Taster Menu @Memories

Taster Menu @ Memories

Welcome to this little autobiographical slice of UK food life. Some of my favourites, some I try to but cannot, forget.

Amuse Bouche

If apples could eat people, would they spit out all the bones? And if Brussels Sprouts could choose their names would they pick Noses, Bill or, Joan?

(This dish is currently unavailable: I’d hoped to become a poet, failed miserably. Today I’m an imaginary chef/restaurateur. Thank you for humouring me.)

Appetiser - Chitterlings

Chitterlings. Even the word is long and chewy.

When braised in salted water for five hours and the grey scum removed, my father, when he was alive, used to love these pigs’ intestines served up proudly by my mother (when she was alive too) as an unappealing supper time treat. Unwilling to waste a morsel he’d mop the curdled looking sauce with bread or, slurp it from the bowl.

Two days later, with windows kept wide open and wind blowing in the right direction the odorous smells this dish had produced during its cooking process would finally dissipate.

Disclaimer: My authentic yet modern-day version of Chitterlings is not for those hoping for an eye meets belly mouth watering pang a, wizard Instagram opportunity or, denture wearers. Despite refinement it still looks and smells disgusting and keeps a gross, rubbery texture.

It's mandatory for customers to eat this dish outside: Adverse weather conditions will not affect management decision.

Kitchen staff is forced to cook this dish al fresco so if customers are worried about weather conditions, please ask for blankets and/or sunscreen. Both can be supplied at small extra cost.

Soup of the Day - Stinging Nettle

Lush green stinging nettles laboriously handpicked by me from my overgrown vegetable garden, boiled and liquidised to a smooth silky texture.

Warning: Some – like my youngest daughter when she was seven years old, and after she’d enjoyed a big bowlful - may come out in a full body rash. Whilst the rash looks ugly and itches a bit it can be soothed somewhat by applying calamine lotion. An emergency bottle of calamine lotion can be supplied at small extra cost.

Customers who overly complain about the rash will not receive compensation but instead, be asked to leave the premises immediately. No refunds will be given.

Customers who go into anaphylactic shock after consuming this soup will receive no sympathy. Potential allergic reactions have been made clear. Staff will call an ambulance if requested, but no refunds will be given.

Salad

Childhood seasonal ingredients will be used. These may include, but are not limited to: -

1) Radishes I’ve cut and soaked in cold water to produce pretty radish roses like I used to at my nana’s house. For added rose effect and healthy dietary fibre, I now leave stalks and leaves on

2) Mixed salad leaves with all slugs and snails removed (if you’re lucky)

3) Cress grown on wet toilet paper like I used to at my nana’s house

4) English celery nothing like the award-winning celery my grandad used to grow because nowadays most celery is forced and tasteless and/or, imported and/or, ridiculously expensive

5) Grated local raw carrot (or parsnip and/or sugar beet if I’m experimenting)

Fish

If my father were still alive and has had a good fishing day this is likely to be river pike. River pike has a mild, almost sweet flavour but copious amounts of bones – an unfortunate choking hazard as I first discovered when I was nine years old. Aged eleven I was much better prepared and knew to stick my own fingers down my throat before my mother shoved hers in.

If my father has had a mediocre fishing day this will be eel. Eels are incredibly nutritious but, depending on the species, can taste overly fishy. If cooked badly, they will also be tough. Grisly.

If my father has had a bad fishing day and caught nothing, he will have gone to the pub. In the likely event of this happening, I can offer a sardine and tomato paste sandwich, or tinned sardines on toast like my mother used to offer me.

(As much as I suspect you would prefer none of the above options, if you need to lower your risk of heart disease and improve your blood pressure, you should eat one of my fish dishes anyway. Unless I serve you an especially bony river pike, none are likely to kill you)

Mains @ Memories

Poached Pheasant

When I say poached pheasant, I mean illegally hunted pheasant from across the fields on the Harewood Estate.

