< Previous9796see p. 118 grilled native lobster, komatsuna & mussel emulsionsee p. 121smoked jollof rice & crab custard9796see p. 118 grilled native lobster, komatsuna & mussel emulsionsee p. 121smoked jollof rice & crab custard 6564the menusnacks corn, ube & razor clams Not to be confused with purple yam, Nigerian ube comes from the fruit tree native to Africa, otherwise known as bush pear or butterfruit. I first came across ube while visiting a local market on Rye Lane in Peckham, a district of south London about 10 minutes from where I live. Peckham is home to one of the largest African populations in London, with Nigerians, Ghanaians, Somalians, Sierra Leoneans and various other communities living and working in the area. Turning the corner on to Rye Lane past the hipster bakeries and gentrified wine bars, you come across some of the hustle and bustle I encountered in Lagos. Smoked dried mackerels hang from the open stalls, while jackfruit, plantains, garden eggs and okra aplenty sit in large cardboard boxes. As you venture inside the African food stores, you will find giant bags of beans, garri flour, malt drinks and all the spices and peppercorns of the West African pantry. The butchers carry whole animal parts, such as goat and cow heads, hooves and haunches. The smells are wild and intoxicating: far more pungent than most other neighbour- hood supermarkets in the capital. Because I’d been carefully researching the foodstuffs of West Africa, I’d learned the original names of all the ingredients as well as the English language culinary explana- tions of the produce I’d been tasting and trialling. Some of the purveyors met my keen interest and knowledge of nomenclature with a bit of suspicion, wondering what a sort-of-Chinese-looking white guy wanted with great big handfuls of okra, fermented oil seeds and crayfish powder. It seemed to be only local Nigerians and other West Africans, mainly mothers, aunts and grandmothers, who frequented the shops to buy ingredients for their cookery. I explained my passion for these ingredients, and that I wanted to learn how to cook with them and eventually open a restaurant with these flavours that were completely new to me. One grocer, Stella, seemed to take a particular shine to my enthusiasm and held back some seasonal produce she’d sourced directly from Nigeria. I cycled down to the market from the restaurant to pick up my first bag of ube from her. Their colour ranged from light pink in their unripe form, to a deep, aubergine-like purple as a mature fruit. Stella told me to eat the ube with corn. Luckily, we were in June, peak corn season, so I rushed back to Ikoyi in time to develop the dish for the week’s menu. The fat-rich texture of the ube reminded me a lot of avocado, but there was complex- ity in the nutty, almost olive-like aroma of the flesh, which melted like butter after cooking. The skins were super tannic and required a fair bit of sweetness to balance out. I took Stella’s recommendation of a simple boil for the preparation, with the addition of some sugar. I peeled the fruit off its seed, skins and all, and blended it into a paste with the sugary poaching syrup. I could taste chestnuts, but the rich amino ac- ids in the fruit revealed an intense meatiness when combined with other ingredients, especially spices and animal proteins. It was a particularly hot summer, so instead of grilled corn, we developed a clean and sharp gazpacho poured over razor clams. The silky ube is piped like whipped butter on to a smoky cracker of toasted spelt and yam, which is then topped with a nest of fresh flowers. The ube lends a rich, dense texture to the fragility of the cracker, elevating the ethereal crunch of biting into fresh flowers with their sweet and peppery perfume. To make the fermented sea buckthorn Place the sea buckthorn berries in a large vacuum-seal bag. Add the salt and toss well. Spread the berries into an even layer and seal on full. Leave to ferment for 7 days at 24–28°C (75–82°F). If the bag expands too much, burp out the air by making a small incision and then reseal. Taste the berries after 1 week. If tart and savoury, reseal the berries in their juices. Store the fermented sea buckthorn in an airtight container in the fridge and use within one month. To make the yellow corn gazpacho Slice the kernels of corn off the cob and add to a blender with the other vegetables. Add the remaining ingredients, along with 100 g of the fermented sea buckthorn and blend for 5 minutes. You’re looking for a very emulsified, aerated gazpacho with a silky texture and good body. You may need to work in batches. Season and chill quickly over ice. Store the gazpacho in an airtight container in the fridge and use within 3 days. To make the spelt and yam crackers Preheat the oven to 80°C. Pour a generous amount of grapeseed oil into a deep, heavy- based pan over a high heat. Toast the spelt in the oil, tossing frequently to make sure it doesn’t burn. Keep going until the grains smell of deeply caramelized popcorn. Carefully pour over the water, then reduce the heat and simmer the spelt until tender, topping up the water if necessary. Season with the salt. In a separate pan, simmer the yams until tender and falling apart. Transfer 150 g of the yams to a blender. Add the spelt and its cooking liquid to the blender, and blend with the yams to a fine, spreadable paste. Add the salt, then use an offset spatula to spread the mixture evenly over a silicone baking mat or a tray lined with baking parchment. Bake for two hours, or until the crackers are fully dried. Store the crackers in an airtight container with silica and use within one month. To make the ube purée Put the ube into a large pan with the water and sugar and boil until tender. Leave the ube to cool gradually in the cooking liquid. Once cool enough to handle, remove the skins and flesh from the seeds. Place the picked