Salty tales to pique the appetite

Salt: A world history by Mark Kurlansky

Mark Kurlanksy’s Salt: a world history promises to do something that seems rather obvious on the surface – to illustrate the importance of salt in the history of the world.

After all, we can all acknowledge the importance of salt in a general sense, can't we? But if ever there was an illustration of history being news, then this is it.

There will be many for whom this book is still a revelation in terms of just how many uses – culinary and non-culinary – the world has found and developed for the whole range of salts that have been known of and used since the dawn of time.

Ham and salted fish and gunpowder are one thing (well, several things, actually), but I confess that it’s to my shame that I personally didn’t realise quite the role of salt in cheesemaking, for instance.

This extraordinary book covers as wide a geographic terrain as the author found possible, from China to Cheshire.

It touches on politics, on economics and on religion, as well as science, engineering – and, of course, food, with a host of salt-related recipes.

There are times when Kurlansky’s tale is a whirlwind that leaves the reader dizzied.

As when he writes: “In the Caribbean, the leading cargo carried to North America – more tonnage than even sugar, molasses, or rum – was salt. The leading return cargo from North America to the Caribbean was salt cod, used to feed slaves on sugar plantations.”

There’s something so circular, but so crazy, about this scenario, that it is difficult to get the mind around it.

And personally, I knew nothing about the role of salt in the struggle for Indian independence, with British imperial bans on the people of Orissa making or gathering their own salt – in order to create a market for Cheshire salt – helping cause famine and much hardship.

It's rather amusing – in a wry sort of way – to realise that current economic orthodoxy both rails against any form of the protectionism that enabled the British (and US) economy to build in the first place, and claims that for growth, developing world economies must open themselves totally to foreign investment. In other words, they must 'choose' to do (because they're told there's no alternative) what they previously had to be forced to do.

And then came the 240-mile march by Gandhi and some of his followers to Dandi to gather salt illegally – and integral part of the struggle for independence.

Nor did I know of the role of salt in the American Civil War, where one unexpected legacy from that period is Tabasco Sauce: another circle, with the seeds for the peppers having been originally taken from Mexico to grown in the US – and recently having been returned to be grown there for the same sauce, while salt continues to be mined at great depths on Avery Island.

Circles are no more evident than at the conclusion, when Kurlansky describes how most salt became uniform, and then most salt producers were bought out and absorbed into a few massive companies. And yet … some people persist in wanting variety; in searching for something more authentique, if you will. So small producers start making salt again in the old ways.

I could be pernickety and point out that Kurlansky is a tad inaccurate or misleading when he describes Port Vendres in the South of France as: “a contemporary hillside monument to industrial efficiency”. It was first discovered by the Greeks as a safe port in around 600BC, and while parts may be new and industrialised, and while Port Vendres is certainly no Collioure, it is not all modern and it is not without its charms.

But that feels a tad churlish, for in general, Kurlansky’s book is an entertaining, informative, fascinating read.

And all this from someone who makes no claims to be a professional, trained historian (so in the same boat as Stewart Lee Allen).

On the other hand, a preliminary browse through the second edition of Cuisine and Culture: a history of food and people, by Linda Civitello, who has an MA in history, was more than enough to annoy me out of starting to read it properly.

For instance, in the introduction, one discovered that there have been nine world wars. Yes, you really did read that correctly.

I thumbed rapidly to the appendix that apparently detailed this, together with all other important wars and battles since ancient times, starting with the fall of the Roman Empire in 476.

The War of the League of Augsburg is listed as one of her ‘world wars’. As are the Wars of Spanish and Austrian succession, the Seven Years War, the American and French revolutions, the Napoleonic Wars …

This, after some Googling, seems to be the ‘theory’ of a US historian called Thomas A Bailey, who produced the original version of a textbook for US schools, The American Pageant. I couldn't find any other historian, reputable or otherwise, supporting the same idea. I can't imagine many people are about to start describing the events of 1914-18 and 1939-45 as WWVIII and WWIX.

Returning to Civitello’s own tome, however, let’s set aside the typo (presumably) that omits the US from the “who fought” list of WWI (well, they did wait until rather late in the day to get involved), but then there’s the classic error that surely a real, live historian with an MA should know or check before making, of describing something as the “Civil War” in England (there were three English civil wars).

And then there’s the matter of referring to “England” as a combatant in many wars (including the two real world wars), as opposed to Great Britain.

But this appendix, set out as a chart on a gray background, in the fashion of the charts that pepper the rest of the book, is part of the problem: it’s enormously simplistic. To describe, for instance, the Thirty Years War as simply “religious”, 'fought by' Catholic v Protestant, is to almost sinfully misrepresent the extremely complex nature of that conflict.

So is this book intellectually rigorous and authoritative or not?

