Piperade

Piperade is an absolutely genius dish. More substantial than a mere sauce and not quite robust enough to stand on its own feet as a stew, piperade is actually an ingredient used to 'posh-up' fairly humdrum meals. I used it to jazz up a sea bream lunch dish (recipe to follow soon), but it could be equally used to add pizzazz to breakfast eggs or supper of grilled lamb or chicken. I once saw Keith Floyd making piperade really badly on one of his vintage cookery shows, and getting a thorough bollocking from a disapproving French grand dame standing at his shoulder. Hilarious. He took it fairly well though.

Anyway, the reason I made piperade today is because I got over excited at my local market in Church Street when I saw a few stallholders selling beautiful fresh sweet peppers at a pound ('paaaaaahnd') a bowl (boooowwwwwwllll'). Without thinking, I paid over three quid and heaved home a dozen huge red, green, yellow and red peppers. After making a salad, and after leaving them in the fridge for a couple of days I panicked. What was I going to make with the eleven peppers taking up nearly two shelves of fridge space?? Ratatouille? No, I didn't want to buy courgettes and aubergines to add insult to injury. So piperade it had to be. And what a choice! I kid you not, having served up a big bowl to a few chosen participants, the verdict was in: Piperade ROCKS!

I would have spread some around some later meals if my mates hadn't scoffed a kilo of the stuff in record time. Next time I'm keeping all it to myself.

Cost-wise, because of my Church Street bargain, this dish comes in at about 50p a dollop. Even when peppers are out of season I don't expect that piperade will be a particularly sprend-thrifty meal. 'Thrift, not spendthrift' - I like it. It has a nice ring to it.

Serves 4

INGREDIENTS:

75ml olive oil
3 peppers, de-seeded and finely chopped
1 large white onion, finely chopped
4 cloves of garlic, finely chopped
1 large dried chilli, crumbled
Salt and black pepper
400g can of plum tomatoes, plus a quarter can of water

Stew everything together until thick and unctuous. Serve warm, cold, on its own or with other food.

The Perfect Guacamole

Why the 'perfect' guacamole, you may ask?

Well, you really only need mashed avocados and salt to make a guacamole, because there really is no 'traditional' Mexican recipe. Therefore, after years of trying and testing, I can safely proclaim that I have found the true alchemic formula - and it's green. And delicious.

The key to making the perfect guac, is to use the perfect avocado - and this is no mean feat. I now use the Haas variety instead of those shiny green-skinned ones. I have found that the while the Haas is an altogether less aesthetically pleasing avocado, the flesh is richer and less prone to hairy fibrousness like the others.

I buy my Haas rock-hard on day one and do not attempt to eat it until day six. Any earlier and its slightly rubbery, much later and it's gunky, over-ripe and covered in black mushy spots.

As to the other ingredients: Lime juice? Check. De-seeded tomato? Check. Spring onion? Check. Fresh coriander? Check. Fresh Chilli? Check. Black pepper? Check.

Here are some 'no way' ingredients: Cumin (too pungent); sour cream or mayo or cream or yoghurt (yuck); garlic (too strong and all wrong); Anything else in the world? (er, no).

So here it is, the perfect guacamole. How do I know it's perfect? Well, last night our good friends Ophelia and Kumar came over for a food-and-movie-party (the director's cut of the 1973 version of The Wicker Man - incredible) and I made Fish Tacos (recipe to follow soon), and between the three of them - my wife included- I barely got a look-in at the guacamole. Ophelia even licked the GD bowl!

Four avocados for a pound at my local Morrison's supermarket, means that this dish comes in at a very delightful 50p per serving. 'Perfect' indeed.

Serves 4

INGREDIENTS:

3 ripe avocados
3 large spring (salad) onions, finely chopped
3 tomatoes, de-seeded and finely chopped
Handful of fresh coriander leaves, finely chopped
1 large fresh red chilli, de-seeded and finely chopped
Juice of a large lime
Salt and black pepper

Mash all ingredients together until blended, but still quite chunky. Serve chilled, with tortilla chips (or in Ophelia's case, with nothing at all...)

