“YOU MAY AS WELL ROAST A DOZEN BEETROOTS AND BE WELL ON THE WAY TO PREPARING TWO OR THREE DISHES IN ONE GO”

Autumn really is the time to eat British beetroot, newly harvested and gloriously sweet. The roots love other seasonal treats such as apples and nuts and their fabulous deep pinks and yellows add pizazz to any plate.

Beetroot can be eaten raw: grated in a winter slaw, sliced paper-thin for crunchy carpaccio or whizzed into a smoothie – just remember to add plenty of citrus or vinegar to counterbalance its intensely earthy flavour. Boiling beets is an option too but never does, in my mind, deliver the same depth of sweetness as roasting, low and slow, to bring out their magical flavour.

This is where the batch cooking comes in: there’s really no point in firing up the oven for a good hour to cook a few mouthfuls, you may just as well roast a dozen beetroots and be well on the way to preparing two or three dishes in one go.

I usually opt for beets no bigger than a tennis ball, so there’s no chance of woodiness – their size means quicker cooking too, as I like to leave them whole (retaining their intense colour and keeping a pleasing shape if I end up slicing). Give the roots a good wash to remove any soil but don’t peel, the skins will slip off easily enough once roasted. Preheat the oven to about 170C (don’t be tempted to up the heat) and place the beetroot in a roasting tin with a few tbsp water, cover tightly with foil and cook for anything between 45 mind for baby beets and well over 1 hour for larger roots. Once a knife glides easily through the flesh, you’re done.

Leave to cool under the foil and then you can slide off the skins with your fingers, or scrape with the back of a knife, but do remember to keep the more traditional deep-pink beets separately from any golden or chioggia varieties, as they will bleed. Oh, and a word on those amazing candy-striped chioggia – they lose their stripes as they cook, so I tend to keep them for raw salads.

How to use your roasted beetroot

— Blitz to a purée with chickpeas, tahini, olive oil, garlic, roasted cumin and lemon juice for a Barbie-shaded hummus or with walnuts, cream cheese, a splash of cider vinegar and then chopped dill to finish.

— Make a soup: fry onions with garlic and fresh ginger, add cubed potato and stock (chicken or veg). Once the potato is soft whizz the mixture with roasted beetroot, orange juice and orange zest.

— Stir cubed beetroot into hot mains: risotto works beautifully if you add chopped beetroot once the rice is almost ready, along with thyme and pecorino. Or, cook split peas or lentils into a dal with ginger, garlic and turmeric and then add chopped beetroot, coconut milk, mustard seeds, curry leaves, chilli and lime juice.

— Create a salad: go north with smoked mackerel, dill, apple, potato, walnuts, wine vinegar and crème fraîche; go Italian with salsa verde ( parsley, anchovy, mustard, capers, vinegar, olive oil) and cannellini beans; or go south with this spiced beetroot salad.

“THE STARTING POINT FOR A BRIT IS STICKY TOFFEE PUDDING. THE KING OF PUDDINGS IS NOTHING WITHOUT THE KING OF DATES”

Of course, it’s tricky to think dispassionately once you’re aware of the sweet, sticky joy of a medjool date. But let’s be honest: objectively, dates are ugly little things aren’t they?

Brown is not a colour that draws attention or joy, and the fact they’re ribbed and shrivelled suggests, at best, a shy disposition. Compare the piles of dates at Turnips with the many exotic fruits peacocking nearby; the dates literally shrink into the shadows.

How can the humble date compete with the likes of the arrogantly plumed pineapple, funky star fruit, smooth, suggestive granadilla or just plain weird rambutan? In truth, those other fruits have nothing on the taste or versatility of the medjool date.

The ‘king of dates’ has been harvested in the Middle East and north Africa for thousands of years – its caramel-cinnamon flavour and melt-in-mouth texture providing a golden and luxurious finish for any meal. These are the fruits of the date palm, a tree that with modern irrigation can yield over 100kg of fruit two or three times a year. Its high sugar content means it’s as adept for modern export around the world as it was at lasting for a long time in an ancient Egyptian larder.

I suspect that the world is divided into two types of people: those who can’t resist taking and eating a medjool date as soon as they spy a batch, and those who couldn’t care less… because they’ve never tried them.

Well, the first stage of conversion is to do just that – pick one up and eat it exactly as nature intended. A medjool date is a natural, ready-made sweet that’ll knock the socks off any man-made toffee or candy you can buy. The next stage is to use dates in your cooking, making the most of their undoubted quality (if not their look). The obvious starting point for a Brit is sticky toffee pudding. The king of puddings is nothing without the king of dates.

More recently, medjool dates have become the go-to refined sugar replacement for the ‘wellness’ generation – granola bars, ‘raw’ brownies and the like now rely on their sticky sweet powers. However, I’d argue (perhaps counterintuitively) that medjool dates really come into their own in savoury dishes. Tagines and lentil stews benefit from both the sweetness and the chew of a date – it lifts rich meats or savoury pulses, bringing sweetness and interest to the dish. Lamb, in particular, is a fan of the date.

