South African Steak Kebabs with a Monkey-Gland Dipping Sauce

Steak Kebabs with a Monkey-Gland Dipping Sauce

'I'm chasing monkeys round the garden with a meat cleaver as we speak,' I wrote on my Facebook page as I was busy making this dipping sauce. But of course that was a lie.

I was frying onions and combining them with ketchup, Worcestershire sauce, chutney and all the piquant relishes that go into making this South African steakhouse classic.

This sauce has a disgusting name, and I have always found restaurant versions of it vile.  But I could not leave this iconic South African recipe out of my series of my series of delicious, easy football snacks with a South African flavour, so here it is.

Let's get the name out of the way first.  There are many theories about why this sauce has such a grisly name, many of them involving French chefs and Johannesburg's old Carlton Hotel.

After having read many of these theories, I reckon Eric Bolsmann, writing in The Times, has the most plausible explanation.

In his interesting article 'The Secret History of Monkeygland Sauce', Bolsmann says that the sauce was brought to South Africa, and the Carlton Hotel,  in 1935  by a man called Cavaliere Fiorino Luigi Bagatta, who had worked as a waiter at the Savoy in London.  It was at the Savoy, Bagatta told Bolsmann, that this dish of flambéed steak was born, and it was named in honour of one of the Savoy's patrons, the Russian-born French scientist Dr Abrahamovitch Serge Voronoff.  Vonoroff, says Bolsmann, 'had caused a sensation by grafting monkey testicle tissue onto the testicles of men, believing that this was an effective treatment to induce rejuvenation.'

But enough of monkey testicles. Bolsmann gives Bagatta's original, rather elegant recipe for the sauce in his article, and it contains neither chutney nor tomato sauce, nor garlic, soy sauce, sugar, wine, port or the many other ingredients that you will find in dozens of 'classic' monkey-gland sauce recipes. This, in its many variations, is a basic barbeque sauce, and can be as piquant and spicy as your tastebuds demand.  This may be a brash and - dare I say - somewhat trashy concoction, but it is part of South Africa's culinary landscape, and its fans do not appreciate any sort of derision, as you will see if you read these comments.

I have toned down the aggressive taste of this sauce by adding coconut milk, which may cause great offence to purists. (Then again, if you're a monkey-gland-sauce purist, may I suggest that you do some soul-searching about the purpose of your life?)

If you can't find a braai [barbeque] to cook these on, place them under a blazing hot oven grill.   Do use well-hung, mature rump steak or fillet steak so you end up with chunks of beef as tender as a monkey's wrinkled ...  oh, never mind.

Steak Kebabs with a Monkey-Gland Dipping Sauce

1.2 kg fillet or rump steak

For the marinade:
4 Tbsp (60 ml) vegetable oil
1 Tbsp (15 ml) soy sauce
1 Tbsp (15 ml) white wine vinegar
3 Tbsp (45 ml) tomato sauce [ketchup]
1 tsp (5 ml) Tabasco sauce
freshly milled black pepper

For the sauce:
2 Tbsp (30 ml) vegetable oil
1 medium onion, peeled and finely chopped
2 fat cloves garlic, finely chopped
a thumb-sized piece of fresh ginger, peeled and grated
4 Tbsp (60 ml) white wine
4 Tbsp (60 ml)  tomato sauce [ketchup]
3 Tbsp (45 ml) thick fruit chutney (Mrs Ball's Original, if you can find it)
2 Tbsp (30 ml) Worcestershire sauce
1 Tbsp (15 ml) soy sauce
2 tsp (10 ml) chilli powder
½ cup (125 ml) water
90 ml coconut cream
salt and black pepper
fresh parsley, finely chopped

Cut the steak into large cubes and place in a bowl.  Combine all the marinade ingredients, pour over the beef cubes and toss well to combine. Cover and set aside for an hour or two.  To make the sauce, heat the oil in a large frying pan and fry the onions over a brisk heat for a few minutes, or until beginning to turn golden. Add the garlic and ginger and cook for another minute, without allowing the garlic to brown. Now add the white wine and allow to bubble until almost all the wine has evaporated.  Stir in the tomato sauce, chutney, Worcestershire sauce and chilli powder. Cook, over a low heat, for five minutes, or until you have a thick, glossy paste. Stir in the water and the coconut cream  and simmer for another three minutes. Season with plenty of pepper and add a little salt, if necessary.  At this point, you can purée the sauce using a stick blender; I think it's nicer when it's chunky.  Cover the sauce and set aside until you need it.

