Winter Food

A SERIES of recipes successfully used in our kitchen for the cold weather, and for the cooler economic times.

Right: Pieces of oxtail, browned and dredged in seasoned flour, wait to go into the casserole.

Slow food is soul food, and love and time are its main ingredients, so this will be the hallmark of these recipes. Most of the first selection of dishes have been prepared using a size 28 enamelled cast-iron casserole made in France by Le Creuset, but any heavy saucepan of decent size will do. The real advantage of the Creuset is that everything can be done in one pan. The cast-iron is a splendid container of heat and is especially suited for slow cooking.

 

 

Oxtail for the winter

 

MANY years ago, when I would have been about 10 years old, a culinary event took place at the family home in Johannesburg. An uncle, a respected surgeon, was celebrating his 50^th birthday and for the occasion was giving a winter dinner party for friends and close colleagues.

 

He decided that the ideal food for the occasion would be a queue de boeuf farci, which is a stuffed oxtail.

 

Being a skilled surgeon he had no problem boning the two carefully chosen tails, using a scalpel or two and rolling the meat back as the vertebrae were removed one by one. How the thing was stuffed I haven’t a clue, but the whole business took a couple of hours.

 

Some time later, as the family were enjoying a relaxing drink on the stoep, Lumpi, the resident dachshund, was seen tearing across the lawn with the glorious oxtail, patiently stuffed, flying around his ears as he vanished into the trees to enjoy his spoils. He gave knew meaning to the term ‘sausage dog’.

 

This winter we will also be enjoying oxtail, but with the vertebrae intact.

 

As with all slow cooking this takes time, care and patience, and is worth every moment of it all. You can use frozen oxtail quite successfully, but the vertebrae must be separated. If the tail has been put through a band saw, forget it.

 

Ingredients

 

2 oxtails (there’s a lot of work here, so make enough for eight people; you can freeze what is left);

3 medium onions, sliced into half-rings;

ten medium carrots, scrubbed;

ten cloves of garlic, roughly chopped;

a big thumb of ginger, finely chopped;

spices (see method);

seasoned flour for dredging the oxtail pieces (in other words, rolling them in it);

2 teaspoons of salt;

good olive oil ( Greek is good for this dish);

1 bottle of full red wine;

tablespoon of soft brown sugar;

15 stoned prunes;

a handful of coarsely chopped dried peaches.

 

Method

Brown the meat in the casserole carefully on a medium heat using a little olive oil; too much heat will burn the meat and too little will cause it to loose water. With two tails you will have to brown the meat in batches to cover the bottom of the pan with enough space to turn them round and over.

 

Put the browned oxtail pieces to one side. When they are cool roll them in the seasoned flour.

 

Add a little more oil to the pan and start frying the onions. Move them around a lot to deglaze the pan. Cook until they are soft and opaque, with slight browning.

 

Spices  

The spices for an oxtail require a little care and attention. Into a small, dry frying pan put 1 heaped tablespoon of coriander seeds, a teaspoon of cumin seeds, a teaspoon of black peppercorns, eight allspice berries, and five cloves.

Dry roast the spices in the pan on a fairly high heat until they change colour. Allow them to cool a little and put them in a coffee grinder. It is best to prepare the spices before you start anything else.

 

Add the ground spices to the onions in the casserole then add the ginger and the garlic and allow them to fry for a minute or so more.

 

Now put the oxtail on top of the mixture and add the peaches, the carrots and the prunes. Pour in the bottle of wine and add the sugar and salt. Mix the ingredients with a wooden spoon and bring to the boil. Top up the liquid, if it is needed, with boiling water to just cover the meat.

 

With a Creuset pan the lid should fit tightly as a matter of course; if you are in doubt use a disc of greasproof  paper to form a seal.

 

Transfer to a preheated oven at 140 degrees (C) and leave it there for three hours. Allow the dish to cool for a couple of hours, taste it and if necessary adjust the salt. Leave the casserole in the fridge overnight.

 

The following morning the fat from the oxtail will be easy to remove. Once you have done this return it to the oven at the same temperature for three-and-a-half hours and allow to stand for half-an-hour before serving.

 

Oxtail is excellent with mashed potatoes. When mashing, be careful not to add too much milk or butter or whatever you prefer, so that the mash absorbs the delicious gravy. Garden peas go well with this lot, too. 

It’s all in the mind…

Routine tasks keep us healthy; at least that is what CHRIS BENNETT thinks.

 

 

SOMEBODY once said that growing old is not for sissies.

 

What we would do without Postnet I really don’t know. I have, on occasion, tried the post office, whatever it is now called, but the experience is a bit on the dry side.