Imagine, say, a platter of slow roast shoulder sprinkled with chopped dates, fresh mint, feta and pistachios. You’ll find dates work well with roasted roots, too – things like carrots and parsnips, particularly if they’ve been laced with sweet spices like cardamom, ginger or cinnamon.

I enjoy pairing dates with roast cauliflower. The brassica takes on an amazing earthy nuttiness when roasted, and it seems to love the punctuation that little chunks of chewy dates provide, similar to the effect of raisins.

In the recipe that accompanies this article, the cauliflower florets and dates are dressed with plenty of lemon juice and cold pressed rapeseed oil. There’s a tahini dressing option, but to be honest it doesn’t really need it; not least because it detracts attention from those dates.

See Ed’s recipe for fresh date & roast cauliflower salad.

“THESE POWDERS ARE SUCH A BRILLIANTLY EFFECTIVE WAY OF ADDING LIP-TINGLING LAYERS OF FLAVOUR”

Image: Regula Ysewijn

Over the past two decades or so, British home cooks have been educated in the art/joy/craft of adding fresh herbs to a dish. It’s one of Jamie’s greatest gifts to us, I guess: the idea that fresh basil, mint, coriander, parsley or dill should be measured in fists, not pinches. He (and others no doubt) have freed us to add herbs as we might if we were in Tel Aviv, Tbilisi, Tehran or Hanoi: by the literal bunch.

That liberal scattering of fresh herbs might even be second nature now (as an aside, it’s easier to do when you buy vibrant yet delicate green leaves from a market greengrocer, rather than the little plastic packs in a supermarket). But I wonder whether our current enjoyment and appreciation of them means we forget that there’s also much to be said for seasoning and embellishing with dried herbs and spices. A heaped teaspoon or more of a spice mix at the end rather than mid-way through the cooking process can really ‘make’ a dish, too.

Cruise the shelves at Arabica and Spice Mountain, and in amongst the tempting pots and pouches are tubs of sumac, za’atar and dukkah. These spices and blends are increasingly part of our everyday larders; maybe not yet in the same way as you might find in the Middle East (where there are often pinch pots on tables in the same way we leave salt and pepper) but many of us will have them in a cupboard somewhere. There’s a chance they’re two-thirds full and fading in their potency. In which case, use them more often and in greater quantity!

The sharp citrus tang of sumac, the zingy fragrance of the dried oregano in a good za’atar, and the nutty crunch of dukkah: these powders are such a brilliantly effective way of adding lip-tingling layers of flavour to grains, leaves, grilled meats and roast vegetables. Yes, they’re dusty, which might seem off-putting at first, but, as with fresh herbs, it pays to add about twice as much as you think you need. Counterintuitively, the more it looks like you’ve dropped your great-uncle’s urn on, say, a platter of golden-crisp chicken thighs, the more alive they will be.

Spice Mountain’s blends go beyond the Middle East. I’m a fan, in particular, of the stall’s Japanese seasonings. One, gomashio, is technically just a mix of sesame seeds and salt. But it’s somehow far more than the sum of its parts, particularly good as a dusting for roast vegetables or steamed fish. Another, which you should acquaint yourself with if not already familiar, is shichimi togarashi: a blend of seven spices that majors on chilli powder, but also dried citrus and nori (seaweed). There’s heat, sourness, umami from the seaweed, a real shot in the arm for any rice-based dish or soup. Consider a scattering of ume plum sesame seeds too, which I noticed last time I was at the stall and haven’t yet tried, but suspect are a more-ish combination of sour and savoury.

There’s more: like tabil, a Tunisian and Algerian mixture consisting of coriander, garlic and caraway, and often the likes of mint, cloves and turmeric. We’re so used to putting these types of spices in among the onions as they soften, or perhaps in a stew while it bubbles down. But a last minute dusting over something like a lamb chop or even stirred through roast potatoes (or any fried potato) would be effective. Ditto a chimichurri blend of parsley, oregano, red pepper flakes, and garlic – something you could sprinkle on a steak or flatbread, but like za’atar is even more effective mixed with olive oil and drizzled.

Much can be done with all of these blends. On the one hand, it’s worth looking to their use in the countries they originate from. But I think we can use them more casually, too – if ever a mid-week meal or weekend egg feels bland, could it be transformed by a few spoonsful of dukkah or an explosion of shichimi togarashi? Probably. So next time you finish plating up and bemoan the fact you’ve forgot to add fresh herbs to your shopping basket, pause and consider whether there’s actually something dry and dusty in your spice cupboard that could be just as enlivening. Dust away.

“AUBERGINE MUST BE COOKED UNTIL IT BREAKS DOWN INTO A SILKY, ALMOST SLIPPERY TEXTURE – AND THEN IT’S HEAVEN”

Standing over a hot stove in the sweltering summer heat is surely nobody’s idea of fun, so roasting a tray of aubergines, with all the quick and delicious options they offer, makes perfect sense.