Fire up a braai or barbeque (or preheat the oven grill to its maximum setting). Remove the steak from its marinade and thread it, two or three pieces at a time, onto slim satay sticks that have been soaked in cold water for 15 minutes. Cook the kebabs over medium-hot coals for 6-10 minutes -  turning frequently and basting with any remaining marinade - or until nicely crusted on the outside, and just pink within.  In the meantime, warm the dipping sauce.  Serve immediately.

Makes about 20 little kebabs

Like this soccer snack? Try some of the other recipes from this series:

- Mini Pita Breads with Spicy Meatballs and Hoummous
- Mini Bunny Chow with Butter Chicken 
- Cape-Malay-Style Curried Lamb Kebabs with Apricots
- Potato, Cheese and Chilli Phyllo Triangles

Print Friendly

Cape-Malay-Style Curried Lamb Kebabs with Apricots

A sosatie (so-sar-tee) is what South Africans call the full-size version of this succulent and highly spiced lamb or mutton kebab.

Drenched in a turmeric-yellow, sharp-sweet marinade, sosaties of this sort are usually threaded with chunks of raw onion, dried fruit and fresh bay or lemon leaves; traditionally they contained chunks of sheep fat, which helped keep the meat juicy.

My bite-sized version contains little fat, and the lamb is tenderised by a long marinating time and a small amount of plain yoghurt.

Welcome to the third in my series of delicious, easy football snacks with a South African flavour.

This is the sort of recipe that can bring tears to the eyes of a South African living away from home, so evocative is it of the lazy, woodsmoky scent of a traditional braai [barbeque].  This is one of the classics of South African cuisine, and is certainly - along with bobotie - the best-known of all Cape Malay dishes.

Some claim that the name 'sosatie' is derived from a combination of the words 'saus' [sauce] and 'sate', but the authoritative Dictionary of South African English on Historical Principles tells me that the Afrikaans/Dutch name 'sasaatje' comes from the Javanese word 'sesate', which means 'meat on skewers'.

The word first appeared in print, says the dictionary, in 1833.  So popular were these kebabs in the early days of the Cape, says that wonderful raconteur Lawrence Green in his book Tavern of the Seas, that many of the taverns of old Cape Town were known as 'Sosatie and Rice houses'.

Hildagonda Duckitt's "Where is it?" of Recipes, first published in 1891, gives a recipe for 'sasaties or kabobs' that does not differ substantially from a sosatie you might be offered at a family braai today, 120 years later.  As is the case with any hallowed recipe, every cook has his or her own closely guarded formula.

Sosaties are always cooked over hot coals. If you don't have access to a barbeque, you can cook them under a fiercely hot preheated oven grill. For an authentic taste, put the meat very close to the grill at first so that the edges of the meat and fruit just begin to catch and blacken. Then move the sosaties to the middle of the oven, turn down the heat and bake until the lamb is cooked through.

If you can't find lemon or orange leaves, use bay leaves (but citrus leaves are best, as they infuse the lamb with a wonderful perfume as it cooks). Ask your butcher for lamb from the leg or shoulder, or for some nice fatty mutton, if he has it.  You can add petals of raw onion to these kebabs, but be warned that they will retain a bit of raw crunch.

You will find all the ingredients below in a good spice shop.