 

For various reasons this year I have entrusted Postnet at the pleasant and friendly Hibiscus Mall with some pretty valuable documents, and they have responded magnificently. This week it was the turn of the passport. It needed renewing.

 

I downloaded the appropriate forms from the web and printed them out. The instructions were clear and unambiguous. Except for one bit that said I should forward my present or recently expired passport with the application. All of which is fine, but what does ‘recent’ mean? Yesterday, last week, last month, last year?

 

What these good people fail to grasp is that for most of us surfing our way to seventy, anything that took place after the Suez crisis is recent.

 

Anyway I assembled the forms, the photos and the deceased passport. Off to Postnet.

 

One of the things that always surprises me about their service is their willingness to explore all manner of getting things from A to B. They even offer a hand-held delivery, reminiscent of the runner with a cleft stick. This is the 21^st century at its best; as is the cost of the more hand-wrought services.

 

But, as usual, we found a good, reliable way of getting the papers to their destination, along with a fair measure of peace of mind, all for a reasonable price.

 

Talking of piece of mind: of course I, and many others like me no doubt, have to pay the price for enjoying the growing old process. I have good health and read about four hours a day. I spend a lot of time researching things that would bore most people stiff, using my splendid new Google Chrome browser.

 

However once inside a shop, be it the chemist (although they seem to be improving), the hardware store or even Postnet, I seem to inspire an ‘ag, shame’ reaction. I am old (elderly, actually; old is about 95), not thick. Help is always welcome but not condescension. This brings out the worst in me, and I am probably not alone in that.

 

As is usually the case with most of us age has brought about a capacity not only listen to the little voice inside, but also an ability to handle the smart-Alec responses of the other little voice inside. At least there is never a dull moment.

 

One of the best things, to my mind, is that as you grow older you need less sleep. This is very sensible because I now find I have so many things on the go, what with the column, the blog, the cricket, the walk on the beach, the building programme, listening to as much Bach and Haydn cello music as possible and maybe making a pâté or an aïoli, the day is a bit on the short side.

 

Much of this column came to me at about 3am, a good time for writing; it is then a matter of simply jotting a few notes into Ariadne (the iPhone) and the rest will take care of itself.  

 

As the man said, growing old is not for sissies. 

A ticket to ride…

South Africa has been gripped by a near-scandal involving a luxury German land yacht and a new minister in Jake’s government.

 

 

WOULDN’T you have thought that the least problem on the mind of South Africa’s newly appointed Transport Minister, S’bu Ndebele, would be transport?

 

Well, it is. And, what’s more, it comes in the form of a motor car of such opulence that the august personage riding in the back would need at least a Presidency, if not a Kingdom.

 

This überwagen was offered to the Hon. Minister as a present from a mysterious group of ‘contractors’. This on the occasion of the honourable gentlemen’s accession to office. A number of things present themselves at this point; to me anyway.

 

Wouldn’t you have thought that his advisors, maybe even his heavies, would have said something along the lines of, “Pardon Sir, but begging Sir’s pardon, isn’t this lot a bit over the top? What about the workers?”

 

Not to be outdone, S’bu sought the counsel of our President. Prez said a number of things, if not actually, “Give it back, S’bu, give it back”.

 

Nothing ventured, nothing gained, S’bu gave it back.

 

And in so doing earned himself more plaudits and praise than you can shake a stick at. And quite rightly.

 

What on earth were the ‘contractors’ thinking? Had they no idea of the embarrassment that would descend on the unsuspecting heads of departments scurrying around the skirts and coat-tails of our 62 member cabinet? Apparently not.

 

I can only assume that the ‘contractors’ had not thought it through. They didn’t notice, perhaps, the whiff of tainted money, of the greased palm; they may not have realised that the minister, along with his 61 ministerial colleagues, might actually be asked to justify the morality, if not the legality, of some heavily laden gestures of generosity. The ‘contractors’ doubtless expected a little tit for tat, as it were.

 

Given the smouldering ruins of parliamentary ethics and responsibility in the mother of all democracies, the Palace of Westminster, at the moment, a little discretion might be in order.  

Gob and Lip Smacking

’Tis the Season of Gob and Lip Smacking

WHAT got into that which we shall call the mind of some normally sensible and calm ANC politicians and the Premier of the Western Cape, the pearl in South Africa’s diadem (read that as you will), I cannot for the life of me imagine.

I can perhaps understand the likes of Julius Malema (known to my medical pals as the Fatal Melanoma) mouthing off and speaking before thinking. There are good reasons for it which, I am sure, you can work out for yourself. Mr Malema, in case you don’t live in these parts, is führer of the ANC Youth League, usually referred to in the more respectful press as the ANC children’s department.

