“THE WORST THING ABOUT HAVING RICHARD HERE IS THAT HE DOES EAT A LOT OF THE PRODUCE – HE’S A BIG LAD”

Interviews: Viel Richardson / Image: Alice Mann

Jock on Richard

When he was around 10 years old, Richard would come to work with me on Saturdays in my greengrocers shop to earn his pocket money. He started helping me out at the Market when we began the retail stall about 17 years ago. He was a carpenter by trade but he always liked coming to do some work with me as well. He started full time on the stall about a year ago.

I think one of the things he likes most is engaging with people. He spent a lot of time working on building sites where there is bit of banter, but it is a closed in space – he enjoys the interaction you have with customers when working on a stall. He likes the variety of what we do, but particularly the wholesale buying side. You are there at 1am tasting the produce, developing relationships, picking out the best fruit you can find and then haggling over the price. It’s a very interesting part of the job.

Unlike me, Richard has quite exotic tastes in food – he’s really into trying things from different parts the world whenever he can. When he goes to the Market for lunch, he will always come back with something different from one of the Borough Market Kitchen stalls, or something interesting from one of the other greengrocers.

If I was going to give him one thing from the Stark’s Fruiterers stall it would be a passionfruit – you will often see him with one in his hand when they’re in. But I’d say that figs would come a close second. Whenever they’re good, he’ll eat loads of them. Working with him, I’ve discovered that he also loves cheese and chocolate brownies.

The worst thing about having Richard here is that he does eat a lot of the produce – he’s a big lad. But to be honest, there’s no real downside. We get on very well and we make a good team – as long as he does what I tell him!

Richard on Jock

My dad has been selling fruit and veg since long before I was around. He really likes the social aspect of it. He enjoys having a chat with the customers and the other stallholders, as well as the merchant bit of the business – the buying and selling and all the activity that the customers don’t see. He loves it when we’re out and about in the wholesale market in the middle of the night; you can see he gets a real buzz out of that, particularly the banter with the lads, some of whom he has known for years. He enjoys trying to spot the best produce and he really enjoys getting it for the best price. I think he just likes this way of life. He keeps threatening to retire, but I can’t see that happening any time soon.

He really knows his stuff. Even though I’ve been around this business all my life, I’m learning so much from him now I’ve started working here full-time. It’s not just the selling; it’s about doing the job well and running a good business. I’d rather he didn’t know I said that, though!

I wouldn’t call my dad a foodie. His tastes are quite traditional. He’s not particularly experimental in what he eats, but food is important to him and he recognises and appreciates good ingredients and good cooking.

I suppose after dealing with high quality ingredients for so many years, what my dad wants the cook to do is bring the best out of them. If you gave him £20 and sent him off into the Market, he would probably spend it all on fish. He’s really into his fish. If he did come back with anything else it would probably be lamb chops from Northfield Farm – he’s a real fan of those.

My dad can be a bit grumpy sometimes, If I’m honest, especially if I don’t do something his way. When that happens, he can get a bit upset. But we do have a good laugh. If you get on, which we do, there is nothing better than working with your family.

“JEWS COMING TO THIS COUNTRY FROM ALL OVER THE WORLD BROUGHT WITH THEM THEIR OWN STYLES AND TECHNIQUES”

Interview: Clare Finney

What are the origins of salt beef?

The use of salt to preserve meat has been around far, far longer than salt beef as we know it today, in many different cultures. Yet salting meat can also be a way of koshering meat, because it removes the blood. It wouldn’t necessarily meet the strict criteria applied to koshering today, but it did the job historically, so Jews coming to this country from all over the world brought with them their own styles and techniques.

Where does your own salt beef recipe originate from?

It came through the family. My family had a delicatessen in Brick Lane, and the salt beef was made at my grandmother’s place on Hanbury Street, then brought round and sold in the shop. I’ve always been into food – my parents worked hard, so I used to cook the family meal, even as a kid. That’s where I picked it up. The recipe we use today at Nana Fanny’s is exactly the same as it was back then, with the same old-fashioned techniques.

What techniques are they?

First there is the brining process: immersing the brisket into our special brine to allow the flavour to penetrate through the meat, then leaving it there for a couple of days at an ambient temperature, turning it over regularly for an even distribution of brine. From there it goes to our kitchen – a basic set up, with converted ham boilers that look a bit like kettles. They have tight fitting lids, so there’s a lot of pressure inside. We boil the brined brisket in these for about six hours, with vegetables, herbs and spices to enhance the flavour, during which time the fat turns into a natural gelatine, renders down and is caught within the pockets of meat, so it becomes buttery and juicy. It’s then left to stand for a week, before being delivered to the Market, where it sits for another week in the refrigerator, before being brought up to room temperature on the stall and served.

How long does this whole process take?

From start to finish? Roughly three weeks.

Where does your beef come from?

It’s Irish brisket. It’s always Irish brisket: in European briskets that have been imported, the fibres are too tight, don’t produce the loose flaky meat people associate with salt beef. The cows are free range, pasture reared, and the farmer who supplies us is really keen on putting systems into place to mitigate their impact on the environment. They’ve planted woodland, and they only use biofuels now.

Is it kosher?

Not officially. In order to be classed as kosher, there is an authoritative body that would have to come and inspect all of our premises and processes. We’d have to have someone standing there while we’re serving, to make sure that kosher rules are adhered to. It would be impossible. We never imply our meat is kosher, though. And besides, our reuben sandwiches contain cheese, and that breaks all the rules!

“ONCE AN ENJOYMENT OF THE CAPSAICIN COMPOUND HAS BEEN ACQUIRED, A DASH BECOMES A REGULAR NECESSITY”

Image: Regula Ysewijn

I’m very fond of the small glass condiment bottles that have a near-permanent place in my kitchen cupboards. There’s something strangely reassuring about these items, found lurking in the darker, stickier corners, at a height just beyond eye level – it’s a bit of a rummage every time I seek one, and rarely do I get the right bottle first time, but it’ll make its way to the counter top when required. Eventually.