Cape-Malay Style Curried Lamb Kebabs with Apricots

750 g lamb from the leg or shoulder, cut into large cubes
fresh lemon or orange leaves
24 dried apricots
melted butter for brushing

For the marinade:
40 g dried tamarind pulp
1 cup (250 ml) boiling water
4 Tbsp (60 ml) vegetable oil
2 onions, peeled and very finely chopped
3 cardamom pods
1 thumb-length quill of cinnamon
1 red chilli, seeds removed and finely chopped
2 Tbsp (30 ml) grated fresh ginger
3 cloves garlic, peeled and finely chopped
1½ tsp (7.5 ml) ground cumin
1 tsp (5 ml) ground coriander
1 tsp (5 ml) red chilli powder
3 Tbsp (45 ml) white wine vinegar
80 ml thick fruit chutney (Mrs Ball's Original, if you can find it)
2 Tbsp (30 ml) sugar
2 tsp (10 ml) mild curry powder
1½ tsp (7.5 ml) turmeric
½ cup (125 ml) water
salt and milled black pepper
the juice of half a lemon
½ cup (125 ml) plain white yoghurt

Put the tamarind in a small bowl and cover it with the boiling water. Set aside. Heat the oil in a pan and add the cardamom pods, cinnamon stick and onion. Cook, over a brisk heat, for 5 minutes, or until the onions take on a golden colour.

Add the chilli, ginger and garlic and cook for another minute or so, without allowing the garlic to brown. Stir in the cumin, coriander and chilli powder and allow to sizzle or two minutes, or until you have a rich golden paste. Now add the vinegar and chutney, turn down the heat and allow to bubble for three minutes.

Using your fingers, break up the tamarind pulp in the water. Tip the lot into a sieve set over a bowl, pressing down on the pulp to extract the juice. Discard the pulp. Pour the tamarind water into the pan and add the sugar, curry powder, turmeric and water.  Season with salt and pepper and simmer for 15 minutes.  Remove from the heat and allow to cool slightly.  Stir in the lemon juice and yoghurt.

Tip the marinade into a deep plastic or ceramic dish and add the lamb cubes. Stir well to coat, cover and place in the fridge for at least 24 hours, or longer if possible (you can make these three or four days in advance).

Pour some boiling water over the apricots and allow to soak for 5 minutes. Drain and set aside. Soak some slim satay sticks in water for 10 minutes. Cut the lemon, orange or bay leaves into pieces the size of a postage stamp.

Thread a piece of lamb onto a satay stick, then add a slice of lemon leaf, then an apricot, then another piece of lemon leaf, and finally a piece of lamb. Brush a little extra marinade over the sosaties. Grill, over hot coals, turning frequently, for 6-10 minutes, depending on the heat of your fire, or until the lamb is cooked right through (see my notes, above, about oven-cooking).

Brushing the kebabs with melted butter as they cook will give you a nice glossy finish. Serve piping hot. If you like, you can bring the remains of the marinade to the boil, simmer for 10 minutes and serve as a dipping sauce.

Makes about 24 snack-sized kebabs.


Like this soccer snack? Try my Mini Pita Breads with Spicy Meatballs and Hoummous, Mini Bunny Chow with Butter Chicken and Potato, Cheese and Chilli Phyllo Triangles

Print Friendly

Leaf-Wrapped Wine-Soused Camembert, over the coals

Soaked in wine overnight, then flavoured with herbs and garlic, these little cheeses are wrapped in green leaves, tied with string and grilled over hot coals until the cheese has liquefied. This is a great warm-up snack for a braai [barbeque]: put them on at the same time as the meat (they take only a few minutes to cook) and then pass them around with a pile of crisps or salty crackers while you finish cooking the steaks.

You can flavour these cheeses with anything you like - I used thyme and garlic - and any large, fresh, flexible leaf will do as a wrapping: fig leaves, spinach leaves, banana leaves, beetroot greens, or even a robust lettuce leaf. (Here I used mustard greens, which grow like weeds in containers in my garden). Don't worry about the leaves catching fire: their moisture prevents them from charring too quickly.  By the time they've blackened at the edges, the cheese will have collapsed into a herby goo.

 

This, I might add, is the only dish that I've so far managed to cook successfully on my brand-new, super-duper, Taj Mahal of a braai-and-pizza oven.  I fired up the new braai on Sunday for the first time, partly because I'd laid my hands on a beautiful slab of fresh tuna, straight off a fishing boat, but also because I wanted to road-test my new grid. This grid, which I asked a local ironsmith to make, has a cunning feature: a third of the total space is covered by a removable double-decker section. This is designed, first, to keep food hot, and second to allow slow-cooking meat (such as chicken) to finish off at its own pace. The grid and its upper storey worked very well; the tuna steaks, on the other hand, were... um.... well,  they were deliciously, spankingly fresh, but they overcooked in a matter of minutes, welding themselves so resolutely to the new and shining grid that I started hunting for a crowbar.