part of the fruit in a blender and slowly add the poaching liquid until a smooth purée forms, then blend for 8 minutes, adding more water if necessary in order to achieve a spreadable, unctuous texture. Season the purée with salt and store in an airtight container in the fridge and for up to 5 days. corn, ube & razor clams serves 4see p. 000 For the fermented sea buckthorn 1 kg sea buckthorn, gently washed if necessary 20 g fine salt For the yellow corn gazpacho 500 g corn on the cob 500 g Sungold tomatoes, diced 400 g cucumbers, diced 60 g green chillies 50 g honey 120 g smoked rapeseed oil 1 bulb of wet garlic 90 g apple cider vinegar 20 g honey 40 g turmeric 10 g smoked salt For the spelt and yam crackers grapeseed oil, for frying 200 g organic pearled spelt 600 g water, plus extra as required 20 g salt 250 g yams, peeled and sliced For the ube purée 1.5 kg ube 1 kg water 300 g sugar 15 g salt 6564the menusnacks corn, ube & razor clams Not to be confused with purple yam, Nigerian ube comes from the fruit tree native to Africa, otherwise known as bush pear or butterfruit. I first came across ube while visiting a local market on Rye Lane in Peckham, a district of south London about 10 minutes from where I live. Peckham is home to one of the largest African populations in London, with Nigerians, Ghanaians, Somalians, Sierra Leoneans and various other communities living and working in the area. Turning the corner on to Rye Lane past the hipster bakeries and gentrified wine bars, you come across some of the hustle and bustle I encountered in Lagos. Smoked dried mackerels hang from the open stalls, while jackfruit, plantains, garden eggs and okra aplenty sit in large cardboard boxes. As you venture inside the African food stores, you will find giant bags of beans, garri flour, malt drinks and all the spices and peppercorns of the West African pantry. The butchers carry whole animal parts, such as goat and cow heads, hooves and haunches. The smells are wild and intoxicating: far more pungent than most other neighbour- hood supermarkets in the capital. Because I’d been carefully researching the foodstuffs of West Africa, I’d learned the original names of all the ingredients as well as the English language culinary explana- tions of the produce I’d been tasting and trialling. Some of the purveyors met my keen interest and knowledge of nomenclature with a bit of suspicion, wondering what a sort-of-Chinese-looking white guy wanted with great big handfuls of okra, fermented oil seeds and crayfish powder. It seemed to be only local Nigerians and other West Africans, mainly mothers, aunts and grandmothers, who frequented the shops to buy ingredients for their cookery. I explained my passion for these ingredients, and that I wanted to learn how to cook with them and eventually open a restaurant with these flavours that were completely new to me. One grocer, Stella, seemed to take a particular shine to my enthusiasm and held back some seasonal produce she’d sourced directly from Nigeria. I cycled down to the market from the restaurant to pick up my first bag of ube from her. Their colour ranged from light pink in their unripe form, to a deep, aubergine-like purple as a mature fruit. Stella told me to eat the ube with corn. Luckily, we were in June, peak corn season, so I rushed back to Ikoyi in time to develop the dish for the week’s menu. The fat-rich texture of the ube reminded me a lot of avocado, but there was complex- ity in the nutty, almost olive-like aroma of the flesh, which melted like butter after cooking. The skins were super tannic and required a fair bit of sweetness to balance out. I took Stella’s recommendation of a simple boil for the preparation, with the addition of some sugar. I peeled the fruit off its seed, skins and all, and blended it into a paste with the sugary poaching syrup. I could taste chestnuts, but the rich amino ac- ids in the fruit revealed an intense meatiness when combined with other ingredients, especially spices and animal proteins. It was a particularly hot summer, so instead of grilled corn, we developed a clean and sharp gazpacho poured over razor clams. The silky ube is piped like whipped butter on to a smoky cracker of toasted spelt and yam, which is then topped with a nest of fresh flowers. The ube lends a rich, dense texture to the fragility of the cracker, elevating the ethereal crunch of biting into fresh flowers with their sweet and peppery perfume. To make the fermented sea buckthorn Place the sea buckthorn berries in a large vacuum-seal bag. Add the salt and toss well. Spread the berries into an even layer and seal on full. Leave to ferment for 7 days at 24–28°C (75–82°F). If the bag expands too much, burp out the air by making a small incision and then reseal. Taste the berries after 1 week. If tart and savoury, reseal the berries in their juices. Store the fermented sea buckthorn in an airtight container in the fridge and use within one month. To make the yellow corn gazpacho Slice the kernels of corn off the cob and add to a blender with the other vegetables. Add the remaining ingredients, along with 100 g of the fermented sea buckthorn and blend for 5 minutes. You’re looking for a very emulsified, aerated gazpacho with a silky texture and good body. You may need to work in batches. Season and chill quickly over ice. Store the gazpacho in an airtight container in the fridge and use within 3 days. To make the spelt and yam crackers Preheat the oven to 80°C. Pour a generous amount of grapeseed oil into a deep, heavy- based pan over a high heat. Toast the spelt in the oil, tossing frequently to make sure it doesn’t burn. Keep going until the grains smell of deeply caramelized popcorn. Carefully pour over the water, then reduce the heat and simmer the spelt until tender, topping up the water if necessary. Season with the salt. In a separate pan, simmer the yams until tender