Spotlight: Feast East (and a barbecue)

With a magnifying glass, you can see the smoke rising from the barbecue towards the right-hand side of the picture

On Sunday afternoon, the brightest, most blue-skied day of the year thus far, the Spy found himself in the happy position of nibbling at the world’s most perfect barbecued sausage in the most unorthodox of locations: on the beach at Dunwich with Sizewell Nuclear Power Station looming menacingly above on the clifftops.

Smoky black treacle bacon sizzling away...

In order to discover how he came to be there, his journey must be traced back to the day before, where we find him frolicking at the Feast East food show, held in the hills of Chilford Hall Vineyard. At this annual event, which showcases the best food and drink producers to be found in East Anglia, the Spy found his culinary Valhalla, bouncing from stall to stall like a hyperactive kangaroo sampling the wares. There were (*deep breath*) teas, chilli jams, preserves, cakes, oils, sausages, bacon, honey, fudge, ice creams, vinegars, breads, flavoured coffees, Indian sauces, mulled wine spices, fruit juices, pestoes; the list goes on and on. Vendors were interrogated with a ferocity that would have had lesser men and women quaking in their artisanal boots: how did the rapeseed oil men get the smoke into their oak-smoked variety, what was the white powder covering the sausage, and how did the bakers from near Sutton Hoo develop their replica Anglo-Saxon seed bread? Why on earth was this bacon stickily black, how did the pudding get into the Christmas Pudding ice cream, and why were there hordes of Suffolk pensioners picking olives out in Sicily? No lunch was required, as food samples were constantly pushed into the Spy’s hot, greedy little hand, or, when no samples seemed forthcoming, brazenly demanded and immediately gobbled down. All in the name of research, naturally… The Spy could have left with wares from most of the stalls, but lest his shopping bag explode then and there, he settled for the following: 

1. Black smoked bacon cured with molasses and treacle from Emmett’s of Peasenhall. The stall was run by an extremely sophisticated gentleman whose every pork-product recommendation was prefixed with the instruction to open a bottle of wine. The Spy salutes you, sir.

Bacon bacon bacon...
 

2. Sausages from Musks of Newmarket (holder of four royal warrants dating back to 1907), made with bread rather than rusk (for a smoother texture) and real gut skins (making them melting and tender). The Spy couldn’t resist their siren song after sampling several chipolatas, served piping hot from a hollowed-out trencher of bread (to compliment the bread inside the sausages).

Baby chipolatas in their bread cradle, and the Man from Musks demonstrating the gummy awfulness of synthetic sausage skins

3. Apple, apricot and ginger sausages from the fine men at Woburn Country Foods. There were too many delicious ones to choose from so the Spy settled for the personal favourite of the chap behind the stall (the aforementioned AA&G), which was utterly scrumptious. Demand was great; their lamb and redcurrant variety was instantly sold out, and the Spy bitterly regrets the fact that he did not pick up a packet of their Cumberlands before they too vanished.

Big fat bangers bangers fulfilling their destiny

4. Assorted bread rolls from The Cake Shop in Woodbridge near Sutton Hoo (the Anglo-Saxon burial mounds), including traditional Suffolk varieties and Anglo-Saxon replicas. The Spy fell wildly in love with the grandson of the original founder (gender is no barrier where food is concerned), a tall, gangling fellow with a shock of curly black hair, thick-rimmed glasses and the creator of the best double-chocolate brownies known to man. His mother was every bit as wonderful, and dressed in purple and black, she perfectly matched the dense chocolate and beetroot cake with its bright purple icing. The Spy is in love.

The glorious sample tray (root cake and Polish apple cake), and a selection of wares. Note the Purple Lady just in shot, matching the beetroot cake on the stall
 

5. Olive Oil from Racalia, with olives from Sicily picked by bona fide Suffolk pensioners. If this is geriatric slave labour, then the Spy is all for it.

In the absence of a Racalia picture, the Spy presents a selection of oils displayed at the show: the oak-smoked rapeseed oil (the left-most square on the right-hand picture) was delicious, but so new it wasn't even on sale

6. A naked shortbread piggy (as opposed to an iced piggy, also for sale) from Bury Lane Farm. Their gluten-free cakes are every bit as delicious as their normal products, and their scrumptious scones can be purchased in the Farmers’ Outlet on Lensfield Road.

Lordy lord, a delicious selection of Bury Farm wares, including samples
 

7. Chorizo from the Suffolk Salami Company (worthy winner of two Great Taste gold stars).

    

A veritable cornucopia of East Anglian wares...

The ensuing barbecue at which these products were consumed was quite simply the best barbecue the Spy has ever had the pleasure of attending. And for dessert? Crumpets of course, toasted on the barbecue and spread with the last of the fig jam from Pancake Day. And thus, the great Circle of Life was completed, and the Spy was fed for another day...

Happy little crumpets toasting away (L), and the Spy gets stuck in (R). The scabby Fagin-gloves reveal the horrible truth: a Spy's life might be rich and exciting, but it don't pay so well kids...

Spotlight: Crumpets

Egalitarian crumpets, cut into democratic quarters...

