"Tell me what you eat, and I will tell you who you are”

March 29, 2022 by Theo Crutcher

A date with the matriarch of fine dinning in France’s gastronomic capital

The pâté en croûte, if it had been served with a piece of baguette and a small salad, would have made a very respectable lunch. The dish had been elevated to double Michelin star level, packed with poulet de Bresse and foie gras and lifted by florets of pickled cauliflower. It was being served as the first of two amuse bouches; a prelude and ironic nod to the simplicity of country cooking, to kick off a seven-course tasting menu at one of France’s most historic fine dining establishments.

The greatest appeal of food and drink for me has always been the conviviality of eating and drinking together, but in this instance, I had booked a table for one. I was positioned with an uninterrupted view across a pristine white tablecloth into the art deco dining room of La Mère Brazier in Lyon’s old town. Looking at the neatly presented appetiser and my welcome glass of champagne the stage was set, but I was unsure if I could enjoy such excessive self-indulgence alone.

I had come to Lyon, the gastronomic capital of France, to re-appreciate French food, but also, after returning full time to the London rat race almost exactly a year ago, the world of food in general. I had decided that even if I didn’t enjoy the experience, I would get some fresh inspiration for this long-neglected blog to compensate for the eye watering expense and agonising heartburn that would inevitably follow.

Cathédrale Saint-Jean Baptise (foreground) and La Basilique Notre Dame de Fourvière (background)

Ever since the Prince Regent, who would become George IV, employed the first celebrity chef, Marie-Antoine Carême, to wow his guests at the Brighton Pavilion, the French have felt that they hold global bragging rights to food. Yet, when faced with the perennial question of what cuisine you would take above all others for the rest of your days few people, apart from the French, would say the food of France.

The language of restaurants and cooking however remains to this day steadfastly French: juliennes and sous vides are used in high end Thai and Indian restaurants, whilst maître ds and sommeliers can be found taking bookings at restaurants in Copenhagen and pouring mezcal in Mexico City. Even the Italians, who’s gastronomic nationalism exceeds that of the French, use a lot of French words in the kitchen.

There is a historical reason for this. Following the French Revolution, the great chefs that used to serve France’s infamously decadent aristocracy suddenly went from being servants to professionals. Their artistry became available to all citizens, for a price. The French invented the restaurant profession and with it, food as a status symbol for the aspirational middle class. They formalised the process, then exported it to the world. “Tell me what you eat, and I will tell you who you are” wrote the French gastronome, Jean Anthelme Brillant Savarin in his 1825 work, the Physiology of Taste.

The most loved foods however are rarely aspirational. It was the cheap pastas and pizzas, created out of the economic hardship of southern Italy, that allowed Italian food to conquer the world. The street food dishes of Southeast Asia and comforting home kitchen curries of India that require little finesse and pack maximum flavour have fared much better on local highstreets than foie gras or confit de canard.

If there is a place to go and fall in love with French cuisine and start to give it the reverence that I suspected it deserves, then Lyon is it. The city sits at the convergence of two of France’s great rivers, the Rhône and the Saône. It is where the rich meat and dairy products from the north meet the fresh sun ripened fruit and vegetables from the south.

Poulet Bresse in Les Halles de Paul Bocouse

Lyon is home to over 4,000 restaurants, more per capita than any other in France, 17 of which have Michelin stars. It was in Lyon in the 1960s that Paul Bocuse and others invented the nouvelle cuisine, a lighter, more refined approach to the elaborate haute cuisine of Carême and those that followed him in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Today nouvelle cuisine is synonymous with over fussy presentation, foams and edible flowers, the much derided hallmarks of modern fine dining.

Before he reached international stardom and began a culinary dynasty, Bocuse was an apprentice to Eugénie Brazier, or as she was more commonly known, La Mère Brazier, the mother of Lyonnaise and, arguably, French cuisine.

In 1933 Brazier became the first female chef to hold three Michelin stars at the site I visited on Rue Eugénie Brazier that still bears her name today. A few years later she opened a second site outside the city which was also awarded three stars. This feat was unmatched until 1997 when Alain Ducasse held six Michelin stars at once.

Brazier died in 1977 but according to the latest edition of Michelin’s fine dining bible, she is “without doubt looking down on Mathieu Viannay”, current Head Chef and winner of the Meilleur Ouvrier de France award, “with pride.”

The meal started in earnest with a silver spider crab shell, filled with white crab meat in a light citrus sauce and a foam made from the crab shells. It was finished with a generous dollop of oscietra caviar. If the purpose of my trip to France was to document the luxury end of the market, then things were off to a good start. I opted for the course-by-course wine pairings, another French haute cuisine invention. This course came with a dry Riesling from Alsace.

Either I was self-conscious about eating alone, or lacking anyone to pause and talk to, but my glass of Riesling was still almost full when the empty crab shell got whisked away. Seconds later, the sommelier arrived with a fresh glass and presented the next bottle - a Chablis - that was to accompany the second starter of white shrimp nage. I either needed to eat slower, or drink faster to keep time with the formidable service team.

Good service and comfort, along with many other laudable French restaurant concepts, have become very unfashionable in recent years. Diners in London love to queue for tables, sit too close together on hard wooden chairs and have dishes dumped in front of them in no particular order. Being served at La Mère Brazier was like being placed in the centre of a performance at the Royal Opera House. I even had a heavily cushioned swivel chair so I could observe the show from all angles.

Each act began with an expertly rehearsed monologue where all the main ingredients were picked out and given their precise provenance. Yet every question I asked (and there were a lot) was answered with a depth of knowledge that demonstrated that this was far more than simply learning lines. Most importantly, the service was warm and charming without at any point feeling obsequious. Any feelings of self-consciousness quickly slipped away as I became friendly with the waitress and sommelier through the course of the meal. By the end, I felt less like an observer and more like the lead actor in their nightly show.

Cabbage stuffed with pigeon and guinea fowl, foie gras and truffle, beetroot consommé

I won’t describe every dish in detail. Highlights for me however were artichokes and foie gras, a classic dish invented by Brazier adapted for the modern era by Viannay that came with a weighty Viognier from nearby Condrieu - the balance of the two key ingredients with the local wine was perfect; a carbonara ravioli that came served in chicken broth had fathomless depths of flavour; and a savoy cabbage stuffed with pigeon, guinea fowl, foie gras and Périgord truffles served in a bright beetroot sauce that was so intricate and beautiful that I hardly dared to put my fork through it.

By the time coffee was served with a warm madeleine I was completely sated and grinning from ear to ear. I had barely noticed my fellow diners who were mere extras in the ensemble. The people who visit these French temples to gastronomy tend not to use them as public spaces to merrily catch up with friends and conveniently be fed in the process. The atmosphere across the dining room was subdued with total focus on the food.

The cold spring air was extremely welcome as I staggered out into the night, lit a Gauloises and set off for a stroll along the Rhône before returning to my hotel. I was €350 lighter, which I thought was about the same as you would pay for a good seat at the Royal Opera House, before you had drinks and dinner. Beginning at half eight and finishing close to midnight, it had been a full evening of immersive entertainment. It had brought elements of social history, geography, art and science together into an experience that was immensely pleasurable. The ability for food to do this in so many different forms is what has always driven my curiosity.

The next day, acutely aware that my meal had been in no way representative of French or Lyonnaise food, I went off in search of something more authentic. After browsing the indoor food market which bears the name of Paul Bocuse, I stopped for lunch at a local bouchon - a type of rustic bistro typical to Lyon famed for hearty, meaty fare. A starter of hot sliced sausage on puy lentils laced with vinegary Dijon mustard was exactly what I had hoped to find. A steak tartare after however was bland and uninspiring - reminiscent of many a disappointing French bistro meal. I blame myself entirely for not ordering the more adventurous “tripe de la maison” - a year in London has made me soft!

French food of course isn’t all about fine dining. There is a proud history of country cooking and respect for local produce that predates the revolution and the birth of restaurants. I want to eat in fine dining establishments about as often as I want to eat alone. One surprising discovery from my trip was the fact that the two things actually work rather well together. The thing that surprised me most however, when so much French food falls below expectations, was the desire at the top level to maintain the standards that they set for the rest of the world. At a time when fine dining is often mocked and parodied, in Lyon there was palpable pride and unwavering belief in their concept of what a restaurant should be. It is this self-belief that I suspect will keep French cooking at the top of its game for many more years to come.

Lunch in Venice

January 11, 2021 by Theo Crutcher

It is the middle of April and I am sat in an osteria in the northern Cannaregio district of Venice. Away from the cruise ships and the crowds, here it is possible to get a small glimpse of what life might be like for well healed locals. It is a Sunday afternoon, and unlike England, where the weekly family meal is taking place at home, Venetians are out for lunch.

Across the city, restaurants just like the one I am sitting in are serving their customers variations on the same local menu. It is possible to have fancy, deconstructed dishes in top tier ristorante, refined yet simple versions in mid ranking osteria, and basic fare, often served family style from set menus in the trattoria. Whilst prices vary, there is little concern for class or rank at these establishments. All that matters is that the food is an authentic expression of local cuisine, and in many cases, this means simple is better.

In Venice, the unofficial set menu consists of bacala mantecato, soaked salt cod, whipped with olive oil and garlic, bigoli in salsa, thick spaghetti served with an emulsion made from caramelised onions, anchovies, olive oil and pasta water and fritto misto di pesce, a selection of that day’s bounty from the lagoon deep fried in light crisp batter. Few of these dishes require more than a handful of ingredients. The quality of the meal lies as much in the chef’s skill at sourcing them as anything else.

On this particular day, my girlfriend and I have chosen well, and after a busy morning of churches and galleries, I am starting to slip into a state of postprandial contentment, providing little resistance, happy to sit in silence and spectate the scene around me.

Our table is on the water’s edge, looking across the Misericordia canal, which provides a steady flow of water traffic. Venetians going about their daily business, making deliveries in simple motorboats, interspersed with sun burnt tourists, reclining at the back of gondolas clutching their cameras. We are separated from the restaurant building by a strip of pavement where stylish locals and visitors from all over the world meander past in groups, parading their shopping bags and enjoying gelato.

The restaurant staff are starting to spill out onto the canal, blinking in the sunlight after a busy lunchtime shift. The proprietor, who has been having a glass of wine with the table next to us, seeing that the last covers have gone out goes into the restaurant and emerges a few moments later with a platter stacked high with tiny, deep-fried crabs.

First, he takes them over to the table he has been courting to roars of gratitude. Once they have had their turn, as the only other table left seated at 3pm, he brings them over and offers one to my girlfriend and then me, explaining that they are moeche, a seasonal delicacy, before taking the rest of the plate over to his eagerly waiting staff, where they quickly disappear amid a wave of ebullient sound.

Moeche, I later discover, are only available for a few days in the spring and the early autumn when the lagoon crabs shed their baby shells and start to grow new, hard adult ones. This process takes only a few hours as the shells start to harden as soon as they come into contact with the sea water. When exactly it happens is hard to predict and requires the knowledge and skills of the moecanti, expert fisherman whose lives are so connected to the patterns of the lagoon that they know which crabs are going to moult and when. They have been harvested by Venetians for over 300 years and fetch high prices in restaurants and the nearby Rialto fish market. There is said to be a buzz of anticipation around the market in the days leading up to their arrival.

So important are these crabs to Venice that they have even become a part of its art history, arguably the city’s most famous export. The Venetian Lion, or Lion of St Mark, has been a symbol of the city since the 11th century representing the power of the city state and its command over the seas. The winged beast is depicted in two ways. Most famously, like the one that adorns the plinth in St Mark’s square, it is seen resting on water with one foot on Mark’s gospel. It can also be seen, only in the City of Venice, with its wings facing forward, wrapped around its head in a shape reminiscent of a crab’s claw. When depicted in this way in Venetian sculpture and paintings, the Lion is known as being in moeleca.

This being Italy, an ingredient such as this requires a light, but deft touch in the kitchen. The crabs are drowned whilst still alive in beaten eggs before being lightly coated in flour and deep fried in hot oil. They should be eaten whole, in your fingers whilst still warm with a squeeze of lemon and a glass of Prosecco, or a local dry white wine such as Soave.

