Chutney Mania

Little did I know, stirring together an aromatic mixture of fruit, sugar, vinegar, and spice, that I had stumbled on a family obsession.

“What are you up to this afternoon?” my flat mate Stu asked, wandering into the kitchen.  It was a grey drizzly Sunday, ideal for a leisurely session in front of the stove, steaming up the kitchen and filling the air with fragrant smells, a perfect afternoon for chutney.

“Ah,” Stu exclaimed, “you must be an Adams if you’re making chutney!”

I paused, confused. “Oh yes, “ Stu went on, “the Adams’s are mad about the stuff. They have it with everything. Chutney and pickles, they love ‘em all.”

When I thought about it, I had noticed a prodigious amount chutney and pickles when I last visited my aunt and uncle in Wales. In fact it was there I’d tasted pickled walnuts—unknown to your average American palate—for the first time.  My cousin had about half a bottle’s worth with his meal. It was all beginning to make sense.

Stu’s observation was confirmed when, not a day later, I received an email from my uncle Chris.  It read as follows:

Rachie,

We were very pleased that you are becoming a chutney enthusiast.

The attached is the recipe for probably the best chutney you will ever taste.  A. Mollie is Rosie's Aunty (not a real Aunt) Mollie.  Aspinster, sadly no longer with us who captained the England Ladies cricket team for many years in the 1950s.

Love

Chris

A day later I received an email from my cousin (he of the half jar of pickled walnuts) complaining that, as he is currently exiled from his native England, he is forced to make his own chuntey. There is nothing of sufficient quality in the length and breadth of the United States. Even via mail order from Virginia. Now that is dedication.

So there I was thinking this was a popular British fixation only to discover that my own extended family is perhaps uniquely affected by chutney mania.

Auntie Mollie’s recipe came in the form of a scanned page of loopy writing describing instructions for an apple and tomato chutney.  It looks intriguing and I intend to try it soon. Meanwhile, all I had at my disposal on that rain-washed Sunday were apples, onions, and an impatient urge—clearly genetic I must now conclude—to try my hand at the craft.

The process was wonderfully simple, involving nothing more than chopping the apples and onion, tossing them into a saucepan with all remaining ingredients, and cooking until thickened. And the result, while I’m sure falling short of A. Mollie’s chutney, was definitely satisfying: a pleasant balance of fruit, spice, acid, and sugar . . . perhaps ever-so-slightly too sweet.

Today my chutney and bread making came together at lunch. Simple, quick, and eminently satisfying: a thick wedge of sharp English cheddar and generous layer of chunky apple chutney crammed between two slices of nutty, wholegrain sourdough bread.

Borough Market

In order to begin chutney making in style, I decided to pay a visit to Borough Market. Technically speaking I could easily have bought the necessary ingredients from Sainsburys, but I felt that this option lacked glamour. Besides, I’d heard so many eulogies on this wondrous open air market, it was time to see for myself.

Borough market is situated just south of London Bridge, in the Southwark neighborhood. It is a venerable market, some say dating back to Roman times. Where legend ends and history begins is hard to tell but given the market’s location, nudging up to the river Thames, it is not surprising that it has been a thriving center of commerce for hundreds of years. Today it doubles as both a wholesale and retail market, the former open during the wee hours of morning when only those dedicated and industrious chefs are mad enough to be awake. The retail market however is clearly geared towards a more leisurely bunch, open in the middle of the day and boasting not only produce, meat, and dairy, but also Spanish tapas, artisan coffee, fine wines, posh cheeses, and a plethora of other delectables to tempt the wondering foodie.

 
As I entered the market, I shoved my hands firmly into my coat pockets. “Now look,” I said to myself, “don’t even think about buying anything frivolous. You’re here for a kilo of apples, one onion, and a cup of Monmouth Coffee, for research purposes, naturally.” (Before leaving Whidbey Island and my beloved UBCC coffee, I had done serious research on where to find the best caffeinated brew in London. The answer was clear: Monmouth Coffee Company had, by most accounts, the most beautiful beans in town.