No doubt our inventories are similar. I’m talking: a bottle of Worcestershire sauce, which is always between one third full and nearly empty, regardless of how recently I bought it; a couple of varieties of soy sauce; a sweet chilli sauce; some truffle oil; and several hot pepper sauces.

The latter category is vital. Not to everyone’s taste, I know. But once an enjoyment of the capsaicin compound that makes chilli peppers hot has been acquired, a dash becomes a regular necessity. It’s addictive: I splash hot pepper sauce on cheese on toast (both before and after the cheese goes under the grill); onto omelettes; over scrambled eggs and baked portobello mushrooms; into mayonnaise to pep things up a little; through soups and stews, particularly tomato-based ones and especially if there are black beans or tortillas involved. And I know others who employ it over many, many more things. The nutters.

Hot pepper sauces vary in character and colour depending on the chilli pepper, and where it sits on the Scoville scale of pungency. There’s the famous American one from Avery Island, USA, made from the tabasco pepper, and a massive range of Mexican hot pepper sauces too, which might be made from habanero, chipotle, guajillo, arbol, or piquin chilli peppers, or combinations thereof.

Punchy hot pepper sauces are a vital part of cuisine in the Caribbean islands. A few Trinidadian versions are conspicuous for employing maruga scorpion peppers – at 1,200,000 Scoville Heat Units (SHUs) one of the very hottest around, and too much for me (for more context, tabasco peppers measure 2,500-5,000 SHUs, chipotle 1,500-2,500 SHUs). Others use scotch bonnets, which tend to measure between 80,000 and 400,000 SHUs, so sure are hot, but they’re fruity too.

Though known for its Grenadian jams, jellies and spices, Green Market stalwart De La Grenade has two hot pepper sauces, both of which are worth a taste. There’s a yellow one, which is a common West Indian style – usually this is down to the use of onions, turmeric and mustard powder to temper the scotch bonnets, though De La Grenade’s is coloured by piccalilli, which adds a delicious piquant sweetness and provides a soft impact. But I really like the other one – the Forte sauce, which makes my lips throb and nose a little sweaty, without losing the taste of the peppers. Moreover, this is something that can be used as an ingredient as well as a condiment, as it makes an excellent and often vital addition to a marinade.

Hot pepper sauces are crucial in things like buffalo wing marinade, where it is incorporated into the mellowing comfort of melted butter – something similar would work well painted onto corn on the cob. But I love how De la Grenade’s Forte adds a warm tingle to papaya marinade. Use this on any tough, slow-cooking meat you’ve lined up for the barbecue, be that chicken thigh or lamb shoulder, as papaya contains an enzyme called papain, which is an incredibly effective tenderiser. It’s particularly good with pork steaks cut from collar or neck; the kind of things that might not be on a display, but the Market’s butchers will happily oblige if you explain what you’re after.

“CANCOILLOTTE WAS DEVISED BY PEASANTS ANXIOUS THAT NOTHING GO TO WASTE DURING BUTTER MAKING”

“This is the cheese I suggest when people say ‘I can’t have cheese, I am on a diet!’” Florent at The French Comte grins, opening the lid of the cancoillotte. Pale, glossy, with the texture of extra rich and creamy yoghurt when cold and melting butter when hot, it does not look like a cheese which, Florent proudly boasts, is “one of the very few cheeses that’s less than 10 per cent fat”.

Nor does it taste like it. Sure, it’s no stilton, but it’s “flavourful rather than strong” and accommodates other flavours beautifully. Its closest comparison is mascarpone, the soft Italian cheese, but really, says Florent, “there’s nothing else like cancoillotte. It’s so original and local to our region that even Parisian friends haven’t heard of it” – Florent’s region being, of course, Franche-Comté in eastern France.

It’s been around since the 16th century, though the name descends from the 19th century word coille, which refers to the milk left after extracting cream. Devised by peasants anxious that nothing go to waste during butter making, cancoillotte came about through their practice of adding milk to the coille, before coagulating, cutting, pressing and ripening it to create a cheese known as metton.

Melt metton in a little water or milk over a low heat, Florent continues, add salt and butter, and voila! It’s cancoillotte, a cheese which, in its humble origins and its significance to the local community, is as rooted in the terroir and traditions of the Franche-Comte as the celebrated comté itself.

Perhaps – whisper it – even more so: for where comte is made solely from milk, producers of cancoillotte are wont to incorporate an intriguing array of local produce into the creamy cheese. “There’s the typical French cancoillotte with garlic, one with Jura wine – we sell both here, as well as the classic – and as it’s become more popular, people have developed cheese with shallots, truffles, or girolles.”

Florent’s producer, a family friend with whom he has worked for many years, even makes some with the local spirit, absinthe. “You don’t get hammered when you eat it,” he grins, “it’s actually very nice.”

For his own part, however, he’s partial to the classic, with its soft, creamy texture and buttery taste. “It is what you make it. Each cancoillotte is different” – for it is one of the few cheeses in the region still made domestically. Proud as he is of his highly esteemed producer, Florent’s fondest memories of this cheese are of eating it at home. “We would buy the metton and mum would make a big bowl of it for the family. It can be served in so many ways,” he enthuses: “hot in fondu, cold spread on bread, stirred through pasta, melted on vegetables. My favourite is cancoillotte melted over the local montbeliard or morteau sausage” – served, of course, with a glass of cote du Jura or vin Jaune.

“FARMERS ARE BEGINNING TO REALISE THAT TILLING MIGHT BE THE REASON THEIR CROPS ARE STRUGGLING, NOT THE CURE”

Images: Joseph Fox

“To work with nature is art. It’s beautiful. Because nature is not lines – only curves,” says Frank Ohlenschlaeger, feelingly. We look out across the landscape – an El Greco of green and brown, enveloped in folds of grey mist – and back round at the caves we’re staying in, their shelves and cabinets built into nooks and crevices of undulating white walls. Frank’s company, Almendrehesa SL, is deeply involved in restoring these landscapes by reintegrating them with natural processes – a concept known as regenerative farming. The fruits (or, in fact, nuts) of his work can be found at Borough Market, thanks to Charles Tebbutt, whose Food & Forest stall sources almonds and walnuts from farms that use a form of sustainable agriculture called agroforestry. 

