Moving to the countryside has truly opened my culinary eyes in ways I never expected. Whilst I professed to know about wild foraging, sea fishing and the cycles of farming, livestock and arable agriculture, you cannot fully understand these things unless you actually live amongst them.

I’m surrounded by two farms, both growing arable crops and grazing sheep. Since moving here, I’ve rescued a sheep from drowning in the stream at the back of the house and negotiated with another that mysteriously appeared outside my front door. I’ve witnessed first-hand the devastation that this summer’s drought has brought to the fields and spoken directly with farmers about what it really means, not only for crops but for livestock, pricing and the wider farming industry.

I’m also just ten minutes from the beach. For the first time in my life, I went out on a small boat with my friend Ben Walgate and set off to catch mackerel. We nearly capsized, but it was a big moment for me. What struck me most was how unplanned and spontaneous it all was. It felt completely normal, yet entirely new. I hope to do much more of it.

A few weeks ago, I wrote about blackberries. My word, there are so many around here. The hedgerows are bursting with them, and the sloes are beginning to appear too. There’s also a local farm that grows an astonishing variety of berries. Despite a difficult season, we’ve still managed to pick our own tayberries, raspberries and cherries.

Last week, one of our neighbours shot a red deer. Not out of sport, but as part of responsible wildlife management, helping to prevent an ever-growing population from becoming unsustainable. Deer numbers have increased significantly in many parts of the country, and without natural predators they can cause considerable damage to young trees, woodland flora and the delicate ecosystems that support them.

A few days later, I received a text asking if I’d like some venison. The local butcher had broken the animal down into its prime cuts, and I happily took a haunch.

We use venison regularly in the pubs, usually from early autumn through to winter, with different species appearing throughout the season. Yet it remains surprisingly unpopular, which I’ve never quite understood. It’s arguably one of the most sustainable meats available. It’s completely wild, requires no feed, housing or intensive farming, and eating it actively supports healthier woodlands and ecosystems.

It’s also incredibly nutritious. Lean, rich in protein, packed with vitamins and minerals, and free from the interventions often associated with industrial meat production. Compared with even grass-fed beef, it contains only a fraction of the fat.

As if that wasn’t enough, it’s delicious. Full of depth and character, with a flavour that’s distinctly tied to the landscape from which it comes. You can almost taste the countryside in every bite.

I think the biggest hurdle for many people is the lingering perception that venison is overpowering, gamey and tough. Somehow that idea has become embedded in the public psyche. Yes, it’s a lean meat, so it requires thoughtful cooking, and an older deer will naturally have a stronger flavour than a younger one. But that’s no different from lamb, beef or any other meat. When handled properly, venison is wonderfully tender and remarkably versatile.

Most supermarkets only stock it occasionally, often as a seasonal special, and even then supplies are patchy. Surely this is something that deserves a reset? If we’re serious about sustainability and supporting British food systems, venison should be far more widely available and encouraged.

Back to that haunch.

I’d forgotten quite how large they are. Once off the bone, the meat was a stunning deep crimson colour with a delicate, almost floral aroma. I cut a few steaks and cooked them au poivre. Honestly, I was blown away. Deeply savoury and packed with umami, yet elegant. The texture reminded me of rump steak, which is my favourite cut of beef. Not soft to the point of mushiness, but with just enough bite and character.

The remainder became two pies, one of which was gifted back to the neighbour in the hope that more venison might find its way to me in future. I slowly braised the meat with Rioja, herbs and mushrooms before enclosing it in shortcrust pastry. It felt like a gentle step into the early days of autumn. The long, slow cooking and the mushrooms kept everything rich and succulent.

Quite simply, it was one of the best pies I’ve eaten in years.

Truthfully, I can’t remember the last time I chose venison before this. Given the option, I would almost always have ordered beef instead. But why? This was truly wild food, harvested responsibly, gifted locally and deeply connected to the landscape around me.

What struck me most was that it didn’t feel like a compromise. Quite the opposite. It felt special. Honest. The sort of food that reminds you where you are and what season you’re living through.

I’m completely hooked.

For me, venison feels less like an alternative and more like part of the future.

How about you?

Venison and Mushroom Pie with Rioja

Serves 4-6

You will need

23cm pie dish

Filling

40g plain flour
700g diced venison
A few lugs of olive oil
2 tbsp butter
100g smoked streaky bacon, diced
100g chestnut mushrooms, roughly chopped
1 small onion, roughly chopped
2 celery sticks, diced
1 large carrot, diced
1 tsp tomato purée
300ml Rioja
700ml hot chicken stock
1 bay leaf
A handful of flat-leaf parsley, chopped
A handful of tarragon leaves, chopped
2 tsp redcurrant jelly
1 egg, beaten
Sea salt and black pepper

Pastry

125g cold butter, diced
250g plain flour
1 tsp fine sea salt
1 tbsp ice-cold water, plus extra if needed

Make the pastry

Sift the flour and salt into a large bowl or food processor. Add the diced butter and pulse until the mixture resembles fine breadcrumbs. If making by hand, rub the butter into the flour with your fingertips until you achieve the same texture.

Add the ice-cold water and pulse briefly until the dough just starts to come together. If making by hand, add the water gradually and bring the dough together gently with your fingers. Avoid adding too much water, as this can result in tough pastry.

Turn the dough out onto a lightly floured work surface and gently bring it together into a thick disc. Do not overwork the pastry. Wrap in cling film and refrigerate for at least 30 minutes.

Make the filling

Tip the flour into a large bowl, add the venison and season generously with salt and pepper. Toss well to coat.

Heat a generous splash of olive oil in a heavy-based sauté pan over a medium-high heat. Working in batches, brown the venison lightly all over, then transfer to a large casserole dish.

Pour the Rioja into the pan, bring to the boil and scrape up any caramelised bits from the bottom. Reduce by half, then pour over the venison.

In the same pan, melt the butter and cook the bacon until golden. Remove with a slotted spoon and add to the casserole.

Add the onion, celery, carrot and mushrooms to the pan and cook for 5 minutes until lightly softened. Stir in the tomato purée and cook for another minute.

Pour in the hot chicken stock and bring to the boil, stirring well. Add to the casserole along with the bay leaf.

Bring everything to a gentle simmer, cover and cook for around 1½ hours, or until the venison is tender and the sauce has reduced to a rich consistency. If the sauce seems too thin, reduce it further on the hob.

Stir through the parsley, tarragon and redcurrant jelly, then leave the filling to cool completely. Chill before assembling the pie.

Assemble and bake

Heat the oven to 200°C/180°C fan.

Roll out the pastry on a lightly floured surface to a disc roughly 5mm thick.

Spoon the cold filling into the pie dish. Brush the rim with beaten egg and carefully drape the pastry over the top. Press firmly around the edges to seal, trimming off any excess.

Brush the top generously with egg wash, season lightly with sea salt and black pepper, and cut a small steam hole in the centre.

Bake for 40 to 45 minutes, or until the pastry is deeply golden and crisp and the filling is piping hot.

Leave to stand for 10 minutes before serving.

Watermelon is the perfect summer fruit: 90% water, naturally hydrating, sweet and delicious. Taken simply, it is the iconic Mediterranean beach snack, pedalled along the shoreline by melon sellers prowling the sands. The green, white and pink of the fruit contrasts beautifully with rows of dreamy parasols. It can be elevated with nothing more than a squeeze of citrus and a sprinkle of sea salt, which only serves to heighten its refreshing qualities.

Before becoming a fixture of summer picnics, however, watermelon played a far more practical role. Originating in northeastern Africa more than 5,000 years ago, wild ancestral watermelons bore little resemblance to the fruit we know today. They were bitter, with hard white flesh and thick, durable rinds that allowed them to be stored for months without spoiling. In arid climates, they acted as natural, portable canteens for desert travellers. Their value was such that the ancient Egyptians placed them in the tombs of pharaohs, including Tutankhamun, to sustain royalty on their journey through the afterlife.