Apart from the insults (somebody forgot one of the great truths of insults: offence cannot be given; it can only be taken), which bordered on that demon of politics, farce, there was a gob stopping lack of restraint. So much so that the ANC, once they had remembered where they had put the book on humility, came out on the telly and apologised. Sort of. More like a statement of regret.

Godzilla, meanwhile, claims she was misquoted in a letter to the Sowetan, that champion of all, in which she upbraided President Zuma. As if the poor man didn’t have enough on his plate.

Apparently the letter, when published, accused our President of endangering the lives of his wives. He had had unprotected sex with an Aids victim.

You can imagine the odour of sanctity that usually surrounds the DA being seriously overcome by a smell of an entirely different kettle of fish.

Why is it that politicians, especially in South Africa, seem unable to distinguish between the state and its offices, and the party and what the ANC still, quaintly, calls cadres.

It might be a good time, this period of knuckling down to something other than the trough, to convert the ANC from a revolutionary movement into a political party; and to start behaving like one.

Which witch-hunt?

Such larks, as Tiny Tim might have had it, caused CHRIS BENNETT’S eyes to roll towards heaven.

ISN’T nature wonderful? I have been watching the antics of the good folk of the South Coast for some years now; to my considerable enlightenment, my not inconsiderable bemusement and now my overarching astonishment.

I live close to Nzimakwe, a sprawling, dusty settlement, characteristic of this part of the world. The dirt roads are rutted and holed, rendering them dangerous enough, without the presence of those drivers who cannot drive, of whom there are many. There is no piped water apart from that to the leaking standpipes, fountains of waste of frightening proportions, and there seems to be not a lot left in the fountains of hope. This is a difficult one to measure, because after visiting the place several times a month for more than six years I still know very few people beyond a nodding acquaintance.

There is an exception: his name is not Jabu, but that will do. He has worked for me for all this time and we have become good friends, notwithstanding that our points of reference are poles apart. A couple of weeks ago they were polls apart as we did our respective vote casting.

One of the remarkable facets of this election was the patience and determination of the people. They voted; they voted in droves.

Of course, as soon as the dust had begun to settle we saw people who seem to think they are in high places indulging in boyish (and girlish) name-calling and mud-slinging.

It is interesting to look at India. Their election results were announced yesterday after five weeks of voting by 714 million registered voters who trudged to 888 000 voting stations to exercise their democratic right.

No sooner had the results been confirmed, than the losing opposition Bharatiya Janata Party leader rang the president of the Indian Congress Party, the winners, and congratulated her (Ms Sonia Ghandi) on her party’s excellent victory and pledged his party to work with the new government for the betterment of all India. So where were our lot? Don’t ask.

Meanwhile, back in the dust, a little drama was playing our in the courtroom at Port Shepstone. A group of 50 so-called youths (that’s rubbish; Jabu was among them and he is 30; a youth ceases to be a youth at 18, remember?) was hauled before the beak and charged with public disturbance or some such quaint term.

Their offence was a little less quaint. These miserable men had decided that six women and another man were witches. These people, who could hardly be anything but innocent of witchcraft (they may have other skeletons in the cupboard, but not witchcraft), were apparently hounded by the accused. To my knowledge this fiasco has been going on for more than 18 months.

The costs must now border on the unimaginable, and the defendants have received, or so I am told, no recompense or help to cope with costs of transport and loss of earnings (thanks for all the money saved, guys). Port Shepstone is a long way off.

It is understandable that in the minds of these fine people there may be echoes of earlier unsavoury practices and customs. But we have moved on.

If we can take our elections seriously, if not our post election posturing, could we not bring ourselves into the 20th, maybe even the 21st, century?

Oh! for a little sitar music and a cooling lassi.

Champagne income...

We make fine sparkling wine in this country, and the Presidential Inauguration is a good place to advertise the fact, writes CHRIS BENNETT.

I WATCHED the TV news in disbelief last Friday as we were informed that the sparkling wine to be served at the inauguration of the country’s president-elect would be provided by Moët et Chandon (by the way, it is preferably pronounced ‘mwet’) part of the huge Louis Vuitton luxury goods group.

The unfortunate creature that had to decide on which wine to use at this, the people’s greatest moment, chose a cuvée de prestige, a proprietary blended wine that is considered the top of the producer’s range; in this case it was Dom Pérignon. It retails for about R1 800 a bottle. I assume a lot of bottles would have been needed. He could have gone one better and chosen Louis Roerderer’s legendary ‘Cristal’, which is even pricier. Until 1945 it was produced solely for the consumption of the Tsar of all the Russias. I am not too clear on what happened between October 1917 and 1945, but I think a few aparatchiks may have enjoyed the occasional glass. After 1945 ‘Cristal’ was available to the public. Well, those that could afford it, anyway.