We are drinking an inexpensive bottle of skin contact wine called “Sassaia” made from Garganega grapes – the same as those used in Soave – by local wine maker, Angiolino Maule. Much like Soave, it has a bright citrus flavour awash with saline mineral tang, attributed to the local volcanic soils. However, this unfiltered wine, fermented using natural yeasts and made without the addition of nitrates has more persistence and a touch of wildness to it.

I inspect the cooked crab, holding it by its body, which is about the size of a Chinese dumpling. The batter is thin enough to be able to see its beady black eyes poking through and the orange pink hue of the forming shell beneath it. Its little matchstick legs and claws are spread out as if it were frozen in mid-flight, shuttling along the sandy seabed.

I bite into the body which gives which way easily releasing its oily insides. The spindly extremities provide a little more crunch which evens out texture. The taste is intense, salty and slightly briny - immediately reminiscent of the shallow lagoon in front of us that shimmers with the multicoloured discharge from passing vaporetto. The citrus notes in the Garganega work in tandem with a squeeze of fresh lemon juice to cut through the oiliness, cleansing the pallet, whilst the long, mineral finish of the wine carries through supporting the sapid, estuary flavour of the crustacean. The combination is as close to gastronomic nirvana as anything I can recall.

Delighted with the discovery, we spent the next two days requesting moeche with a knowing wink at every lunch and dinner, whilst slowly unpicking the story behind them. They were often not on the menu but were produced at request, usually with a sting on the end of the bill. But that did not deter. It was as if we had been let in on a secret.

The more I read and thought about it, the more significant that first mouthful felt. We had unwittingly been presented with food that was completely unique to that specific place and moment in time. To add to it all, the wine pairing had been so harmonious that I was sure that it couldn’t not be by some sort of design.

Whilst other tourists were undoubtably having similar experiences across the city, for a moment, it felt like we were more than just spectators but a living, breathing part of the Venetian landscape.

Was that deep-fried crab and sip of white wine, on that day and in the spot, precisely the right bite in the right place at the right time? And did this celestial coincidence provide a recipe for a type of sensory experience that could not be surpassed? One that connected us in the most literal sense to the cultural and physical properties of a place in the present moment.

I hated the term but nonetheless considered myself a “foodie”, although what that really meant was that I was an average cook and amateur restaurant snob. Living in central London I ate out regularly, often in great restaurants. At that time, London afforded the opportunity to eat some of the best Indian, Italian, Vietnamese and Peruvian-Japanese fusion food the world can offer, all within a 40min tube ride. I knew it was the best because the chefs had Michelin stars and charged exorbitant prices.

Having visited a couple of wine cellars on holiday in Burgundy, I was familiar with the concept of terroir. The idea that there are human and physical attributes within certain villages, or appellation and even specific plots of land within those that give wine unique characteristics had certainly helped me to navigate a wine list. It also seemed plausible on a geological level that there were soil compositions and aspects in some areas that were hard to replicate and affected the way that grapes ripened. As a benchmark for quality however, it had always felt rather nebulous and the idea of human influence and “local knowledge” playing a role seemed completely redundant in the era of global free movement.

Authenticity in food was something I looked for and appreciated only when travelling. I had never taken time to consider why the local beer you enjoyed on holiday never tasted quite the same when ordered in a pub back home or why, despite bringing countless reblochon cheeses back in my suitcase from French skiing holidays, my home cooked tartelette only ever tasted like old socks, whist those in an alpine chalet the previous week had been joyous, life affirming experiences.

Would those crabs have tasted the same without the faint drone of river boats and the whiff of diesel, or like most of the soft-shelled crabs I had experienced in London’s many, mediocre “pan-Asian” restaurants would it just have tasted like generic, vaguely crablike, batter? If I had picked up the same bottle of wine in my local wine shop would it have conjured the exciting, primaveral emotions that it did on that April afternoon or would I have dismissed it as another, rather too funky “natural” wine, aimed at the burgeoning hipster market?

The enjoyment of both was inextricably interwoven with time and place. What’s more, they tasted the way they did because of the physical and human attributes of the place in which they were produced. Whilst the seasons were clearly integral to the availability of the moeche, the typical spring weather also played a decisive role in the taste experience, just as a heavy downpour of snow might enhance the enjoyment of rich, melted alpine cheese.

I started to think of other examples that fitted the bill but soon realised that our appreciation of any food and drink is always in some way linked to the context in which it is consumed. What made the addendum to that lunch so special was that the wine and moeche were directly born out of the context, rather that built to fit around it. Food and drink could tell a story of place, and a moment in time, in just in the same way a painting, sculpture or building could.

Whilst perhaps not particularly ground-breaking, this idea felt worth pursuing further, if only, I thought, to provide a road map to more indulgent, epicurean experiences. However, in moments of more serious reflection, I also felt that it could have significance at a deeper level, as a way of understanding people, places and our relationship to the natural environment.

Back in London and stat at my desk in a glass office building off Blackfriars Road, I couldn’t stop noticing the homogeneity of life around me. Everything about my daily routine, from the “California style” lunchtime burrito to exercising on machines in a subterranean sweat box, felt contrived and devoid of meaning. All of it was designed to be able to be picked up and served in just the same way to anyone, anywhere at any time.

I had been taken to that spot, off the usual tourist route in Venice, by Osteria Italia, a restaurant guide, published in Italian by the NGO Slow Food. This, I had been told by a friend with Italian routes, was a food lover’s trusted companion when travelling in Italy. After using it on a few trips, I had been impressed with the places it had taken me – always away from the main strip, unassuming on the outside and in, but serving up food that had a genuine, trustworthy feeling to it.

During quiet afternoons in the office, I started to research the publishers a little further. Founded by a group of left-wing, Italian activists as a protest against a branch of MacDonald’s opening at the foot of the Spanish steps in Rome, which they saw as an assault on Italy’s food culture, Slow Food has grown into a global movement to promote good, clean and fair practice in the food industry. The Venetian moeche I realised, was the antithesis and perhaps also the antidote to the MacDonald’s hamburger and maybe everything else that felt bland and soulless around me. Was there a richer life experience waiting to be had if I could just unpick the formula behind that combination of deep fried decapod and cloudy, artisan wine?

In a roundabout way this conviction, coupled with misguided love, a touch of recklessness and frustration at a life that felt like it was being half lived, set in motion a chain of events that six months later led to me quitting my job and moving with my girlfriend to Italy, having enrolled in a Master’s degree at the University of Gastronomic Sciences. Set up by Carlo Petrini, the founding father of Slow Food, I felt that this was as good a place as any to start to search for answers.

White Park cows with calfs at Lyons Hill

Turning back the clock at Lyons Hill Farm, Dorset

September 03, 2020 by Theo Crutcher

“There is no question about it, we need to eat less meat,” Mark Leatham explained passionately over coffee after an early morning stroll around Lyons Hill Farm. This well versed ecological argument is not one you would expect to hear from a business savvy Dorset livestock farmer. But, for a man who cares as much about his farm’s butterfly population as he does for its herd of pampered rare breed cattle, it is as important to his farming approach as it is to his business philosophy.

Ever since the 1950s and the “green revolution” that followed the second world war, intensive farming practices have led to a catastrophic loss of biodiversity in the UK. Since the 1970s our insect population has halved. Moths have declined 88%, ground beetles 72% and butterflies 76%. According to a 2012 study titled, Our Vanishing Flora, we are losing one of our 950 species of native wild flower every year. 60% of global biodiversity loss is down to the food we eat and much of this is down to the intensive growing of crops that are used to feed animals reared for meat.

The effect that our growing meat consumption is having on greenhouse gas emissions is also well documented. In his latest book, We Are The Weather, pop-philosopher Jonathan Safran Foer makes the environmental case for dramatically reducing our meat consumption to only one meal a day. His eloquent and well-reasoned prose makes this argument seem less fatuous than it might seem on the surface. In his previous book, Eating Animals, he delves graphically into the appalling treatment of animals in US “factory farms” in the hope of shocking and disgusting us out of eating any meat at all.

Mark Leatham describing the flora at Lyons Hill Farm

Both arguments however have so far failed to convince the foodie crowd. “Either you fully identify with animals as equals, who are therefore deserving of our complete protection, or you regard them as lesser and subservient, in which case – accepting their right to be spared cruelty – it's OK to eat them.” Wrote Jay Rayner in his Observer review of Eating Animals. “It will come as no shock to most readers that I fall into the latter camp, and there is nothing in this text to shift me over to the other side of the argument.”

Just as the onus is being placed on luxury brands and super models to change attitudes towards the fast fashion industry, the cultural subset of chefs, restaurant critics and passionate producers stand a better chance of inspiring meaningful behavioural change in our food consumption habits than any academic. In the words of Carlo Petrini, father of the Slow Food movement, a “gastronome who has no environmental sensibility is a fool; but an ecologist who has no gastronomic sensibility is a sad figure, unable to understand the cultures in which he wants to work.”

Mark Leatham is a gastronome first and foremost. A keen country sportsman, in the 1980s, he and his brother Oliver started out selling game to top London restaurants. When faced with the dilemma of what to do outside of the shooting season, they branched out into other products. Their pursuit of speciality, high quality ingredients eventually grew into the sizeable food importation and distribution business known today as Leathams. It includes the Merchant Gourmet brand and trademark products including SunBlushed tomatoes and Roquito peppers that have become household names. Now retired from the business, Mark is following a lifelong ambition to create the finest tasting meats in Britain.

The house and flower meadows at Lyons Hill Farm

Lyons Hill farm is situated halfway up the Batcome Ridge, a sharp line of chalk hills that marks the southern frontier of Dorset’s Blackmore Vale. This natural amphitheatre provides the backdrop to the work of Thomas Hardy. It was along this ridge of hills that Tess of the D'Urbervilles made her way on foot one winter's day to Emminster, dressed in her Sunday best, to visit the family of Parson Clare in the hope of gaining their assistance to reconcile her failed marriage to Angel.

If Tess were to drop down today, in the hope of finding a warm hearth and sustenance to help her on her way, she would find much that would be familiar. Even the lavatory in the farm house - an ornate, painted, ceramic bowl - hails from 1850, the same year that the foundations for the building were laid.

But it's outside where Mark and his 33 year old son James are going to the greatest lengths to turn back time. Since the 1930s, we have lost 97% of our wildflower meadows in the UK. At Lyons Hill, pastures are being carefully returned to their wild state. “See that?” says Mark, stopping at a cluster of tall, yellow flowers in an empty field in front of the house, “that is Yellow Rattle. It feeds off the vigorous, invasive grasses, like Italian rye, allowing more delicate native species to come through.” The cattle at Lyons Hill Farm feed off up to six different types of native, wild grass, “a mixed leaf salad.” Mark explained.

The Government is taking action to reverse our biodiversity loss. Grants are available through DEFRA to restore land to old pasture. However, this is only available to farmers who graze rare and traditional breed cattle. Traditional grazers, like the White Park, are good for the land and help promote vegetation succession. However modern commercial breeds need high yield, high sugar grass like Italian rye to sustain them. These grasses exhaust the soil and have to be ripped up and replanted every few years, resulting in a monoculture. Old pastures require no ploughing and allow plant and insect life to flourish.

Still a passionate shot, Mark runs a small hobby shoot on the farm. This offers added incentive to plant cover for game, increasing the biodiversity on the property. In a patch of newly planted woodland, Mark points out an Alder Buckthorn, “this is the only source of food and breeding ground for the Yellow Brimstone butterfly,” he announced, “without re-introducing it we wouldn't see them here.” A keen entomologist, he recently spotted 15 of the 58 species of butterfly native to the UK within a single hour on the farm. On our short stroll we saw a Common Blue and a Marbled White. At each sighting Mark stopped for some minutes to take pictures and marvel.

Eventually, after an hour of stopping to look at grasses, orchids, saplings, moths and other insects we reached his pride and joy - a small herd of White Park cattle.