and falling apart. Transfer 150 g of the yams to a blender. Add the spelt and its cooking liquid to the blender, and blend with the yams to a fine, spreadable paste. Add the salt, then use an offset spatula to spread the mixture evenly over a silicone baking mat or a tray lined with baking parchment. Bake for two hours, or until the crackers are fully dried. Store the crackers in an airtight container with silica and use within one month. To make the ube purée Put the ube into a large pan with the water and sugar and boil until tender. Leave the ube to cool gradually in the cooking liquid. Once cool enough to handle, remove the skins and flesh from the seeds. Place the picked part of the fruit in a blender and slowly add the poaching liquid until a smooth purée forms, then blend for 8 minutes, adding more water if necessary in order to achieve a spreadable, unctuous texture. Season the purée with salt and store in an airtight container in the fridge and for up to 5 days. corn, ube & razor clams serves 4see p. 000 For the fermented sea buckthorn 1 kg sea buckthorn, gently washed if necessary 20 g fine salt For the yellow corn gazpacho 500 g corn on the cob 500 g Sungold tomatoes, diced 400 g cucumbers, diced 60 g green chillies 50 g honey 120 g smoked rapeseed oil 1 bulb of wet garlic 90 g apple cider vinegar 20 g honey 40 g turmeric 10 g smoked salt For the spelt and yam crackers grapeseed oil, for frying 200 g organic pearled spelt 600 g water, plus extra as required 20 g salt 250 g yams, peeled and sliced For the ube purée 1.5 kg ube 1 kg water 300 g sugar 15 g salt seafood1514 smoked jollof rice & crab custard My friendship with Iré has always been centred around the celebration of rice. I sup- pose we both come from strong rice-eating cultures, so it’s no wonder that we have always reverted to cooking rice with prawns and roast chicken on the occasions that we hang out together. Of all the dishes we have created for Ikoyi, our jollof rice is probably one of the most complex technique-wise, but also one of the most personal in terms of storytelling. Though most Ikoyi dishes are born out of subjective and ab- stract inspirations, jollof rice is an existing culinary tradition – and a fiercely debated one, at that. During our research trip to Lagos, we listened to many conversations on the topic among our Ghanaian, Senegalese and Gambian friends, and it became clear that the origins and supposed ‘best versions’ of jollof rice were polemical topics. My intention was never to attempt to elevate any pre-existing concept, but instead to elaborate on an original recipe centred around the core ingredients of the dish: tomatoes, onions, peppers, chillies, spices and a variety of meat, fish or vegetables. I was scared to call the dish jollof, however, and asked Iré whether he thought ‘smoked rice’ might be more appropriate, or at least less incendiary. He insisted we stick with jollof, espousing the open-minded belief that there was no one true authority on the dish. But if I was to create a half-Chinese, half-Canadian jollof, I knew it would have to stand up in terms of flavour. I went on to create the greatest defence mechanism I could think of: a powerful jollof broth, a vehicle of umami-laden depth, followed by layers of aroma, smokiness and an all-out assault on the palate. If our guests were going to argue over the dish’s authenticity, at least they would be doing it over inargu- ably delicious spoonfuls of rice. After witnessing the smoking firewood under pots of jollof cooked in Lagos, I knew that the concept of burning must lie at the heart of our dish, too. In our recipe, we burn and smoke the vegetables over the grill until blackened and blistered, before blending them into a broth of roasted chicken, dried mushrooms, spices, condiments, seaweed and caramelized tomatoes. We gently toast the rice grains before steaming them in the broth to a very al dente, almost undercooked, consistency. The rice is then dried, rubbed by hand with oil and cooled before we finish it off by roasting it in hot, aromatic beef fat and our wok hei paste. My father introduced me to wok hei on the very rare occasion that he cooked Hainanese chicken rice. After finely chopping ginger, spring onions and garlic, he poured boiling hot oil over the vegetables, which bubbled and fizzled in the inferno of wok-breath heat. I’ve been mesmerized with the sounds, aromas and process of this dipping sauce ever since, and knew its fragrance would add its own dimension of smokiness to our jollof. When we roast the rice, we are aiming for crisp, separated grains with bouncy centres. I know if the jollof has been cooked correctly by listening to the frequency of the sizzle as the pan draws near the pass for plating. If the pan is silent, or has been sitting just 30 seconds too long, I know the grains will have an oily, bland consistency and will require re-cooking. For some reason, most of the cooks at Ikoyi think the rice section is the easiest, but it actually requires a surprising amount of attention to detail to execute an exceptional bowl of rice. Timing and temperature are everything. As the rice cooks, we simultaneously warm the crab custard, which acts as a glaze, added at the last moment, before we smoke the entire dish. Crispy, chewy, creamy, crunchy, smoky, spicy, sweet, salty, it’s the kind of food you want to eat when you’re hungover or sitting in front of the TV with a beer. To make the jollof broth In a large pot, bring the chicken stock to 70°C (158°F), then add the kombu and dried mushrooms. Take off the heat and leave to infuse for 1 hour, then strain. Toast the spices in a wide frying pan until fragrant, then blitz to a fine powder in a spice grinder. Heat xx g the grapeseed oil in a deep pot until smoking hot, then add the tomatoes. Leave the tomatoes to fry in the oil until they begin to split and catch on the bottom of the