Flex your mussels
There’s no beating the French when it comes to giving your moules a little ooh la la, insists Simon Hopkinson
There’s no beating the French when it comes to giving your moules a little ooh la la, insists Simon Hopkinson
THE worst of all junior-apprentice chores I will ever recall is that of tipping great sacks of filthy mussels into the maw of a huge, old cast-iron potato peeler that lived outside the kitchen door of my first place of work. I was 16 years old and this was one of my initial toils during my precious, Christmas school holidays. Of course, anything chef threw at me, I would do without question, being an obedient teenager and already knowing full well that removing the barnacles, ingrained sand and seaweed from mussels prior to cooking them seemed an obvious cleansing process.
I had previously witnessed pristine, blue-black-shelled mussels peeping up out of a wide and deep, two-handled solid pot, their orange flesh revealed in all their juicy joy, as Dad had cooked these on the Aga, at home, since I was, oh, about eight years old.
Our town of Bury had—and does to this day—an especially fine market both indoor and out, but it was the ‘out’ that always seemed to be the favoured source of our regular family shopping. Very few folk, these days, shop the way that my parents did then. Each had an occupation (dentist and school teacher), but they were able to make time to visit this astonishingly good market four or five times a week as a matter of course.
This wasn’t because it had ‘organic greens’, ‘rare-breed meats’ or ‘artisan cheeses’—my favourite stall sold just the best Lancashire cheeses (‘a creamy, a crumbly or a tasty one, my duck: which would you like?’), which were quite commercially produced, but memorably deli- cious. No, it was simply a good market, full stop.
The fish stalls were the best of all. Whole hake of such beauty that it would make Padstow blush (before most of the catch was shipped off to Spain); scallops, live in shell (in the 1960s!); plaice so fresh you could smell them from the far-off Granelli’s ice-cream van (where I would, most often, be lingering); and, of course, magnificent mussels piled up to peaks the size of small slag heaps.
I reckon four or five huge scoops of the fishmonger’s trowel would have been no more than a matter of pence, but yes, they, too, were filthy and needed a good scrub. Unlike me, however, in my shivering commis-chef role, Dad had the luxury of our Agawarmed kitchen in which to scrape, scrub and polish his molluscs.
Moules marinière Serves 2
I know full well that the following information will be of no use whatsoever to those of you who don’t live in my manor of Shepherd’s Bush, west London, but, for those who do, The Fishmonger’s Kitchen at 119, Shepherd’s Bush Road, W6 (020– 7603 0673; info@fishmongerskitchen.co.uk), has been a veritable boon to me over the past few months. Although it has been a fine purveyor for several years, of late, it has blossomed further by importing fish and shellfish direct from the giant Rungis market on the outskirts of Paris.
Just one of the benefits of this is a regular supply of the pristine bouchot mussels, which are so clean, so small, so sweet and delicious that to cook them is to be at one with your very own kitchen rockpool.
‘Of course, anything chef threw at me, I would do without question’
Ingredients
75g butter 1 finely chopped onion 250ml white wine 1kg mussels 2tbspn chopped parsley Freshly milled white pepper—
or cayenne, if you prefer
Method
Using a very large pan with a lid, melt the butter and fry the onions in it until they’re softened and transparent. Pour in the wine and allow to come to the boil. Tip in the mussels, put on the lid and, holding the pan in both hands, shake it around a bit. Put onto a high heat and cook for 2 minutes. Take a look to see how they’re opening—it doesn’t take long—and give them another shake, trying to bring the more opened mussels from the bottom of the pan up to the top.
Return to the heat, replacing the lid, and continue cooking for a further few minutes. Have another look and give another shake.
When it seems that most of the shells are open, tip in the parsley, add white pepper (or cayenne), shake and stir around for the last time and tip into a large, previously heated bowl. It goes without saying that you will also need a little crusty bread here.
Mouclade Serves 2
In his column for the Financial Times in 2007, my chum Rowley Leigh writes thus about mouclade: ‘The fact is that the mildly exotic aroma of curry powder suits some French cooking perfectly and nowhere more so than in the tantalising whiff that it gives a good mouclade… and I cannot imagine achieving the same effect by using one’s own [freshly made] garam masala [say]. There are times when authentic just won’t do.’ And he’s right.
Ingredients
1 recipe for moules marinière (see above, minus the parsley and seasoning) 2–3tspn potato flour (fécule)
or, at a pinch, cornflour 1–2tspn curry powder—i favour
the Bolst’s brand Large pinch of saffron (optional) 100ml double cream Squeeze of lemon juice
Method
Shell the mussels into a bowl and strain their juices through a fine sieve into a saucepan. Slake the potato flour (or cornflour) with some water to make a thin paste. Bring the mussel juices up to a simmer and add the curry powder and saffron, if using.
Simmer to infuse the spices for 5 minutes or so, then very gradually stir in some of the thickener—you might not need all of it—until the sauce generously coats the back of the spoon. Note that the sauce will thicken quickly, so take care.
Now, stir in the cream and lemon juice and bring back to a simmer. Stir in the mussels, heat through and check the seasoning. Serve with grilled slices of sourdough bread, rubbed with garlic and olive oil.