
Chef Thomas
A Proper Chicken Broth
Sunday's roast chicken, simmered slowly on Monday with carrots, celery, leeks, and thyme into a bowl of clear, golden broth that smells like the kitchen is paying attention.
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Knobbly, awkward artichokes, surrendered to butter and stock and blended into something so nutty and silky it feels like the kitchen is doing you a favour on a cold January night.
January. The garden is bare and the light goes by four. The kitchen window has fogged over and there's something on the hob that smells of butter and earth and quiet warmth. This is Jerusalem artichoke weather.
They're not much to look at. Knobbly, muddy, the shape of ginger root after a bad day. They peel badly, discolour the moment you turn your back, and resist every attempt to make them look respectable. None of that matters. What matters is what happens when you cook them slowly in butter and good stock and blend them into a soup so silky, so deeply nutty and rich, that it feels like winter's single best argument for itself.
I find them at the market in late November and buy them through to February, when they start to lose their sweetness. The stallholder piles them in a crate without ceremony. No one queues for Jerusalem artichokes the way they do for the first asparagus or the summer tomatoes. That suits me. More for the rest of us.
The soup is simple. Artichokes, butter, onion, stock, cream, lemon. A scattering of toasted hazelnuts if you want a bit of crunch, though it's not compulsory. I wrote it down in the notebook years ago: "artichoke soup, Tuesday, fog outside, best thing all week." I've made it dozens of times since and the note still holds. There are few better feelings than putting a warm bowl of this in front of someone on a cold evening and watching their shoulders drop.
Quantity
750g
peeled (or scrubbed) and roughly chopped
Quantity
30g
Quantity
1 tablespoon
Quantity
1 medium
sliced
Quantity
2 cloves
crushed
Quantity
750ml
Quantity
100ml
Quantity
half
juiced
Quantity
to taste
Quantity
to taste
Quantity
a small handful
roughly chopped
Quantity
for drizzling
| Ingredient | Quantity |
|---|---|
| Jerusalem artichokespeeled (or scrubbed) and roughly chopped | 750g |
| unsalted butter | 30g |
| olive oil | 1 tablespoon |
| onionsliced | 1 medium |
| garliccrushed | 2 cloves |
| chicken or vegetable stock | 750ml |
| double cream | 100ml |
| lemonjuiced | half |
| fine sea salt | to taste |
| white pepper | to taste |
| hazelnuts (optional)roughly chopped | a small handful |
| good olive oil (optional) | for drizzling |
Peel the artichokes with a small knife, dropping the pieces into a bowl of cold water with a squeeze of lemon as you go. They discolour quickly, turning a sulky grey the moment they hit the air. Don't worry about getting every last bit of skin off. They're knobbly and uncooperative and life is short. A few patches of peel won't hurt. Chop them roughly into pieces about the size of a walnut.
Melt the butter with the olive oil in a heavy-bottomed pan over a low heat. Add the sliced onion and a good pinch of salt. Let it cook gently for eight to ten minutes, stirring now and then, until it's soft and translucent and smells sweet. No colour. You want gentleness here, not caramelisation. Add the garlic for the last minute, just enough to take the raw edge off.
Drain the artichokes and add them to the pan. Stir them through the butter and onions, letting them pick up the warmth for a couple of minutes. Pour in the stock. It should just cover everything. If it doesn't quite, add a splash of water. Bring to a gentle simmer, put a lid on slightly ajar, and leave it for twenty to twenty-five minutes. The artichokes are ready when a knife slides through them with no resistance at all. They should be soft enough that they almost break apart when you stir.
Take the pan off the heat and blend until completely smooth. A stick blender is fine. Keep going longer than you think, because Jerusalem artichokes reward patience here, turning from rough to smooth to something almost impossibly silky if you give them the time. The texture should coat the back of a spoon and feel like velvet when you taste it.
Return the soup to a low heat. Stir in the cream and warm it through gently. Add a squeeze of lemon juice, just enough to lift everything and stop the soup tasting flat. Season with salt and white pepper. Taste it. Then taste it again. The flavour should be nutty and clean, rich but not heavy. Ladle into warm bowls. Scatter a few chopped toasted hazelnuts over the top, and a thread of good olive oil if you like. Serve with bread that can stand up to being dunked.
1 serving (about 430g)
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