pan. Stir, then continue to fry at a high heat until most of the liquid has been reduced. Preheat the grill to high. Toss the peppers, onions and chillies lightly in the remaining grapeseed oil and place in an even layer on the hot grill. Allow them to smoke and burn, but make sure they don’t overcook on the inside, and turn them to ensure they are all evenly blistered. Add them to the pot with the reduced tomatoes, along with all the spices and the dried crayfish, Tabasco, tamari, fish sauce, Worcestershire sauce, sugar and smoked salt. Add the infused chicken stock and simmer the broth, covered, for x minutes until all the vegetables are cooked through. Blitz the broth in a blender for 5 minutes until very smooth, adding some filtered water if necessary, then pass through a chinois. Store the broth in an airtight container in the fridge and use within 1 week. For the crab custard In a blender, blitz together the whipping cream, milk, crab, egg yolks, ginger, garlic and Scotch bonnet for 2 minutes. Pour the resulting custard into a wide pan and cook gently, whisking and scraping the edges with a spatula, until the texture coats the back of a spoon. Pass the custard through a chinois and season well with smoked salt. Store the custard in an airtight container in the fridge and use within 2 days. To make the wok hei paste Place the garlic, ginger and spring onions in a food processor and blitz to form a smooth paste. Place the paste into a deep pot. In a separate pan, heat the oil to 280°C (536°F) and then carefully pour it over the paste, stirring quickly. Let the paste cool, then fold in the diced Scotch bonnets. Store in an airtight container in the fridge and use within 1 week. smoked jollof rice & crab custardserves 4see p. 000 For the jollof broth 2.5 kg Roasted Chicken Wing Stock (page xxx) 80 g kombu 80 g dried porcini mushrooms 90 g chipotle pepper 90 g hot paprika 60 g black peppercorns 30 g red Kampot peppercorns 15 g black Penja peppercorn 90 g madras curry powder 45 g ground cinnamon 30 g ground cumin 100 g grapeseed oil 4 kg tomatoes, quartered 1.5 kg red peppers, sliced into large segments 1.5 kg red onions, sliced into large segments 30 g Scotch bonnet chillies 90 g crayfish powder 30 g Tabasco sauce 60 g tamari 30 g fish sauce 30 g Worcestershire sauce 200 g light brown sugar 60 g smoked salt 150 g garlic, diced 100 g black garlic, diced 150 g fresh root ginger, diced For the crab custard 300 g whipping cream 300 g whole milk 900 g brown crab meat 200 g egg yolks 60 g fresh root ginger, sliced 40 g garlic, sliced 20 g Scotch bonnet chillies, roughly chopped 12 g smoked salt For the wok hei paste 125 g garlic, sliced 250 g fresh root ginger, sliced 300 g spring onions, sliced 125 g grapeseed oil 30 g Scotch bonnet chillies, deseeded and finely diced the menu seafood1514 smoked jollof rice & crab custard My friendship with Iré has always been centred around the celebration of rice. I sup- pose we both come from strong rice-eating cultures, so it’s no wonder that we have always reverted to cooking rice with prawns and roast chicken on the occasions that we hang out together. Of all the dishes we have created for Ikoyi, our jollof rice is probably one of the most complex technique-wise, but also one of the most personal in terms of storytelling. Though most Ikoyi dishes are born out of subjective and ab- stract inspirations, jollof rice is an existing culinary tradition – and a fiercely debated one, at that. During our research trip to Lagos, we listened to many conversations on the topic among our Ghanaian, Senegalese and Gambian friends, and it became clear that the origins and supposed ‘best versions’ of jollof rice were polemical topics. My intention was never to attempt to elevate any pre-existing concept, but instead to elaborate on an original recipe centred around the core ingredients of the dish: tomatoes, onions, peppers, chillies, spices and a variety of meat, fish or vegetables. I was scared to call the dish jollof, however, and asked Iré whether he thought ‘smoked rice’ might be more appropriate, or at least less incendiary. He insisted we stick with jollof, espousing the open-minded belief that there was no one true authority on the dish. But if I was to create a half-Chinese, half-Canadian jollof, I knew it would have to stand up in terms of flavour. I went on to create the greatest defence mechanism I could think of: a powerful jollof broth, a vehicle of umami-laden depth, followed by layers of aroma, smokiness and an all-out assault on the palate. If our guests were going to argue over the dish’s authenticity, at least they would be doing it over inargu- ably delicious spoonfuls of rice. After witnessing the smoking firewood under pots of jollof cooked in Lagos, I knew that the concept of burning must lie at the heart of our dish, too. In our recipe, we burn and smoke the vegetables over the grill until blackened and blistered, before blending them into a broth of roasted chicken, dried mushrooms, spices, condiments, seaweed and caramelized tomatoes. We gently toast the rice grains before steaming them in the broth to a very al dente, almost undercooked, consistency. The rice is then dried, rubbed by hand with oil and cooled before we finish it off by roasting it in hot, aromatic beef fat and our wok hei paste. My father introduced me to wok hei on the very rare occasion that he cooked Hainanese chicken rice. After finely chopping ginger, spring onions and garlic, he poured boiling hot oil over the vegetables, which bubbled and fizzled in the inferno of wok-breath heat. I’ve been mesmerized with the sounds, aromas and process of this dipping sauce ever since, and knew its fragrance would add its own dimension of smokiness to our jollof. When we roast the rice, we are aiming for crisp, separated grains with bouncy centres. I know if the jollof has been cooked correctly by listening to