English Mustard Vinaigrette

There's a jar of Colman's in nearly every British fridge, and most of it gets used on a Sunday with the beef and then forgotten about until the next roast. That's a waste. The same yellow heat that cuts through cold meat will cut through a bowl of bitter winter leaves, or a plate of boiled new potatoes, or a few slices of cold ham eaten standing up at the kitchen counter.

This is the dressing I make most weeks, and the one I almost never write down because there's nothing to write. A spoon of mustard. A splash of vinegar. Garlic if I can be bothered, honey to take the edge off, and good olive oil whisked in until the whole thing turns the colour of pale custard. Five minutes, one bowl, no fuss.

The trick, if there is one, is the mustard itself. Colman's is meant to be sharp. Properly sharp. The kind of sharp that climbs up the back of your nose and makes your eyes water for half a second. If your jar has gone tame, replace it. A good vinaigrette starts with a mustard that still bites back. We're only making dinner, but we may as well make it taste of something.