As a child I loathed the cardboardy, almost squeaky, chunks of aubergine that mum used to serve up in the ratatouille. Undercooked aubergine really is appalling. Still today you get the odd chunk of rather watery, chewy flesh in a pasta sauce or badly cooked moussaka. There really is no excuse – aubergine must be cooked until it breaks down into a silky, almost slippery texture and then it’s heaven.

There are dozens of aubergine varieties, their lustrous skin can be anything from ivory to green; magenta-striped to a deep, purply-black. They vary in shape and size from the tiny green pea and slender finger aubergines of southeast Asia, to the egg-shaped (hence their other name, eggplant) so popular in India and then to the larger more ubiquitous types we tend to find in Europe. My batch roasting requires the latter and the only golden rule that applies to each and every aubergine is that it should look shiny and tight in its skin and feel firm, otherwise it’s past its best.

Salting aubergines before cooking draws out any bitter juices and also collapses the structure of the sponge-like flesh so that it absorbs less oil. I’ll admit it now, I’m far too impatient a cook to bother and nowadays the hybrid strains on offer have next to no bitterness at all. Roasting rather than frying allows you to control the amount of oil you use in any case, but don’t be too stingy – aubergines and oil, particularly olive oil, are the best of friends.

I tend to cook aubergines by the half dozen in a hot oven at about 200C. Just slice the aubergines in half lengthways and then crosshatch the flesh with a sharp knife, leaving the skin intact. Drizzle with plenty of extra virgin olive oil and sprinkle with a little salt. Herbs are up to you: I often throw over a few sprigs of thyme or push thin slices of garlic down into the cuts but hold back on the spicing so that you can take the cooked aubergines in any number directions.

Roast the aubergines for 30-45 mins, until they have browned at the edges and become really soft and squashy – no squeaky cardboard, thank you. What happens next is your call: straight from the oven with a squeeze of lemon and a pinch of chilli is pretty unbeatable. Then you can use the rest of the tray over the next three or four days.

How to use your roasted aubergines

Reheat the aubergine halves for 10 mins in a hot oven, topped with:

— A few slices of tomato, garlic, mozzarella and a sprinkling of grated parmesan.

— A mixture of breadcrumbs, capers, anchovies, green olives, lemon zest, lemon juice and extra virgin olive oil.

— Miso, tamari, maple syrup, mirin, sake (or dry sherry) and a tiny splash of sesame oil shaken together in a jar. Check the balance and then pour over the aubergine. Top with toasted sesame seeds and spring onions.

Scrape out the flesh of the aubergine and re-stuff the skins with:

— A fried onion and Italian sausage mixture, plenty of herbs, sultanas, the aubergine flesh.

— Cooked rice, fried onion, sun dried tomatoes, the aubergine flesh and even a little leftover ragú or cooked lamb mince.

Chop up into cubes, skin and all, and fry with:

— Diced onions, garlic, courgette, red peppers, tomatoes and basil for a ratatouille of sorts ( the pre-cooking of the aubergine will guarantee a perfect texture).

— Diced onion, garlic, celery, tomatoes, capers, green olives, sugar and white wine vinegar for a Sicilian, sweet and sour caponata.

— Diced shallot, tomato purée, garlic, cumin, fresh coriander, chilli and lemon juice for a Moroccan zaalook.

Spoon out the flesh and blitz to a purée with:

— Tahini, smoked paprika, lemon juice and seasoning for a quick baba ghanoush.

— Yoghurt, cooked lentils, toasted cumin, garlic and pomegranate molasses.

See Jenny’s recipe for roasted aubergine with feta & freekeh salad.

“WHEN THE STARS ALIGNED, THE RESULT WAS PURE ALCHEMY – A CHEESE WITH A CLEAN FINISH AND PLEASINGLY LARGE HOLES”

“Would you say it’s the British answer to emmental?” I suggest to Arthur Alsop, displaying what in hindsight was perhaps an overweening level of presumption, given the cheese at hand. Dubbed Mayfield in celebration of a local village in their home of East Sussex, the hard, holey cow’s milk number made by Arthur Alsop and Nic Walker has, in the past few years, won both public affection, and a fistful of gold and silver gongs.

In his reply, Arthur displays all the patience of an artisanal cheesemaker who spends most of his life waiting for wheels to mature in a cool room: “Not really. It very much stands by itself.” It might look like an emmental, in so far as it’s riddled with holes, hard and golden, but every cheese produced by Alsop & Walker is unique to the pair’s East Sussex cheesemaking. If you want emmental, head to Jumi round the corner. If you want Mayfield, you’re in the right place.

“We wanted a cheese with natural holes,” Arthur recalls of the brief they set themselves when he and Nic decided to add a new cheese to their collection. “There weren’t many in Britain, because it’s difficult: you’ve got to ensure the moisture, humidity and acidity levels are right,” he cautions.

Still, being naturally adventurous, they continued apace. Sometimes they’d get the holes, but the flavour would be all over the shop; other times, the reverse would occur. But when the stars aligned, the result was pure alchemy – a smooth, almondy cheese with a clean finish and large holes you can’t help but run your tongue over, as you feel the yielding creaminess of its hard-soft pate.