the frequency of the sizzle as the pan draws near the pass for plating. If the pan is silent, or has been sitting just 30 seconds too long, I know the grains will have an oily, bland consistency and will require re-cooking. For some reason, most of the cooks at Ikoyi think the rice section is the easiest, but it actually requires a surprising amount of attention to detail to execute an exceptional bowl of rice. Timing and temperature are everything. As the rice cooks, we simultaneously warm the crab custard, which acts as a glaze, added at the last moment, before we smoke the entire dish. Crispy, chewy, creamy, crunchy, smoky, spicy, sweet, salty, it’s the kind of food you want to eat when you’re hungover or sitting in front of the TV with a beer. To make the jollof broth In a large pot, bring the chicken stock to 70°C (158°F), then add the kombu and dried mushrooms. Take off the heat and leave to infuse for 1 hour, then strain. Toast the spices in a wide frying pan until fragrant, then blitz to a fine powder in a spice grinder. Heat xx g the grapeseed oil in a deep pot until smoking hot, then add the tomatoes. Leave the tomatoes to fry in the oil until they begin to split and catch on the bottom of the pan. Stir, then continue to fry at a high heat until most of the liquid has been reduced. Preheat the grill to high. Toss the peppers, onions and chillies lightly in the remaining grapeseed oil and place in an even layer on the hot grill. Allow them to smoke and burn, but make sure they don’t overcook on the inside, and turn them to ensure they are all evenly blistered. Add them to the pot with the reduced tomatoes, along with all the spices and the dried crayfish, Tabasco, tamari, fish sauce, Worcestershire sauce, sugar and smoked salt. Add the infused chicken stock and simmer the broth, covered, for x minutes until all the vegetables are cooked through. Blitz the broth in a blender for 5 minutes until very smooth, adding some filtered water if necessary, then pass through a chinois. Store the broth in an airtight container in the fridge and use within 1 week. For the crab custard In a blender, blitz together the whipping cream, milk, crab, egg yolks, ginger, garlic and Scotch bonnet for 2 minutes. Pour the resulting custard into a wide pan and cook gently, whisking and scraping the edges with a spatula, until the texture coats the back of a spoon. Pass the custard through a chinois and season well with smoked salt. Store the custard in an airtight container in the fridge and use within 2 days. To make the wok hei paste Place the garlic, ginger and spring onions in a food processor and blitz to form a smooth paste. Place the paste into a deep pot. In a separate pan, heat the oil to 280°C (536°F) and then carefully pour it over the paste, stirring quickly. Let the paste cool, then fold in the diced Scotch bonnets. Store in an airtight container in the fridge and use within 1 week. smoked jollof rice & crab custardserves 4see p. 000 For the jollof broth 2.5 kg Roasted Chicken Wing Stock (page xxx) 80 g kombu 80 g dried porcini mushrooms 90 g chipotle pepper 90 g hot paprika 60 g black peppercorns 30 g red Kampot peppercorns 15 g black Penja peppercorn 90 g madras curry powder 45 g ground cinnamon 30 g ground cumin 100 g grapeseed oil 4 kg tomatoes, quartered 1.5 kg red peppers, sliced into large segments 1.5 kg red onions, sliced into large segments 30 g Scotch bonnet chillies 90 g crayfish powder 30 g Tabasco sauce 60 g tamari 30 g fish sauce 30 g Worcestershire sauce 200 g light brown sugar 60 g smoked salt 150 g garlic, diced 100 g black garlic, diced 150 g fresh root ginger, diced For the crab custard 300 g whipping cream 300 g whole milk 900 g brown crab meat 200 g egg yolks 60 g fresh root ginger, sliced 40 g garlic, sliced 20 g Scotch bonnet chillies, roughly chopped 12 g smoked salt For the wok hei paste 125 g garlic, sliced 250 g fresh root ginger, sliced 300 g spring onions, sliced 125 g grapeseed oil 30 g Scotch bonnet chillies, deseeded and finely diced the menu16 I was born in Stockport, England, in 1987. My mother is Canadian, and my father is Chinese. For the first eight years of my life, we lived in Hong Kong, where I went to a local international primary school with kids from all over the world. This time in Hong Kong was definitely a fun- damental period in my life in terms of building memories: the towering skyscrapers, the neon lights and the pungent smells emanating from the crowded markets all remained entrenched in my mind. The Chinese have a very strong food culture that I feel privileged to be connected to in such a profound way. Every Sunday, we would gather with family and friends and feast on dim sum; noodles, drunken shrimp, jellyfish and chicken feet are only a handful of the delicacies that I soon became deeply obsessed with. In Chinese culture, food dominates conversation and the daily routine, and the cuisine is much more complex than in many Western cultures. The number of dishes at the lunch table can be vast, as can the spec- trum of taste and textures found in the dishes themselves. My father was always quite strict with us in terms of eating – he insisted that we try everything. I was slightly scared of his penetrating stare, but I look back now and am grateful that I was pushed to keep an open mind. We moved to the northwest of the UK, near Manchester, when I was eight years old. Later, I spent my high school days in Winchester. Since my parents are from two very different places, I was lucky enough to experience both of their worlds. I spent most summers in Canada with my mother’s family, enjoying their relaxed maritime way of life in New Brunswick on the east coast. Where the Chinese experience had expanded my horizon of flavour, Canadian cuisine brought me back down to earth. I found Chinese food mentally stimulating, but there was something grounding about hot dogs with