The Beech House, Beaconsfield

Many moons ago I went to school in old Beaconsfield. While it goes without saying that my friends and I were always impeccably behaved, later, when we got into the sixth form, I must confess most lunch times would be spent at the White Horse. Double maths was soon replaced by drinking pints of Fosters or Strongbow, playing pool and swabbing out latest illicit piercings with Listerine and Savlon.

Later, we progressed across the road to the Old Hare (RIP) the Saracen’s Head, the Greyhound or the Swan; in fact it’s a wonder there was any time to fit in the small matter of our A Levels.  But while the old town had its pick of hostelries – ranging from spit and sawdust to opulent and OTT, the new town remained unloved wasteland for drinkers.

All has now changed with the opening of the Beech House, an Oakmans Inn (a small chain stretching across Oxon/Herts and now Bucks) on the old site of Fourbouys the newsagent a regular haunt for penny sweets and the Beano as a child, and now the venue for a late lunch with the lovely Ewing.

To accompany my food I enjoyed a glass of Biferno Rosso Riserva, or the 'Mighty Biferno', as written about by the Telegraph's Victoria Moore. While I have regularly displayed my lack of grape knowledge here, this had me agreeing with the wise words of  confirmed oenophile, Ben Franklin; 'wine is constant proof that God loves us and loves to see us happy'.

Whitebait to share were plentiful, piping hot and lightly dusted in flour to let the tiny fish shine through. I would have preferred my dips in pots, rather than artfully smeared across the plate, especially as I was sharing with the Ewing who has the knack of stealing in and scooping up the last blob of chilli sauce before you can stop her.

My beef ribs, cooked in cola with a bourbon gravy, salad and fries came as a mini rack, rather than the giant, Jacob's ladder type bone I was expecting. Despite looking rather grizzled in the photo these were very good; soft and sweet, a little fatty (a good thing) and a decent amount of meat. I would have liked some more of the advertised whiskey-spiked gravy, though.

Chips were first class. Not sure if they were frozen, but these skin on, crispy, salty sticks were the finest fried potatoes I have had for a while. Sadly the Ewing felt the same and quickly polished off all of hers, too.

The Ewing's Aubrey Allen cheeseburger accompanying the majestic fries, was less of success. The menu specifies 'cooked medium for full flavour and succulence, unless requested otherwise', but we asked our waitress if it could be served as rare as possible. This turned out to be a uniform grey throughout, a shame as the meat was pretty good, as were the bun and Croxton Manor Cheddar melted on top.

The tomato relish alongside was interesting, tasting a bit like a herby, very sweet pasta sauce. Although neither of us were quite sure if we liked it or not (it seemed to work best in the burger), it proved almost impossible to stop dunking things in it.

Deserts were a duo of magnificent, retro sundaes to share. A banoffee with vanilla ice cream, banana puree, shortbread and toffee sauce, and a chocolate raspberry with amaretto soaked brownie, raspberry sorbet and flaked almonds.  Proper, good fun puds.

As well as looking good these also tasted the part, with their bright layers of fruit, cake and cream. A spoon war soon ensured between us in the race to the bottom of both glasses (no prizes for guessing I was comprehensively beaten). Definitely a choice for the dairy fan though, with the pillowy, rich creamy layers becoming a bit too much towards the end, even for the Ewing.

The staff were very well versed on our visit, with many of the team here coming from other Oakman Inns, and there seems to be a real pride and enthusiasm from everyone, which, having worked in Beaconsfield myself (they can be a tough crowd), is good to see. And while it's easy to become blasé towards the latest trends for exposed brickwork and bright tiles, they have done a great job with the interior. The skylight at the back is a particular success, flooding the restaurant area with light while keeping the bar area at the front suitably dark and moody.

While there might not be anything revelatory about the Beech Tree, it's location, atmosphere and all day menu means it cleverly offers something for all. The food is solid, with enough choice to see you through a few return visits, and the price are fair. Add free WiFi, a library of books to keep the little ones happy, and homemade cakes and coffee in the bar area, and the Beech Tree is on its way to ticking all the boxes.

Double Corn Dogs with Caraway Ketchup

After becoming slightly obsessed with my cheap ice cream maker the next, slightly pointless but fun, piece of kitchen equipment I coveted to clog up yet more work surface space was a deep fat fryer.

