A Veggie Mighty Sandwich

Everybody loves a Birthday Cake, don't they? I think we all secretly hope that someone will bake that 'certain cake' that is our very favourite for our special day, but even when it turns out to be chocolate instead of sponge, we are still thrilled. Even when no-one has baked for us, we are often overly overjoyed to bake our own, or pop to the shops and get an off-the-shelf sickly sweet one to share and say to everyone 'ta-dah, it's my birthday!' But what about those 'tiresome menfolk' that Fanny mentions, you know the type. They say that they aren't bothered about cake, and even worse they mean it. What on earth do you make to celebrate their special day?

Fanny, as ever, has the solution. She never does say, but I imagine that dear old Johnnie is the annoying man in question here, who, bizarrely but absolutely does not like cake. Well, a sweet cake at any rate. Fanny reckons that a savoury version is the way forward - namely her Savoury Gateau, which she translates into French as Gâteaux Savoureux, just to avoid any confusion. What man could resist a multi-layered, many flavoured, varicoloured, erm, sandwich disguised as a sweet celebration.

Fanny starts with a humble loaf. Her preference is a cottage style one, or a specially baked brioche. That seems like a lot of bother to go to for an unappreciative bloke, so I make do with a hipster faux-sourdough from the supermarket. It looks like a brick, but with Fanny's advice it's soon trimmed down to fit neatly into a 6-inch cake tin. Off-cuts are blitzed to breadcrumbs and frozen, nothing goes to waste. Fanny practically insists that I slice it 'parallel to the table' into a bare minimum of five slices. She also insists I cut paper-thin slices with ease, and without a serrated-edged 'euphemism' of a bread knife. I need to go to work with a perfectly ordinary, well-sharpened. smooth-edged French knife, seemingly.

I like my bread knife, but Fanny says I must throw it away. Don't tell her, but I can't bear to. I am already paying the price however, as I only manage the cut the loaf into four parallel slices. I am ashamed. It's too late for me to test out if a French knife would've been more successful, but if you try it, let me know. I do take Fanny's advice on slicing technique though - she again insists that I do not grip the loaf while I slice it for fear that it will develop a 'pressed-in waistline' producing the most peculiar-shaped slices. Thank goodness I've done something right. Fanny is only trying to make sure I obtain first-class results with the easiest of methods after all.

Fanny stuffs the layers with all sorts of fillings - fish, if we feel like ringing in the changes; cream cheese if we feel like playing it safe. Either way, each layer should be different, with the addition of other cheeses, eggs, cream, nuts and the all important food colouring to make the biggest impact. Oh dear, Fanny will not be pleased, again, as I opt for colourful beetroots and avocados to obtain the same pink and green layers she does. No artificial colours, this time. I use a mix of quark and cream cheese, whizzing them up in a food processor to make a mousse with my chosen accompaniments. Another layer is just a mix of cheeses. Layers of bread and filling are alternated back into the tin, then the finished cake, once chilled, is 'iced' with mayonnaise and left over filling, before being decorated with piped filing and walnuts. What tiresome man wouldn't be delighted with this, served with a sherry or a beer. I think in future I will opt for both sweet and savoury!

Uh-huh, Fanny's All Fried Up

If you thought perhaps that none other than the King himself, Elvis, invented the artery-clogging deep-fried sandwich, then you'll have to think again. It may be his hefty, burning, burning hunks of love - those deep-fried Peanut Butter and Banana favourites that he enjoyed before he left the building permanently that sticks in everyones suspicious minds, but their history seems to go way down back in time. According to Fanny, it was another kind of 'royalty' altogether, and possibly not who you'd be expecting. I won't be cruel, but the hot-headed woman in question, was Fanny's mother-with-the-wooden-heart, Bijou.

So the story goes, Fanny's mother was arranging another wedding (presumably this happened a great deal) at their humble house for an orphaned member of the family. Fanny was the Bridesmaid. Her mother and the cook were at logger-heads about the buffet, even though her mother had trained this 'country born cook' she appeared to have quite different ideas for catering. The cook insisted that Fanny's mothers plan would not contain enough food for the guests. Her mother was adamant it would. Rage ensued, until strangely Fanny's mother, not normally one to surrender, 'gave in' and trays of sandwiches were made...