His twelve cows were with their calves and a mighty bull, so we kept a reasonable distance just coming close enough so that he could point out the animal’s distinctive markings. White Park are thought to be the oldest breed of cattle kept in the UK and are descended from Britain’s wild white cattle that were kept in hunting parks during the middle ages. In 1973 there were just 60 breeding females in the UK, however with the help of the Rare Breeds Survival Trust and a few dedicated farmers that has increased to around 750 today. They have elegant, wide spread horns and their brilliant white bodies are marked with black patches around the feet, eyes, ears and nose and subtle black “stitching” above the eyes. Their temperament is docile. They look on calmly at us, gently swishing the flies with their tails.

The calves born here will live their whole life on the farm, feeding just on grasses and wildflowers. Most commercial cattle live just 18 to 24 months however the cattle will graze the unimproved pastures at Lyons Hill Farm for a full 36-48 months before being sent to slaughter just a couple of miles down the road.

It is not just cattle enjoying the biodiversity of Lyons Hill Farm. It is also home to a drove of Iron Aged pigs - a cross between British Tamwoths and the Eurasian Wild Boar. These swine were first bred in the 1970s for a television documentary to represent the type of animals that our prehistoric ancestors might have kept. It was only later that the breeders discovered their exceptional flavour. Slower growing than other commercial breeds they have the distinct, full flavour of wild boar, coupled with the high fat content of a Tamworth, making them highly prized by chefs. After being weaned, the pigs spend their lives running wild in the woods at Lyons Hill Farm, foraging for acorns and other wild food. There are also rare breed black Hebridean sheep which will become hogget, and “Indian Game” chickens which they rear for 180 days, five times longer than your average organic chicken.

Mark’s ultimate aim is to take control of the whole process of meat production, bringing the slaughter house and butchery on site to ensure that his exacting standards are followed at every stage until the meat is distributed direct from the farm. With his beef, pork, hogget and chicken, Lyons Hill Farm hopes to be a one stop shop at the top end of the food market, catering for the increasing number of customers who are equally discerning about taste as they are about the environmental and animal welfare credentials of the products they buy. “What Lyons Hill can offer that other, luxury butchers cant is absolute traceability and a guarantee of the highest standards of animal husbandry, as well as exceptional flavour” Mark explained.

Slowly rearing animals on a natural and varied diet creates more intramuscular fat, or marbling as its known in the kitchen, which enriches the flavour. Animals that are forced on grains and cereals end up with clumps of bright white fat as opposed to the yellow coloured fat found on grass fed beef. It is no surprise therefore that the Lyons Hill Farm products have been noticed by some of London’s top chefs. Phil Howard, chef patron at Chelsea’s Elystan Street and former chef patron at The Square recently posted on Instagram, “if I had to single out one farmer who I’ve come across who absolutely lives and breathes his animals, it's a man called Mark Leatham.” Charlie Caroll, the owner of the Flat Iron chain of steak houses described the White Park beef from Lyons hill as “some of the best he has ever tasted, and I’ve had a bit.”

And it's not just the ardent foodies that they are hoping to convert. This slow reared, old style meat is also better for you. Six intensively reared chickens today have the same amount of omega-3 as found in just one slow reared chicken from the 1970s. Cheap grain fed beef also contains unhealthy saturated fats which increase the risk of heart disease, whilst the leaner grass-fed animals contain a higher percentage of healthy fats and are more densely packed with nutrients.

As a result of being farmers, as opposed to butchers, Lyons Hill Farm is also hoping to create a new breed of followers for the nose to tail concept. Wholesale customers must purchase a full side of an animal. As a retail customer, it is impossible to choose just the prime cuts. They must be bought as part of a share in the animal alongside slow cooking and pot roast joints, mince and offal. “Education is the key,” explains James, who looks after sales and marketing at the farm, “eating oxtail and beef shin isn't just delicious, it's also good for the environment. The so-called ‘off-cuts’ is where the flavour is, as any top chef will tell you. They are hugely undervalued. The recent lockdown has been a great help in that respect. People have been spending more time at home and as a result, discovering new things in the kitchen.”

70% of the land area in the UK is currently used for farming. If we are to stand a chance of restoring our lost biodiversity, farmers like the Leathams will play a key role. The business model however has to succeed, and this will require a change in attitude from consumers towards eating meat. Our exit from the European Union and emerging trade deal with the US looks almost guaranteed to allow a flood of cheap animal protein to enter the UK market. As well as the usual horror stories of “chlorinated chicken” and “hormone injected beef” there will also be more animals fed on crops grown in illegally cleared areas of the Amazon basin. This will present consumers with stark choices. Rearing animals in the manner done at Lyons Hill Farm will never be able to satisfy the current levels of demand. It would also be too expensive for all but the wealthiest in society to eat products like this on a regular basis. However, the Leathams are banking on a more mindful consumer, driven by taste and ethics, making the conscious decision to eat less but better meat.

Mythical Spirits

July 01, 2020 by Theo Crutcher

Amaros are a loose category of digestif shrouded in myth.

The only essentials are strong booze, sugar and some bitter elements. It includes sophisticated tipples, like Fernet Branca, Cynar and Amaro Montenegro that are often used in cocktails.

They are said to have medicinal qualities and the ability to settle the stomach after a hearty meal.

Nocino is one Italian variation that uses green walnuts and is most commonly associated with the northern region of Emilia Romagna. Its routes however can be traced back to Britain when Roman soldiers witnessed Druids making a walnut based drink that was said to help imbibers communicate with goblins, elves and goddesses.

Walnuts are picked on St John’s Eve (24th June), sliced, then mixed with a white spirit (I have used vodka), sugar (more than really seems necessary), citrus zest and spices (nutmeg and cloves). I also added coffee beans, following a recipe from Anna Tasca Lanza.

It will be strained and bottled after 40 days in a sunny spot, and then can mature indefinitely developing ever more complex flavour. The best are said to be at least 10 years old.

How long you leave it is up to you - and a test of patience - however it should not be touched before All Hallows Eve, when - according to Christian folklore - it will make you see ghosts and spirits.

Could COVID-19 fix problems in the food supply chain and even solve Brexit?

May 12, 2020 by Theo Crutcher

“Fresh fish coming in” an email from Pesky Fish informed me at 7am on Monday morning. Whilst we are all used to a daily onslaught of spam pushing us everything from fashion to razor blades, this felt slightly different. Pesky Fish are selling the catch from day fishing boats around the West Country. They are one of a number of innovative food businesses that, over recent weeks have pivoted from supplying restaurants to the general public. They have had heaps of publicity from all corners of the food world and, as a result, by the time I log in at 11am, the turbot, line caught sea bass, mackerel, brill and plaice are already out of stock. Late comers like me will have to make do with pollock or some live lobsters.

The gathering of food and drink, which for much of human existence only needed to compete with procreation for our undivided attention has, over the last century, dwindled in importance to become a rather banal activity requiring little thought, imagination or forward planning. However recent lockdown measures - through a combination of over stretched conventional supply networks, a decimation of the hospitality sector and the removal of almost all other distractions - have re-elevated the task, giving us an opportunity to rethink the mechanics of how we feed ourselves.

In the UK, over 80% of all of our grocery shopping is done via the six largest supermarket groups: Tesco’s, Sainsbury’s, ASDA, Morrisons, Aldi and Co-op.

In the UK, over 80% of all of our grocery shopping is done via the six largest supermarket groups: Tesco’s, Sainsbury’s, ASDA, Morrisons, Aldi and Co-op. What unites all of these is their effort to supply everything a household could possibly need under one roof. The only disruption to this turgid sector in recent years has come from cost slashing European rivals, Lidl and Aldi.

Self-service supermarkets sprang to life in the early 1950s just after the second world war, an event that the media cannot tire of drawing dubious parallels with. When they first opened, people were alarmed by the lack of personal interaction they had with the suppliers of food, however they soon became symbols of a new modernity and freedom of choice. Any sceptics were quickly converted by lower prices and convenience.

Supermarket groups went on to become the dominant force in the food supply chain, squeezing producers of agricultural products as they competed aggressively with one another on price. Before supermarket price wars, it was commonplace to have your milk delivered each day direct from the farm by an electric milk float in glass bottles that would get collected and reused - an idea that couldn't seem more in line with the current zeitgeist and is now back on the rise. Supermarkets, for a time, however killed the milkman by selling milk and other dairy products at prices often below what they bought milk from at the farm on the basis that if people came for cheap milk they would fill a basket with other, higher margin goods.

As the power of supermarkets increased, so did the prevalence of “own brand” products. Now, everything from olive oil, soy sauce, beer, meat, fish and pasta can be bought under one homogenised brand. This has caused us to treat many food products as commodities that can only be distinguished from one another on price.

The effects of COVID-19 have meant however that supermarkets are losing their grip on the battle for convenience.

The effects of COVID-19 have meant however that supermarkets are losing their grip on the battle for convenience. The big grocers experienced a rush in demand when lockdown measures were enforced but were quickly overwhelmed. In store queues have become standard and essentials like flour, pasta and cooking oils remain hard to find. Even now weeks into lockdown it is almost impossible to secure a delivery slot with any of the major players.

With the lazy convenience of a one stop supermarket trip removed, people have started looking elsewhere to stock their larders. Those who have taken time to do so have found a whole range of options that are not just providing us with better quality food, but a better approach to food shopping. Breaking up the market has also meant that on the whole, independent suppliers have been able to keep up with demand.

Take tomatoes as an example. Waitrose sells “Essential” cherry tomatoes at £1.50 for a 500g pack. They are grown in Spain and year-round they look and taste the same: slightly jaundice yellow, hard and almost completely tasteless. That is because they are picked whilst still green and allowed to ripen in refrigerated transport on the long, overland trip to our supermarket shelves.

The Tomato Stall has been growing tomatoes on the Isle of White since 2007, supplying top chefs, farmers markets and a few high end food stores. The tomatoes are allowed to ripen on the vine allowing the maximum amount of flavour to develop. It doesn't make sense to send a single 500g pack of tomatoes, so their tomatoes come in 3kg boxes. At £20, that feels like more than you would comfortably spend on tomatoes in a single hit (although pound for pound it is not so different to the higher end Waitrose offering) and certainly more than you would ever need.

Tomatoes from The Tomato Stall arrive in the post

But say you take the plunge, allured by the prospect of a beautiful assortment of multicoloured heritage tomatoes and memories of the perfect Caprese salad during a trip to the Amalfi coast. Your whole approach to meal planning for the foreseeable future has already altered. With this bulk supply of a fantastic ingredient, you will start planning what to eat around what you have, as opposed to what you want, inspired by Instagram trawling or a Sunday newspaper supplement.

The success of companies like the Tomato Stall and Pesky Fish in reaching new retail customers in recent weeks has, in part, been driven by the chefs they used to supply.

The success of companies like the Tomato Stall and Pesky Fish in reaching new retail customers in recent weeks has, in part, been driven by the chefs they used to supply. Not wanting to see their favorite suppliers go under, restaurateurs have become trusted promoters of their favorite ingredients. The Virtual Food Festival has been harnessing the power of celebrity chefs including Rick Stein, Angela Hartnett and Jose Pizaro to connect suppliers directly with retail customers through Instagram Live cooking demonstrations. Restaurants including the River Cafe, Brat and the Quality Chop House have also been delivering curated grocery boxes of ingredients from the people that usually supply their professional kitchens.

It could be a telling sign of things to come that Sunday Times chief restaurant critic Marina O’Loughlin has pivoted her weekly column to interviewing chefs whilst being taught to cook by them via Zoom. With restaurants likely to be one of the last places where lockdown measures are lifted, buying a handpicked selection of top ingredients from your favorite chef then being guided through their preparation from the comfort of your own home could be the best alternative to eating out we will see for some time.

And it's not just food that is experiencing change as a result of restaurant closures. Some of Europe’s best wines come from small producers who, due to more predictable demand and the need for knowledgeable, hands-on sellers, only supply the restaurant trade. Without that demand, they are looking elsewhere for customers and offering generous discounts in the process. With a bit of research and some forward planning, you can now stock up your home reserves with top quality artisan wines bought direct from the producer for as little as £10 a bottle, as opposed to popping to the nearest convenience store for a spontaneous bottle of headache-inducing plonk.

