“THE IDEA OF CELEBRATING WITH SEAFOOD IS A GOOD ONE. THERE’S SOMETHING LOVELY ABOUT EATING FISH ON DARK, COLD DAYS”

Image: Regula Ysewijn

Every season has its particular scents, and perhaps none more so than Christmas. For many of us in Britain, Christmas really begins when the house smells of cinnamon and cloves from the mulled wine and mince pies, and the zest of clementines lingers in the air. In Iceland, by contrast, you know it’s Christmas when you can smell the inimitable tang of rotten skate and the thick cloud of ammonia and fishiness it leaves in its wake.

In Iceland, Christmas is preceded on 23rd December by Thorláksmessa, St Thorlak’s day, a celebration of the patron saint of Iceland. Thorlak’s memory is toasted each year with a special dish of putrefied skate, known as skata, which is fermented for a long time before being eaten with rye bread, butter and potatoes.

Skata divides people. Many Icelanders live in apartments and the overwhelming and pervasive pong created by the cooking of skata gives rise to heated arguments. Some are so horrified by the smell that they insist it should be cooked outside on the barbecue, even at the height of winter. Others seal the doors of the kitchen with duct tape while it’s cooking. But for devotees, it is a happy smell because the Christmas season would not be the same without it. Those who love it say that – as with a pungent cheese, or a bottle of Thai fish sauce – the awful smell and mouth-numbing pungency give way to the most wonderful sweet-savoury flavour, which can be almost addictive. In any case, Icelandic cooks drive out the smell of the skata with the still stronger smell of the smoked lamb eaten on Christmas Day.

Skata may be an extreme example, but it’s just one of many European Christmas and New Year rituals involving fish and seafood. In Britain, we tend to mark the season with meat: with hams and turkeys and geese, adorned with bacon and sausage-meat stuffings and extra sausages on the side. But in most of the rest of Europe, the meal that really matters is not the feasting lunch on 25th December but the fasting dinner on Christmas Eve, which according to Christian custom, always included fish. In Spain, for example, the Christmas Eve dinner may start with a joyous platter of pink prawns in their shells and proceed to hake or bream.

The idea of celebrating with seafood is a good one. There’s something lovely about eating fish on dark, cold days. I love the elegance of the French tradition of seeing in the New Year with oysters. A good oyster tastes like a fresh start: the shocking cold of the sea cleansing your throat.

In Poland and much of Scandinavia, the celebratory fish of Christmas will be some kind of preserved or salted herring. In her book Polska: New Polish Cooking, Zuza Zak notes that one of the Christmas Eve staples in her family is preserved herrings dressed with olive oil, shallots, white pepper and just a little cinnamon. Zak eats this as part of a zakuski spread with rye bread or bagels. The other essential ingredient to go with Polish Christmas Eve herrings is very cold vodka. You have a sip of vodka and then a bite of oily fish. Zak writes that her father believes that fatty foods neutralise the alcohol.

Elsewhere in the Catholic world, the fish of Christmas tends to be salt cod. In her wonderful book European Festival Food, Elisabeth Luard describes the Christmas Eve fasting suppers of Provence, where the meal is called the ‘gros souper’. This starts at around 7pm with a substantial vegetable soup or vegetable gratin made from chard or cardoons. Next come snails, and salt cod, perhaps served with a Provençal sauce of tomatoes with garlic and capers. Luard notes that in Provence at Christmas there are special stalls selling salt-cod puree (‘brandade de morue’) and ready-soaked fish. After the salt cod, the family go out for midnight mass, before returning for mulled wine and 13 desserts – various dried fruits and nuts that represent Christ and his disciples.

The rituals of this Christmas meal have remained unchanged for decades. Luard quotes a Provençal poet, Frederic Mistral, who ate the gros souper in Saint-Remy some time around 1900: “On the white cloth are placed, in appropriate order, the sacramental dishes. The snails, which each diner winkles from the shell with a brand-new pin, the fried salt-cod, the muge [gurnard] stuffed with olives, chard, cardoons, céléri à la poivrade, followed by a host of delicious sweetmeats…”

It’s worth copying the tradition of fish on Christmas Eve. For one thing, the lightness of fish is just right to prepare you for the debauch of brandy butter and roast meats that awaits you the following day. I also feel that fish – really fresh fish – has become one of the greatest of all treats because in so many parts of the country, it is hard to get.

The question is what fish? As with Icelandic skata, there are some Christmassy fish customs that seem like less than a treat. American writer Garrison Keiller recalled his horror during childhood at being served lutefisk – wind-dried stockfish soaked in soapy lye – in honour of his Norwegian ancestors. Keiller knew he would be told to have just a little. “Eating ‘a little’ was,” he notes, “like vomiting ‘a little’, as bad as ‘a lot’.”

I’m afraid I feel the same about carp, even though it brings Christmas joy to millions of people across eastern Europe. Carp in grey sauce is a Christmas Eve delicacy in Germany. As Jane Grigson explains, “The fish is cooked with its scales on and everyone treasures a scale or two in their purse to bring them good luck in the coming year.” I’m charmed by this idea, but not by the fish itself. One December, several years ago, I made a jellied carp and those who ate it are still traumatised by the muddy flavour and strange, fleshy texture.

In my family, we prefer to celebrate Christmas Eve with a huge fish pie, golden-crusted with buttery mashed potatoes and filled with cod, some kind of smoked fish and cold-water prawns in béchamel scented with bay leaf. After his second helping, my youngest child always seems to sleep well, despite the excitement of hanging up his stocking.

Another great fishy centrepiece is salmon baked in pastry with currants and ginger, a dish that was originally created by George Perry-Smith of the legendary Hole in the Wall restaurant in Bath. But this year, I have half a mind to make a big fish soup on Christmas Eve, for our own version of le gros souper. The greatest fish soup recipe I have ever come across was in Gill Meller’s book, Gather.

I have made it several times, never with exactly the combination of fish Meller recommends, but following his aromatics to the letter. What makes it so sublime is that the soup is seasoned not just with fennel and saffron but also paprika and star anise, which give the broth an almost otherworldly warmth. The scent of this soup cooking is so good, it makes me feel it’s Christmas even when it’s not.

“LOOK FOR A MIX OF SLICED MUSCLE MEATS, SLICED LARGE SALAMIS, SMALLER SALAMIS AND A TERRINE OR PÂTÉ”

Images: Kim Lightbody

Given the likely presence of leftover turkey, stuffing, glazed ham, maybe even a rib of beef, you’d be forgiven for thinking that your home does not require any more meat over the festive season. And yet if a meal is taking too long to come together, if people presumptively ‘drop round’, if you can’t stand the thought of yet another hour of cooking, then having a collection of cold and cured meats on hand could well be a (very tasty) lifesaver.