Needless to say, a vast amount of disconsolate, curl-edged caviar sandwiches remained after the last guest had left. However, instead of crying in the chapel, Fanny's mother suggested to the crestfallen country cook 'it's now or never' so whip up a thinnish fritter batter, pass each sandwich through it, drop them into hot smoking fat to fry them, and serve them with a lemon sauce. Delicious. There we go, no wastage. Although, quite who they were being served to we will never know, presumably the 'household' the next day? That'll teach 'em.

Fanny of course is not suggesting that we must use caviar sandwiches here, any old residue from a mixed package will do. For example, Fanny herself made up sandwiches for one of the assistants who was out all day driving, but when they returned so did the sandwiches, untouched. Apparently during this long day of driving, he went into a pub for a glass of beer and happened to run into a friend who invited him for luncheon, so the sandwiches remained uneaten. Perhaps if a little less conversation had occurred, and a little more munching these sandwiches would not have been returned to sender. Fanny made Dianne and Sally cut them into small triangles and fry them up, just as Fanny's mother had for his latest flame.

I haven't catered for a wedding, or bumped into friends randomly in the pub, so I am lacking in a tray of curled-up sandwiches. So, supermarket versions will have to suffice. Fanny's batter is delightful. Whisk up an egg yolk, add the juice of a lemon, seasoning, melted butter and then some flour. Whisk up the egg white separately and fold it in for a thinnish and very light and airy batter. I cut my Cheese and Onion and slightly more upmarket Brie and Grape efforts into small triangles and fry until golden. They look smashing. I can't help falling in love with the Cheese and Onion ones. The Brie and Grape were perhaps a poor choice, who wants deep-fried lettuce? Fanny says that her mothers deep-fried sandwiches are like a 17th Century recipe for a cure for corns, which promised that they would 'swiftlie vanyshe'. It may not be the most appetising note to end on, but she was right. They are little devils in disguise, oh yes they are.

Which Witches 'Wich

Fanny Cradock really was one of a kind. A unique kind of cookery writer, her books and recipes are certainly not like those by anyone else. Ever. Let's test it out. Take a wander over to your bookshelf. Stare hard at your collection. Let your eyes gaze over the titles and think deeply about the recipes contained within. Concentrate. Can you recall any of the books containing recipes that you would 'only serve to your most detested female enemy in moments of extreme rage'? Recipes that were supposedly the 'most horrific' in the world? Let me know if I'm wrong, but I reckon it's only in one of Fanny's volumes that you'll find just that.

In this fairly unique start, even for Fanny, to part 32 looking at Sweet and Savoury Sandwiches, the focus is first of all upon Danish Open Sandwiches. After all, Fanny says, the Danes have some of the best pastry cooks in the world, have Sandwich Houses and apparently the sandwich servers wear leather aprons. What's not to like? The sandwich selection is enormous, around five hundred different possibilities, all offered 'by the yard'. So naturally you'd choose one that that you absolutely one hundred percent detested, served only to those who disgust you even more, to showcase here.

Fanny chooses Danish Open Sandwiches to 'widen our basic arc of thinking' when we consider sandwiches. At the lowest possible sandwich level is the national loaf, sold frequently from the deep freeze, wrapped up in the modern equivalent of mackintosh knickers and pre-sliced. Always tasting like inner soles. Fanny isn't a fan. It is possible to progress though, Fanny recommends French bread, rye bread, black bread, brioches and pumpernickel. Even diet 'biscuits', but not Ryvita. They taste like minced straw mattresses apparently. We'll perhaps have to take Fannys word for that one.

Fanny's final slimming tip is to make your sandwiches with a Cambridge Loaf, which has enabled Fanny to maintain her waistline at the same measurement that it was 20 years previously, even after becoming a mother and grandmother. Allegedly. If you make any 'off' comments about Fanny's waistline, then beware, it will be this sandwich that is served to you. Fanny calls it a Jansen's Temptation, but when I google that it seems to be a Swedish casserole of potato and onions. Fanny won't have mixed up her Nordic countries by any chance and surely knows her smørrebrød from her smörgåsbord?

She lets us know that Danish people themselves do not think sandwiches are even worth eating unless they contain the same amount of butter as bread, so bang goes the diet. This particular horror is topped with another thick layer of blue cheese. It should be Danish of course. And then smothered with raspberry jam. I can think of many, many worse things to spread on a slice of bread to serve to my most hated enemy, female or not, in moments of extreme rage, than butter, some lovely blue cheese and fruity jam. Fanny never divulges just who that nasty woman was, or what she did to upset her so. She does nonetheless suggest serving the sandwich with a spicy snifter of spirited Snaps in an attempt to salvage the situation. My only wish is that Fanny had produced a whole cookbook stuffed with recipes for people you despise. Meanwhile, Skål.