Wines from Potentino in Tuscany are being sold at large discounts

This new shopping format is never going to be able to compete with supermarkets directly on price but it could help to save money on groceries by focusing meal planning on fewer but better ingredients and ensuring that less goes to waste. In any case, our spending on food as a proportion of income has been in steady decline for years. The last few weeks have forced us to strip our lives back to the bare essentials causing many people to discover a new found appreciation for food, not just as a source of sustenance and enjoyment but also as a relaxing pastime.

Removing the cost cutting middlemen by going direct to the source is also a step on the path towards redistributing the balance of power in our food supply chain, creating a fairer system for struggling farmers. Tesco’s plan to pay out £635m in dividends to shareholders at the end of this year, in part a result of their increased fortunes as a result of the COVID-19 pandemic. A more thoughtful approach to how we gather food could instead see that money going directly into the hands of the people who feed us. Breaking up supermarket dominance in this way would bring much needed wealth to rural communities as well as opening a direct line of communication between producers and the end users of food. This could be one route to healing some of the social and economic divisions that have fractured the country in recent years.

Bread baking in the time of COVID-19

April 08, 2020 by Theo Crutcher

“Not only is it merely acceptable for a man to know how to bake, it's almost a prerequisite for appropriate masculine behaviour” The Times reported on Saturday, two weeks into the lockdown measures enforced across the UK as a result of COVID-19. By this point, the sight of smug “newbie” bakers posing next to their crusty loaves and airy cross sections had become almost as disheartening as the flow of daily news created by the virus, and now my masculinity was at stake too!

For two weeks, my pursuit of leavened bread had caused arguments, ridicule, anxiety and stress amongst the lockdown community at my parent’s house in rural Dorset. At times it had been a source of comfort and distraction during the unfolding turmoil of a global pandemic but at others, my flops and failures had compounded feelings of helplessness and despair. However, throughout the repeated mistakes, misfortunes and bags of wasted flour, I always knew that at least one factor remained resolutely on my side: time.

As anyone who has attempted it before will tell you, setting your sights on baking sourdough is like opening Pandora's box. There is an endless amount of information on the internet about how to do everything from creating a starter, to feeding in, kneading (or not to knead?), proofing, shaping and baking loaves. What’s more, there is no consensus between any of the online sourdough gurus on how any of it should be done.

I have jumped around from the UK to New York and San Francisco, books to blogs, forums, faded recollections and unwanted advice from backseat drivers (mostly my mother) in pursuit of a successful formula, often getting lost for days down rabbit holes on everything from feeding schedules to flour mixes.

Much of the online sourdough lexicon is rooted in the free spirited flower power culture of San Francisco, the home of hipster bread baking. Blogs tell you to “connect” with your dough and “tune in” to the pattern of your starter culture. Whilst this has at times had me cursing these pedlars of flaky hippy bullsh*t, the reality is that every person's sourdough method is unique to their kitchen climate, yeast starter, flour and desired pattern of life.

This article is therefore not another guide or recipe for any would be bakers, but simply a journal of how, during a time of great upheaval, uncertainty and scarce resources, I was able to find my baker’s “rhythm.”

Week 1 - getting started

Sunday

I had seen the method for a sourdough starter whilst leafing through my copy of the St John, Nose to Tail cookbook. I am a big Fergus Henderson fan, and love his London restaurant so if I was going to join a sourdough church, this was the one for me. Without my copy of the book to hand, I was able to find the starter recipe online in a Guardian interview with head baker, Justin Piers Gellatly.

The method called for rhubarb strips to be added to a mixture of four and water. Having done a bit of reading online it seemed that the general consensus about the addition of rhubarb or other fruits to starters is that it is steeped in ancient myths without any real scientific backing. Perfect! I thought as I went and picked some from the garden.

Starter Day 1 with Rhubarb strips running through it

Monday - Little visible change. More flour and water added in equal quantity.

Tuesday - As above.

Wednesday - “You will start to see the beginning of active fermentation” the gospel according to St John predicted, and so it came to pass. Bubbles!

Thursday - Even more bubbles! Accompanied by some misguided confidence that this was all going very much according to plan.

The next instruction was to ditch 90% of what I had created and start again with 10% of it. The thought filled me with deep concern. What if it didn't work? I did as I was told but kept the old batch as an insurance policy.

Friday - Bubbles on the new batch. Belief restored. Do the same again.

Saturday - According to St John, it's time to bake! But with lockdown measures still relatively loose and the sun shining, we are off to the beach. Baking can wait until tomorrow.

Week 2 - V, U or L shaped depression?

Sunday - "You can follow whatever sourdough recipe you like”, Gellaty says, "One of mine is in The Complete Nose to Tail cookbook, but I'm sure that Paul Hollywood has got one in his book.” No St John book and no recipe available online, so I reluctantly accept Gellaty’s endorsement of Paul Hollywood, find his “Classic Sourdough” recipe on the BBC Food website and make a start.

After obsessively checking throughout the day, I think my ball of dough has grown. Or has it just flattened?

Before I go to bed, I take it out, re-knead it “knocking all the air out” (really Paul?!) then place in a basket, covered in a cloth on the warm shelf behind the Aga* for its second “proofing.”

“But is it going to be too warm?” I think as I turn out the lights.

Monday - alarm set for 7am. I run downstairs in my pyjamas like a child at Christmas ready to put my loaf in the oven. Mum is already awake and in the kitchen. Her face when she sees me says it all. A solid lump of dough sits heavy in the basket with a hard white crust formed around it. I try to resurrect it by re-kneading and moving it to a cooler spot but feel like I am performing CPR on a corpse.

My main theory for failure is that it was exposed to too much heat. I also consider too much time as a factor - perhaps it peaked and fell overnight? The feeling is one of massive anticlimax having been preparing for this all week.

Tuesday - The ball is buried. In all the excitement of my failed baking attempt, I have forgotten completely about the remaining starter. It looks septic with some murky water sitting on top and has started to smell a little bit funky. I think I must have killed it.

That afternoon, we received a phone call informing us that an elderly family friend had passed away as a result of COVID-19. The trouble around us suddenly feels real and frightening.

I add some flour and water to my starter without much enthusiasm. With the likely prospect of starting again from scratch, I am feeling pretty demoralised by the whole baking project.

Wednesday - The starter looks better. A couple of bubbles. Still doesn't smell great, but perhaps all is not lost. I go online looking for a path forward.

Google: “how do you know if a starter is dead?” It turns out, this life form is less fragile than I had believed.

Google: “how do you bring a starter back to life?” This leads to the entire afternoon being spent getting my head around feeding ratios and timings. I decide to switch from a 1:2:2 to a 1:1:1 and see what happens.

A new theory for Monday’s failure starts to rise: perhaps the day at the beach meant that my starter wasn't in peak condition?

Google: “how do you know if a starter is ready?” Two possible answers: 1. It has doubled in size. 2. It floats.

Whilst I had been visually observing the behaviour of my starter, I had done little to actually measure it. I transferred a spoonful of starter into a small straight sided glass jar, added flour and water following the 1:1:1 ratio then drew a line at the level and started recording its movements.

“The only way to beat COVID-19 is by testing, testing and more testing” the medical experts were reporting. I order new digital scales and a thermometer from Amazon and feel like whilst not completely back on track, there is a plan of action.

Thursday - starter looks good, almost doubled in size. I drop a spoonful into a glass of water and watch as it wavers then sinks to the bottom.

I pour 2/3rds away, and start again. The daily feeding and new ratio is having a positive effect on the starter but my flour supply is dwindling. I no longer have enough to bake a loaf of bread and figure I can only carry on feeding for a few more days. Stocks will need to be replenished.

Friday - I go into town on the pretence of doing an essential weekly shop. I wait patiently in line at Waitrose, two meters behind the customer in front. Once allowed in, I rush to the baking section only to find it empty. Sainsbury’s, same story, only a bigger queue.

I drive around all the smaller local stores in an increasingly desperate search aware that I am maximising my chances of picking up and taking home the virus. No luck. Of course everyone has had the same bloody idea! I am angry with myself for being such a cliche - why didn't I make kombucha?!

Baking section in Waitrose, Sherborne, Friday 3 April

I return home feeling defeated. The baking gods don’t want me to make bread. Mum has an idea though. She teaches cookery at a local prep school, now a ghost town and the cookery room has a store cupboard full of the stuff. We jump in the car and loot it.

Saturday - I am now armed with sacks of wholemeal flour. It's not the “strong white bread flour” I had hoped and most recipes seem to ask for but it's flour which I now see as a precious and scarce commodity.

I drop another spoonful into a glass of water only to watch it sink to the bottom. I start to question the achievability of the float test. Can it really happen?

I give my starter an extra feed before going to bed.

Week 3 - on the rise

Sunday - I wake to the sound of a WhatsApp ping. Mum has sent a picture of the starter. It has ballooned overnight. Double, almost triple. But will it float….

Time to bake. I had already decided that I was going to follow the method of American sourdough blogger, Alexandra Stafford. Her recipe uses wholewheat flour which I have an abundance of. It also has helpful videos of what each stage should look like.

It is clear that mum, who has been watching, supporting and sometimes mocking me throughout this process, does not approve of the method which calls for no kneading of the dough (I later discover that this is also the method used by Chad Robertson at cult San Francisco bakery, Tartine).

That evening when I slap the wet dough ball on an un-floured table (because that's what Alexandra says to do), she tells me it's never going to work. I respond with language you should never use in front of your mother.

The dough is sticky and hard to shape, I think mum might have a point, but push on indignantly leaving it in a cool place to proof overnight.

Before I go to bed, I prepared my next starter, fully expecting disappointment.

Monday - It's still dark outside. I have been dreaming of bread. My phone says it's 4am. Go back to sleep!

I come down at 7.30. Mum has obviously already been in and checked it but pretends she hasn't.

I take it out. It doesn't look that different to when I put it to bed - it wobbles a bit, meaning some air in there, but no dramatic rise. Mum has written it off as a failure and, looking irritatingly smug, suggests kneading it and putting it somewhere warmer.

I cant face a repeat of last week so decided to bake it anyway in a Dutch oven. After 30 mins I remove the lid and catch a glimpse - it looks much bigger, spirits are raised. Another ten agonising minutes later, outcomes what looks to be a perfectly decent loaf of bread!

What’s more the cross section of holes (the acid test for sourdough bakers) looks impressive and it tastes delicious - “too good for toast” - we all agree as we have it still slightly warm with butter for breakfast.

Ok cross section but concerned about large holes at the top. Also a little flat.

Half my phone book receives the gloating photographs. I know however that it could have risen more. There are also large holes at the top which I am sure is some kind of fault. I go back to the internet for more research but this time with a more positive mindset.

I move straight on to the next loaf that evening, this time following the Tartine method, which seems to have many similarities to Alexandra’s with more illustrious provenance. That night I prepared a larger batch of levain - enough for two loaves - and placed it in the cooler utility room as instructed by Tartine.

Tuesday - Tartine’s cool overnight levain hasn't worked. I am angry with myself for not sticking with what I know now yields a result.

I move it back to my tried and tested warm Aga spot and sure enough, by mid afternoon it passes the float test.

Sourdough forum, The Fresh Loaf has led me to believe that the large holes may have had something to do with the shaping technique so I fashion a plastic dough scraper out of an old DVD case.

The rest, by now, seems almost certain.

Loaves put to bed on cool kitchen windowsill

Wednesday - all round, better loaves - much higher rise, lighter and with more even distribution of bubbles. I claim it as victory. Although a huge amount is still to learn (I only started this because I wanted to bake focaccia), I think I have finally cracked the basics of sourdough and will be able to make the next loaves with confidence.

Honestly, without the enforced lockdown, I probably would have given up after the first week, but feel relieved that I stuck with it and happy that a new skill has been gained out of this terrible situation.

It is at the same time both incredibly simple and fiendishly complex. The only way you will get there is trial and error and trusting your own instincts, as opposed to any recipe. But its the errors that make it so satisfying when everything goes according to plan.

With Easter approaching, I am on to the next challenge: Hot Crossed Buns!

