Making risotto for guests is sweaty, miserable and lonely. Like many people in late-capitalist society, that's how I feel most nights – I don't need it for a dinner party.
You know how it goes. Everyone likes risotto, right? So what better for a convivial supper? Here's the reality: the guests turn up; you palm them off with a beaker of vino; then it's back to the pot. As The Beatles once sung, I don't know why you say hello, I say goodbye.
For the next twenty minutes, your face hovers over a boiling mass of stodge. Your features contort in sweaty rancour as it stubbornly refuses to transmogrify into risotto. When you finally waddle through with the goods, your face resembles a gargoyle water-feature. And dinner party banter? Forget it. You've been in your own world for the last half hour. You're gonna be about as with it as Grandma.
Not this time, cholo.
This time I cheated. I nudged the risotto into a state of readiness two hours before the guests arrived. Get the first ladle of stock in, then turn off the heat. The risotto stands there, frozen in time, ready for its rescue - kind of like when Jabba the Hut merked Han Solo. That tip is from reluctantly right-on meat fanatic, Anthony Bourdain.
Unfortunately, there is another labour-intensive element to this dish... broad beans. Because you have to shell them. You really must. Their sallow, scrotal sacks have no place on a dinner plate. There may be a voice in your head that says “leave 'em on”. It may make some specious reference to 'roughage'. Ignore that voice.
And don't underestimate how long it takes to shell broad beans. At six thirty, I had plenty of time. Guest weren't due till seven thirty. An hour later, I was still tiddly-winking these little bastards all over my kitchen like a maniac. There is no technique to shelling a broad bean. Thank Christ the peas were frozen.
I don't really want to talk about it but I won't be cooking broad beans again.
Recipe – serves 3-4
Bag of broad beans
Munchkin's fistful of frozen peas
Four measures of risotto rice
One leek
Garlic
Shallot
Mature, firm goats' cheese
Za'atar (available from Middle Eastern delis or your local Mother Earth-style shop)
Butter
Three of four leaves of fresh mint, chopped.
Lemon zest
Sauté the shallots, the garlic and the leek in olive oil. That's right: I said leek. Normally it would be celery, but I saw some darling baby leeks in the London Fields farmers' market and this seemed a good time to use them.
Why? A logical chain: this dish has peas and broad beans... they go with mint... and a lot of dairy-rich Middle Eastern dishes pair leek and mint... and this dish has a Middle Eastern garnish. So in the leeks go and anyone who doesn't like it can jolly well go to blazes.
Once the alium medley is translucent, turn up the heat and toss in the risotto rice. At this point, imagine you're an old school police officer who's just taken custody of a pack of ruffians you suspect of kidnapping a local grandee. They're no good to you when they're all sticking together in a big, cocky mass. You've got to smack 'em about a little with a wooden implement. Don't let them settle. Soon they'll separate into individuals, each one out for himself. That's what we want from the rice: no stickiness; just individual grains.
Now throw in the dregs of the white wine you've been slurping. Do it with a Floyd-like flourish if at all possible. You're pouring some out for a dead homey. A boozy-smelling spirit will rise from the pot and ascend t'ward the heavens.
In goes your first ladleful of stock. When I say stock, I mean Marigold Bouillon. And when I say ladleful, I mean just slop a load of it into the pot. As a rule of thumb, the smaller the ladlefuls and the more frequent their addition, the better the performance of the chef. And the worse the performance of the host. So work out what you wanna do – have a chinwag with your buddies or gurn into a saucepan. Find a balance. Soon enough the risotto will be done.
When it gets there, act fast. Heat off. Lob in the broad beans – good riddance. Drop your payload of peas. Fling in some mint. Lemon zest. Salt. Then a John Holmes knob of butter. Without enough butter, your risotto has little chance of oozing across the plate. And that is the correct texture of risotto. With the final touches applied, put the lid on the pot and let the risotto sit. The ingredients get to know each other, and you should go re-acquaint yourself with your guests.
These are the most precious ten minutes of your dinner party – your hard work is all done and no-one yet knows if your risotto is actually gash. Relax. Be a host. If it's too late to plug into your guests' conversation, why not entertain them with a few hilarious armpit farts?
The ten minutes are up. Take the plates from the oven. Put a blob of risotto in the middle of each. Does it ooze? Tough shit. Carefully place a slice of your goats' cheese on top of the risotto. Now a little swirl of olive oil. And finally a sprinkling of za'atar* on the goats' cheese.
Serve with a Sancerre, Menetou-Salon or, preferably, a Pouilly-Fume.
*Za'atar is a Middle Eastern mix of wild thyme, toasted sesame and sumac. It tends to be made by people who are getting a raw deal in every other part of their life, so why not buy a pack? Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall loves the stuff so who the hell are you to turn your nose up?
Nice Bad Lieutenant reference
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