As with my cheese board, there’s a part of me that sees the appeal of focussing on one thing done well. Romantic Iberophiles might aspire to buy a whole jamón, from which a wafer-thin slice can be carved whenever they walk past. Francophiles might hanker after a three-pound terrine, ready to be attacked at any point. As it happens, one of my life goals is to have a meat slicer on my worktop, plus a whole coppa hanging close to hand.

And yet, in reality, a) the constraints of things like, ooh I don’t know, money and space, loom large; and b) it’s actually impossible to limit yourself to just one thing when walking round the many cured meats specialists at Borough Market. This is a place where, within just a few steps, as well as the aforementioned jamón, terrine and coppa, you can also sample (and, again, purchase) spicy, spreadable cured sausage from Calabria, speck from the South Tyrol, cecina (air-dried smoked beef) from Spain, Dalmatian prosciutto, Tuscan lardo, saucisson from Normandy and little salamis from Dorset.

On second thoughts, I’m not quite so green-eyed of those who carve from their own jamón. One thing alone will never do. A varied selection of cold meats trumps one lump.

But where to begin? And where to end? To ensure a balanced spread, I suggest considering a mix of sliced muscle meats, sliced large salamis, smaller salamis to cut yourself (these also last well, so have you covered beyond Boxing Day), and a terrine or pâté or something spreadable. Within that selection, think about mixing up piggy classics, with some non-porcine things too: beef, lamb, goat, venison, duck. And finally, ensure you’ve a range of lean and fatty cuts.

My personal selection for Christmas 2021 follows. I think each of the meats are impressive enough to star as a solo plate, magically produced at the start of a film or a round of charades. But there’s also balance across the board, should you decide to make a platter comprising all of them. As a general rule, 75-100g of thinly sliced cured meat will fill a large plate and is a pretty decent amount – particularly if part of a selection like this one.

Here is my Borough Market cured meat platter for Christmas 2021:

COPPA DI ZIBELLO

The Parma Ham and Mozzarella Stand

This cut, taken from the hard-working collar of a pig, represents the best of all worlds: thanks to the balance of lean meat and a marbling of intramuscular fat, it is both silky and flavourful. Most varieties are pretty good, but this version so is pure and unadulterated, it’s wonderful.

VENISON SALAMI

Alpine Deli

Make the most of the offer at Alpine Deli and walk away with not one but three Tyrolean salamis. A mix of venison, boar and spicy pork sausages will see you through the period. Cut each one into slices slightly thinner than a pound coin (or, if that reference is too dated, half the thickness of an iPhone). When it comes to assembling this particular platter, use the venison.

IBERICO DE BELLOTA SALCHICHON

Brindisa

One of those concentric swirls of Jamon Ibérico de Bellota would go down a treat, wouldn’t it? But maybe that’s something to go for when in the ‘just one thing’ mood I mentioned at the start. It’s worth remembering that the acorn-fattened pigs from whom those hind legs hail are used for other cured meats too, including these rich, salty and pleasingly fatty slices of salchichon.

MOUSSE DE CANARD

Le Marché du Quartier

Some soft charcuterie is always a good call. I was tempted by pâté de campagne or duck rillettes from the same trader, but something about this silky-smooth beige mousse grabbed me and demanded I take a slice. Rich and luxurious.

BRESI

The French Comte

Dark red and absolutely bursting with flavour, as you would expect from cured beef fillet. It’s lightly smoked, too, so there’s another thing that’ll bounce off your tongue. But perhaps the thing that make this cured meat so special is that the fillet originally belonged to a Montbéliarde cow – the breed that provides the milk for comté cheese. And as we all know, that is very tasty indeed.

FINOCCHIONA

Gastronomica

And finally we return to pork, with perhaps its perfect partner: the fennel seed. Light, sweet, tangy and aromatic, with hints of anise, finocchiona is one of the very best styles of large salami and will round this festive platter off nicely.

“MY ULTIMATE DIWALI FEASTING DISH IS SOMETHING THAT URVESH EMPHATICALLY AGREES WITH. I LOVE A BIRIYANI, HE EXPLAINS”

Words: Gurdeep Loyal / Images: RED Agency, Tom Bradley

To me, Diwali has always been the most sensorially riveting festivity of the year. Celebrated by millions of Hindus, Sikhs and Jains around the world, the annual ‘festival of lights’ – which this year falls on 1st November, preceded by five days of ceremonies – is a vibrant fantasia of delights, symbolising the luminous triumph of good over the dark forces of evil.

I have vivid memories of my childhood Diwalis, growing up in Leicester – each one illuminated by the shimmering diva oil lanterns that would suddenly adorn every corner of our house and garden from mid-October onwards. I still look forward to Diwali season with giddy excitement, relishing in the sight of glittering saris and sequined paisley pyjama suits; the sputtering sounds of samosas and pakoras in hot oil; the dizzying smell of bonfires and fireworks; and the thrilling taste of cardamon burfi, gingery masala chai and sticky-sweet jalebis, all devoured together in the same bite.

Like me, Urvesh Parvais of Gujarati Rasoi, which serves up vegetarian and vegan Indian food in the Borough Market Kitchen, has treasured memories of the festival’s spiritual rituals. He remembers how his “grandmother would have a temporary Diwali temple in her home, illuminated with fairy lights and effigies of all the Hindu gods. She would pray, light divas and be still. Sitting quietly with her was one of the things I loved most – incense and her love filling my heart as we stared into the flickering divas.”

These sacred aspects also make their way to Ratan Mondal’s Tea2You tea emporium in Borough Market. He tells me that in his family “we worship Hindu deities – the goddess Kali and Ganesha – and perform puja with the use of incense sticks, the sound of bells, and enchanting mantras, similar to what I do every morning at my Borough Market store.” His childhood Diwalis in Kolkata “were commemorated by decorating my home with divas and candles, as in those days we didn’t have fairy lights. By the time I’d finished with the last candle, the first one would be out – and I’d need to jump to light that again!”

Devotional ceremonies are always followed by bountiful feasting, and as Ratan enthusiastically explains, “Diwali is not only a festival of lights… but also the festival of flavours!” My favourite celebratory mouthful growing up was salted gathiya – a flaky, crunchy chickpea-flour snack, speckled with ajwain, nigella seeds and cumin, which my mum would make in gargantuan batches to accompany jugs of fizzy mango-rose punch (often spiked with rum and brandy for the grownups!). I also loved handvo: a lentil and vegetable cake smothered in a rainbow splatter of green coriander, bright red tomato and conker-brown tamarind chutneys, the last of which is especially delicious made with Pantainorasingh tamarind paste from Borough’s Raya stand.

And then there’d be shiny platters of wonderfully rich burfis and ladoos made from condensed milk, floral spices, toasted nuts and semolina – always garnished at this time of year with glistening silver leaf. Gaurav Gautam of Indian street food stand Horn OK Please, who hails from the north of India, took equal pleasure from the savoury and sweet edible delights of Diwali. “Two of the sweets I remember indulging in are gulab jamun sugar doughnuts and kaju katli cashew burfi,” he tells me. “But we also used to make mathri – savoury butter biscuits made of wheat – and crunchy sweet-savoury noodles made from chickpea flour.”

