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here's no French translation for gravy.

Their nearest equivalents don't really cut the mustard


you can hardly imagine an effete jus powering any sort of train, or everything coming up
all sauce brune. In Britain, gravy is more than just a condiment; it's liquid comfort. Think of
the warm, meaty embrace of every-mother Lynda Bellingham in the Oxo adverts of
yesteryear, or that self-satisfied "ahh, Bisto" slogan which perfectly encapsulated a nation's
feelings about a piping jug of gravy even if we've since realised that making your own is
just as easy.

It brings together a Sunday roast like a cup of tea brings together a group of strangers
bestowing a soothing, savoury homeliness on everything it touches. And, like many
traditional favourites, every cook has their own method. As Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall
wisely points out in his River Cottage Meat Book, "there is no recipe for gravy, nor should
there be". There are, however, various ways to make sure you do your patriotic duty by the
scrapings in the pan. Although the principle is the same, whatever the meat, in the name of
John Bull, I've decided to play around with a hearty, very British beef gravy.

To deglaze or to roux?
Now, the French don't know much about gravy, that's been established. But, in its short
entry on this culinary curiosity from across the Channel, Larousse Gastronomique observes
there are two main schools of gravy making those who add flour to the roasting tin to
make a roux a thickening agent made of flour and fat with the dripping and juices
produced by the joint, and those who deglaze the tin with alcohol or a little stock before
adding more liquid.

After roasting two joints of beef, I take the meat out of the tins, tip away most of the fat by
tilting the tin away from me and spooning off the hot dripping from the top, leaving as
much of the juice as possible in both, and put them in turn on a medium-high heat. I add
2tbsp plain flour to the first, and stir frantically, scraping all the lovely crusty roasty bits off
the bottom, and mixing the flour into the remaining fat and juice. When the flour has
browned slightly, I stir in 600ml good-quality beef stock, a little at a time, season, and
reduce for a few minutes until the gravy reaches that thick, opaque dark caramel which I
consider the crowning glory of a roast dinner. It's a little gloopy though, suggesting I may
have overdone it on the flour.

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The other needs a little more advance preparation I tip a couple of tablespoons of the beef
fat from the joint into a small pan, heat, and then add the same amount of flour and
continue stirring and cooking for two or three minutes, until it has just started to colour. I
then tip a little of my beef stock into the hot roasting tin, and scrape to dislodge any of the
caramelised meat juices at the bottom, before adding the rest and bringing to the boil. Once
simmering, I whisk in a little of the roux mixture to thicken it, season, and compare the
two.
They taste pretty similar - the second gravy is perhaps slightly thinner, but I could have
solved this by whisking in more roux. Method-wise, however, the first is clearly superior
for the home cook. There's no need to use an extra pan to prepare the roux, which is a
godsend when you're cooking a Sunday roast, and it's much easier to stir liquid into a roux
than the other way around to my shame, I spot a couple of lumps in my second effort.
Plus it makes use of the little fat which will inevitably still be in the roasting tin after you've
drained most of it off, rather than adding more; so it almost counts as healthy.

The veg
Michael Roux Jr makes chicken gravy using the vegetables which have roasted with the
bird. He's basically French though, which forbids me from trying his recipe out - but you
don't get much more pukka than old Jamie, and he uses the same method for his
"consistently good gravy". "There are two things that make a good gravy," he claims in his
Ministry of Food: "a vegetable trivet, which is the layer of vegetables in the bottom of your
roasting tray that your meat sits on; and the juices from a roasted piece of good-quality
meat".

I agree with the latter, but the first is news to me - I often chuck some cloves of garlic and a
few sprigs of thyme into the tin with a chicken, for example, but I always take them out
along with the meat. Jamie, however, suggests resting the joint on a veritable vegetable
medley carrots, onion, celery, garlic and then mashing them up with the flour and meat
juices once the meat is cooked. (If you're cooking quite a small joint, I'd advise cutting the
veg up relatively small: I can tell you from bitter experience that hard carrots are devils to
mash, especially in a hot pan.) I then add a small glass of red wine, stir everything around
well, bring it to the boil, and tip in a litre of beef stock. Ten minutes simmering, and it's
ready to press through a sieve, season and taste.

