Pancakes for the poor, Pancakes for the rich

Pancakes with sugar and lemon

I've never looked up a recipe for pancake batter before.  It's one of those things, once made, never forgotten.  Take four ingredients - flour, milk, egg, pinch of salt - mix briefly until you have a smooth batter, add a wrist-flick of melted butter and you have it.  With Shrove Tuesday almost upon us, I thought this year I might celebrate 'Pancake Day' a little differently.  I had no idea such a simple dish could have so many permutations and be fraught with so many class connotations.

Jane Grigson in her book English Food mentions some of these.  The 18th century recipe 'Harvest Pancakes for the Poor' is not too far from the one which resurfaces in my memory bank each February.  Using a minimal amount of egg in the mix, milk or mild ale (inter-changeable), and calling for lard to grease the pan all strike me as perfectly acceptable.  The addition of powdered ginger seems a little exotic but in the 1700's the English had a love affair with spices and a little pimping-up is understandable.  The resultant pancake needed to be heavy enough to act as an edible container for farm workers' meals as they had little time to stop when harvesting was under way.

Whilst there was clearly a practical aspect to the poor man's version of pancakes, Grigson felt the recipe 'Pancakes for the Rich' pointed up the different attitudes to food between the English and the French.  The working Frenchman, she felt, wouldn't see this version as "not for them" but would eat it on feast days rather than every day.  The English, she opined, "cling masochistically to the poor man's recipe", denying themselves the added delights of cream, butter and sherry.

Pancakes with England Preserves
Seville Orange Curd

Then, of course, there are Crêpes Suzette.  I'd personally be happy to see the 70's dining-out favourite resurrected from its unfair burial. This got me thinking. With half a jar of England Preserves Seville Orange Curd needing a suitable use, I tried it on a batch of pancakes.  It was a huge success.  The sharp, buttery curd was a revelation wrapped in the warm, crisply fried batter. The far richer buttermilk pancakes, capable of soaking up a topping, definitely have a place in my kitchen, too.  Somehow, though, they don't seem right for Pancake Day.

So, which pancake batter will I be mixing next Tuesday?  It will be the one I always mix, of course.  Somewhere between pancakes for the poor and pancakes for the rich with a simple sprinkling of sugar and squeeze of lemon. Then again I have to confess to a weakness for a spoonful of golden syrup along with the lemon.  Oh dear, I fear Jane Grigson would be disappointed in me.

My Shrove Tuesday Pancakes
(Makes: around 12 if you use sparingly, as you should)

125g plain flour
1 large egg
250ml milk
Pinch of salt
25g butter
A little butter or oil, such as groundnut, for frying

Add the flour to a bowl and form a well.  Break the egg into the well, add the pinch of salt and about 1/3 of the milk.  Mix, gradually incorporating the flour and adding the rest of the milk slowly as you do so.  When you have a smooth batter (don't mix too much - sieve it if stubbornly lumpy), melt the butter until it just starts to brown lightly then quickly mix it into the batter.  Pour the batter into a jug and refrigerate for about 45 minutes.

Add a tiny amount of butter or oil to the pan and heat until very hot before turning the heat down to between medium and high.  Stir the batter and pour a little into the hot pan to form a thin coating and cook until browned.  This is a sacrificial one as the first pancake is always poor, so, you'll probably want to discard it.  Pour about 2-3 tablespoons of batter into the pan and quickly swirl it around the pan to coat it thinly.  Brown lightly and turn the pancake (tossing it, of course, as that's half the fun) to lightly brown the other side.  Re-butter or oil the pan (it needs very little between each pancake).  Repeat the process and when each pancake is light browned on both sides add it to a plate and keep warm in a low oven until the job is done.


For more on the history of Pancakes, the author Kate Colquhoun covers a lot of historical ground in a short time with this 2007 Telegraph article.