Clearly, there is a long way to go before I get this outdoor cooking arena working perfectly.  (And the pizza oven?  Oh, please don't mention the bloody pizza oven.  I fired it up once, and the results were dismal.  The wood burned out too quickly, the oven didn't get hot enough, and the pizzas were floppy, stodgy and riddled with concrete dust. Certain members of my family were so disgusted with their 'pizzas' that they dumped them in the bin. Some gave scornful snorts at my bourgeois efforts to own a pizza oven. But that's another story.)

Thank goodness for the cheese.

Leaf-Wrapped Wine-Soused Camembert, Cooked over the Coals
4 small, just-ripe Camembert cheeses
250 ml (1 cup) white wine
2 T (30 ml) olive oil
2 cloves garlic, peeled and crushed
12 large, fresh green leaves (see notes above)
a few sprigs of fresh thyme, or herbs of your choice
salt and milled black pepper

The day before you want to braai the cheeses (or at least six hours in advance), use a sharp knife to slice off the top layer of rind, removing about 2mm.  Put the cheeses, and the sliced-off rinds, into a shallow dish. Prick holes, using a fork, all over the soft upper surfaces of the cheeses. Mix together the wine, olive oil and crushed garlic, and pour the mixture over the cheeses.  Cover with cling film and set aside in a cool place.  Turn the cheeses once or twice while they marinate.

Soak 1.5 metres of string in cold water ten minutes.  Remove any large, stiff stalks from the leaves.  Place two leaves, crosswise, on your counter top.  Place a wheel of cheese on top.  Drizzle some of the marinade over the cheese, top with a few sprigs of thyme, season with salt and pepper, and cover with the sliced-off 'lid' of rind.

 

Place another leaf on top. Cut off a 40-cm length of wet string and slide it under the bottom-most leaf.  Gather the edges of the leaves up into a parcel, pleating and tucking as you go, and secure it by knotting the string around it in six 'spokes'  (see picture, left.) Don't worry if the parcel is scruffy: as long as there are no gaping holes, your cheese is safe. Repeat the process with the remaining cheeses.

Place the parcels over hot coals, face down, for about three minutes, or until the top of the parcel is browned. Before the cheese melts completely, flip over the parcel, using a spatula, and allow the underside to cook for another three to five minutes  (depending on the heat of your coals). The very instant you see cheese seeping from the parcel, it's ready. Serve immediately.

Serves 8. http://whatsforsupper-juno.blogspot.com/2009/08/spring-salad-of-edamane-beans-fennel.html

Print Friendly

Easter holiday recipes: lazy, lovely high days and braai days

I'm hopping from foot to foot in excitement, because I'm going to the beach, for a week, on Thursday. Not any old beach, but the warm, dozy stretch of sand and ocean that is a stone's throw, down a jungly path, from my family's beach cottage on the south end of the Kwa-Zulu Natal coast.

And not just any beach cottage, but the place where I've spent virtually every holiday for the last 46 years; I first went there when I was just six months old.

You'd think that, by now, I'd be feeling ho-hum at the idea of going back for yet another same-old week in the same-old spot, but I'm just fizzing with excitement at the thought of all the familiar, ancient family rituals that go with holiday at the beach: driving out of Johannesburg in the dark, kids dozing like puppies in the back seat. Unwrapping the padkos - always sandwiches, and little spicy meatballs - as the sun rises over fields of nodding pink-and-white cosmos.

Swooping down Van Reenen's Pass, with the Drakensberg a jaggy slash of indigo on the western horizon. Spotting the first waving banana tree, just outside of Durban, then rolling down the windows and inhaling the humid iodine tang of the Indian Ocean as we barrel southwards past fields of rippling sugar cane; and finally arriving at the cottage, waving and hooting, where aunts and cousins and nieces and nephews come boiling out of every door and window with big sweaty hugs and shouts.

Hauling the suitcases out of the boot, and dumping them on the beds in bedrooms that look and smell exactly the same as they did when I was five: plain as monks' cells, with their speckled mirrors, creaky little teak wardrobes, whitewashed walls and gulping geckos.