Two things strike me; slightly mushy vegetables do not, in my opinion, give a flavour that's
entirely welcome in gravy (roasted garlic, or onion, is just about acceptable, if you're
feeling fancy), and neither does red wine. This is a revelation - I always add it to gravy out
of habit, but it can't be denied that this makes it taste more like a red wine sauce than an
honest British condiment. Perhaps John Torode is right; wine's for drinking with a roast,
not for tipping into it.

The liquid test


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Torode, author of the uncompromisingly titled "Beef" puts nothing but water into his
"Nanna's" gravy. That's taking a big gamble - but as it's also the case in the Royal Society
of Chemists' perfect gravy recipe, I decide to give it a try. In fact, the RSC ask for cabbage
water, which seems a reasonable enough request when the lovely savoys are in season,
although I suspect this is more in an effort to make the gravy as nutritious as possible than
because it has a particularly special flavour.
After cooking the beef on a base of vegetables, the juices and fat are mixed with a small
amount of flour, and then the cooking water from cabbage is gradually added and stirred to
incorporate the dark, sticky deposits on the bottom of the tin. The gravy is then seasoned
with iodised salt again, for health reasons - and then a teaspoon of dark soy sauce to bring
out the umami flavours of the meat. Now, I'm happy to add Bovril or Marmite to meat
dishes when required, but tipping in such a distinctively Oriental ingredient goes against
the grain particularly when I can taste it in the finished gravy. If your gravy isn't quite up
to scratch, I'd recommend using one of these, or a little stock instead - or even umami paste,
if you can find it in your local specialist grocers. Alternatively, if you use stock instead of
water, you're unlikely to have the problem in the first place.

Stock
Up to now I've been using a good quality readymade beef stock, but I find it rather
overpoweringly salty when reduced into a gravy, so I decide to make my own instead. This
is a great excuse to practice cycling through central London with a 2kg bag of bones and try
out the brown stock recipe from my newly purchased copy of Jennifer McLagan's Cooking
on the Bone: recipes, history and lore.

I roast the bones in a hot oven with chunks of onion, carrot, celery and leek for an hour,
then put them in a large stockpot with garlic, tomato, herbs and spices, cover them with
water, and bring to the boil. They must simmer for five hours, which is most of the day
gone, but the rich brown result bodes well for my fifth gravy of the week.

I make a roux in the roasting tin, add a ladleful of stock, and stir to incorporate all the
lovely meaty bits at the bottom, before adding more stock and letting it simmer away in the
pan for a few minutes until thickened. On tasting it, the fact that the whole house smells of
beef suddenly doesn't matter any more it's divine. Make up a big batch of proper stock,
reduce and freeze it, and it won't be a day wasted, I promise.

Happy ending
Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall provides a long list of sweeteners, seasonings and aromatisers
for gravy, but one he doesn't mention is English mustard. Mix a teaspoon in at the end and
you've got all your sauces in one boat and the same goes for horseradish. The same recipe
can be used for other meats, so adjust the condiment as desired; redcurrant jelly for lamb,
apple juice for pork, and so on.

For perfect gravy, you need good quality meat, good quality stock - and that's it. It really is
as easy as (beef) pie.

Perfect beef gravy


Felicity's perfect gravy. Photograph: Felicity Cloake

1 tbsp plain flour


600ml hot good quality beef stock, preferably homemade

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1. Make the gravy in a flameproof roasting tin while the joint is resting elsewhere. Heat the
tin over a medium flame and then pour most of the fat off it, leaving about a tablespoon, as
well as the meat juices. Sprinkle over the flour and stir into the fat, scraping to loosen any
bits on the bottom of the tin. Cook, stirring, for a couple of minutes, until slightly browned,
being careful not to burn it.

2. Add a ladle of stock to the tin and stir to incorporate. Add the rest of the stock, then bring
to the boil, stirring. Simmer, stirring regularly, until the gravy has reached your preferred
thickness, then season to taste. If you want to add any other flavourings, do so now, then
heat through to serve.

Is homemade gravy always best and do you like it elegantly thin, or thick enough to stand
a spoon in? Should it be plain and meaty, or beefed up with complementary flavours, and is
there a ready-made stock around which can compare with the fresh stuff?

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