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Created by Chef Thomas
Beetroot roasted until deeply sweet, blended into a soup the colour of a winter sunset, and finished with a spoonful of horseradish cream that cuts through the richness like cold air through an open door.
January. The garden is bare and the light goes early and there's a particular kind of cold that settles into the kitchen by four o'clock. This is a soup for that kind of evening. It asks for very little, a bag of beetroot, an onion, some stock, an hour, and it gives back a bowl of something so deeply coloured it stops you for a moment when you ladle it out.
Roasting is what makes this. Raw beetroot tastes of earth and not much else. Boiled beetroot tastes of the water it sat in. But beetroot roasted in foil until it's soft and concentrated and almost sticky, that tastes like something worth sitting down for. The sweetness deepens in the oven, and the colour holds. When you blend it with stock, the whole pan turns a crimson so vivid it looks theatrical. It isn't. It's just a beetroot being honest about what it is.
The horseradish cream is the thing that turns a good soup into the right soup. A spoonful of soured cream spiked with enough horseradish to make your nose tingle, dropped into the centre of each bowl. White on crimson. The sharpness cuts through the sweetness and neither wins. That's the balance you're after. I wrote it down in the notebook last winter: beetroot, horseradish, Tuesday, rain on the window. Right food, right evening.
There are few better feelings than putting a warm plate in front of someone on a cold night. This bowl does the work for you. The colour says everything before the first spoonful.
Quantity
6 medium (about 700g)
raw, unpeeled, scrubbed
Quantity
2 tablespoons
Quantity
1 medium
roughly chopped
Quantity
2 cloves
sliced
Quantity
a few sprigs
Quantity
750ml
Quantity
a splash
Quantity
to taste
Quantity
to taste
Quantity
150ml
Quantity
2-3 teaspoons
finely grated, or good jarred horseradish
Quantity
a squeeze
| Ingredient | Quantity |
|---|---|
| beetrootraw, unpeeled, scrubbed | 6 medium (about 700g) |
| olive oil | 2 tablespoons |
| onionroughly chopped | 1 medium |
| garlicsliced | 2 cloves |
| thyme | a few sprigs |
| chicken or vegetable stock | 750ml |
| red wine vinegar | a splash |
| fine sea salt | to taste |
| black pepper | to taste |
| soured cream | 150ml |
| fresh horseradishfinely grated, or good jarred horseradish | 2-3 teaspoons |
| lemon juice | a squeeze |
Set the oven to 200C/180C fan. Wash the beetroot and trim the stalks to a couple of centimetres but don't peel them. Wrap them loosely in foil, two or three to a parcel, with a drizzle of oil and a pinch of salt. Roast for fifty minutes to an hour, until a knife slides through the thickest one without resistance. They should smell earthy and sweet, and the skins will have wrinkled and loosened. Let them cool just enough to handle, then slip the skins off with your fingers. They'll come away easily. Your hands will be stained crimson. This is normal. It washes off. Eventually.
While the beetroot roasts, warm a good splash of olive oil in a heavy-bottomed pan over a gentle heat. Add the onion and a pinch of salt. Let it soften for ten minutes or so, stirring now and then, until it's translucent and sweet. Add the garlic and the thyme sprigs and cook for another minute, just until the garlic smells warm and fragrant. Pull out the thyme stalks when they've given up their leaves.
Roughly chop the roasted beetroot and add it to the pan. Pour in the stock. It should just cover everything. Bring to a gentle simmer and cook for fifteen minutes, letting the flavours get to know one another. Take it off the heat and blend until very smooth. This is a soup that rewards patience with the blender. You want it velvety, almost glossy, with no trace of graininess. Add a splash of red wine vinegar. It won't taste of vinegar. It will taste of beetroot, sharper and more itself. Season and taste. Then taste again.
Stir the grated horseradish into the soured cream with a squeeze of lemon and a pinch of salt. Taste it. You want it sharp enough to make your nose prickle, but not so fierce it overwhelms the soup. Fresh horseradish is best if you can get it, a gnarled root that looks like it's been dug up from someone's garden, grated finely. Jarred is fine if you choose one that tastes of horseradish and not of vinegar and stabilisers. You'll know the difference.
Ladle the soup into warm bowls. Drop a generous spoonful of the horseradish cream into the centre of each. It will sit on the surface for a moment, white against crimson, before someone drags a spoon through it. That contrast is what makes the bowl. Serve with bread that can hold its own. Something dark and seeded, or a thick slice of sourdough, still warm if you can manage it.
1 serving (about 370g)
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