless summers covered in coal dust.

The air was always thick with coal dust, Meaning no matter how clean you left the house, no matter what you did, you always came home looking you has spent time down the pits. Mind you, my sisters and I would often be caked in black for good reason. After my father passed away, the bungalow where we lived was at the very base of a slag heap. A slag heap for those not familiar with the term, is a pile, a hill of dumped coal dust. We would spend hours climbing it and sliding down it, as if it was snow. Usually on my poor mother’s tea trays.

It was a slag heap that collapsed and caused the Aberfan disaster on Friday, 21st October 1966, killing 116 children and 28 adults. After days of rain, 150,000 cubic meters of water sodden slag, subsided and flowed at high speed down, destroying a farm, some twenty terraced houses before slamming into the Pantglas Junior School. Demolishing structures and flowing into the classrooms, burying the children and teachers, who had just arrived for the last day of school before the half term. My father, I remember, packed us kids all up in the car early on the Saturday and headed to Aberfan. Where like any other able bodied male in the area headed to help with the massive rescue mission. All I really remember is going there and being stuck in the car for hours on end, not knowing what was going on. So faggots have a bitter sweet memory for me.

recipe - faggots

025 gm butter
001 pc onion
100 gm pigs liver
100 gm pigs heart
200 gm pork belly
100 gm breadcrumbs
1/2 tsp dried sage
ground mace
salt and pepper
caul

preparation method
Soak the caul in cold water and set aside finely chop the onion and cut the meats into small pieces. Melt the butter and cook the onion until soft, add the liver, heart and pork belly pieces and cook for approx 5 minutes. Place through a mincer with medium to large holes. Place the minced mixture into a bowl and season with the sage, a good pinch of mace and salt and pepper. Add enough breadcrumbs to pull the mixture together, so it can be formed into balls. Portion off into 8cm balls and place onto a tray.

Stretch the caul out carefully on a chopping board or work surface, trying not to rip it (but do not overly worry if it does). Evenly space the meatball mixture onto the caul, leaving enough room between each so the caul can be cut and wrapped around each faggot. Cut the caul and encase each faggot. The caul will hold it altogether, but will render down on cooking leaving the faggot intact and add moisture to them

Place into a casserole dish, add enough stock to one thoird cover them and place in a pre-heated oven (160C) and cook for 20 minutes without a lid and then another 20 minutes with a lid on

Remove from the oven, serve with mushy peas, a rich beef gravy and chips or mashed potato

chapter III - cheese in the oven

shades of grey .........
After our time in London, we returned to the land of my fathers, quite literally. My parents took us back to my father’s hometown to live, the village of Penrhewceiber in the Rhondda Valley. How we got there, whether it be by train or by coach I do not recall. What I do remember however, is my grandfather taking myself and my two sisters for a walk. Where we stood at the end of a long Welsh street, with some boiled sweets of some description and being told to guess which house we thought we would be living in.

I cannot recall what sweets they were, but for some reason black and white striped bullseyes would be my choice. I cannot say why, it is just what sticks in my mind. We walked the length of that street, calling out to grandad, “is it that one, is it that one”? We had to walk the complete length, because as it turns out the house was the last house in the street. A large house, the largest on the street, that was detached from the other terrace houses and sat there all by itself. Looking all grand and proud and important, it wasn’t, but that is how I remember feeling.

Follow the letter F about halfway up, and to the left slightly you can see a small whitish blob, that was our house. Grey slate and dreary colours for the most part, except for the green, green, grass of home that is. The mountains might have been a patchwork quilt of colours but the township itself was as grey as in this photo. Growing up in the valleys though was as colourful as a rainbow. Always so much to do, always so much innocent mischief to get up to. Chasing sheep up the mountains, collecting frog and toad spawn, catching newts, playing in coal dust piles, making dutch arrows and generally having an innocent, care free, out from dawn until dusk childhood. 

home made potato crisps

We shared that large house with my father’s sister and her family, my Aunty Shirley and Uncle Roy. They went on to have quite a family, but at that time just my eldest cousin; Vincent. Aunty Shirley being responsible for another strong memory of a five year old. She used to make these home made potato crisps, the flavour of which stays with me to this day. They were like the commercially made ‘Quavers’, or might have been a form of prawn cracker for all I know, I don’t recall a prawn flavour and don’t think they would have been, because of course in circa 1965 prawn crackers were probably not known in a little Welsh village and if they were, they would have been an uber exotic food. But the texture was the same, and when eaten soon after cooking, they would stick to this five year old’s tongue. Whatever they were, I remember them being cooked in the chip pan, and we were always eager to get at them as soon as possible after cooking, so we could place them on our tongues and have them cling to our tongues as they absorbed the moisture. It was such a magical feeling. 

tea and toast

It was at this house that many other food memories occurs, all connected to breakfast time. As was quite usual in the sixties, even us kiddies drank tea, it was strong, dark sweet tea, tea that was brewed so strong it left one’s mouth slightly dry. But at breakfast time, one of two things would occur. If we were having cereal, instead of milk we would pour half of our tea over it. Who knows why, maybe we did it when there wasn’t enough milk in the house, maybe it was just a family thing that we just did. Whatever the reason, boy did it taste good. Much better than hot milk. But if we were having toast, that got dunked into the cup of tea. No matter what was spread on the toast, it got dunked. Whether lightly buttered with jam, or just buttered it was dunked. Butter was the spread of poor in the sixties, it was also never thought of as being fattening or unhealthy in any way. As such that toast was more often than not thickly buttered, which meant when folded and dunked in the tea, the tea would end up with a buttery, oil slick floating on top. Which of course was eagerly gulped down regardless. It was decades later, that I discovered on my travels to Italy that in parts of Italy, freshly churned, whipped butter is often dolloped on top of an espresso coffee. Not our British, yellow butter but something more akin a thick cream. But still, maybe we just trend setters without knowing it!


cheese in the oven

Not all food memories of course are pleasant ones. Within that large house, brings a memory of such culinary horror, it can still make me gag to this day. My mother would make a dish she called ‘cheese in the oven’, a baked cheese dish that would end up swimming in that grease that comes when cheese is overcooked. To make matters worse, it would be served with thickly buttered bread. I remember how it would make me gag, make me dry reach and how I would be told that if I didn’t eat it, I would be going to bed hungry. So it was always eaten as I remember, but, lord how I hated it. 