“What Frank is doing here is fantastic,” says Charles. We’re in Andalucía, southern Spain, on the way to visit our first almond farm. Along the way, we pass field after field of windswept farmland and, tellingly, wind turbines, whirling away in the gusty sirocco winds. Working with the local AlVelAl initiative and Commonland – a global foundation which develops landscape restoration projects in areas vulnerable to erosion and climate change – Frank’s company has been instrumental in coordinating farmers, researchers, technicians and public bodies to drive forward one of Spain’s most ambitious regeneration schemes.

“He coordinates the different farmers who supply him, visits and advises interested farmers on how to farm more sustainably, and facilitates press visits like this that spread the word about landscape regeneration and agroforestry,” Charles explains. It’s these farmers who supply Food & Forest with those large, smooth-as-a-dime almonds that look and taste a million miles away from those you find in the supermarkets, most of which hail from California’s San Joaquin Valley.

On Charles’s Borough Market stall you’ll find photos comparing their nut farms to the barren wastelands left behind by California’s intensive agriculture. “It’s a false economy,” says Charles of their methods, which see huge swathes of land exploited in the name of productivity at the expense of flora and fauna. In the short term this means more almonds; in the long term this leads to desertification and its consequences – plummeting crop yields and devastating water shortages. Initiatives like AlVelAl and Commonland are growing in influence in Andalucía because farmers are “seeing the consequences of intensive production and wanting advice on how to stop them”.

Factor climate change into the equation – in the past three years this region has had 150 litres of rainfall instead of the expected 300 to 400 litres – and it is little wonder farmers are struggling. “You can see it all the way from Madrid to Granada,” observes Frank. “There it is all monoculture, and the soil is really eroding.”

Frank is not from Andalucía. He is not even Spanish – hailing instead from Germany. But his facility with the culture, language and people of this region is peerless. “I know all the farmers I work with here. It is not anonymous – we have good relationships.”

The philosophy behind Commonland is the invention of “a common land”, he continues. Regenerating the landscape is not an end but rather a means of creating a sustainable economy. “We need to inspire people, particularly young people, to live and work in this area, not disappear to big towns or to other countries.” The youth unemployment rate in Andalucía, he explains, is one of the worst in the country, “so the landscape restoration project must not happen in isolation. It must include young people. They must see the benefits. We call it the return of inspiration. The second return is a social return: to create jobs for all the people in the area, and ensure the opportunities and profit is not concentrated in one company.”

Miguel Angel Gómez Tenorio is a case in point. His is the first farm we visit: a family affair outside Granada, with almond trees coming softly into fruit, shedding their blossom. Where the land beneath the trees of a conventional almond farms would be brown and barren, his is verdant with cereals, herbs and legumes. “One of the reasons I like working with Frank and Miguel is that they are taking the benefits of their university education, then going out there and applying it to the real world – not sitting in their ivory towers,” says Charles, referring to the pair’s degrees in agroeconomics and agriculture respectively.

Standard almond agriculture dictates that fields be tilled, or ploughed very regularly, to direct all the soil’s goodness toward the almonds. Miguel takes a different tack: in September he plants his ground crop; come late spring, the crops are ploughed gently back into the soil. “The legumes are ‘nitrogen-fixing’ plants. Their nodules contain nitrogen-fixing bacteria that make nitrogen in the air available to the soil. It’s a miracle!” says Frank. The barley, meanwhile, supplies organic carbon. The result is what Miguel and Frank call “green manure”: plants which, while they grow, reduce erosion and run-off, then when ploughed into the soil provide nitrates, organic carbon, other nutrients and water.

Miguel is a farmer. But he is also a researcher and a professor at a nearby university, where he works during week days. One job informs the other: on the way around the farm we pass an experimental section where he is cultivating the almonds in different conditions and conducting long-term analysis of the results. One is green manure, one is traditional manure (sheep, cow and chicken faeces), one is bare, and one has a fast-acting type of compost.

“I want to analyse the quality of the fields over 20 years – not just the quality of the soil, but also the quality of the almonds,” he tells us. Initially most farmers come to Frank because their land is suffering, or because he pays a good rate, or both. But to be persuaded of the benefits and potential of agroforestry and sustainable agriculture, they need hard evidence – and that’s where people like Miguel come in. He is young, he is educated, but with his livelihood and that of his family bound up in the farm, he is also results-driven. “My interest in the project is 100 per cent.”

He takes out his phone and flicks to a photo of a stern-looking older man, his arms crossed and his legs planted in the same field we’re standing in. “This is my father. His philosophy is tillage. He’s not convinced by the idea of crop cover – he believes it competes with the almonds.” It’s a common problem in Andalucía – indeed in any region where farms are passed down through generations. The older, more traditional farmers believe tilling three or even four times a year is best practice, as it breaks up the dry soil and takes out the competition between ‘weeds’, as they see these ground plants, and the crop they want to cultivate. Farmers of the next generation, however – at least, those who still want to follow their parents into farming – are beginning to realise that tilling might be the reason their crops are struggling, not the cure for it. As a result, each farm we visit here is a patchwork of fields managed by the old guard, and those managed by their more pioneering daughters and sons.

“Many farmers don’t consider the financial costs of tilling, or its possible environmental impacts. Often they do it because their father did it, without really asking, ‘Is this good or bad?’” The problem with constant tilling, Frank continues, is that without the structure of organic matter there is nothing to hold the soil together and retain the rain water. It just runs away and as it goes, leaches the soil of nutrients and leaves it more susceptible to erosion by the region’s winds.

Miguel’s father is coming round to this perspective – in part persuaded, no doubt, by the lush greenery surrounding Miguel’s almond trees and, crucially, on the trees themselves. “I flooded these fields for just an hour last week,” Miguel says, pointing to an ancient Roman irrigation system that carries water to the village from the snow-capped Sierra Nevada mountains. The flood prompted a surge of greenery. By way of contrast, his father’s adjacent field of almond trees remains resolutely brown.