I found one being advertised cheaply online in that post-Christmas lull, and so when everyone else was stocking up on low fat ready meals, cutting out booze and going jogging I was decanting three litres of finest vegetable oil in to my new brushed metal toy, while trying not to spoil its shiny glow with greasy finger marks.

Having grown up in a fat fryer free house, getting a job in a kitchen at the age of 17 meant spending most Tuesday nights at work sticking anything I could find in the industrial vat of boiling oil used for cooking fish, chips and other frozen potato based products. Whole eggs, Danish pastries, baked beans, sausages not much escaped a dunking and (most) of it was still pretty edible.

Now, fifteen years on, I realised frying was still just as fun. Soon most our dinners were prepared via a dunk in oil; tonkotsu pork steaks with shredded white cabbage, crispy chicken and crunchy hash browns. While everyone else was losing weight on their post-xmas detoxes, the Ewing and I were increasing outwards at a steady rate.

Thankfully the prospect having your dinner coated in a slightly greasy sheen, coupled with all the filtering and cleaning and burnt fingers, meant my enthusiasm soon waned and the fryer is now (mostly) sat collecting dust. That said it’s still a rather useful, and fun addition to our kitchen. A hot, crisp schnitzel is truly a thing of beauty, and homemade chips are an indulgence worth a long walk for.

My greatest fried achievement thus far has been these corn dog/hushpuppy hybrids which have become one of the Ewing’s very favourite things. And, despite ordering them elsewhere on several occasions, she has had to admit (under some duress, I might add) that mine are still the nicest she’s tasted.

After originally making the batter to make corn dogs – batter coated frankfurters impaled on sticks, usually eaten at funfairs or boardwalks in America- I’m not sure if I don’t prefer it fried as balls of dough, sans sausage, These hushpuppy fritters can be pimped with small nuggets of cut up frank, if you want, but I find that the sweet, corn-spiked dough is pretty perfect as it is. A bowl full of these, piping hot from the fryer, makes a very nice nibble with a cold beer or two.

I’ve spiked the ketchup dip with a few toasted caraway seeds; the anise note complements the smoked pork, and some yellow ballpark mustard to help cut a swathe through the rich batter. Spicy barbecue sauce also makes a very good match. If you leave out the corn, hushpuppy fritters served with butter and honey makes a perfect treat for the sweet-toothed.

Double Corn Dogs with Caraway Ketchup

Ingredients

vegetable oil, for deep frying

150g/5oz cornmeal or polenta

150g tinned sweetcorn

125g/4oz plain flour

50g/2oz sugar

3 tsp baking powder

salt and freshly ground black pepper

1 egg

225ml milk

10 thin frankfurter sausages (cut each frank into three if you want mini dogs)

wooden skewers, soaked

2 tbsp ketchup
1 tbsp American yellow mustard
1 tsp caraway seeds, lightly toasted

Heat the vegetable oil in a deep-fat fryer to 160C

Mix together all of the dry ingredients in a bowl. In a separate bowl, beat the egg and milk together, add sweetcorn and gradually stir the mixture into to the dry ingredients.

Whisk together lightly to make a batter.

Put a skewer through each frankfurter sausage and dip it into the batter until well coated.

Place the frankfurters into the deep-fat fryer, two or three at a time, and cook until the outsides are golden-brown. Drain on a plate lined with kitchen paper.

If you have any extra batter, place small spoonfuls carefully into the oil and cook as above.

To serve, mix the mustard and ketchup and 3/4 of the caraway seeds together in a bowl, garnish with the remaining caraway seeds and serve with the corn dogs.

Fraiche, Wirral

There are not too many things that keep me up late on a humdrum midwinter weeknight any more. And yet there I was, burning the midnight oil, poised with laptop and credit card in hand, trying to grab a table at Marc Wilkinson’s bijou, and extremely popular restaurant, Fraiche.

With a mere fifteen covers a night from Wednesday to Saturday, and a Sunday lunch service, reservations (even with a £25 per head deposit) are snapped up almost instantly when the books are opened at the beginning of each month. Fortunately my compromised night’s sleep was not in vain and we soon had our booking for the Ewing’s birthday, a mere three and a half months later.

The danger of customers waiting long to enjoy a meal there is not lost on the chef, with the extra pressure from such expectation pushing him to experiment with yet more flavour pairings and new techniques in the kitchen. With many of his fruit and veg grown to order on the Wirral, butter imported from France and olive oil from Italy, and a kitchen crammed full of Willy Wonka-esque gadgets, expectations and excitement were running high.