relish and tuna melts made by my aunt using store-bought American cheese and soft white bread. In the end, both food cultures have had an equally important part to play in my formation as a chef. After four years of college at Princeton, I moved to Madrid to pursue a career as an analyst for a renewable energy private equity firm. This decision was not necessarily steered by my heart; rather, it appeared to be the most practical choice given the direction my peers were going in, and there was also quite a bit of not-so-subtle pressure from my father. It was during my years in Spain that I realized I had been in love with food for a long time. Although on the face of it, Spanish cuisine is very different to what I had eaten in Hong Kong growing up, the communal way of eating, the conversation, the sharing of dishes and the celebration of ingredients are all very much at the heart of both cultures. Since I had moved to Madrid alone, I didn’t really know anyone. I spent my days off roaming the local markets to buy ingredients, or walking around the busy neighbourhoods lined with bars, chock-full of Spaniards sipping cold beers. At my work desk, I began to fantasize more and origins more about ingredients and cooking, fetishizing the idea of slow-roasting a chicken to perfect doneness, or researching the best type of red wine to use in a stew. I would race to complete my work by early afternoon so I could spend time on my food research. There was a particular part of banking culture the Spanish called calentar la silla, or ‘keeping the seat warm’, which entailed staying late at work – even when there was no work left to do – simply to gratify one’s boss or to keep up with colleague rivalry. This was one aspect of the culture that was definitely not for me. I felt like a caged beast, counting down the seconds until I could leave. As soon as the clock struck eight, the earliest ‘acceptable’ time to go home, I would explode off the edge of my seat, walking briskly – but within the limits of socially acceptable speed – towards the elevator. As I left the building, I would often sprint into the cold night, my jacket and tie flapping behind me. There was something in me, a monstrous energy I was doing my best to suppress. During those two years at the bank, I became a kind of autodidact, reading and learning from all the great chefs through books. I remember seeing the first Noma cookbook, its unfamiliar but beautiful aesthetics grabbing my attention, and devouring many other works, including cookbooks written by Harold McGee and Thomas Keller. At the time, I genuinely believed I had it in me to open a world-class restaurant, because I could recall every single detail and recipe from each book I read. But that was a conceited attitude soon to be proved wrong. I gained my first real kitchen experience at Hibiscus. Claude Bosi was kind enough to let me enter his kitchen after receiving a few of my impassioned letters. Claude was, and still is, one of the leading names in modern French cuisine. At the time, he had a reputation for running a rigorous environment. I arrived on my first day wearing a pair of jeans and old sneakers. With no knife, shoes or chef whites in hand, I spent the day in one of the cook’s used jackets, sliding around with my grip-less shoes. I’d never experienced such early starts or such long days. I was up at 5.45 a.m. to be at work before 7 a.m., and often finished near midnight. I soon realized that working in a top kitchen requires both the hardy resilience of a manual labourer and the stamina of an endurance athlete. One does not simply walk in at that level without experiencing severe mental and physical strain. Removing peas from their pods and skins for four hours, hand-cutting boiled pig skin, scouring the scorching hot plancha, my body felt slow and timid, lacking the aggressive dexterity of the other young cooks. Some of them made fun of me because of my previous job, teasing me that this would only be a brief stint before I fell back into finance, but I didn’t pay them much attention. I deeply appreciated the fact that, regardless of résumé, education or background, if your hands didn’t move fast enough or you couldn’t accurately julienne leeks, you simply weren’t good enough. In a kitchen, there is nowhere to hide: raw ability and attitude eventually triumph. What had always drawn both Iré and me to cooking in London was the ability to source organic raw materials from local producers... seafood16 line-caught mackerel & red pepper kelp Although I took over cooking our family meals in my mid-teens, there were still certain maternal plates I craved. One particular dish was smoked peppered mack- erel and crushed buttered potatoes. I remember pulling apart the threads of the meat and mashing their oils into the soft, warm potatoes. Because the mackerel came from a packet, it was the kind of nutritious after-school comfort food that could be thrown together in minutes. My childhood memories of mackerel are of a strong-flavoured, stringy-textured fish that really made your mouth water. I also recall the little grains of pepper getting stuck in my teeth, the tiny, tedious bones, and thinking that smokiness was an innate characteristic of mackerel. My perception of mackerel totally changed when I began working with ike jime, line-and-hook-caught mackerel from the southwest coast. Ike jime is a technique originating from Japan, but is now widely used by fishermen as a humane means of killing fish and a way to optimize the quality of its flesh. After spiking the brain, which causes instant death and prevents the development of unwanted lactic acid and ammonia build-up in the flesh, the gills and the tail are sliced to drain the blood, while the spinal cord ruptures to destroy the nervous system. The process prolongs rigor mortis, allowing for the development of amino acids that contribute to the sensation