Many old-school farms have gone beyond the point where simply adding more artificial fertiliser can compensate for the levels of degradation. But to challenge such deep-rooted farming practices is “very difficult”, Frank says. There are farms you can point to as growing evidence of the benefits of agroforestry – Miguel’s is one – but there aren’t many, and few farmers have the time, interest or resources to explore alternative ways of scratching their living from the land.

It’s why Frank offers tempting prices; why his mind is constantly whirring as to how farmers can get the best out of sustainable agriculture, without compromising their income or their eligibility for EU subsidies. “The money is the first motivation to change. Later it is important that they see there are advantages to changing that go beyond money: that they see the fields improve, the crop improve in quantity and quality. I hope that, in time, when farmers have more knowledge of regenerative farming, it won’t just be the price that encourages them to continue.”

His work is beset with challenges. For a start, the EU rather bafflingly withholds its almond subsidy if a farmer also sells the crops grown between the nut trees. “You can plant what you want – barley, herbs, legumes – but you can’t sell them if you don’t want to lose your subsidies. It is stupid,” Frank says, irritably. He hopes this will change, and in the meantime has enlisted the help of a small processor of essential oils, who might be able to use the lavender and other herbs grown on the farm to make aromatics. Nor is that all Miguel’s lavender shrubs are good for.

Following the lazy line of a bee from its feast in a lavender bud, I realise his farm is peppered with hives. “The beekeepers are happy because Miguel farms without pesticides, and we’re happy because the bees are pollinators,” Frank explains simply. “In the future I would like to sell almond honey.” But he needs more time, more money and crucially, more farmers. “The problem is most farmers think they don’t need bees, because new varieties of almond tree are self-pollinating. But you can still improve the harvest. We still need bees.”

To most of us, organic farming is something of a gold standard, implying harmony with the environment and healthier, more natural produce. To Frank, it’s a not a helpful categorisation. “The requirements for organic certification in Europe are the bare minimum. All it means is the producer has not used synthetic pesticides or fertilisers. You can still raze the ground four times a year. You can still use organic pesticides, which sounds okay until you realise how much more environmentally and financially effective it is to just encourage the natural predators that already exist.”

Similarly, the nitrates provided by the organic fertiliser will in fact stymie any nitrogen production from legumes. “Nature doesn’t fix nitrogen if it’s already there. It’s smarter than that.” There is such thing as bad organic farming, he continues, just as there is bad conventional farming. “Whereas for me, regenerative farming, ecological farming, is what very good organic farming should be.” It’s a sustainable system, it doesn’t depend on constant inputs. Of course, you need some sort of compost – green manure, sheep manure – but not frequent applications of organic fertiliser that’s been made elsewhere. “That shouldn’t be necessary. Farmers should be able to make their own compost, which is better-suited. Ecological farming is knowing the relationship between the climate, the plants, the soil and so on, respecting this relationship, and supporting it in your approach to farming.”

We move on, reluctantly: Miguel’s farm is an oasis. While the almonds have yet to ripen, the furry green buds smell full of promise. Our next stop, however, is what Charles describes as “textbook agroforestry”: a walnut farm that grazes indigenous sheep, with crop cover on the ground beneath the trees. It’s also an example of an EU agricultural subsidy breeding ingenuity, albeit inadvertently; the farmers were simply looking to get a forestry grant when they planted a field of walnut saplings a few years ago.

“A member of their family has a walnut farm in another part of Spain and gave them some,” explains Frank. It was only recently that they decided to harvest them and expand their collection to 20 acres, and “10, maybe 15 different varieties?” says farmer Rafael Ordínez (pictured top). The variations are too subtle to detect. Sampling a handful from his November harvest (“we sun-dry them for 15 to 30 days, outside. We’d love a solar powered dryer but” – he gives the ‘money’ shrug), I am hit by crunch after crunch of warm, creamy earthiness; a flavour which, unlike many walnuts, hovers tantalisingly on the line between bitter and sweet.

This is farming at its most simple, yet most effective. “The sheep do the work of a compost heap, except they do it in two days rather than six months,” explains Frank. The farmer tills just once a year, a policy implemented as a money-saving exercise, but continued once it became clear how much better the soil was as a result. Rafael Ordínez is not as young as Miguel. Nor does he have a degree in agriculture. “But he is university educated, he is interested, he is reading new research, he understands economy,” Frank explains.

Among the young people of Spain, and indeed elsewhere in Europe, the role of farmer has increasingly come to denote poor education – even small-mindedness. Redressing this perspective and repositioning farming as a professional career, worthy of respect and demanding knowledge and skills, is as fundamental to the Commonland and AlVelAl initiatives as wood pasture grazing. “We want to be proud of being farmers, and we want our sons and daughters to feel that as well.”

If their businesses are to have a chance of surviving into the next decade, these farmers need a younger generation: their understanding of marketing and trading, and their English. The absence of these skills among people of a certain age in Spain is, according to Frank, Franco’s legacy: “He was strongly isolationist. French and Spanish were the only languages he permitted.”

Are times changing? From the people we visit it’s hard for me to say, but I am heartened by the farmer who owns the caves in which we’re staying, overlooking Andalucía’s shifting landscape. Like many in this region, he supplements his living as a farmer with an additional income – in his case, a collection of beautifully converted caves. “In Spain we have young people who are very prepared; who are good and hardworking, who speak many languages,” he says passionately. “We have three members of our cooperative under 30,” says Frank. “Our biggest farmer is 27.”

They know about marketing, about the hard lines of packaging design and commerce, but they also care deeply about environment. Slowly – very slowly – they are bringing these skills back to the curving land from which they came.

“THE KEY IS WORKING WITH GREAT SUPPLIERS. OUR PORK HAS BEEN SUPPLIED BY THE SAME PRODUCERS FOR 25 YEARS”

What are the origins of the Melton Mowbray pork pie?

Bakers in the Melton Mowbray area began producing these pies for gentlemen who had come up for the hunting. They would put them in their saddlebags and eat them while they were out. They were tasty and filling, and eating them wouldn’t interrupt the hunt for too long. They’ve come a long way since then.