“It’s very easy going,” Arthur continues. Not one to be fussy, the whens and wheres and wherefores of Mayfield are what you make of them: “Breakfast, with bread, in a fondu or on a cheeseboard.”

Made every morning, from milk which has been delivered the previous night from small farms surrounding the cheesemaking rooms in Sussex, it reflects the seasons: now it’s lighter and creamier, because the cows are out to pasture: come winter, it will be buttery and creamy, as the cows’ diet changes. It’s enjoyable in every circumstance – though having now reappraised Mayfield’s considerable standing, I agree with Arthur: “I tend to have it just by itself.”

“ST NECTAIRE FERMIER TASTES LIKE AN ILLICIT TRYST ON A PILE OF HAY IN A HOT, STUFFY FARM BUILDING”

Image: Polly Webster

I once interviewed a man whose job it was to drive blood and organs between hospitals for potentially life-saving transplants. The gravity of his cargo weighed heavily upon him as he weaved through the lunatic traffic of central London, seeking to balance the competing demands of speed and meticulous care. Driving back from France, I knew how he felt.

It had been a holiday story familiar to most members of the British middle class. We’d been staying in a house in the Auvergne region of France, and on the first morning had been to the food market in the nearest small town, where a cheesemaker had set up a table piled high with St Nectaire fermier cheese – a washed rind beauty made from the unpasteurised milk of the Salers cows that feed on the region’s rich, volcanic pastures. With the deep fungal funk of its grey-blue rind playing off the nutty silk of its centre, it tasted a bit like wild mushrooms in a creamy sauce, eaten in a cellar. Or, if we’re going to be properly Gallic about it, like an illicit tryst on a pile of hay in a hot, stuffy farm building. As a cheese, it was the perfect complement to bread, wine and languor. So, of course, I impulsively bought several more to take home.

The only problem was that we were driving back. It was the middle of a very hot summer, and we had given ourselves a leisurely few days to make it home. And time, soft cheese and a hot car make for a messy ménage à trois. For three days, everything – our route, our timings, our personal comfort – became subservient to the needs of the cheese. To my horror, the two hotels we’d booked had no fridges in the rooms. In one, much to the misery of both my partner and the planet, I made the air conditioning as cold as possible and we slept in our clothes. In the other, there was no air con at all, so I ran a cold bath, and, using whatever came to hand, created a waterproof floating raft on which the precious cargo could sit.

About a week after making it home and gorging myself silly in a rush to finish the cheese before it died, I stumbled upon loads of St Nectaire fermier at Borough Market’s Une Normande a Londres, at least the equal of the stuff I’d bought in France, and considerably better for having at no stage spent three days in a hot car. Yes, the vital organs made it to the hospital, but apparently the patient didn’t need them after all.

“PIMENTÓN BECAME UBIQUITOUS IN SPANISH COOKING – FROM PAELLA, THROUGH PATATAS, CHORIZO, SOBRASADA AND FAR BEYOND”

If you see red in a dish, there’s a good chance it’s thanks to a sprinkle of paprika or cayenne – both of which are dried and ground derivatives of different types of capsicum peppers. Cayenne brings the heat (and is often mixed into paprika to give it a kick). Paprika is often sweet, but ultimately nuanced and varied.

Paprika

As Claudia Roden mentions in her book The Food of Spain, red pepper (and by extraction, paprika) is “the most loved and indispensable of Spanish flavourings”.

The capsicum family is not native to Spain – the seeds having originally been brought back from South America in the 16^th century by Franciscan monks, and planted in their monasteries along the Camino de Santiago in northern Spain. Their fruits were soon used in fresh, dry and ground form across Spain, though vast pimentón mills, which produce the fine powder we know now, were more of a 19^th century thing. From then (if not before), pimentón became ubiquitous in Spanish cooking – from paella, through patatas, chorizo, sobrasada and far beyond.

Paprika provides colour and flavour and there are four different types of Spanish paprika (known as pimentón): dulce (sweet and mild); agrodolce (bittersweet); picante (hot) and ahumado (smoked). The level of sweet, hot or bitter depends on the specific variety of capsicum being used, though it’s fair to say that it’s always intense and, err, peppery. Any smokiness comes from having been wood-smoked, rather than air-dried.

Different Spanish dishes require different varieties of pimentón, often depending on historic local usage. So when seeing paprika in a recipe, you should always check whether the author meant for it to be sweet, smoky or hot. Note, also, that if you’re after quality, then seek the DOP labelled pimentón de la Vera, which tends to have been smoke-dried, or the more orangey-red pimentón de Murcia, which are sun-dried and sweet.

This intoxicating red powder is not the sole preserve of the Spaniards, though. Hungary counts itself (rightly) as a significant producer and user of paprika. In fact, the British ‘paprika’ comes from the Slavic term for pepper, rather than the Spanish ‘pimentón’, so clearly while not as ancient as the Spanish, the central-eastern European influence over the British use of this spice must be strong.