This cornucopia of dishes is also something that Ratan loves to feast on over the festival. “We make crispy spicy samosas, along with Indian masala chai, complemented with sweets like sooji halwa, which is a sweet semolina pudding,” he says. “We also would have rasgulla – Indian paneer balls soaked in thick sugar syrup. We Calcuttans from Bengal must have rasgullas to celebrate any happy event!”

My ultimate Diwali feasting dish is something that Urvesh emphatically agrees with. “I love a biriyani at Diwali!” he explains. “All those layers and flavours!” Fragrant slow-cooked chicken biryani – heady with black cardamon, coriander seeds, saffron and garam masala – is a taste like no other, especially when made using the deliciously complex masala blend from Spice Mountain. Equally electrifying, and just as complex, are the celebratory festive teas at Tea2You, like Ratan’s Indian masala rooibos, blended with cloves, cardamon and cinnamon, delicious brewed with warming fresh ginger and honey. Or for something extra, extra special, his white tea with rose buds has blossoms that unfurl in your cup.

Diwali’s religious ceremonies and feasting all lead up to the festival’s spectacular conclusion, which, as Urvesh tells me, has to be “the fireworks! Ignited as a celebration of light. I’ve always loved them!” Gaurav also remembers “waiting impatiently for our extended family to gather so that we can all go out in the open and enjoy firecrackers.” Ratan laughs about the lengths he would go to in India to ensure the festival’s fiery treasures would take to the skies: “Due to damp soggy weather at this time of year, I would dry my favourite fireworks meticulously in the sunlight on the roof for a week before Diwali, sitting beside them to guard them from being stolen.”

As with Bonfire Night, any Diwali fireworks display calls for delicious food, served long into the night. Horn OK Please’s signature moong dal dosa with warm masala chai would be a fantastic way to celebrate, as would Gujarati Rasoi’s samosa or bhujia chaat – spicy, salty, sweet flavours and satisfying crunchy crisp textures jumbled together in a bowl. At the open-fire Sri Lankan restaurant Rambutan, situated in the heart of the Market, the red pineapple curry with mustard seeds, served with samba rice and a side of green mango yoghurt pachadi, would be an excellent way to celebrate. These are all dishes filled with the spirit of the festival, whose magnificent loud flavours – just like Diwali’s fireworks – are guaranteed to go off with a bang!

“FOOD TO JEWISH PEOPLE IS SOCIALISING, IT’S FAMILY. THERE’S NEVER A TIME WHEN THERE’S NOT FOOD”

Words: Tomé Morrissy-Swan

The meal starts with a prayer. “Baruch ata Adonai, Eloheinu Melech ha-olam, boreh p’ri hagafen,” says Ivan Lester. Blessed are You, God, ruler of the universe, who creates the fruit of the vine.

“Amen,” those around the table respond.

Ivan pours sweet wine from a small, silver kiddush cup. It tastes not unlike port. He slices a large round challah (not plaited, as is the norm), which represents the circle of life. It’s Rosh Hashanah, a celebration of the new year. And, like all Jewish festivals, it’s heavy with symbolism, especially of the culinary kind. We dip both the soft, sweet, pillowy bread and slices of apple into honey. There are dates on the table, and honey cake too.

“Everything in Rosh Hashanah is sweet, for a sweet new year,” Ivan explains. “It’s a lovely holiday, in anticipation of a good new year,” adds Ivan’s wife, Sandra.

“We’re a very modern Jewish family,” their son, Andrew, says. “For us, Rosh Hashanah is very relaxed, very family orientated. A fantastic, fun evening with some delicious food.”

Sandra hands me a bowl of glistening chicken soup, two golf ball-sized matzo balls bobbing within. “Jewish food is comfort food,” says Ivan, who made the masterful broth. “Food to Jewish people is socialising, it’s family,” Andrew butts in. “It’s talking across the table. There’s never a time when there’s not food.”

The Lesters are a family steeped in what they call “Jewish soul food”. Ivan makes one of the best chicken soups around, but salt beef is their calling, and they’ve invited me to their home in Loughton, to the northeast of London, to talk about it. From their Borough Market stall, Nana Fanny’s, they pump out more than 1,000 salt beef sandwiches, on bagel or rye, per week.

“Salt beef was a method of preservation before refrigeration, it goes back generations,” says Andrew. To both preserve and tenderise tough cuts of meat – typically brisket in Jewish salt beef – beef has long been brined before being boiled.

Many cultures have a tradition of preserving meat in salt – the protracted shelf life of salted beef made it popular with the British merchant navy, Andrew explains. But the tender strips of delicately cured and gently spiced brisket we know and love today? “Predominantly it was eastern European Jews that came to this country and brought their favourite foods,” explains Andrew, whose ancestors hail from Russia and Poland.

Ivan tells me he adds saltpetre, sugar, garlic, peppercorns, bay, star anise and mustard seeds to the brine. “I won’t tell you the quantities,” he says, guarding a deep-rooted family secret. The beef is turned regularly before being boiled for a few hours. The whole process can take up to three weeks.

Ivan was born in London in 1944, by which time his mother Sarah and grandmother Fanny had long been making salt beef. According to family legend, Fanny had a barrow on Brick Lane from which she’d sell meat cured at their home on nearby Hanbury Street. She passed on her recipe to her daughter, creating a dynasty of which Andrew is the fourth generation. Andrew remembers going to his grandmother Sarah’s house, and “you’d never go and there wouldn’t be salt beef. Like someone might have their signature roast dinner. We were brought up with salt beef, we probably have salted blood.”

That certainly could be true for Ivan, who was a foodie from the off. “Being nosy and loving food, I got involved and started helping to brine it from an early age,” he tells me. Ivan trained as a chef and worked at gentlemen’s clubs in the West End, and hotels including The Savoy, before turning to street food vans and market stalls as far afield as Cambridge and Folkestone. They sold burgers but salt beef was always their specialty. “I always say Dad is the inventor of street food,” Andrew jokes. “He was serving food on the street before the phrase ‘street food’ existed.”

Ivan has been selling it for six decades and is one of London’s few masters of the art (most places that sell it buy salt beef produced by specialists, including Nana Fanny’s). Over six decades, his recipe has barely changed, save for a recent reduction in salt. But the equipment has. Ivan used to brine the brisket in an enamel baby bath in his garage – modern health and safety standards have put paid to that.