Over millennia, selective breeding transformed this bitter survival crop into the sweet, vibrant delicacy we enjoy today. Watermelon spread across the globe via Mediterranean trade routes, reaching India by the seventh century and China by the tenth, eventually evolving into the dessert fruit recognised around the world.

For me, watermelon provides the perfect backdrop for summer salads. It works beautifully with salty cheeses, toasted nuts and a sweet-sharp dressing. Equally, it responds brilliantly to heat. Charred over a fierce flame, its natural sugars caramelise, creating an almost savoury depth that can be enhanced further with a little honey, vinegar or both.

I often look to Sicily for inspiration, where watermelon is held in particularly high esteem. One of the island’s signature dishes is gelo di mellone, a watermelon pudding or jelly made from watermelon purée thickened with cornflour and scented with jasmine. It is then finished with dark chocolate and pistachios, creating the kind of exuberant, baroque dessert for which Sicily is famous. Like cassata, it teeters on the edge of excess, although that is very much part of its charm. I included a version in my book Sicilia. The texture is not for everyone and is denser than it appears, but it is delicious nonetheless.

Another wonderful Sicilian dish pairs grilled red prawns with grilled watermelon, all bathed in olive oil and grape must. It is a combination that perfectly illustrates watermelon’s versatility. Despite its high water content, it stands up remarkably well to heat and is excellent on the barbecue, where a little smoke and char transform its character completely.

Crudo is another natural partner. The sweetness and freshness of watermelon complement the saline, citrus-cured notes of raw fish beautifully, while the vibrant colours make for a spectacular plate.

In all its forms, from beach-side snack to sophisticated Sicilian dessert, watermelon remains one of summer’s greatest pleasures

Pan-Fried Watermelon with Honey & Sherry Vinegar Glaze, Fried Halloumi, Cucumber and Mint-Coriander Dressing

Serves 4

Ingredients

For the watermelon

• 800g seedless watermelon, cut into 4 thick triangular slices (about 2cm thick)

• 2 tbsp olive oil

• 2 tbsp runny honey

• 1½ tbsp sherry vinegar

• Sea salt

• Freshly ground black pepper

For the dressing

• 25g mint leaves

• 1 tsp coriander seeds, lightly toasted

• 3 tbsp extra virgin olive oil

• 1½ tbsp white wine vinegar or sherry vinegar

• Pinch of sea salt

For the garnish

• 250g halloumi, sliced into 1cm thick pieces

• 1/2 large cucumber

• Small handful mint leaves

• Extra virgin olive oil for finishing

Method

1. Make the dressing

Toast the coriander seeds in a dry pan until fragrant. Crush them in a pestle and mortar with a pinch of salt. Add the mint leaves and pound into a coarse paste.

Stir in the olive oil and vinegar. Taste and adjust with more vinegar or salt as needed.

2. Glaze the watermelon

Mix the honey and sherry vinegar together.

Season the watermelon lightly with salt and pepper.

Heat a large frying pan over a high heat with the olive oil. Sear the watermelon slices for 2-3 minutes on each side until lightly caramelised and warmed through but still holding their shape.

Reduce the heat slightly and spoon over the honey-vinegar mixture. Turn the watermelon through the glaze until glossy and lightly lacquered.

Remove and keep warm.

3. Fry the halloumi

In the same pan, fry the halloumi slices for 1-2 minutes on each side until deeply golden and crisp at the edges.

4. Prepare the cucumber

peel the cucumber and slice finely, salt for a few minutes.

Build the salad as you wish and finish with the dressing spooned over.

I tend to look to Italy or Southern France for green bean recipe inspiration. In the UK, we’re often less imaginative when it comes to giving this beautiful, vibrant summer vegetable a recipe worthy of its stature.

Generally, green beans are steamed, or steamed then roasted, and finished with a little butter or olive oil. Am I wrong? Or am I missing something? Is this really the level of inventiveness we afford the humble green bean?

Now don’t get me wrong, I adore a simple plate of in-season steamed beans, but I’m always looking for a little more creativity.

In southern Italy, the vegetable is revered. It’s often grilled over coals until charred on the outside and sweet within, or boiled, cooled and dressed with fresh herbs and lemon, a preparation I love with all sorts of green vegetables during the summer months. Go to any trattoria south of Basilicata in summer and the menu will invariably offer chilled vegetables such as broccoli, summer greens, peppers and green beans. These will have been boiled until very soft, so don’t expect al dente here.

The thinking is simple: when it’s hot, eat cold food. The liberal use of lemon juice and vinegar brings a lip-puckering acidity to proceedings that somehow makes everything feel fresher and more refreshing. Interestingly, this simple but ingenious method has its roots in the culinary traditions of the Moors during the Middle Ages, who had already developed a deep appreciation for acidity in food.

Another favourite method is to slow-cook green beans in olive oil with garlic, onions, herbs and tomatoes. It’s a sort of ragù, I suppose. Cooking the beans like this draws out an entirely different layer of flavour that you don’t get from quicker cooking methods. I like to make a batch, let it cool to room temperature and serve it alongside grilled meat or fish.

Then there’s the fritti treatment, much as you might see with courgettes or squash. The beans are coated in a light batter and fried until crisp, then showered with sea salt and lemon, or dipped into a punchy, cooling aioli

I find green beans work particularly well alongside pork or chicken. A favourite dressing of mine is a creamy French-style mustard dressing made with grain mustard, crème fraîche, olive oil, lemon, vinegar and plenty of herbs.

A classic that’s stayed with me since my formative chef years, I think from my time at The Ritz, is green beans with almonds. It’s a classic for a reason, with each ingredient bringing out the best in the other. The trick is to sauté the flaked almonds in butter until golden brown, remove them to drain, then toss blanched green beans through the nutty butter. Season well and finish with the almonds and a squeeze of lemon.

Southern France also has its own tomato-based preparation in the form of haricots verts Provençal. It’s a quicker dish made with crushed tomatoes, olives, basil and capers, tossed through the beans at the last minute. Perfect with grilled sea bass.

Serves 4 as a starter or sharing side

Ingredients

Green Beans

• 400g fine green beans, topped

• 100g plain flour

• 1 Tsp baking powder

• 1 tsp sea salt

• 150ml cold sparkling water (approx.)

• Vegetable oil, for frying

• Sea salt

Aioli

• 2 cloves garlic crushed

• • 2 egg yolks

• 1 tsp Dijon mustard

• 1 tbsp white wine vinegar

• • 200ml extra virgin olive oil

• Sea salt

• Lemon wedges

Method

Aioli

1. Whisk egg yolks, mustard and lemon juice together.

2. Slowly whisk in the olive oil until thick and glossy.

3. Fold in the garlic and season generously.

Green Beans

1. Blanch the beans in heavily salted water for 2 minutes. Refresh in iced water and drain well.

2. Heat frying oil to 180°C.

3. Mix plain flour, salt and baking powder

4. Whisk in sparkling water to form a light batter, slightly thinner than double cream.

5. Toss the beans through the batter in small batches.

6. Fry for 2-3 minutes until crisp, light golden and lacy.

7. Drain on paper and season immediately with sea salt

Serve

Pile the fritti high on a platter, scatter serve with a bowl of aioli and lemon wedges.

Slow-Cooked Green Beans with Tomatoes, Shallots, Garlic, White Wine & Herbs

Serves 4 as a room-temperature side

A dish inspired by southern Italian and Greek vegetable cookery where the beans are cooked until silky and infused with olive oil, herbs and tomato.