Battling birds & corralling cabbages

Cabbage January King

January is a dispiriting time on the allotment in the best of years.  When the calendar flicks over to February it's a welcome sign of good things to come. That said, after the toughest growing year most people can remember, it takes a strong breed of gardener to take any pleasure in their plot right now.  It's not only amateur gardeners who are finding times hard.  Commercial growers have been hit badly over the past 12 months with record-breaking wet weather resulting in poor yields.  Worryingly, much UK arable land is still under water. This bodes ill for production in the coming year.

In my own plot a few parsnips hold on tight in the heavy clay soil.  Pulling one is akin to trying to extract a wellie-booted foot after a stomp across boggy ground.  I should be glad the parsnips have grown so well, but half an hour to release one from its sodden slumber is enough to make anyone question the sanity of growing winter crops.  Even the leeks are struggling to put on any girth this year.  Overwintering onions and garlic have rotted in the waterlogged ground so I'll need to plant afresh in early Spring.

It's the pigeons that have brought me here today.  Their appetite for brassicas at this time of year is insatiable.  Not only do I have to net the only green vegetables that will grow through winter but I feel obliged to check the birds haven't got themselves entangled in their attempts to rob me of my stash. Today all is well, both black cabbage and broccoli have recovered from the winged army's last gale-fueled raid.  They will, no doubt, mount a second front given half a chance.

Fortunately, however bad things seem, there's always something cheering. The 'Early' purple sprouting broccoli is living up to its name this year.  I harvest a few spears before ensuring the plants are safely tucked away from winged marauders.  The rhubarb crowns I moved in autumn from an overcrowded, weed-ridden spot are repaying my efforts.  Obscene pink protuberances push gamely skywards.  The blackcurrant bushes are already in bud.  I make a mental note to protect their fruit from blackbirds this year so that I can make that blackcurrant trifle they robbed me of last June.

However difficult growing your own food is, it's worth doing.  Sometimes knock-backs are good, if only to help us appreciate the fragility of our eco-system.  Let's hope, should we have another bad year on the allotment, our farmers fair better.  Back home, with a small but precious haul, I accentuate the positives and send off my seed order for the coming year.  That done, those precious stems of broccoli are boiled and dressed, still hot, with anchovies and olive oil.   It's a classic combination which hardly merits a recipe but here's what to do if you haven't come across it before.

Purple Sprouting Broccoli with Anchovies

750g purple sprouting broccoli
1 small tin of anchovies in oil, or 6-8 salted anchovy fillets
Juice of 1 lemon
3-4 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
Pepper

Bring a pan of water to the boil and add salt.  Wash and trim any tough stalks from the broccoli.  Add to the boiling water and boil for 2-3 minutes depending on thickness, until tender but still firm.
While the broccoli is cooking, mix or pound the anchovies together with the lemon juice, olive oil and pepper.
Drain the broccoli well and toss with the anchovy dressing.  

Good served with crusty bread.

Mastering Marmalade - or how to handle failure

Seville orange marmalade

My record with marmalade leaves a lot to be desired.  I can make jam, but somehow the knack for a perfectly set marmalade eludes me.  Yes, I know I could have added more sugar or a commercial pectin to the fruit to guarantee a set, but where's the challenge in that, and at what cost to taste and texture.  This year I did manage to produce a batch of Seville orange marmalade that tastes fantastic, has fabulous clarity and colour and .... oh, dear.

I spent three days steeping and simmering; steeping and boiling; checking temperature - with two different thermometers; and, smugly, bottling.  Jars filled and sealed, I noticed a nice crinkle in the residue coating the preserve pan. Oh, I was so confident but, you guessed it, as it cooled I realised it was so runny I could drink it!  The beautifully set film coating the pan was, in retrospect, probably thanks to residual heat.  Truth is I chickened out a degree too soon, didn't bother with a crinkle test, and paid the price.  If it happens to you, don't despair.  After 10 days, mine has miraculously thickened - a bit.  Everyone assures me they're quite happy chasing it around a slice of toast, but it's not going to win any prizes.  If you have managed to produce a great batch of marmalade, why not enter it into the annual Dalemain Marmalade Awards

As the Seville orange season is now well under way, I thought I'd share my failure with you.  Well, I can't be the only one, and I'm not short of ideas for what to do with it.  So, just in case you too came up short in the highly competitive marmalade stakes this year, here goes, and if you have any ideas you'd like to share, I'm all ears.