Cheese Fondue

Mrs Ribeye and I have gone so 70's! It's amazing how fashions change and evolve, but mainly repeat, albeit with a slightly modern twist. A couple of years ago, there was no way that I could visualise buying a fondue set without thinking that I had gone a bit 'Austin Powers', but for some reason, these days, I reckon there is nothing groovier. Baby.

The thing is, I'd never made a fondue before and was a bit concerned about eating quite so much cheese in a meal. I shouldn't have worried. The fondue was quite simply the best thing I have ever eaten IN MY WHOLE LIFE. Where have you been all this time, my cheesy friend?

I word of advice on buying a fondue set: The Le Creuset one (ahhh, Le Creuset...) is about a hundred quid and, of course, is totally fab. But the Ikea one is thirty five quid and ... exactly the same as the Le Creuset one. I mean, exactly. So, the Ikea one it had to be (which gave me a chance to buy a sack of frozen meatballs too. Everyone's a winner).

Since I had never made a fondue before, I had to do a bit of research. The general consensus is that the 'correct' fondue, is a Swiss fondue. So I chose Gruyere and Emmenthal. Apparently I could have chose Vacherin too, if I knew what Vacherin was or where to buy it.

Also, I used brandy and lemon juice instead of the traditional kirsch, because I didn't fancy buying a bottle of kirsch just to make a fondue. My addition of a foil-wrapped triangle of Dairylea was a recommendation from a Swiss food blog, which assured me that this extra touch would help amalgamate all of the other ingredients. I'm not 100% sure how a tiny piece of processed goo is going to make any difference, but who am I to argue?

Fondue is a rich dish and an interesting and totally delicious main course. I served mine with a plate of salami and crudites, alongside the traditional crusty dipping bread. It would also make a cool drinks party snack with cold wine or beer. A quick note on the bread: Make sure that each piece has a piece of crust attached to it for secure spearing - otherwise, after a few goes, the fondue will end up more like a bread sauce.

Cost-wise, this one is great value. £2 per generous serving for a luxurious and trendy dish is a 1970's priced bargain.

My friend Ophelia, who is Swiss, has promised me a 'fondue cook-off'. But to be honest, she's gonna lose.

Serves 4

INGREDIENTS:

350ml white wine
50ml brandy
25ml lemon juice
1 clove of garlic, whole
500g mixed cheeses, grated (I used Gruyere and Emmenthal)
2 tablepoons of flour
1 piece of spreadable cheese, like Dairylea or Laughing Cow
1 teaspoon paprika
1 teaspoon nutmeg
Salt and black pepper
Crusty bread for dipping

In a fondue pot or casserole on the hob turned up to a high heat, cook the wine, brandy lemon juice and the garlic until the liquid has reduced by half. Turn the hob to medium and discard the garlic, then add the cheese and flour gradually, until everything is smoothly incorporated. Mix in the cheese spread, paprika, nutmeg and seasoning. Remove the fondue from the hob and transfer to a low burner. Eat the fondue by dipping the bread into the sauce and periodically stirring it to keep it lump-free and avoid burning.

Tzatziki

It's funny how our tastes change. When I was a kid, you couldn't get me to eat a yoghurt for love nor money, but these days I'm eating the stuff with gusto.

Acquiring a taste for things takes many methods. A childhood hatred for orange juice was reversed when I was given freshly squeezed juice for breakfast on holiday somewhere and after gingerly trying it, found that it was far more heavenly than the concentrated carton crap I had thought was the only way the stuff was available.

Like all children growing up in the 1970's can testify, a daily delivery of school milk was the only way that the  State could guarantee that the population grew up with healthy teeth and bones - until 'Margaret Thatcher Milk Snatcher' decided that the money was better spent elsewhere. I couldn't have been happier. Thanks to the school milk being served at a highly un-refreshing room temperature and seeming to contain revolting 'bits' in it, I haven't been able to drink milk at any time during the rest of my forty year life. It's something which upsets me to my very core. Watching Mrs Ribeye enjoy breakfast cereal always left me jealous, until I discovered muesli with yoghurt.

Loving yoghurt, but hating milk has got to be the most blatant way to illustrate how irrational food phobias are. I don't like milk, but I love sour milk? Madness. Secretly, I'm hoping that I'm locked in a room for a week with nothing but a create of milk slowly going off for company. I'd emerge a delighted breakfast cereal consumer and go about my life a more fulfilled person. But, as it's never going to happen, yoghurt will be my saviour instead.