Ingredients

• 500g green beans, topped

• 4 banana shallots, finely sliced

• 4 garlic cloves, thinly sliced

• 300g ripe tomatoes, grated or roughly chopped

• 150ml dry white wine

• 80ml extra virgin olive oil

• 1 bay leaf

• 3 sprigs thyme

• Small sprig rosemary

• 1 tsp fennel seeds, lightly crushed

• 1 tbsp red wine vinegar

• ½ tsp chilli flakes

• Sea salt

• Freshly ground black pepper

To Finish

• 2 tbsp chopped flat-leaf parsley

• 1 tbsp chopped mint

• Extra virgin olive oil

Method

1. Warm the olive oil in a wide sauté pan over a medium-low heat.

2. Add shallots and cook gently for 10-12 minutes until soft and sweet without colouring.

3. Add garlic, fennel seeds and chilli flakes. Cook for 1 minute.

4. Add the wine and reduce by half.

5. Add tomatoes, bay, thyme and rosemary. Simmer for 10 minutes until lightly thickened.

6. Add the green beans, a generous pinch of salt and 100ml water.

7. Cover and cook gently for 35-45 minutes, stirring occasionally, until the beans are completely tender and have absorbed the flavours.

8. Remove the lid and reduce until the sauce lightly coats the beans.

9. Stir through the vinegar and adjust seasoning.

Serve

Allow to cool to room temperature. Fold through the parsley and mint, finish with a generous drizzle of fresh extra virgin olive oil and a few grinds of black pepper.

Excellent alongside grilled lamb, roasted chicken, tuna, or as part of a large Mediterranean sharing spread. The flavour is actually better after a few hours resting.

If we want to talk about one of the few truly free, delicious and nutritious foods that’s readily available throughout the UK in late summer, it’s blackberries, growing wild on bramble bushes.

Blackberry season is one of the great quiet pleasures of late summer. For a few fleeting weeks, hedgerows, footpaths and neglected corners of parks become laden with fruit, offering an abundance that feels increasingly rare in modern life. There’s something satisfying about gathering food that grows wild around us, especially when it tastes this good. Its almost as if nature is offering us this up as a small, part solution to the problems we have in the UK with the cost of living, healthy eating & nutrition and sustainability.

This year I’ve become acutely aware of their presence where I live in East Sussex. I’m surrounded by them and their thorny bushes, but the fruit is truly abundant.

This isn’t a new thing. Having lived in East London for many years, they were equally prevalent there, growing amongst the flowers and weeds in my garden, along the Regent’s Canal, and in the darker corners of local parks. I’d often see savvy foragers harvesting them with plastic bags and heavy gloves (the same ones who are out in early Spring looking for wild garlic). It’s a perilous business negotiating the thorny stems of the bramble.

What I find particularly interesting is their availability in both rural and urban settings. It’s only now, with a little more time and fewer distractions on my dog walks and bicycle rides, that I’ve realised quite how much of this fruit surrounds me.

I’m going to make full use of them this year. The berries are delicious, as we all know. They’re a little tarter than the cultivated varieties you’ll find in the shops, but nothing a touch more sugar can’t sort out. My love of meat and fruit combinations will undoubtedly manifest itself in dishes such as lamb with blackberry jam, or pickled blackberries served alongside game. I also love baking with blackberries. There’s something magical about the way they release their dark ruby-pink juices when folded into batters and custards, leaving beautiful swirls and streaks behind. Blackberry ripple ice cream remains one of my all-time favourites.

We should also talk about blackberry leaves. Picked young and washed well, they’re ideal for infusing teas, custards and sauces. Much like fig leaves, they’re not really intended to be eaten, but they impart a subtle freshness and delicate aroma. They’re also said to have several health benefits, including aiding digestion and providing antioxidant properties. I’ll be making a simple tea for evening drinking and using them to add another layer of flavour to custards.

That’s what I’ve done in the recipe below for my blackberry and mascarpone custard puff pastry tart. The custard is studded with fresh blackberries, but it’s also infused with blackberry leaves, giving it a subtle herbal note. The puffy pastry makes for a richer but airy tart. I love the rustic appearance that this and reminds me more of an Italian torte.

Blackberry & Mascarpone Custard Puff Pastry Tart

Serves: 8-10

Tin: 28cm loose-bottomed tart tin or shallow flan tin

Ingredients

Pastry

• 320-375g ready-rolled all-butter puff pastry (1 sheet)

• 1 egg yolk, beaten (for glazing)

Blackberry & Mascarpone Custard

• 250g mascarpone

• 300ml double cream

• 150ml whole milk

• 3 egg yolks

• 1 whole eggs

• 90g caster sugar

• 300g fresh blackberries

• 1 stem of blackberry leaf, washed

Method

1. Prepare the Pastry Case

1. Heat the oven to 180°C fan.

2. Roll the puff pastry out slightly if required and line the tart tin.

3. Trim the edges, leaving a slight overhang.

4. Prick the base lightly with a fork and chill for 20 minutes.

5. Line with baking paper and baking beans.

6. Blind bake for 15 minutes.

7. Remove the paper and beans, brush the base lightly with beaten egg yolk and return to the oven for 5 minutes until golden and crisp.

Reduce the oven temperature to 150°C fan.

1. Whisk the mascarpone until smooth.

2. heat the cream, milk and blackberry leaves over a low heat and simmer for 5 minutes, remove from the heat.

3. In a separate bowl whisk together the eggs, yolks and sugar.

4. Gradually whisk the dairy mixture into the eggs until smooth, pour back into the pan and cook gently for 5 minutes or until thickened and coats the back of a spoon and then whisk in the mascarpone.

5. Scatter 250g of the blackberries evenly across the pastry base.

6. Pour the mascarpone custard over the fruit.

7. Carefully place in the oven and bake for 30 minutes.

The custard should be just set, with a few bubbles and burnishes and the black berries should have leached some of their juices. Cool before slicing and serve.

Summer Salads

I think I could be very happy eating salads every day throughout the summer months. As a child of the late 70s and 80s, it might surprise you to learn that salads were actually a regular fixture in our house. Usually it was the same one, but how I loved it.

Butterhead lettuce (really the only lettuce available then in Skegness), cucumber, spring onions and, if memory serves me correctly, radishes. The dressing was a family heirloom of sorts: vinegar (something white and harsh), oil (I imagine vegetable oil or similar), English mustard, and the game-changing addition of evaporated milk. The memory of that vinaigrette has stayed with me ever since. There was genius in its balance, even if the ingredients were fairly humble. These days you could easily elevate it with an artisan vinegar, a good extra virgin olive oil and perhaps buttermilk in place of the evaporated milk, but the principle remains the same.

Butterhead lettuce feels quintessentially British, although I’m not entirely sure it is. It’s actually quite hard to find now, with Little Gem, cos and iceberg taking on the role of everyday workhorse lettuces. Then there’s rocket, which I adore, but it definitely has its place.

Anyway, salads. They’re something of a passion of mine. And, of course, they don’t need lettuce at all. Across our pubs we always have two or three substantial standalone salads on the menu, whatever the season, but in summer they’re an especially practical and delicious option.

At the risk of teaching anyone to suck eggs, my key measures of a successful salad are texture, balance and restraint. I want crunch alongside softness. I want a dressing with a good balance of sweet and sour — too much acidity rarely works. And I always look for a unifying element: a fat or richness that brings everything together, whether that’s olive oil, bacon, yoghurt, buttermilk or even evaporated milk, which I still stand by.

The melon salad below uses a dressing made from blitzed almonds, herbs, oil and water. It creates a coating dressing that transforms the salad and works particularly well with delicate leaves. The key is understanding that not all leaves are created equal. Some are more robust and can handle a thicker dressing, as in a Caesar salad, while others need a lighter touch.

Always season your salad well just before dressing and toss it gently. Appearance matters too. I bang on about this to my chefs all the time. A good salad should look vibrant, balanced and effortless. Too much of one ingredient can throw everything off. Salads should feel light, loose and natural, not compressed into a dense mound. They can be arranged flat across a platter or given dramatic height, but somehow never look their best when they sit awkwardly somewhere in between.

I hope that covers it.

