The Good Life
The food you will be wearing
Pamela Vandyke Price
Years ago I heard James Laver propound a delightful theory about styles of architecture being a reflection of current fashion: the pointed eras being -when people wore pointed clothes — those hennins, elongated shoes, the squared-off Palladians with the squared-off coats, panniers and wigs making the head into a rectangle and the classically draped civilisations with their fluted pillars. As historic versions of part works such as Brillat-Savarin in your Tenement and Marie Antoinette's Dairy Delights have somehow got channelled to the great quarry wherein lurk all those unarrived letters, I cannot be sure about food reflecting fashion. But my antennae do quiver when I read headlines such as ' You'll be a lady this autumn,' and 'Plain clothes signal the trend.'
For not only am I — with my statistics and, alas, years — absolutely sick of all that dressing up as merry peasants, trollopy chambermaids in sleazy French farces, Neanderthal women carved in sheepskins, boots and open-woofed hessian. I am quite bored, too, with food that is knitted, crocheted, woven and so bedizened that to prepare it is a sort of balletic exercise that is supposed to be entertaining, and to eat it is such a shock to the assaulted tastebuds and anticlimax to the alerted turn that, gastronomically, we risk getting seriously Bent. Clothes that are calm and do something for the human frame may, _I feel, indicate an epoch of food that is likewise. People may actually come to care more about the quality of simple ingredients than whether their piping bag has the pertinent nozzle or their aspic the adequately pneumatic quiver and, eventually, they may realise that beautiful simple food is like beautiful simple fashion — something that may have to be paid for in terms of time, even if not money as well, and with a generous tip to fortune for giving one experience.
If people like baked potatoes stuffed with caviare, smoked salmon rolled round shrimps in a cream sauce, six different fruits invading the meat course and salads (fruit or vegetable) all mushed down to a compost of flavours that cancel each other out, let them nosh away. But I like the good things of life — all of them, not merely the gastronomic ones — one at a time, so as to concentrate on same. I have known eminent 'gourmet writers' lace their fine white Burgundies with gin; restaurateurs of international fame have told me that, because a wine hadn't got any deposit, it didn't need decanting; and a true friend of mine actually orders Pernod laced with gin and topped up with bitter lemon when she's with someone she loves.
As a very much weaker vessel, I prefer pleasures such as vegetables and fruits to shine on their own. The avocado pear, which I relish with a lot of lemon, a little oil, salt, pepper, sesame salt, and a little chopped sweet onion, is one. But if you find your cherished pear is a bit on the soft side, or want to eke it out a bit, there is a delicious recipe for cold avocado soup with which I have been experimenting. The basic notion came from Charmian and Spike Hughes's creative book Cold Dishes for Alt Seasons (Ward Lock, £1.90). I tend, living alone, to find many cold dishes rather uncomforting. This one is so delicate that it is a solitary delight and makes a good opening course for a party meal — providing your apéritifs haven't been so fierce that palates will have been blunted.
For four to six people, you peel, stone and cut up two ripe avocadoes—but don't put in those that are already blackened. Pour on the juice of a lemon or more, according to the size of lemon. Add this to a can of consommé; here, I haye found, one must be precise. If you haven't got half a pint or thereabouts of real chicken consommé, then be careful to use a consommé at least vaguely related to poultry; anything including beef, or laced with tomato or onions, will be far too strong for the avocadoes. I have used Baxter's Pheasant Consommé to my own satisfaction, others having proved either insipid or too 'flavoured' to taste of true stock. To the consommé and pears add half a pint of sour cream, salt (a little more than you think required, because, after chilling, the flavour is somehow in need of this), black pepper, a scant teaspoonful of sesame salt, and a tablespoonful of Chambery vermouth (or a good dry vermouth if you haven't the Chambery, but use a little less, as the flavour may be too assertive). Whoosh the lot for a minute or so in a liquidiser, or push it through a sieve. Chill. You can leave it overnight or even twenty-four hours, but don't let it get too cold as, again, the flavour will be impaired.
When you serve, put a few split toasted almonds on to each helping — this is what the London Hilton do, and as garnish and added touch of flavour and texture I think it is admirable. The authors of the original recipe add tabasco, but this to me is far too strong for the pears. A dribble of tomato juice is another possible garnish — but only a teaspoonful to each cup. Beautifully simple — and simply beautiful.
Previous page
