Ideas from a pile of books

There's no doubt that it has been the most foodie-based festive season I’ve ever had.

First, my birthday produced the Kenwood iMix, plus Roberta Muir’s 500 Cheeses. And following hot on the heels of those came Escoffier: The King of Chefs by Kenneth James, together with the great man’s Complete Guide to the Art of Modern Cookery and Joël’s Complete Robuchon, plus Elisabeth Luard’s European Peasant Cuisine.

That’s not forgetting The Stornaway Black Pudding Bible by Seumas MacInnes and Bob Dewar, plus one of those irresistible Amazon deals to netted me Eggs, Pastry and Sauces by Michel Roux for a ridiculous bargain price.

And then there was the recently arrived Bistro Bruno: Cooking from l’Odeon.

There has not, thus far, been a copy of Why Bible-believing Methodists Shouldn't Eat Black Pudding by Stephen B Dawes. Not that I recall black pudding being proscribed at home.

But anyway, it’s all very well having such books, but I don’t have a coffee table, so now I have to start putting some of the culinary wisdom contained in them into practice. They’re not meant for decoration – and particularly not the Escoffier and Robuchon, which are such serious cookery books that they don’t even have illustrations. Gulp.

First up was an idea for dessert from the Roux Eggs book: a coffee-flavoured custard, baked in a caramel-lined ramekin, chilled, and topped with sugar that’s then burnt with a little cook’s blow torch.

I’ve done custards before, so that wasn’t too daring. And indeed, if anything, the instructions made it seem slightly simpler than some previous ones.

I’ve only done caramel a couple of times and it’s one of those things that astonishes you with the speed at which it sets. I barely had enough time to get the golden liquid spread over the base of three ramekins and a tiny bit up the wall of one, before it had ceased to be liquid.

How experienced cooks do it – and particularly when they have more pots than my meagre three to fill – I’m really not sure.

Anyhow, after the caramel had set and cooled, I made a custard, with a teaspoon of decent coffee granules in it. Once decanted into the ramekins, these were baked in a dish that was lined with baking parchment and had hot (not boiling) water added to half way up the ramekins.

The oven temperatures in the book are apparently for a fan oven – I still needed to give the custards another few minutes over the stated 45 in order to ensure that a sharp knife came away clean after being inserted.

Once they’d cooled, they went into the fridge to chill. Later, to serve, they were topped with sugar and blow-torched. The result was divine – and it’s almost seems like a miracle: that the caramel that I’d seen with my own eyes setting to rock-like hardness on the inside of the ramekins is lusciously liquid once you break beneath the surface.

Not that I was the only one who liked it. I'd left a third one for today, partly to photograph (and then consume, of course). I turned my back for one moment – and there was Otto checking it out. Apparently, it's pretty darned good for discerning cats too.

The next thing I attempted yesterday was from the Robuchon: a gratin of potatoes and leeks to accompany the boiled ham with sour brown shallot sauce.

Perhaps what you expect with Robuchon is extreme cheffiness. Well, it is there – scallops with fresh ginger, for instance, would be in such a bracket, I think. But many of the dishes are really straightforward and not flashy in any way. This was an example.

For two people, I took a medium onion, peeled and sliced it into rounds of approximately 3mm thickness. Then I did the same with a leek and a couple of spuds.

The Other Half rolled his eyes when, reading the recipe, he noted that Robuchon calls for a bouquet garni to be made out of thyme, parsley and bay leaves, wrapped and tied in a piece of leek.

He rolled his eyes even more when I showed him that I’d done exactly that! It might sound posy, but if you’ve got the leek, then why not? Saves using muslin or cheesecloth or something like that.

You soften the onion and leek in a little butter, then add around 700ml of milk, a little grated nutmeg, salt and pepper, the sliced potatoes and the bouquet garni, and cook gently for around 35 minutes – or until a knife glides easily into the potato.

Heat your grill. Pour the milky mix carefully into a buttered dish and pop under the heat for around 10 minutes or until it’s starting to turn golden.