Spread over a baked ham before finishing in a hot oven.

Coat sausages or pork ribs in marmalade for a sticky citrus glaze.

Swirl and few spoonfuls through a cooled home-made vanilla custard before freezing for a bitter-sweet Marmalade ice-cream.  Or allow a shop-bought vanilla ice-cream to come up to perfect eating temperature and lightly mix in the marmalade just before serving.

Cut through a dish of rich, comforting, creamy rice pudding with a dollop of syrupy citrus.

Add a little to the mix for a sponge pudding, and a liberal dose to the bottom of the bowl before spooning in the sponge and steaming.

Spread liberally on buttered bread slices and you are on your way to a Marmalade Bread & Butter Pudding.

Pour the runny preserve over buttermilk pancakes.

Thanks to The Botanical Baker for the suggestion to add a couple of spoonfuls to a basic muffin recipe to add a little zing.

Replace some of the dried fruit in a fruit cake with a tablespoon or two of marmalade.

Run a few spoonfuls through a basic sponge cake recipe, bake and, while still warm, brush the top with extra marmalade.

Oh, and then, if it's very loose, you could drink it! Thank you Rosie Sykes, head chef at Fitzbillies in Cambridge, for the genius suggestion of adding a dash to a glass of Prosecco.

Next year I will master my marmalade - any tips gratefully received.  In the meantime, here's a recipe for:

Marmalade & ginger sponge pudding

Marmalade & Ginger Sponge Pudding
(Serves 4)

115g soft unsalted butter
60g muscovado sugar
2 medium eggs
115g plain flour
1 tsp baking powder
1 tsp ground ginger
1-2 tbsp milk
6 tbsp loose-set marmalade

Lightly butter a 1 pint (500ml) pudding basin.  Prepare a sheet of greaseproof paper by folding a pleat and buttering.  Cut a sheet of baking foil too.
Sift the flour, baking powder and ground ginger together.
Beat the eggs together well.
Mix the softened butter and sugar together really well until pale and fluffy then add the egg gradually until it's completed amalgamated (add a tbsp of the flour mix if it starts to curdle).
Fold in the flour mixture.  Add a little milk until you have a soft dropping consistency.
Spoon the marmalade into the pudding basin and top with the sponge mixture.  Tie the buttered greaseproof paper around the basin followed by the baking foil.
Steam for 45 minutes before turning out.

Serve with cream or proper custard.

Beef Stew to warm the cockles

Cuts of Beef from my copy of
Reader's Digest 'The Cookery Year'

I was planning to write a piece on 'food waste'.  The media has been alive with comment, and quite right too.  Then the cavalcade abrutly moved on, unceremoniously rolling out of the way to make room for the 'horse burgers' scandal.  Those 3-for-2 offers don't seem quite so appealing now we know why the supermarkets can afford to do it.  Anger and disgust quickly gave way to endless equestrian jokes.  Now we Brits are preoccupied with the current bad weather - a subject dear to our hearts.  So, I've decided to combine all three subjects to bring you a beef stew - stay with me on this.

There is no cut of beef so mean it can't be used in a tasty stew.  Shin of beef is my favourite.  Sliced from the foreleg, the rounded nuggets of meat are connected by a gelatinous membrane.  Slow-cooking in stock, water or wine allows it to yield up a sticky, rich, quality to the sauce.  It's a relatively cheap cut and works so much better than the more expensive stewing steak. In buying this lesser-favoured cut - or a cut such as bolar, found deep within the shoulder - you're helping ensure the whole beast is used, and not wasted.

You can sometimes buy beef shin bone-in, in which case your stew will benefit from the marrowbone for an even richer sauce.  Of course to get your hands on shin beef, certainly bone-in, you'll need to buy from a good independent butcher - one you can trust and who really knows his beef.