Store cupboard staples to help you thrive in isolation

March 17, 2020 by Theo Crutcher

Here in the UK, we haven't been as focused on stockpiling since fears of a “no deal” Brexit gripped the nation just last summer. The truth is, whatever the external threat, we are natural hoarders and like nothing better than to fill our store-cupboards, preparing our personal fortresses for a lengthy siege.

Recently it has been the staple carbs - dried pasta and long life bread - that have grabbed the attention of panic buyers. But COVID-19 would seem like a blessing if all you had to improve five kilos of spaghetti and some “ready to bake” baguettes was an oversupply of hand sanitiser gel.

These bulk goods rely on our stores of long life additives: tins, jars and bottles that cluster in disjointed formation at the back of our kitchen cupboards, ready to be called upon at a moments notice to add flavour, texture and enjoyment to food. In these dark times, the difference between having a stock of ordinary and extraordinary store cupboard ingredients could be the difference between surviving and thriving the apocalypse.

There are of course hundreds of store cupboard foot soldiers that no right thinking cook should consider living without. But if you had to pick one from your kitchen armoury, to bring your staples to life, give hope in front of despair and shed light through the darkness, what would that be? It is a tough choice, but there is a strong case to be made for the humble, salted anchovy.

From salads to pizza, pasta sauces, stocks or simply toast and butter, salted anchovies have been around improving food for millennia. Like olives, it's almost an unbearable cliché that everyone hated their first one - myself included - but I am convinced that anyone who maintains this position through adulthood is simply lacking perseverance.

There are over 140 species of anchovy found in the cold waters of the Atlantic, Pacific and Indian Oceans and the Mediterranean. Most species however are small and frail and get damaged in fishing nets, so the only anchovy you’re likely to find in shops is the hardy Engraulis encrasicolus, commonly known as the European anchovy. This small, blue-green fish has an unusually large jaw, hence one of its Spanish names, boquerón, or “big mouth.”

They range in length from 2cm to up to 40cm however these days, due to intensive commercial fishing, few make it to full adult size. Anchovies are attracted to moonlight so boats go out at night to catch them. Nowadays the boats are fitted with large lamps to help attract the fish.

The preserving process is as simple as it comes. The fish have their heads and guts removed and are then packed tightly into containers with coarse sea salt and weighted down. As the salt draws liquid from the fish, a brine quickly forms. The sooner the salting happens after they are fished, the more flavour that gets preserved. This salt curing process takes six to eight weeks, depending on the size of the fish. When ready, the flesh starts to take on a browny pink hue.

As well as preserving the fish, the salt breaks down the muscle proteins softening the flesh so that when the preserved anchovies are cooked they dissolve into sauces. Breaking down proteins in this way also releases amino acids that give salted anchovies the intense umami flavour and makes them such a valued ingredient.

They can be sold whole still packed in salt, or more commonly, cleaned of the salt, fileted then put in tins or jars of olive or sunflower oil. Whilst this extra processing makes them more convenient to use, if you are lucky enough to find the salt packed version, they have a punchier flavour and more supple texture when eaten whole. To prepare them, you simply need to wash the salt off in fresh running water, remove the bones then brush with a good, light olive oil.

The landlocked Piedmontese are one of the great users of anchovies in dishes like bagna cauda, a thick oily sauce rich with garlic and anchovy used as a dip for crudités and acciughe al verde where the largest anchovies are eaten whole covered in a parsley and olive oil sauce. They are also used to season the tuna sauce in a classic vitello tonnato. On market days the acciughai (anchovy sellers) in Piedmont’s markets stand behind large metal drums of salted fish selling a range of anchovies by the gram that vary enormously in size, and price. The largest and most expensive fish on offer are always from northern Spain.

The history of salting anchovies in Cantabria on the Atlantic Basque coast of Spain only dates back to the 19th century when a group of Sicilian salters started to fish the Atlantic waters. These Atlantic fish are prized for their large size and meaty texture. As well as being popular for acciughe al verde, they can be found in many of the classic pintxos bites in nearby San Sebastian, including the signature La Gilda, where a large anchovy is mixed with green olives and pickled peppers on a cocktail stick to create an intense, salty and vinegary bite.

It's on the informally named “Costa de l'Anxova'' (anchovy coast) though, that stretches 50 km from the northern Mediterranean coast of Spain through semi-autonomous Catalonia and into southern France, where anchovy salting has its richest history. These Mediterranean anchovies are said to be smaller, leaner and more flavourful than their Atlantic cousins.

Along this stretch of coastline, the towns of L’Escala in Catalonia and Collioure in France both stake a claim to producing the finest product. In L’Escala, the tiny fish have been championed by legendary Catalan chef, Ferran Adrian and were put to creative use in his El Bulli restaurant in many dishes including an anchovy gelato. Since 2004, Collioure’s anchovies have had protected geographical indication status from the European Union. So important were the fish to this small town’s economy that in 1466 King Louis XI of France exempted the town from the hated gabelle, or salt tax. Here the anchovies, which are hand filleted, are used in a classic dish of braised rabbit in a tomato, anchovy and white wine sauce, or whole in an eponymous salad with roasted red peppers.

Their popularity and versatility means however that in some areas, anchovies are in serious danger of being overfished. In 2008 the fish were put on a “fish to avoid” list by the Marine Conservation Society. There are now strict quotas enforced on anchovy fishing throughout the Mediterranean and Bay of Biscay. As with most food, the key to shopping sustainably is knowing where your product comes from. Amber Madley, Ethics Manager and Acting Head of Sustainability at New England Seafood adds that consumers should “look out for labels which point to sustainability. Words like responsibly or sustainably sourced can add some degree of assurance that seafood has been taken from managed fisheries, but the blue MSC (Marine Stewardship Council) logo indicates that the fish have come from a certified sustainable source.”

Anchovies may be an ingredient that you have taken for granted or believed to be homogenous, you may even think you hate their intense salty flavour and oily texture. But like so many things that we use in the kitchen, there is a whole spectrum of taste and quality out there waiting to be discovered. Who knows for how long we are going to be locked inside our homes? Certainly long enough to shop around online for something above the ordinary. And with enough time to wash and bone our own salted anchovies, there is no excuse not to look for the best. With a good supply of this rich, salty, flavour addition and a touch of imagination and creativity there is no excuse not to turn your stocks of bread dried pasta into countless delicious meals, providing some small comfort in these uncertain times.

5 anchovy dishes to brighten up your corona lockdown:

La Gilda

https://eatapas.co.uk/en/blog/gilda-n4

Piedmont Stuffed Peppers

https://www.deliaonline.com/recipes/collections/delias-summer-collection/piedmont-roasted-peppers

Acciughe al Verde

https://www.tastecooking.com/recipes/acciughe-al-verde-anchovies-green-sauce/

Collioure Salad

https://www.bbc.co.uk/food/recipes/salad_of_peppers_18285

Sicilian Pasta with anchovies pine nuts and currants
https://www.bbcgoodfood.com/recipes/spaghetti-fennel-anchovies-currants-pine-nuts-capers

An information board explaining the difference between DOP (PDO) and IGP (PGI) balsamic at Acetaia San Giacomo in Reggio Emilia

Communicating quality (or, how not to use a bottle of PDO balsamic vinegar)

January 27, 2020 by Theo Crutcher

This article was first published in a shorter format by Speciality Food Magazine on 24.01.2019. The original article can be found here.

Last summer, I bought a bottle of 25 year aged, traditional balsamic vinegar. It was a PDO or Protected Designation of Origin product - the highest level of quality protection under EU law - from Reggio Emilia. I had visited the acetaia, met the producer and been impressed by his knowledge and commitment to making a product without compromise. The 25 year aged bottle was the mid-price option for his traditional method vinegars and cost €60 for a 100ml vial, which I knew to be a fair price for this type of product.

Traditional balsamic vinegars, the two protected by PDO labels, are made from 100% cooked grape must that has been slowly aged in wood barrels for a minimum of 12 years in the unique, humid climate of the Po river valley in Emilia. It is something used sparingly in professional kitchens - a drizzle over rare fillet steak, asparagus, or even ice cream - meaning that a small bottle goes a long way.

As well as its extraordinary flavour - that cannot be compared to the thick sticky, balsamic glazes, often mixed with caramel and other additives to mimic the consistency and sweetness of traditional products - it involves great craftsmanship and cannot be mass produced. It also involves the bottling up of centuries of tradition; the first generally accepted reference to a precious vinegar produced in the area of Modena and Reggio Emilia is in a poem written in the 12th century by the monk Donizo of Canossa.

Proud of my purchase, but more importantly, keen to impress with the knowledge that I had picked up in purchasing it, I brought the small bottle with me when I went to meet my family on holiday in Italy.

On the first evening, I prepared an aperitivo, putting a few precious drops of the viscous liquid onto nuggets of aged parmesan cheese. This, I had read, was a good way to appreciate the product. I also liked the idea that the two products had been made just a few miles apart - harking from the same terroir - and must have been served together for centuries.

All committed and knowledgeable food lovers, my parents and siblings enjoyed hearing about this connection and how the product was made. When tasting it they appreciated its startling depth of flavour and the notes of fig, honey, raisin and cherry wood that made up it's perfectly balanced, sweet and sour flavour profile.

The next morning, I came downstairs and saw, to my horror, that half the bottle had been emptied. Looking around furiously for a culprit, my eyes quickly landed on my mother who had cooked dinner the previous night. When I asked if she knew what had happened to it, she remarked without much care that she had used it to make a salad dressing.

The angrier I got about this alleged, gastronomic-sacrilege, the more my family mercilessly teased me. I tried making arguments about its rarity, long ageing process and artisan production all of which made it entirely unsuitable for everyday use. In the end however, the only thing that I could splutter, indignantly, that made any impact, was that we had, unknowing, consumed a €30 salad dressing.

Three ages of traditional balsamic vinegar

I was even angrier with myself for making this crass argument. Resorting to price is something you hear often with wine, and it is usually a good differentiator between those who know what they are talking about, and those who don't. The ones with genuine knowledge have the vocabulary to describe the quality of a product by focusing on its intrinsic attributes, rather than broadcasting an arbitrary monetary value.

It begs the question, how do the makers and marketers of fine food products extend their appeal beyond top chefs, the fabulously wealthy, and food nerds like myself lucky enough to visit the producers in situ?

One way of communicating quality is through hallmarks, like the EUs PDO/PGI program, that is designed to protect the use of place names that indicate where and how products are made. However, balsamic vinegar is a good example of how the less stringent PGI label, that only requires certain elements of production to happen in the defined area, has been exploited and used to market a product that bears little resemblance to the traditional PDO products.

According to the EU, only 17% of people in the common market recognise the PDO and PGI labels and, I suspect, fewer still could explain the difference between the two.

Assessing “flavour profiles”, “depth” and “complexity” is common in the trade, but inaccessible for consumers. Like the hallmark system, consumers end up relying on the supposedly independent evaluations of “experts” which are often over simplified into meaningless points scores or rankings at the point of sale.

More concerning still, in the age of online misinformation, “influencers” and “fake news”, knowing whos evaluations to trust has become a minefield. Often those making the assessments are paid for voicing a particular view or are brokers who stand to make large profits from selling products on at an inflated price.

There are also other, more philosophical problems with the system. With food and wine, quality is generally seen as being synonymous with taste. If something is high quality, then it is likely to taste good. However, most would agree that taste is subjective, whilst quality should be able to be objectified.

Contextual characteristics such as naturalness, tradition, heritage, terroir, welfare and sustainability can also be used to describe the heterogeneous qualities of food and drink. Constructing and promoting these shared connections of worth and value is likely to give consumers a more relatable understanding of the intrinsic qualities of what they are buying.

This is not to say that taste doesn't matter, or that there is no such thing as good taste, but it should be left up to the consumer to decide what is good, or high quality, based on their values and a proper understanding of production. From a consumer perspective, it is also more likely to enhance the overall enjoyment of products; so much of the pleasure that we get from quality food and drink comes from our understanding of production and the context in which it is consumed.

