
Chef Thomas
A Ploughman's Salad
The old pub ploughman's, shaken loose from its board and laid across butter lettuce with a sharp mustard dressing, for the kind of lunch that feels like you've given yourself the afternoon off.
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Ripe pear, crumbled Stilton, and toasted walnuts scattered over bitter chicory and peppery rocket, dressed with a sharp mustard vinaigrette. The cheese course that became a salad.
November, and the pears on the market stall are finally ripe. Not the hard, reluctant things you get in September, but soft, yielding fruit that smells sweet before you even pick it up. That's when this salad starts to make sense.
This is really just the cheese course, rearranged. Stilton, pear, walnuts, something bitter on the side. It's been showing up on British tables in one form or another for as long as anyone can remember, and the reason is simple: it works. The sweetness of the pear leans into the salt of the cheese, the walnuts bring warmth and crunch, and the chicory cuts through all of it with a clean bitterness that keeps you reaching for the next forkful. The dressing is sharp, mustardy, barely there. Its job is to connect, not compete.
I made this for a small dinner in December a few years ago, when it was too cold to stand outside but the kitchen was warm from the oven. I wrote it down in the notebook: pear, Stilton, walnuts, chicory. Good evening. It needed nothing else. A recipe is a conversation, not a contract, and this one barely needs more than a sentence.
The whole thing takes fifteen minutes. No cooking to speak of, unless you count toasting walnuts in a dry pan, which I almost don't. The only skill required is choosing a ripe pear and knowing when to stop fussing. There are few better feelings than putting a plate like this in front of someone on a cold evening and watching them reach for the bread.
Quantity
2
Conference or Comice, cored and sliced
Quantity
150g
crumbled into rough pieces
Quantity
80g
Quantity
2 heads
leaves separated
Quantity
2 generous handfuls
Quantity
1 tablespoon
Quantity
1 tablespoon
Quantity
3 tablespoons
Quantity
1 teaspoon
Quantity
to taste
Quantity
to taste
Quantity
small handful
| Ingredient | Quantity |
|---|---|
| ripe pearsConference or Comice, cored and sliced | 2 |
| Stiltoncrumbled into rough pieces | 150g |
| walnut halves | 80g |
| chicoryleaves separated | 2 heads |
| rocket | 2 generous handfuls |
| Dijon mustard | 1 tablespoon |
| cider vinegar | 1 tablespoon |
| extra virgin olive oil | 3 tablespoons |
| runny honey | 1 teaspoon |
| fine sea salt | to taste |
| black pepper | to taste |
| flat-leaf parsley leaves (optional) | small handful |
Put the walnuts in a dry frying pan over a medium heat. Stay close. Shake the pan every so often and wait until they start to smell warm and toasty, like a biscuit tin left in the sun. This takes three or four minutes, but your nose will tell you before the clock does. The moment they darken a shade, tip them onto a plate. They'll keep cooking in the pan if you leave them, and burnt walnuts are bitter in the wrong way.
Spoon the mustard into a small bowl or jam jar. Add the cider vinegar and the honey. Stir until smooth, then pour in the olive oil in a thin stream, whisking or shaking as you go. Season with salt and pepper. Taste it on a leaf. It should be sharp enough to stand up to the Stilton but not so sharp it makes you wince. Adjust with a drop more honey or a splash more vinegar until it sits right.
Quarter the pears lengthways, cut out the cores, and slice each quarter into three or four long pieces. The pears need to be ripe. Press a thumb gently near the stem: if it gives slightly, you're there. If it doesn't, the pear will be chalky and no dressing in the world will rescue it. If it gives too much, you've got a pear for cooking, not a salad. Slice them just before you assemble. Pear flesh browns quickly and nobody wants that.
Lay the chicory leaves and rocket on a wide plate or shallow bowl. Don't toss them yet. Scatter the pear slices among the leaves, then crumble the Stilton over in rough, uneven pieces. Some large, some small. Uniformity isn't the point. Break the toasted walnuts roughly with your hands and let them fall where they fall. Spoon the dressing over everything, not too much, just enough to coat the leaves lightly. Scatter the parsley over the top if you have it. Carry the plate to the table before anyone asks what's for dinner.
1 serving (about 220g)
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