Now to that stew.  This is a very simple recipe, calling for very few ingredients, which I've made dozens of times.  As with most stews, it tastes even better re-heated the day after making.  The recipe is based on 'Shin of Beef Stewed in Wine' from Elizabeth David's book French Provincial Cooking.  It's deeply comforting served with mashed potato and buttered cabbage.  In fact, it is the perfect dish for when bad weather rolls in.

So, what great insights did I have to offer on those hot topics of the week? Well, maybe instead of swallowing the line that the world needs to grow more food, how about we put in place practices to ensure we eat the food we already produce.  Instead of demanding cheaper food we should buy a little less meat and buy it regularly from a trusted independent butcher.  And, when bad weather is forecast, it's time to make stew.  There you go, 3-for-the-price-of-1.

Beef Stew
(serves 4)

100g (4oz) streaky bacon, cut into 1cm pieces
1 large onion, sliced
2 cloves garlic, flattened
750g (1.5lb) shin beef (or bolar), cut into large nuggets and outer layer trimmed off
A handful of parsley and thyme
1 bayleaf
1 large glass of red wine
1 large glass of water
Salt & pepper

Pre-heat oven to 140C (120C Fan oven).  Fry the bacon in an oven-proof casserole until crisp, adding a little olive oil if it's very lean. Add the sliced onion, garlic and the herbs.  Place the beef on top. Add the wine, bring to  the boil and cook for 3 minutes.  Add the water and bring back to the boil.  Season well.  Cover well and transfer to the oven.  Cook for 3 hours.  Check seasoning and serve.

Here's a link to a helpful article by Alex Renton in The Guardian on How to Buy Beef

The Calҫots are here - Food Find

The annual Calҫotada festivals are a feature of winter in Spain's Catalunya region.  Somewhere between a spring onion and a leek, calҫots were orginally the onions harvesters missed in the autumn. The alliums remained in the ground over winter and in January/February sprouted from the old bulb.  These days they are a delicacy and are planted deliberately to over-winter.  Their harvesting is often celebrated with a festival when calҫots are consumed in vast quantities.  In Valls, in the province of Tarragona, the biggest Calҫotada takes place on the last Sunday in January.  Visitors manage to get through some 100,000 calҫots in a single weekend.  

If you can't get to Spain for the festivals and you live in London, you're likely to find them on the menu at Jose Pizarro's tapas bar and restaurant in Bermondsey.  You can also buy them from good grocers.  Tony Booth of Tayshaw, trading on Druid Street SE1 goes to the trouble of buying them direct from a Spanish farmer.  From tomorrow you'll be able to get them for the next few Saturdays from his Bermondsey railway arch.  Here's a link on my way with Calҫots and a recipe for the essential Romesco sauce to eat with them.

Location of Tony Booths Tayshaw arch and other nearby Saturday food traders:
Spa Terminus

Irish Soda Bread

Soda Bread

Everyone, except me, seems to be baking their own bread at the moment.  The truth is, I don't have an affinity with yeast.  Believe me I've tried but every time I can still detect that yeasty aroma which really shouldn't be there in the finished loaf.  Then there's the sourdough starter, treasured, coddled and cooed over.  Don't get me wrong I love sourdough breads and I've even cultivated my own 'starter' in the past.  It squatted in the kitchen, barely contained by a glass jar; needy and attention-seeking.  A three week forced separation put an end to the relationship.  A deflated, grey residue was the only reminder of a past love affair.  Reader, I binned it.

Soda Bread, sliced

So what could change my mind about home bread-making?  Well an offer to learn about slow fermentation from one of the best bread makers in London could be just what I need.  While I'm firming up on that interesting prospect, here's what I make when I do need to produce a loaf myself.  Not that this is second rate.  Soda bread always goes down well in our household.  Unlike a good sourdough, it doesn't keep beyond a couple of days but it's gorgeous toasted on day two.