But there's more: the first icy bite of an industrial-strength gin-and-tonic, the first, cleansing dive into a fizzing ocean, the scent of smoke from a driftwood fire rising through the branches of the milkwood trees. And then, the evening spread out before me like a jewelled quilt: a long, lazy gathering on the beach as the sun sets behind us; tramping up to the cottage in the dark, through a singing glade; fresh fish sizzling over hot coals; happy conversation around a long candlelit table; children giddily swinging in the hammocks; and many bottles of wine. And then tumbling into beds made up with crisp white cotton sheets, under lazily turning fans - to fall into a coma that lasts for 12 hours.

Until I wake up, in a sunbeam, to the sound of vervet monkeys galumphing on the roof and Natal robins tweetling in the bush, and the smell of bacon drifting from the kitchen.

Can you blame me for being excited? Doesn't that sound like paradise to you?

I almost forgot, during this attack of nostalgia, to tell you about the wonderful holiday food. Most nights, we braai. (That is, have a barbeque.) We always assume that we're braaiing, unless the rain is pelting down, in which case we get a beach umbrella and a torch - and lots of wine to raise our spirits - and cook over damply steaming coals, as the rain water dribbles from the milkwood tree down our necks. I use the term 'we' loosely: actually, to be honest, we girls sit gossiping on the warm comfortable veranda with big glasses of wine while we watch the designated Braai Meisters (husbands and/or brothers-in-law) squat miserably in the dark, turning over the lamb chops and boeries. We might throw them with a beer, every now and then, if they don't complain too much.

Okay, okay, the food: here are some of my favourite beach-cottage recipes:

Durban-Spiced Prawns with Coconut Milk

Squashed Crispy Potatoes with Rosemary

Light Potato Salad with Garlic, Lemon and Yoghurt (scroll down to end of post to find recipe)

I will post more recipes (from our cottage's recipe book, to which everyone contributes) in the next ten days.

Enjoy your holidays, and drive safely, my friends. Print Friendly

Garlicky Lamb Kebabs with Fennel Seeds, on Rosemary Skewers

Do you ever stare glumly into the freezer, wondering what gnarled old thing you can defrost for supper for a grumpy and hungry family? I did the frantic freezer hunt yesterday, and for the first fifteen minutes of ploughing through fields of snow and chipping away glaciers turned up nothing but a few fossilised fishfingers, a powdery packet of celery soup and a puppy who went missing in 2005. And then - aha! - right at the back in the permafrost, a big box of cubed Karoo lamb, cut from the leg. It looked okay after defrosting, and after two hours in a simple marinade, and a quick grilling on my gas braai [barbeque], tasted sensational. Even though it had been frozen for - at a guess - four or five months, the lamb was still juicy, flavoursome and meltingly tender, so there's a smart smack in the broeks for kitchen purists who denounce freezing. If you don't have a rosemary bush in the garden, use ordinary kebab sticks and add fresh or dried rosemary needles to the marinade.

Image above by botanical artist Louise M Smith. See more of her work at Greenstems.com

Garlicky Lamb Kebabs with Fennel Seeds, on Rosemary Skewers

For the marinade:

1 T [10 ml] fennel seeds
1 T [10 ml] coriander seeds
3 cloves fresh garlic, crushed or finely chopped
juice of two fat lemons [save the squeezed-out lemon halves]
1/2 cup [125 ml] olive oil
salt and freshly milled black pepper

For the kebabs:

2 kg lamb, from the leg or shoulder, cut into 2cm x 2cm cubes
6-8 fresh woody rosemary stalks, about 30 cm long

To make the marinade: first dry-roast the seeds. Put the fennel and coriander seeds into a hot, dry frying pan and toss for 30 to 60 seconds, or until they are just beginning to toast and release their scent. Now, using a mortar and pestle [or a flat, heavy knife blade against a chopping board] lightly crush and bash to produce a slightly coarse grind. Put the seeds into a flat shallow dish and add all the remaining marinade ingredients. If you're not using fresh rosemary skewers [see above] , add a tablespoon of fresh or dried rosemary needles. Now tip in the lamb cubes and the squeezed-out lemon halves, toss well to coat, cover with cling film and set aside in a cool place to marinate for two hours, or overnight.