Below are three very different salads. I’ve included an updated version of my retro Skegness salad, a summer combination of melon, tomatoes and courgettes that we’ve been serving this week, and a heartier salad from The Thomas Cubitt featuring squeaky green beans and rich ham hock. It’s one of our favourites and was created by Head Chef Ross Keeling.

Happy summer. 🌿☀️

Green Beans, Ham Hock, Watercress & Mustard Crouton Salad

Serves 4

This is one of those salads that eats like a meal. Sweet green beans, rich shredded ham hock and peppery watercress are brought together with a punchy mustard dressing and plenty of golden croutons for crunch.

Ingredients

• 400g green beans, trimmed

• 250g cooked ham hock, shredded

• 80g watercress

• 150g good sourdough, torn into bite-sized pieces

• 3 tbsp extra virgin olive oil

• 1 tbsp wholegrain mustard

• 1 tsp Dijon mustard

• 1 tbsp cider vinegar

• Sea salt and black pepper

Method

1. Heat the oven to 190°C fan.

2. Toss the sourdough with 1 tablespoon of olive oil, season well and roast for 10–15 minutes until crisp and golden.

3. Cook the green beans in boiling salted water for 3–4 minutes until tender but still retaining some bite. Drain and refresh briefly under cold water.

4. Whisk together the remaining olive oil, both mustards, vinegar and a splash of water to make a loose dressing. Season to taste.

5. Arrange the beans, ham hock and watercress on a large platter. Spoon over the dressing and gently toss.

6. Scatter over the warm croutons and serve immediately.

Melon, Tomato, Courgette Ribbon & Basil Salad with Almond and Basil Dressing

Serves 4

At the height of summer, melon and tomatoes make perfect partners. The sweetness of both is lifted by fresh basil and ribbons of raw courgette, while the almond dressing brings richness without weighing everything down.

Ingredients

• ½ ripe cantaloupe melon, cut into wedges

• 400g mixed ripe tomatoes, cut into chunks and wedges

• 2 small courgettes

• Large handful of basil leaves

For the dressing

• 30g blanched almonds

• Large handful basil leaves

• 75ml extra virgin olive oil

• 3 tbsp cold water

• 1 tbsp white wine vinegar

• Sea salt and black pepper

Method

1. Place the almonds, basil, olive oil, water and vinegar in a blender and blitz until smooth and vibrant green. Season well with salt and pepper.

2. Using a vegetable peeler, shave the courgettes into long ribbons.

3. Arrange the melon, tomatoes and courgette ribbons on a serving platter.

4. Tear over a few basil leaves and spoon generously over the dressing.

5. Finish with the remaining basil leaves and a little extra black pepper before serving.

Butterhead Lettuce, Radish, Spring Onion, Chard & Caper Berry Salad with Buttermilk Dressing

Serves 4

This is a nod to the salad of my childhood, updated slightly for today. The buttermilk dressing has a gentle sharpness that works beautifully with peppery radishes, sweet spring onions and salty caper berries.

Ingredients

• 2 butterhead lettuces, leaves separated

• 8 radishes, finely sliced

• 4 spring onions, finely sliced

• 100g rainbow chard leaves, torn if large

• 12 caper berries, halved

For the dressing

• 100ml buttermilk

• 2 tbsp extra virgin olive oil

• 1 tbsp white wine vinegar

• 1 tsp Dijon mustard

• 1 small shallot, finely grated

• Sea salt and black pepper

Method

1. Whisk together the buttermilk, olive oil, vinegar, mustard and shallot. Season with salt and plenty of black pepper.

2. Gently combine the lettuce, radishes, spring onions, chard and caper berries in a large bowl.

3. Drizzle over enough dressing to lightly coat the leaves and toss gently with your hands.

4. Pile onto a serving platter and serve immediately, with any remaining dressing alongside

I’m never without tomatoes in my fridge. While winter varieties are now abundant and excellent—offering a sharper bite and more acidity—their true glory shines in the summer months. Slowly “cooked” by the Mediterranean sun, they intensify in juices and dehydrate, becoming sweeter and more flavorful. The arid, dry conditions, particularly in Sicily’s volcanic soil, provide limited water to the fruits, keeping the tomatoes on the edge of hydration and enhancing their sweetness.

When it comes to the holy grail of tomato perfection, I find it hard to look beyond the Mediterranean. Spain’s Almería and Murcia, along with Italy’s Campania and Sicily, produce exceptional varieties. Britain is catching up, with the Isle of Wight and Nutbourne growing excellent fruits that boast a distinct, crisp, fresh flavor. However, I still crave the sweetness that only the Mediterranean can provide.

Two showcase recipes highlight tomatoes at their prime. The first is a Catalan Pan con Tomate, where tomatoes are grated to a pulp, quickly drained, and topped on garlicky hot toast. My version, stemming from my days at the Salt Yard, includes a layer of lightly roasted tomatoes in anchovy oil for an umami-packed punch. The second dish is my Aeolian Summer Salad, a perfect assembly of the best produce, with tomatoes as the centerpiece, complemented by salty capers, anchovies, and olives. I use a dressing made from grape must and olive oil, but if you can’t find grape must (saba), a molasses such as grape or date will work well.

Aeolian Salad

Serves: 4

Ingredients

• 10 medium red tomatoes, sweet and ripe (vine-ripened are best), sliced into rounds

• 2 handfuls of pitted green olives

• 2 tablespoons plump capers

• 2 Tropea onions or small red onions, finely sliced

• 6 anchovies in oil, chopped

• 1 tablespoon fresh oregano leaves, picked

• 10 basil leaves, torn

• 4 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil

• 2 tablespoons grape must (saba) or balsamic vinegar

• Sea salt and pepper, to taste

Instructions

1. Whisk together the grape must and extra-virgin olive oil; season to taste.

2. Assemble the salad by carefully arranging the tomatoes on a serving plate. Sprinkle over the capers, olives, anchovies, and herbs. Season well and drizzle with the vinaigrette.

3. Allow the salad to “marinate” for 5 minutes before serving.

Pan con Tomate with Roasted Anchovy Tomatoes

Ingredients

For the Roasted Tomatoes:

• 200g ripe tomatoes, quartered

• 2 tablespoons olive oil

• Salt and pepper, to taste

• 4 anchovy fillets, finely chopped

• 1 tablespoon red wine vinegar

For the Fried Bread:

• 4 slices of rustic bread (like sourdough or ciabatta)

• Olive oil, for frying

• 1 garlic clove, halved

For the Topping:

• 1 large ripe tomato, halved

• Fresh basil leaves, for garnish

Instructions

1. Roast the Tomatoes:

   • Preheat your oven to 200°C (400°F).

   • Place the quartered tomatoes on a baking sheet, drizzle with olive oil, and season with salt and pepper. Roast for about 25-30 minutes, until soft and slightly caramelized.

   • Transfer the roasted tomatoes to a bowl. Add the chopped anchovies and red wine vinegar, mixing gently. Set aside to allow the flavors to meld.

2. Prepare the Fried Bread:

   • In a skillet, heat a generous amount of olive oil over medium heat.

   • Fry the slices of rustic bread until golden brown and crispy on both sides, about 2-3 minutes per side.

   • Remove the bread and rub the cut side of the garlic clove over each slice for added flavor.

3. Assemble the Dish:

   • On each slice of fried bread, spread the fresh tomato half (pulp side down) to create a rustic base.

   • Top with the roasted tomato mixture, ensuring each slice gets a generous amount of the anchovy-infused tomatoes.

   • Season with a sprinkle of sea salt, drizzle with extra anchovy oil if desired, and finish with fresh basil leaves.

Many summers ago I spent a month in a very hot Puglia- about 20 km from Alberobello- to help good friend of mine open a restaurant. It was eye opening experience not least for the intense heat (crazily we decided to launch in August) it was in the middle of nowhere, off the beaten track and coming from a London restaurant where you had everything within a quick phone call or pop to the shops this was a polar opposite. Twice weekly deliveries or a pick your own from a. Nearby farm-ideal on paper but hellish in reality.