Today's recipe is not only the last in my Greek meze series of dishes, it is also a celebration of the mighty yoghurt. I buy supermarket tubs of tzatziki on a daily basis to eat with pitta bread for snacks or as part of my vegetarian midweek lunch, but making it yourself is far better than buying it. I can't say the same for Houmous, which is far better shop bought, but tzatziki is way nicer when you assemble it yourself. I noticed that shop bought tzatziki frequently contains cornflour. How very inappropriate and disgusting (not that I can taste it, but still).

Just make sure you buy the very best Greek yoghurt to ensure that you have a lovely thick tzatziki. The other major tip is to use dried AND fresh mint. The dried herb adds a warm background note, while the chopped fresh leaves add a refreshingly zingy top note. I grow fresh mint on my roof terrace, and I have found that it is as easy to grow as weeds - the problem is more about keeping it from growing too big rather than worrying about it dying. Just buy a mint plant from the living herbs rack in you supermarket, and water it only when the very top surface of the soil is looking a bit dessicated.

Cost-wise, this easy delicious dish is super reasonable. 50p per serving is all.

Serves 4

INGREDIENTS:

1 x 500ml tub of Greek yoghurt
Half a cucumber, de-seeded and finely chopped
Handful of fresh mint leaves, finely chopped
1 tablespoon of dried mint, plus some for sprinkling
1 clove of garlic, mashed
2 tablespoons of olive oil
Salt and pepper

Mix the ingredients together in a bowl and refrigerate until to need to allow the flavours to intermingle and develop. Remove from the fridge and sprinkle with the dried mint. Serve with hot pitta bread.

Home-made Houmous

I'm sorry but shop-bought houmous is better than home-made. I don't care who makes it or which shop you buy it in, the houmous sold in a tub always trumps your own. Why? I suggest that there is a special ingredient only known to manufacturers of middle eastern dips which they sprinkle into the machine with the rest of the ingredients. I'll bet it's fairy dust.

So why bother making your own, and why have I posted a recipe here at all? I'll tell you. It's because I have an obsession with telling the truth, and last night I made a middle eastern meze for friends and didn't want to tell them that I made my own houmous when I didn't. Tzatziki, on the other hand, IS better home-made than shop-bought (recipe to follow soon) and so I was delighted to offer them a delightful yoghurty alternative to embellish the start of the feast.

So why is shop-bought houmous actually better? The answer is that it's mellower and has a better texture. The ingredients have had a long time in their hermetically sealed polythene container to really get to know each other and balance each other out - a bit like leaving two heavyweight boxers in the ring for an hour and seeing them emerge all battered and calm. The other thing is, the manufacturers have managed to find a way to easily peel the skins off the chickpeas, ensuring that their finished dish is smoother than a baby's bum - not full of papery shards of floppy old skin. Yuck.

I am, of course, exaggerating. Home-made houmous is fine, and tastes approximately the same as the one from Waitrose etc. It's even quite pleasant when you garnish it with reserved chickpeas, olive oil and paprika. But let's face it, once you garnish some of the shop-bought stuff with reserved chickpeas, olive oil and paprika, who the hell would know if you made it yourself or not? Maybe half a lie is better than a lie or no lie?

Oh, a quick note on tahini: Buy a big tub of it from your local middle eastern grocer. I use Green Valley just off the Edgware Road near Marble Arch (who also sell baklava to die for). Once you've got over your obsession with making your own houmous, you'll find yourself unable to pop to the fridge hourly to steal a spoonful of the deliciously rich clay-like sesame paste. It's like a slightly bitter peanut buter, but for some reason, so much better - it's gotta be that bloody  fairy dust again.

Oh, the other thing about shop-bought houmous, is that it's really cheap. 80p-£1 for a 200g tub is about the going rate. Make it yourself and it's going to cost you 75p per serving. Why bother?

