
Chef Thomas
Anchovy Sauce
A proper white sauce sharpened with pounded anchovy, the old Georgian trick for waking up a piece of poached fish or a slice of roast lamb on a Sunday in spring.
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Created by Chef Thomas
A small bowl of fierce, creamy horseradish sauce, made fresh from the root and folded together ten minutes before the beef hits the table, the way it ought to be.
The first time I grated a fresh horseradish root I cried at the kitchen counter. Properly cried, with my eyes streaming and my nose running, laughing at myself in front of the window. Nothing in a jar prepares you for the real thing. It's a vegetable that fights back, and once you've met it on its own terms you won't go back to the beige stuff with the long shelf life.
This is a sauce for a Sunday in winter, when there's a piece of beef resting on the board and the kitchen is warm with the smell of fat and rosemary. Cream, a knob of grated root, a spoon of vinegar, a spoon of mustard, a pinch of sugar to soften the edges. That's all of it. You can make it in the time it takes someone to set the table.
The trick, if there is one, is to make it close to the table. Horseradish has a short, brilliant temper. Grate it an hour too early and the heat starts to slip away from you, leaving behind a milder, sweeter ghost of the sauce you meant to make. Grate it ten minutes before you serve it and it'll knock the top of your head off in the best possible way. Right food, right evening.
I wrote it down in the notebook years ago, just three words: beef, root, cream. I haven't needed more detail than that since.
Quantity
thumb-sized piece
peeled
Quantity
150ml
Quantity
1 teaspoon
Quantity
1 teaspoon
Quantity
1 teaspoon
Quantity
pinch
Quantity
small squeeze
| Ingredient | Quantity |
|---|---|
| fresh horseradish rootpeeled | thumb-sized piece |
| double cream | 150ml |
| white wine vinegar or cider vinegar | 1 teaspoon |
| English mustard | 1 teaspoon |
| caster sugar | 1 teaspoon |
| fine sea salt | pinch |
| lemon (optional) | small squeeze |
Peel the horseradish with a small knife or a vegetable peeler. Grate it finely on the smallest holes of a box grater or on a microplane. Stand back. Or don't, and let it remind you that it's alive. The fumes will catch the back of your throat and make your eyes water. That's the whole point. A horseradish that doesn't make you flinch isn't worth the trouble.
Pour the cream into a cold bowl and whisk it by hand until it just holds a soft shape. Not stiff. You want it slack enough to fall from a spoon in slow folds. Stop early. Cream firms a little more as you stir other things into it, and a stiff horseradish sauce sits on the plate like a scoop of something it shouldn't be.
Stir the vinegar, mustard, sugar, and salt into the grated horseradish first, so the heat has something to lean against. Then fold the lot through the cream with a spoon, gently, until you have a pale, flecked sauce that smells fierce and looks innocent. Taste it. More salt, almost certainly. A second pinch of sugar if it bites too hard. A small squeeze of lemon if it needs lifting.
Spoon it into a small bowl and bring it to the table while the roast is being carved. Horseradish loses its nerve quickly. The heat that knocks you sideways at the grater starts to fade within the hour, and by the next day it's a polite cousin of itself. Make it last. Eat it now.
1 serving (about 30g)
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