Wilkinson, still holder of Merseyside’s only Michelin star, is known as something of an obsessive perfectionist in the kitchen. Each day he orders all the food and wine for the restaurant, and plans all the menus; and each night he toils alone behind the scenes to produce multiple courses of his classic French food with a modern twist. A recent Valentine’s feast took three days to prepare for just one evening and admits that his bedtime reading is less Delia and Gordon and more Ramon Morato and Paco Torreblanca.

Our dinner started rather modestly with a dish of spiced pecans and a glass of manzanilla sherry. I had read the atmosphere could be muted, or even awkward, but during our visit the background music (the new Laura Mvula album, and, slightly less welcome, Michael Buble among the easy listening offerings) was pitched at just the right level to drown out our inane chatter for the benefit of the surrounding tables, while still keeping things cosy and intimate. With only five tables in the place, and only three filled on our visit, the joint's never going to be jumping, but there is a genuine warmth and homeliness in the room.

Each evening's menu is set for all diners, with the only choice being between 'salt' and 'sweet' to finish the meal. Salt included a visit from the 'cheese chariot' and another little savoury course, while sweet was a selection of three desserts. Hearing the word chocolate was enough to persuade The Ewing to chose the sweet option, I erred at first, but - knowing that she wouldn't share - decided to join her, lest either of us got pudding envy.

While I wasn't at all disappointed with our choice, seeing the magnificent cheeses - one of the finest selections I've seen - being wheeled past to the adjoining table did make me feel a little pang of dairy envy.

A little palate cleanser came in the form of a cucumber granita with pineapple and mint, a spritely combination of flavours made tableside with a thermos of dry ice by maitre d', James. Apart from the visual spectacle the thing I found most impressive was the finely diced fruit and veg in the bottom of the dish. Such tiny pieces, cut with such symmetrical precision, already demonstrating the single minded dedication to perfection from the kitchen.

Another pre starter of plump vividly orange mussels in a deep crustacean rich broth, peppered with cubes of citrusy yuzu jelly, soon followed. The little bowl, shaped like a fragile sea urchin shell, mirrored the dish's subtle delicacy.

Our 'starter' proper was a glorious Spanish omelette with quails egg and chorizo, although this was a country mile away from a backstreet barrio in Iberia. The deconstructed dish saw a creamy light custard, topped with little cheesey croutons, hiding a soft quails egg (deftly transferred to the Ewing's dish) and cubes of paprika-spiked sausage jelly in it's foamy, sweet onion infused depths.

Bread was served over two courses in a dizzying eight different varieties which, as I pointed out to the Ewing later, outnumbered the patrons in the restaurant on our visit. As I have confessed before, I am a confirmed bread-a-holic, and my picks of the bunch were a black olive loaf with a gentle metallic edge, a cloud-like little cheese roll and an earthy sweet granary and treacle number.

As much as the Ewing appreciated the bread, I think she saw it more as a vehicle for the cow's butter, scattered with Hawaiian pink salt, and the perfect disc of a pearly white goat's butter that were served alongside.

The next course, a dish of salt baked kohlrabi with wild garlic, feta jelly, potato, perigord truffle and watercress wafer, tasted like the start of summer and was the second showing of this unusual brassica I had encountered in as many days. The flavours on the plate mined both the earthiness of the tubers and the freshness of the allium and again cleverly proved that meat and fish do not always make the dish.

The wild turbot, possibly my favourite fish, with asparagus and dashi was light and fresh, with a lovely smokiness from charred wheat - something that put me in mind of unsweetened Sugar Puffs. The dish, while clean and delicate, was a little mild mannered for my tastes, and I really needed a spoon to scoop up the dregs of umami rich broth.

The main event was Black Faced Suffolk lamb with leeks and artichoke. Despite the encroaching fullness, this disappeared pretty quickly. The gently gamey meat had been cooked expertly two ways - low and slow and grilled pink - but my highlights were the charred leeks and sweet melting onion in a sticky pool of gravy.

The first of our three deserts was what has become a bit of a signature dish, lemongrass panna cotta with sour cherry and dehydrated grapes. This was a perfect balance of smooth, sharp and creamy, and all heady with sweet tropical perfume. The Ewing loved it  and while flavour of lemongrass usually makes me think of those little scented hand wipes you get with fried chicken, this time I had to agree with her.