I have since discovered it is a typical welsh peasant’s dish,
usually cooked and served when money was tight. I would imagine times were hard for my parents back then. After coming out of the Police force, my father I think found it hard to get work in the valleys, and after trying his hand at many things (none of which he was good at) he re-joined the navy. So, I presume there would be times, mother would have to wait for his cheque, and have to wait too long at times. My Uncle Roy told me recently that once, he got my father a job with him doing construction, my father was so bad at it, essentially Uncle Roy covered for him for months and months before he was found out and my father dismissed. 

But this horror dish of my childhood, was what the Welsh call; baked cheese pudding or “pwdin caws”, it is essentially a dish of grated cheese, butter, mixed with breadcrumbs and bound with eggs and milk and oven baked. Cheddar or Caerphilly being a cheap staple food in those days and therefore a good, cheap protein source. I have often thought of re-creating it, but can never muster the bravery. maybe some things are best left in the past.

                                                                                                                                              

recipe - cheese in the oven

120 gm grated cheddar cheese
120 gm fresh breadcrumbs
30 gm butter 
2 pc eggs
300 ml milk

preparation method
pre-heat oven to 180°C. Lightly beat the egg yolks in a bowl. Meanwhile heat the milk in a pan then add to the eggs along with the butter and mustard. Mix well before adding the breadcrumbs and the majority of the cheese. Season with salt and pepper then place the egg whites in a separate bowl. Beat well until the whites forms stiff peaks then lightly fold into the milk mixture, making certain its well incorporated 

Tip the batter into a well-oiled pie dish and scatter the remaining cheese over the top. Place in the oven and bake for about 35 minutes or until well-risen and coloured a golden brown

chapter II - of mice and men

first ever food memory

My earliest memory of any kind is of when as a family, we lived in London for a while. Where my father after leaving the Royal Navy, became a member of the Metropolitan Police Force. It is there in London, that my first ever memory resides.

Holding my mother’s hand walking the streets of Streatham, to collect my elder sister; Michelle from school. Somewhere on that route, either going or returning we would stop at a sweet shop, or maybe a newsagent and a sweet treat purchased. I would not have been more than 4 years old, but the treat that burns vividly in me is that of a white paper bag, inside containing a sugar pastille mouse, pink in colour with string for a tail. Of course, its a small child’s memory and neither my mother or sister could verify it. But for me, every time I see these sugar mice I am transported back to sunny days, a shop on the top of a hill and the feeling of love and security as my small hand is firmly encased in my mother’s gloved hand. Why she would be wearing gloves on a sunny day, I have no idea. But that is the memory that sugar mice invokes.

recipe - sugared mice

preface - it starts with

I recently had a rather in depth conversation about childhood memories in regards to food. Whether is is because I am a chef, whether it is because my brain is just wired that way, I found my past, my memories inexplicably linked with food. The comment was made, that seeing as I was researching my family tree, I should maybe record these memories as part of that research.



Food can be so provocative. It nourishes us, it sustains us, it provides energy and it is the source of so many pleasures. Its feel, its textures, its flavours and aromas can be so sensual. But more than the food itself, the very sight of a certain food, a hint of its flavour and maybe more importantly the mere aroma of a given food can provoke so many memories within us. It can provoke strong desires from deep within us. 

Good, bad, happy, sad, sensual; the mere smell of a food or a dish can invoke the strongest of memories within us. Often memories long forgotten, incidences in our lives ten, twenty, thirty years or more ago, suddenly are remembered as if it all happened yesterday. Maybe with a desire to return to those times, those innocent childhood days, those carefree teenage years or maybe just happier times in our lives. Is it any wonder then, that as a chef my past is inexplicably linked with food memories. Or maybe, I was always destined to be a chef because my brain was so wired. 

I don’t remember why I ever wanted to become a chef, I would love to say that it was because of some wonderful defining moment, a chance meeting with some influential person, the fact my mother was such a devoted and masterful cook. But alas, none of that is true, somehow I just drifted into it. I once quizzed my mother over it, and she had no memory of why either. But whatever the reason, after leaving school when all my friends were gaining paid apprenticeships in Devonport Dockyard, I gained an interview at Plymouth Catering College and joined the chef’s course. 

I remember attending that interview, both my mother and I attended. In an upstairs room at Endsliegh Place, the office of the department head; the office of one Mr Hassle. It was there then, that I suppose my culinary journey began. 

It was on a grey dismal looking day in October 1975, when I attended my first day at college. A day that kick started my passion for food. But the memories, the nostalgia of food lingered in my mind long before that. 

My childhood memories are scant at the best. Maybe due to the traumatic loss of my father when I was so young, tragically lost in a house fire. Maybe its because we do not develop strong memories to recall later in life until after we are seven years old. But whatever the reason, a good percentage of my younger childhood memories are linked with foods. 

So follow me now, as I take a trip down that memory lane. To corners of my brain, to memories that are inexplicably linked to the sight, sound and smells of certain foods and dishes. Included will be recipes for each of the dishes, or foods that evoke strong memories for me

There are a million stories written about food, everyone has favourite one’s of their own, this is just one chef’s journey. This then, is my story …...........................