If The Horse-Choux Fits

Fanny is still chatting on about weddings. There doesn't seem to be a wedding any time soon, or even anyone on the verge of an announcement, but more she is just 'putting it out there' that if there were to be such a celebration, she'd be as eager as a beaver to get that buffet bulging. She has so many ideas for the ideal wedding reception buffet, but don't worry if all you are planning is a simple garden party, or indeed any outdoor or indoor warm weather reception, these ideas are still for you. If you've been following Fanny with me for a while, you'll probably be able to guess what her ideal buffet ideas are...

Everything revolves around Choux Paste. It's so versatile that almost all of your wedding/garden party/outdoor/indoor/warm weather party canapés can be made with it. All the others can be vol-au-vents. Perfect. Easy. Tasty. Fanny suggests 'basic' choux made with water, also a 'basic' sweet choux made with milk, a 'basic' orange choux and a 'basic' coffee choux paste. They are all essentially the same 'basic' recipe using different liquids, but are sure to impress your 'basic' guests. And that's even before they are decorated and filled. I've made choux before with Fanny, so my eyes are drawn immediately to her 'basic' savoury option, made basically with Cheese.

Fanny starts by melting butter gently in milk, only allowing it to come up to the boil once the butter has completely dissolved. She quickly tosses in some flour and lets the mixture 'seethe up as usual' around the flour. Remove immediately from the heat, season, add cheese and beat, beat, beat like your life depends upon it. Stretch yourself, Fanny says, over the beating until you are 'practically fed-up' for airy puffy choux. The mixture should be entirely smooth and come clear of the pan. Sally is on hand with a pic-strip guide to show you what it should look like, which of course I have followed and recreated. Fanny then beats in three eggs, one at time. The first one will turn the mixture into globules which will look throughly depressing, but carry on. If you pay no heed and go on beating the mixture will become perfectly smooth again. Once it is, beat in the next egg, and so on. She is right.

Then comes the most important part. Fanny absolutely and without any discussion or debate, insists that this is followed to the letter. Cover the mixture with a plate and leave it at ordinary room temperature until it is absolutely cold. Do NOT pop it into the fridge, you will be sorry. And, if you use it while it is hot, not only are you completely off your rocker, but you will 'descend to the depths of culinary shame', because, when the mixture is baked, no matter what shape you choose, it will have horrible goo in the centre which you will need to scrape out with a teaspoon. Say no to goo, say no to shame and do as Fanny says, ok?

When it is stone cold, piping can begin. In a variety of shapes, naturally. Sally has a glass of cold water to hand to dip a knife into it to 'snip' the end of the piping off neatly. For eclairs, long strips. For buns, pipe vertically and push down before lobbing off the end. For weddings, Fanny says horseshoe shapes. She makes no shoe/choux jokes. This is serious business. Whatever you choose, (I'm fighting the desire to say 'choux-se') a hot oven is required until golden brown. Mine emerge a little dark, but smelling great. And no goo. Yippee! Fanny whips up some blue cheese and piping it on for decoration. Mix it with a little splash of port for easy piping. She insists on using the best possible port which you can 'steal from your husband'. This doesn't seem like the best start to married life to me, but who am I to argue with Fanny? Especially when these are so good. After all, there is no wedding here. No party of any kind - just me a a table full of very quickly disappearing savoury delicious choux.

A Whack of Leather - Our Third Fanny-versary!

Three really is a magic number, but sometimes it feels a little overlooked. I mean everyone likes a 'first' don't they? Nothing better. The Winner! The Original! The Pioneer! Second feels like a real achievement, having kept going and 'done it again', still pretty good compared to first. Third though, it's a bit like, okay, that's great. A kind of 'well done' but also a 'what's for tea' kind of celebration really. So, it may just be me, but today I am shouting it loud and cheering (for myself) as Fanny and I celebrate a terrific three years together. Aw. That's 'leather' in anniversary terms... Oh. Best move on.

