We'll start with a box of tomatoes

A recipe for my tomato tart, the slopes of Mount Vesuvius and a weird pastry technique.

A large box of brightly coloured tomatoes, ridged, small, striped, oval, round and pointy arrived in my kitchen this week.

Grown on the Isle of Wight, the English equivalent of Vesuvius for tomato growing, with perfect soil and the most hours of sunshine in the country, though not volcanic and not very high. And I don’t think the mineral-rich slopes of Vesuvius have amusement arcades. Or neon lights, so perhaps on weight, the comparison is slight.

Great tomatoes are often a rarity, the emphasis there is the word great. Fat red misshapen and scarred ox-heart tomatoes that you’ll find at the farm gate in rural France for a handful of change will, if you find a smart shop in London, cost you ten times as much. I bought a bag full of huge ripe red Coeur de Boeuf at an honesty box stall in the Dordogne for about one euro. They were huge, sweet and on the vine, still sweet with the green scent that I can only ever place as having that heady whiff of ganja. Contrast this with me standing at the checkout of a smart shop in Kensington, and while the cashier was weighing my produce, I saw I was about to be charged nearly eight pounds for one large tomato. That’s about ten dollars for my American readers. Per tomato. I took them out of my basket as I’m not that gullible.

Cuore Del Vesuvio is a large pinkish-coloured tomato from the ash-rich slopes of the volcano on the Gulf of Naples. They are huge, sometimes weighing up to a kilo. Truly delicious. The sugar in the fruit is concentrated due to the hot southern Italian sunshine, helped by the unique soil composition, high in sulphur and other mineral content. The altitude is said to enhance their quality. Bunches of little red Piennolo tomatoes grow like grapes. Clusters of shockingly red, sweet little bombs of juice. They are absolutely divine. Just a little sea salt and that’s it. You have to hand it to the Italians. They understand produce, and they don’t buy crap. We on the other hand are often sold miserable produce, grown in vast hot houses in Birmingham and pushed out by the supermarkets. It’s no wonder that people often say that they don’t like tomatoes. They taste of water and have a woolly texture.

Cuore Del Vesuvio are the ones that I like to roast. I split them open, and using a teaspoon dig out the seeds as the little pockets of gel where the seeds live will interfere in the roasting, flooding the pan with water. I keep them aside to mix into a dressing to be used after the tomatoes are cooked. That’s a tip for you. They hold an incredible amount of flavour. I place the big tomato halves in a hot pan with olive oil, garlic and thyme, cooking them on the cut side till just about to collapse in on themselves, then leaving them to cool in the pan with a splash of vinegar for five minutes before placing them face up on a plate and topping each one with an anchovy fillet. If you’re lucky enough to have a bottle of golden Colatura in your cupboard, now is the time to use it. More of my love for anchovies another day.

Vesuvio with anchovies and marjoram

The beautiful box that arrived in my kitchen this week has been put to good use. On Wednesday I took a selection of colours shapes and sizes, cut them open and brushed them with a mixture of sea salt, sugar, and crushed garlic mixed with olive oil, then sprinkled them with crushed fennel seeds, lemon zest and torn citrus leaves from our trees. I crush marjoram, (my favourite herb by far) pink flowering thyme, rosemary and oregano over them, they then go to the low oven for the best part of a morning to slightly shrivel and concentrate their flavours. This is how we semi-dry tomatoes in restaurants. You can place them on a layer of sea salt if you like, it helps them to dry nicely, soaking up their juices and giving you a crumbly seasoning to crush over things at a later date.

When they’re ready I let them cool a little to firm up, then pour off any juice to keep as an addition to a dressing. These were served with some smoked mackerel that I dressed with a few spoonfuls of an aniseed and mustard seed pickle juice that I keep for such tomatoey occasions.

On Thursday I made a white peach and tomato salad. Glorious peaches, grown on the Côte d’Azur with ripe plum tomatoes, thin slices of both, seasoned with elderflower vinegar, deep green olive oil, tarragon and basil with plenty of salt and pepper. This is one of the finest salads to put on the table at the height of summer. Use the best quality of those simple ingredients and you’ll understand what I mean.

My tomato tart

There should always be a tomato tart. I’m particularly proud of mine. I often have a small slice myself. The tomatoes need to be brilliant or the end result will look fantastic but the taste will have a big dent in it. I caramelise them as I do with the ones above, using an oil flavoured with smashed garlic cloves, rosemary and thyme, letting them cook to the point where they start to release their juices.

Heritage tomato and anchovy Tarte Tatin

I then leave them in the pan whilst in another I take a small chunk of butter and a spoon of sugar, letting them caramelise. I then add a good splash of balsamic and let it bubble till it’s syrupy and black. Taking it off the heat, I transfer the cooled tomatoes into the pan of gastrique, pushing the soft tomatoes alongside each other, like kids on a sofa, tucking them in nicely. I place the crushed garlic and herbs on top, then leave it alone for a while so it cools to room temperature. Any cooked tomato juices left, I mix with the reserved seeds to make a dressing. You don’t need me to explain how to do that.

I chill a disc of puff pastry in the fridge, lay it over the pan of firm tomatoes, making sure the edges of the feuilletée are neatly pushed in, then cut five or six small vents with the tip of a knife to let the steam escape.

(On the subject of steam, I recently used a new method with apple tart tatin that is particular to The Clove Club, in London. It goes against every pastry principle I know but works like magic. You prepare the apples in buttery caramel as normal, then place the pan, covered with cold raw pastry on the stovetop over a low heat and let it cook for about an hour, rotating the pan every so often to even up the colouration. Yes, I know… The pastry balloons up from the steam created underneath. It develops an outer skin, something that is most strange, then after about an hour of steamed pastry malarky, it goes into the oven for another half an hour to give you the most incredible chewy, flaky crisp crust.It is quite unbelievable. The Clove Club has two stars though, so they clearly know what they’re talking about).

I went slightly off-topic there.

After cutting the vents in the pasty, I place the tart in a hot oven for about thirty minutes to cook, only taking it out when the pastry is deeply golden and crisp.

Now for some advice. Tarte Tatin of any ingredient is basically a pan full of hot caramel when you take it out of the oven. Now here’s a thing. Whether it’s apple, mango or tomato, when the tart comes out of the oven, do not turn it out. Wait. Leave it to set, then wait a little longer till it’s just warm. The caramelised juices will soak back into the fruit. Before you flip it, run a small metal spatula around the edge, to free it, then turn it out, leaving it upside down to free itself. You could give it a bang if you need to. With apples, the pectin has a chance to set, so when you turn it out, you’ll get a professional-looking set caramel tart, not a moving jigsaw of hot apples in a bath of arm-burning caramel.

The tomato tart when set needs nothing more than a few anchovy fillets and a spoonful of capers and that’s it.

Tomato heaven.

Until Monday,

William