The Lesters ran long-established stalls at Exmouth and Broadway Markets, but Borough was always the dream, and 12 years ago they finally opened. Salt beef is synonymous with London, rarely seen elsewhere in the country, and for Andrew, offering a product of such important cultural heritage at one of the city’s oldest food markets is key. “We’re doing something that’s very much part of our culture, and people seem to like it. It’s nothing more than that, we’re no frills.” Here, visitors can enjoy stacked rye bread or bagel sandwiches, with pickles and strong English mustard balancing the fatty, salty meat.

Talking of which, my soup is finished and Ivan hands me a beautifully arranged platter of blushing-pink salt beef. The meat is delicate as a feather, with a buttery texture and a slightly fatty flavour that lingers wonderfully in the mouth. The meat pulls apart with ease and you can see air pockets where the fat has rendered down – the sign of good salt beef, says Andrew. Alongside sweet, sour, crunchy dill pickles, sinus-clearing mustard and soft, pillowy challah, it’s heaven.

We move on to the honey cake. It’s light, mildly sweet, comfortingly simple. The Lesters tell me about the importance of upholding Jewish traditions, how their grandchildren love celebrating Chanukah, how each festival comes with culinary symbolism, from Chanukah’s oily latkes to Passover’s seder plate with its array of foods. This year there are 20 family members coming for Rosh Hashanah, which coincides with Ivan’s 80th birthday. After the prayers and sweet treats there may be Ivan’s chopped liver (“the best in the world,” says Sandra), chicken soup, roast chicken and perhaps some of that special salt beef.

“Any excuse to have a celebration,” says Andrew. “Even without the festivals, every Friday night is a festival, because you’re with your family, eating, drinking, and you’ll always end up rolling out.”

“GAME IS PLENTIFUL AND DOESN’T DEPLETE THE SAME NATURAL RESOURCES THAT TRADITIONAL MEAT FARMING DOES”

Words: Thea Everett

As a home cook, there are a few ingredients I’ve always been tentative to take on. Game – a source of protein I’d previously thought the preserve of Michelin-starred chefs and MasterChef contestants – was one of these. But I’ve often found that trying my hand at a new ingredient makes the kitchen a more exciting place. And so, this autumn, I’ve decided to open my heart to game. After some experimentation, I now know that pheasant and grouse are not scary. They’re for us all. Hear me out…

When you hear the names of game meats, you might be more likely to make associations with Christmas carols featuring pear trees than your weekly meal plan. But don’t let that put you off. Pheasant, partridge, grouse, pigeon, venison and rabbit all offer opportunities for experimentation and fun in the kitchen. And when you know where to buy them and how to prepare them, they can put exciting new twists on old autumn favourites like curries, ragus or stews.

The word sustainable gets thrown about a lot in the food world, and you might have heard it said that game is one of the most sustainable sources of protein in the UK. But the proof is in the prehistory: humans have hunted wild animals for sustenance for thousands of years (and we still do). It’s an ecosystem that works. For most of our history, game hunting has been strictly controlled by the upper classes, who limited access to certain breeds of animal. Royals and the nobility would get the best – fallow and red deer – while peasants were left with roe. Happily, those days are over – game is available to anyone with a good market or butchers at their disposal – and if you’re going to eat meat, it’s one of the tastiest and most eco-friendly ways to do it.

I bring up game’s environmental credentials only because they can be backed up by cold, hard facts. Game is plentiful, doesn’t deplete the same natural resources that traditional meat farming does, and is usually sourced more locally. It’s also not pumped with chemicals and antibiotics in the same way that a lot of intensively farmed meat is, with all the associated implications for human health.

So, what actually makes a meat ‘game’? The key criterion is that the meat comes from wild or free-to-roam animals, which exist on a natural diet. That diet means the meat is typically leaner and lower in saturated fat. During the autumn, it’s also a competitively priced source of protein. But despite all this, game still hasn’t broken through to the mainstream. Don’t you think that’s a shame?

For Darren Brown, founder of Borough Market’s Shellseekers Fish & Game, providing game meat to the public is driven by a sense of duty. “There is a big problem in our country,” says Darren. “We are overrun by deer.” Because there are no natural predators for deer remaining in the UK, and new breeds have been introduced from other countries, the numbers are out of control. This has negative effects on the environmental regeneration of woodlands, as Chris Packham has argued in his (perhaps surprise) support of deerstalking. The solution, Darren says, is not to introduce more wolves into the wild (which would come with its own issues) but to “eat our problems” and make venison part of the big four or five meat sources that we regularly consume.

When it comes to the birds, pheasant and partridge are bred by gamekeepers, and typically live up to three years, free to roam, unlike their popular cousin the chicken, which is often bred in appalling conditions in cages and only allowed to live for a few months. Grouse are still completely wild, and can’t be bred. Is it any wonder that chefs go wild for a bird whose unique flavour comes from a natural diet of heather?

Controversial though hunting might be, Darren says that “the public don’t see the infrastructure and conservation that goes into shooting”. There are still misconceptions that game meat constitutes “killing bambi”. When most people have no problem eating pigs, sheep and chicken, it’s undeniably a hypocritical stance that the gamekeeping community wants to help address.

As shoppers, we are keener than ever to know about where our food comes from. Surely a source of protein where the provenance is traceable and animals are not bred to be big and tasteless but given the opportunity to live a more natural life should be taken seriously? No air miles or battery-farmed consumer guilt necessary. I urge you to join me in my autumnal gameplan…

Chicken gets all the air time, but how about making your next curry with pheasant? You’ll be contributing to a less harmful form of meat consumption, and maybe even connecting with your hunter-gatherer ancestors. Like chicken, pheasant does need attention to ensure it doesn’t dry out, so in my recipe for pheasant tikka masala, I marinate the meat before grilling it quickly and adding to the gravy at the final moment to ensure it doesn’t lose too much moisture.

Grouse is a special ingredient only available for a couple of months a year. It cooks in a quarter of the time of chicken and is much more manageable than you might think, just needing a quick sear in a pan and then 15 minutes or so in an oven. The skin can have a slight bitterness, so avoid that if you prefer, and enjoy the meat itself which is full of flavour – almost more like steak than poultry. You’ll see why chefs get excited about it.

I hope my recipes for pheasant tikka masala and roast grouse with leeks & orzo will have you looking at game with a little less suspicion. Game mode activated. Come along for the ride.

“IF I CAN OPEN ONE PERSON’S EYES TO OFFAL, MAYBE THEY’LL DECIDE NOT TO JUST BUY THAT PACK OF SUPERMARKET MINCE”

Interview: Mark Riddaway

Elliot Hashtroudi never had the slightest intention of being a chef. Growing up in Devon, he watched his father struggle in the restaurant industry and vowed never to follow in his footsteps. “I was like, right, I never want to do that,” he recalls. “I’ve seen my dad working every hour of the day and night, for nothing.”