On page XIX of the introduction, she also repeats as fact the story of the Romans feeding “Christians to the lions for entertainment”. The Romans did persecute Christians, but there is no supporting evidence for the idea of mass throwing of Christians to lions in arenas. It is a myth. And 21st-century historians should not be citing it as a fact.

And on p221, on another of these charts (which make the entire book seem less like something aimed at intelligent grown-ups and more like a school textbook) laying out the gender division of work on a Midwestern farm in the 19th century, she includes the somewhat unscientific phrase: “Make everything look nice”.

On p361, of a Fox Network programme called Glutton Bowl, she comments that it “presented chow hounds as athletes”. “Chow hounds”? Oh pur-lease. It’s the same sort of sloppy language and approach that has no place in a book that sets out to be serious and intellectually sound.

And that was after a glance inspired by reading the introduction and finding the nonsense of ‘nine world wars’.

I’d trust Kurlansky infinitely more, and it returns to the shelf fully read and as an important part of my growing culinary library.

The Civitello – unread, apart from the gems cited above – has only been allowed back on the shelf for when I need a sort of Daily Mail moment to make me shake me head in irritation and horror.

Judging too harshly?

Google is your friend. So with that in mind, a quick search was made today for 'piping profiteroles' to see just how you get the best shape possible. But after watching a brief video of Gordon Ramsay making the little beauties, I have to say that I probably don't need to be too worried about the look and shape of my own first efforts yesterday. Indeed, I'm probably even more chuffed now. If it's good enough for Gordon, it most certainly should be good enough for me.

In a very general post today (which means that, if you persist and read through this, you'll get to more real foodie stuff), I also found myself wanting to highlight the news (I missed it yesterday) that McDonalds, Pepsi and assorted other companies are to be invited to advise the government on public health and nutrition etc.

Assuming it's accurate, I possibly was not alone in checking the date, but no, you haven't been in hibernation and it isn't 1 April.

Now, for the benefit of anyone who doesn't know me particularly well – and let's face it, this blog isn't really very old – I was hardly the biggest fan of the previous UK government. Iraq/Afghanistan and civil liberties in particular could easily get me going. As too could the way that, under the last government's watch, size/weight became more of a stigma than at any previous time. Being fat was sometimes like being a single mother under the previous Tory administration – you were a scapegoat for many other problems.

I can go back a decade at least to pointing this out in print and suggesting that the attitude of government (together with health professionals/groups and elements in the media) had effectively created a bullies' charter.

So the first question that occurs to me is: are there greater levels of obesity now than in previous years?

Well, on the basis of observation (and you might gather from my previous comments that I'm almost painfully aware about the subject), I'd say yes, there are. I'd also specifically say (and this is based on memory, not science) that I seem to be seeing more seriously overweight children around than when I was at school.

The next question is whether that's a problem. Well, on the basis of what the medical profession tells us (and the stats they employ), then yes it is, for health reasons. It will reduce life expectancy, particularly for those who are seriously obese when very young.

There are also the political and economic issues: will there be a large enough and healthy enough workforce to pay the taxes that pay for any government expenditure? What will the impact be on the cost of health care if many more people have, say, type 1 diabetes?

Okay, so there are problems. The next question is whether those problems are the concern of the state. Few people would not consider the economic health of a nation to be a concern for government – and therefore anything that has a substantial impact on the economic health of the nation.

And if one has a state health system, then few would not think that government should be involved in that, too. After all, that's partly a matter of democracy and democratic accountability.

To be quite clear – I don't know the answers and I don't pretend to. I think (as I hope I've made clear) that the previous government's approach to the issue was flawed (and that of health bodies and the media).

But inviting fast food outlets and supermarkets to consider the subject? It's so surreal that the jokes are already flying: Dracula to run blood banks; Fritzel to run pregnancy advice; Sutcliffe to run women's refuges. You get the drift: I couldn't personally think up another one (too busy being gobsmacked) so I've had to quote the efforts of others.

To begin with, private companies have one ultimate duty – and that's a legal obligation, not a matter of choice – to maximise profits for their shareholders.

Which is fine and dandy – but how can that square with the public health in general?

A few posts ago, I wrote about Stewart Lee Allen’s In the Devil’s Garden: a sinful history of forbidden food.

As I wrote then of the book: "He had already discussed fast food, the culture of not cooking, of not sitting down to eat as a family, of TV dinners etc, and decided that such behaviours are not about pleasure, but quite the reverse, and are essentially part of a massive con by big business."

Allen quite clearly makes the point that people in the US have been 'trained' to think that time spent cooking and eating good food is time wasted. He states that, after all, it gets in the way of you spending time doing jobs you hate. I increasingly think that the same can be applied to the UK. Of course, it's not helped when few women (in particular) have the financial wherewithal to realistically be able to choose whether or not to work, particularly if they also want a family.