My friend Guido who id worked with at Al Duca and then became really good friends. He was a creative and total foodie but incredibly dis organised and so when I got to Puglia ready to get stuck in with him I found out quickly that there wasn’t a menu written or any suppliers identified and all this with 4 week schedule to get open.

What ensued id now put down to adventure but at the time my romantic notion of a working holiday in sunny Puglia surrounded by delicious foods and produce turned quickly into stress, heat stroke and near blows with fiery, wine sodden locals who just wanted us to go away and stop being annoying. We spent many hours driving along hectic in a swelteringly hot unventilated car looking for pots, pans, meat, and vegetables. Slowly getting more and more frustrated with each other.

There’s a whole other story in this but for the benefit of my recipe this week ill focus on a big positive of the launch- the discovery of the most wonderful yellow Perocha peach orchard nearby which dictated a good portion of the initial menu ( due to their deliciousness and our like of alternatives) and Michele Tuzi a local small holder who supplied is with our very free ranging first pig- and a few more after.

Perhaps quite a recognisable combination amongst our clued food circles nowadays (and also common In Italian regional cuisine) and of course sweet fruit and pork have always been good bedfellows but back in the early 2000s this combination blew me away. What you don’t get from harder fruits such as apple is the jamminess from cooking stone fruits at their peak of ripeness. Id like to say this dish saved the day.

Pork chops, jammy peaches & rosemary

Serves 4

Ingredients
• 4 thick-cut bone-in pork chops
• 3 ripe peaches, halved and stoned
• 2 tbsp olive oil
• 2 tbsp honey
• 1 tbsp Dijon mustard
• 2 rosemary sprigs, leaves finely chopped and 4 whole sprigs for garnish
• 2 garlic cloves, grated
• 2 bunches rainbow chard
• 1 fresh red chilli, finely sliced
• 25g butter
• Sea salt and black pepper

Method
1. Mix the honey, mustard, rosemary, garlic and 1 tbsp olive oil. Rub over the pork chops and season.
2. Grill or barbecue the chops for 4–5 minutes per side until cooked through. Rest.
3. Grill the peaches until caramelised and sticky.
4. Cook the chard stems in the butter and remaining olive oil for 3–4 minutes. Add the chilli, then the leaves, and cook until wilted.
5. Serve the chops over the chard with the peaches and resting juices and a sprig of rosemary

I made pavlova this week, fusing a classic pavlova with elements of Peach Melba: cream, raspberries, whipped cream, custard, meringue, and almonds, all served chilled. I was very happy indeed—not least because it was a delicious, cooling dessert for the hottest week of the year—but I think it became more than the sum of its parts: the holy grail of blending two recipes, which is often not achieved. I think it’s a textural thing you might not get with a standalone Peach Melba, and the cold custard base came out of nowhere—almost giving off floating island vibes. Everything was made from scratch—a little laborious in the sweltering kitchen—but you could make life easier for yourself and just use fresh raspberries, tinned peaches, or shop-bought meringues and custards.

I have a bit of a thing for pavlovas as a dessert; as with a lot of these things, it stems from nostalgia. My mum was not a good cook at all and was very impatient (however, she did like food). She was often extremely busy as a school teacher, and during the long summer school holidays, she would work in the family seaside business. I stayed with my gran, who lived at the back of our house, and mainly ate there (she was an amazing cook, but that’s another story). During the winter, my mum had a bit more time and would meal plan with “menus” for the week stuck on the fridge door so everyone knew what was going on. This was the late ‘70s and early ‘80s, so we had the classics of the time: risotto, spaghetti Bolognese, casseroles, and then M&S convenience food woven into it all—cod and prawn pie, Chicken Kiev, etc. My mum especially loved the convenience stuff as it required minimal effort and was always applauded, especially the Kiev.

Desserts were uncharted territory in terms of homemade. Although there were plenty of M&S trifles or super mousses (remember those?), there were also chocolate mousses with piped whipped cream and sponge on top.

Then something happened: ready-made meringues hit the shelves, and it changed the game—certainly for my mum. While very convenient, she could add bespoke additions to the meringue or nest—largely tinned fruits, peaches, cherries, pineapple, pear, or even a “fruit salad”! Then it would get some condensed milk poured over it or squirted cream—or both! If my dad got involved, things could go left-field quickly with additions of chocolate or chopped jelly cubes from the pack—yes, that happened—or bananas and custard—which, on reflection, was a good idea and would probably be a hit now. I may rehash it!

What was really lovely about all this was the interaction and enjoyment that my parents and I had from it. My mum was praised for “creating” something special, and dessert, no less! The memory of this has really stuck with me—a moment in time that has helped shape my culinary direction now. There are a few of those.

You’ll now find a pavlova on most of our menus at Cubitt House—I insist on it. Whether it’s a lovely summer strawberry and elderflower, a more Mediterranean-inspired fig, honey, and marsala, or a more wintry combination such as a Mont Blanc-inspired chocolate, chestnut, and cream version, with toasty cinnamon and chestnut meringue.

Here’s my recipe for Pavlova Peach Melba. Shop-bought meringues and squirty cream would be authentic in this context, but perhaps not quite as good.

Ingredients – Pavlova

• 3 large egg whites

• 175g caster sugar

• 1 tsp cornflour

• 1 tsp white wine vinegar

Ingredients – Poached Peaches

• 4 ripe peaches

• 500ml water

• 150g caster sugar

• Finely pared zest of 1 lemon

• 1 tbsp lemon juice

Ingredients – Raspberry-Peach Sauce

• 250g raspberries

• 200ml peach poaching liquor

• 15g caster sugar

• 1 tsp lemon juice

Ingredients – Custard

• 250ml whole milk

• 250ml double cream

• 4 egg yolks

• 75g caster sugar

To Finish

• 150ml double cream, softly whipped

• 30g toasted flaked almonds

Make the Pavlova

1. Heat the oven to 120°C fan. Whisk the egg whites to soft peaks. Gradually add the sugar until glossy and stiff. Fold in the cornflour and vinegar. Spoon into four nests on a lined tray. Bake for 1 hour, then switch off the oven and leave to cool completely.

Poach the Peaches

2. Bring the water, sugar, lemon zest, and lemon juice to a gentle simmer. Score the base of each peach and poach for 6–8 minutes until just tender. Cool briefly, peel, then return to the syrup to cool completely. Reserve 200ml of the syrup.

Make the Raspberry-Peach Sauce

3. Reduce the reserved poaching liquor by about half. Add the raspberries, sugar, and lemon juice, and cook for 3–4 minutes. Pass through a sieve and cool.

Make the Custard

4. Heat the milk and cream until just below boiling. Whisk the egg yolks and sugar together. Slowly pour in the hot milk mixture, whisking continuously. Return to the pan and cook gently until the custard coats the back of a spoon. Strain and cool.

Assemble

5. Halve and stone the peaches, then cut into wedges. Place each pavlova on a plate and top with softly whipped cream. Arrange the peaches on top. Spoon custard around the pavlova and drizzle with raspberry-peach sauce. Finish with toasted almonds and mint or lemon verbena.

First up, I checked out a new restaurant that not only lived up to the hype around new London openings (you know the drill—there are usually about 4-5 each year that go absolutely nuts with press, influencer buzz, and all the best-of lists), but it also felt like it could spark a new wave of dining. It was refreshing and modern, but not in that futuristic way that sometimes feels too far out. The food is simple on the surface, with traditional cooking techniques—think classical French methods and even some ancient techniques like wood ovens and grills thrown in. The overall style is hard to pin down, which is a breath of fresh air in a city where hyper-regionality is often the norm. It’s eclectic in its influences but still feels very London, a unique translation that you’ll totally get when you see it.

The menu draws from North African and Mediterranean flavors, with a nod to head chef Meedu Saad’s Egyptian heritage. Plus, there’s a strong backbone of impeccably sourced British produce that really shines. It might sound like a chaotic mix, but it’s anything but. The chef and team have created a harmonious blend of influences that sets them apart.