This was followed with another Fraiche favourite, fizzy grapes that burst with a tongue-tingling effervescence in your mouth. The Ewing was also particularly enamoured with these, and I breezily assured her that I could knock up something similar when we got home - until it was explained that the effect was achieved by placing them in an air compressor, which, when they're released, causes them to burst and fizz. Looks like they're going to have to remain a memory until I get that compression unit, then.

The first pudding was a rhubarb soup, sorbet with sesame wafer. I can't think of many things I love as much as rhubarb, (me! - TE) and this was a perfect showcase of its tart and fragrant charms. The Ewing was particularly captivated by the freeze dried strawberries, which we were told were an element refined just that afternoon. (I would say perfected, but somehow I'm not sure Wilkinson would ever be satisfied enough to stop developing a dish.)

The final desert saw this sparkly little number arrive at our table; a white chocolate mousse with passion fruit curd, glittery coffee meringues, chocolate 'soil' and some obligatory popping candy for good measure. 

This, to me, was the essence of a good pud; lots of little beautiful and interesting things, balanced perfectly between sweet and sour. The only slightly awkward note came from the silver leaf 'spoon' provided to eat it with; the Ewing somehow managing to sprinkle more of her dish across the table than she managed to scoop into her mouth.

Never one to turn down yet more sugary treats, the Ewing was very excited at the prospect of petit fours and coffee to round off the meal. Unsurprisingly they didn't disappoint; pick of the bunch was a shot glass of earl grey scented tapioca with an apricot compote. We were also treated to popcorn lollipops, homemade marshmallows and a selection of salted Amedei, and lemon and raspberry filled chocolates.

Yes, the decor is rather beige and brown and a bit suburban, but it also feels personal (Wilkinson chose it) which is rather a good thing in this fast paced, oh so trendy, restaurant world. And while your socks might not be knocked of by the muted decor, the food certainly paints the town red. 

The French by Simon Rogan, Manchester

Manchester may be known for many things - the music, the football, the Victorian architecture, the rain -but until now the restaurant scene has been somewhat lacking. Beyond the curries, a thriving Chinatown and old fashioned boozers with great hot pots and pies, was a wasteland, not just for fancy-pants Michelin starred restaurants, for mid range eateries that weren't more style over substance and populated by perma-tanned footballers wives.

Well, the times they are a changin’. Twitter and the weekend broadsheets are abuzz with new independent openings, from the Beagle to Barburrito; Solita to the polarizing Almost Famous. A range of street food can now be found in Picadilly Gardens and the Arndale Market and Mary-Ellen McTague from Prestwich’s Aumbry appeared on the Great British Menu earlier this year. But nowhere has caused quite such a buzz as Simon Rogan’s new venture at the Midland Hotel (even if Tony Naylor remains unconvinced).

The French is a beautiful space; a mirrored room, dominated by two magnificent chandeliers that the staff told us took over twice the anticipated time and manpower to put up, that has an easy going charm, exemplified by the warm blonde wood and lack of tablecloths. While it may feel a bit IKEA-esque for some, the deep carpets and comfy high backed chairs make the room feel opulent in an understated way.

Many of the staff are from Rogan’s flagship, Le Enclume in Cartmel, and during our, very friendly, welcome the idea of Rogan’s food ‘growing from the plate, as it’s found in nature’ is impressed upon us. And we were impressed, the atmosphere is relaxed, the staff knowledgeable and clearly proud to work here - and we hadn’t yet eaten a morsel.

Thankfully that was soon righted by a dish of Cumbrian radish, nutmeg mayo and toasted barley. The presentation of this brassica, something so small and simple, is really the litmus test of Rogan’s cooking. For some it may seem pointless to plate such an inconsequential vegetable with so much reverence, but for others it is the very essence of what good food is about; taking something so familiar and considering it in a new level of detail.

That maybe a lot of words to write about a radish, but when it’s been picked on Rogan’s own farm that morning, before being paired with the spiced mayo and crunchy seeds, it really reinforces the old adage that the simple things are often the best.

The next morsel was far fancier; a parsnip crisp dotted with smoked eel, pork and fennel cress. This is a special mouthful; an earthy, sweet mixture of surf and turf with the warming anise note from the greens.

Chestnut bread, Manchester ale roll and baguette, served with the whipped butter on a stone Rogan has become famous for. All exemplary, and luckily for a carb addict like me, they were also in plentiful proportions.