But as I also illustrated here, there is a con going on over the amount the good food costs, in both financial and time senses.

Can inviting poachers to become gamekeepers remotely change this?

One finds oneself asking further questions: we already know what privatisation did to school meals (just as we know what it did to hospital cleaning). Although many had campaigned on the issue for years (including the trade union UNISON, which organises in school kitchens), it took the celebrity glitter of TV chef Jamie Oliver to get anything at all done in recent years. And good for him for that.

But can we imagine what the input of supermarkets and fast food chains and such will be when discussion arise about school meals in future?

Okay – we can only "imagine" it at present, but I don't believe that you need to be a conspiracy theorist to see a conflict of interest here.

And so folks, for being really dedicated, here's today's foodie bit.

We were allowed to sleep late by the cats – and sleep late we really did. I'd ended up watching soft-classical musician André Rieu on Sky Arts until rather late, and then had a read in bed.

So we decided not to worry about lunch as such and simply get whatever we wanted. However, as of 4.23pm (now!) a pot is on the hob, cooking away.

I've gone for a rolled, boned shoulder of lamb this weekend. As per a recipe in my general French cookery book (the one that's been a Bible for some years now), I'm cooking it with carrots, onion, garlic, a bouquet garni (homemade and not a sachet), red wine from Roussilon, beef stock and some parsnip that I added off my own bat. Later, it will have a tin of haricot beans added. If I honestly believe that life is too short for one things, it's soaking pulses overnight and then cooking them for hours.

It'll take a while, but it'll still be an early dinner by our usual standards. And strangely enough, when reading Mark Kurlansky on salt, he had mentioned something that sounds exactly like this dish, and it's from Brittany. So there you go.

For anyone's who's interested:

Heat some butter and olive oil in a lidded casserole. Brown your boned, rolled shoulder of lamb in it and remove.

Pop in chopped onions, carrots (and parsnip, if you fancy my version – but keep the chunks decently large), plus four cloves of garlic, with each clove only peeled and halved, plus a bouquet garni. Sweat for around 10 minutes.

Add 250ml of red wine. De-glaze. Put the meat back in and add 250ml of beef stock. Bring to the boil, put the lid on, turn the heat right down, and cook for 1 and a1/2 to 2 hours. Check it – you know how you like your meat: and it's difficult to seriously overcook such a dish.

Then add a drained and rinsed tin of haricot beans – and cook for another 15-30 minutes.

Great stuff, with the lamb almost melting in the mouth.

Paranoia and profiteroles

Mark Kurlansky’s Salt: A World History is proving to be a fascinating book – not just because the history itself is fascinating (I’m around 120 pages in, thus far, and the history is certainly fascinating), but also because the recipes are intriguing too.

It's probably no surprise to regular readers that, within a short time of starting the book, it had occurred to me that it might be really quite interesting to try salting my own meat at some stage.

And sitting in bed reading this morning, a 1968 recipe for salted, boiled beef from an Irish publication inspired me further. It was a recipe, I thought, that looked particularly interesting and particularly doable.

But it required, amongst other things, a “pound of course salt” and a little saltpetre. At which point, it dawned on me that there might be a problem.

Now saltpetre, as any schoolboy knows, is a vital ingredient in gunpowder as well as in salted beef.

‘Can you buy saltpetre in the UK these days?’ I wondered.

This sort of situation is what the internet was born for. So I Googled. And it appears, on the basis of what I could discover, that you cannot buy saltpetre in the UK any more – or at least not food grade and not if you’re an individual rather than a registered company wanting to purchase wholesale.

Now I’m perfectly well aware that the English are bonkers – and it’s frequently a bonkersness that I enjoy (often termed, a tad more politely, as ‘eccentric’ and more than once applied to yours truly), but there’s also a culture of bonkersness that grates.

Who is being protected from whom by such nonsense? The individual wanting to salt meat is suspect but a company never is? The individual is in danger from a chemical – but the company not?

Given that there are apparently a considerable number of ordinary household cleaning products that contain materials that can be used to make explosives, why such a regulation for this particular one, which has a very, very long history as an ingredient in preserving food?

Perhaps it’s partly an end-of-empire thing: a shrinking in on self; confusion, fear – even paranoia.

We do it with children too, increasingly wrapping them in cotton wool – oh, from the best of motives, no doubt, but also without considering the reality of the dangers they face: that child abuse, for instance, is far, far more likely in the home than as ‘stranger danger’ on the street.

Then we fill our homes with ‘antibacterial’ cleaners and other materials, without apparently considering the damage we actually do to our bodies' capacity to be effectively acted on by antibiotics when we really need them.

