I shall never forget a children’s story I was told when I was little:
Once upon a time there was a dear old lady who lived in a chocolate box cottage at the end of a leafy lane. Her garden was a riot of beautiful flowers and shrubs, which she tended and cosseted with love and care from dawn till dusk.
At the end of each day, after her chores, she would trip down to the bottom of the garden for a natter with the fairies and pixies who, quite naturally, lived there. They loved the old lady and all the flowers that she grew in her garden, for it was their playground.
Time passed and, as is the way of things, the old lady died and some horrid city folk moved in to her lovely cottage. They didn’t want flowers in their garden, they wanted to fill it full of vegetables. So, out came the nasturtiums, the lupins, cornflowers, and roses. No more hollyhocks, lavender, Canterbury bells (the fairies use them for hats, you know), or forget-me-nots. In their place went cabbages, carrots and sprouts, rutabagas, potatoes, and horrible old turnips, together with row upon row of parsley. And this particular parsley grew and grew in huge bunches all over the place.
Well, as you can imagine, the fairies and pixies were none too pleased about this, so they decided one night to cause a little mischief. There was a full moon and plenty of light and one by one they scampered up and down the rows of parsley, pinching it as they went with their spindly little fingers, over and over and over again, until they could pinch no more.
And that, dear reader, is how we come to have curly parsley.
The flat-leaf variety of parsley is infinitely finer and has much more flavor than the “pinched” stuff. The problem is, though, that few people realize just how much of it is needed. For example, white sauce with a few flecks of green floating in it is not parsley sauce. For a small panful, I would use a whole bunch (see Salmon, here). A wonderful soup can be made from it, requiring many more bunches, and is one of the nicest soups I know. Parsley stuffings are delicious, too. For instance, little forcemeat balls, dense with parsley and chopped lemon rind, are a wonderful partner to braised rabbit or a potted hare.
I’ve even used parsley as a vegetable. Gently stewed in a little butter for a few moments with a sliver or two of garlic, it is very good with grilled chicken. For this, however, you do have to use the curly variety, as, irritatingly, the flat type sticks to the sides of the pan and doesn’t absorb the butter well. You need the curly type of parsley if you want to deep-fry it, too. I adore deep-fried parsley. It is simplicity itself to prepare. Just drop some well-dried sprigs into hot fat for a few seconds. (One of those electric deep-fryers with a basket is ideal.) Lift the parsley out, drain it on paper towels, and sprinkle with salt. It’s a shame you don’t see it used as much as you used to, accompanying old favorites such as fresh whitebait and goujons of sole. Surely dull dishes without their hive of deep-fried parsley?
This purée is fabulous with fish. It puts one in mind of a really good fish pie, fish cakes, and, of course, any poached fish with parsley sauce. Essentially, this recipe turns simple mashed potatoes into something quite special. It is very appealing to look at and its taste is so good that you could almost eat it on its own (I have).
2 lb potatoes, peeled and cut into large chunks
salt and pepper
2 bunches of flat-leaf parsley, leaves only
½ cup butter
½ cup milk
½ cup heavy cream
½ garlic clove, peeled and crushed
Cook the potatoes in boiling salted water until tender. Drain, mash, and keep warm in a covered stainless steel or enameled pan.
In another pan of fiercely boiling water, blanch the parsley leaves, refresh in cold water, drain, and reserve. Heat together the butter, milk, cream, garlic, and seasoning. Pour into a blender with the parsley, and blend together while still hot. (It is important that the liquids are hot; cool dairy produce when agitated has a tendency to separate.) Add this parsley purée to the warm potato and whisk together thoroughly.
My friend Gay Bilson serves this as an appetizer at her restaurant, Berowra Waters Inn, in Sydney, Australia. It is one of the best things I have ever eaten. All at once it is refreshing, sour, and salty—everything that you could need to sharpen the appetite. The little biscuits that go with it are perfection.
There is enough for twenty-five people in this recipe, but only enough to serve as a small taster, which, at the restaurant, is served along with a complimentary glass of Bollinzer. So, for a first course at home, halve the recipe, but it is so good as an appetizer with drinks, I would always use it for that.
4 oz finest quality fleshy, black olives (Gay suggests Ligurian)
4 oz flat-leaf parsley leaves, coarsely chopped
4 oz red onion, peeled and finely chopped
2 oz Italian salted capers, rinsed
2 large garlic cloves, peeled and finely chopped
20 large anchovy fillets (preferably pink Spanish anchovies)
grated rind of 2 lemons
black pepper
½ cup olive oil
lemon juice, to taste
thin slivers of Parmesan cheese
2 cups bread flour
1 tsp salt
½ tsp cayenne
½ tsp baking powder
½ cup water
1 tsp soft butter
For the salad, coarsely chop the black olives and mix together with the parsley, onion, capers, and garlic. Chop the anchovies into small pieces, mix with the lemon rind, plenty of black pepper, and olive oil, and mix into the other ingredients. Add lemon juice to taste, spoon onto a flat dish, and finish with thin slivers of Parmesan.
To make the biscuits, put all the ingredients, apart from the water and the butter, into a food processor. Heat the water and butter together and pour into the machine with the motor running, until it forms a ball. Leave the mixture to rest for 30 minutes. Using a pasta machine, roll the pastry out on the thinnest setting (usually 7) and cut into manageable lengths. Cut into 2-inch-wide rectangles and deep-fry at a temperature of 360°F until puffed up like poppadoms. Drain on paper towels and serve with the salad.
When Lindsey Bareham was compiling her soup book (A Celebration of Soup), she was also reviewing restaurants for the Sunday Telegraph. I was lucky enough to be invited along as her companion on several occasions, and this often involved some long train journeys.
Soup recipes, more than any other, come easily to me and it was a happy collaboration whilst thundering up and down the English countryside. This parsley soup’s destination was Exeter—en route for Gidleigh Park and The Carved Angel in Dartmouth—and now, having given her this recipe, I am having it back for my book. And ironically, as it’s turned out, written with her assistance.
2 large leeks, white parts only, sliced
2 big bunches of flat-leaf parsley, stalks and leaves separated, stalks chopped
1 large potato, peeled and chopped
2½ cups light chicken stock
salt and pepper
½ cup heavy cream
Melt the butter in a stainless steel or enameled saucepan and sweat the leeks and all the parsley stalks gently, uncovered, for 20 minutes. Add the potato, chicken stock, and salt and pepper, and simmer for a further 20 minutes.
Coarsely chop the leaves of one bunch of parsley and add to the soup. Simmer for 2 minutes. Meanwhile, blanch the leaves of the other bunch of parsley in fiercely boiling water for 30 seconds. Drain and refresh immediately under cold running water, then gently squeeze dry in a tea towel.
Blend the soup with the blanched parsley to make a vivid green purée. Pass through a fine sieve into a clean pan, add the cream, reheat, and adjust the seasoning.