I Love Butter.

Butter.

Every cook ever loves butter.

Don’t they?

Nigella seems to love nothing more than lamenting about the stuff.

Julia Child loved it, and Julie Powell followed suit.

Pioneer Woman adores the stuff so much I swear her ranch must be made of it.

And yes, before you ask, butter is definitely one of my favourite things.

Mr P flinches slightly every time I make toast, convinced I will die of a heart attack halfway though.

He’s probably right.

Which is why I mostly eat cereal. Or porridge. Or fruit. Or something that doesn’t increase my chance of a heart attack.

I suppose I should also take this moment of confession to just say my mashed potato ain’t going to win a health food award.

Actually, I won’t just say that.

I’ll also say its FREAKING DELICIOUS.

The butter, you see.

Us cooks love it because it makes things taste damn good.

Which is why hollandaise sauce is one of my favourites.

It is, after all, mostly butter.

I really, honestly, genuinely say I don’t make this very often.

But sometimes I have people for brunch.

And lets just say, the people, they LOVE the butter.

Unless they are dairy intolerant, I suppose.

If you want to seriously impress your brunch guests, I suggest you give Eggs Benedict ( toasted muffin, with ham and this dreamy sauce) a shot.

They will love you forever and ever.

Amen.

First up, your ingredients: butter, eggs, white wine vinegar, bay leaves, peppercorns, a lemon, salt and pepper.

Yes, I know I said pepper twice, but I mean peppercorns and then whatever pepper you normally use to season stuff. Like pepper in a grinder.

Put the vinegar in a pan with the bay leaves and peppercorns. Not the grinder pepper.

I am very pleased that the pink kitchen has pink peppercorns.

I’m quite a simple sort.

The food police will come and beat me up for having a specific reason for using pink other than the fact they are PRETTY.

*concerned face*

Actually, stuff them, any colour will do.

Promise.

Boil the mixture until it is reduced to about 2 tablespoons.

Only about 2 tablespoons, a little more or less doesn’t matter too much.

Separate the eggs, and strain the vinegar into a bowl with the yolks.

The yolks of the eggs, that is.

Use the whites to make a pavlova or something.

Something that you slather with cream.

Might as well push this calorific treat to its limits.

Back to the sauce.

Where were we?

Oh yes.

Butter.

Melt the butter.

I am lazy and just use the same saucepan that I did the vinegar in.

This may be why I will never be Sophie Dahl, or Delia, with their multitude of saucepans that are EXACTLY THE RIGHT SIZE.

No, I use the same one.

Don’t even wash it.

Oh yes, I know how to live.

Then, trickle the butter into the eggs, whisking like you have NEVER WHISKED BEFORE.

I mean, why are you even reading this?

YOU SHOULD BE WHISKING ALREADY!

WHISK!

WHISK!

WHISK!

(N.B. labour saving devices are available to assist with this.)

Eventually, the butter will all be incorporated, and you will have a light, thick sauce to lick off your fingers, your bacon, your Eggs Benedict, your poached asparagus, your secret lover.

Give it a taste for seasoning, adding lemon juice, salt, and pepper (of the grinder variety) to push it into the sublime.

And if you are going to lick it off a person, adequate seasoning is the LEAST you can offer.

However, if you are going to be boring, and you know, serve it from a jug or something, may I suggest you heat the jug first?

God, I am SUCH a square.

Where else would you get talk of secret lovers followed by handy hints about serving a sauce?

Nowhere.

Except maybe a Caitlin Moran article, or something.

Enjoy!

Hollandaise sauce
Serves 4. Cooking time 20 minutes.

4 eggs
80ml white wine vinegar
1/2 tsp peppercorns
2 bay leaves
250g butter
Lemon juice, salt and pepper

1. Heat the vinegar in a pan with the peppercorns and bay leaves, boiling until reduced to 2 tablespoons worth.
2. Separate the eggs, keeping the whites for another recipe.
3. Place the yolks in a bowl, along with the reduced vinegar.
4. Melt the butter.
5. Slowly add the butter to the egg mixture, whisking all the while.
6. Once all the butter has been added, and the mixture is thick and glossy, season with lemon juice, salt and pepper.
7. Serve, in a warmed jug.

The Brunch bunch

This one time, in the Little Pink Kitchen, I blogged about brunch.

I love brunch, its my favourite (well, one of them). Even if I don’t waft around the kitchen, looking coy in an oversized shirt,

For one thing, I married a man a wee bit smaller than myself, so THAT ain’t going to happen.

Secondly, I never waft anywhere first thing in the morning. I mostly fall down the stairs and mutter things under my breath until the coffee is made. Nothing RUDE. Nothing even SPECIFIC. I just mutter THINGS.

Oh dear, am mad old lady. I shall end up living in a shoe and feeding pigeons, won’t I?

Hopefully not, actually, because I also like getting up and going out for brunch.

Its one of those things in life, like drinking out of a martini glass and being more specific than ‘red’ with my wine order that makes me feel like a proper grown up who lives in a proper big city where there are BARS and CLUBS and BRUNCH.

I’ve been living in the city nearly 2 years, and the novelty still hasn’t worn off.

I think it might be a little escapism on my part. Escape from the dullsville job and the mortgage payments.

Although I guess regular readers might sniff a theme with the whole ‘escapism’ thing I do.

The Merchant Hotel, where I went for my birthday, has a new jazz bar as part of its extension. They do proper Sunday Brunch, apparently, and I absolutely cannot wait for the next time I am celebrating something, because I shall demand that Mr P take me there immediately.