The first dish ‘proper' of our six course lunch, an allium soup presented in a glass teapot and poured over a bowl full of leeks, ransoms, baby onions and truffled artichoke dumplings, may have been the high point of my whole meal. The broth was deep and sticky and beautifully perfumed with the scent of sweet onion, while the tuber-scented dumplings really did seem to dissipate on your tongue.

The ox in coal oil, pumpkin seed, kohlrabi and sunflower seeds has already become something of a signature dish here (there is also a similar venison number on the menu at Le Enclume) with Giles Coren proclaiming that 'I'd walk to Manchester barefoot in the rain for one more mouthful of the chopped raw ribeye of ox in coal oil’. While the Indie’s Lisa Markwell wrote it was ‘an immediate entry into my lifetime top-10 dishes’.

Thankfully it did not disappoint; the charcoal infused rapeseed oil lending a smoky barbecued element to the raw meat, cleverly giving both a rich charred flavour and melting softness to every bite. Very clever stuff, with little raw kohlrabi balls and sunflower seeds pepping up the dish with some freshness and crunch.

Fresh crab and caramelised cabbage, horseradish, chicken skin with crow garlic, The Ewing’s pick of all the dishes we enjoyed. The cabbage, hiding an impossibly large mound of glorious crab meat, was so sweet, and tender I originally thought they were braised lettuce leaves. The crisp chicken skin dotted around the dish shattered into sweet, fatty shards while the roasting juices and horseradish imbued everything with a gentle smoky note.

Hake fillet with buckwheat cresses and smoked roe butter the second fish dish saw a perfectly judged piece of fish, atop a mound of  herby buckwheat and accompanied by a chlorophyll laden scattering of purple sprouting, possibly my favourite veg. I wasn't as sure about the smoked roe butter, which rather gilded the lily in a dish that already had a rich and creamy sauce.

The meat course was Reg’s duck cooked two ways; both roasted pink and cooked slowly until it melted into sticky strands of protein, alongside king oyster mushrooms, ruby chard and a mulled cider sauce. While the Ewing wasn't a fan of the duck breast element of the dish, I really rather liked it all, although I couldn't help feeling that, as with many multi-course meals, the ‘main’ event is usually the least interesting.

They very kindly allowed the Ewing to swap the advertised  pear, rye and linseeds for a rhubarb and oat dish with camomile ice cream; I chose the same, lest I got pudding envy. This was clean and fresh, with tart fruit and gentle herbal notes from the milky ice and douglas fir, although it put me more in mind of a virtuous breakfast than a indulgent pud.

The final course definitely had the treat factor, being a surprise desert of sarsaparilla based goodies named ‘sass and soda’. While the root beer/dandelion and burdock-esque drink used to be a popular in the days of yore, the ubiquitous cola has rather stolen its thunder. So much so that when I overheard the waitress ask the next door table if they remembered the drink from their youth, her question was met with looks of bemusement.

Nostalgia aside this was a very pretty dish, and as well as a sarsaparilla wafer, sandwiched with sarsaparilla parfait and jam, the waiter poured us a cup of the syrupy drink itself. It always feels rather exciting to get an unexpected treat, despite the fact it wasn't really to my tastes. While I'm rather fond of a frosty mug of root beer, I found the overall effect too sweet and slightly medicinal, although the Ewing would beg to differ. She was such a fan that a couple of days later we ended up buying a bottle of the local Fitzgerald’s – the only temperance bar still left in the country -  sarsaparilla cordial to take home.

Coffee came with frozen aerated peppermint ice cream bon bons and chocolate wafters 'planted' in a bed of edible chocolate nibs. The perfect balance of sweet and bitter, and my favourite of all three sweet courses.

The French may be fancy but it isn't fussy. On our visit there was a lack of pretension and a genuine enthusiasm from staff while the atmosphere in the dining room was cheerful and relaxed. Yes, dinner here isn't cheap, but with the care and imagination invested into every plate it still feels good value. 

This is exciting, clever food which feels as though it has been designed for people who actually like eating, rather than pandering to a self-conscious sleb clientele who are more interested in being noticed than noticing what's on their plates. And while I can’t comment on the (lack of) Manchester 'fine dining' scene pre-Rogan, what I can say is that, in the French, they have got a restaurant that any city would be proud of.

Roy's Pie

A few weeks ago my Nan’s partner, Roy, died. He had been ill for a few months, but it was still a keen loss, especially as the last time all the UK based family had been together was for his 80^th birthday last year.

