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A simmered and roasted gammon with a mustard glaze, served with a proper parsley sauce made from the cooking liquor. The kind of meal that turns a Sunday into a memory.
The kitchen smells of bay and peppercorn and something slowly giving in. A gammon in a pot of water, ticking away on the back of the stove, is one of the most patient things a kitchen can do. There's no urgency. Just time and heat doing what they've always done, turning a salt-cured joint into something tender and deeply savoury.
This is the older way of doing it, and it's better. Simmer first, then roast. The simmering makes the meat yielding and gentle. The roasting gives you the glaze: mustard and dark sugar bubbling into a sticky, lacquered crust that catches and crisps at the edges. But the real reason for simmering is what it leaves behind. That cooking liquor, pale gold and rich with the flavour of the meat and the aromatics, is the foundation of the parsley sauce. You'd be a fool to pour it away.
Parsley sauce gets a bad reputation, mostly because people have only ever had a bad one. A thin, grey, floury thing from a packet or a school canteen. A proper parsley sauce, made with real butter and the gammon's own liquor and a reckless amount of fresh parsley, is something else entirely. It's rich and savoury and green, and it brings the whole plate together in the way that only a proper sauce can.
I wrote it down in the notebook years ago: gammon, parsley sauce, boiled potatoes, a cold Sunday. That's all it said. That's all it needed to say.
Quantity
about 2kg
on the bone if you can get it
Quantity
1
halved
Quantity
2
Quantity
1 teaspoon
Quantity
2
halved lengthways
Quantity
2 sticks
halved
Quantity
2 tablespoons
Quantity
2 tablespoons
Quantity
a handful
Quantity
50g
Quantity
50g
Quantity
500ml
Quantity
150ml
Quantity
a large bunch
finely chopped
Quantity
to taste
Quantity
to taste
Quantity
a squeeze
| Ingredient | Quantity |
|---|---|
| unsmoked gammon jointon the bone if you can get it | about 2kg |
| onionhalved | 1 |
| bay leaves | 2 |
| black peppercorns | 1 teaspoon |
| carrotshalved lengthways | 2 |
| celeryhalved | 2 sticks |
| English mustard | 2 tablespoons |
| dark brown muscovado sugar | 2 tablespoons |
| cloves | a handful |
| unsalted butter | 50g |
| plain flour | 50g |
| reserved cooking liquor | 500ml |
| whole milk | 150ml |
| flat-leaf parsleyfinely chopped | a large bunch |
| fine sea salt | to taste |
| white pepper | to taste |
| lemon juice | a squeeze |
If the gammon is very salty, and your butcher will tell you if it is, soak it overnight in cold water, changing the water once or twice. This draws out the excess cure. If it's a mild cure, you can skip this, but when in doubt, soak it. An oversalted gammon is a hard thing to rescue.
Put the gammon in a large pan and cover it with fresh cold water. Add the halved onion, bay leaves, peppercorns, carrots, and celery. Bring to a gentle simmer. Not a boil. A boil toughens the meat and fills the kitchen with scum. You want lazy bubbles breaking the surface, nothing more. Let it tick away for about twenty minutes per 500g. For a 2kg joint, that's roughly an hour and a half. The meat should feel yielding when you press it but still hold its shape. When it's done, lift it out carefully and set it on a board. Keep the cooking liquor. It's golden and savoury and it becomes half the parsley sauce.
Set the oven to 200C/180C fan. While the gammon is still warm, peel away the skin with a knife, leaving a thick, even layer of fat. Score the fat in a diamond pattern, cutting just deep enough to see the flesh beneath. Press a clove into the centre of each diamond. Mix the mustard and muscovado sugar together into a rough paste and spread it over the scored fat. Be generous. The glaze should be thick enough to form a proper crust.
Place the gammon in a roasting tin and put it in the hot oven for twenty-five to thirty minutes. Watch it. The sugar will bubble and darken, the mustard will catch at the edges, and the whole thing will turn sticky and lacquered. You want deep amber, not black. If it's darkening too quickly, turn the oven down. When it's done, the kitchen will smell of smoke and sweetness and something that makes people wander in to ask what's for dinner. Rest the gammon for at least fifteen minutes before carving. It needs the time.
While the gammon roasts, make the sauce. Melt the butter in a saucepan over a medium heat. When it foams, add the flour and stir it in with a wooden spoon. Cook this paste for a minute or two, stirring constantly, until it smells biscuity and has lost its raw, floury taste. Now add the cooking liquor a ladleful at a time, stirring well after each addition. The sauce will seize up at first, then loosen, then thicken smoothly. It takes patience and a steady hand but it isn't difficult. Add the milk gradually until you have a sauce with the consistency of double cream, loose enough to pour but thick enough to coat the back of a spoon. Let it simmer gently for five minutes to cook out any remaining flouriness.
Take the sauce off the heat. Stir in the chopped parsley. More than you think you need. The sauce should be properly green, not white with flecks. Season with salt (carefully, the cooking liquor is already savoury), white pepper, and a squeeze of lemon to sharpen it. Taste it. The parsley should be bright and grassy against the richness of the liquor. If it tastes flat, it needs more lemon. If it tastes thin, it needs more time on the heat. Pour it into a warm jug and bring it to the table alongside the carved gammon.
1 serving (about 320g)
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