As a general rule Hungarian paprika is air-dried and sweet, whereas Spanish pimentón tends to be the smoke-dried variety. However, neither country’s red spices are uniform, and happily both Spice Mountain and Brindisa have different grades and varieties, all clearly labelled to suit your requirements.

There’s good advice in the Brindisa cookbook/encyclopedia on both the storage of paprika and how to cook with it. Essentially, the key points are: don’t leave paprika in the back of your cupboard for too long as its aroma and indeed flavour will disappear – the smell “should always overwhelm your senses. If it is dusty or flat it has been sitting on a shelf for too long”; and in terms of cooking, “be careful not to overheat the spice when adding to hot oil as it burns easily and can turn bitter.”

For what it’s worth, 99 per cent of the time, I add paprika to a liquid (into a stock, stew base or sauce). This dissipates the flavour rapidly, and negates the risk of burning. Where that’s not the case (perhaps when slowly sautéing onions, peppers, garlic or all of the above), the heat is gentle and cooking fat and juices relatively plentiful.

Cayenne pepper

As with the peppers used to make paprika, cayenne is a cultivar of capsicum annuum. It’s just that this particular red pepper is a hot one: 30,000-50,000 SHU on the Scoville scale, to be precise. This makes it similar in strength to a tabasco pepper, more than an aleppo pepper or chile de arbor (10,000-30,000 SHU), and less than a habanero or scotch bonnet (100,000-350,000 SHU).

Also, as with paprika, to create the spice, the red chilli fruits, named after the capital of French Guiana, are dried and ground into a powder, or sometimes left coarser, like flakes.

The geographical reference in the name is also an indication that cayenne peppers were originally from the New World, and still tend to prefer warm, subtropical and tropical climates.

Cayenne seems to stand up to hot oil a bit better than paprika, though is still liable to burn and turn acrid, so take care. Take care, too, with quantity: paprika can be generously teaspooned. Cayenne is better suited to a pinch.

Like paprika, you need to keep ground powder in an airtight container, and use before the aroma fades.

Culinary uses

Paprika is often paired with pork, whether in sausages, stews, or sauces. Its sweetness (or sweet and smokiness, where relevant) is also a fine match for eggs, potatoes, tomatoes, or even as another layer of pepperiness for bell or romano peppers.

Other proteins suited to this paprika are chicken, squid, octopus and shellfish – their relative blandness (compared to beef and lamb) are all enhanced by it, without being dominated.

Paprika is, as mentioned, ubiquitous in both Spanish and Hungarian cuisines. There are perhaps too many Spanish dishes that make use of paprika to single out any one of them, but it’s definitely appropriate to whet you whistle with a few of the Hungarian classics: goulash (a rich, meaty, medieval stew); and chicken paprikash, in which the meat simmers in a sauce that begins with a paprika-infused roux.

The Russian dish beef stroganoff is worth mentioning too. Here paprika, sour cream and sautéed beef tend to feature, and then any of mustard, pickles, white wine, brandy, onions and mushrooms find a place too, depending whose instructions you follow.

Cayenne is hot, so it tends to be sprinkled as an additional flourish to a dish, rather than appear as a dominant flavour. It’s also frequently used in spice blends and hot sauces.

This spice is now a global one, and it certainly features in Indian dishes and British ones (devilled kidneys, for example, and often very savoury things involving sharp cheeses, like breads, scones and rarebit).

But cayenne is most notably employed in the cuisines of the Caribbean, from whence it came: of the islands, of Mexico, and of Cajun and Creole cooking in the Deep South of America, whether that’s as a simple seasoning for corn, in addition to lime and butter, or as a kick in gumbo, jambalaya, or the batter mix for deep fried chicken (though apparently the Colonel’s includes paprika, black and white pepper and dried mustard, but not cayenne).

In need of a twist? Perhaps because there’s a natural sweetness to cayenne, it’s sometimes used as a chilli kick to coffee or chocolate desserts, and to cocktails too. Think chocolate pots and bloody marys.

Market spice heroes

I think it’s worth giving a shout out to all the chorizo-style sausages at the Market. There are so many different types of this Spanish sausage: cured, semi-cured, and not cured at all, with multiple regional variations across the country; the one thing uniting them being paprika.

Of course, there are proper Spanish chorizos at Borough, not least in Brindisa’s shop, where fantastic cured and deservedly famous semi-cured cooking sausages stand out. But you’ll also find paprika-fired fresh sausages at Ginger Pig and the large Balkan version of chorizo at Taste Croatia – all of which demonstrate that, as noted above, pork and paprika are a match made in heaven.

Specific recipes to look out for

Paprika and cayenne sit as highly effective seasonings in multiple recipes. However, on occasion, they’re essential and flavour-defining. For example, in:

— A Georgian plum chutney in Olia Hercules’ Mamushka, which requires a fair hit of smoked paprika.

— Claudia Roden’s mojo picon (spicy red sauce) is a mix of cayenne pepper, sweet paprika, cumin, garlic, olive oil and vinegar, and is used to enliven a number of dishes in her seminal book the Food of Spain.