Three years! You may not have been reading along from the very beginning (erm, but now I think of it, what not?), but that's a lot of weird and whacky recipes, a lot food colouring and a lot of mentions of poor, down-trodden assistants getting into hot water for not following instructions. That's probably where the leather comes in - a quick whack with a belt? It's also three years of learning new techniques, uncovering new flavour combinations and generally having a real laugh. Every day. That's not bad going is it? With Fanny watching over me. Every day. I don't think I've done anything deserving of a good belting. Yet.

I must distract Fanny's mind from leather. Fortunately Fanny has just the thing in mind for 'our' celebration - a three tired cake. Okay, so she's got her celebrations a little mixed up, but it's the thought that counts isn't it? She remembered! Her idea is to make a three tiered wedding cake, perfect for a June bride. She did love a good wedding, whether in June or not. She even had a fake one or two along the way, often more than one at the same time, and never really much clarity on who was married to whom, but we're not being judge-y today of all days, it's a day to celebrate.

Fanny suggests her tried and tested Christmas Cake (is it too early to mention?) for the three tiered triumph. We've made it before, together of course, but never in triplicate. Fanny informs us that the base layer is to be cut and eaten on the wedding day. The second layer should be stored away to celebrate the First Anniversary, or if we are more ambitious, and have blooming good storage, the Silver Wedding Anniversary. The Third and final tier is intended to celebrate the birth of the first child. I fear that Fanny may be waiting quite some time for that particular celebration. Maybe a sacrificial leathering is the best option after all.

So, it's a spicy, fruity, slightly boozy cake fest in June. Once all three cakes are mixed up and baked, Fanny urges us to move swiftly onto the decoration. Almond Paste followed by Royal Icing is essential as a starting point. She advises that it is best to practice decoration on an entirely irrelevant cake that you just happen to have lying around. This is what she makes Johnnie do. Poor Johnnie, it keeps him occupied. He decorates the bottom layer with stars. I, on the other hand, do not have any irrelevant cakes, or indeed any that hang about too long, but I am always applying the knowledge that wise old Fanny gives me. So I know cakes should be blue. Mix the two together and surely this is the ultimate Third Fanny-versary cake? The big question is, will we still be together for the next five years of Fanny Fun required to compete the Cookery Programme? Our next Fanny-versary is the much more suitable Fruit and Flowers, so don't be scared...

A Mille Feuille Love Songs Later

Now that we've mastered our own puff paste, Fanny thinks we are ready to move on speedily to the Classics. Well, the kind of Fanny version of the classics that we have become accustomed to, and in many ways expect to see. Fanny has, with only our very best interests at heart, worked out a way that we can make the Classic Mille Feuille - which is traditionally difficult to make really well - easily and quite quickly. Fanny has scoffed her way around a fair few cream puffs in her quest to find the best, and frankly some of the soggy objects she has been offered were not fit for her, or us. Her version will be the only one to do.

If you haven't made Fannys homemade puff paste, she does say that you can buy some in the shops. It really was more straightforward than expected though. Either way it should be rolled out very thinly, to an extremely mean quarter of an inch. Fanny uses a 'proper' Mille Feuille metal frame to measure and cut - inside the frame please - out the required shapes of pastry. They are then cooked inside the frame to ensure that they remain the correct size. I don't have a frame. I decide to go a bit more free-form, cutting neatly measured rectangles using a pizza cutter. I've been watching the Bake Off Crème de la Crème you see. Fanny may not be pleased, but Cherish the ruler regulator might be.

The only trouble with precision measuring and cutting is that my pastry rolling skills are not precise. So I end up with a lot of off-cuts. In her crusade to enlighten me to the proper, professional way, Fanny has a solution. So, while my rectangles are puffing up on a wetted base in the hot oven, Fanny suggests we set about making some Palmiers. The scraps of paste are cobbled together and rolled out to a large rectangle, brushed with a beaten egg and sprinkled wth sugar. The long edges are rolled in to meet each other in the middle, and stuck together with more egg wash before being sliced and arranged on another wetted tray ready to be baked. Savoury Palmiers may be made using cheese instead of sugar if required. Handy to know, thanks Fanny.

Fannys Classic Mille Feuilles require nothing more than assembly for the first stage. Fanny splits each puffy rectangle in half horizontally and begins making a tower of puffy leaves sandwiched with jam and cream. Confectioners custard may be used in alternative layers too, but I stick with the classic jam and cream combination. I've got extra thick double cream which spreads well and doesn't need to be whipped, so my arm can have a rest. Fanny insists on there being seven layers in all, so one half a rectangle will not be used. Nor will it be wasted. Fanny dusts it with icing sugar and slices it into fingers for tea. I'd be tempted just to have eight layers really, there would still be no waste at all, but I suppose that's not the classic way.

