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Created by Chef Thomas
A proper white sauce sharpened with pounded anchovy, the old Georgian trick for waking up a piece of poached fish or a slice of roast lamb on a Sunday in spring.
There's a moment, when you stir the pounded anchovies into the warm white sauce, where the kitchen suddenly smells of the sea. Salt and butter and something deeper than either. It catches you off guard every time, even when you're expecting it.
This is a Georgian sauce, and not one most people make any more. A pity. People used to know what to do with anchovies. They pounded them into butter, into sauces, into anything that needed waking up. Then somewhere along the way we forgot, and anchovies became a pizza topping you apologize for. A small loss, easily fixed.
The sauce itself is plain enough. White sauce, properly made, then sharpened with anchovy until it tastes of itself. Spoon it over a piece of poached fish on a quiet Tuesday, or pour it alongside a slice of roast lamb on a Sunday in spring when the new season's lamb has just come in and feels like an occasion. You don't need much. A puddle on the warm plate. The fish or the lamb does the rest.
I wrote it down in the notebook last Easter: 'Anchovy sauce with the lamb. Forgot how good this is. Make again.' Some things you have to keep relearning. We're only making dinner, but a sauce like this is the difference between feeding people and feeding them properly.
Quantity
50g
Quantity
40g
Quantity
500ml
Quantity
8 good ones
drained
Quantity
a small squeeze
Quantity
a grating
freshly grated
Quantity
to taste
Quantity
a small knob
to finish
| Ingredient | Quantity |
|---|---|
| unsalted butter | 50g |
| plain flour | 40g |
| whole milk | 500ml |
| anchovy fillets in oildrained | 8 good ones |
| lemon | a small squeeze |
| nutmeg (optional)freshly grated | a grating |
| white pepper | to taste |
| cold unsalted butter (optional)to finish | a small knob |
Tip the anchovy fillets into a mortar and work them with the pestle until they break down into a rough, salty paste. No mortar? A small bowl and the back of a fork will do the same job, less elegantly. You're not after silk; a bit of texture is fine. Set it aside. Your fingers will smell of anchovy for the rest of the afternoon. There are worse things.
Pour the milk into a small saucepan and set it over a low heat. You don't want it to boil. Just warm it through until it's hand-hot, then take it off the heat. Cold milk hitting a hot roux is the main reason a white sauce goes lumpy, and a small bit of patience here saves you a lot of whisking later.
Melt the butter in a heavy-bottomed saucepan over a gentle heat. Once it's foaming but not browning, scatter in the flour and stir it through with a wooden spoon. It will come together as a smooth, pale paste. Cook it for a minute or two, stirring all the while. It should smell faintly biscuity, like a shortbread just starting in the oven. That smell is the raw flour cooking out, which is the difference between a sauce that tastes like a sauce and one that tastes like wallpaper paste.
Pour in the warm milk a ladleful at a time, whisking hard after each addition until the sauce is smooth before you add the next. Take your time over the first few. After three or four ladles you can start adding it more freely. Once all the milk is in, let the sauce come up to a gentle simmer, whisking constantly. It will thicken as it heats. You're after a sauce that coats the back of a spoon and falls in a slow, lazy ribbon when you lift it.
Take the pan off the heat and stir in the pounded anchovies. The sauce will go a faint, blushing grey and the kitchen will suddenly smell of the sea. Add a small squeeze of lemon, a grating of nutmeg if you fancy it, and a few twists of white pepper. Taste it. Don't reach for salt without tasting first; the anchovies bring plenty of their own. If it tastes flat, more lemon. If it tastes thin, drop in a small knob of cold butter and swirl it through off the heat. That's the trick that pulls the whole thing together. Serve warm, in a small jug, alongside whatever needs it.
1 serving (about 130g)
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