Roy was an easy-going and funny chap. A man of very few words (with my Nan around you tend to get limited opportunities to talk) who loved nothing better than being out in his vegetable garden or pottering about his shed, cup of tea in hand. Despite knowing him my whole life I never really saw him get angry - even when he took us camping and me and my sister decided to write our names in the dust on his Range Rover. With pointed sticks. (It may have been many moons ago, but I still feel bad about that one, Roy.)

Another of the skills he honed in later life was cooking. After retiring to Norfolk he became very interested in taking on new projects, and, being Roy, he wasn’t satisfied with doing things the easy way. Soon he was churning out chocolate glazed choux buns filled with whipped cream and making a cheesecake that involved (literally) pounds of Philadelphia, that, when finished, he could barely lift off the table.

His crowning glory, however, was his hand raised pork pie or, more strictly, gala pie (with a layer of boiled eggs running through the sausage meat).  Every time I spoke my Nan, I would be told about the magnificence of Roy’s latest pie, and other members of my family regularly sung its praises, but, whenever I visited, it always seemed as though the last slice was snatched ‘only yesterday’.

So, in memory of Roy, here’s my interpretation of his great pie. Being a man of simple tastes, I’m not sure he would have really agreed with the layer of turkey and apricots but, if accompanied by a pint of Woodforde’s Wherry and some of my Nan’s green tomato pickles, I’m sure he would have still enjoyed a slice or two.

This pie is a real stunner, and perfect for the summer. Even if we all have to decamp indoors for a carpet picnic, this pie - with its bronzed pastry, layers of spicy pork, turkey breast and juicy apricots, held together with just enough wobbly, savoury jelly –will make centrepiece fit for any feast.

It is also deceptively easy, being possibly the simplest pastry-based comestible I have ever produced. No gentle rubbing in with fingertips, no cold hands and worktops and hours resting in the fridge, only for it to crumble into pieces when you try and roll it out. Think of it more as savoury Play Doh, with that gentle, yet unmistakeable, scent of boiled pig fat about it.

My recipe used 100% pork shoulder for the meat layer (because that’s all I had, and I was too impatient to go back to the shops), but most recipes specify a mix of belly, shoulder and bacon, for a good mixture of fat and flavour. Hand chopping half the meat it is a bit of a drag, but it does give you a better, rougher texture. Pulse all the pork filling very coarsely in a food processor if you prefer.

In order to distil the meat with that smokiness that the bacon would bring I had the rather genius idea of adding a little Spanish smoked paprika. This also lends a slight pinkish tint to the meat, making it more appetising than the standard, nitrate free, grey-hued meat pies. Little more was needed, other than a few classic herbs and spices, in the form of nutmeg, thyme and sage, and a some salt and black pepper.

Despite using, what I thought was, plenty of salt my filling was still under seasoned, showing how sodium chloride pumped most industrial pies are. If you also have a layer of turkey and/or sweet dried fruit in your pie, then the pork can take even more salt than if you’re using pork alone. If you are worried about the balance of flavours then cook a small ball of the filling in a frying pan and allow to cool before tasting (cold food needs more seasoning). A good pork pie should taste spicy and savoury.

Finally, the most divisive element of any good pork pie: the jelly. Initially I was undecided about using any, but in the end tradition won out. I didn’t fancy boiling feet and ears and stuff for hours, so I used a cheat of good chicken stock and gelatine leaves, making just enough of the savoury wobbly stuff to slip down and fill the gaps between the meat and pastry. Pie perfection.

Roy's Pork, Chicken and Apricot Pie

For the filling

1kg boned pork shoulder/pork belly/streaky bacon (see above)

300g turkey breast

150g dried apricots

2 sprigs of thyme

2 sage leaves

1 tsp salt (½ tsp more if not using bacon)

1 tsp ground pepper

1 tsp smoked paprika

½ tsp ground mace/nutmeg

For the pastry:

200g lard

220g water

575g flour

1 beaten egg 

1 x 20cm cake tin

Quick jelly:

Make up 300ml weak chicken or ham stock from a good-quality stock cube (For a fruitier flavour, use hot apple juice instead of water.) Stir in 3 gelatine leaves (soaked in cold water and squeezed) until dissolved.