Serves 4

INGREDIENTS:

1 x 400g can of chickpeas, drained and rinsed with 1 tablespoon reserved for garnish

2 tablespoons of tahini (sesame seed) paste, or 2 tablespoons of sesame seeds, ground to a powder

1 clove of garlic, peeled

3 tablespoons of lemon juice

3 tablespoons of olive oil

Pinches of salt and pepper
Ground paprika, for sprinkling

Toasted pitta bread to serve

In a blender, whizz up the chickpeas, tahini, garlic, lemon juice, 3 tablespoons of the olive oil and seasoning. Transfer the houmous to a bowl and make a shallow well in the centre. Garnish with the reserved chickpeas, sprinkle with paprika and drizzle with the reserved tablespoon of olive oil. Serve with the pitta bread.

Globe Artichoke Vinaigrette

Look, this is hardly a recipe - boiled globe artichokes served with French vinaigrette - instead it is a celebration of French produce, over that of our meagre English offerings.

Having spent a week in Nice in a rented flat, with small kitchen, I was given the opportunity to do some food shopping and cooking in France. What a revelation. The supermarkets are incredible - racks and racks of fresh produce all beautifully fanned-out in concentric circles of colourful and interesting ingredients, all waiting to inspire any eager cook to turn them into culinary alchemy.

The fruit and vegetable range changes daily - selling whatever is in season and happens to have provided the most bountiful, high quality, locally-grown crop on any given day. Of course, most of the obvious salad veg is on sale every day, but as the week went on, I grew to be less surprised by the daily almighty fluctuations of price and strain of each item as I browsed the racks, looking for the day's bargains.

Some days, watermelons were 2 Euros each, then the price would rise to 5 Euros each as the supply and demand curve dictated. Large Coeur de Beauf tomatoes would regularly flip-flop between 1-3 Euros a piece.

Fish prices were a little more stable and meat prices even more so. Wine and beer stocks changed almost daily, and the French seemed to get through lakes of the stuff. One day, Mrs Ribeye took a liking to a nectarine-infused wine, and asked me to get her another bottle while I did the day's shopping. No chance - the entire shelf had been picked clean.

One day, the rack of artichokes which had normally featured some tennis ball-sized examples at 1.50 Euros each, gave way to some melon-sized ones for 75 cents. A bargain! So I picked up a couple, and decided to simply boil them for an hour and serve them warm with a vinaigrette made with a lovely local olive oil/red wine vinegar and Dijon mustard dressing. Heaven.

Another thing about these artichokes - unlike the imported ones we buy over here in England - is that they are cheaper and better in every way. Firstly, they are huge, with enormous, smooth meaty hearts, with easy-to-remove hairy chokes, and chunky leaves with a good mouthful of edible stuff at the base of each one. Not scrawny with stringy hearts, impossible-to-remove chokes, and mostly inedible leaves, like ours. Secondly, they are prettier - when cut, the interiors have the most vibrant purple-coloured inner leaves I have ever seen. Positively psychedelic. Thirdly, when cut and boiled, they don't discolour and go that horrible black colour like the ones here at home - which even a sprinkle of lemon juice during the cooking period cannot cure (regardless of what published recipes might say). And fourthly, they're home-grown in France, which means that they were picked and sold within a day - not passengers on a long haul flight, where almost all of that fresh goodness had been lost in transit.

Also, even if I buy French olive oil, French red wine vinegar and Dijon mustard at home, the dressing wouldn't be as good as the one I made in Nice. Why? Because anything you make and eat abroad, somehow loses its appeal a bit when you bring it back. I don't know why - The French will probably say something about terroir or something. But surely if the stuff was grown there and merely imported here, the terroir is the same? Infuriating.

This recipe, a fabulous starter on a warm summer's day, came in at under £1 per serving. Even if you pay more for your ingredients, it's still a very reasonably-priced dish.

Serves 2

INGREDIENTS:

2 large globe artichokes
A large pinch of salt

Vinaigrette:

4 tablespoons of extra virgin olive oil
2 tablespoons of red wine vinegar
1 tablespoon of Dijon mustard
Pinches of salt and black pepper

Snip off the top third of the artichoke to remove the woodier parts of the upper leaves, and expose the inner leaves. Twist-off the stalk at the base of the artichoke. Boil in plenty of salted water until soft (an hour approx) - the outer leaves should easily part from the rest of the body when cooked. In the meantime, mix the vinaigrette ingredients together, until you have a smooth emulsion, and set aside until needed.