After moving to London, gaining an English degree and starting a disappointing career in the film industry, Elliot found himself bored and unfulfilled – until his girlfriend persuaded him to give cooking a go. “So, I blagged my way into a restaurant,” he says. “From there, I got the passion for it.” Following formative spells in Mayfair and at Borough’s Padella restaurant, he really honed his craft at the legendary St John in Farringdon. Deciding to strike out alone, he would go on to man the stove at several acclaimed pop-ups, including a residency at 107 (formerly P Franco), before an approach by Clare Lattin and Tom Hill, the duo behind Ducksoup in Soho, led to him taking the helm of their latest venture. Camille, a regional French restaurant, opened at Borough Market last year to ecstatic reviews, completely validating Elliot’s about-turn. “Let’s put it this way,” he says, “I’m glad film didn’t work out!”

What is it about cooking that sparks your passions?

It’s the creativity. It’s being able to express yourself on a plate. It’s knowing that every single plate matters, that it’s your baby and you want it to be perfect. Having my own restaurant now, it feels like it’s part of me. It’s like people coming to my house. I grew up in a family where you sat at the dinner table, spending hours eating dinner, sharing stories. For me, that’s really important. I think it’s in my nature to really look after people. I would never change it for anything.

You’re one of a long rollcall of head chefs who’ve graduated from the kitchens of St John. What is it about that place that makes it such a conveyor belt for talent?

It’s almost like a finishing school in a way. You get a great understanding of how to look after your ingredients. You get knowledge of butchery, knowledge of provenance. And they really put their trust in you. In so many kitchens, the chef will just do one thing all the time. They might do the peas for a garnish for six hours a day, then come in tomorrow and do peas for another six hours. But at St John, you’re cooking a whole fish, you’re cooking game, loads of side dishes and starters. You’re managing loads of different ingredients and different pans, and it’s really fight or flight. I think some chefs engage their brain and get on with it, and others are a bit overwhelmed. For some it works, for some it really doesn’t.

When Clare and Tom first approached you about Camille, what was their pitch?

I was coming to the end of my residency at 107 and I’d organised a few pop-ups in New York and elsewhere. Clare and Tom contacted me and said: “We’re opening a restaurant, we’ve seen what you’ve been cooking, we’d love to meet you.” We had a nice little chat. They told me that they’d fallen in love with some old Pierre Koffmann books and wanted to create a French bistro, taking the name from his grandma, Camille. Then I pitched them my idea: French regional cooking, whole carcass, regenerative farms, 90 to 100 per cent British ingredients, but cooking it in a French way, really expressing the little niches and intricacies of France rather than focusing on Lyon like a lot of great restaurants do. And they were instantly like: “Love that. See you next month. Let’s open a restaurant.”

As a Londoner who was raised in Dorset, how did you come to have such a feel for the regional foods of France?

So, I spent a lot of my youth in France. My auntie has lived there for over 60 years. She’s quite a character. I spent a lot of time with her in the south of France. That sounds quite romantic and it really wasn’t – she didn’t live in the nicest area – but through her I got this love for the country. I loved the relationships people had with their bakeries, their markets. There were no big chain supermarkets, it was just produce grown in that region. Since then, I’ve visited so many times, different areas, different places. It’s the food that I want to eat, and that’s why I love cooking it.

You mentioned your commitment to whole-carcass butchery. How does that work?

I work closely with three or four different farmers, all regenerative farmers, all sustainable, which is the main thing – I hate that there’s so much emphasis on breeding as much as you can for as much profit as possible and destroying the land. Every week we get a whole pig in. Sometimes we get whole cows, goats, lambs. That leads to a real game of creativity, because our menu changes every day. Nothing goes to waste. We use all the skin – we confit it, we crisp it, we use it in cassoulet. All the fat gets rendered. All the bones are used for stock. Other bits go into terrines, all the offal goes into various dishes. Working with all those bits is like this beautiful mosaic. From a cost perspective it’s amazing, and from an environmental perspective, again, it’s so important.

Do you think chefs have an important role to play in showing the potential of lesser-used cuts?

I do. If I can open one person’s eyes to offal or to the experience of whole-carcass butchery, maybe they’ll go home and think, I’m not just going to buy that pack of mince from the supermarket that’s been sat there for a week, I’m going to go to my butchers and ask them for a little bit of heart or kidney. It’s great for your diet and it’s also great for saving money, but it’s overlooked so much in this country.

Are there any cuts that you struggle to shift?

Not really. Do you know what, we even serve cow’s udder, which really is a bit niche. I was sceptical the first time about how this was going to go down, but by the time dinner had come round, it had sold out! An udder takes a lot of trimming and a lot of cleaning. We grill it so it absorbs all that smoky aroma, and we serve it with like a nice sharp salad to cut through the fat. It’s delicious. Honestly, I absolutely love it and I’m so glad the customers do as well!

Explore Elliot’s recipes

Clams, pig’s cheek & pastis

Turbot terrine

Presumably your approach to fish is similarly exacting.

Me and my sous chef both grew up on the coast, so we were always by the beach, surrounded by the beauty of the British sea. Given how little fish most people include in their diet, I think you can sometimes forget that Britain is an island. We work directly with small fishmongers and, again, we use every element, from the head to the liver to the trim. But the main thing with fish is only buying what’s in season in this country. It’s really important that people understand how fish works, that lots of species shouldn’t be available all year round – in the same way that I’m never going to be serving strawberries in December.

With that commitment to seasonality, how do you cope at times of the year when you don’t have an abundance of ingredients?

I almost enjoy those times more. I like the challenge. It’s like those strawberries – we’re not going to have much fresh fruit in December, but that’s no problem. We’re not going to buy it in. Partly, it’s important to think ahead. Right now, we’re preserving a lot of summer fruit and veg by pickling, by fermenting. A lot of meat we cure. Some fish we cure as well. Your great-grandparents, your grandparents, they used all these techniques of pickling, preserving, curing, so that produce would last all year round. Also, there’s some beautiful stuff that comes through in December from England and there’s just no need to shop around. You make your menu a little bit smaller, you make it a little bit more exciting, and you do a few things differently, but every season should speak for itself really.

How do you find working on the edge of a busy produce market?

It’s great. I’ve come a full circle in a way. Working here at Padella years ago, I fell in love with Borough Market – so many great stalls, so many great restaurants. It’s had a bit of a renaissance recently with how many amazing restaurants have cropped up. And going into the actual market and seeing the produce is fantastic, particularly the stalls that highlight sustainable British produce. There’s such a nice buzz around Borough Market. You’ve got a lot of out-of-towners coming in, but you’ve also got a lot of real Londoners who grew up with the market, who’ve seen it evolve and they keep coming back to it. It’s the heart of London. It really is a magical place.