The controversial natural wine movement is a case in point. Wine “experts” decry the sale of what they see to be faulty products that fall shy of their quality criteria for high prices. However, in spite of this, the products have found a loyal market who care more about the fact that the method of production fits with their system of beliefs, than they do about the views of experts.

It is the challenge for the food marketing industry and specialist retailers to find producers and local communities that uphold these contextual values and extract a quality narrative that resonates with consumers. Those that communicate successfully will be able to take control of their own quality narrative, cutting out the role of traditional industry middlemen. This will lead to a stronger connection between the producers and consumers that will ultimately see producers receiving a fairer reward for their pursuit of excellence.

A group from UNISG at Acetaia San Giacomo

Parting thoughts from Pollenzo

December 09, 2019 by Theo Crutcher in UNISG

On Friday, I graduated from the University of Gastronomic Sciences (UNISG) with a Masters degree in Food Culture, Communications and Marketing. It marked the end of the first chapter of a bold and perhaps reckless move from the security of the corporate world, in to something completely unknown.

I am still working out exactly what the future holds, but I am feeling optimistic thanks to the disruptive nature of the industry and all the fantastic people I have met who plan to spend their lives improving it.

As elected class representative, I was asked to give a speech to my classmates, their friends and family at our graduation ceremony. The text is below and sums up what I have gained from the experience.

UNISG Graduation Speech

6 December 2019

“Those unfortunate enough to have sat through my thesis defence earlier this week will have noted my interest in convivial food-systems.

That is, for those not familiar with the academic literature, the epicurean pursuit of eating and drinking to excess, amidst good company.

Food and wine are the essence of conviviality, and the subjects that have brought us all together.

But, as we have discovered throughout the year, and here I refer in particular to the great sage that is…Colin Sage, food isn't all about having a merry time.

As the climate crisis draws closer, the global food system will come under ever greater scrutiny.

We are constantly told that if we are to survive, our eating habits must change.

This somewhat daunting prospect is, however, I believe, the great opportunity of our professional lives.

Consumers the world over are actively looking for different ways to shop for groceries, eat out with friends, and manage their food consumption in a sustainable way.

We are entering this market at the right time, with the right skills, knowledge and connections to each go on to have many great successes.

However, it is by working together that I believe that we are capable of having an impact that is even greater than the sum of our personal endeavours.

The sharing of knowledge amongst each other over the course of the year has for me created some of the most interesting, valuable and lasting memories that I will take from this experience.

Within the confines of Bra, we have tasted Abruzzen/Texas fusion BBQ, Swiss CBD baking, Peruvian jungle food, taiwanese dumplings, kimchi days and the aggressive soju drinking culture of South Korea.

It is true to say that “people who give you their food, also give you their heart,” so thank you all for your sharing your personal food culture with such enthusiasm and pride.

The diversity of this group in terms of geography, experience, interests and attitudes, is truly remarkable and it has enriched all of our learning experience in untold ways.

This view was only reinforced whilst watching everyone defend their thesis topics just a few days ago.

The range was vast - from food security in China, to blockchain in the cocoa industry, and the use of food in in film to depict cultural identity and Mafia relationships - every presentation i saw was unique and individually, fascinating.

With such divergent backgrounds and expertise it would be all too easy, after today, to disperse and follow our own separate paths.

But, as Prof. Fino pointed out on our first day, this diverse network will be the greatest asset that we will take from this year.

We must, however, make a commitment to each other to actively look for ways to build on this by cooperating in our professional lives.

Because, I can guarantee that there will come a time, when being able to facilitate an introduction to the founder of Sao Paulo's trendiest food hall; a legal heavyweight who understands European legislation protecting quality and origin or, the world expert in Icelandic, heritage sheep breeds - will make you look like the smartest person in the room; and it may also create a career defining opportunity for one of your friends.

Update each other at regular intervals, even if you feel your news is mundane, because you never know when there might be an opportunity for someone to make a connection that could lead to something life changing.

The world faces many large political, social and environmental problems and it would be precipitous to say that food has the answer to all of them.

But it does have a unique ability to bring people together, break down social barriers, ease difficult conversations and create sustained moments of joy.

It is an epic, critical and constantly evolving industry that we have all chosen to enter, and wherever it takes us, it is guaranteed to be bring a life full of intrigue and fun, because in the worlds of Julia Child: “people who love food are always the best people.”

I hope that we can use our shared love of food to continue to foster our international collaboration, and support each other through a long and fruitful professional life.

Thank you all.”

Making food, part 2: Chef's Life

November 21, 2019 by Theo Crutcher

For those without an encyclopedic knowledge of Italian pasta geometry, anolini are tiny circular pasta stuffed with a thick mixture of breadcrumbs and parmesan cheese. They are usually served in a deep bath of stock, or in brodo. It is classic Italian comfort food, the type of dish you might crave when struck down by a winter cold and they are inordinately popular on osteria menus in the Parma region.

The task of making them is interesting enough for someone like me, who had come to Italy to learn about food. For the first ten minutes, that is. However, after after 16 hours, having fitted in a busy lunch and dinner service in between eight hours of anolini production, the task became a herculean effort. I survived this ordeal, and many others, during my month staging in a professional kitchen, through the amazing work ethic and great company of my chef and front of house colleagues.

I came to Italy in late 2018 to study food culture at the University of Gastronomic Sciences (UNISG), without having a particularly well thought out career plan. The UNISG website states that it “turns out gastronomes” who can “drive food production and consumption” to help create a more sustainable planet. All very impressive, but can they chop an onion?

Friends and family in the UK are always enquiring with genuine interest how I'm getting on at “cooking school”, or informing others by way of an introduction that im “going into the restaurant business.” I can confirm that neither practical cooking skills nor restaurant management feature in the gastronome syllabus.

This misunderstanding says a lot about people's perception of the food industry. The profession has been elevated beyond recognition by programme such as Masterchef the Professionals, The Final Table and Chef’s Table. It is impossible to turn on the TV without seeing attractive chefs in pristine whites, plating up to dramatic music.

It is, afterall, the sharp edge of food, where Michelin stars and global “top 50” rankings have created a celebrity culture. Those at the top have been turned into demi-gods, in the same league as top footballers and rockstars. If asked who the movers and shakers in the food world are, I am pretty sure almost all of us would rattle of a list of famous chefs. But how many could name an artisan producer? or a farmer?

Left to right, line chefs: Marco Cervi, Armir Kaja and Luca Zavaleni

I had never planned to work as a chef, but since I haven't had a specific plan since finishing my course in July - other than a foolhardy intention to “get some hands on experience'' - when I was thrust an apron and chef's jacket on my first morning at Antica Corte Pallavicina, a hotel, restaurant, and culatello producer, near Parma, I made no complaint. After all, what could be more hands on than experiencing life at the coal face of one of Italy’s most famous farm to table restaurants?

The restaurant at Antica Corte is ordained with a coveted Michelin star. These annual dongs, handed out as a marketing stunt by the French tyre maker, come with plenty of valid criticisms. But, most people begrudgingly recognise, it is the best internationally regarded stamp of excellence there is.

The beneficiaries and victims of this system however are not, as envisaged by Michelin, the hungry travellers of Europe’s A roads hoping not to suffer a mediocre lunch. It is the young, ambitious chefs, aspiring one day to enter the global premier league. A recent instagram post advertising for a Junior Sous Chef role at a two star restaurant in the UK says “Michelin Star background, essential.” I am told that such advertisements are commonplace, even for entry level positions. As a result, graduates from the world’s top catering schools give away months of hard work for next to no financial reward, in order to get a foot on the Michelin ladder.

At 32, I was bringing up the average age in the Antica Corte kitchen up quite considerably, whilst simultaneously plummeting the level of ability and experience. Before coming to UNISG I spent six years in the City of London, advising corporates on large transactions and lawsuits at a financial PR firm. The transferable skills with working in a kitchen are approximately, zero. However, when it comes to an attitude to hard work, the young chefs I worked with could rival any ambitious graduate in the corporate world for unwavering professionalism.

The Antica Corte business includes a one hundred acre farm that produces vegetables, pigs, cattle, and fowl, enabling the restaurant to be almost completely self sufficient. Unlike conventional restaurants, therefore, where ingredients are brought to order, the farm does the ordering for you. The entirety of my first day in the kitchen was spent down stairs in “the bunker,” washing and cutting the last of the season’s tomatoes, turning them into a passata that could then be frozen and used throughout the year. When a cow or pig is slaughtered, the whole animal gets brought to the restaurant to be processed by chefs into different dishes. Whilst this gives the restaurant plenty of brownie points with the Slow Food crowd, the pace of work in the kitchen is anything but slow.

The working day starts at 9am, although those keenest to impress are ready and dressed in the kitchen long before. Luca Zvaleni, a 20 year old line chef, started working at Antica Corte during his summer holidays whilst training at the nearby Istituto Alberghiero di Comacchio. The head chef spotted his ability and offered him a job upon graduation. As well as the never ending list of kitchen tasks, he and the other line chefs have to manage and train a revolving door of interns or “stagiaire,” ensuring that every task - from cooking to cleaning - meets the restaurant’s scrupulous standards.

It is thanks to him and his colleagues that I can now brunoise a carrot, make a silken pomme purée and a rich red wine reduction, as well as some more niche skills, like jointing frogs, making perfect tortelli d’erbetta, and of course anolini. The most important lesson that I will take from the experience however was how to organise yourself and team to work with maximum efficiency. In the kitchen, there is no trade-off between speed and diligence: every task must be done fast and perfect. This meant that large tasks, like the production of a month’s worth of anolini, would be broken down into many smaller and simpler (and more boring) tasks; and why I spent a straight six hours of my life rolling anolini filling into foot long, inch wide, sausages, so that the right size piece could be quickly broken off and placed on the pasta sheets.

Two cow’s legs arive in the meat fridge at Antica Corte

By 1.30am on “anolini day” delirium had set in which only increased the level of noise and laughter coming from “the bunker.” The team had grown throughout the evening as each line chef finished their section for dinner and came downstairs to join the production line. As we approached the end of the filling Kristian, the sous chef, came running downstairs with bottles of Franciacorta that were opened to raucous cheers, followed by a celebratory cigarette outside. As is often the case with monotonous tasks, knowing that you are part of a bigger collective effort can make rolling sausages extremely gratifying.

It is hard to think of an industry where so much hard work is put in by so many with so few at the top reaping the rewards. In this respect, actors, musicians and sports stars probably are the best comparators and role models for those entering the industry. I enjoyed my time in the kitchen and the steep learning curve it provided and have the deepest respect and admiration for those that day in, day out produce restaurant food at the highest level. The industry however is fraught with issues, from overworked and underpaid staff, to the huge amounts of food and plastic waste created trying to manage a varied menu and unpredictable demand. But, its glitz and glamour mean that it is brimming with talent. This talent, and the industry’s famously competitive nature, will ensure that it continues to adapt and thrive.

Butchers at work on culatello in Polesine Parmense

Making food, part 1: Culatello di Zibello

October 16, 2019 by Theo Crutcher in DOP

I looked straight down at my feet but the blood was inescapable. It ran in thick, dark rivers across the floor, following the train of steaming bodies that moved noisily along the tracks above my head. After being in the room for almost half an hour, I had got used to the stench, but as I breathed deeply in an attempt to stop my nausea, the smell of metallic flesh mixed with burning hair made me retch.

There have been a few times over the past year when I have questioned the wisdom of my career change into the world of food. Last Monday was one of them. But as a meat eating, newly minted master of gastronomy, I kept telling myself that it was a rite of passage. With all my education in the world of food, how could I eat, and perhaps one day sell, meat products if I couldn't look the animals in the eye at their time of judgement? If I couldn't, then I should throw all my energy behind the vegan brigade.

I have spent a lot of time in the classroom over the last twelve months learning about food and wine. The UNISG experience also puts heavy emphasis on “experiencing food” with many tastings and trips to producers both in Italy and abroad. Where I felt my education was lacking was in actually making the stuff.

Vegetable gardens at Antica Corte Pallavicina

But where to start? With wine it was simple enough - beautiful country estates, simple outdoor work and plenty to drink afterwards. But what about food? There are chefs, of course, and restaurants (more on that in the next post), but what about the makers of great artisanal products. Ones whose production is steeped in history and inextricably linked to the land in which they come from. That had been one of my enduring fascination throughout the course and something that I was keen to experience first hand.

