Happy Easter!

Made even happier by hot cross buns, fresh from the oven at St John Bread & Wine.

Under the skin of St John Bread & Wine

Regular readers will already know I'm a huge fan of St John and it's sister restaurant Bread & Wine. Having recently met Bread & Wine head chef, James Lowe, I felt compelled to find out more... Their excellent bacon sandwiches had whet my appetite, but in reality they don't even scratch the surface of this modern British institution. 

Having just completed a week-long stage working at Bread & Wine, I've certainly had chance to experience their nose to tail philosophy first hand. Even speaking as a certified carnivore, however, some of the tasks I undertook were definitely not for the faint hearted.

Much of my time was spent downstairs in the prep kitchen, a clinical, windowless, fluoro-lit basement – all white tiles and stainless steel – where the only sound is the humming of the fridges, the the whirring of thermo-mixers, and the regular grating rasp of hack saw blade on animal bone.

Whilst dishes are finished upstairs in the open kitchen, in full view of the restaurant, it's downstairs where the bulk of the work takes place. I was lucky enough to get my hands dirty with plenty of meaty tasks; prepping chicken gizzards, pheasant hearts and mallard legs for confit; breaking down a whole side of mutton into roasting and braising joints; boning out pork shoulders; making 'blood cake', the St John take on black pudding, served with duck eggs or bacon; braising and slicing pigs ears, which are then deep fried and tossed with dandelion and rocket leaves; and playing my part in the making of a bona fide St John classic, ox heart (above) with watercress and pickled walnuts. The huge hearts first have to be trimmed of the fat, sinew, fibres and capillaries, before being sliced so finely, that on a few occasions I came extremely close to making sashimi out of my fingers. The slices are then marinated over night in garlic, thyme, olive oil and pickled walnut vinegar, before being grilled for a matter of seconds over white-hot coals. Finally, they're tossed with watercress leaves and finely chopped pickled walnut pieces and served up to the hoards of salivating offalite diners. The preparation is long and quite laborious, but the end result is utterly delightful.

This method of using cheap or irregular cuts and ingredients, which are subsequently transformed over long periods of relatively labour intensive preparation, seems to be almost universally replicated throughout the menu. Many dishes take 48 hours or more to prepare. First jointing, filleting, boning and trimming. Then salting overnight or brining for days. Then braising or confit-ing for anything up to eight hours. Finally dishes are assembled and finished over the grill, in a gravy, or by pan frying. Almost every single dish on the menu contains at least some components that are cooked in the low oven, permanently set to 110 degrees, for many hours at a time. “Slow and low, man,” as the other stage chef said to me on day one, in his West Coast American drawl, “it's the St John way”.

Faggots, made from rare-breed Middlewhite pork. The key to the flavour is in the ratio of offal to meat to back fat, balanced with a subtle blend of cinnamon, nutmeg and allspice.

Mallard: Crown for roasting, hearts & lungs for pan frying, legs for confit... One bird, three methods.

Oven ready squirrels, which will be braised, picked, and served in a broth with white beans. Guess what... They taste a bit like chicken.

It wasn't an entirely carnivorous week, however. I made piccalilli, swede cake, pickled cucumber, fennel soup, turnip puree, horseradish sauce and their incredible tomato ketchup, the recipe for which I may or may not divulge on these pages sometime soon. Aside from that, there was always veg to prepare, and I lost count of the number of bucket loads of onions I chopped over the week – a task that is obviously de rigour for the new boy in any kitchen.

But it wouldn't have been St John if I'd not come face to face with a decapitated pig or three. At Bread & Wine pigs heads are skinned, braised in pig stock (always pig stock, never ham or pork stock), then rolled, sliced into discs, bread crumbed (or painéed) then deep fried. Alternatively, the cheeks are removed after braising, along with the adjoining cushion of fat, before being pan fried and served with a salad of chicory, roast red onion and capers dressed in a lip-smacking, mustardy vinaigrette. Very rich, but again, delicious.

I'd be lying if said I didn't get a kick out of the preparation... There's just nothing quite like slicing a dead animal's face of before breakfast. As we set about our task on the morning of day three, the softly-spoken soux chef turned to me, pig's head in one hand, butchers knife in the other, and said “the ears I don't mind, the snout I don't mind, the tongue I don't mind... It's those blue eyes I can't handle. They get me every time.” I look across as he makes the first incision, a macabre grin spreading across his face.

If you're squeamish, you should probably look away now.