Make the filling

Process half the pork/bacon in a processor along with the salt, pepper, sage and thyme leaves, paprika and nutmeg. Cut the rest into small cubes, about 5mm in size and combine thoroughly together

Make the pastry

Put the lard and water into a small saucepan and bring to the boil. Sift the flour with a good pinch of salt into a large bowl. Pour the hot lard and water into the flour, mix with a wooden spoon, then leave until cool enough to handle. The pastry must still be warm when you start to work it.

Set the oven at 180C/gas mark 4. Lightly grease and flour your mould or cake tin (with removable bottom). Pull off a quarter of the pastry and roll it into a lid that will fit the top of the cake tin. Lay the remaining pastry in the bottom of the tin and  firmly push the dough up the sides with your hands. Make certain there are no holes or tears or the jelly will leak out. 

Spoon half the pork filling into the lined cake tin and press it down. Add the turkey, sliced into thin strips, then the apricots, halved lengthwise. Add the rest of the pork, it should come almost to the top of the pastry.

Brush the edges of the pastry above the meat with beaten egg. Lower the lid into place and press tightly to seal with the edges. Poke a small hole in the lid to let out the steam and put the tin on a baking sheet. Bake for 30 minutes, then lower the heat to 160C/gas mark 3 and bake for 90 minutes until the pastry is pale gold. Brush with the beaten egg and return to the oven for 30/40 minutes.

Allow the pie to cool slightly then use a funnel to carefully pour in as much of the jelly as you can.

Allow the pie to cool thoroughly before slicing.

Serve with pickled onions and chutney.

Roy William Boffin 1932-2013

This and That, Manchester

While Brum has its famous Balti Triangle and London has it's Brick Lane, Manchester boasts Rusholme's Curry Mile - a stretch of the Wilmslow Road thought to have the highest concentration of South Asian restaurants outside the Indian subcontinent. While I was keen to sample some good Indian/Pakistani food on our trip, we decided to swerve the main drag and try something a bit different at one of Central Manchester's curry cafes.

These, still very popular, cafes are legacy of the local textile trade, where they were originally opened to serve the Asian workers in the 60s and 70s who had recently arrived to work in the city. And as the balti came to define Birmingham, 'rice and three' noon came to be Manchester's dish, consisting, as the name implies, of a choice of curries served atop a bed of fluffy white rice.

Most cafes offer a daily changing selection of simple kharai, meat and vegetable dishes, supplemented by fresh breads and a few other sundries. For those with a taste for the exotic, Hunters BBQ cafe in the Northern Quarter also offer an intriguing range of game curries including partridge, pheasant, duck, quail, rabbit, and venison.

Based on a Twitter/internet tips we chose to have lunch at This and That, a real no frills gaff tucked away down the rather dark and dingy Soap Street. Despite the rather austere surrounding and moulded plastic seating a la Wimpy Northwood Hills High street circa 1985, the moment we walked through the door I knew we were in for a treat.

Greeted by welcoming and patient staff, ladling huge heaps of home cooked curry school dinner style on to mismatched vintage crockery, this place can't help but charm. It was soon abundantly clear many others felt the same as the place remained packed with suits, tourists and hungry locals popping in for takeaways throughout our visit.

Tuesday's choice saw, among other offereings, chana lamb karai chops, lamb & cauliflower, chicken masala, chicken curry, minced kamb keema, cabbage and mixed vegetables. There were also the deicious scent of smoky and fragrant seekh kebabs being grilled for their huge kebab naan sandwiches and a selection of hot breads and fried morsels available.

Between the three of us we managed to sample most the menu. My choice of karai lamb chops, keema and cabbage, finished off with a dusting of freshly chopped green chilli, was exemplary, and surely one of the steals of the century at £4.60. The cabbage was particularly fine, an unusual and delicately spice dish with a decent little kick. 

Stealth and the Ewing rather missed the point of visiting here to sample rice and three, opting for their curries to be served with chapatis instead. The Ewing's chicken curry, lamb and cauliflower, and chana were rich, earthy and fragrant without being too knock-your-socks-off spicy.  While Stealth's chicken masala, despite being a startling nuclear shade of red, was spot on.

Samosas and bajis were good - the samaosa pastry being both perfectly crispy and just oily enough - if totally not superfluous. Soft drinks and cooling lassi are also offered, along with big glass jugs of water if the heat gets to much. 

While the basic seating, fluorescent lighting and slightly dingy back alley setting may not to be to everyone's taste, a meal here is about the best way to legally spend a fiver that I can think of. People Manchester, forgo the curled up sarnies and getting down here for a proper lunchtime feed.