— Monika Linton’s bible Brindisa is rouged with paprika. From simple paprika tumbled potatoes with lardons (you could add a pinch of cayenne to provide a kick), through octopus Galician-style, fried squid with paprika, and rice with chicken, rabbit and paprika – there are many options here.

— Brad McDonald’s book Deep South; New Southern Cooking is loaded with cayenne pepper, not least in his version of the Creole sausage, andouille.

— For devilled kidneys, look no further than Fergus Henderson’s Nose to Tail Eating.

See Ed’s Portuguese-inspired recipe for paprika pork collar and clams.

“THESE SPICES ARE BRUISERS – THE KIND OF AROMATICS THAT SHOULD BE USED JUDICIOUSLY AND IN RELATIVELY SMALL DOSES”

Fenugreek and mustard are distinctive and potent. They are the seeds of unassuming staple crops, yet as spices they are bruisers – the kind of aromatic that should be used judiciously and in relatively small doses. But as with any bully, underneath the tough guy exterior, there’s actually a lot to love.

Fenugreek

The fenugreek plant grows as a wheat-like staple crop in India (mostly in Rajasthan), across the Indian subcontinent and also in the Middle East. The crop is largely cultivated for animal feed, though its seeds and fragrant leaves have important culinary uses too. In this piece, we focus on the yellow, cuboid, stone-like seeds, which cross bitter tones with maple sweetness and, ultimately, a strong and persistent hint of generic curry powder – it’s often the main ingredient in that mix.

Though a key spice in Indian cuisine, fenugreek is now overshadowed in British-Indian domestic cooking by the likes of cumin, coriander, fennel seeds and turmeric. This may be due to the hardness of those seeds, which makes the spice seem a little inaccessible to the uninitiated, and recipe writers are perhaps reluctant to complicate their instructions; relative to the easy crack of a coriander seed, for example, fenugreek seeds appear near impossible to break down by pestle and mortar or domestic spice grinder.

In fact, the seeds are most easily used once they have been soaked for 8-12 hours, to both take the edge off their bitterness, and to soften them enough that they can be mashed into a paste.

It is possible to buy the spice in ground powder form, though again it seems less popular than cumin, coriander and turmeric in western recipes, perhaps on account of that dominant curry house undertone.

Meera Sodha writes in Made in India that fenugreek seeds have “a shockingly bitter aftertaste, which means they should never be used on their own, only among other robust flavours and in small quantities”. She also notes that as well as being soaked and mashed, the seeds can be thrown whole into hot oil at the beginning of a cooking process, along with the likes of mustard seeds.

The whole seeds last longer than most if kept in an air-tight container, though I’d argue if you hold on to a small quantity of any spice for longer than a year, then for the sake of your store cupboard admin, perhaps you should try to incorporate it more often. The powdered form is best used within a few months.

Mustard seeds

Mustard is grown in temperate regions in Pakistan, India, Nepal, Russia, Canada, the United States and of course over here in the UK (mostly in Norfolk). The green leaves can be eaten like a brassica (kale, cabbage, collard greens), and the crop is a major source of oil, similar to rapeseed. But mustard is best known as a spice, thanks to the little balls of flavour that are its seeds. Dried and stored in a jar they smell of very little, but crushed and mixed with water or vinegar, or tempered in hot oil, mustard will strip the hairs from your nostrils. This is due to a chemical reaction that takes place to produce the flavour compound allyl isothiocyanate, which is also released when crushing or grating horseradish and wasabi.

There are three main types of mustard seed: white (also known as yellow), brown and black. Broadly speaking, the white variety is sweeter and mellower (though still pungent), the black is hot, and the brown variety sits somewhere in the middle.

The black variety is particularly common in Indian cooking, but all three are used in different proportions across the mustard paste condiments that we know and love (or hate). Dijon mustard, for example, uses the brown variety (whole), Bordeaux comprises whole black and brown seeds, German mustard the black seeds, and depending where you look for information, English is a mix of brown and white mustard powder (Elizabeth David), or ground black mustard seeds with a sprinkle of ground white (Colmans).

Ground mustard powder (sometimes referred to as mustard ‘flour’) loses potency over time if left in a jar, but also once it’s mixed in water. The seeds, however, are good for at least a year in an air-tight jar.

Flavour pairings

It’s hard to think of a classic flavour pairing for fenugreek; this spice is rarely used on its own. Rather than pick out proteins, vegetables and pulses, then, it’s worth noting that fenugreek’s bitter-maple curry notes are well matched with other strong spices such as cumin and coriander. And in Indian cooking in particular, those mixes are often the dominant flavouring of dishes involving paneer or lentils.

Mustard, on the other hand, immediately invokes beef, pork and chicken. Across a variety of cuisines, these three meats are matched with mustard – whether in whole seed, ground or condiment form. The spice is also an excellent partner for roots like potatoes, celeriac and turnip, and brassicas such as kohlrabi, kale and cabbage. And we shouldn’t forget rabbit – so many of the rabbit recipes out there involve wholegrain mustard.