of umami. At this point, the fish can be aged and stored at a very low temperature for a significant amount of time. While not all the fish we serve at Ikoyi is prepared in this way, during the slightly warmer months, when the weather is in our favour, some of the day boats practising ike jime can catch exceptional mackerels, up to 800 g (13/4 lb) in size. We tend to only work with this fish when we can get our hands on large specimens, as this allows for a more complex range of textures, from the skin down to the base of the fillet. Unlike the mackerel of my youth, the meat is a delicate and matte pink, the skin shimmering and firm. There is almost no smell, just a faint whiff of the sea. As soon as the fish arrives, we fillet and lightly cure the skin, brushing off the cure without water, as we do with all our fish at Ikoyi. The skin then lies flat on sheets of kelp seaweed for up to 24 hours, depending on its size and thickness. The outcome is skin so crispy it could shatter like glass, and gently flavoured but well-seasoned meat that flakes into soft pillows of fat. For one of the most reasonably priced types of fish, properly handled mackerel delivers some of the most flavoursome meat and luxurious mouthfeels. Many of our guests, particularly chefs, wonder how we cook this fish, as it’s one of those dishes that transforms perceptions of produce. Mackerel can go from its buttery, raw state to stringy white very quickly. I wanted to capture mackerel at medium-rare, when the flesh is gradually warming and therefore breaks down more fluidly in the mouth. Our approach is to prepare extremely dry skin, brushing it lightly with oil. We cook the mackerel from the fridge to ensure that the intense heat applied to the skin doesn’t transfer too far beyond the upper point of the meat. It’s only a matter of seconds before the mackerel leaves the plancha. We brush it with a smoked vinaigrette and some anchovy butter, then turn it over from side to side until its grey-pink meat begins to hint at white. At this point, it must be served. We make sure to remove every single bone, slicing the mackerel into hefty mouthfuls so the guest can experience the richness of this fish in all its glory. To make the red pepper kelp sauce In a blender, blend together the peppers, tomatoes and chillies. Add this blended mixture to a deep pot along, with the olive oil, and fry the juice in the oil until it has reduced by half, becoming caramelized and split with the oil. Return to the blender, along with the honey, roasted kelp paste, cold-brew dashi and katsuobushi salt. Blend for 5 minutes until aerated and totally smooth. Pass through a chinois and season with smoked salt. Store the sauce in an airtight container in the fridge and use within 5 days. To make the mackerel Gut the mackerel by slicing open the belly. Carefully remove the guts and clean out the insides with paper towels. Dry the fish well, then remove the fillets from the spine. Pin-bone the mackerel, then sprinkle a fine layer of fish cure over the skin and leave for 30 minutes. Brush the cure and juices released off the fillets until the fish is totally dry. Place the fish skin-side down on the kombu and blast-chill, uncovered, for 10 minutes, to dry out and ensure that there is no more residual moisture. Leave the fillets to cure for 24 hours, then remove from the kombu. Place the mackerel skin-side up on wire racks over a moisture-resistant cloth. Cover the top of the mackerel with a perforated gastro and keep in a 1°C (34°F) fridge for up to 7 days. To finish Remove the mackerel fillets from the fridge and pat the skin dry. Brush the skin lightly with oil, then cook the fish, skin-side down on a hot plancha for 10–15 seconds. Let the fish rest flesh-side down, then give it a few more short blasts of heat until the skin feels crispy and dried. Baste the fish with anchovy butter and smoked vinaigrette, then rest it on top of the grill at a point barely hot enough to burn your hand. Turn the fish over and around every few seconds to allow the heat to slowly penetrate the meat without overcooking either side. Leave the fish to rest in a warm place, under the heat lamps or beside the stove, until it feels delicately warm, turning a glistening white. Flip it over on to the skin side and carve each fillet into 6 × 2 cm (¾ in) wide slices. Be sure to use an extremely sharp knife to make a clean, straight edge on the skin, which can be brittle and fall apart easily. Use the length of your slicer to lift the fish from under the skin and gently turn the fish back around. Baste the insides of the exposed flesh with more anchovy butter, then divide each sliced fillet into two. Warm 4 spoonfuls of red pepper kelp sauce and spoon them into the centre of your plates, followed by the mackerel. Dress with the smoked vinaigrette and season with smoked salt before serving. line-caught mackerel & red pepper kelp serves 4see p. 000 For the red pepper kelp sauce 1.4 kg red peppers, deseeded and roughly chopped 600 g tomatoes, diced 100 g Scotch bonnet chillies, roughly chopped 300 g red chillies, roughly chopped 200 g olive oil 60 g honey 120 g Roasted Kelp Paste (from Roasted Kelp Oil, page xxx) 100 g Cold-Brew Dashi (page xxx) 10 g Katsuobushi Salt (page xxx) smoked salt For the mackerel 1 × 800 g whole mackerel Fish Cure (page xxx) 2 kombu sheets To finish Xxx oil Anchovy Butter (page xxx) Smoked Vinaigrette (page xxx) 16seafood seafood One of the reasons I’ve wanted to remain in the Great Britain as a chef is the incredible seafood that surrounds the island. We are in a very lucky position to be able to communicate directly with fishermen and boats, accessing fish caught on the line in the early hours of the morning and arriving at Ikoyi some hours later. What excites me about fish is its purity and energy. When hyper-fresh, there is almost no taste. The fish almost acts as a vehicle