
Chef Thomas
A Proper Roast Chicken
A whole bird rubbed with butter, stuffed with lemon and thyme, roasted until the skin crackles and the kitchen smells like the kind of evening you want to sit down and stay in.
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Created by Chef Thomas
A whole gammon simmered until tender, then roasted with honey, English mustard, and demerara until the scored fat turns sticky and golden and the kitchen smells like the kind of evening you want to walk into.
The kitchen smells different when there's a gammon on. Not subtle. The long, slow simmer fills the whole house with something savoury and warm, a smell that says people are coming, that there's a plan, that tonight matters more than most.
I cook this at Christmas mostly, though it has appeared at Easter and once or twice on a birthday when I couldn't think of anything better. The truth is, a glazed gammon is one of the most generous things you can put on a table. It feeds a crowd without fuss, it looks after itself for most of the cooking, and the moment you bring it out, burnished and sticky and proud in the middle of the table, everyone stops talking for a second. That pause is worth the morning.
The method is honest. You simmer the joint first, low and patient, with a few aromatics to keep it company. This does the real work, drawing out the salt and coaxing the meat into tenderness. Then you strip the skin, score the fat into diamonds, press in cloves, and paint the whole thing with a glaze of honey, mustard, and demerara sugar. Thirty minutes in a hot oven and it turns lacquered and golden and smells like every good December you can remember.
I wrote it down in the notebook years ago. "Gammon. Cloves. Honey. The table full." That was Christmas, or it might have been Easter. It doesn't matter. The feeling was the same. There are few better feelings than putting a warm plate in front of someone, and there are fewer better sights than this, sitting at the centre of a table surrounded by people who are glad to be there.
Quantity
2kg
bone in
Quantity
1
halved
Quantity
2
roughly chopped
Quantity
2 sticks
roughly chopped
Quantity
2
Quantity
1 tablespoon
Quantity
500ml
Quantity
3 tablespoons
Quantity
2 tablespoons
Quantity
3 tablespoons
Quantity
about 30
| Ingredient | Quantity |
|---|---|
| unsmoked gammon jointbone in | 2kg |
| onionhalved | 1 |
| carrotsroughly chopped | 2 |
| celeryroughly chopped | 2 sticks |
| bay leaves | 2 |
| black peppercorns | 1 tablespoon |
| dry cider | 500ml |
| runny honey | 3 tablespoons |
| English mustard | 2 tablespoons |
| demerara sugar | 3 tablespoons |
| whole cloves | about 30 |
If your butcher tells you the gammon is quite salty, or if you're unsure, soak it overnight in cold water. Change the water once or twice if you remember. This draws out the excess salt and gives you control over the seasoning later. If you've bought a mild-cure gammon, you can skip this and get straight to the pot.
Put the gammon in your largest pan and add the onion, carrots, celery, bay leaves, and peppercorns. Pour in the cider, then add enough cold water to cover the joint. Bring to a gentle simmer. Not a boil. A lazy, barely-there bubble. Put the lid on slightly ajar and let it cook for about two and a half hours for a 2kg joint, roughly twenty minutes per 500g. The kitchen will start to smell savoury and deep, like something good is being planned. If scum rises to the surface in the first fifteen minutes, skim it off. After that, leave it alone.
Lift the gammon out of the liquid carefully and let it cool for ten minutes until you can handle it. Don't throw the cooking liquor away: it makes extraordinary pea soup the next day. Set the oven to 220C/200C fan. With a sharp knife, peel away the skin, leaving as much of the fat behind as you can. The skin should come away in one piece if you work a knife gently under it. Score the fat in a diamond pattern, cutting about half a centimetre deep. The lines don't need to be perfect. They never are. Press a clove into the centre of each diamond.
Mix the honey and mustard together in a small bowl. That's it. The demerara goes on separately. The honey and mustard want to be warm and loose, so if your honey is thick and cold, stand the jar in hot water for a few minutes. You're after something that will paint on easily and cling to the fat.
Sit the gammon in a roasting tin lined with foil (you'll thank yourself later). Brush the honey and mustard mixture generously over the scored fat. Be thorough. Get it into the cuts, over the curves, everywhere. Then scatter the demerara sugar over the top. It should stick to the glaze and form a rough, sweet crust. Put it into the hot oven for twenty-five to thirty minutes. After fifteen minutes, open the oven and baste with the sticky juices pooling in the tin. The glaze will be bubbling and turning deep amber. The edges will be catching, going dark and caramelised. When it looks like something you want to eat standing at the kitchen counter with your fingers, it's done.
Take the gammon out of the oven and let it rest for fifteen minutes. Cover it loosely with foil, though honestly, the glaze is doing all the insulating it needs. Carve in thick, generous slices, starting from one end. The meat should be tender and pale pink, the fat golden and sticky. Spoon any of the jammy, honey-dark pan juices over the slices as you serve. Put it in the middle of the table and let people help themselves. That's the whole point.
1 serving (about 135g)
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