The rise is achieved by the action of bicarbonate of soda on the acidic buttermilk, so no chance of a yeasty overtone.  True buttermilk is leftover from the butter-making process.  These days it's generally only available from farms and dairies.  What you can buy in supermarkets is usually 'cultured' buttermilk.  Thicker than true buttermilk, it is pasteurised skimmed milk (or powder) to which a culture is added to sour it.  It works in soda bread but, obviously, if you can get the real stuff you'll get a better result.  In London you can buy true buttermilk from Neal's Yard Dairy.

This recipe for soda bread is adapted from one made by Irish chef, Richard Corrigan.  It appears in his book 'The Clatter of Forks and Spoons'.  Corrigan's cooking comes straight from his Irish roots and this recipe makes my favourite soda bread.  I vary the mix of plain and wholemeal flours sometimes to achieve a lighter or darker loaf depending on what I'm planning to eat it with.

Soda Bread

250g unbleached plain flour
250g stoneground wholemeal flour
150g jumbo oat flakes
1/2 tbsp sea salt
3/4 tbsp bicarbonate of soda
500ml buttermilk
1 tbsp light, clear honey
1 tbsp black treacle

Preheat the oven to 200C (180C fan oven).  Line a baking sheet with baking parchment.
Mix all dry ingredients in a large bowl.  Make a well and add to it the buttermilk, honey and treacle.  With a wooden spoon, gradually mix the dry ingredients into the wet until you have a loose, wet dough.  Turn it out onto a lightly floured surface, knead lightly just enough to be able to bring the dough into a round.  
Place on the lined baking sheet.  Using a sharp knife, slash a cross in the top of the dough.  Bake for about 45 minutes.  The bread should sound hollow when tapped on its base.  
Place the bread on a wire rack to cool covered with a damp cloth.  The cloth will soften the crust and keep the bread well for a couple of days.

In 2013 I will try to form a new relationship with a 'starter'.  Until then, this soda bread will do me nicely when I can't pick up a favourite sourdough loaf.

Where to eat in London in 2013

Donostia, London W1
Cod Cheeks Pil-Pil

The backlash against 'gourmet fast-food' restaurants in London has started. Having never understood the attraction, I can only see this as a good thing. So don't expect to find any of them in my list of where to eat in 2013.

My pick of London restaurants this year include some old favourites and some great new 2012 openings.  Based on personal experience, here's where I'd like to be eating in 2013.  The last 5 places on the list are newly opened in 2012. All of them are, in my view, serving very good to excellent food and wine at fair prices.

40 Maltby Street Natural wines and Steve & Kit's seasonal, consistently good food.

St John Bread & Wine  for when you need "steadying" in Spitalfields.

Barrafina Arguably London's best Spanish tapas bar, in the heart of Soho.

Quo Vadis In their own words, serving "plain, simple, good fare".  Menus make the most of seasonal British foods.  Soho stalwart, but the excellent Jeremy Lee is now heading up the kitchen.  Review from me coming soon.

Moro Sure-footed cooking of Spanish and Muslim Mediterranean food. Wood-fired oven, good wines and buzzy atmosphere.

Arbutus  Great value lunch in the heart of Soho.

Gauthier Soho Seasonal, great flavours, classic French food with occasional Asian influences from Alexis Gauthier.  Good value lunch.

Bocca di Lupo  Jacob Kenedy's exceptionally good Italian-influenced food in Soho.

Le Gavroche  Michelin ** in Mayfair, Michel Roux Jnr in the kitchen.  Exceptional value 3 course set-lunch menu but book ahead.

The Green Man and French Horn Former pub in the heart of theatre-land serving simple French dishes and great wines, some natural, from the Loire region.  Plat du Jour including a decent glass of wine £10.

The Quality Chop House Seasonal, British and gutsy food.  Excellent re-incarnation of this Victorian Grade II listed London chop house.  Eat in the restaurant or bar.  Good wine list too.

Lardo Good, simple, seasonal food centred round a wood-fired oven in a relaxing setting.  A top place to eat in the ever-improving London Fields, East London.