To serve: Place an artichoke in a serving bowl and pour some of the vinaigrette around the base. Eat the leaves by picking them one-by-one from the artichoke and dipping them in the sauce - eat only the soft lower portion and discard the rest. Once all leaves have been eaten, remove the hairy choke from the heart, by pulling it away gently - it should come away quite easily. Cut the heart into chunks with a knife and fork and eat it with the rest of the vinaigrette.

Easy Japanese Fish Katsu Curry with Rice

WARNING: This recipe will offend food snobs everywhere.

Today's recipe is inspired by Wagamama (a chain of Japanese-themed cafes), who serve a breaded chicken breast with a katsu curry sauce over rice. I have since discovered that the sauce in question (or one that tastes suspiciously similar to it) can be bought in any Asian cash and carry grocers and it is, perhaps unsurprisingly, called 'Chinese curry sauce', rather than the Japanese sauce it is supposed to be - see the picture below.

Hardly Japanese and hardly home-made. Sorry Wagamama, you're busted.

Instead of chicken, I use a frozen breaded haddock fillet instead, not just because of my new 'meat in moderation' mishigas, but because breaded fish is DELICIOUS! I would eat it every day (in a plastic basket with chips and tartare sauce with a parsley and lemon wedge garnish. And a pint of Stella, naturally.) if I could, but then after a week I would probably hate the sight of it. If you haven't got haddock, you could even use frozen fish fingers - don't laugh, you snob, they are almost equally as delish as a whole fish fillet.

I know this recipe ain't actually haute cuisine, but it's not supposed to be. It's a stop-gap to discourage you from resorting to fast food places, and encourage you to eat cheaply, healthily and easily at home instead - as I did yesterday in front of the TV. Last night I prepared this whole dinner in the 15 minute half-time break in England's opening game against France, at Euro 2012.

By the way, did you see England play? They were brilliant. Even though the score ended 1-1, the French team, former world champions and considered by many to be this tournament's favourite team, were pegged right back. Our defence looked (almost) impregnable. It would be ironic if our new coach, Roy Hodgson, the cheapest England manager in years, might end up as one of the greats (but what a savage indictment of our domestic team, when a draw excites us to this degree).

Back to the recipe: I serve this dish with some steamed pak choi sprinkled with sesame seeds to give the meal a bit of green stuff; but Wagamama serve Japanese pickled vegetables with their katsu instead. I think steamed veg is better.

Morrison's supermarkets sell four large breaded haddock (or cod, if you fancy) fillets for a fiver. Unbeatable value, which means that this entire dish, including the pak choi, comes in at a fantastically cheap £2.50 per serving. About a quarter of the price of the Wagamama chicken katsu - and in my opinion healthier and more delicious (and in front of the TV while England manages to not lose to France). What's not to like?

Serves 2

INGREDIENTS:

2 frozen large breaded haddock fillets (or fresh - no-one's stopping you)
2 tablespoons of Chinese curry sauce concentrate
200ml water
2 large pak choi, split into two pieces each
300g cooked basmati rice
1 teaspoon of sesame seeds, for sprinkling

Bake the haddock fillets, as per the instructions on the box (if fresh, then it's 200c for 20 minutes). In a saucepan, make the sauce by combining the concentrate with the water and boiling until reduced to the consistency of thick cream. In a colander over the saucepan, steam the pak choi for 5 minutes, until tender. Place a mound of rice on each plate and top with a cooked fish fillet, Smother in the sauce and serve with the pak choi on the side. Sprinkle the sesame seeds over the veg.

Quickest, Easiest, Foolproof, Works Every Time, Never Splits, 100% Guaranteed, Home-Made Mayonnaise

Mayonnaise is far too risky a sauce to make - the number of things that can go wrong, makes it an even money bet recipe, at best.

So, why bother making it at all? Well, to be honest, a jar of Hellman's Light normally adorns my fridge door shelf, for every day use. But on certain occasions, when the mayo is a key ingredient in a dish rather than an accompaniment, only home-made mayonnaise will do. For instance, when I'm making my Temaki Sushi, I'm not looking for the taste of a fish salad sandwich with nori seaweed in place of wholemeal sliced bread, I'm looking for something a bit more bistro-y (excellent new word) to waken the tastebuds rather than lull them into a pleasant coma.

