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Kitabı oku: «The Cook Book: Fortnum & Mason»
Dedicated to William Fortnum and Hugh Mason
Copyright
4th Estate
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by 4th Estate in 2016
Copyright © Fortnum & Mason Plc 2016
All photographs © David Loftus 2016
Much of the photography in this book was shot on location at 181 Piccadilly behind a shop hoarding on the third floor.
Fortnum & Mason Plc asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
Design by BLOK
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008199364
Ebook Edition © October 2016 ISBN: 9780008199401
Version: 2017-09-26
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Introduction
Breakfast
Morning Tea
Lunch
Ice Cream
Afternoon Tea
Savouries
Dinner
Sides
Puddings
Supper
Cocktails
Credits
Index
Acknowledgements
About the Author
About the Publisher
‘Where the food is just about as good as food can be’
Introduction
They say you never forget your first time. And when it comes to Fortnum & Mason, they’d be right. It was a chill winter’s evening, in the early days of the 80s, and I was dressed in my London best – shiny Clarks sandals, pressed corduroy trousers and an unusually spotless shirt. My tattered Husky had been replaced with a dark blue overcoat, and as my cousin and I walked down Piccadilly with my grandmother, I shivered with a mixture of cold, and pure, unalloyed excitement. We were up to see the Christmas windows. And maybe – if we were very good and said our pleases and thank yous and didn’t moan or fidget or fiddle about – maybe we could have a banana split at the legendary Fountain.
Having grown up in the depths of Wiltshire, I thought of London as a glittering Emerald City, impossibly exotic, endlessly exciting. And the Italian restaurants, Mimmo’s and La Fontana, that my grandmother loved so much were pure bliss. We would suck down endless Coca-Colas, fight with breadstick swords, devour vast bowls of spaghetti Bolognese, and have our cheeks pinched until they glowed. We didn’t go out to restaurants in the country. In fact, I don’t think Chippenham had any, save the ubiquitous chippy.
London was thrilling, no doubt about that. And Fortnum & Mason was the very pinnacle of big-city glamour. Those spectacular windows, warm and lavish, with the ornate tins of tea and exotic sweets and glittering bottles filled with magic potions. And the clock, where, on the hour, two wooden men emerged, one with a tea tray, the other with a candelabra, faced each other, and bowed graciously.
Of course, I had little idea that these four-foot figures were Mr Fortnum and Mr Mason and that the clock, unveiled in 1964, had taken three years to build. For me, it was utterly magical, more Narnia than Piccadilly, with all the fur wraps and fake snow and sugar-dusted Turkish delight that came with it. Although, unlike Narnia, there was no doubt it was Christmas. ‘Hark the Herald Angels’ trilled from some hidden speaker, and the place was laden with candied fruits, gleaming decorations and vast, extravagant crackers. The White Witch would not have approved.
There was a smell of spice and tea and expensive eaux de toilette. We fought our way through the festive hordes, past the tailcoated staff (more soldiers than shop assistants) and found ourselves in the Fountain, where that banana split, with its lashings of cream and fruit and chocolate and ice cream, seemed impossibly big. It was lust at first sight. As it had been for my mother and father, and for generations of excitable, star-struck children.