In 2007, the Melton Mowbray pork pie was granted Protected Geographical Indication (PGI) status by the EU, recognising its historical, cultural and culinary importance. That was a really important moment for us. Like a lot of artisanal products, making these pies is about keeping the process simple but learning the skills and expertise to do so very, very well. There is no secret to our ingredients: all we use is flour, water, lard, salt, pork and a natural pork jelly. That simplicity can leave you vulnerable to cheap, poor quality imitations.

How do you maintain those standards?

The key is working with great suppliers. At Mrs Kings Pork Pies, our pork has been supplied by the same producers for 25 years. We believe it is really important to know where our pork has come from. We want to know that the pigs were raised well and that the slaughter and butchery have all been done to the highest standards. We have used the same flour suppliers for a similar length of time. The benefits go far beyond the trust that is vital to any relationship – it is also about understanding each other’s production methods and requirements. Our suppliers know exactly what we are looking for and the qualities we demand in our ingredients. Whether it is the meat, lard or flour, they know what is and is not acceptable to us.

Give us an example of this close relationship.

We use pork shoulder in our pork pies, as it has the best meat to fat ratio for roasting, which is in effect what is happening to the pork once it is in the oven. We used to bone the joints ourselves, but, as we got busier this became harder. After talking things over with the suppliers, they sent their best butchers over to learn how we handled and butchered the joints. We now trust them to bone the joints for us. As you can imagine, entrusting an outside company with such a vital process was a real step. We still examine every joint we get before accepting it, but we very rarely find any issue.

What is the process for making the pies?

In some ways, it is very much a scaled-up version of what would happen in a home kitchen. After the butchers break down the shoulders, the meat is put through a machine that chops rather than grinds it – you get a coarse mince, reminiscent of hand-chopped meat, where you can still see chunks of pork.

For every pie, a ball of pastry is shaped around a wooden block by hand – this is what the term ‘hand-raised’ refers to. We then put a ball of meat into the casing, then put the pastry lid on and crimp it, also by hand. This crimping makes the lid secure. as well as adding a decorative touch. Once assembled, we put the pies in the fridge, as pastry cooks better when cold. The pies then go into the oven straight from the fridge.

What happens once they are out of the oven?

We put them aside on baking trays, so that the pies can cool down and the meat can rest. Then we add the jelly that surrounds the meat. We make this by boiling pigs’ trotters for several hours to render out the gelatine. This gives you a lovely natural jelly with a deep pork flavour. We don’t have to do anything to it other than warm it up and pour it through a hole at the top of the pie into the gap that has developed.

Is this very different from large-scale industrial production?

The usual industrial method involves the casing and lids being shaped and attached by machines, with the pork filling being piped in. Melton Mowbray pies have to be baked free-standing, which leads to the characteristic bulge, whereas most commercial pies are baked in hoops to produce a regimented, uniformly shaped product. And finally, they’ll use a jelly made from commercial gelatine, with flavourings added to mimic the pork flavour. It is a very different thing to the pies we produce.

Where did you learn the skills to make these pies?

I was taught by my wife’s grandfather Kenneth Parr, which was a real privilege, as he was widely considered the country’s best master piemaker. It was he who bought the historic Mrs Kings company, which was known for the provenance and quality of its pies. As each of my brothers joined the business, they learned his methods as well. My son will join the company when he finishes his studies. He has been helping out since he was a boy and has that same passion.

So, the craft of the master piemaker is still alive?

Absolutely: ‘simple’ does not mean easy. It took me about five years to master all the processes necessary to produce high quality pork pies on a commercial scale. You need to understand how to handle the meat and cook it to its best, but you also have to understand working with pastry. You have butchers and bakers, but a good piemaker needs to combine the best of both skills. My role is to make sure that everything here is perfect, from the ingredients that come in to the pies that go out. It takes a lot of time and effort from everyone, but the first bite of one of our pies will convince you it is all worth it.

“OUR LOVE OF FOOD MEANS SANDHYA AND I WERE ALWAYS LIKELY TO GET ON WELL, AND WE HIT IF OFF FROM THE BEGINNING”

Interviews: Viel Richardson / Image: Orlando Gili

Sandhya on Gaurav

Gaurav and I have known each other for about 10 years. My husband, who was best friends with Gaurav long before I met him, knew that I wanted to change my job and that Gaurav was in the same position. We both share a passion for food, and we would talk about it all the time, so my husband suggested we actually do something with that passion. Horn OK Please was the result. We decided we wanted to do Indian street food, which is reflected in the name – it’s a phrase you’ll see painted on the back end of vehicles in India.

Gaurav is always talking about food. If it’s not about something we are cooking, it will be about something else that’s gluten free and healthy – those are his food obsessions. Those and beer! He is an amazing chef and does most of the cooking for the business. He has a wonderful culinary imagination and is great at playing with tastes, textures and aromas, which is what I think makes our food exciting. Being surrounded by fresh produce at the Market is something that really inspires Gaurav – he loves the seasonality that Borough Market represents and tries to reflect that in the food. Where Gaurav is really brilliant is in his ability to incorporate these seasonal changes into what we regularly cook, rather than creating entirely new dishes.

Gaurav’s dedication is amazing. When I was on maternity leave, he worked all hours to keep things running smoothly. Not only is he a very good friend, but I feel like I have his complete support whenever I need it, which is very important.

The worst thing about working with Gaurav is the fact that he is always so relaxed. If something is getting me a bit stressed, it can be frustrating to look across and see him as the picture of calm. We get on very well, but we do argue a bit, which is why even though we both work on the stall, you will rarely see us working there at the same time! I would say the relationship is like a brother and sister.

Gaurav on Sandhya

Our shared love of food means Sandhya and I were always likely to get on well, and we hit if off from the beginning. But with her, it’s more than just about loving food, it’s about connecting with the customers. We have developed a real bond with many of them, and Sandhya has been central to that: she knows their names, their birthdays, what they do for a living. We have customers who have had children since they have been coming to us and now their kids are beginning to eat at the stall, which is really lovely.

Sandhya wants to make sure the customers understand our food as well as enjoying it – and that enthusiasm is infectious. Seeing her with the staff and customers is like watching an extended family enjoying themselves. It adds real colour and vibrancy to the Market.