In normal recipes, mayonnaise curdles due to either the temperature of the ingredients not being quite right, the bowl was too cold, the early splashes of oil were added too quickly, the egg yolk reacted to the vinegar badly, the bowl had a crack in it, it was a Thursday... blah blah blah. What a nightmare.

So, I discovered that the answer was to shock the mayonnaise into submission by incorporating the oil into the other ingredients as quickly as possible, to not allow them time to reject it. So, without further ado, it's time to bring in the hand blender (I'm not talking about the one with twin beaters on the end, I'm talking about the ones with the small cutting blades on the end of a wand, that you usually use to make soup).

Simply place all of the ingredients in a tall bowl or receptacle not much wider than the head of the blender, press the button, whizz for three seconds, say goodbye to memories of curdly messes, and... hello, mayonnaise! It's completely foolproof, even for me.

You can use this recipe as a base for aioli (garlic mayonnaise - just add minced garlic) tartare sauce (the traditional accompaniment to fish - just add chopped capers, gherkins and parsley) or sauce gribiche (as I did for my Pouting and Pancetta Fishcakes). Get going; it's great fun to see eggs, oil and other unlikely things turn magically into mayonnaise with the touch of a button. Check out Potless later in the week to see how I use my home-made mayonnaise in a forgotten classic, the Prawn Cocktail.

Making your own mayo is cheap too. A 200g bowl of home-made mayonnaise will set you back about 75 pence - about half the price of shop-bought (although, if you're pregnant, I'm pretty sure you shouldn't be eating raw eggs, so stick to Hellman's).

Makes 200g

INGREDIENTS:

2 egg yolks, at room temperature
1 teaspoon of mustard, preferably Dijon
10ml lemon juice
10ml white wine vinegar
Pinches of salt and white pepper
200ml sunflower oil

Place the ingredients in a narrow bowl or receptacle. Hold the head of the hand blender to the bottom of the bowl and press the button. Bring the head of the blender up and down through the mayonnaise to ensure everything has blended together properly. Stores for up to a week in a refrigerator.

Christmas Chutney

Making presents at Christmas has become cool again. It was OK when you were 9 years old, when you made your non-smoking mum an ashtray. It wasn't OK for 2 decades after that, but now it's OK again. As long as you make people things which: (a) they can eat; (b) don't necessarily have to be eaten within a week; (c) they wouldn't generally make themselves, and (d) are packaged attractively in re-usable receptacles, like a kilner jar.

Chutnies fill all these criteria. And this chutney is so delicious and unique that your happy recipient won't even notice that it only cost you £1 per jar to make. The kilner jars will cost you an extra £2 each, which means you are still on budget.

Makes 8 x 250g kilner jars

INGREDIENTS:

8 large cooking apples, peeled cored and roughly diced
400g luxury mincemeat
500ml cider vinegar
750g demerara sugar
1 tablespoon of mixed spice
1 tablespoon of mustard seeds
1 tablespoon of black onion (nigella) seeds
1 teaspoon each of salt and pepper

Place all ingredients in a large pan or wok and cook uncovered, on moderate heat to start with, and then a low heat, until the apples have disintegrated and the chutney has thickened  and coloured to a demerara sugar colour (3-4 hours approx). Decant to the sterilised kilner jars and place the jars in a roasting pan, half filled with water. Place pan in preheated 140c oven and bake for 20 mins to create a vaccuum.

Tell your friends not to eat the chutney for two weeks, to allow the vinegar to relax and the flavour to mature. The chutney will then keep, unopened, in a cool larder for 6 months; or 6 weeks, in a fridge, after opening.

N.B.When your recipient wishes to open the jar, they must use pliers to pull the rubber tab jutting from the ring, which will release the vacuum (who knew?).

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How to Sterilise Kilner Jars

Dismantle the jars, by separating the rubber and metal parts, and place all parts directly on your oven shelf. Heat in a 140c oven for 30 minutes. Re-assemble the jars, making sure you do not touch the inside of the jars with your bare hands.