IThey call this column “Turkey, Revisited”, after “Toads, Revisited” by Philip Larkin, a poet who is definitely not a pumpkin (“I was interested in buying food in London, so today it’s a poached egg; macaroni & striped spinach”). Some years ago, you see, in one of these columns I wrote a bird of disgust, a piece that sometimes reverberates in the form of news readers. Riffing on a great American food writer Jeffrey Steingartenwho once tried a legendary turkey recipe whose weight has 32 ingredients, the piece in question outlined my adventures when I mortgaged Kelly Bronze to buy my house: the baroque trumpets that entered the kitchen; space treatments are directed to the skin; a very fine cashmere tea towel that covered it before carving. It is also concluded that, in all of the above, I have wasted all my time. The result was … about 3kg of OK.
So why should I return to the matter? No, I did not see the light. In fact, my aversion has become almost complete boredom. In part, this has to do with my nature. I seem to have made up my mind about Turkey in the same way that I made up my mind about Nadine Dorries and Jacob Rees-Mogge (this lady is not to turn, unless we are talking with a nice real piece of pork or lamb in it). I also think that he has grown more green in years, and the turkey is almost inevitably wasted, although he dutifully reads many recipes for surviving korma.
But there is also something else. My antipathy is growing more and more with the way Turkey is financially strapped, once good and simple food now seems only accepted in certain circles if it’s ordered in late August in a golden Amex from a guy who drives a hybrid Range Rover. Ugh, that word: PreM. To me, it’s notable for the long-standing disconnect between food production and consumption in this country. Wouldn’t it be better if all fowls moderately good or very cheaply bred, and only a few in poultry like the chief of Eton?
The other day I read in the newspaper “Britain’s most expensive turkey”, a bird that can be bought from a stall in Holland Park, west London, where all the great houses look, fittingly enough, just like Christmas cakes. Hefty one customer seems to be paying more than £360, a price tag that is justified by a diet of nettles, wild brambles and fresh oats, and a great outdoor life (see bullet, not camp), both of which make it “the best”. flavor and texture. Such talk is, of course, very infectious. At the market of choice, the model is as flattering as the prices are high, where even if your head tells you that no one will ever taste the difference, your heart begins to beat violently, the thought plucked from Mr. Arente. in your virtual basket. He cannot be resisted. Your skin will be tight and stiff.
Good food is more expensive than bad food, but there is no reason why it should only be for the rich – and so I return to a decade old argument. Turkey, even if you listen to Michael Bublé all your life, sing carols while munching on lychees, is downright underwhelming: not even half as beautiful as chicken or duck or pheasant (I’m never a goose, but hey, it’s got its own fan). Why not cook one of these and cook yourself as a boot? You can still have everything decent, and potatoes, parsnips and red cabbage are quite difficult to mark down price-wise, although some try (Fortnum & Mason sells the most delicious vegetable marzipan, but I probably wouldn’t go looking for the carrot itself).
The key to culinary success on Christmas Day lies, I believe, in a good and plentiful sauce and bread, and in your eyes the roast, taking better care to reach – OK, I will say it – the best crunchiness. What you certainly do not want to end is Larkin, who wrote his memorable figs soon after: “My powers have put themselves out, as something to the sense.”