Food: Talking tongues

Dad always, but always, had a tin or two of butter beans in the kitchen cupboard, and, I think, he still does. I seem to remember that my brother and I were not that keen on the old butter bean. It might have been to do with the crumbly flouriness. I still find chestnuts the same sort of struggle to eat, and I know I will continue to loathe marrons glaces almost more than anything else. But I grew to love butter beans, and I still like them out of a tin, along with flageolets, haricots, borlottis - and Heinz baked beans, too.

The bean, whether dried or processed in a can, is one of the most important store-cupboard ingredients - particularly at this time of year. These dark and cold, wet and windy and, frankly, dank and dreary New Year months are just the right season to rip open a bag (or pierce a can) of pulse - be it bean, lentil or pea. These tummy warmers are a great reason to spend the British winter months in the warmth of your own kitchen, radio on and pinny tied.

But considering how cold and dismal we find ourselves and our surroundings just now, it is depressing to find that we appear to be happier depending upon recipes from the Continent than on our own ways with these familiar staples.

There is a salade de lentilles for us to marvel at under each and every small-fish-assembly first-course. Chick peas, chorizo and mussels are used to make soups with Iberian roots, and flageolets to accompany roast lamb. Not to mention a dish of borlottis to transport Tuscany to Twickenham with extra-virginal oils, flat-leaf parsley and garlic, enjoyed with a grilled, free-range pork chop. I would be happy to eat all those dishes, but can we really only make pease pudding and mushy peas?

There are stupendous British dishes. Several years ago, my friend Leigh Stone-Herbert took a simple ham hock, which he poached precisely, ordinary green lentils (not a pulse from Puy anywhere in sight) cooked in the ham liquor and served as a winter salad, with bitter leaves picked from the garden. These prime ingredients were then dressed with a piquant emulsion based upon the pungent yellow powder from Norwich. My word was it good!

I first tasted this particularly English salad in the dining room of Gravetye Manor, near East Grinstead in leafy Sussex, the hotel that Leigh's father, Mr Peter Herbert, has proudly owned for 40 years. Peter refers to it with a twinkle as "The Pub" and it is surely one of the loveliest places on earth. The gardens, created by William Robinson in the early part of the century, are a joy to behold, and include a magnificent and huge walled garden where most of the manor's fruit and vegetables are grown. No wonder the lettuce leaves tasted so good in that salad.

So we have a traditional meat and lentil salad to do. What else can we find that is fitting to these Isles? I am almost tempted to have a go at Kitty's "Butter Bean Whip", a lovely flight of whimsy from the pen of Victoria Wood, superbly delivered by Patricia Routledge, portraying the snobby Cheshire matron. I would worry, however, that the idea might be too true to be funny, though I doubt Kitty would be seen dead buying lamb's tongues in Alderley Edge. Come to think of it, you'd probably never find a lamb's tongue in Alderley Edge; a neat crown roast, maybe, or a chicken supreme, but not a worrying piece of lamb's offal. Didsbury would probably be your best bet.

Have you ever eaten boiled lambs' tongues? I think of them in the same breath as boiled mutton and caper sauce, braised ox tongue with Madeira sauce and boiled bacon and split peas - essentially English, but casually discarded along with butcher's brawn and a real Bakewell pudding.

Now I wouldn't suggest you simply eat a bowl of boiled lambs' tongues, naked and undressed. So how about poaching them gently with vegetables and a little wine, then make a parsley, egg and caper sauce to add piquancy, and serve them up with some slippery soft butter beans? Sounds just dandy to me. I don't see any reason at all not to use a tin of butter beans here, but why not soak some dried ones overnight, and cook them ever so gently in the resultant stock from the tongues?

Poached lambs' tongues and butter beans, with parsley, egg and caper sauce, serves 4

The finest dried butter beans I have ever found are from Spain. It is the melting quality of these, together with thin and tender skins, that makes them so good to eat. Never cook soaked dried beans or lentils with salt, as this can toughen the skins somewhat. The stock for cooking the beans will be improved if you slip in a few lamb bones, but this is not essential.