The latest TV advert promoting utter paranoia about germs/bacteria shows how awful, nasty things can get onto your conventional soap pump when you apply your nasty, germ-covered hand onto said pump to pump some soap out.

Ahhhhh! Can you imagine anything more terrifying?

Or illogical.

Because if you put a dirty hand on the pump to activate it, then your other dirty hand will be under it to catch the soap when it’s dispensed. Whichever way you do it, the soap goes into a dirty hand. But that’s the point, Because then, when one hand has pumped the soap out, it joins the other in the actual washing process – the process that removes the dirt and the germs.

The hand doesn’t go back and touch the germ-infested pump the minute it’s been washed (you don’t have to switch the pump off) – it only goes there again when you need to wash your hands again because they’ve got dirty again.

Unless you have obsessive compulsive issues – in which case, you might need some help, but not on the basis of a supposedly germ-infested soap pump.

Now obviously, the advert is aiming to exploit; to make money from the abject terror and ignorance that it builds on. The company has a nice, new soap pump to flog – one that doesn’t need touching, but which simply dispenses soap when it senses your filthy hands nearby. Strange to tell – but obviously entirely coincidentally – a quick check on a supermarket's online site reveals that this gadget is also considerably more expensive than conventional soap dispensers. And that's before you take into account the financial or environmental cost of the batteries that it requires.

We have schools that won’t allow children to play conkers – not because of ‘elf ‘n’ safety gorn mad’ (that’s a myth) but because of schools being terrified of litigation if a child is in any way injured.

This is all, quite simply bonkers.

I am delighted to report, however, that after searching further, I came across www.designasausage.com, a company that, among other things, sells “curing salt”, which is “easier and safer to use than ‘saltpetre’.” Setting aside the question of what, on the basis of the recipes I’ve seen, is difficult about using saltpeter or what is apparently unsafe (unless it refers to the more inconsistent results that come from using the rather ancient ingredient instead of other nitrates that are favoured now – but are probably no easier to find and, who knows how they translate in a menu), at least the job can be done.

I intend to order some and have a bash sometime over the forthcoming holiday.

In the meantime, today has been busy and very satisfying.

The rhubarb sorbet was finished early this afternoon – forking it around every half hour or so for three hours was hardly a major chore.

A French onion soup for lunch was perfectly tasty – although I always seem to forget, in advance, just how long it takes to brown enough onions for such a soup.

Dinner was from a recipe in Leith's Fish Bible: monkfish fillet cooked in a very light curry sauce, with coconut milk, sliced onions, a little garlic and sliced mango, and served with basmati rice. I’ve had the book for some years but have barely cooked out of it, finding it generally rather intimidating. Looking at it this morning, I found myself wondering why.

My confidence in the kitchen grows: the dish was very nice, although I adjusted the cooking time for the fish. The recipe said 10 minutes. I gave it nearer 30.

Increasingly, I’m finding that I give dishes longer – because if I stick rigidly to the times stipulated, it won't be cooked. Whether that’s partly to do with having a fan oven – which still confuses me when it comes to times – I couldn’t say with certainty. But it doesn't just happen in the oven – indeed, this was cooked on the hob.

In recent months particularly, I’ve realised that what is said on packet instructions or even in books can be misleading. For instance, risotto needs longer than recipes often claim – and I only really understood that after trying risottos in a couple of good eateries. They were not what I had previously understood by the phrase ‘al dente’. But okay, that could simply be my misunderstanding of something.

Pasta is another example: if I cook most dried pasta as per the packet instructions, it’s nowhere near as cooked as the pasta we had (and enjoyed) in Venice earlier this year. I’m going to assume that the Italians know what they’re doing when it comes to spaghetti.

Likewise the French. After not having any monkfish for some time, because, following instructions rigidly when I’d tried it, it always seemed quite tough, we discovered in Collioure and Port Vendre this year that in that region at least, it’s cooked rather longer.

But it's down to that confidence again.

However, the triumph of the day was my first ever attempt at making profiteroles – indeed, my first ever attempt at making choux pastry.

Okay, okay: they were not impeccably smooth or round, as you can see from the picture. I need to work on this – in the morning, when chatting with Ed in L’eau a La Bouche, he’d said that that is the really hard part and he’s dead right. But they were crisp and light, and the crème patisserie was not bad at all, though I say so myself. So on taste, I can allow myself great satisfaction.

I must give a little nod at this point to Bill, who blogged about making profiteroles at Ballymaloe a few weeks ago: bearing in mind his experiences, I concentrated particularly hard on making sure my filling was stiff enough, even though I wondered if I was risking it being too stiff at one point.

These, I admit, quite simply made my day. And now I'm pleasantly knackered as well as feeling pleasantly well fed.