It’s the type of place where I can probably have BRUNCH AND A COCKTAIL AT THE SAME TIME.

Also it’s called ‘Bert’s Jazz Bar’, and Mr P can I could do our Bert and Ernie impressions ALL MORNING LONG.

*implodes with excitement*

This IS actually very exciting dear readers, because Belfast is pretty mean on the brunch front, especially on a Sunday.

And who doesn’t love Bert & Ernie? Except, perhaps, our fellow diners should we keep the charade up for any length of time.

Which is a very real and scary possibility. We are a HOOT to be around. They would want to be our friends. Instantly.

Because the glossy, shiny, fashionable types I’m sure are found at a jazz brunch LOVE the Bert and Ernie. Yup.

Until the great morning comes where I shall bother to shower before brunch, where I shall get dressed up and have cocktails and brunch at the same time, I shall probably keep going to our local brunch joint because it is marvellous and I love it.

Bennetts on Belmont have cheerfully being serving Mr P and I various types of egg creations since we bought our house, and it is a mere stroll away.

They don’t even seem to mind that I barely brush my teeth, let alone my hair.

Pretentious food types might be a bit sniffy about the lack of authenticity; eggs Benedict are served with smoked salmon and on a bagel, french toast is made using baguette, but everything is really delicious.

And aforementioned pretentious types should probably get their heads out of their London-based bottoms, because Belfast, much as I adore the place, doesn’t offer much in the way of decent brunch. It’s either an Ulster fry or the occasional American place doing pancakes badly, and I do good pancakes myself, so why would I bother? I also suspect that most cities around the UK are the same.

Bennetts do a really very good job of offering the perfect, if slight irreverent, antidote to this, doing a simple menu really well. A full Ulster fry, smoked fish with poached eggs, roast mushrooms and tomato, porridge the lot. And the inauthentic eggs Benedict are very, very tasty, I’ll have you know.

Attention to detail is beyond what the budget should allow; if you order something that comes with leaves, you get a decent amount of salad, that has been dressed before it reaches the plate, rather than a single leaf of limp lettuce with a drizzle of some old salad cream on or something. Or COLESLAW *shudder*

The coffee flows freely, the papers are to hand (even if, like me, you only really read the Style and food supplements. Oops.), and the waiting staff are really rather perky given the fact they are working on a Sunday morning.

Bennetts, the city brunch option for those of us who can’t cope with more than yoga pants on a Sunday morning. Which I reckon is a LOT of people.

Bennetts on Belmont
4 Belmont Road
Belfast BT4 2AN
028 9065 6590
Brunch served until 2pm on Sundays

A not-so-romantic brunch

If I were a proper lifestyle food writer type, one with swishy hair and perfect eyeliner and a pink smeg, I would be dedicating this post to lurrrrrrveeeeeeers everywhere. Because we all know, in food writer land, the only way to cook pancakes is to prepare them for that man in your life, smiling coyly in a see-through nightie while a persian cat sits decoratively at your feet.

Unfortunately, I cook these pancakes as a hangover cure, where the only eyeliner available is last nights, the nightie probably has egg on and the cat is farting on the sofa. Still, even in this state cooking some bacon on the side, and brewing some coffee, means slowly, the world returns to right. EVERYBODY knows bacon and coffee cure EVERYTHING (except the farting cat).

And while I may not balance my wares on a decorative tray to totter upstairs to our floaty white bed of dreams, pancakes will ALWAYS buy me Mr. P’s love, even with if I have egg on my nightie. So there.

Take the ingredients Line ‘em up. Self-raising flour, eggs, butter, milk, caster sugar.

Put the flour and sugar into a bowl. Rue the harsh morning sunlight ruining photos. Realise you are too lazy to do anything about it.

Separate the egg. Realise this is a very hard thing to take pictures of.

Throw the yolks in with your dry ingredients. Realise there is a bit of white in there too. Realise that white is in bowl, and not, for example, on nightie. Or 5D for that matter. Celebrate.

Add milk to the bowl with the dry, yolk-y mix. Consider processing photos light is so bad. Realise you are too lazy. Move on.

Beat the eggs whites, until stiff peaks form. Chortle at how rude they look (and sound). Attempt non-rude picture, realise is not going to happen. Move on.

Fold egg whites into the mixture…

…until nice and combined.

Then, melt a lump of butter in a frying pan. Realise artificial light makes for a warmer looking picture. Smile.

Then, stir the butter into your pancake mix, sitting in its harsh spring light.

Fry spoonfuls of the mix until bubble form on one side….

Before flipping over. You can make the pancakes as big or as little as you want, but tablespoon blobs of mixture works best for me. Also, it usually takes me one or two test pancakes at the start to get them to brown evenly. This suits me fine, because it gives me something to gnaw on in my hungover state while I contemplate quite how much wine was consumed the night before. Too much is usually the answer, just in case you were wondering.

Put the finished cakes onto a heated plate, and serve immediately, with bacon and maple syrup.

Pancakes
Serves 3-4, depending on size of hangover. Cooking time about 20 minutes.

300g self-raising flour
100g sugar
2 eggs
200ml milk
1 tsp butter

1. Place the flour and sugar in a bowl.
2. Separate the eggs and add the yolks to the flour mix along with the milk. Stir well.
3. Whisk the egg whites until stiff peaks form, and fold into the mixture.
4. Melt the butter in a frying pan over a medium heat. Coat the bottom of the pan, then stir remaining butter into batter mix.
5. Fry spoonfuls of batter for 2-4 minutes until bubble form on the surface, before flipping and cooking for a further 2-3 minutes.
6. Transfer to a warm plate and serve.