I was at a loose end in east Cork recently, so I gave my friend Ivan a call and got the much coveted invitation for lunch in the Pink House in Shanagarry. The Midleton farmers’ market was on, and it’s the perfect place to pick up a few bits, so I didn’t arrive empty-handed. It was like being on holidays.
Regular readers might remember a lunch I wrote about from almost two years ago where he cooked a whole turbot for us. It was a perfect day. That time I stayed over, this time I was on Dad duty, so I could have all the food but none of the wine. I was a little bit sad but nevertheless I was still steeped in luck to be there; he’s a great cook.
This time, he pan fried the perkiest fillets of red mullet that he got that morning from Pat O’Connell in the English Market. They sat ruddy and crisp in the buttery pan. Their unique sweet iodine aroma laced the air. It’s not often I get to eat this precious fish, especially when it’s cooked for me.
There were new spuds, freshly dug and scrubbed, from the Ballymaloe gardens. They are best boiled with plenty of salt, not steamed, according to Sinead the chef and owner of the brilliant Crawford Gallery cafe. Nasturtium leaves and flowers were gently chopped, then added to melted butter and spooned over to nestle in those craggy spuddy crevices. It was one of the prettiest things I’ve ever seen, in or out of a kitchen. Nasty butter he had christened it, it was no such thing.
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There was also a brave unconventional hollandaise, for which more butter was stirred into bulging luminous egg yolks, over direct heat. They nearly scrambled, but he added cold water and saved it, nerves jangled, pots were banged but soon a hungry calm returned. Asparagus was steamed with water, black pepper and more butter, then we sat out in the bucolic garden. There was gentle chiding about our different techniques, all of us cooks and inveterate food lovers who understood the rarity of perfect simplicity.
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