Donostia The food of San Sebastian in London's West-end.  Authentic, assured cooking, good wines and lovely staff.

Dabbous  The food of Ollie Dabbous was a revelation to me.  It was here that a salad reduced me to silence.  Book well ahead or try for a walk-in.

Happy New Year

Candied citrus

Candied Cedro

I'm ending this year on a preserving note.  Though everyone has their sleeves rolled up and heads filled with Christmas dinner thoughts right now, don't miss the fantastic flow of continental citrus arriving over the next few weeks. Packed with vitamin C, citrus fruit is just what we need at this time of year.  

With the Mediterranean citrus harvest well under way, it's time to get candying.  Candied citrus peel is so versatile.  It can be eaten simply sprinkled with caster sugar, dipped in chocolate, or added to cakes, breads, tarts, and ice-creams.  Of course, you can buy candied peel in tubs from the supermarket, but if you're enjoying the gorgeous fresh fruits, don't throw away the peel.  If you candy it properly, and keep it in the fridge, it will be good for months.  Above all, it tastes far better than the supermarket version.

Despite their association with the Mediterranean, all members of the orange family originated in China and were brought to Europe by Arab traders.  The present day citrus groves stretching from India across to Spain mark the path of conquering muslim armies in the sixth and seventh centuries.  The first oranges grown were the bitter Citrus aurantium.  Too bitter to eat from the tree, they were cultivated for the scent of their blossom, for perfumes, and for distilling into orange blossom water to flavour food.  Sweet oranges, Citrus sinensis, arrived in the 17th century. 

Cedro

Bergamot and Cedro both belong to the bitter branch of the citrus family. Bergamot is somewhere between an orange and a lime in shape and size and green/yellow in colour.  Its juice is highly aromatic and quite intoxicating. The oil is used in perfumes and to give Earl Grey tea its characteristic flavour.  The peel candies well too. With the Cedro, it really is all about the peel.  It has, very little juice to speak of but produces, probably, the most luscious candied fruit of all.  But I have a special liking for candied grapefruit peel which turns to deep amber and retains that particular bitter note that appeals to me.

In North African countries, sour pickled citrus fruits are favoured and used for flavouring tagines.  The Italians like to candy fruits whole.  In the hills around Genoa the rare Chinotti grows.  The candying process transforms this rather bitter citrus fruit into the most exquisite Christmas treat rarely found outside Liguria. 


Marmalade has long been a revered preserve in the UK and most families have their recipe.  It's a particularly British taste that only the bitter Seville orange can meet.  The peel, for me, has a certain bitter appeal when candied.   They too will be arriving very soon but it's time to get candying the citrus fruits that are already here.  

Candied orange and lemon peel

Candying whole fruit is something I leave to the experts, but preserving the peel is rather easier.  Some people like to scrape away the white pith under the skin of the fruit before candying.  It's not necessary so long as you boil the skins in fresh water several times to remove the bitterness and you get a much more luscious candied citrus.  Just make sure you candy only one type of citrus peel at a time to ensure you retain its specific flavour.  I like to candy some in quarters and some in thinner slices, but it's up to you.  

Candied Citrus
500g (1lb) citrus peel (pith attached)
600g caster sugar + 60g to sprinkle on the cooked peel
350ml water

Cut the peel into the size, or sizes, you want.  Place in a heavy-based pan, cover with water, bring to the boil and cook for 10 minutes.  Drain the peel and repeat this process twice more.  Dissolve the sugar in the water over a low heat, then bring to the boil.  Add the peel, turn the heat down to a slow simmer and cook until the peel is translucent.  This will take from 30 minutes for thin slices to 2 hours for thick quarters of cedro.  