The classic topping is a simple Glacé Icing (icing sugar mixed with a little water) with a chocolate swirly decoration drawn into it. Fanny uses her very favourite softened chocolate chips, but I have a shortcut in a tube. Fanny 'runs in' (the proper technical term) the decoration using a butchery needle. I am quite scared. Thankfully I have a much safer chopstick to hand, perfect for swirling duties. Fanny does say if you simply can't be bothered, don't. Oh. It won't affect the taste of this classic at all. Too late, I've done it. I'm classic through and through, it seems. Fanny is simply doing her job, showing us everything she possibly can, giving us the finest possible information. And, bearing in mind she still has that butchers needle in her hand, we are so very grateful. Aren't we? The finished Mille Feuille won't win any style awards, but it is so tasty. The pastry crisp, light and feathery. The cream and jam balanced well. No soggy objects. Classic Fanny.

Voulez-Vent, ah-ha!

Fanny is all puffed up in the kitchen today. Even more so than usual. It's not her ego that's inflated on this occasion, but rather her classical culinary knowledge that has that 'bloated' feeling. She's bursting with joy to lead us towards a very steep but satisfying step on her 'culinary ladder' to master once and for all the particular pleasure that is perfect puff pastry. It also allows dear old Fanny to drop a few names and Michelin stars into the mix as she recounts the tale of how the greatest of all pastry pastes, pâte feuilleté, came into being. Ideal.

Fanny tells us that French chefs split hairs over it and dispute minuscule variations on its handling. Just a warning. So, we are so very fortunate that Fanny spent some time in the cool, sunny kitchen in Les Baux of Le Roi de Feuilletage (the English translation of the King of Puff Pastry doesn't quite do it justice) himself, the three-Michelin starred M. Raymond Thuillier. Nestled in the troglodyte hills and caves of the remote village, with caves that you could drive a London Bus into if you should ever posses one, apparently, they were also joined by the famous French artist M. Bernard Buffet. What a perfectly named celebrity for such a lover of home entertaining as Fanny.

The honourable Frenchmen shared the tale, as well as the skill, of the puff pastry with Fanny, who in turn shares it with us. Splendid. In a Paris restaurant in the eighteenth century a young junior chef was ordered to make a batch of butter pastry. All seemed well, as the youngster make quick work of it, and put the paste to store in the cool cave for a few days until required. It was only then that, with horror, he realised he had forgotten the butter. So he whipped out the fatless paste, slapped the butter in the middle, rolled it out, rolled it again and again until the butter was not visible and returned it to the coolness of the cave. No-one would know.

When the chef demanded his pastry, the young boy gave it to him but began to tremble with fear, in a way that Fanny surely recognised well from a very similar and constant reaction by her own assistants, as it was rolled out, glazed and baked in the oven. No-one at that time expected to see it reach several inches in height with paper-thin layers. The chef demanded to know what the youngster had done, and instead of walloping him with a wooden spoon when he confessed, he kissed him and shouted 'C'est magnifique! C'est feuilletage!' Fanny would never have done that...

Fanny recreates the magnificence for us in a glorious pic-strip. She makes a ring of self-raising flour on a cold marble surface, while squeezing every drop of moisture from her butter in a double layer of muslin. Half the butter is chopped into small cubes and rubbed into the flour, then the juice of a lemon (Yes! Lemon Juice!) with very cold water added and scissored in with two knives to make a paste. Only touch the paste directly after you have held your hand under a running cold tap for as long as you can stand it. Once chilled, roll into a rectangle. The remaining butter is shaped into an oblong, folded in the centre, turned, rolled and folded again. Chill for 30 minutes in ordinary domestic refrigeration and repeat 5 times. A pillow of pleated puff.

For Fanny, the first thing to do with the puff is naturally the buffet-tastic classic, Vol-Au-Vent. She uses metal cutters dipped into boiling water before use for large circles, and smaller cutters cut only three-quarters way through the paste for the centre piece, which then makes the top. Always dipped into boiling water first. Baked on a wetted tray and majestically risen, they are perfect filled with mushrooms cooked with soured cream. Fanny may not have had any stars or accolades of her own, but with these little crowns I hereby pronounce her La Reine de la Pâte, or more simply perhaps, The Queen of Puff.