I started with b Aish Baladi—an Egyptian-style flatbread made with wholemeal flour, served with olive oil and some incredible harissa—alongside Crab Kibbeh wrapped in a shiso leaf, paired with San Marzano tomatoes and homemade sheep’s cheese. I also tried Pork Shetalia and slow-roasted aged duck with black lime, chilies, and fig molasses. There was only one dessert on offer, which is a bold move in London’s Soho, but it felt just right. The custard and pistachio tart was sublime. I barely scratched the surface of the menu, and I can’t wait to go back.

Equally important were the interiors and vibe of the place. The ambiance was moody, elegant, and cool, with raw and reclaimed materials, warm lighting, and a bright, airy feel. On a hot June evening, sitting at the bar felt brilliantly transportive, and I think that’s the essence of what this restaurant is all about.

The second really good thing this week was discovering a new food book. I’m a bit of a collector (or hoarder, depending on who you ask) of cookbooks and food writing, and it seems we’re in a new wave of writers who approach food with passion, authenticity, and a good dose of humor. They share recipes and ideas that resonate with what we’re all thinking but might have been too self conscious to admit.

“But First, Dinner” by Eleanor Steafel is one such book that really struck a chord with me. Its lovely, transportive tone made me want to dive straight into dinner planning and cooking but also horizontal on the sofa or in bed to soak in its therapeutic words. It encapsulates everything I love about cooking. The chapters are light-hearted and spot-on—think “home alone,” “food to keep your hands and brain happy,” and “food for when you’re too busy to cook.” You get the picture! There are recipes for pies and lasagna, curries and fish cakes, along with simple assemblies of good things to eat. A summer plate, for example, consists of tomatoes, sardines, and Ritz crackers.

I highly recommend it, and this week’s recipe is inspired by the book, not so much a direct recipe but been having a good think about different moods and dishes falling into those categories.

I thought about doing this in the home alone “chapter”

A nostaglic, comforting favourite of mine, undoubtedly influenced by various M&S crispy chicken meals from my childhood with busy ’80s parents who embraced ready-made oven and microwave meals. Let’s just say they weren’t exactly culinary experts. I tend to whip this up when I remember, especially when Nykeeta is away or out.

But settled on this (as it’s the weekend) which would feature “food guaranteed to bring joy” Steaks a special occasion thing and it can be one of the most joyous, celebratory things. I used to do steak night with my dad - where we would cook and flambé (often very dangerously) to our hearts content and laugh uncontrollably.

My steak Steak au poivre

Serves 4

For the Beef Rib:

• 1.5 kg beef rib (bone-in, for sharing)

• 2 tablespoons black peppercorns

• 2 tablespoons olive oil

• Sea salt

• 2 tablespoons unsalted butter

• 2 cloves garlic, smashed

• 2 sprigs of fresh thyme

For the Sauce:

• 2 tablespoons brandy or cognac

• 150 ml beef or dark chicken stock

• 150 ml double cream

• 1 tablespoon Dijon mustard

• Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper (to taste)

Method

1. Take the beef rib out of the fridge about an hour before cooking to bring it to room temperature. Preheat your oven to 200°C (390°F).

2. Crush the black peppercorns coarsely using a pestle and mortar or a rolling pin. Pat the beef rib dry with kitchen paper, then rub it with olive oil and season generously with sea salt. Press the crushed peppercorns all over the surface of the meat, ensuring it’s well coated.

3. Heat a large ovenproof skillet over high heat. Add the butter and allow it to foam. Once hot, add the beef rib and sear for about 3-4 minutes on each side until nicely browned all over. You want that beautiful crust!

4. Add the smashed garlic and thyme to the pan for added flavor.

5. Transfer the skillet to the preheated oven and roast for about 15-20 minutes for medium-rare (adjust time depending on your preferred doneness). Use a meat thermometer to check the internal temperature (around 54°C/130°F for medium-rare).

6. Once cooked, remove the rib from the oven and let it rest for at least 10-15 minutes, tented with foil to keep it warm.

7. In the same skillet (discard the thyme and garlic), pour in the brandy or cognac and carefully ignite it with a long lighter or match to flambe (optional but adds depth). Allow it to reduce for about a minute.

8. Add the beef stock and let it simmer for 3-4 minutes until slightly thickened.

9. Stir in the heavy cream and Dijon mustard, cooking for another 2-3 minutes until the sauce is creamy and rich. Season.

Spoon some of the sauce on a platter, slice the beef and lay over the sauce. Season and serve more sauce on the side. Chips obviously and maybe spinach or salad

I was cooking over fire again this weekend, and like most times, the food ended up better than it had any real right to be.

Not more technical. Not more refined. Just… better.

People were standing up, plates in one hand, drink in the other. No one really paying full attention. A bit of smoke blowing the wrong way, smoked in the eyes, things coming off the grill slightly faster or slower than planned- a bit singed here and there. And still — or maybe because of that — everything seemed to land exactly as it should.

It happens every time.

You cook the same thing in a kitchen, plate it carefully, send it out at the right temperature, and it’s good. Do it outside, a bit looser, a bit less controlled, and suddenly it’s memorable.

There’s something in that.

Part of it is the obvious stuff.

Fire changes flavour. Smoke, caramelisation, fat hitting heat — all of that does its job. But that’s only a small part of it. You can cook over charcoal in a restaurant and still miss the point completely.

The difference is everything around it.

It’s the air, for a start. Food smells different outside. It carries. It mixes with smoke, with heat, with whatever’s around you. You’re not in a sealed room where everything is controlled — you’re in it, properly.

Then there’s the way people eat.

No one sits down and analyses a plate outdoors. There’s no overthinking. It’s more instinctive. A bite here, a bit of conversation, another mouthful. Things are shared without much structure. Someone reaches across, someone tears something in half, no one really keeps track.

And I think a lot of that runs a bit deeper.

Most of us have some version of it in our memory that nostalgic — eating outside on holiday, food that probably wasn’t remarkable but somehow tasted better for where you were. For me, it goes back to cooking in the garden with my dad. Basic barbecues — burgers, sausages — often overcooked, sometimes not quite cooked enough.

But that wasn’t really the point.

It was the ritual of it. Getting the barbecue out, brushing it down after months of not touching it, that first real hit of flame and smoke. Standing around while things cooked, picking at bits as they came off, eating with your hands without much structure to it at all.

It was loose, a bit chaotic, and completely informal. And that’s probably where the connection starts — not with what you’re eating, but how you’re eating it.

There’s also an honesty to it.

Cooking outside — especially over fire — strips things back whether you want it to or not. You lose that last layer of control. It forces you to cook more simply, more directly. Seasoning matters more. Timing matters more. The ingredient itself matters more.

You can’t really hide behind technique.

And over time, that changes how you cook.

Years ago, when I was first working with live fire at Ember Yard, we leaned hard into it — pushing smoke, pushing intensity, trying to control it as much as you possibly can. Later on, with Grill Smoke BBQ, I went deep into it all — techniques, processes, ways of getting it right.

But the longer you do it, the less you chase perfection.

These days I’m far more relaxed with it. Happier to let things drift slightly, to let them catch a bit more than planned, and to adjust rather than force things back into line. Expecting a bit of inconsistency becomes part of the process — not everything needs to line up perfectly for it to work. I laboured over precise fire placements, smoke direction and started to cook all manner of things on a bbq that I shouldnt (a whole pudding section) it became hard work, challenging and not fun.

A lot of it is about setting things up properly and then getting out of the way. I tend to keep something steady ticking in the background — a lamb shoulder, something slow and forgiving — which takes the pressure off everything else. Cook things that improve with time, rather than ones that need to be perfect for a very small window. or that are very quick nd forgiving- don’t be too clever and think about whats obvious and will work- lamb chops are great- easy to cook, delicious., already portioned…

From there it’s about restraint. Don’t overcomplicate it. A couple of things done properly is enough, especially when you’re cooking outside. Let the food come off when it’s ready and serve it that way — not everything needs to land at once.

