Chipotle Lasagne

Lasagne (and I won't stand for this Lasagna nonsense, pal) is one of those Italian dishes, like watery Spag Bol or poorly executed Caprese (spinach instead of basil; bendy Government Cheese instead of pillowy mozzarella; greenhouse grown, all flesh and no juice, never-ripening, gym class sick note tomatoes), that has found its way into the catholic vernacular of every corner of the indiscriminately hungry earth.

But, rather than use the above rant as a platform for providing a Reference Lasagne, should such a thing even exist, I shall use it as an excuse to expand on the canon with this delicious, super-cheesy heresy:

Spicy Chipotle Cheese Lasagne (serves 5 drawstring pants attired gluttons)

This recipe uses the chipotle chili, which is a smoke-dried jalapeño. You could conceivably substitute in smoked serrano or habanero chilies, but fresh or unsmoked chili won't give the same results. It also has a layer of unadulterated cheese for added unctuousness,or Aaaaaaaarrrrrrrgggggggghhhness as Homer Simpson would say.

First, get cracking on your Ragù (enough for 6 cups):

In a heavy based saucepan, sweat 1 finely chopped onion and 3 chopped cloves of garlic until the mixture begins to colour. Add 2 each of finely chopped carrots and celery sticks. The dice should be the size of match heads or smaller. If you have neither the patience nor the coordination required to finely chop these, then shred in a food processor. You don't want lumpy sauce, do you?

Add 2 whole chipotle chiles, and cook uncovered over a medium heat, stirring regularly, until the vegetable mix begins to soften. Now add 500g pork or veal mince and stir to break up. Add 100g diced smoked pancetta/streaky bacon/smoked pork and stir through. Allow to colour before you add 2 tablespoons of tomato paste, a glass of milk, a glass of red plonk, a tin of chopped tomatoes, 1 cinnamon stick, 1 star anise (or a pinch of Chinese 5 spice powder), half a teaspoon of coarse salt and a couple of grinds of pepper.

Bring this unholy stew to a gentle boil then turn down the heat until it just bubbles, put on a lid and cook for 90 minutes, stirring occasionally. Allow it to cook uncovered for the last 20 minutes to reduce and thicken slightly. Discard the cinnamon and star anise, and taste for seasoning. It should be punchy.

Now, bring your considerable attention to bear on the Béchamel (enough for 4 cups):

Pour 700ml milk into a saucepan. Add a fingerwidth slice of onion, 1 piece of mace, 8 whole peppercorns and a couple of bay leaves. Bring slowly to a simmer, stirring regularly to stop the milk catching. Drain through a sieve, keeping the milk and discarding the other bits. Now, in a heavy saucepan, melt 50g butter, add 40g plain flour, and stir well to form a paste. Now add a little milk, and stir to incorporate with a wooden spoon or silicone spatula. Repeat this process until the mixture starts to loosen, then switch from a spoon to a balloon whisk and add milk , whisking constantly, to achieve a smooth, silky sauce. Add a pinch of salt. Allow to cook on a low heat for 5 minutes until thickened slightly and almost simmering. Take off the heat and pour into a jug if you'd like – it will make dispensing easier once you assemble the lasagne.

To assemble, coat a deep oven-proof casserole dish with a thin layer of ragù, then add a layer of "no pre-cook" lasagne pasta. Repeat with another thin smear of ragù, a thin layer of béchamel, then another layer of pasta, perpendicular to the last layer. Now a little more ragù, and then a layer of provolone or similar smoked cheese (in Hungary I use the prosaically monikered Cheeseland Smoked Sajt), cut into thickish slices. This will give a lovely, smoky, oozing layer to the finished dish. Now more pasta, ragù and béchamel, ending with a layer of béchamel atop a layer of pasta. Aim for 4/5 layers of pasta if you can make the ingredients stretch this far. Sprinkle with a large handful of grated strong cheddar, and pop into an oven pre-heated to 200°C for around 35 minutes. Keep covered with foil initially, but allow the top to brown for the last 10 minutes. Cool for 10 minutes before slicing and serving. A simple green salad and a nice fruity, lively Italian red wine are the best partners.

Disclaimer: I'm well aware that the pictured lasagne looks all forlorn huddled against the far edge of the plate, but I was leaving space for eatyergreens.

Gettin' my thang on

Have you nothing interesting to say?

N-no sir..

Well, why ever not? What did you do today?

I watched telly and ate leftovers...um, asparagus quiche and some sweaty chocolate avec nuts and an apple cold from the fridge. And played squash (lost 5-3, but I'm not cut up about it, it's the exercise that matters). I walked all the way home, too. That's about 40 minutes. I listened to the whole of Mingus' Tijuana Moods on my ipod while I strolled. It starts off hopeful and light-fingered, but ends a bit maudlin and pensive.

Not a surfeit of application then?

Nossir.

Well then, what are you going to do tomorrow?

Oh, tomorrow I'm quite busy. I have to plan a trip, do a spot of grocery shopping. Reclaim my muse. Get my thang on.