But here you see lies my point. Let me explain. Many years ago, when I was studying Russian at the University of Victoria in New Zealand, as an extra-mural student, I was invited to a dinner at the Soviet Embassy in Wellington, along with my tutor, Tom Lysaght.

The food was from Russia, with love, of course. The wine was a sparkling white from Georgia, one of the former Union’s great wine growing areas, rejoicing in the name of Sovyetskoye Shampanskoye, but now things are different. At a seriously Russian event, serious Russian wine was served.

What did we think we were doing serving French wine at the most serious and most important event that South Africa can stage?

The Western Cape produces one of the world’s finest sparkling wines. It is known generally as Cap Classique and is respected everywhere. Our winemakers take huge pains and a lot of time to employ as faithfully as they can the méthode champenoise routine of making the wine. It is a delicious and award winning product. I shall not name my preference.

As for dear old Dom Pérignon, the monk whom the French credit with inventing champagne (what a night!), I am afraid they are wrong.

It was, of course, invented by an Englishman.

The English scientist and physician Christopher Merrett presented the Royal Society (of which he was one of the founders) with a paper in which he detailed what is now called the méthode champenoise in 1662. Dom Pérignon was then a young and aspiring monk of 24 at the Abbey of Hautvillers.

I once saw a documentary of the State Visit to the UK of President Mitterand. The preparations for the State Banquet included three days for the laying of the table, the linen, the flatware and the stemware. If I remember correctly, the table seated 80. The food and wine served were, of course, English.

So next time you go out to eat spare a thought for good South African wine, which is easily bought in the South Coast’s many outlets.

A glass of whine...

Getting the simple things in life can be very complicated.

ALTHOUGH we are a fairly careful household, exercising a special care over things that have been around for forty years or so, things do get broken. One of the easiest things to break is the wine glass. When we got down to three I decided that now would be a good time to hunt around for more. I had a fairly simple hunt in mind; maybe a visit to the beautiful Boardman’s or the less larney Game down the corridor at Southcoast Mall.

I had no idea I was in for something approaching a two week boar hunt in a party of 200 accompanying Louis Quatorze across the fields of Flanders.

I tried all over; I even hunted around Makro in Springfield when I went up to fetch a friend at the airport. Everyone had what they thought were wine glasses; and, to a point, they were wine glasses. But they were fiddly, too big, badly designed, or coloured. I feel a bit bilious when I see a lovely Merlot in a blue glass. Or a red one.

I decided that giving up was not an option and one day, having lunch at my favourite coffee shop, who reserve the white balsamic vinegar for me as others might reserve a fine port, I asked the splendid waitress (I believe ‘waitress’ is politically incorrect – although I couldn’t give a monkey’s, and I shall die before condoning the monstrosity ‘waitron’) if she would call the manageress, in who I have boundless trust. I asked who supplied her wine glasses.

At first there was a little confusion, but she soon understood what I meant by and ordinary French wine glass that you see in every restaurant on the planet. Somebody, somewhere (probably France, I thought) is churning those things out by the million. I did not think my request unreasonable; but it was a little forward of me, I admit.

In no time I had a telephone number. I called the number. As scales falling from my eyes, all was revealed. Thys and I spoke the same language. He asked me how many I needed and I said a dozen; anything less would have been churlish and, anyway, I wanted six for a friend’s birthday.

Thys informed me that he had them in 25, 19 and 16 centimetres; the sun shone and the angels sang. Off we went to Maison Thys in Oslo Beach.

It is actually called CATS, for Catering and Tableware Suppliers, which, as names go, is nothing if not functional.

In this tiny shop I found the remarkable and the unremarkable. The unremarkable glasses I sought are the product of the Luminarc company based in a little town, Arques, in the Pas de Calais, north of Paris. I was right; their turnover in a year is bigger than the South African budget. They are the largest glassware makers in the world. There are three companies within one; Luminarc, Arcoroc and Cristales d’Arques.

The simple glasses I sought are called ballon. Thys, alive with passion for his subject, a sadly rare thing these days, regailed me with latest doings of the Durand family, owners of this massive plant.
Maître Durand, presumable père, recently redesigned the wine glass to make it more efficient in collecting the bouquet and delivering the wine to the correct point on the tongue. That is dedication.

The result is quite exquisite; mind you, so is the price.

So now I have my French wine glasses. Holmes would have been proud of me .