The main things Sandhya brings to the business are drive and passion. Her work ethic is amazing. When she goes on holiday and I take on her duties, it reminds me of just how much she does in all areas of the business. It is one of the core reasons that the business has done so well.

Even though I do the cooking, Sandhya has a great palate and I completely trust her opinion. She is the first person to try any new recipe and if she doesn’t like it, I go back to the drawing board. We both go to India regularly and if either of us try something we like, we will see if we can use it in some way. While our food is vegetarian – and so am I – Sandhya definitely is not. She likes steak and really good hamburgers. That said, if I was choosing a place for a celebratory meal, it would have to be somewhere with good champagne and a great cheese board. Those are two of her favourite things.

“THE DISH IS CLAIMED BY MALAYSIA AND SINGAPORE AND SLURPED FROM THAILAND TO INDONESIA AND BEYOND”

Illustration: Ed Smith

The origin of laksa is a bit slippery to pin down, just like the noodles that nourish this fragrant southeast Asian soup. Some etymologists believe the word laksa originates from an ancient Persian word for noodles, ‘laksha’ – a remnant of the centuries old trade links between the Middle East and islands of the Pacific. But the dish is claimed by Malaysia and Singapore as their own and slurped from Thailand to Indonesia and beyond. Variations are abundant, but united in a single common purpose: to fill the belly and comfort the soul.

A bowl of laksa comes brimming with treasures. Noodles intertwine with poultry, vegetables, seafood and/or eggs in an aromatic broth. Ingredients and seasonings vary, thanks to the Peranakan people, descendants of early Chinese migrants, who settled throughout the Malay archipelago and inscribed onto the dish the regional signatures of their new homelands.

On the island of Penang, for example, asam laksa resonates with sour Thai flavours like tamarind, while in Singapore the dish is sweet and rich with coconut milk and salty with dried shrimp. In Johor, meanwhile, laksa is more akin to curry.

This diversity offers a pleasing latitude to chefs. “I don’t ever use the word authentic; I just say it’s my family recipe,” explains Salina Campbell, founder of Borough Market’s Joli food stall, which serves up hundreds of bowls of vibrant Singapore laksa each week. Salina says fresh ingredients – not dried – are key. “We use fresh turmeric, fresh galangal, and fresh baby shallots – so much more expensive than dried, but worth it – which I cook from fresh. I also grind the chillies myself,” she says. “I use my great-grandmother’s recipe. She was a food trader at one of the first food markets in Penang.”

The secret to the vibrant flavour of Salina’s laksa? She attributes it in part to cooking her paste – made with shallots, galangal, lemon grass, tamarind, dried shrimp, star anise, mint, pandan leaves, chilli, candlenuts (for nutty richness) and olive oil (for health, she says) – in a clay pot. “The flavour is better than cooking it in a metal pan.” No surprise that laksa is among the richest, most delicious and comforting of all the bowl foods.

Paste

The all-important paste defines the flavour of laksa. A heady amalgam of dried spices, fresh herbs and other aromatics (which vary according to the region and style of laksa being prepared) are pounded to a paste, traditionally with a pestle and mortar.

Soup or gravy

This is made by frying off the paste (essential to avoid the taste of raw spices in the finished dish) and adding liquid – coconut milk and/or chicken or seafood broth. In some regions, pieces of chicken are cooked in the soup itself.

Noodles

These are cooked separately and added when the laksa is assembled: thick rice ribbons, delicate vermicelli, wheaten spaghetti or, if you’re lucky, more than one variety.

Add-ons

Appropriate additions are deliciously varied. Prawns, tofu and laksa leaves are commonly included. Other morsels added to the bowl might comprise boiled eggs, shrimp balls, fish cakes, cuttlefish, black pudding, mackerel and mint, topped off with a sprinkling of fried shallots.

“BREAD IS FOR SHARING. BREAK BREAD AROUND A TABLE AND YOU WILL FEEL A REAL CONNECTION”

Images: Orlando Gili

“There’s no love in a roll,” proclaims Olivier Favrel, over the steady thwump-thwump of the mixer turning fat folds of dough. At first, I don’t understand him. Olivier is a baker: surely a bread roll inspires as much love in him as one of his large pain de campagne loaves? “Bread is for sharing. Break bread around a table, and you will feel a connection that’s quite different to sharing a salad or a chicken,” he explains simply. “Pay close attention, and you will see there is a difference between people passing bread to one another, and passing the salt.”

That’s the first reason you won’t find bread rolls on the Olivier’s Bakery stall at Borough Market. The second is more technical. “Good bread comes from slow fermentation. If you want to make good bread, don’t make 2,000 little rolls of it. It doesn’t work so well,” he says, the weight of 30-odd years’ baking experience resting comfortably beneath his assertion. You can make bread without slow fermentation – bread that’s not sourdough, that is – but “sourdough is the most beautiful way to make bread, and the most natural”. Of course, by sourdough Olivier strictly means bread that takes a full day to prove, using the bakery’s own starter culture, not the so-called sourdoughs you’ll find in certain supermarkets, produced at an industrial speed and quantity. “This is terrible,” he says, French rs rolling dramatically. “It is totally inappropriate and commercial. Sourdough is a slow process. You have to care, you have to focus – and there has to be a great connection between the baker and the bread.”

The production of sourdough, he says, is not something you can control at scale. In fact, it’s not something you can control at all – even at Olivier’s level of operation, which he has deliberately confined to selling through markets. “You’re in control of your ingredients and your method, but no one’s in control once the process has started. You do it together: you and your dough.” Working with organic flour from Shipton Mill in the Cotswolds, Olivier finds that every week tells a different story. “Every batch is unique. One week it’s strong, the next it’s weak, the next we have to add more or less water.” To stick to the same recipe week in week out and do everything by machine would be “a complete disaster. You need to get to know the flour, and it changes each week because they mill in small batches.”

This means that each Monday demands a careful renegotiation of the relationship between the bakers and their dough. “You see the colour, you see how it is going to absorb the water, you see how it reacts in the mixer and how it relaxes.” Only once an understanding between a baker and his dough has been established can he set out with confidence on the “small journey” that is baking sourdough.