Crumpets are as English as toasted teacakes and split muffins, the culinary equivalent of reading Winnie the Pooh, The Hobbit or Wind in the Willows curled up with a steaming cup of tea and a chocolate digestive. If Badger, Mole and Ratty didn't sit around an open fire at some point in their adventures, debating what was to be done with that dastardly reprobate Toad whilst buttering their toasted crumpets, then you can spank the Spy with a toasting fork and call him Auntie Mabel. Because undoubtedly they did, even if it didn't make Kenneth Graham's final cut. Only a few posts ago, the Spy was lamenting the fact that fire-toasted crumpets and muffins seem to be a thing of the past, and yet last night, a Glorious Happening occurred. The Spy found himself in front of an open fire with a fine collection of fellow spies (what would be the collective noun? A Sneak of Spies? A Treachery?), a pot of steaming tea on the table alongside a tub of butter, a jar of strawberry jam and an enormous tower of pale, doughy crumpets sitting on a plate, ready to be spiked onto an antique toasting fork and thrust into the fire until they were ready to fulfil their crumpetty destiny adorned in little golden-brown coasts of toasted joy. It was decided that the toasting method added not only atmosphere to the proceedings, but also additional textures and flavours, including a delicious smoky element ("why do these crumpets remind us of bacon?" we mused, spyishly...) that took the experience to new heights.

A sneakily blurred crumpet-toasting shot, thus protecting the identity of this finest of fellow-spies

We may have had rudimentary toppings at our disposal, but a more adventurous crumpeteer could veer off onto many a culinary highway and byway, stopping to sample buttered crumpets covered with melted Cheddar and Worcester sauce, crumpets with Stilton and ham, crumpets with a multitude of spreads and preserves, crumpets with honey (n.b. once it has been spread over the hot crumpet, an essential part of the tradition is to push down with your knife so the hot honey comes bubbling out of the holes), or even crumpets pure and unadorned other than butter and an austere sprinkling of salt. The exact location of this particular escapade must remain a closely guarded secret, lest the Spy be ingloriously unmasked and his identity revealed to his nefarious and innumerable enemies. Yet by means of a sop, the Spy will wipe his butter-smeared mouth, lick his jam-stained fingers and reveal locations at which to enjoy them when out and about in the fens (which is surprisingly difficult, so a crumpet recipe follows).

1. Peacocks Tearoom in Ely is a little piece of English heaven, a little brick house nestling by the river that becomes covered in fragrant wisteria blossoms throughout the summer. The delights of this establishment are so numerous that doubtless it will be returned to in future posts, but for now, it is enough to say that they serve hot buttered crumpets (made by a local bakery), perfect with a pot of one of their many varieties of tea (the Spy particularly recommends their Violet and Pleine Lune varieties).

Picture taken from an article in the Independent: behold the mighty wisteria!

2. With its waitresses in black-and-white pinnies and 1940s decor, Harriets in Bury St Edmunds is rendolent of a bygone age, and crumpets feature (quite rightly) in its afternoon tea. The Spy happens to know that the crumpets are Kingsmill's finest; not necessarily a bad thing, but consequently dont expect that home-made edge.

3. If you find yourself venturing further north into Yorkshire, make a bee-line for one of the branches of Betty's for their hot buttered pikelets (the Great Crumpet/Pikelet Debate is a heated issue: blood has been spilled and lives lost in its cause). The Spy cannot say much more about Betty's without getting choked up with passion and emotion, and for the sake of maintaining that Stiff Upper Lip, he will leave it there, except to say that Betty's is what Harriets hopes to be when it grows up.

The autumnal display from Betty's; pikelets just out of shot...

Finally, in the Spy's opinion, the best EVER television culinary moment was when The Hairy Bikers made and toasted crumpets on a Scottish beach on an enormous bonfire at sunset. When the Spy is able to replicate this glorious event, his dearest ambition will have been realised and he will expire on the spot, flinging himself into the bonfire in the style of a pagan Anglo-Saxon warrior lest the remainder of his life prove a cruel disappointment. When this time comes to pass, this will be the final recipe, and the end to his labours:

The Spy also hearts the Hairy Bikers, and wants their Hairy Babies

Crumpets:

350ml/12-and-a-quarter fl oz milk, warmed

225g / 8oz strong white flour

125g / 4-and-a-quarter oz plain flour

1 x 7g / 1/4 oz sachet fast-action dried yeast

1/2 tsp salt

1 tsp caster sugar

150ml / 5-and-a-quarter fl oz warm water

Oil or butter for greasing, plus extra to top the crumpets 

Crumpet rings, big round biscuit cutters or very very very well-scrubbed tuna tins with the top and bottom removed

Sift flours into a bowl and stir in yeast, salt and sugar

Make a well in the centre and pour in the warm milk, beating with a wooden spoon for 3-4 minutes until batter thick

Cover bowl with clingfilm or a wet tea-towel and leave for an hour until batter doubles in size

Mix the bicarb with the warm water and beat into the batter for a couple of minutes

Let it rest for 30 minutes until risen and covered in bubbles

Heat a frying pan over medium heat, grease the inside of the crumpet rings and put them on the pan to warm

Drop three dessertspoons of the batter into each ring

Cook for 9-12 minutes until bubbles have risen to the top and burst

Flip the crumpets and cook on the other side for a couple of minutes until golden-brown

Consume, with gusto and butter

Note the fiery little disc, skewered and toasting away like a miniature solar eclipse