They certainly had an eye for aesthetics, I reflected, standing in the slow moving coffee queue. Doors flung wide, the interior boasted a beautiful layout in rich brown hues. The center of the room was taken up by two long communal tables and in the middle of each were several enormous pots of jams. The tables themselves were littered with crumbs, coffee cups, and papers, and surrounded by customers, chatting, reading, and sipping away.  Pastries jostled for space on a counter at the back, baristas moved rhythmically through the motions of packing, pouring, and steaming milk, while chalk boards behind them romantically depicted the journey of beans from tree to cup.  The scene was admirably constructed and shamelessly alluring. More importantly, I decided, taking a reverent sip off a double short americano (called a “long black” in London lingo), the coffee itself was exquisite. Monmouth, for all its hype, certainly delivered the goods. 

After coffee I wandered wide-eyed around the market, fighting the urge to buy everything in sight. There was a stall selling unctuous olive oils, there was a chocolate shop (I couldn’t resist buying just one bar—silken, midnight-black 85% cacao content).  On one corner a handsome, ruddy cheeked guy was ladling sangria into plastic cups for his customers, two fashionably dressed young women who looked as though they’d already had a few too many, despite the early hour. Overcoming the urge to join these ladies in a midday tipple, I wandered off only to find myself in front of an equally distressing pork pie stand. Panic was beginning to settle in as I scanned the market, desperate to get away from temptation. How easy it would have been to spend half a month’s rent on pork pie, chocolate, and premium Italian olive oil!

 

I withdrew to the relative safety of the produce area, took a few deep breaths and bought my apples and onion. Done. Now all I needed was to make a dash for the exit without any mishaps.  On the way out I was halted by a whiff of something smokey and slightly spicy . . . . chorizo rolls: a soft, floury bap encasing a chunk of hot chorizo sausage, piquillo peppers, arugula, and a drizzle of olive oil, £ 3.50.

It was lunch time after all. Couldn’t argue with that.

Cheers for Chutney

I have not been in England more than a few weeks, but already I have noticed several intriguing peculiarities. Top on my list are a) a penchant for standing in line, or “queuing,” for no apparent reason, i.e. queuing ten deep in front of one ATM while a few yards away another is free; b) apologizing at any and every opportunity, even if the fault is clearly not theirs, and c) a habit of conducting business not in coffee shops, as Seattleites do, but in pubs . . . counterproductive, one might think, but a custom of which I wholly approve.

On the gastronomic front, I must add to the list a vigorous enthusiasm for chutney. They slather it on sandwiches, burgers, and curries of a sorts, and usually provide an army of different chutneys choices to go with chicken or pork. There are the classics, such as mango, apple, cranberry, and onion; then there are more elaborate concoctions such as pineapple, fig, and ginger; spiced beetroot and orange; pear and dried apricot . . . the list is endless.

The British passion for chutney is imbedded in the country’s imperial history. Just as the Brits raided, appropriated, and promptly bastardized such foreign refinements as tea, coffee, and sugar, they did the same to chutney. The word itself comes from the Hindi “chatni,” meaning “to taste” and is used to describe a wide range of sauces and seasoning preparations. From smooth to chunky, sweet to spicy, chutney in its native India was and still is a common accompaniment to many a meal. Traditional chutneys however were freshly made from seasonal fruits and vegetables—a far cry from the often sticky, hyper-sweet versions that you find on supermarket shelves today. And yet before I am too hard on the my forebears, I must admit that sometimes a dab of good quality chutney is ideal for enlivening a meal. The best chutneys seem to me a wonderful fusion of English and Indian flavors—lively and complex, a sophisticated preserve.

So while my sourdough starter is bubbling away, collecting yeasts from the air, I have decided to attempt a few different chutneys. As it is early autumn, this is also the perfect time to preserve some of the season’s harvest for those dour winter days ahead. To begin I’m going for a simple apple chutney, eager as I am to cook with that quintessential English cooking apple, the Bramley.