And you always need something to lift it. A bit of sharpness — lemon, vinegar, herbs, yoghurt — to balance the richness that fire and smoke naturally bring.

Most of it, though, comes down to letting go slightly. Cooking with less of a plan than you think you need. Accepting that things will shift, timing will move, and that’s part of what makes it work.

It’s a different kind of control — knowing when to step in, and when to leave it alone.

Restaurants try to recreate this all the time.

Open kitchens, grills, smoke, “outdoor” concepts brought inside. Sometimes it works, but more often it feels like a version of something rather than the thing itself.

Because it’s not really about the equipment. It’s about the context.

You can’t replicate that sense of ease. Or distraction. Or the way people behave when they’re not being served in the traditional sense. That slight loss of structure is what makes it land.

It’s the same reason a tomato eaten standing in a garden will nearly always taste better than one sliced perfectly on a plate indoors. It’s not a better tomato. It’s a better moment.

I don’t think it’s something to overanalyse, but it is worth remembering. The more you tighten food up and cooking, the more you refine it, the easier it is to lose the thing people actually respond to.

That sense that it’s happening in real time, slightly imperfectly, and that they’re part of it rather than just receiving it.

Cooking outside reminds you of that quite quickly.

And heading into summer, it’s probably as good a prompt as any.

Cook a bit more outside if you can. Don’t overthink it. Keep it simple, give things time, let them catch a little, and build in that bit of freshness to balance it all out.

It almost always tastes better that way.

BBQ Lamb Chops with Hot Sage & Cumin Sauce, Peas

This is exactly the kind of thing that makes sense outside. Quick to cook, full of smoke and fat from the chops, with something sharp and fresh running through it.

It’s a go to classic of mine form. the pages of Moorish- but tweaked a little. the aft charred lamb get bathed in a sweet- herby pickle that does wonderful things over a short time and creates something magical. you’ll see.

Ingredients
8 lamb chops (new season if possible)
Olive oil
Sea salt and black pepper
Juice of 1/2 lemon

150g fresh peas (or good frozen)

For the hot mint & cumin sauce:
120ml extra virgin olive oil
80ml white balsamic vinegar
1 tsp cumin seeds, lightly crushed
3 garlic cloves, finely sliced
A handful of fresh sage leaves

Method
Get a barbecue going, or a grill pan properly hot.

Blanch the peas in salted water until just tender, then drain and cool. Set aside.

Season the lamb chops well and grill over a high heat for 3–4 minutes each side.

Rest with lemon juice.

Warm oil and vinegar, add cumin and garlic, then peas and half the sage and resting juices. pour this over the resting chops and leave for at least 10 minutes.

To serve
Lay chops over peas and finish with sage. Serve outside and eat with smoke billowing around you

I’ve been slightly swamped by apricots over the past few days.

The chefs at work have gone a bit apricot-mad — it seems to happen every year — but this one feels like it’s properly landed. Everything has tilted in their direction. I’m usually excited for them, but this season has dialled it up.

At home, I ended up making a crudo with some lightly pickled apricots, just to cut through the richness. Nykeeta, far more casually, knocked together an apricot, ice cream and pavlova situation that was properly good. I made (well assembled really some lightly roasted apricots with Dorstone goats cheese, pistachios and honey- sort of a Sicilian- British mashup that could be eaten for a starter as well as a dessert (it needed up being both) and there’s was also a apricot cake with moist sponge, jammy and with a richness and spice only olive oil can bring to a cake.

Then this weekend I was cooking at a festival with fire chef Ana Ortiz, where we threw them straight onto the grill — letting them catch, darken and turn slightly smoky — before folding them into another pavlova that somehow tasted even better outdoors.

It wasn’t planned. But once they arrive, that’s what happens

There’s a moment every year when you taste the first proper apricot and everything shifts.

That’s when summer starts for me.

Not cold, not firm, not just sweet — but soft, fragrant, almost floral.

The kind that gives slightly under your fingers and smells like it’s already halfway to jam.

The only other fruit I can liken it to the right conditions are Alphonso mangoes - there’s a heady otherworldliness to the smell and taste that takes you on a journey to where it was grown and back again

Apricots don’t hang around for long. They arrive quietly, peak quickly, and disappear before you’ve properly had your fill. You either catch them at the right moment, or you miss them entirely.

And when they’re good, there’s very little else like them and the time is now.

A fruit that travels well — but never tastes the same, the apricot has been moving for thousands of years.

From Central Asia and China, carried west through Persia and into the Mediterranean, it’s always followed heat.

By the time it reached southern Europe, it had found its home — a fruit that belongs to long days, dry air and proper sun.

(It’s why the best ones are still the ones you eat there im afraid, but all is not lost as I explain later)

In Sicily, they’re pushed right to the edge. Soft, sweet, slightly wild — almost overripe, in the best way. Something about the light there, the soil, the way they let them hang just a little longer.

In the south of France, they’re different. More perfumed, more controlled. Still ripe, but with a gentler, floral edge — less intensity, more elegance.

Back here, you can find yourself chasing that memory. A lot what you find is picked too early, built for travel, not flavour- more like tasteless or super sours orange- yellow bullets.

But its getting better and its easier to find the ones that are right ones — Grocers are best and on line from Natoora via ocado and Waitrose is a good start. A bit of searching. And when you get one it takes you straight back.

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It’s just about catching them at the right moment not so much “seasonally” as that’s a bit of a catchall and actually makes us bit lazy. Pick one up, smell it, squeeze it AND dare I see eat one before you buy (whilst no ones looking)

They are of course delicious in their natural naked glory or try giving them a gentle roast or poach top boost their sweetness. They work well with hardy herbs such as rosemary, thyme and lavender and as with other stone fruits are a good friend of charcoal grilling- the smoky char balancing their natural sweetness. In fact they are pretty versatile even cooking down to a jam that actually retains its apricot-iness.

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Two favourite ways with apricots

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Roasted Apricots, Goat’s Cheese, Honey & Pistachio

This is barely a recipe. More just a way of serving them warm.

Ingredients

• Ripe apricots, halved and stoned

• Soft goat’s cheese

• Good honey

• Pistachios, lightly crushed

• Olive oil

• A few thyme leaves or basil (optional)

Method Get a pan or grill hot.

Lightly oil the apricots and cook them cut-side down until they take on a bit of colour and just start to collapse.

Lay them on a plate while they’re still warm. Add the goat’s cheese, let it soften slightly.

Drizzle over the honey, scatter the pistachios, finish with herbs.

That’s it.

Warm fruit, cool cheese,

Apricot, Rosemary & Olive Oil Upside-Down Cake

Something a bit more structured — still simple, but with a bit more intention.

The apricots cook into the base, turning soft and almost jammy, while the rosemary lifts everything with a subtle savoury edge.

Ingredients

•8-9 ripe apricots, halved and stoned

• 2–3 tbsp honey

• A few small rosemary sprigs

• 180g caster sugar

• 3 eggs

• 150ml good olive oil

• 200g plain flour

• 1 tsp baking powder

• Pinch of salt

• Zest of 1 lemon

Method

Preheat the oven to 160°C (fan).

Line a cake tin and lightly grease it. Arrange the apricot halves cut-side down across the base, fairly tightly packed. Drizzle over the honey and tuck in a few small sprigs of rosemary.

In a bowl, whisk the eggs and sugar until pale and slightly thickened.

Slowly pour in the olive oil, whisking as you go.

Fold in the flour, baking powder and salt, then add the lemon zest.

Pour the batter gently over the apricots, smoothing it out.

Bake for 40–45 minutes, until golden and set.

Leave to cool slightly, then turn out carefully so the apricots sit on top.

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To finish

Add a few more fresh rosemary tips if you like, and a light drizzle of honey.