It was this quest that brought me to the grim heart of an industrial abattoir outside the small town of Bussetto in Emilia-Romana carrying a two litre kilner in which i was to collect fresh pig’s blood.

Home to so many of Italy’s greatest exports, including Parmigiano Reggiano, Aceto Balsamico di Modena and Prosciutto di Parma, the region was an obvious starting point for my practical education. I was here for Culatello di Zibello, the king of Italian salumi. Production of culatello is restricted to a small number of villages along the Po River in the north east of Emilia. The cold, foggy winters and hot dry summers, specific to this area, allow a particular type of mould to form around the meat and preserve it though the long ageing process. This mould also gives the meat its unique, sweet flavour.

Culatello is rarely discussed without mention of its most famous producer, Massimo Spigaroli, and his legendary temple of Parmese food, Antica Corte Pallavicina. Massimo is an iconic figure in Italian gastronomy and counts the likes of Prince Charles, Massimo Bottura and Alain Ducasse, amongst his regular clients. George Clooney arrived by helicopter for lunch at his Michelin star restaurant in the tiny, non-descript village of Polesine Parmense just a few weeks ago.

Massimo Spigaroli (right) with the author in his Hosteria de Maiale

For the 40 month aged Culatello from Massimo’s black pigs, there is currently a six year waiting list. It is only available to taste if you book in for the €95 tasting menu at his restaurant. I was excited to have been taken on to work for Massimo and his culinary empire - which includes vineyards, numerous restaurants and bodegas, a farm and a salumeria - for a month, including a week at the salumeria making the famous cold cuts.

Massimo rears his own pigs at the small farm near the restaurant. He is trying to revive the breeding of Parmese black pigs, a breed that had almost completely died out as a result of crossbreeding with higher yielding Large Whites from the UK. But these pampered swine, who’s hind legs are destined for the plates of celebrities and royalty, meet the same brutal end as their plebeian cousins.

Parmese black pigs at Massimo Spigaroli’s farm

Under the EU DOP regulations Culatello can only be made in the colder months between October and February. I had come to the abattoir with Roberto, the head butcher in the Spigaroli stable, to oversee the execution and initial processing of the first eight of this year’s black pigs.

The continuous line of Large Whites was halted for around five minutes before the first black head came through the hatch into the tight holding pen, the door slamming shut behind it. As each pig enters, there is a moment of distressed realisation when they discover that all is not well. The high pitched squeals last only a moment however before the pigs are squeezed with a large pair of forceps behind their ears and delivered a strong electric shock. Stunned, they are then released from the pen and roll sideways down a slope where they are met by a burly man with a sharp knife. He makes a single incision into the neck before the pigs are dragged up a moving conveyor belt.

Once suspended from the ceiling, they follow a structured disassembly line through the plant, like a car being built, but in reverse. At this particular mid-sized abattoir 1200 pigs are slaughtered and processed daily in this way.

They are first dragged through channels of hot water for around five minutes to clean the dirt off. After washing, they enter a furnace that burns off most of their hair. They then have their toenails removed and anuses cleaned by a metallic probe. We followed the pigs down the line, Roberto watching carefully to ensure that every stage was completed to his satisfaction. I watched, clutching my jar of blood, which was now full and warm against my body.

The next line of workers slit their bellies and removed their insides, the entrails falling neatly into crates that follow a separate conveyor belt. With legs now splayed in a biblical pose, the pigs are sawn down the middle with a giant chainsaw before getting unceremoniously decapitated.

Freshly slaughtered pigs leaving the abattoir

The next room of the facility was more like an industrial sized butchers shop, with hundreds of workers breaking down the pigs into ever smaller parts. Each one of our black pigs was broken down more or less into eight pieces: legs, shoulders, neck, back, loin and belly. As we loaded the body parts onto our van for the short journey back to Polesine Parmense the muscles were still twitching.

Work on the culatello starts early the following morning, once the meat has had a chance to cool down. The legs are first skinned, then dissected. Culatello comes from the top, rear bulge of the thigh - the most muscular part of the leg with a thick layer of rich fat along the top. This is separated then trimmed to give the culatello its characteristic pear shape.

The off-cuts are then cleaned and put aside for making strolghino, a thin salumi from the lean leg meat that is usually eaten relatively young, like a raw sausage. The front end of the thigh is kept whole for making fiocchetto, a smaller, leaner cut prepared in a similar way to culatello. The culatello are then covered in salt mixed with a small amount of black pepper then left to cure for around ten days. After this the are squeezed inside a pig’s bladder which is stitched together then wrapped tightly with a net of string. 5,000 culatello are produced in this way each year under the “Antica Corte Pallavicina” label, however only 200 of those come from Massimo’s hand reared black pigs.

Roberto removes the culatello from the bone

It is covered in salt

After salting process

culatello inside the bladder (top) then wrapped in string (bottom)

Strolghino are made from the off cuts

Parts of the pig used in Italian salumi

The culatello are then ready for ageing. This happens for a minimum of 18 months to ensure that they experience the seasonal fluctuations in temperature and humidity. At Antica Corte Pallavicina, the culatello are rotated through a number of different chambers that have different exposure to the weather.

All of them however finish their maturation in the cellars of the old fort, on the banks of the Po. Here, they can be left for up to three years to develop even richer flavour. The dark, packed cellars are now the star attraction at Massimo’s “Museum of Culatello” that brings scores of visitors from all over the world to Polesine Parmense to taste and discover this regal product.

Culatello ageing in the celars of Antica Corte Pallavicina

Working with Roberto in the salumeria was hard, not least because of the constant smell of meat and vinegar but also the communication barrier with his exclusively Italian speaking team. On Friday I was glad to escape the white tiled basement into one of the last warm evenings of the year. The hazy mist, that would soon become a cold winter fog, was reflecting the low evening sunlight across the floodplain.

I borrowed one of the hotel bikes and cycled along the flood defences that follow the Po river to the neighbouring town of Zibello, that gives the culatello its name. In a busy bar under the arches of the old town hall I ordered a beer and, having inspected the dull looking aperitivo buffet, a plate of culatello.

The veneration of this product has put the small town of Zibello, and its neighbouring villages, on the map and given a huge boost to the local economy. Whilst it has always been something cherished by locals and acknowledged by serious foodies, the work of Massimo, Antica Corte Pallavicina and his celebrity clientele, has elevated its status giving it a place amongst the world’s great luxury foods.

A 40 month aged culatello ready for slicing

My aperitivo came with a bag of warm focaccia - thin, crisp and incredibly salty - in itself a delight. The culatello, although younger than many that I had tried recently in the Antica Corte Pallavicina restaurant, was soft, sweet and rich in flavour with its characteristic yeasty smell. With a cold bottle of Helles lager, the combination was perfect.

So despite the gruesome start to my week, I have not been converted. Im not ready to deny myself the enjoyment of great products like this that have been borne out of such a rich, proud food culture.

A tale of two harvests

October 04, 2019 by Theo Crutcher

Update: 24 April, 2020: Like many other small producers, the Potentino wines are almost exclusively sold to restaurants and guests at their agrotourismo. As a result, the COVID-19 lockdown measures enforced across Italy are having a huge effect on business.

At the moment they are offering a 30% discount on the Italian retail price of all of their wines (use code CRUTCHERCARROT30 when you check out). If you are in the UK, this will offsets the cost of getting it shipped over if you order 12 bottles, and a more for larger orders. Within Italy, delivery is free for orders over 18 bottles. The bottles range from €15 - 30, without the discount, making it exceptionally good value.

The article below gives a small amount of insight from my first hand experience into how the wines are made. The bottle I took to Burgundy was a 2010 Sangiovese, Wine Makers Release, available on the website for €20 with the discount.

If you would like any more information on the wines, or what to buy, please get in touch and I would be more than happy to help. The wines can be ordered direct from the producer’s cellar via the Potentino site.

What is the difference between a £30 and a £150 bottle of wine? Both are expensive by most people’s standards so one would hope that quality is a given. A sceptic would say that the majority of that £120 swing lies with brand and marketing. But what about the viticulture and processing? Working with two top wine makers in Burgundy and Tuscany over their 2019 harvest gave a small amount of insight.

First, let’s deal with the sceptics. The effect of brand on wine prices is undeniable. You only have to look at the bottles that consistently command record breaking prices in Hong Kong, New York and London auction houses – Lafite, Latour, Romanee-Conti – to realise that wine buyers are suckers for notoriety. The Burgundians are masters of exploiting this. Each tiny parcel of land along the famous Cote d’Or is boxed up and branded with its own, historic mark. What’s more, these “appellations controlee” (or AOCs) are systematically ranked by the french legal system adding a further level of repute to the top plots.

The village of Pommard on the Cote de Beaune, the southern half of the Cote d’Or, is an instantly recognisable brand in the wine world, although mid table by Burgundy standards where the likes of Gevrey Chambertin, Vosne Romanee and Chambolle Musigny, command the top spots. Within Pommard however, the Clos des Epeneaux – a 5.23 hectare walled monopole owned by the Comte Armand – has a special status. In the AOC system it is a Premier Cru (no mean feat) but it is often referred to as the “Grand Cru” of Pommard, and attempts have been made in the past to have it boosted up this notoriously rigid system.

At Castello di Potentino, an imposing medieval castle set in its own wild valley in the south of Tuscany, 30 minutes from Montalcino, British winemaker Charlotte Horton rejects the Italian DOC/DOCG system, the equivalent to the French AOCs. Unusually for the region, she also grows pinot noir, alongside more conventional Tuscan sangiovese. The vineyards at Potentino stand in the middle of a landscape of olive groves and chestnut trees. The biodiversity stands in stark contrast to the monoculture of the Cote d’Or, where stratospheric land prices mean that every available inch is covered in rows of vines.

Year round, an enormous amount of time is committed by the teams at both places to ensure that their plants produce the best possible quality of fruit. From pruning through to harvest this is done manually and organically with no time or expense spared. There is one thing however that can't be replicated. Charlotte and her family planted the vineyards at Potentino after purchasing the property almost twenty years ago. The youngest vines in the Clos des Epeneaux were planted 36 years ago. The oldest were planted in 1919 and are in their centenary year. Whilst these thick gnarled vines are less productive, they produce a higher quality of fruit with more concentrated sugars that are capable of creating a more powerful, complex wine.

The sorting table at Domaine Clos des Epeneaux

Production at both wineries is similar, at around 20,000 bottles PA. At this level, both can comfortably be described as “artisanal” wines. At Potentino, I was struck by the simplicity of the wine making process: grapes are taken from the vineyard and emptied into a basic de-stemming machine then pumped into large wooden tanks to start fermenting. In Burgundy, the grapes are first placed onto a twelve foot conveyor belt and hand sorted by a large team. Mouldy, dried and under-ripe grapes are carefully picked out and any leaves or other non grape material is discarded.

The de-stemming machine at Domaine Clos des Epeneaux is three times the size of the one in Tuscany and at another level of sophistication, and I suspect, cost. It spits out berries with their skins almost completely intact. After this they are carefully lifted by escalator into the fermenting tanks. I am told by those that know more about wine making than I do that keeping the berries whole in this way slows down the fermentation process, creating a more elegant wine.

In both cases, one thing was clear: without good grapes, you can't make good wine. No amount of technology or wizardry in the cellars is capable of redeeming bad fruit. All of the additional technology in Burgundy was simply there to ensure that the fruit made it from the vines into the tanks in the best possible condition. The wines from the Clos des Epeneaux have incredible precision and depth - there is no doubt that this is a wine worthy of its famous name.

One day during the Burgundian harvest, I nervously produced a bottle of Castello di Potentino sangiovessi to share at lunch with the winemaker, his cooper and some of the other harvest staff. As was convention over lunch at the Domaine, the wine was tasted blind. Could these seasoned professionals tell that this wine had been made with the last generation of de-stemmer? Or that the grapes were from the unknown commune of Seggiano, not its famous neighbour, Montalccino? If they could, no mention was made. The wine was met with a resounding nod of satisfaction and the greatest complement a fellow wine maker can bestow: that it “really tasted like a sangivovessi”. Confirmation that top wine making is all about getting a great harvest then helping it reach its potential.