This connection is all important. The effects of mood on the creative process have often been expounded upon, but rarely as starkly as when Olivier observes that “a happy baker will make good bread. An unhappy baker will struggle.” A chef can feel love for their ingredients, he says, “like a nice carrot, a leg of lamb or beef – but I don’t think they have the same relationship as bakers do. It is a living thing, dough. It is beautiful.”

Olivier’s starter is now 10 years old. “We feed it twice a day, every day. If you go on holiday, someone has to feed it. If you don’t, you won’t have the life to give to your bread.” It’s like a pet, I observe. “No, it’s like a partner,” Olivier laughs. “If you look after it, it will give you the best bit. If you don’t, then you will get trouble.” Sitting in a large plastic tub, the beige and gloopy starter culture that underpins Olivier’s may not be a looker, but it smells rich and full of life. The mixture is malty and warm, bubbling and fizzing as the yeasts and bacteria work their magic. Its potency is palpable. This is a potion that can undermine even the most precise instructions. “I often contrast baking to the work of a pastry chef. With pastry, you follow the recipe and it is fine. If you need to take a break, or stop and change something in the middle, you can easily do it. With the baker, things will never be that precise – and you cannot leave it and then come back to it. Once you start, you have pressed the button and started this living thing, which you have to stay with. You have to keep focused all the time.”

In fact, Olivier was aged just 13 when he started his own career as a pastry chef in his hometown of Saint-Malo, Brittany. “I didn’t like school. My uncle was a pastry chef and every Sunday he would arrive after his shift, at the end of our family lunch, bearing a cake he had made for us. It was always beautiful – and it always tasted amazing,” Olivier smilingly recalls. “My uncle usually went straight to bed after presenting it, but when I saw the faces of everyone eating it, I thought, this man is making all of us happy. It is better than the Lotto,” he continues. “When you win the Lotto, people fight, but people are happy sharing cake together.” He left school at the earliest opportunity and started as an unpaid assistant at a patisserie down the road.

The following year, he was diagnosed with a wheat allergy – “which is why I wear gloves,” he says, holding up his flour-dusted gloved hands. Needless to say, this didn’t faze him and his eyes light up as he describes his subsequent apprenticeship at a patisserie and bakery a short cycle away from his home town. “Every morning I would stop at the port on my way into work and listen to the masts clinking and the waves sounding. It was very poetic. I loved the silence of being the only one awake at that hour. Then as I approached the bakery and smelt the bread and started making pastries – it just took me.” Fast forward a few years and he was working in Greenwich, his London-based chef brother having convinced him to take a job at Didier’s Patisserie, official supplier of fine cakes and pastries to no less a customer than the Queen.

“We made her a birthday cake, and patisserie for her garden parties and other events, like Wimbledon,” recalls Olivier. “My brother went back home after a few years, but I remained in London.” In France, a pastry chef can only ascend through strict hierarchies – “if you are number three, you can only be promoted to number two. If you are number eight, you can only go up to number seven” – but in London Olivier found that, in the world of macarons and madeleines at least, meritocracy reigned. “If you have the talent, you can rise up to the top very quickly, and I preferred the culture here,” he says. “Coming from a small town where everyone knows everyone, it was so nice to be somewhere where you can be what you want to be and wear what you want to wear.” He’d fallen for his wife, a lovely Bulgarian called Valentina; and he’d fallen for the city he now proudly calls home.

Olivier’s eponymous bakery was born out of a curious coincidence of good fortune and good principle: the latter on the part of Olivier and Jan McCourt of Northfield Farm, a now fellow trader. “I’d left my previous job as head baker because the company had been sold and things were changing. They started using pre-mix,” Olivier whispers with the appalled tone of a man describing a crime. “It was not for me. I left with no job to go to – but in a few months, an events company that Valentina and I were in touch with asked us to do a market in Nottingham, and we agreed.” He had no oven. He had no mixer. But he knew Matt Jones, now of Bread Ahead, and he knew that at the time Matt was doing some work with Northfield Farm, which is in Nottinghamshire. “I asked Matt to see if Jan would let us borrow his oven and mixer, and he welcomed us. So, there we started. For the next four days of the market, I think I slept less than six hours. In total.”

Olivier loves his adopted country, but if there is one aspect in which he remains resolutely French, it is in his attitude toward baking. “I must say it was a bit of a shock to me when I arrived 20 or so years ago. I came here with £50, and all I could afford was a 24p sliced white loaf from Safeway,” he shudders. By the time Olivier’s Bakery launched, changes were already afoot, with small artisans spreading sourdough across the urban peripheries. But the bread culture in Britain was still nothing compared to that of a country built and powered by boulangeries. “The French eat bread every day, with every meal. There is not one flat, house or restaurant where you will not see bread on the table,” says Olivier. He had come here as a pastry chef, and could have made more money by remaining so, “but I got back to bread because I felt I needed to help create change here, a little. I felt people deserved better bread, bread that was good for them, not full of additives and preservatives and other rubbish.”

The feedback from British customers was remarkable. “They came back. They supported us. Even today we still have many of the same customers.” Selling good bread in London has never been too hard – “there are plenty of Spanish, Italian and French people living here” – but it was when the Brits started coming that Olivier knew that something was starting to change. “I don’t know why the food was so bad for so long. I am not a historian, I am a simple baker. But I have seen it change. London is the best place in the world for food now.” He still gets the odd complaint about the price of bread – “only the other week I was in a pub and a guy was complaining. I asked him how much he’d paid for his pint, and he said a fiver. I pointed out that a loaf of my bread was £3.50 and would feed him for a week” – but the majority of Olivier’s conversations with customers centre on how much they enjoy his produce. Besides, as far as quality sourdough bread goes, Oliver’s is not expensive, not by any means. He respects his bread and the colleagues who make it with him, but he wants good food to be as accessible as possible. “I am not looking to steal money from people. I didn’t go into baking to get rich. I am a rich man already,” he smiles, taking out his phone. He swipes through his photos until he arrives at a picture of two young twins, their heads together, grinning at the camera. “See? I am done. I can’t get richer than Oscar and Ophelia. Valentina and I live humbly, we pay the bills, we spend time with the kids and we bake for people. I am a rich man indeed.”