Cuisines and dishes

As mentioned, fenugreek is commonly used in Indian dishes, as a dominant flavouring in revitalising dals and across masala mixes. The seeds are used in the mix panch phoran, in equal parts alongside fennel, nigella, cumin and black mustard. These are all left whole and tempered in hot oil, before being used to flavour meats, vegetables and stews.

Fenugreek seeds are not, however, restricted to the Indian sub-continent. When ground, they are a major part of the spice rub çemen, which is used as a marinade for the Turkish cured and air-dried beef, pastirma.

And in the Middle East, fenugreek is known as hilbeh, and used (among other things) to make a dip or condiment of the same name. I tried this for the first time in a Lebanese café in Tel Aviv, and was hooked on first dip.

There are numerous recipes in circulation for Bengali mustard chicken (shorshe murgi), where of course the mustard is dominant and adds its own heat to that of fresh chilli.

In French cooking, dishes like celeriac remoulade make use of mustard paste. But it’s often a condiment matched with pork; whether in chop form, or more likely sausage (including acting as a foil to stinky andouillette). The same is true in Germany – is a plate of wurst and sauerkraut complete without a dollop of mustard?

Head north to Scandinavia, and mustard seems creamier and lighter even than that of Dijon (and certainly lurid yellow English). It’s often used in a sauce to cut through pickled herrings.

Specific recipes to look out for

Recipes that make the most of mustard and fenugreek spices include:

— Meera Sodha’s asparagus and peas in a Bengali mustard sauce in Fresh India is an excellent way of mixing Indian flavours with British spring/summer ingredients.

— I like the idea of Atul Kochar’s mustard and yoghurt chutney in his restaurant cooking book Benares. Black mustard seeds are tempered with hot oil until they crackle and pop, then mixed into a yoghurt flavoured with mint, ginger and honey. Excellent with seafood, vegetable fritters and bhajis, apparently.

— For French, why not try Raymond Blanc’s mustard braised rabbit in Kitchen Secrets?

— British chefs cooking with mustard (admittedly in French style) can’t look past Simon Hopkinson’s mustard and tarragon butter to go with steak, found within Week In, Week Out.

— Fenugreek recipes are harder to find. Why not try my version of hilbeh? I found it excellent alongside an omelette filled flatbread.

Market spice heroes

It would be remiss to write of mustard and not mention Fitz Fine Foods, who carry a wide range of mustards, many of them uniquely flavoured – think black olive, balsamic vinegar, cassis and truffle. They stock the range of classic French mustard pastes too.

See Ed’s recipe for the fenugreek-laced Middle Eastern dip hilbeh.

“BECAUSE OF MY HOSPITALITY BACKGROUND, I TEND TO GO INTO HOST MODE AT EVENTS AND BECOME UNPAID FRONT-OF-HOUSE”

Behind the scenes at Borough is a small team of dedicated professionals whose job it is to keep the wheels of this historic market turning. Most of them are completely obsessed with food, thanks in part to their daily exposure to exceptional produce and expert traders. We’ve asked them to share their thoughts on the ingredients and dishes that spark their excitement when summer rolls around.  

Shaun Johnson is Borough’s Head of Development, responsible for embedding the trust’s policies and values into the daily experiences of customers and traders.

What item of summer produce do you most look forward to when the season rolls around?

My granddad was a fishmonger so unsurprisingly I’m a big fan of all kinds of fish, but particularly in the summer. Simply cooked white fish – hake or seabass perhaps – with a crispy skin, served with new potatoes and a salad, drizzled with chermoula is my favourite summer dish. I also love crab, which is beautiful in the summer months.

Tell us about the most memorable meal you’ve ever eaten on a summer holiday. Where was it and what was it?

When I was 19, I took a trip to the south of France with my partner at the time. We went for dinner at a pretty fancy place (for us!) in an old, converted monastery where we had chateaubriand. I had been working in an old-school restaurant where we cooked steak Diane at the table, and I remember how nice it felt to be on the other side, enjoying this wonderful French hospitality in a perfect setting.

It’s a perfect barbecue day. Are you the one firing up the barbecue or part of the crowd sitting with a cold drink while someone else sweats over the coals?

Because of my hospitality background, I tend to go into host mode at events and become unpaid front-of-house staff! I like to get ahead and help prep the sides and salads so everything is ready when it comes to grilling. And then I’m always on hand to keep people’s drinks topped up – a very important role, I believe.

What’s your ultimate barbecue dish, either for cooking or eating?

Lamb is my favourite meat and it’s perfect for the barbecue because of its higher fat content. I love cutlets or skewers marinated for hours in lots of herbs and garlic. Sides of choice include a cous cous salad packed with veggies and feta, corn on the cob and some salad leaves simply dressed with good quality olive oil and the white balsamic vinegar from The Olive Oil Co.

If you were planning your perfect picnic, what foods from Borough Market would you add to your basket?

