Today's lunch

Bold flavours on a plate of raw fish

Mandarin, salted bergamot, wild fennel and smoked salt.

I like to find combinations like that.

Written here simply in black and white, the words seem almost vivid, rich and intriguing. Conjuring colours and flavour.

The sort of things that in the right circumstances, when combined correctly, and prepared thoughtfully, are the things that can make time seem to slow a little. That hesitation you feel when you taste something and you have to process the moment, be it for just a second or so. To be able to do that, to be able to create that pause. I love that I can do that.

Albacore, salted bergamot, mandarin, wild fennel and smoked salt.

The bergamots have been packed in salt since early this year. I wrote about them months ago. I have enough to last till they come around again next year, though confusingly today I saw blood oranges in the market. Their colour wasn’t strong, but there they were, proudly cut open, blushed red with anthocyanins. It's about four months too early in my mind as I never really think of them till January.

Reaching up to the larder cupboards where I keep jars of ferment, salted jars of this and that, kombucha, pickles and salts, I find the metallic lid of the Kilner jar stuck fast. The sticky juices from the smoky bergamot and the crystals of salt have decided they wish to be left alone. One hard tap, anti clockwise with the back of a knife and the lid is free, I aim the tip of the knife into the jar and push deep into the soft yellow fruit and take out one-quarter of a magnificent fat bergamot. The pulp is soft now, the flesh melded with the salty, juicy paste in the base of the jar, a few seeds here and there, but it’s the rind I want. I hook the chunk out, laying it flat on my wooden board, angling the knife and shaving away the pith. I’m left with the oily, aromatic skin. I place the pulp back in the jar for another day. It’s Partridge season soon, but that’s for another day,

I run the knife lengthways in a smooth rocking motion through the rind, picking the fine slices up with the tip, rotating them ninety degrees and slicing again, a small neat pile of one millimetre diced bergamot peel, dry but salty, sweet, smoky and sticky.

Mandarins that have ripened in the sun, so that your fingertips smell of citrus just by holding them, rubbed onto the sharp blade of a microplane, tapped sharply on the edge of a glass bowl so the pulped zest falls in a bright clump, The fruit peeled out of its membrane, segments laid out on a board then carefully dissected with a sharp knife. Just the segment, no skin. Not too neat, as a perfect segment would look wrong.

I neatly make the pieces look untidy.

Like singing out of tune on purpose.

I hold the remains of the mandarins and squeeze them over the bowl, extracting every last drip of juice though the gaps in my knuckles, over the little pile of zest, the juice will absorb the flavour from the grated skin. I add a few drops of lemon juice to add a little acidity, it will lift the flavour, then salt, pepper and the finely diced bergamot with a small pour of good olive oil to complete what is basically a citrus dressing.

The dressing is ready. It tastes of hot weather, light and fresh from the mandarin with the slate grey flavour of bergamot. Tuna loin from Cornwall, Albacore, paler than bluefin, a light silvery pink, chilled then sliced thinly with a very sharp knife. Layed informally on a plate as I always like it. I’ve spent too many years making things look overly neat and have no time for that anymore.

Now some wild fennel fronds, deep bronze in colour, a little of its bright yellow pollen reserved for the last minute. Picked from a large pot shared with lemon verbena, hyssop, and rosemary, leading down worn stone steps, stained red with squashed overipe figs that have fallen from the tree that hangs above the old heavy door, past ornately topiaried yew. The fennel fronds stripped from their stalks, my fingertips now stained with the green scent of fennel. I adore that smell. Like green fig. I think thats what heaven smells like. It gives me clarity, makes me pause, slows time slightly.

I like that.

No time for much fuss with a plate like this. There are certainly no tweezers in my knife roll. Uncluttered, modest on the plate. Just a little sea salt, smoked over oak chips, the once bright white crystals now shaded to resemble broken pearls crunched over the plate to finish.

It will be gone in minutes.

Until Friday

William