250g dried butter beans

for cooking the tongues:

10-12 very fresh lambs' tongues

1 large carrot, peeled and chopped

3 sticks celery, peeled and chopped

2 small leeks, trimmed, thickly sliced and rinsed

bouquet garni, to include a healthy bunch of parsley stalks

3 cloves

1 small glass of white wine

a couple of chopped-up lamb bones (optional)

for the sauce:

1 large bunch flat-leaf parsley, leaves only

10 mint leaves

1 tbsp capers, squeezed dry to rid them of excess vinegar

1 dsp anchovy essence

3 spring onions, chopped

1 scant tbsp Dijon mustard

75ml sunflower or peanut oil

2 hard-boiled eggs, finely chopped

a little salt to taste, if necessary, but plenty of pepper

Put the beans to soak in plenty of cold water and leave overnight. Place the ingredients for cooking the tongues into a roomy, lidded pan. Cover with cold water and bring up to a simmer. Just as the liquid is about to roll, whip off the scum that has formed with a large spoon, and leave to tick over, covered, for about 1 hour. Check to see whether tongues are tender using a skewer. If not, cook for a little longer.

Lift out the tongues and put on to a plate to cool for five minutes. Peel off their skins (this must be done while they are still moderately hot, as cold tongues can be a bugger to skin), and put into a smaller pan that will just take them in one layer. Strain the stock into a bowl and rinse out the pan. Discard veg (and bones if used). Pour a little of the stock over the peeled tongues and add salt. Leave on one side.

Put the beans into a rinsed-out pan and cover with cold water. Bring up to the boil and then drain in a colander. Rinse under cold running water to rid them of clinging scum and put back into the pan. Cover with the remaining tongue stock (if there is not enough to cover them, simply top up with water). Simmer very gently until nearly tender - about 1 hour. Add salt now and continue to cook for another 15 minutes or so, until fully tender. Keep warm, and covered.

Whilst the beans are cooking, make the sauce. Put the first six ingredients into the bowl or a food processor and pulverise to a coarse paste. Add the oil, with the motor running, until emulsified. Scrape out into a bowl and stir in the eggs and seasoning. Don't be tempted to put the eggs in the processor as they will lose their texture in a trice. Also, another warning, there is a strange reaction that takes place between cooked egg and onion: they are just fine together when freshly mixed, but if left to sit for much longer than an hour or so this happy marriage will soon turn sour.

To serve, re-heat the tongues and slice in two, lengthways. Dish up 5- 6 pieces on to hot plates, pile on some of the beans, using a slotted spoon, and put some of the sauce on the side. Finally, moisten with some of the cooking liquor.

Leigh Stone-Herbert's Gravetye ham hock and lentil salad, serves 4

I have taken the liberty of interpreting Leigh's recipe here, as I am shy to ask chef friends for their very particular specialities. I have to admit, however, that we used to serve it with pride at Bibendum - only, that is, when I was sure we had it about right!

1 ham hock

1 carrot, peeled and chopped

2 sticks celery, chopped

1 onion, peeled and stuck with 3 cloves

2 bay leaves

2 sprigs of fresh tarragon

a sprinkling of peppercorns

1 small glass of white wine

5 tbsp large green lentils

3 spring onions, trimmed and finely chopped

1 clove garlic, peeled and finely chopped

1 tbsp chopped parsley

salt and pepper

for the mustard dressing:

1 tsp English mustard powder

1dsp Dijon mustard

12 tsp caster sugar

1 dsp tarragon vinegar

salt and pepper

150ml sunflower or peanut oil

3-4 bitter winter lettuces, well-trimmed of tough outer leaves

Put the hock into a pan and cover with cold water. Slowly bring to the boil and then lift out the hock with a fork and rinse under cold running water. Discard the water and put the hock back into the pan. Add the vegetables, herbs, spice and wine, and cover with the water. Bring up to a simmer, skim off any scum with a spoon and cook gently for about an hour and a quarter; the meat should be very tender and soft.

Lift out the hock and put on to a plate. Strain the cooking liquor into a bowl. Once the hock is cool enough to handle, lift off the meat in lumps, allowing a little skin and fat to fall off, too (lots, if I have anything to do with it), and place in a small pan. Cover with a little of the ham liquor and keep warm on the back of the stove, covered.

Put the lentils in another small pan and cover generously with some more of the ham liquor. Bring up to a simmer and cook until tender. Strain the lentils over the bowl of stock, and put the lentils into another bowl. Stir in the spring onions, garlic and parsley.

To make the dressing, combine the mustards, sugar, vinegar and seasonings in (yet another) small bowl. Whisk together and then start to add the oil in a thin stream, continuing to whisk, as if making mayonnaise. The end result should be fairly thick. Note: you may make this in a food processor if you prefer. Add this dressing to the lentils, loosening it, if you like, with a little of the ham liquor. The final consistency should be quite sloppy.

To serve, arrange the lettuce leaves on four lukewarm plates, distribute the pieces of ham on top and spoon over the dressed lentils. It is really a matter for you as to whether you make the dish very wet, or just moist and meaty