
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 proper tartare sauce, made with real mayonnaise and a handful of sharp little things, the only sauce worth spooning next to a piece of good fish on a Friday night.
Friday evening. There's a piece of fish in the fridge, something simple, plaice or haddock or whatever the fishmonger had that looked bright-eyed and firm. It's going in a hot pan with butter in twenty minutes. But first, the sauce.
Tartare from a jar is one of those things I gave up on a long time ago. It tastes of vinegar and sugar and not much else, and it sits beside a piece of fish like an apology. Made at home, it's a different thing entirely. Real mayonnaise, glossy and pale, folded through with capers and gherkins and shallot and a small green snowstorm of parsley. Sharp, salty, herbal, rich. The kind of sauce that makes you want to eat it off the spoon.
Making mayonnaise from scratch sounds harder than it is. Two egg yolks, some mustard, a slow drizzle of oil, a whisk in your hand, and ten minutes of paying attention. That's the whole thing. The first time you do it and watch the yolks transform into something thick and glossy, you'll wonder why you ever bought it in a jar. I wrote it down in the notebook the first time it worked: "Mayonnaise. Friday. Plaice. Don't go back." I never did.
We're only making dinner. But this is the small, careful thing that turns dinner into something worth remembering.
Quantity
2 large
at room temperature
Quantity
1 teaspoon
Quantity
1 teaspoon
Quantity
250ml
Quantity
2 tablespoons
drained and roughly chopped
Quantity
4 small
finely chopped
Quantity
1 small
very finely chopped
Quantity
small handful
finely chopped
Quantity
a few sprigs
finely chopped
Quantity
to taste
Quantity
to taste
Quantity
to taste
| Ingredient | Quantity |
|---|---|
| egg yolksat room temperature | 2 large |
| Dijon mustard | 1 teaspoon |
| white wine vinegar | 1 teaspoon |
| sunflower or other neutral oil | 250ml |
| capersdrained and roughly chopped | 2 tablespoons |
| cornichonsfinely chopped | 4 small |
| shallotvery finely chopped | 1 small |
| flat-leaf parsleyfinely chopped | small handful |
| tarragon or chervil (optional)finely chopped | a few sprigs |
| lemon juice | to taste |
| fine sea salt | to taste |
| black pepper | to taste |
Put the egg yolks in a bowl with the mustard, the vinegar, and a small pinch of salt. Whisk them together until the mixture goes pale and slightly thick. This takes thirty seconds. The yolks need to be at room temperature, not cold from the fridge. Cold yolks fight the oil and the whole thing splits before it has a chance to come together.
Now the oil. Start with a few drops at a time, whisking continuously. A few drops, whisk, a few drops, whisk. This is the slow bit and there's no shortcut. After the first couple of tablespoons have gone in and the mixture has thickened and looks glossy, you can start pouring in a thin steady stream, still whisking. Keep going until all the oil is in. The sauce should be thick enough to hold a shape on the whisk, pale yellow, and smell of nothing much yet. That comes later.
While the mayonnaise rests, chop everything else. The capers roughly, the cornichons fine, the shallot finer still. The parsley wants to be cut just before it goes in, not sitting on the board going dull. If you've got tarragon, a little goes a long way. Aniseedy and bright. Chervil is gentler, more like grass after rain. Either is good. Neither is essential.
Fold the chopped capers, cornichons, shallot, and herbs into the mayonnaise. Squeeze in some lemon. Taste. It should be sharp from the gherkins, salty from the capers, herbal, with the mayonnaise holding it all together in something thick and pale green-flecked. Season with salt and pepper. Then taste again. It almost always needs more lemon than you think.
1 serving (about 75g)
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