Pheasants there, in my childhood, were plentiful and dare I say it, fair game. By the time I was eight years old I knew how to pluck, gut and prepare a pheasant for cooking. On good days we’d have a brace of big, fat pheasants to roast with vegetables from my grandad’s garden. On poor days we’d boil a young, skinny pheasant into a peppery stew with vegetable peelings. If we had suet, we’d make dumplings. If we lacked suet we’d make dumplings anyway. The latter were bullet hard but, substantial. No matter how our pheasants were prepared, there were never any leftovers.

(My modern poached pheasant dish always goes quickly, if you’re reading this menu online and intend to visit @Memories during game season it’s best to pre-order. If you’re visiting during the so called ‘closed’ game season, rest assured my father, if he were still alive, will have been out poaching anyway.)

Wild Rabbit

When I was young, my father often used to wake me to go night rabbiting with him. I didn’t mind because I love rabbit stew, but when myxomatosis happened it was so scary watching red eyed devils running towards my torch light that sometimes I had nightmares of being savaged by them.

On a positive note, I’m fully aware of what a mixy rabbit and/or hare looks like and for health and hygiene reasons refuse to serve them. If you’re looking for a high protein, low fat dish then my contemporary wild rabbit or hare stew is perfect. Unlike when I was a child, all bones, fur and teeth will have been meticulously removed and a seasoning of thyme, and a dash of Chardonnay, added.

Aga Turkey

This dish was years ago cooked, tediously slowly, in my nanas aga and only, thank goodness, at Christmas time. Every week a few pennies were set aside in an old glass sweet jar labelled TURKEY which she kept on the top shelf in her pantry. Sometimes, if grandad had had a win on the football pools, he would lift me up onto the shelves, give me some coins to add to it. At other times, and if he wanted a brew from across the road, he would lift me up, ask me to take a few shillings out. Over the years I learned his winnings and brews, or not, determined the size of our bird.

On the evening of December 23rd it would be delivered, ready plucked and cleanly dressed by Mr. Cally our local butcher. Despite the home-made paper chains and snowflakes adorning our Christmas tree and windows, the arrival of the turkey signalled our official start of Christmas. Nana would put a small bowl of chocolates and a plate of home-made shortbread out. Grandad roasted chestnuts on the fire.

Mr. Cally was given a good slug of Navy rum by grandad which he would drink sitting beside the open fire with him before continuing his rounds. Warmed by his own slug of rum, grandad would pour me a tot too.

Here, young’un, he’d say, have a little sip, it’ll help warm your cockles*.

No matter what the turkeys weight, nana cooked it for exactly twenty-four hours. Having stuffed its cavity with two whole onions, two unpeeled carrots and a bouquet of fresh sage, she flamboyantly sprinkled its pimpled skin with liberal amounts of salt and pepper before heaving it into the aga. She’d then leave it to its own devices until it was as dry and as tough as a sunburned seaside donkey head.

Meanwhile, she browned the birds’ innards, neck and feet in lard before boiling them in an enormous pan to make gallons of a gravy base. If she’d not been sipping too much port, nana managed to dissolve all the flour into the gravy to thicken it. If she failed in this step, she'd wink at me and chuckle, take another sip of port before cheerfully sieving the glutinous lumps out.

Satisfied, she’d finally tip a small glass of port for me too.

Here, young’un, she’d say, have a little sip, it’ll help warm your cockles*.

(NB: I cannot and do not blame my grandparents for my adult love of alcohol – they only ever gave me some at Christmas time. Additionally, I have it on good authority that my grown-up addled state rarely impacts on my cooking skills ergo your stomach is safe with me.)

All mains are served with lashings of potatoes. When I say lashings, I mean LASHINGS.

LASHINGS of Potatoes

I was born in the black, peaty Fenlands of Norfolk, UK in 1961. Naturally, potatoes were and remain my first true foodie love.

Who needs a man when you’ve got a spud on your plate as my beloved Auntie Maureen laughed after her third divorce and too many bottles of cider, not me that’s for sure.

By way of celebrating my love of potatoes with me you’re welcome to choose from huge, steaming bowlfuls of buttery mashed Maris Pipers, mountains of lard roasted King Edwards, and big overflowing bags of chipped Fenland Fryers. All three if you wish. (Staff is fully trained in being totally non-judgemental concerning any potato gluttony it observes).