To make the kebabs: strip the leaves off three-quarters of each rosemary stalk, leaving a tuft of leaves at one end. With a good knife, or penknife, strip off the bark of the bare end of each stalk, and sharpen it to a point. Thread the lamb chunks onto the stalks, taking care not to pack them too tightly. Braai, barbecue or grill over a good heat, turning frequently and basting occasionally with the remaining marinade, for about 2o-30 minutes, or until the lamb is browned and sizzling on the outside but ever so faintly pink on the inside. You might be forced to pull off a piece of lamb and taste for yourself.

Excellent with lemon wedges and tzatziki.

Serves 8. Print Friendly

Dried green peppercorns: try them in this pungent salt mix

If you have a taste for freshly milled black pepper, look out for whole dried green peppercorns. These are the unripened, dehydrated form of black peppercorns and they are milder and slightly fruiter, with a clean and sparky aroma - ideal for using in dishes where you'd like a mellow, peppery flavour without the aggression and throat-catching pungency of black pepper.

Dried green peppercorns aren't available in supermarkets in South Africa, but you will be able to find them at your local Indian spice shop (I've also seen them at the spice stand at the Rosebank Rooftop Market). Put them in your pepper mill and grind them directly over the food (I've put green peppercorns in both my grinders and have banished the black 'corns to the back of the cupboard, for use only in the heartiest of stews, roasts, pickles and potjies.)

These pale green, puckered little beauties can also be rehydrated by soaking them in wine, stock or water for an hour or so - a lifesaver you're fresh out of brined Madagascar green peppercorns and in the mood for steak with a creamy pepper sauce.

Here's a nice all-purpose flavouring salt-and-pepper mix, à la Jamie Oliver, using dried green peppercorns. This recipe makes a big quantity, but it keeps well in a sealed jar or tupperware box. Delicious with roast chicken, lamb chops and steak, in soups, stews and salad dressings, or sprinkled over potatoes before they're roasted.

Green Peppercorn, Rosemary and Lemon Salt

finely grated rind of 5 lemons
120 ml (8 T) dried rosemary (or fresh rosemary needles, very finely chopped)
120 ml (8 T) dried green peppercorns
1 cup (250 ml) flaked or coarse salt

Spread the grated lemon lemon rind and (if you're using the herb fresh) the rosemary needles on a baking sheet or chopping board and place in a beam of sunlight until dry (how long this takes will depend on where in the world you live. In South Africa in summer, an hour is enough. If you don't have many sunbeams, place the mixture in a warmish, well-ventilated area overnight, or in a warm oven or airing cupboard). Add the peppercorns and the salt and mix well.


Now grind the mixture to a coarse powder using a stone mortar and pestle (you'll need to do this in batches) or - even better - a coffee grinder. You can also grind the mixture using a liquidiser with a strong metal blade. If the mixture still seems a little wet, spread it out and allow it to dry completely before giving it a good final mix and decanting into a lidded jar or plastic container. Print Friendly

Durban-Spiced Prawns with Coconut Cream

I am in raptures at the idea of crunching down on a garlicky prawn, and then shlurping the buttery, lemony, shellfishy juices from its head. I got the chance to do this twice in December, while on holiday on the KZN South Coast. Am I the lucky one?

Yes, I jolly well am. I'm lucky because I can occasionally (very occasionally, ie, once a year) afford to buy 2 kg of beautiful big pink Mozambiquan prawns, and cook them on a griddle, over a campfire, under the stars, in the singing bush, close to the beach, in the company of good friends and fine wine... oh, I wish it was December again.

Even though they're bought frozen, and so aren't as springy-fleshed as the expensive beasts you get in top-notch South African restaurants, Mozambique prawns are very, very good. A quick griddling and a bowlful of lemon-garlic butter is all you need, but if you're in the mood for something utterly delicious, try them in a mildly curried, garlicky, creamy, zingy, coconutty sauce. I call this recipe 'Durban-spiced' because of the fragrant, spanking-fresh spices it contains. Although I buy them from a wonderful spice shop in the coastal town of Shelly Beach, they come to South Africa via Durban. And if you haven't tasted a Durban curry, well.....