Serve warm or at room temperature, ideally with a spoon of crème fraîche.

How to start my first Substack newsletter? How about at the beginning and the end (well, the present) in one go?

I’m late to the table with Substack as I am with many things like this, usually my restaurant work being all consuming — but I’m embracing the writing freedom and platform I’ve been yearning for and excited to join my favourite food writers. My plan is to post weekly with a food or hospitality related essay and then a recipe or two - later on subscription.

This year I moved to Winchelsea on the East Sussex coast with my wife Nykeeta and Frenchie Peanut after 30 odd years in London—it’s a significant move, not least the complete contrast from a. Gritty East London street to a beautiful and rural seaside location, but I’m hoping it’s a step into a new pace of life where I can focus on other food things; like Substack, book and recipe writing, and getting back to doing some proper good old-fashioned cooking.

I’m hoping I’ve come full circle now— I grew up by the sea in Skegness in Lincolnshire— which was a vibrant seaside town and in fact once the East Coast equivalent to Blackpool— I grew up in my family’s business eating and occasionally cooking fish & chips, soft serves, fried doughnuts, candy floss, and toffee apples (yes, a diet fit for a king) before hotfooting it to London at 18 where I thought the streets paved with gold; the irony being I could barely afford a pint after rent and travel for my first two years, but that’s another chapter.

Being submerged in seaside food and culture for my formative years has never really left me. A trip to the sea side no matter where always felt nostalgic and exciting- a place where fun things would happen and anything was possible.

I’ve always sought out the best fish and chips, but alas, it never tastes as good as when you are by the sea- its a sensory thing and it never feels quite right eating it in the city in my opinion but I know there are some fabulous Chippies in London that go all out to keep things quality and authentic.

Back to Winchelsea, specifically Rye- there’s the dream chippy- not only is it sort of by the sea but it knocks it out the park striking the balance of assured technique and quality with a proper seaside feel. Their large cod has crisp, shattering batter and a thick, super fresh, juicy, skin-on cod fillet, steaming away under its crisp carapace when you cut into it. The chips are cooked in beef fat and manage a crisp yet soggy texture that I think is prerequisite for an authentic chip-soaked in malt vinegar and lots of table salt - you can expect curry sauce, wally and bright green mushy peas that all feel dead right. Marinos has been going for decades and the year round queen testify its stature.

But I do make fish and chips (at work all our pubs have it on their menus and we are pretty proud of it) and occasionally at home- this is where you can really take time on it and rather like a Sunday lunch or a breakfast, cooked and served immediately I don’t think it can be improved. Rye also has the ideal fish monger- Rye fish market which sees daily deliveries form local fisherman into rye harbour, just at the back of the shop. Its doesn’t get better or fresher - and no, Skegness didn’t have that.

My home cooked version has all the elements of the classic but with a Tish influence on the flavours - I’m sorry but many years travelling through the southern Mediterranean has left a deep culinary mark on me and this seaside fuelled, full-circle moment ( I don’t intend on leaving Winchelsea, by the way) has taken over 30 years to complete - I think I’m allowed a little creative licence on this one.

You’re also getting the Cubitt House recipe - that’s classic but in that slightly more shaped, refined way you get in posh pubs.

My full-circle, classic Fish & Chips

This nods more towards southern Italy, Frito mistos and Mediterranean- alfresco suppers. The potatoes are inspired by my holiday chips in “Mediterra”. You know the ones- all golden, rough cut and perfect- the ones you find in Greek Tavernas and Spanish tapas bars. It think its the oils that make them so good, plus the fact you are on holiday.

Serves 4

Fish

4 cod loins, 180-200g each and halved

100g plain flour (for dusting)

4 lemon halves

Chardonnay or muscatel vinegar for finishing

Batter

120g plain flour

40g cornflour

1 tsp baking powder

200ml ice-cold sparkling water

Sea salt

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Potatoes

800g Maris Piper, thick cut into wedges

2 tbsp capers, chopped

10–12 sage leaves

2 garlic cloves finely chopped

Sea salt

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Aioli

2 egg yolks

1 garlic clove, paste

1 tsp Dijon

200ml extra virgin olive oil

Lemon juice

Salt

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Peas

400g peas

1 shallot, sliced

Splash stock or water

1 tbsp chardoanny or muscatel vinegar

Handful fresh mint, chopped

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Method

Potatoes

Rinse, then simmer 5–6 mins until just tender.

Drain well, steam dry.

First fry at 160°C until soft, no colour.

Lift, drain.

Second fry at 180°C until crisp + golden.

Drain, then toss with capers, crisp sage, garlic and sea salt.

Aioli

Whisk the yolks, garlic, Dijon. Slowly add oil to emulsify and Season with lemon and salt.

Peas

Sweat the shallot in olive oil, then add the peas and a splash liquid.Cook quickly until tender. Finish with vinegar and mint.

Fish

Mix the batter — keep it light, don’t overwork- it should be like a single cream

Heat oil to 180oc Season the fish dust in flour. Dip in batter and straight into oil. Fry 4–5 mins until crisp + deep golden. Turning gently once or twice.

Drain on rack. Season and sprinkle with vinegar.

Serve all the elements together with half lemons

Serves 4

CH classic fish and chips

All the elements for a fabulous fish and chips- Marinos and my Dad would be proud. Its a few elements and toy could always replace the mushy peas and tart sauce with good bought in. Your call

For the fish

• 4 x 160–180g fillets of cod or haddock (skin on, pin-boned)

• 200g plain flour (plus extra for dusting)

• 50g cornflour

• 1 tsp baking powder

• sparkling water

• Sea salt

• rapeseed oil for deep frying

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For the chips

• 1.2kg Maris Piper potatoes

• rape seed oil or beef dripping

• Sea salt

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For the mushy peas

• 300g dried marrowfat peas (soaked overnight in water with 1 tsp bicarbonate of soda)

• 40g butter

• 1 small shallot, finely chopped

• A handful of fresh mint, finely chopped

• A splash of malt vinegar

• Sea salt

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For the tartare sauce

• 2 egg yolks

• 1 tsp Dijon mustard

• 200ml neutral oil (rapeseed)

• 1 tbsp white wine vinegar

• 2 tbsp cornichons, finely chopped

• 1 tbsp capers, finely chopped

• 1 tbsp shallot, very finely chopped

• 1 tbsp parsley, chopped

• Juice of ½ lemon

• Sea salt and pepper

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Method

CHIPS

Peel the potatoes and cut into thick chips. Rinse well to remove starch, then simmer gently in salted water for 6–8 minutes until just tender but holding shape.

Drain and steam dry thoroughly—this is crucial for texture.

Fry once at 140°C until pale and cooked through (about 6–8 minutes), then lift out and cool.

Finish with a second fry at 180°C just before serving until golden, crisp and fluffy within. Season generously with sea salt.

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Mushy peas

Drain the soaked peas and rinse well. Cover with fresh water and simmer gently for about 30–40 minutes until very soft.

Drain again, then fold through butter, shallot, mint and a splash of malt vinegar.

Lightly crush with a fork—you want texture, not a purée. Season well and keep warm.

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Tartare sauce

Whisk egg yolks and Dijon together, then slowly emulsify with oil to create a thick mayonnaise.

Add vinegar, cornichons, capers, shallot, parsley and lemon juice. Season to taste.

It should be sharp, punchy and slightly chunky—cutting through the richness of the fish.

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Batter & fish

Heat oil to 180°C.

Mix flour, cornflour, baking powder and a pinch of salt. Whisk in the cold lager until you have a light batter—don’t overwork it.

Dust the fish lightly in flour, then dip into the batter, letting excess drip off.

Fry for 5–6 minutes until deep golden and crisp. Lift out, drain, and season immediately with sea salt.

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serve

Pile chips high alongside the fish. Spoon mushy peas onto the plate (or serve in a ramekin) and add a generous dollop of tartare sauce.