Do you even know what that means?

Nossir.

Hickory Chickens*

The last couple of times I have visited Nagy Vásárcsarnok, I have seen a stall holder with a cloth covered table hawking a mound of fresh morels. I took the plunge and bought some on Saturday, lest her supply peters out. I have a sneaking feeling the price won't dwindle appreciably over the season, so no point in procrastinating!

The French have the treatment of mushrooms sewn up: with garlic, cream, mild herbs such as chervil or parsley, the mushroom pan de-glazed with a splash of cognac, served on a crouton, or sacrificed to a duxelles.

Take a couple of big handfuls (enough for four people) and use a paper towel to wipe off any dirt. If they are filthy and you feel you must wash them, use them immediately afterwards to stop them discolouring.

Pop a knob of butter and a splash of light olive oil into a pan, add a very finely sliced clove of garlic and sweat over a low heat until the garlic is translucent. Add the mushrooms and some fresh herbs (I used thyme leaves and parsley stalks) and cook for 5 – 10 minutes until they have lost some volume and are just softened. Morels should always be well cooked to neutralise any toxins they may contain. De-glaze the pan with a tot of brandy or Madeira (vodka or vermouth will work just as well), add a glug of cream, a grind of pepper and salt, et voilà! I also added a little chicken jelly which I had culled from a chicken confit. More on that later.

Serve on a thin piece of toast, with a nice red Burgundy if you're feeling lavish.

* a.k.a Dry Land Fish, a.k.a Morels according to the good folks of Virginia and Kentucky, where they also grow

Magyar Tea Leaf

WE wuz robbed today: Mrs. Fresh Air Inspector's fancy-pants bicycle, which was chained to the central courtyard railings outside our front door with no less than two utterly ineffectual (yet monstrously expensive) chains. For good measure, the thief cut the brake cable and stole the saddle to my bicycle too, a sort of two-wheeled version of shooting out your potential pursuers' tyres in order to effect a clean getaway. I'm a bit miffed that my bike was considered unworthy of larcenous attention. It's red, for goodness sake!

The Rendőrség materialised within 20 minutes of the deed, dragging behind them a sheepish looking yoof in handcuffs. They were courtesy and efficiency itself, and I am due to pick up the errant object from the VII district police station later on, once CSI have been round to comb for fibres and bodily fluids and make fatalistic sucking noises through their teeth.

Why don't Hungarians eat more lamb?

Winter is loosing its grip, the birdies are twittering in the hedgerows, the dogshit is defrosting on the pavements, but the odd cold snap still causes me to crave moundy food: stews, confits, gelatinous shreddy bits of meat with caramelised root veg. Lamb St Menehould fits the bill.

Lamb isn't eaten much in Hungary, save for Easter time. Funny, considering the proximity to Serbia, where the sheep is king.

Some of the bigger markets stock some pretty sorry looking lamb, mostly pale (think milk-fed veal in hue) and weedy hunks of meat in odd cuts, but there are a couple of Turkish butchers dotted around the city who offer less scrawny and etiolated specimens.

You need lamb breast for this recipe – a very cheap cut, which most people don't bother with due to the massive amount of fat and wastage involved. But if you have time (and time is something the Fresh Air Inspector has a positive surfeit of at present), you can turn this into something rather special.

Take a whole lamb breast (no trimming required), and lay in an oven-proof dish. Add water to cover (probably a litre or so), and some flavourings – a roughly chopped, scrubbed carrot, a celery stem, a carrot, an onion, some bay leaves, peppercorns, and if you have it, a small piece of smoked pork or a couple of slices of smoked bacon.

Cook covered in a low oven (120°C) for 2 – 3 hours, until the meat is soft, and the rib bones are loosened. Remove from oven and allow to cool just enough to slide the bones out without scalding yourself. If the bones don't slide out easily, return it to the oven for a little longer. Once the bones are out and the lamb has cooled, remove the large flap of fat and discard. The stock can be cooled and drained, and used for other purposes (I made a rather tasty demi-glace with mine).

Cover the lamb with a plate or cling film, weigh it down with a heavy weight (I used a large tin of Koo brand guava halves, fact fans), and refrigerate overnight.

To serve, cut the lamb on the bias into fishfinger sized chunks. Coat in Dijon mustard, then beaten egg and finally roll in Panko breadcrumbs. Cook under a medium grill until nicely browned. One breast should serve 4 people. Serve with salsa verde or sauce gribiche, mashed potatoes, and some greenery. A fruity red with good acidity goes well with this. I had a nice Kadarka from Villány. Some juicy Italian should also work admirably.

Spring is in the air

The balcony gets 3 hours of sunlight a day, enough to keep my herbs happy. I haven't bothered to plant flat-leaf parsley or dill, which are cheap and readily available year round. Secret ingredient for the best Greek salad: a tablespoon of finely chopped dill. Wondrous.

You can see the Opera House in the background, for added gravitas.