“AS AN ARTIST, WHATEVER YOU’RE PAINTING, BE IT ALIVE OR INANIMATE, YOU’RE TRYING TO CAPTURE ITS ESSENCE, ITS SPIRIT”

Interview: Mark Riddaway / Images: Christopher R Proctor, Caranina Rose

“For me, food, nature and art have always been the common threads,” says Richard Bramble, an artist whose stunning paintings of food adorn the ceramics, textiles and homewares sold at his Borough Market stand. “When I was young, our family holidays were spent in Poole Harbour fishing on a boat, or up in Scotland catching plaice or trout. We did the foraging thing. We picked mushrooms. We caught our supper and cooked it. That made its way into my art from an early age – even my pieces for A-level were of animals.”

Richard’s studio is in Dorset – his family moved to the county when he was a child – but he was born in London and his connections to Borough run deep. His mother, a nurse at Guy’s hospital, remembers being escorted through the Market by the traders in the early hours at the end of her night shift. “It was quite a dodgy area in those days,” he says. “Even when I started here 25 years ago it was pretty rough and ready.” He set up his stall in 1999, selling his wares in the open air. Decades later, he has opened a stand on Rochester Walk, giving him a chance to showcase a larger and more diverse collection of his work.   

What led you to start painting the ingredients that appear so prominently in your work?

I studied at the Slade School of Fine Art, here in London. Towards the end of that, I was getting really interested in food and cooking, and I decided I wanted to get into restaurant kitchens to paint the chefs. That evolved into a book, complete with recipes. I produced ingredient studies to match the recipes – for one of them I painted a black Dexter cow from Northfield Farm. One of the first restaurants I went to was Le Gavroche, with Michel Roux Jr. Many of the best chefs in London had trained with him, be it Marco Pierre White or Gordon Ramsay, and Michel would phone them up and say: “We’ve got this artist, he’s pretty interesting, you should let him come over and paint.” It really grew from there.

How did you come to be selling your work here at Borough Market?

One of the chefs in the book was Nico Ladenis, who had a three-star restaurant on Park Lane. I was downstairs in the kitchen painting the chefs when Fred Foster of Turnips turned up with a delivery of vegetables. He told me that this new food market had started at Borough and suggested I come down with my paintings. I didn’t have any ceramics back then, I just had my paintings and prints, but I took them along for the second market after the Food Lovers’ Fair – it was once a month, on the third Saturday. I just thought it was magical. I’ve been here ever since.

How did you make the move from paintings to homewares?

It started with a couple of the chefs. Gordon Ramsay, who was at Aubergine at the time, asked me to do a plate for him. That’s how I started working with ceramics, but I’d always been interested in the idea of creating work that was informative and functional as well as artistic. As an artist, I want my work to be accessible to everyone – I’m not a snob about it. I started working with a family-owned pottery in the Channel Islands, doing earthenware, then went on to do porcelains from Limoges. From there, I evolved into textiles, boards, place mats, things like that. It was all very much driven by the produce at the market, by the traders and by the customers.

How do you create your designs?

Mostly, I work on paper with watercolour and pen and ink. I’m using the whiteness of the paper with the translucence of the watercolours, so the paper shines through and gives you that vibrant colour, which translates so well onto ceramics. We scan the drawings or paintings, then screenprint onto transfer paper using eight or nine-colour screens. We put this onto whiteware and fire it so it’s dishwasher-proof and microwave-proof. It’s a similar technique for the textiles. The textiles are made and printed in Lancashire, the table mats in Lincolnshire, all done in small batches. My suppliers are very specialised, largely family-owned companies that I’ve worked with for years. The process is quite difficult. There are always variations; sometimes things come out better than you thought, sometimes they don’t. But over the years we’ve managed it well.

What is it you’re trying to achieve when you first put brush to paper?

As an artist, whatever you’re painting, be it alive or inanimate, I guess you’re trying to capture its essence, its spirit. For me, that means researching the ingredient – the research is as important as the process of painting. I did a Jersey royal potato bowl to mark the centenary of the Jersey royal growers, and when someone first asked me to paint an appealing design of some potatoes, I did think, well, this is going to be a struggle. But then you read the story of the Jersey royal, you think about its history and that unique shape, and it all comes together. It’s about meeting the producers; it’s about going out there and seeing things in their environment. That could mean diving to see lobsters up close underwater, catching them and cooking them, and having real respect for them even if you’re going to eat them.

Is anatomical accuracy important to you?

Often it is. Most of my paintings are accurate; some are looser though, with a bit more character. Take the john dory, for example – underwater, in the light, they’re really quite colourful, but once they’re out of the water they lose their colours very quickly. I’ve enhanced the colours on the john dory painting. Also, he’s got very long fins, which you can’t fit on a plate, so I’ve taken a bit of artistic licence with those too. But to me, the main thing is that he’s a fish with a naturally grumpy face, and that’s the sense of character I’ve tried to capture.

After 25 years out on stall, what difference will it make to you having a fixed indoor stand?

It was becoming quite an effort to carry on – bringing the stock up every day, setting up the stall, repairing what’s broken, trying to keep it looking as good as possible, then taking it down every night. Hopefully with the fixed stand we can do that much more with our time and energy. We’ll be able to have a wider selection of pieces and tell the stories behind them a bit more, show the connections and how the work’s evolved. As well as the ingredients, I’ll be able to share some of the work I do on conservation and marine conservation, which is great.

What approach have you taken to the space?

I want to try to retain some of the market stall feel of it – I don’t want it to be pristine, like a shop shop. It needs to still have that interest and uniqueness and character. Obviously with a space like this, you’ve got to somehow entice people in, which can be a bit intimidating, whereas when you’ve got an umbrella stand, every passerby can see the whole display straight away. I’m aware of those dynamics, though, and it’s a really interesting challenge.

“OYSTERS ARE LIKE WINE – THEY TASTE OF THEIR ENVIRONMENT. OURS TASTE LIKE THEY’VE BEEN AGED IN THE MARSHES”

Words: Tomé Morrissy-Swan

At Richard Haward’s Oysters in Borough Market, Tom Haward is guiding me through a selection of briny bivalves. There are three sizes: small, medium and large. I’m instructed to eat the small one with lemon, the next two with shallot vinegar. Each one is delicious – and remarkably different. The small oyster is sweet, the medium creamy with hints of vanilla.

The largest is intensely salty, and certainly needs the oniony vinegar to cut through the salinity. “It’s a much older oyster, so it’s been absorbing the salt for a few more years,” Tom explains. It’s eight years old and has filtered 100 litres of water a day for its whole life. “That’s a lot of salt,” says Tom. It’s an eye-opening introduction to the world of oysters.

The Richard Haward’s Oysters stand is a market stalwart. Here, they sell 2,500 oysters a day (plus a few clams) to locals, shoppers, tourists and a significant number of social media influencers, who opt for the giant ones. “They absolutely love them, but it’s too much even for me,” says Tom, as we sip on a dark ale from Mersea. Along with stout, it’s one of the best pairings for the salty oysters.