“CARAWAY IS SYNONYMOUS WITH SEED CAKE, TRADITIONALLY MADE IN EAST ANGLIA TO CELEBRATE THE END OF WHEAT-SOWING”

In this article, we look at one ‘seed’ spice that, while well known, is in fact not a seed, and another lesser-known seed, which is worth becoming better acquainted with.

Smelling either of them immediately conjures up memories of pickles and rye bread, as they’re intrinsically linked with the food of Scandinavia, and central and eastern Europe. This may or may not be a good thing for you – while some people love caraway and dill seeds, others can’t stomach them.

Caraway

Many of our most commonly bought spices originated in Asia and were staples of the ancient spice trade from the east. Not so caraway, which though an important spice for centuries, is native to central Europe and the Caucasus. It’s now grown all over the world, including in Egypt and Canada, but the countries where it’s used most often relate to its roots.

Caraway looks like a seed but is actually the fruit of the Apiaceae plant family. It resembles the cumin seed in shape, if perhaps a little darker and less plump, and indeed is sometimes known as ‘Persian cumin’.

There’s lots going on when you taste caraway. People say liquorice (so, anise), which is true. There’s a mustiness and some citrus. I find a bitterness, too, which I suspect is one reason why some people don’t get on with it.

Ultimately, though, caraway is distinctive. It tastes of… well, it tastes of caraway – a pungent flavour that reminds you of cabbage and rye bread, because those things so often involve that very same flavour.

Historically, it was believed to be a particularly good aid to digestion – a factor in caraway being such a common partner to cabbage, fermented or otherwise.

The ‘seeds’ keep very well for a long time and are often just used whole. By toasting them in a dry pan, or tempering with a little oil, some of the aroma will become more pronounced. But it’s not always necessary (or desirable) to do that. You can also grind or pound caraway into a dust as you would any other spice, should you want to avoid having too many things stuck between your teeth.

Dill seeds

Dill seeds are exactly that: the seeds of a dill plant, which appear when dill is left to flower and then those flowers die back and go to seed.

Like caraway, dill is a member of the Apiaceae family (as are chervil, parsley, carrot and anise), so it’s no coincidence that the smell and flavour of these flat, tear-shaped, green-brown seeds is remarkably similar to the aforementioned spice. Perhaps the anise notes and bitterness are softer, and there’s a hint of dill herb too, but these two spices are pretty close and could be used interchangeably.

Unlike caraway, barely anyone knows about or uses dill seeds, perhaps because dill itself is so popular as a herb that it’s generally harvested well before flowering time. Yet the seeds provide an excellent background flavour, and would be particularly successful at times when caraway might seem appropriate, but possibly too powerful.

Dill seeds come to the fore when infused into liquid – whether that’s a brine for fermentation or curing, or an oil or vinegar. They’re also strong as an aromatic in leavened and flat breads. John O’Connell’s The Book of Spice notes that dill seed vinegar is a popular addition to fish stews in Russia and Scandinavia, but also that the seeds pulled an Uzbek recipe for fried flatbread with pork crackling from “what could easily be a stodgy nightmare back from the brink of indigestibility”.

The seeds keep pretty well for a reasonable amount of time and are generally used whole, with no need for grinding. Again, if toasted in a dry pan or tempered in warm oil, more oils will be released.

Culinary uses

Caraway’s classic uses include being mixed into or scattered over Scandinavian rye breads and crackers. It is also vital in those relatively cold countries because it is infused into aquavit, an essential and warming spirit.

This spice is also a key aromatic for pickling brines, particularly for fermented cabbage (sauerkraut), popular in Austria, Germany, Poland and Ukraine.

But caraway is used in other cultures too, including for mughli, a sweet, gooey Lebanese pudding based on rice flour and caraway (plus a hint of anise and cinnamon), which is traditionally made to celebrate births. In India, you might find caraway tempered in oil and spooned over a tadka dal at the last minute before serving.

And in Britain, caraway is synonymous with seed cake, traditionally made in East Anglia to celebrate the end of wheat-sowing, and something that’s been the staple of homemakers since the 18th century. These days, that cake is likely to be paired with some orange or lemon zest, to make it appeal to modern tastes.

Dill seeds don’t enjoy such an obvious culinary history, but could well be used interchangeably with caraway: cabbage, fermented cabbage and rye breads are right up there, and I find flat breads, oils and dairy flavoured with caraway or dill seeds to be a super match for smoked salmon. The spices are also excellent at lifting pork dishes, whether a slow roast shoulder, a Ukrainian stew or a German sausage. A hit of lemon or orange is often beneficial – something about the acidity prevents caraway or dill seeds from being overpowering. And I’m also a huge fan of these seeds in or on sharp, lactic cheeses, particularly when honey is involved as a condiment.

Specific recipes to look out for

It has been pretty tricky tracking down recipes using dill seeds, but you could swap them for caraway in any of the following:

— My bible for all things interesting is Bar Tartine: Techniques and Recipes, and it comes up trumps in the hunt for these spices. I love the idea of caraway oil – an infusion of toasted, crushed seeds in sunflower or grapeseed oil. But maybe I love the idea of caraway-infused honey more, particularly when it’s to be drizzled over some feta, or a cheesecake.

— For something a little bit different, consider baking the beetroot and caraway (or dill seed) cake in Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall’s Love Your Leftovers.

— How about making your own sauerkraut? Skye Gyngell’s version in Spring uses red cabbage rather than white, and requires 1 tbsp caraway seeds. As with all things fermented, you’ll need a little patience before you can sample your prize, but I think it’s worth it. — If you’d prefer more immediate caraway satisfaction, have a look at my Tiroler gröstl recipe. This Austrian fry-up of potatoes, bacon and an onion, topped with a fried egg, seems pretty similar to an English morning-after recovery dish. But a spoonful of caraway seeds transforms the flavours, lifting it, and ultimately making what I think is the very best skiers’ lunch available.