I’m all about the snacks, so cheese and crackers are always a winner. I particularly love the young gorgonzola from either The Parma Ham & Mozzarella Stand or Gastronomica, crackers from Cracker Kitchen (available at Mons Cheesemongers). Gildas are also a perfect picnic food: little skewers with olives from Oliveology, anchovies from The Tinned Fish Market and a pickled jalapeño – the perfect bite. Extras would include some nuts from Food & Forest, a rosemary focaccia from Olivier’s Bakery, and some bresaola from Alpine Deli.

Where in London would you take your Borough Market picnic basket for an afternoon in the sun?

A perfect spot for a picnic and a walk is Banstead Woods. My partner also loves Brockwell Park so we go there a lot; the setting is perfect with its never-ending horizon. It’s gorgeous in the summer.

What’s your summer sundown tipple of choice? In an ideal world, where would you be sitting to enjoy it?

I like a really simple G&T – crisp and refreshing. I like lots of ice and a garnish of lime. Ideally, I’d be in Spain, Cadaqués to be exact. It’s a hidden gem on the Costa Brava with a beautiful harbour, reached by winding roads and not dominated by tourism. My happy place!

“AFTER A MONTH OF RICE AND BEANS, INDIO VIEJO SEEMED LIKE ONE OF THE MOST DELICIOUS THINGS I’D EVER EATEN”

Behind the scenes at Borough is a small team of dedicated professionals whose job it is to keep the wheels of this historic market turning. Most of them are completely obsessed with food, thanks in part to their daily exposure to exceptional produce and expert traders. We’ve asked them to share their thoughts on the ingredients and dishes that spark their excitement when summer rolls around.   

Eden Connelly is Borough’s Administrative Assistant, responsible for a wide range of back office tasks essential to the efficient running of the market.

What item of summer produce do you most look forward to when the season rolls around?

I love cherries – they’re so versatile and work in all kinds of summer dishes and drinks. There’s a Moroccan-inspired recipe I like to make, with heavily spiced slow-cooked chicken, rice and dried cherries, which I swap for fresh cherries when they’re in season. In terms of desserts, I love a cherry version of my mum’s strawberry cheesecake. It’s a simple white chocolate fresh cheesecake with a cherry and amaretto sauce poured over the top. Delicious.

Tell us about the most memorable meal you’ve ever eaten on a summer holiday. Where was it and what was it?

I discovered a dish in Nicaragua while I was volunteering for World Challenge, which was very tasty but seemed like one of the most delicious things I’d ever eaten after spending an entire month eating gallo pinto (rice and beans) with every meal. It’s called indio viejo and it’s a beef stew made with maize and shredded meats. It’s so filling and fairly cheap to make, and while not traditionally summery, it reminds me of that trip and all the great memories we made.

It’s a perfect barbecue day. Are you the one firing up the barbecue or part of the crowd sitting with a cold drink while someone else sweats over the coals?

I tend to be in charge of desserts and drinks (and the occasional salad!) at barbecues. I like to make pitchers of cocktails for ease at bigger gatherings. My signature drink is very pink – I love the flavour of berries, so I mix pink lemonade (my favourite for this is the cranberry lime lemonade from The French Comte) with fresh raspberries, lots of ice and either cherry or raspberry gin for the adults. And my go-to salad – because I love Middle Eastern flavours – is halloumi drizzled in hot honey (ideally raw chilli honey from From Field and Flower) on a pile of grains, pomegranate, cucumber and tomatoes, finished with coriander.

What’s your ultimate barbecue dish, either for cooking or eating?

My cousin’s husband is a chef and he makes an amazing marinated chicken for family barbecues. I don’t know the exact recipe, but he sections the whole bird before marinating it in a spicy, sweet combination of tomato and hot honey / chilli sauce (either the mango chilli sauce or naga chilli sauce from Wiltshire Chilli Farm would probably work well, dependent on the flavours of the rest of barbecue) and lots of spices.

If you were planning your perfect picnic, what foods from Borough Market would you add to your basket?

I love picky bits that don’t need any cutlery. Berries are always a winner and we have so much choice at the market. I love bread and tend to pick up a jar of really good pesto or salsa, like the green herb salsa from La Pepia, which you can dip or spread, negating the need for butter.

Where in London would you take your Borough Market picnic basket for an afternoon in the sun?

I have a few favourite places. One close by the market is Leathermarket Gardens. It’s a good spot for a picnic with some lovely greenery and flowers. Two of my other favourites are a bit further out but are well worth the journey. One is Richmond Park, which I love because of the potential to see the deer. I really enjoy being surrounding by wildlife. The other is Chiswick House and Gardens, which is stunning. The ambience is lovely and it’s perfect for a post-picnic walk. 

What’s your summer sundown tipple of choice? In an ideal world, where would you be sitting to enjoy it?

Something citrussy is perfect for a really hot day. I like to mix limoncello and lemonade with a dash of bitters and blend with ice – super refreshing and cooling. I’d drink it sat in the garden with friends around the firepit with my dog Theo by our sides, blankets (if needed) and plenty of nibbles within easy reach.