Bay-Spiked Pears with Shallots and Lemon
Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall
LATIN NAME
Laurus nobilis
SEASONALITY
All year round
MORE RECIPES
Braised white beans with greens; Potted carp; Lemon-cured herring; Roast guinea fowl with onions and sage breadcrumbs; Braised rabbit with turnips; Salt beef with carrots and potatoes; Quince in star anise and honey syrup; Bay syllabub
The idea of running out of bay leaves sends a shiver down my spine. I am well insured against such a prospect, since I have bay trees flourishing both at home and in the River Cottage garden, but still the thought slinks up on me every now and again, to give me the culinary creeps. The antidote is to grab a leaf whenever I pass, and have a quick scrunch-and-sniff hit of aromatherapy. It perks me up every time.
In my book, bay is the undisputed king of herbs. I use it almost every day: tucking a few leaves into the cavity of a bird or fish before roasting; stirring them into a slow-simmered stew; infusing them in milk for a white sauce or even a sweet custard. All these dishes, made without bay, would still be perfectly serviceable, but this perfumed leaf makes them sing.
With its intense, woody, citrus aromatics, caught pleasingly between the herb world and the spice world, bay has the power to deepen flavour, to round out a dish, seasoning it subtly yet significantly. It’s the kind of ingredient that turns a plate of food from something workmanlike into something memorable, a way to almost effortlessly ratchet up the deliciousness factor a couple of notches.
Bay’s heady perfume has long been seen as mysterious and magical. It was once used as a strewing herb to purify the air in medieval and Tudor homes. And Nicholas Culpeper wrote in his herbal of 1653 that bay, ‘resisteth witchcraft very potently… neither witch nor devil, thunder nor lightning, will hurt a man in the place where a bay-tree is.’ It’s not hard to see how the bay’s lovely scent could have been invested with such powers. I am so fond of this leaf that my younger daughter Louisa’s middle name is Bay – as she gets older, she may be grateful that my favourite herb wasn’t basil or borage.
Were you to pop a bay leaf into your mouth and chew it, the experience would not be pleasant. Sharing flavour compounds with both eucalyptus and cloves, bay in its neat form is bitter and harsh. But if you put the leaves next to, inside or underneath the thing you want to eat, soak them in hot liquid, infuse them in salt, oil or fat, even set fire to them, then you’re talking.
My personal passion for it aside, bay is probably the single most versatile – and therefore most useful – culinary herb of all. It is an essential ingredient in a classic bouquet garni, along with thyme and parsley. It goes into every stock I make, whether meat-, fish- or veg-based, and most of my soups and stews too. You can even add it to the water for boiling potatoes. Tomato sauces always benefit from a leaf or two, as do tagines and curries – Indian cooks often crackle a few bay leaves in hot oil with spices such as mustard or cardamom at the very outset of cooking.
Bay is a great pickling spice too, and also lifts and perfumes beans and lentils as they cook. I always add bay to the milk when making a béchamel sauce. I stuff bay leaves into and under joints of meat before roasting and I love to cook them with fish. Mackerel fillets fried with bay and garlic are a favourite of mine: where the bay has contact with the fish skin and gets slightly charred, it creates an amazing, smoky-sweet flavour. This comes out, too, when you thread bay on to skewers between cubes of lamb and vegetables for cooking on a barbecue – or just strew some dampened leaves over the hot coals to imbue your food with its delicious smoke.
Bay also works beautifully in sweet recipes, where it can be infused in a hot liquid such as cream, milk or wine to add an intoxicating, fragrant thread of flavour. Try it in rice puddings, ice creams and syrups – particularly if they are to be served with fruit. Bay is especially delicious with apples and pears.
Dried bay used to be the norm in this country – the fragile leaves dropped into a simmering bolognese or bourguignon – but this leaf is even better used fresh. You can now buy packs of leaves in the fresh herb sections of some supermarkets (they may be British but are more likely to be from Spain, Israel or another hot country) but quality is patchy. It’s not until you get the packet home, tear a leaf in half and inhale its scent that you’ll get a good idea of how perfumed that particular batch is. Still, a couple of mild leaves is better than no bay at all.
The ideal, however, is to grow your own. There is something wonderful about being able to pick the leaves whenever you need them. Native to the eastern Mediterranean, bay trees have spread throughout southern Europe and grow quite well in less balmy northern climates such as ours. They need shelter, warmth and free-draining soil. A young bay tree can be finished off by a few serious frosts or too much rain, which is why it’s a good idea to start them off in a pot. Once established, however, bay can grow into a majestic tree up to about 9 metres tall – though you can keep it pruned back as a smaller, attractive evergreen bush in a herb or flowerbed.
Having a tree to hand, whether potted or planted, will encourage you to use the herb often – and in quantity. And that is a boon. Because whenever a recipe calls for a bay leaf, I would use two… or three, or more. No cook should ever be without them.
BAY-SPIKED PEARS WITH SHALLOTS AND LEMON
The sweetness and silky texture of these aromatic pears makes them a superb foil to rich meats. Try them with roast partridge, venison or pork. Alternatively, make them part of a warm salad with some bitter leaves such as chicory, crumbled blue cheese and any juices from the pan trickled over. Serves 6 as a side dish
6 large, medium-ripe pears
24 bay leaves
4 small (or 3 large) shallots, thinly sliced
Finely pared zest of 1 small lemon
1 tbsp olive or rapeseed oil
A large knob of butter
A pinch of dried chilli flakes (optional)
Sea salt and black pepper
Preheat the oven to 180°C/Fan 160°C/Gas 4.
Peel the pears, then quarter them and remove the cores. Make a slit down the centre of the curved ‘back’ of each piece of pear and insert a bay leaf.
Place all the bay-spiked pears in a roasting tray. Scatter over the shallots and lemon zest, and trickle over the oil. Dot the butter around the pears and, if using, add a pinch of chilli flakes. Season well with salt and pepper.
Roast in the oven for 20–30 minutes or until the pears are tender, turning them once or twice with a spatula. Serve warm.