
Chef Thomas
Anglesey Eggs
Eggs bedded into leek-flecked mash under a blanket of sharp cheese sauce, baked until golden and bubbling. A Welsh supper dish that proves the simplest things are usually the best.
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Poached cod in a sauce thick with parsley, made from the milk the fish cooked in, served with plain boiled potatoes. The kind of meal that asks for nothing except a cold evening and someone to feed.
Rain against the window. January, or thereabouts. The kind of evening when you want something plain and warm and good, something that doesn't ask you to be clever. This is that dinner.
Cod in parsley sauce is deeply unfashionable. Nobody is putting it on a menu or photographing it for anything. It doesn't pretend to be more than it is: a piece of fish in a white sauce with potatoes on the side. But there's a reason your grandmother made it, and her mother before her, and the reason is that it works. The fish poaches in milk, the milk becomes the sauce, the parsley turns it green and fresh, and the whole thing comes together in less time than it takes to open a bottle of wine. We're only making dinner.
The trick, if there is one, is the poaching milk. You infuse it first with a bay leaf and a few peppercorns and half an onion, then cook the fish in it gently, then use that same milk to build your sauce. Nothing is wasted. The sauce carries the flavour of everything it has touched. This is old cooking, sensible cooking, the kind that makes you wonder why we ever stopped doing it.
I wrote it down in the notebook last winter: cod, parsley, potatoes, Tuesday, rain. That was enough to bring the whole evening back. The kitchen smelled of warm milk and butter. The plates were hot. The fish fell apart under a fork. Right food, right evening.
Quantity
4, about 175g each
skin on or off as you prefer
Quantity
500ml
Quantity
1
Quantity
6
Quantity
1 small
halved
Quantity
40g
Quantity
30g
Quantity
large bunch
finely chopped
Quantity
a squeeze
Quantity
to taste
Quantity
to taste
Quantity
750g
peeled or scrubbed, halved if large
Quantity
a few
for the potato water
| Ingredient | Quantity |
|---|---|
| thick cod filletsskin on or off as you prefer | 4, about 175g each |
| whole milk | 500ml |
| bay leaf | 1 |
| black peppercorns | 6 |
| onionhalved | 1 small |
| unsalted butter | 40g |
| plain flour | 30g |
| flat-leaf parsleyfinely chopped | large bunch |
| lemon juice | a squeeze |
| fine sea salt | to taste |
| white pepper | to taste |
| waxy potatoespeeled or scrubbed, halved if large | 750g |
| mint sprigs (optional)for the potato water | a few |
Put the potatoes in a pan of cold, well-salted water with the mint sprigs if you have them. Bring to a gentle boil and cook until they give way easily to the point of a knife, fifteen to twenty minutes depending on their size. Don't rush them. A potato that's almost done is not done. When they're ready, drain them and keep them warm under a clean tea towel in the pan with the lid on. They'll sit happily like that for ten minutes while you finish everything else.
Pour the milk into a wide, shallow pan, something the cod fillets will fit in comfortably in a single layer. Add the bay leaf, peppercorns, and onion halves. Set it over a low heat and bring it just to the point where small bubbles appear at the edges. Not a boil. Not even close. The milk should barely shiver. Let it sit on this gentle heat for five minutes to draw out the flavour of the aromatics. The kitchen will start to smell of warm milk and bay, which is a quiet, comforting smell, the sort that belongs to this kind of cooking.
Lower the cod fillets into the warm milk, skin side down if they still have their skin. The milk should come most of the way up the fish. If it doesn't, add a splash more. Let them poach at the barest simmer for eight to ten minutes, depending on thickness. You'll know they're done when the flesh has turned from translucent to opaque white and flakes apart easily when you press it gently with the back of a spoon. Lift the fillets out carefully with a slotted spoon and set them on a warm plate. Cover loosely. They're forgiving. They'll wait for you.
Pour the poaching milk through a sieve into a jug, discarding the bay, peppercorns, and onion. This milk is now your sauce, or the bones of it. It carries the flavour of the fish and the aromatics. Don't throw it away. Everything depends on it.
Melt the butter in a clean saucepan over a medium heat. When it foams, add the flour and stir with a wooden spoon for a minute or two. The paste should smell biscuity, not raw. Now add the warm poaching milk gradually, a ladleful at a time, stirring constantly. The first addition will seize into a thick paste. Don't panic. Keep stirring and adding milk. It loosens. It always does. Once all the milk is in, let the sauce bubble gently for four or five minutes, stirring often, until it coats the back of the spoon with a consistency like double cream. Not thick like wallpaper paste. Not thin like soup. Somewhere honest in between.
Take the sauce off the heat. Stir in the chopped parsley, a generous amount, more than you think. The sauce should be properly green, flecked all through, not a white sauce with a polite suggestion of herb. Add a squeeze of lemon, season with salt and white pepper, and taste it. Then taste it again. The lemon should lift without announcing itself. Spoon the sauce over the cod on warm plates, set the potatoes alongside, and bring it to the table. There are few better feelings than putting a warm plate in front of someone on a cold night and watching them pick up their fork without hesitation.
1 serving (about 420g)
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