If you can't find freshly ground spices, buy the seeds and roast and grind them yourself: it makes all the difference.

Durban-Spiced Prawns with Coconut Cream

2 kg prawns, in their shells
olive oil
4 T (60 ml) black mustard seeds

For the marinade:

4 cloves garlic, peeled and crushed
a thumb-sized piece of fresh ginger, finely grated
juice and finely grated rind of two fat lemons
4 T (60 ml) olive oil
2 T (30 ml) freshly ground coriander
2 T (30 ml) freshly ground cumin
1 T turmeric
1 T paprika
1-4 t (5-20 ml) cayenne pepper or fresh chilli powder (depending on how hot you'd like your prawns)
1 tsp (5 ml) Tabasco sauce
a handful of curry leaves, fresh or dried
salt and freshly milled black pepper

To finish:

350 ml tinned coconut cream (or more, if you'd like plenty of sauce)
1 big bunch fresh coriander, finely chopped
a squeeze of lemon juice
thin lemon slices

Devein and clean the prawns and put them in a deep plastic bowl. Add all the marinade ingredients to the bowl and, using your hands, toss the prawns so that they are well coated in the marinade. Cover with clingfilm and set aside in a cool place for at least an hour.

Heat a few teaspoons of olive oil in a large, deep frying pan, or on a flat griddle or ridged skottel placed over a wood fire or a gas braai. When the oil is very hot, but not yet smoking, add the mustard seeds and fry until they begin to pop and sputter. Tip into a bowl, drain off the oil, and set aside. Add more olive oil to the pan and turn up the heat. Remove the prawns from the marinade dish using a slotted spoon and fry them, in batches, over a high flame, until they are just cooked (about 4-5 minutes). Don't overcrowd the pan. Set aside and keep warm.

When the last batch is done, tip the remains of the marinade into the frying pan or griddle pan. Now add the coconut milk and the reserved mustard seeds, and stir or scrape briskly to dislodge the golden-brown residue on the bottom of the pan. Allow to bubble for a minute over a high flame. Now tip the reserved prawns back into the pan, and toss well to coat. Add a squeeze of lemon juice and, if necessary, season with more salt and pepper.

Tip the prawns into a heated platter and top with thin lemon slices and fresh coriander.

Serve as a main course with Basmati rice, or as a starter.

Serves 6-8 (main course) or 12 (starter)


*** Or am I the angry one? Read my rant about holidaymakers plundering this coastline for a handful of miniature mussels. Print Friendly

How to cook (or braai) a fillet of beef to perfection

Over the years I must have tried ten different ways to cook a lovely fillet of beef, with results ranging from an incinerated log to a bloody shame. After much experimentation, I reckon this is the way to go. This method gives you a lovely crusty brown skin on the outside, and meat that is melting, rosy-pink and tender on the inside.

Left-over fillet steak thinly sliced and served with home-made mustard
mayonnaise and fresh dill. I like fillet quite pink in the middle, but if you
prefer it medium, leave it in the oven for a little longer.

The challenge with roasting or braaing (barbecuing) a fillet is achieving a caramelised mahogany-coloured crust on the outside without over-cooking the inside. It's tricky to know when a fillet is done to perfection, as this depends on so many factors: the size and maturity of the meat, its internal temperature when you start to cook it, the heat of your frying pan or fire, the ferocity of your oven, and so on.

Even with the aid of a digital cooking thermometer/probe, I've found it difficult to get the same results every time, so now I judge the 'done-ness' of a fillet by touch and  instinct, and sometimes by going against all the cheffy rules of cooking and slicing deep into it to check whether it's ready (see below).

So try this:

Three hours before you're going to cook your fillet, take it out of its packaging (strictly speaking, it shouldn't be wrapped in plastic at all, but let's not be precious about this), drain off all bloody liquid, pat it quite dry with a paper towel and put it into a ceramic dish so it can slowly come up to room temperature.

One or two hours before cooking, trim and flavour the fillet. Using a sharp knife, cut through then peel away the 'silverskin' (membrane) on the outside of the meat (good instructions here).