Before:

After:

So the nose to tail philosophy is no myth - almost nothing on any animal goes to waste. If the offal and off cuts aren't brined or confit-ed they're used in salads, stocks or soups. Butchery is a very important part of life in the kitchen at St John Bread & Wine. Not only is a whole carcass more cost efficient than buying in four legs or shoulders, it also means the chefs can keep a closer eye on the quality and provenance of the meat, and forces them to be more inventive in their menu creation, ensuring every last shred is put to good use.

I'm standing at the butcher's bench with the second chef, a half-butchered shoulder of pork in front of us. “It's good for chefs to be dealing with meat like this,” he says, “we're lucky to be able to do so on such a regular basis”. I feel like there's a subtext to what he's saying; that the butchery means the chefs retain a closer connection with, and a greater responsibility for the animals they're cooking. With a final twist, he pops the pig's joint out of it's ball socket, stabs a meat hook through the flesh and hangs the shank on the rack in front of us. I can't quite put my finger on why, but I can certainly see the appeal... And I think I might just be hooked too.

James Lowe on the best bacon sandwich in London

It's a bright December morning, crisp and clear; the kind that smacks you on both cheeks the moment you step out of the front door. Winter sun swathes Spitalfields in the kind of low light that gives everything a sheen of pure, brilliant white, catching on your breath as it all but crystallises with each exhalation, and turning every car windscreen into a beacon so bright it could guide wise men to Bethlehem.

It's quiet outside, and it feels like Commercial Street has yet to come to life this morning. But as I arrive at my destination, I find a hive of activity. A morning's graft in the kitchen is already well underway. It's 8.30am, and there is business to attend to – business in the shape of a bacon sandwich – the best in London, at that.

I'm by no means the first to write about what makes a good bacon sandwich. Many before me have debated the merits of grilling versus frying, at home versus the local greasy spoon, red sauce or brown, white bread or (controversially) wholemeal... There's even a scientific formula which explains exactly how to make one, according to Leeds University.

But scientific formula or not, in my opinion the debate is already over, for there is one establishment which has succeeded in creating by far and away the best example of a bacon sandwich that I've ever tasted. And for that reason, this morning I'm at St John Bread & Wine, where I have arranged to meet Head Chef, James Lowe to discuss the matter over a cup of tea and one of their outstanding bacon sandwiches.

This will be my fourth Bread & Wine bacon sandwich. The first was an opportunistic visit at 11.01am. The kitchen had officially shut for family breakfast, and I almost didn't get anything. As I ordered without looking at the menu I must have momentarily bonded with the chef at the grill over a shared love of sizzling pork. Thank god, I just about squeezed it. The second was just before heading to Stansted to embark on a culinary tour of Bordeaux. We ate very well on that trip, but nothing came close to breakfast on day one. The third was with two friends, as fuel for a meeting about the logo for this very blog. What better stimulus for three men who love to eat? So, I know full well what to expect from my breakfast this morning, but even so, I feel a flutter of excitement which I put down to more than just my tummy rumbling.

I take a seat at the side of the stark, minimalist dining room, in anticipation of the head chef's arrival. A distinct, almost industrial hum emanates from the kitchen, audible above the clink of metal on metal, as pots and pans are shifted from stove top to surface, knives are sharpened, and trays full of plump, crusty loaves are turned out on to their cooling racks. The whole of the restaurant is filled with the scent of freshly baked bread, still hot from the oven.

Behind the pass, there are half a dozen white-coated chefs with heads down, busily prepping their stations for the day to come. They all look so studious that I'm almost surprised when one of the chefs emerges from the kitchen, strides purposefully towards my table, and takes a seat. “You're here to talk about the bacon sandwich”, he says, more as a statement than a question. Lowe has barely introduced himself before launching into a thorough and passionate description of not just the sandwich in question, but his thoughts on what breakfast is all about, his approach to cooking, and a concise history of his career, influences and inspirations. Everything he says is backed by the kind of enthusiasm that shows love for what he is doing, even when discussing such a modest dish. But he's direct and to the point – there's a sense that he will say this only once – as you would expect from the head of such a well regarded kitchen.

Our conversation is punctuated only by the flitting to and fro of the waiting staff, and the occasional comings and goings of delivery men with trolleys stacked so high it's as if there's a Christmas banquet booking for the five thousand.

All the peripheral activity is soon forgotten once breakfast arrives, however. A sandwich almost big enough to fill a dinner plate: Two huge slabs of perfectly toasted bread, crisp on one side, slathered in butter on the other. Thick folds of char-grilled bacon nestled in between. A generous bowlful of smooth, deep red ketchup. A pot of loose leaf tea, getting stronger with every second that passes. If only every day began this way.