The Haward family have farmed oysters on Mersea Island on the Blackwater estuary in Essex since at least 1769. “We think it goes back further,” says Tom, who took over the business last year when his father, the legendary Richard Haward, passed away. Tom, at least the eighth generation to oyster farmers to work on the same stretch of water, explains that the Romans discovered a rich source of oysters on Mersea, shipping them across their empire. By the 1700s, the Hawards were helping fuel huge demand in London. Oysters were once so quotidian that you can still see their shells tossed on the shores of the Thames. One contemporary report estimated that 124 million were sold at Billingsgate Market in 1851. “There were millions of oysters a year going into London out of Mersea, and there are still millions a year now,” says Tom proudly.

Not much has changed, though the oysters are now driven to London rather than sailed. Tom still sends them to Billingsgate and local food sellers around the city, but half go through Borough Market. The growing method is similar, too. There are 15 acres of oyster beds with very low-intervention farming: the seeds are sown in certain areas and left to grow until ready to harvest. The beds are rotated, to allow them to flourish, like a farmer rotating his crops. “My dad used to hate it when people said it was farming. ‘Oh no, we cultivate,’ he’d say. I’m not so precious about that term, though, because we do farm in many ways.”

While embracing the idea of being a farmer, Tom also describes the company’s oysters as ‘wild’. Most oysters, he explains, are hatched in labs and, once they hit a certain size, put in bags, cages or trestles and grown on in the water. The Hawards’ oysters, by contrast, are gathered from wild areas around the British coast – areas where the nutrients aren’t as optimal – and moved to Mersea, where the shallow tidal creeks bring in from the marshes the nutrient-dense water, filled with phytoplankton. “That’s plumping the oyster up and giving it that unique flavour,” he says.

Tom believes Mersea is the only place where this system of wild farming happens in the UK. “There’s a crossover between cultivating and farming. We’re letting mother nature do what she does best. We’re just giving her a helping hand. If I went back in time and saw what my great-great-grandfather was doing, I think he’d be doing it pretty similarly to how we’re doing it now.”

But there is one key difference between today’s oysters and those of Tom’s ancestors. Due to overfishing, pollution, disease and the introduction of invasive species, there has been a 95 per cent drop in native oyster populations around the UK and Ireland since the mid-19th century, according to the Native Oyster Network. There have been several attempts to reintroduce them in the wild, including 10,000 released last year on a man-made reef off the northeast coast. The oysters Tom serves me today are rocks, also known as Pacific oysters, a species introduced from abroad in the 1960s to keep the industry going. Natives, Tom explains, are “basically extinct, and I don’t think we’ll ever see the stocks of native oysters come back.” The water, he continues, is now too warm, and they haven’t evolved to acclimatise.

Natives represent just one per cent of the business (and two per cent of oysters sold overall in the UK) and are also sold at The Company Shed, the family’s restaurant on Mersea Island. Unlike rock oysters, which are available all year round, they’re only available from September to April, and are left alone the rest of the year to allow stock levels to recover. “We do it because it’s part of our heritage and tradition, but there just aren’t the stocks there. I only want to do a small amount, because we need to leave them alone, and give them a chance to maybe find a way to replenish.”

Native oysters have a distinctive flat, round shell – think of Botticelli’s The Birth of Venus – and are creamier and less briney, as they don’t filter as much water, thus absorbing less salt. Rock oysters have a sweeter flavour with a brinier finish. Some swear by natives and deride rocks. “That comes from many years ago, when rocks were an inferior product in this country, but personally I prefer rocks over natives,” says Tom.

Yet even within rock oysters there are considerable variations. The shores off Mersea are muddy, it’s one of the saltiest stretches of water in the country, and nutrients wash in from the surrounding marshland. The saltiness makes them among the briniest in the country, and the nutrients provide a deeper flavour and longer finish. “Oysters are like wine – they taste of the environment they grow in,” Tom explains. “Our oysters taste like they’ve been aged in the marshes; there’s a different depth of flavour.”

Back in the 1980s, oysters were considered a “yuppie thing”, says Tom. Now that’s firmly changed. Oyster stalls can be found at most markets, holidaymakers in seaside towns post pictures of their half-dozens, and there’s barely a restaurant that doesn’t feature them as a starter. At Borough Market, they’re among the most accessible snacks. For Tom, there are multiple reasons why we’ve fallen in love again. They’re environmentally friendly, helping filter the water, and can create complex reefs that provide habitat for juvenile fish, crabs, sea snails and sponges. Around the water beds on Mersea, the water is “so clear”, says Tom. Even some vegans eat oysters, due to their environmental benefits and the fact that, like mussels, they’re not sentient beings.

“There’s been a real awakening that oysters are fantastic products,” says Tom. “There’s a younger generation who are really passionate about food, about trying stuff that isn’t mass-produced rubbish. Some of it is down to the quality of the product. Not just us, but around the UK, there are passionate oyster producers who are trying to prove this is a wonderful thing to eat, and we should be proud of it in the UK.”

“BOROUGH MARKET OFFERS UP ENDLESS INSPIRATION FOR CREATIVE WAYS TO PRESERVE A SEASONAL GLUT”

Words: Gurdeep Loyal / Images: Dan Hull, Sophia Spring, Tom Bradley

There’s a joke that does the rounds every year at about this time, warning suburban dwellers to ensure all doors are kept firmly locked for the coming weeks. Not for fear of intruders but because peak courgette season has arrived – and desperate neighbours in possession of a glut will be posting them through all available letterboxes and car windows in a bid to use them up!

It’s not only summer squashes that multiply exponentially at this time of year. After months of toil, keen gardeners find themselves with a sudden monsoon of tomatoes, cucumbers, runner beans, strawberries, blackcurrants, plums, onions, chard, turnips and lettuces – a colourful tsunami that never seems to stop.

I remember fondly my childhood summers in Leicester at this time of year – the slumbering serenity of the school holidays routinely interrupted as my mum would task us with frantically filling up stacks of wooden crates with apples, greengages and seasonal marrows the size of our heads from our fruit-filled garden. These would be liberally handed out to everyone – from teachers and milkmen to bewildered strangers in the street. In return, raffia sacks of crab apples, damsons and endless wonky courgettes would appear on our doorstep daily, as if by magic, alongside gingham-wrapped jars of jams and jellies, chutneys and fruit pickles, sauerkrauts and briny vegetable ferments. Every effort imaginable was made to preserve nature’s offerings, with no lidded vessel left unfilled to capture the fleeting abundance of summerly plenty.

Borough Market offers up endless inspiration for creative ways to preserve a seasonal garden glut of your own, with artisan stallholders who are true experts at preserving the flavours of sunshine for enjoyment all year round. Doreen Gittens of De La Grenade specialises in delectable Caribbean condiments, pickles and preserves imported from a family estate on the Caribbean island of Grenada. She suggests trying something like a kuchela pickle to get your culinary imagination going. “Ours is made with green mango,” she explains, “with hot pepper, mustard oil and amchur masala. It’s delicious with picnic foods or even with earthy dishes like a mushroom stroganoff.”