Double the thin end over and tie it to the main fillet with kitchen string. Don't worry if one end is much thicker than the other (the thick end will cater for those who like their fillet rare, and the thin, doubled-over end will do for those who like brown beef).

Whether you're braaing or frying, preheat the oven to 190°C, and place a metal roasting pan in the oven to heat through.

Immediately before you cook the fillet, put a dollop of good prepared mustard (such as Dijon mustard) in the palm of your hand and smooth it all over the fillet. Sprinkle liberally with olive oil and a little salt, and grind over plenty of fresh black pepper. Add any other flavourings that you think might be good (a dash of good soy sauce or a very light dusting of mild curry powder are to be recommended, but don't use fresh garlic, which turns bitter when it browns in hot fat).

If you're frying: Heat one to two tablespoons of olive or sunflower oil in a frying pan over a high flame.  Wait until the oil is very hot, and is just beginning to shimmer in the pan (but it should not be so hot that it is smoking). Put the fillet into the pan and cook on one side for about two minutes -  without moving or disturbing it - or until it's a rich brown colour. Turn the fillet and brown it on all sides in the same way; this shouldn't take longer than six to eight minutes. This is a smoky business - if there is no smoke in your kitchen, your pan is not hot enough.

Now add a tablespoon or two of butter to the pan and turn the fillet over a few times so it's coated.

(If you're braaing: Make sure your coals are very hot.  Put the well-oiled fillet directly onto the grid and brown it all over in the same way; again, this should take about seven to eight minutes.)

Now put the fillet onto the heated roasting pan and bake in the pre-heated oven for 10-25 minutes, depending on the degree of pinkness you want. A slim fillet takes about 10 minutes; a full-size one 15-25.

If you're not sure, cut a deep slit in the underside of the thickest part of the fillet to check for doneness.  This will result in the loss of a little juice, but as you're only going to be cooking the meat for a little while longer, the damage will be minimal. If the meat looks unpleasantly raw and bloody on the inside, give it a few minutes longer.

Alternatively, and a somewhat less accurate method: plunge a fork deep into the meat, leave it there while you count to ten,  then hold the tines to your upper lip. If they feel very hot - but not so hot that they burn your lip -  the beef should be medium rare inside.

Remove from the oven, cover loosely with a piece of clingfilm, foil or kitchen paper, and set aside to rest on a plate 8 minutes.

Print Friendly

Beer-can chicken on a braai

Tony Park, a reader of my other blog Salmagundi, sent this recipe. I haven't tried it, but I will, as soon as it warms up outside.

'Can't cook to save my life (except for barbies - braais to you - a skill which australian males learn from birth). Here's my only variation on sticking stuff on the fire - and I learned it from a South African psychology professor, in Kruger.'

Beer Can Chicken on a Braai
1 can of Castle
1 cardboard box lined with aluminium foil, and with four pen-diameter holes punched in the top.
1 braai with hot coals
1 chicken

Drink two sips from can of Castle, insert it up chicken's bum. Stand the chicken on the braai, using its two drumstick bones and the can as a kind of tripod, to hold it upright. Braai grid should be about 20cm over the coals.

Place cardboard box lined with foil (held in place with strategic use of duct tape) over the chicken. Make sure the foil overlaps the sides of the box so it doesn't catch fire.

Wait one hour.

Eat perfectly roasted, tender chicken.

Do not drink contents of can.

-----------------------
This recipe reminds me irresistibly of that wonderful scene in Withnail and I when the boys try to kill a chicken.

Withnail: What are we supposed to do with that?
I: Eat it
Withnail: Eat it!? Fucker's alive
I: Yeah, you've got to kill it.
Withnail: Me!? I'm the firelighter and fuel collecter.
I: Yeah I know but I got the logs in. It takes away your appetite just looking at it.
Withnail: No it doesn't, I'm starving. How can we make it die?
I: You've got to throttle them. Withnail, I think you ought to kill it instantly in case it starts trying to make friends with us.
Withnail: All right, you get hold of it. I'll strangle it.

They try stuffing it into a kettle, and then give up and sit it upright on a brick, with a wet boot on either side to keep it upright. Wonderful movie (I saw it again a few weeks ago, and it hasn't dated a bit). Print Friendly