
Chef Thomas
Cauliflower Cheese
A whole cauliflower blanketed in strong, mustardy cheese sauce, baked until the top blisters gold and the kitchen smells like the kind of evening where nothing else needs doing.
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Created by Chef Thomas
A raised game pie with pheasant and pigeon in hot water crust, the kind of patient autumn cooking that fills the kitchen with the smell of cold weather and countryside and the quiet satisfaction of something properly made.
November. The clocks have gone back and the evenings close in by four. The market had pheasants this Saturday, hung for a week and looking like autumn feels: dark, rich, slightly wild. A brace of pigeons beside them, small and neat. I brought them home knowing exactly what they were for.
A game pie is not a weeknight supper. I won't pretend otherwise. It asks for an afternoon of your time, a cleared kitchen, and the willingness to work with pastry that behaves differently from anything else you've handled. Hot water crust is its own thing: warm, pliable, almost alive in your hands. You press it into the tin like clay, fill it with seasoned game laced with bacon and port and juniper, seal it up, and trust the oven to do the rest. The kitchen fills with a smell that belongs to this time of year and no other: savoury, gamey, deep.
The jelly is the part that separates a good pie from a great one. Stock, set with gelatine, poured through the lid while the pie is still warm, seeping into every gap between the meat and the crust. It sets overnight into something glossy and trembling. When you cut the first slice and see that layer of amber jelly holding the filling together, you'll know the effort was worth it.
I wrote it down in the notebook last year: game pie, first proper cold weekend, port and juniper, the kitchen smelled like the countryside had come indoors. I make one every autumn now. It's become a kind of ritual, a way of marking the season. A recipe is a conversation, not a contract, and this one has changed a little each year. More juniper. Less onion. A splash more port. Your kitchen, your rules.
Quantity
2, roughly 300g total
cut into thick strips
Quantity
4, roughly 250g total
cut into thick strips
Quantity
200g
cut into short strips
Quantity
1 large
finely chopped
Quantity
2 cloves
crushed
Quantity
a small glass
Quantity
6
crushed
Quantity
a few sprigs
leaves picked
Quantity
2
Quantity
1 teaspoon, plus more to taste
Quantity
a good grinding
Quantity
a generous grating
Quantity
500g
Quantity
200g
Quantity
75g
Quantity
200ml
Quantity
1 teaspoon
Quantity
1
beaten, for glazing
Quantity
400ml
Quantity
2
| Ingredient | Quantity |
|---|---|
| pheasant breastscut into thick strips | 2, roughly 300g total |
| pigeon breastscut into thick strips | 4, roughly 250g total |
| smoked streaky baconcut into short strips | 200g |
| onionfinely chopped | 1 large |
| garliccrushed | 2 cloves |
| port or Marsala | a small glass |
| juniper berriescrushed | 6 |
| thymeleaves picked | a few sprigs |
| bay leaves | 2 |
| fine sea salt | 1 teaspoon, plus more to taste |
| black pepper | a good grinding |
| nutmeg | a generous grating |
| plain flour | 500g |
| lard | 200g |
| unsalted butter | 75g |
| water | 200ml |
| fine sea salt (for the pastry) | 1 teaspoon |
| eggbeaten, for glazing | 1 |
| game or chicken stock | 400ml |
| gelatine leaves | 2 |
Cut the pheasant and pigeon breasts into thick strips, roughly the width of your little finger. Season them well with salt, pepper, nutmeg, the crushed juniper, and the thyme leaves. Fry the bacon strips in a wide pan over a medium heat until the fat renders and the edges start to colour. Add the onion and garlic, lower the heat, and cook gently until soft and sweet, ten minutes or so. Add the port and let it bubble away to almost nothing. Tip the bacon and onions into a bowl with the seasoned game meat, tuck in the bay leaves, and mix everything together with your hands. Cover and leave in the fridge for an hour, or overnight if you have the time. The longer it sits, the more the flavours settle in.
Put the flour and salt in a large bowl and make a well in the centre. Melt the lard and butter in the water over a gentle heat. When it's all liquid and just starting to simmer, pour it into the flour and stir quickly with a wooden spoon until it comes together into a rough dough. Turn it out and knead briefly until smooth. It should feel warm and pliable, like modelling clay. Work quickly. This pastry stiffens as it cools and becomes difficult to handle, so don't let it sit about.
Cut off about a third of the pastry and set it aside, covered with a tea towel so it stays warm. Roll out the larger piece on a lightly floured surface to the thickness of a pound coin. Use it to line a deep, loose-bottomed 20cm round cake tin, or a 900g loaf tin if you prefer a longer shape. Press the pastry into the corners and up the sides, leaving a slight overhang at the top. There should be no gaps. No thin patches. Run your fingers around the base to make sure.
Remove the bay leaves and pack the filling into the pastry case. Press it down firmly so there are no air pockets. The meat should come right to the top. If there's a gap, the pie will collapse inward as it cooks and you'll lose the shape. Roll out the reserved pastry for the lid. Brush the rim of the case with beaten egg, lay the lid on top, and crimp the edges firmly together. Cut a small hole in the centre of the lid, about the width of a pencil, for steam to escape. Brush the whole surface with beaten egg. If you want to decorate the top with pastry leaves, now is the time. I usually do. It costs nothing and looks right.
Set the oven to 200C/180C fan. Place the pie on a baking tray and bake for thirty minutes until the pastry is set and beginning to colour. Then lower the temperature to 170C/150C fan and bake for a further hour and a quarter to an hour and a half. The crust should be deep golden brown, firm to the tap, and the kitchen should smell like a November afternoon: savoury, warm, slightly wild. If the top is browning too fast, lay a sheet of foil loosely over it. Trust your nose. It knows before you do.
While the pie bakes, warm the stock. Soak the gelatine leaves in cold water for five minutes until floppy, then squeeze them out and stir into the warm stock until dissolved. Let it cool to room temperature. When the pie comes out of the oven, let it settle for twenty minutes, then carefully pour the stock through the hole in the lid, a little at a time, using a small funnel or a jug with a good spout. The pie will absorb more than you think. Go slowly. Let it seep in before adding more. Leave the pie to cool completely in the tin, then refrigerate overnight. The jelly sets around the meat and fills every gap. This is what makes a game pie a game pie.
Remove the pie from the tin carefully. The crust should be firm and self-supporting. Let it come to room temperature before cutting. A sharp knife, run under hot water and dried, gives the cleanest slices. Inside, you should see the layered meat in its dark, savoury jelly, encased in that thick, golden crust. Serve with a sharp chutney, pickled onions, and a green salad dressed with mustard. There are few better feelings than putting this on the table and watching someone's face as you cut the first slice.
1 serving (about 250g)
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