Food: bigger than the plate @ the V&A

July 31, 2019 by Theo Crutcher in Reviews, Exhibitions

Living in Bra, studying at the University of Gastronomic Sciences, it is easy to fall into the trap of believing that food (and perhaps wine) is the only thing worth talking about. Art, music or heaven forbid, politics or economics, merely play a supporting role in UNISG life next to the great, all encompassing issue of gastronomy. I have kept telling myself these past nine months that the real world, outside of the bubble, only cares so much for this stuff.

So, imagine my surprise and delight to find that, upon my return to the “real world” of London, the summer block buster exhibition at the Victoria and Albert Museum - the most coveted temple of art and culture in this great city – was, none other than, Food!

This V&A exhibition space has, in past years, played host to iconic and glamorous exhibitions of the work of David Bowie, Pink Floyd and Alexander McQueen. But this summer and until the autumn, the opening room of the exhibition is dedicated entirely to shit.

Toilets that use no water and turn human faeces into compost and ceramic objects made from cow manure are just some the items on display in the opening of this bold exhibition which aims to reconsider the way that we farm, trade, eat and dispose of food.

Mushrooms growing from used coffee grains

One of the most beautiful exhibits in this frank and sometimes disturbing show is a bed of mushrooms, grown from the nutrients left in used coffee granules from the museum’s café. These mushrooms, when harvested will be again served in the café as food giving visitors a neat, local example of circularity in the food system. More alarming is a 15min video on industrial agriculture that shows chickens being machine harvested like crops and aerial footage of the endless miles of polytunnels that supply much of our supermarket fruit and vegetables.

Other items require a little more imagination to process but are no less impactful. The passport of a banana that has made a 14 day, 8800 km journey from Ecuador to a supermarket in Iceland questions our assumptions about simplistic “made in” labels, whilst the CV of a Spanish peasant farmer, written in the self promoting style of a corporate executive, demonstrates the vital economic and ecological role played by small scale farmers.

The exhibition provides a punchy and poignant take on the global food industry and the need for a more sustainable food system. Returning to London after my studies at UNISG, it was a fitting reminder of the importance of the subject I have chosen, and its current place in the national consciousness.

Ykaiki Tenpaku holds a smoked and fermented bonito fillet

Katsuobushi: the essence of japanese culture

Shima

June 27, 2019 by Theo Crutcher in Japan

We arrived in the run-down coastal town of Shima during the tail end of a typhoon. The harbour town, once a major tourist centre and home to glamorous nightclubs, has been reduced to a single street selling cheap pearl jewellery and seaweed to the occasional visitor. It’s few elderly inhabitants, who lived through its party heyday, look out suspiciously as a coach load of Westerners roam the streets.

Yukaiki Tenpaku’s family have been making traditional katsuobushi in the same tiny smokehouse, perched on top of the cliffs of Shima for over 100 years. We received a warm welcome from him, having already met at the Mie Prefecture municipal government headquarters two days before. The local government, who were in the midst of a campaign to promote gastronomic tourism in Mie, had been instrumental in planning our visit to Japan. They were also responsible for the local press and news cameras that had been following us around the region and were waiting for us outside Mr Tenpaku’s hut.

The building was dark and, unsurprisingly, filled with thick smoke, but warm from the fires. Sitting inside we could hear the wind howling outside.

Bonito fish are smoked and dried on racks

I have cooked with katsuobushi, the dried and fermented bonito fish flakes, but never fully understood its significance in Japanese cuisine, other than a as the key element for dashi, a king of Japanese stock. Mr Tenpaku explained that the fish are prepared this way because of their seasonal abundance. In the spring time, the bonito fish swim south to north up the Pacific coast of Japan, then in the autumn they swim back down. The oversupply at these two times meant that the catch had to be preserved so that it could be eaten when the fish were not following their migratory path.

Mr Tenpaku honours the slow, traditional method of producing katsuobushi. His fish are filleted then smoked over oak fires for a month. Explaining this process, Mr Tenpaku removed one of his smoked fish from the rack and broke it in half for us to try. Its flesh was still pink beneath the blackened exterior. A this point, the fish can be shaved and served on top of rice with pickles and fermented cherries.

The fermentation process, that removes any residual moisture left after the long smoking, takes a further three months, Mr Tenpaku explained. At this stage, the fillets have developed a white mould and are so hard that they can only be shaved into exceptionally thin flakes using a sharp blade. It is these flakes that when dissolved in water create the unique flavour of dashi.

Mr Tenpaku prepares smoked bonito fish with rice

In the smokehouse, Mr Tenpaku prepared his dashi using his katsuobushi and kombu, or dried kelp. The katsuobushi, he explained, has a high level of inosinic acid (ribonucleotide IMP) which gives it the savoury umami taste, whilst the kombu provides glutamic acid, the same umami flavour found in high qualities in tomatoes. After the famous discovery of the umami flavour in kombu by Kikunae Ikeda, it was Akira Kuninaka who discovered that the combination of these two different forms of umami resulted in a flavour more intense that if you simply added the two intensities together. It is the flavour of this stock that unites all the elements of Japanese cuisine – the rich fat of wagu beef, deep bone broths and sashimi dipped in soy sauce.

Later that evening, back at our hotel, a grand banquet was thrown in our honour and attended by many of the local producers and government delegates that we had met over the past few days. Each of the producers gave a short, stiff presentation at the start of the meal before the toasts and revelry started. It was a perfect demonstration of the culture that I was coming to understand: formal and deeply respectful, but also incredibly generous, warm and welcoming.

We ate sashimi and oysters, beautifully presented with various soups and seaweed and whole abalone, steamed in front of us at the table, alongside pork dumplings, and marinated tuna. All of this was washed down with a plentiful supply of dry Japanese beer and more shots of sake – with toasts of “kampai!” - that I care to remember. The savoury part of this epic meal finished in customary fashion, with a bow of steamed rice, pickles and a miso soup. The taste of the miso took me straight back to Mr Tenpaku’s smokehouse in Shima - that deep umami flavour that fills your whole mouth with contentment but leaves you wanting more. It will forever remind me of Mie, the spiritual home of Shintoism, where refinement and a calm respect for people and the planet are so deeply ingrained in the local culture.

Review: Osteria Veglio

May 04, 2019 by Theo Crutcher in Restaurants, Reviews, Langhe

As a British expat living in Piedmont, I am inundated with questions about how to solve Britain’s impending Brexit disaster. My solution, quoting fellow expat Orson Wells, is to “ask not what you can do for your country. Ask what’s for lunch.”

In this corner of North West Italy, home to Slow Food and the University of Gastronomic Sciences, food is religion. The late Sunday Times restaurant critic AA Gill once heralded the region as home to the finest lunch on the planet. So, if lunch could be solution, it’s as good a place as any to start to look for answers.

Piedmontese cuisine defines itself through rich ingredients and respect for tradition. This comes in heaps of butter, white truffles and pasta made with 40 egg yolks; but also, tripe, calf’s brains and all manner of obscure body parts us Brits have long since discarded.

Yet, from a Londoner’s perspective, the local pallet can become extremely monotonous. Whist I enjoy a vitello tonnato or brasato al barolo as much as the next glutton, I often find myself yearning for a curry.

It’s a sensitive point for the Italians, but the refusal embrace foreign flavours is, at least in part, a fascist legacy. Mussolini’s government advocated an austere diet of bread, polenta, and locally grown, fresh produce as a means to achieving total self-sufficiency. But the nationalist influence runs deeper than that. If you try altering their strict way of doing things – say, by adding pineapple to pizza, or cream to your carbonara – you will be heckled and ravaged by an angry mob whilst whipped through the streets of Rome.

It no surprise, from the country that gave us the Catholic church and the Mafia, that Italians are sticklers for rules and respect. But I am not sure what to make of the dogmatism. Can anyone who has never cooked with fresh coriander, lime juice, ginger and turmeric really understand the full picture of gastronomy?

British food, on the other hand, has defined itself by its ability to absorb that of other nations.

If you ask any British person where to eat near them, you will be recommended an Indian, Italian, Szechuan and Peruvian-Japanese fusion place, before they mention anywhere that serves anything like a typical, “English” dish. Even some of London’s most traditional pubs – flag bearers of our cultural heritage - have outsourced their kitchens to caterers from Thailand.

The result is an endless array of opportunity. In the time it takes to walk from Piccadilly to Covent Garden, you can travel the length of the Mekong river; a few stops on the tube and you can be, Istanbul, Beirut or Osaka, depending on where your taste buds take you.

This phenomenon is not just confined to London. Birmingham’s “Balti Triangle” created its own form of pan-sub-continental cuisine and, thanks to the “Ottolenghi effect”, it is possible to buy dukkah, sumac and preserved lemons in every country town deemed fit for a Waitrose.

So why were the culinary pluralists the first to break out from political union, whilst the ardent nationalists, who have had their very soul bastardised beyond recognition by the forces of globalisation, remain?

The answer can be found at Osteria Veglio, a small, relatively new addition to the local restaurant circuit in Piedmont’s Langhe region.

The team of two young couples behind it “believe in the traditions of the Piemontese table” but, daringly, “like to experiment with new flavours.” Fresh seafood and green salads - unthinkable for many local chefs – appear on the menu as welcome beacons, guiding you through the rich sea of raw veal, braised meat and cream that bring greedy travellers to this region.

The agnolotti, a local classic, come stuffed with a venison ragu and doused in sage butter, and are as plump and rich as Pavarotti at an infamous, Berlusconi bunga bunga party. But the real star of the meal is something much more earnest - a finanziera, a piedmontese dish of chicken gizzards and veal offal so ancient, its first mention pre-dates the arrival of the tomato in Italy.

Finanziera was invented to use up the discarded parts of a cockerel after being transformed into the stuffed capons usually served during the festive period. The offcuts are given royal treatment when cooked in a velvety sauce of rich porcini mushrooms and madeira wine. The result is a dish with such deep flavour and silken texture that every mouthful exhumes contentment.

If only the British showed as much respect for our calf’s liver, faggots and suet puddings. There are brave chefs who have but they remain consigned to a pin point on the map of our metropolitan mezze. An oddity for the urban elite.

With honourable exceptions, dining in rural England is an awkward exercise. Restaurants tend to be poor imitations of something smart and French. Pub kitchens – the closest thing we have to the concept of “Osteria”, where local food is available is at a democratic price point – generally provide a “something and chips” menu: soggy fish, scampi or a grey, insipid hamburger. It’s no wonder that so many in rural towns flock to Pizza Express, or the local tandoori.

Whilst I will always advocate a cosmopolitan diet, I am a firm believer that the best food is eaten in its right context. Like Northern Italy, the British climate is not suited to growing papayas, okra and fresh spices and our finest Thai, Indian and Chinese restaurants will never be able to compete with the street markets of Bangkok, Mumbai and Beijing.

At the same time, our long dark winters and cosy, carpeted pubs cry out for Lancashire hot pots and Sheppard’s pie; and a crisp battered cod with hand cut chips hits is gastronomic pinnacle when eaten with a wooden fork on a British harbour wall.

The idea that our traditional food is no good, instilled after centuries of abuse from our European neighbours, has caused us to brush aside our old comfort foods in favour of pad-Thai and butter chicken – sanitised versions of other country’s dishes.

As a young liberal, I cannot support the idea that the gastronomic key to Brexit is a white middle Englander eating steak and kidney pudding whilst slurping best bitter, shouting about the superiority of good British grub. Briton’s should be proud of our international food scene and the open, multicultural society that created it.

However, the Piedmontese have found an enviable satisfaction with their lot that us Britons could learn from. Rather than constantly looking elsewhere for new ingredient and culinary inspiration they have refined and perfected their culinary heritage, allowing simple dishes to reach transcendental status. In so doing, I think they have negated the need to blame others for their misfortunes. Here, good local food, that people feel intimately attached to, is more important than an ill-fated quest to change the status quo.