Grenadin of veal on Pommes Darphin with creamed watercress, spaghetti of carrots, fricassee of mushrooms and confit shallot

TFIF!

I dunno why I said that. Every day is almost a Friday since Le Cordon Bleu. Maybe the only difference is what’s on TV. Oh I know why. Roberta is more amenable to an early cocktail, which means I get less grief for a wee jaunt down gin alley or another destination of choice. What can I say? Harry Potter has Diogan, I’ve got Mother’s Ruin. That said, I’m in Mexicoh this afternoon. Again. I’m sitting down to write this missive accompanied by one of my margaritas. Magnificent. As far as I’m concerned it’s Corona Virus Cocktail Hour. Cheers.

I’m guessing you’ve been carefully managing your larders. Good. Me too! Especially since I can’t get a bloody delivery slot on Ocado for the next decade. Thank god Welsh pasty relies on Bully Beef. Give a thought to food preservation. And food waste. For example, freezing potatoes before they sprout a tentacle (ask me how), pickling veg approaching the brink, and making stock or soup with trimmings. And don’t forget to compost.

While mixing my afternoon whistle-wetter, bartender Simon was fretting about the depleting drinks cabinet. First world problems! A late splurge and my final pre-booked Ocado basket is now 30% booze. If I’m going, I’m going in a blaze of hiccups gyrating to the Rockin Gypsies.

I’ve been reading more. I’ve just finished reading the 25th anniversary edition of White Heat. It’s “the coolest cookbook ever written” according to the back cover, and captures “the magic and spirit of Marco Pierre White in the heat of his kitchen”. The book was first published way back in 1990. That’s 30 years ago! I was always good at maths. I guess I missed the whole Marco phenomenon and until now I just knew him for his “enfant terrible” reputation. As you might expect, the book is chocked full of outspoken opinion. But I kinda liked it. I get the whole Che Guervara-like revolutionary pushing against the Establishment. It never worked for me but anyone who has the courage to try is worthy of some consideration. I never realised Marco’s cooking was classic French. Many of his recipes are right up my street so I’m going to give some of them a go. Nor did I appreciate exactly what he has accomplished—the youngest chef ever to earn 3 Michelin stars. The kitchen photographs in the book are moody, monochrome and mesmerising, and capture that image of the first rockstar chef. I’m moving onto his autobiography next, The Devil in the Kitchen. Should be fun.

I’ve said before how much I enjoy rose veal. So it’s no surprise my first Marco recipe is a Grenadin of veal with creamed watercress, spaghetti of carrots and a fricassee of mushrooms. Marco used Girolles but in these times of Covid-19 I only had Shiitake ‘shrooms. So be it.

Larousse defines a Grenadin as “a small slice from the veal fillet, about 2cm by 7cm, and usually larded”. In this case, and as per the recipe I’ll have you know, it was a 175g brick of veal. Come on! That’s a very small steak per person. Once coated in chicken mousse and wrapped in pig’s caul fat it became a fistful of veal. You can see why I wanted to do this dish first.

Caul fat, mousse, and no enclosing cabbage leaf means messy. It seems there’s always at least one appendage with chicken mousse on it. I’m talking fingers, people! If ever there was a time to don my newly procured Covid hazmat suit, fresh from Aldi’s random junk aisle, this was it. Afterwards Roberta hosed me down and a curt scrub with a stiff-bristled brush saw off those last clingy dollops of mousse.

I’ve got to say this was the best chicken mousse ever—well, so far. Better than the mousse at Le Cordon Bleu. Why? It was made with a whole egg rather than just egg white. That made it richer. And whizzing it with the tarragon dispersed the flavour. Yum.

While the Grenadin of veal was firming up in the fridge, watercress leaves were blanched for a few minutes then blitzed straight away while adding double cream. Cling. Fridge. Then warmed later and served as a quenelle. Shallots were roasted with thyme, bay, salt and a knob of butter, and popped from their skins to serve. For the sauce, veal stock was reduced, seasoned and finished with a few drops of double cream.

Pommes Darphin or Rösti sizzling on the griddle before going in the oven

What’s not mentioned in Marco’s description is that the Grenadin sits on Pommes Darphin. As if it wasn’t heavy enough. Hello rösti. Grated potato was rinsed, patted dry, and packed into individual tart tins; oiled first. Too much oil and the rösti will be heavy. Not enough and it’ll stick like a bastard. Getting this right is harder than it should be. Tip: dome the edges of the potato away from the sides of the tin. This will make flipping easier, providing the bottom hasn’t welded on. To start the cooking process, I put the rösti tins on a griddle on the hob. This way I could control how much colour they took on and how much they crisped up. I could more easily tell when they’d hold their shape and be flipped. Then into the oven to colour evenly and cook through.

The fist of veal was steamed. Now I’m all for a bit of steaming but caul fat is unsightly at the best of times. The thought of a big ball of anaemic caul fat on the plate wasn’t working for me. And besides, caul fat is way more tasty and much more appetising when it’s got colour and Maillard flavours. So I decided to finish it in the pan with some butter. Temperature control was critical. The chicken mousse had to be cooked but not enough to split the damned thing, and I wanted the veal to reach medium doneness. Bingo. Perfect.

Carrots were sliced into spaghetti-like strips and cooked l’étuvée à la minute. The fricassee of mushrooms was done last minute too. Finely diced shallot was sweated in butter. In went the mushrooms. Then chives and the tomato concassé, with just enough time to warm through.

This was a fantastic dish. A fistful of veal and a gobful of yum. Indulgent. So bloody delightful. But I’d try some changes next time. A wee bit less chicken mousse. Don’t use banana shallots—they’re disproportionate on the plate and there was too much rich shallot to eat. Lose the rösti—just too much stodge. Instead maybe sit the Grenadin on the carrot spaghetti. Lastly, I thought the light tomatoes in the fricassee of mushrooms were lost in what was quite a hearty dish. I’d maybe amp up the mushrooms somehow. That said, this is a dish worth making.

Grenadin of veal fillet. Cooked to medium

There’s always chicken mousse left over. Oh nooo!

As it happened I had some chicken skin from a breast destined for a blanquette. Time to put the lessons from my roulade-making to the test. The mousse was tightly rolled in cling film and frozen. Then unwrapped and rolled in the chicken skin, aided by a sprinkle of meat glue. Back into cling film. Vac-pack. Sous vide. And into a pan to crisp up and colour the skin.

What a sausage! Mm-mm-mm-mm-mmmmm.

Fistful of veal