The first bight has everything; the crispy outer layer of toasted bread, light, open-textured dough underneath; moist, juicy bacon, soft and plump in parts, charred and caramelised in others; fruity, tangy ketchup that explodes in the mouth. All at once it's salty, sweet, meaty, smooth, crispy, spongy, soft, slightly – unapologetically - greasy, and completely, utterly delightful. The perfect combination of textures and flavours. Who needs molecular gastronomy?

But perhaps this bacon sandwich bears closer relation to molecular gastronomy than you might at first think. James Lowe started his career at La Trompette in Chiswick, before going on to work at The Fat Duck. Despite the paired down style at Bread & Wine, The Fat Duck is still a big influence on Lowe's cooking today. The menu has been meticulously constructed with each dish having been obsessively tested, re-tested, and tested again – just to make absolutely sure. Every ingredient and method that is used in his kitchen, even in dishes as simple as the bacon sarnie, are subject to just as much scrutiny as anything he ever created at The Fat Duck. He tells me, for example, about occasions when ten or more rashers of bacon, each from different cuts, cures and breeds have been lined up against one another for side by side testing, to ensure the finished product reaches absolute perfection.

This exactitude is a direct influence of his time under Heston Blumenthal, an exactitude which according to James is side-stepped all too willingly in many a professional kitchen. Too many London chefs forego precision in their cooking, he says, giving the excuse that their cramped working environments, quick turnover of covers, and scarce resources leave little time for concentrating on the minutiae of detail, each and every time. This goes hand in hand, he says, with London kitchens generally being anti-technology.

High technology, particularly of the sort that one would associate with the Fat Duck, seems at odds with the old English-influenced dishes that are served at both St John and sister restaurant Bread & Wine. But in actual fact, it is the technology that allows for more measured and cared for cooking methods, such as the roast leg of mutton, which is cooked at exactly 100 degrees C – not a percentile more or less – for upwards of six hours, until the meat literally falls off the bone.

Clearly The Fat Duck is not the only influence here, however. Before he started at Bread & Wine, Lowe spent time at the River Cafe – a standard bearer in the resurgence of top restaurants focusing on market-influenced, seasonal produce. He's keen to tell me on a number of occasions that he doesn't like to “play around with things” too much. He'd rather let better ingredients come across more clearly on the plate. His cooking relies on simple, considered flavour exchanges, highlighting what occurs naturally, not masking existing flavours with unnecessary new ones. “It's a tastier way of eating”, as he puts it. And I couldn't agree more.

This approach can certainly been seen, and more importantly tasted, in the bacon sandwich. Much effort has gone into getting each element absolutely right: “I've tried more bacon for our sandwiches than I can possibly begin to remember” - well, it's a hard life, James - “and you quickly come to realise that the best bacon for the breakfast table is not necessarily the best bacon for the sandwich”. The bacon in question is from rare breed Old Spot pigs, from Butts Farm in Cirencester. It's tank cured and unsmoked - a relatively modern method which purists may curl their tails at – but Lowe insists that it is the brining, which gives their bacon it's irresistable moist-yet-charred characteristics. Tank curing means the pork retains more natural liquid in the curing process than a more traditional dry cure, and the delicate salt / sugar solution in the brine brings out far more flavour on the char grill.

The bread is a classic yeast-risen sandwich tin white, baked on site everyday. Almost all of the other breads they bake at Bread & Wine are sourdough leavans, but its vital for Lowe that the bread for the bacon sandwiches tastes just like white bread should: “A big part of this dish is nostalgia” he says, “it has to taste like all of the best bacon sandwiches you've ever had in your life... And I guess I have a lot to compare against, as I've virtually lived on them for three meals a day, seven days a week, at some points”.

And the ketchup? How nostalgic can this sandwich really be if the ketchup isn't Heinz? “I had originally said we would use Heinz, but we tried this recipe for the sauce and immediately that was it. In fact, it's the only thing about the sandwich which hasn't ever changed.” It certainly works - a simple concoction of tomato, onion, apple and spices – fruity, zingy, subtly aromatic, and when compared with standard shop-bought ketchups, much more natural, and infinitely more flavoursome. The perfect complement to a faultless bacon sandwich.

It's good to know that such a humble dish gets due care and attention in such a revered kitchen. “I just think breakfast is such an important meal... When I finish my breakfast I want to feel completely satisfied. I hope you do too...” And this morning, James, I most certainly do.