Also, on offer but, at small extra cost because they’re tiresome to prepare and I don’t really like them, are Duchesse, Rosti, and Hash Browns (the latter a bit like McDonalds but greasier). At unaffordable extra cost you can buy small sachets of tomato ketchup because nowadays that’s what some heathens people seem to like on their potatoes instead of home-made gravy or, salt, pepper and/or pickled onion vinegar.

If in season, some of my organic, home-grown broccoli (possibly complete with teeny green wormy creatures) will be served with all main dishes. The teeny green wormy creatures were inadvertently eaten by me and my four children on at least one occasion I know of - none of us suffered in any way. I've no reason to believe said creatures are poisonous or, eligible for a complaint or refund should you find/digest some.

Palate Cleanser – Auntie Maureen’s Rhubarb Sorbet

In truth, a shot glass full of sloppy, tart, stringy rhubarb cooked with vanilla essence, not enough sugar and sometimes just enough water to prevent it burning. Served with a hard, plain flour pastry finger like Auntie Maureen used to make as she swigged more cider.

Second Main Course

Whole Roasted Leg of British Lamb, Greek Style

When all four of my children reached the rude, outspoken age of refusing to eat my dry old Christmas aga style turkey I served us up a whole leg of lamb roasted on a bed of cherry tomatoes, garlic, rosemary, shallots and lemon slices instead. Towards the end of the slow cooking, I undid the foil the meat was wrapped in, crumbled some feta around and then replaced it in the oven for another twenty minutes. Lazily, I served the dish as it was, in the pan, accompanied with a big bowl of whole green beans and tons of roasted potatoes. Not a scrap remained, and washing up was minimal.

This dish remains a firm family favourite, and I’m delighted to offer it as a mandatory second main course.

Dessert - Chocolate Swiss Roll and Angel Delight Trifle with Tinned Black Cherries

Despite it’s obviously manufactured, pre-brought ingredients list this dessert was one my mother always made for family get togethers. She was quite frail during her last months but nonetheless made a bowl of this for any special occasion. It, also, became a family favourite and as such we offer no alternative -but, not for lack of wanting to.

Mysteriously, my mother’s amazing ginger fudge iced shortbread recipe went missing. She offered to give it to me once - on the bizarre premise I wouldn’t use it until after she’d died. I laughed and told her that was ridiculous, thank you mum but no.

Two weeks later, eight years ago now, she passed away.

Despite being the main person who cleared her house after her death, and despite hours of searching high and low for it, that recipe stays missing. It might be that my sister, although she denied it at the time, took it (we’ve not spoken for several years now so I’m unlikely to ever find out), or it may be that my mother, for whatever other random reason, disposed of it herself.

I’m unwilling to apologise if the lack of this dessert or the story behind it disappoints, upsets or triggers you in any woke way. Woke was not a thing back then and I’ve no qualifications in it.

Mignardises – a selection of artisan sweets served with tea or coffee

Hand made by my seven-year-old granddaughter these little jewels are mostly edible but may contain traces of tea-towel fluff, the odd strand of her beautiful blonde hair or a surprise centre of a fish flavoured cat food biscuit.

A delightful, bite size way to end your dining experience

@Memories

SERVICE CHARGE: If you wish to avoid this, please dispose of all Chitterling leftovers in the black bin by the rear entrance gate. Disposable toothbrushes and complimentary mouth wash can be found in the outside toilet block by that same entrance gate. Customers refusing to dispose of their Chitterling leftovers and/or returning into the main restaurant with Chitterling breath will receive a 20% service charge.

** Cockles: I’d like to think the huge bucketful's of these little molluscs Grandad and I lifted from the North Norfolk beaches five decades ago are nothing to do with the intermittent bans still placed on their harvesting. Potentially, cockles may at some point be available @Memories but until then, we offer no substitution or, apologies. Suffice to say the fun and laughter Grandad and I shared as we walked muddy miles scanning for their waterspouts and hand digging them out stays priceless.

Bon Appetit!