It needed a bit of extra seasoning, but that is a tasty side dish that’s far from difficult or fancy. And it went very nicely with the ham.

So, a good start to life with all my new cookery books. A one that will prompt plenty of further experimentation, I don’t doubt.

Putting the 'fine' into fine dining

I admit that I didn't fly out to Berlin with any expectation that I was probably about to enjoy my finest fine-dine experience to date.

We'd walked past Gendarmerie on the eve of our arrival in the city and made a mental note. On the Sunday evening, we decided to give it a whirl – and fortunately, even without a reservation, we got a table outside.

The staff were excellent – very friendly and not in the least bit rushed. Indeed, dinner took us almost three hours with welcome breaks between courses.

I started with a terrine of black pudding and goose liver (foie gras, in essence), topped with a layer of tart, fruity jelly.

It was served with an apple chutney, spiced with a hint of cinnamon, and a small herb salad, with a slice of toasted brioche that was so light it almost fell apart.

Not only did this look stunning, it was fabulously well balanced, from the sweetness of the meat, through the less-sweet apple to the bitter herbs. It had texture, colour and, most of all, it had taste. Wonderful: I was close to orgasmic over it.

I'd had a glass of Champagne when we sat down, and being slightly better versed in the wine department, had selected a 2007 Dr Loosen Riseling. Which was jolly good too. I didn't really feel tempted to ask about the 1945 Rothschild that was listed – price on enquiry.

And so to the main course. The Other Half, having enjoyed a chervil soup, had lamb. I opted for a piece of cod, grilled, and served on a bed of puréed potato, with a halved fennel, a little tomato and a very light, frothy sauce, that never threatened to swamp the fish.

The cod itself was excellent – tasty and moist. And it struck me how much the tomato (hidden initially when the dish arrived) just added a little welcome sharpness to the dish – it wasn't simply there as some sort of afterthought or design point.

At this point in a restaurant meal (apart from in Barcelona or Collioure, where meal structure is perfectly suited to me), I'd usually have had to leave some of the main course, and wouldn't have a cat in proverbial hell's chance of being able to manage a dessert. However, I'd comfortably managed every crumb of what had been placed before me thus far and, when I saw desserts being carried to a nearby table, my mind was made up.

I opted for a chocolate torte that, despite the assertions of the menu, didn't arrive with a biscuit of Proustian fame, but a portion of utterly gorgeous strawberries. I wasn't complaining.

And the torte itself was perfection – rich and moist and utterly gorgeous. Our waiter, having told me that they didn't do dessert wines by the glass, suggested a glass of another Riesling – it turned out to be quite different – a grassy, light taste that complimented the dessert perfectly.

This was a first visit to a serious, chef-led restaurant. And it didn't disappoint.

Chef Axel Burmeister already has form – not least at the Esplanade in Berlin. And it's difficult to imagine him not making a hit of Gendarmerie, which had only opened its doors for the first time around three weeks before our visit.

Perhaps the biggest compliment that I can pay is that, after our most expensive meal ever, we decided to book again for our final night. And we weren't disappointed then either.

Terrific tuna

Here it is: today's tuna, with slivers of garlic and red jalapeno chilli inserted into carefully cut slits in the succulent flesh, and with rosemary added for even more flavour.

Then it was all ready to pop into a pot with loads of tinned tomatoes and juice, anchovies and capers. It was poached gently for about 30 minutes and then served with hanks of good bread.

Mmmmmm. That's why I like food.

And that's why I'm always bemused by the attitude in this country toward Jamie Oliver. This dish comes from Jamie's Italy. Now okay, the "pukka" stuff on TV might be a tad irritating, but his books make it easy to cook great food. Perhaps that's the problem? Maybe if he was 'selling out' like Gary Rhodes, who has taken to advertising spread that's had the fat stripped out of it, thus becoming gray and requiring colourings as well as flavour to be added to it – otherwise known as margarine – he'd be less of a target for so many people?

After all, the whinging about Oliver surely can't be jealousy at someone's success, can it?