Other tangy pickles Doreen offers up include a Grenadian chow chow – a relish that includes shredded cauliflower, carrot, chocho, peppers, spring onion, coriander and the earthy Caribbean herb shado beni. “Chow chow is a wonderful flavour enhancer,” she tells me, “and also makes a perfect dip for summer fish, crab or prawn cakes.” Given the variety of abundant vegetables it includes, a chow chow is a wonderful thing to try to make for yourself, using up whatever vegetables you find yourself with excesses of. My recipe for courgette chow chow relish is delicious with any combination of summer squashes and seasonal alliums you happen to have to hand.

Dawn Smith of Pimento Hill also brings to life the spirit of Caribbean cooking through her own flavour-packed jams, sauces and chutneys, all handmade in small batches using selected spices sourced directly from the Caribbean. Her sweet confections include a lemon & lime marmalade, a rhubarb & ginger preserve and a strawberry preserve with champagne, all offering wonderful inspiration for how to use up an abundance of strawberries and summer citrus fruits. Doreen at De La Grenade also offer a grapefruit marmalade and a unique Grenadian nutmeg jam, made with the outer fruit of the nutmeg. “The nutmeg jam is wonderful for making French toast with,” Doreen suggests, “and it’s also delicious with a bold cheese or to accompany cold cuts.”

Explore Gurdeep’s recipes

Courgette chow-chow relish

Strawberry, peach & nutmeg jam

Tomato, chilli & tamarind chutney

Blackcurrant, cardamon & lemon gin

My recipe for strawberry, peach & nutmeg jam takes inspiration from both Doreen and Dawn’s delicious Caribbean jams, combining sweet strawberries with ripe stone fruit and a hint of nutmeg to amplify the flavours. It can add a fragrant twist to a summer trifle or enliven classic retro jam tarts for a park picnic.

Dawn is also known for her jellies, including a rosemary jelly she suggests is “delicious for glazing lamb, vegetables or adding to a charcuterie board” and garlic jelly “that is a favourite with cheese, can be mixed into pasta dishes or smeared on pizza!” It’s her scotch bonnet jam – rich in chillies, ginger and allspice – that is one of the most talked about, thanks to the unexpected ways it can be used. “It’s often used in egg dishes,” Dawn tells me, “or it can be enjoyed with cheese or even peanut butter. It also makes an amazing addition to cocktails.” Taking Dawn’s advice, I added a teaspoon to a cocktail shaker while making an iced paloma – and the mix of smoky mescal, tangy grapefruit and hot-sweet chilli jam was truly sublime!

Making your own Jamaican-inspired chilli jam is a great way to use up a glut of summer peppers, or you could equally turn to the flavours of India for inspiration. The Punjabi-inspired chutneys handmade by Mrs Sandhu of Temptings are based on original family recipes. There are fruit chutneys such as apple & mango, hot pomegranate and orange & ginger, and highly creative fruit-nut chutneys, including grape & pistachio and cashew & blueberry. Just as inspiring are Mrs Sandhu’s savoury chutneys, each one rich in spices like mustards seeds.

De La Grenade’s tropical chutneys are perfect for using up an abundance of summer fruits. Doreen’s pineapple chutney combines pineapple with onions, garlic, scotch bonnet peppers, vinegar and pimento, while at Bath Soft Cheese Co the delicious cheeseboard accompaniments include spiced plum and tomato-tamarind chutneys which could be recreated at home as well.

Dawn at Pimento Hill is something of an expert at pickle and chutney making, offering up a fig and date chutney, an aubergine pickle and an iconic bright yellow hot banana chutney, wonderful as a dip for summer picnic snacks. Her advice to any home cook making their own summer glut pickles and chutneys is to be inventive. “Experiment with the best vegetables of the season – and mix up those flavours,” she tells me, but always “add chillies with caution!” My recipe for tomato, chilli & tamarind chutney takes inspiration from all these Borough Market traders – infusing an excess of summer tomatoes with Indian spices and the tangy sourness of tamarind to preserve them for months to come.

Another Borough Market trader that offers up seasonal inspiration is Fitz Fine Foods, which specialises in foraged fare from Kent, transformed into condiments like fruit-infused vinegars, mustards and syrups. Their sweet raspberry vinegar is a bestseller which they suggest trying on fresh fruits, with Yorkshire pudding or even with ice cream. Making your own summer berry vinegars is a fun thing to do, or you could take inspiration from their gooseberry & mint mustard, which combines the fruits of the Kent garden into a piquant mustardy condiment.

Fitz’s fruity syrups are equally inspirational – a colourful lineup of bottles which include wild strawberry, elderflower and raspberry varieties – particularly delicious drizzled over waffles and pancakes. They are equally inventive with blackcurrants, which also come into abundance over the later summer months. Their cassis syrup is the inspiration behind my recipe for blackcurrant, cardamon & lemon gin. This puckeringly tart and fragrant tipple is perfect for mixing with cold fizz – and is sure to keep the sparkling sunshine of summer alive all the way to through to autumn.

“ON THE AMALFI COAST, I HAD SOME OF THE BEST MOZZARELLA I’VE EVER EATEN (SECOND TO THAT OF BOROUGH MARKET OF COURSE!)”

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.   

Alex Praag is Borough Market’s Operations Manager, responsible for managing the team that keeps the market running smoothly, day by day.

What’s the item of summer produce you most look forward to?

Perhaps not widely appreciated enough, but peas and summer beans make up some of my favourite summer recipes – light, fresh and tasty. I remember growing peas as a child with my dad and the joy that this sweet treat would bring us!

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

Do I have to choose just one?! First was the delicious Caprese salad I had in Praiano, on Italy’s Amalfi Coast. Some of the best mozzarella I’ve ever eaten (second to that of Borough Market, of course!), enjoyed while sitting on the cliff tops overlooking the Tyrrhenian Sea. A second would be the carved lamb in Istanbul – the waiter came to collect our order and the next minute he was carving up a whole lamb that was hanging in the window, waiting to be grilled. 

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’m most often front and centre, holding the helm at the barbecue. I really enjoy slow cooking, so usually it’s me sat nursing the coals for several hours before the guests arrive. Attending to the barbecue for multiple hours has definitely made me appreciate the value of a good cool box.

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

My favourite barbecue dish is grilled chicken with watermelon, feta and mint salad – such a winning combination! Maybe a few buttered corn cobs on the side too…

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

The lemon-marinated olives from Oliveology are the perfect complement to any picnic – maybe with spicy sardines from The Tinned Fish Market and Olivier’s Bakery’s rosemary sourdough.

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

I’d head up to Hampstead Heath and spend the day basking in London’s answer to the countryside.

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

A cold West Country cider while sat on the beach. Unbeatable!