If you're candying various sizes, use a slotted spoon to remove the citrus peel when translucent and place on greaseproof paper.  I like to leave leave the largest pieces in the syrup for 30 minutes after turning off the heat and before placing them on the paper. Spread them out so the pieces don't touch and leave overnight. Next day sprinkle the peel with the reserved caster sugar.  the keeping quality of candied peel depends on how moist your finished peel is.  You want it soft and yielding yet dried out enough after cooking not be too moist and sticky the next day when you sprinkle it with the 60g of sugar.  They'll keep in a plastic container in the fridge for several weeks or even months depending on moisture levels.  If it's soft and luscious you'll want to use it but if you do want to store some for longer, then allow some pieces to dry out for longer before sugaring and storing.

'Forager' at Marylebone Farmers Market - Food Find

Marylebone London Farmers Market is my favourite farmers market and one fairly new pitch has been grabbing my attention.  This week a bag of crimson rose-hips shone out amongst the leaves and roots, seeds and fruits set out on the 'Forager' stall.  Jars of sweet-pickled samphire, preserved rose petals, various leaves, stems, broad bean tops, and even spruce cuttings were spread across the stall. Wild plants thrive where there's no human intervention and foraging is a way to reconnect us with our lost food heritage.  'Forager', I learned, is working with some of the most influential chefs of the moment, such as Simon Rogan, Rene Redzepi and Ollie Dabbous.

A pile of 3-cornered garlic (also known as 3-cornered leek) caught my eye. The long, sword-shaped leaf is, I was told, the first (or should that be the last, given that I bought them on 16 December), of the wild garlic to be found in Britain.  It's a totally different plant from Ramsons but is similarly edible.  The leaves are longer and thinner and the flavour is more delicate. Lovely added to a salad, but having a chicken to roast, I tucked them into the pocket between skin and breast meat for a subtle garlicky hit.

Forager
London Farmers' Markets

Ten Christmas Gifts for Food-Lovers

Ulcigrai Family
Pannetone

OK, so this is actually a list of what I would like for Christmas, but it might give you ideas if you have a food-lover in your life.

An Ulcigrai Pannetone £16
From a small family bakery in Trieste.  Available from Leila's, Monmouth Coffee, or 104 Druid Street, London SE1 Saturdays 9-2pm.

A pouch of Sencha tea £7 for 30g
from My Cup of Tea with a spoon infuser £3, or a glass teapot £22.
Buy on-line or from their wholesale arch at 96 Druid Street, London SE1 Saturdays 9-2pm.

Four bars of Marou Vietnamese chocolate at £4 each.
If you're going to Monmouth Coffee for your Christmas supplies, pick up these chocolate bars.  Didn't know Vietnam produced chocolate?  Neither did I, but Marou are bean-to-bar chocolate makers and it tastes great.  Bars range from 72-78% cocoa solids.  Go here for more stockists and info on the renaissance of the Vietnamese cocoa industry.

Hario Skerton hand coffee burr-grinder c£40
from Japan.  Available at many independent coffee shops and on-line

Selection of Cheeses from Neal's Yard Dairy c£25
My current choice for Christmas would be Stichelton; Hafod Cheddar; Cardo; Haye-on-Wye

Apron £20-£24
from Thornback & Peel On-line or from their shop at 7 Rugby Street, Bloomsbury, London WC1

Bottle of Sparkling Tricot Bulleversante 2011 (Auvergne) £17 
from Gergovie Wines 40 Maltby Street, Bermondsey, London (check website for opening). Take care opening this lively, natural wine.

A Truffle Slicer around £15
from good cookware shops.  Continental truffles are expensive, so you really need a slicer.  Then, of course, there's English black truffles.  Yes, they are out there.  Learn more at The English Truffle Company

Polpo A Venetian cookbook (of sorts) by Russell Norman £25
This one of my 'six of the best books 2012'.  It's already had its second print run and is a worthy winner of Waterstones Book of the Year 2012.

Porcelain Pestle & Mortar 
If you (or someone you know) have been admiring that pestle and mortar Nigel Slater handles so lovingly on his TV programmes you could take a look at John Julian Design for a similar one.  No price, but expect it to be expensive.   Alternatively, find a potter and commission a truly one-off version.

Happy shopping.