for other flavours, while its texture – which can be melting, dense or bouncy – heightens mouthfeel. While our meat ages for long periods of time, I prefer to serve fish fresh rather than ageing it for too long. We often dry our fresh fish with a very light cure, applied only for minutes and then brushed off with a dry towel. From the moment fish or shellfish enters our kitchen, it will never come into contact with water again. We use a blast-chiller set to 1°C (34°F) to further desiccate the skin or membrane of the flesh, which makes it easier to grill. Sometimes, we will age larger fish for up to 3–5 days to relax the meat and intensify flavour, especially if the ike jime method (see page xxx) has been used. When cooking fish, our job is to make the produce shine, and so there are very few movements involved once we have broken the fish down into fillets. Our preferred methods of cooking are by way of gentle heat – poaching, confiting and baking – followed by a few kisses of flame. Cooking beautiful fish is best achieved by careful observation, watching its colour transform to a fragile pearlescence and noticing its flesh expand in reaction to heat. I like to think of the perfect level of fish ‘doneness’ as hot-raw: the delicate moment when fish boasts the sheen of bursting juices while having the consistency of flaky tenderness. 16 Could spice not be subtle, varied and nuanced in its own way? Bold heat also entailed a sense of defiance. 1616see p. 000 Caption Captionsee p. 000 Caption Caption 1616see p. 000 Caption Captionsee p. 000 Caption Caption1616see p. 000 Caption Captionsee p. 000 Caption Caption Author biography Jeremy Chan is the chef and co-founder of Ikoyi. Born to a Canadian mother and Chinese father, Jeremy grew up between Hong Kong, Canada and England, experiencing a diverse range of cuisines. After graduating from Princeton, Jeremy originally worked as an analyst in Madrid, before deciding to become a chef. Today Jeremy is at the forefront of the gastronomic landscape, blending his dishes with spice, flavour and his personal experiences. Key sales points The book includes narratives throughout about Ikoyi’s inspiration and inception, influenced by Chan’s experiences living, cooking and travelling in Hong Kong, Canada, Sub-Saharan Africa and Europe. - Ikoyi received the prestigious ‘One To Watch’ award in 2021 by The World’s 50 Best Restaurants. - Each recipe features a headnote story about how the dish was developed, plus the influences of seasonality and produce from local farms and artisan producers. - Chan is an acclaimed London-based chef with two Michelin stars and a wide admiring international audience, with diners from all over the world. - With stunning food and atmospheric photography by Maureen Evans. Phaidon Press Limited 2 Cooperage Yard Stratford London E15 2QR Phaidon Press Inc. 65 Bleecker Street New York, NY 10012 © 2022 Phaidon Press Limited phaidon.com Signed Edition: seafood16 introductionintroduction 978 1 83866 630 9 phaidon.com ISBN: 9781838666309 9 7 8 1 8 3 8 6 6 6 3 0 9 978 1 83866 684 2 phaidon.com ISBN: 9781838666842 9 7 8 1 8 3 8 6 6 6 8 4 216 I was born in Stockport, England, in 1987. My mother is Canadian, and my father is Chinese. For the first eight years of my life, we lived in Hong Kong, where I went to a local international primary school with kids from all over the world. This time in Hong Kong was definitely a fun- damental period in my life in terms of building memories: the towering skyscrapers, the neon lights and the pungent smells emanating from the crowded markets all remained entrenched in my mind. The Chinese have a very strong food culture that I feel privileged to be connected to in such a profound way. Every Sunday, we would gather with family and friends and feast on dim sum; noodles, drunken shrimp, jellyfish and chicken feet are only a handful of the delicacies that I soon became deeply obsessed with. In Chinese culture, food dominates conversation and the daily routine, and the cuisine is much more complex than in many Western cultures. The number of dishes at the lunch table can be vast, as can the spec- trum of taste and textures found in the dishes themselves. My father was always quite strict with us in terms of eating – he insisted that we try everything. I was slightly scared of his penetrating stare, but I look back now and am grateful that I was pushed to keep an open mind. We moved to the northwest of the UK, near Manchester, when I was eight years old. Later, I spent my high school days in Winchester. Since my parents are from two very different places, I was lucky enough to experience both of their worlds. I spent most summers in Canada with my mother’s family, enjoying their relaxed maritime way of life in New Brunswick on the east coast. Where the Chinese experience had expanded my horizon of flavour, Canadian cuisine brought me back down to earth. I found Chinese food mentally stimulating, but there was something grounding about hot dogs with relish and tuna melts made by my aunt using store-bought American cheese and soft white bread. In the end, both food cultures have had an equally important part to play in my formation as a chef. After four years of college at Princeton, I moved to Madrid to pursue a career as an analyst for a renewable energy private equity firm. This decision was not necessarily steered by my heart; rather, it appeared to be the most practical choice given the direction my peers were going in, and there was also quite a bit of not-so-subtle pressure from my father. It was during my years in Spain that I realized I had been in love with food for a long time. Although on the face of it, Spanish cuisine is very different to what I had eaten in Hong Kong growing up, the communal way of eating, the conversation, the sharing of dishes and the celebration of ingredients are all very much at the heart of both cultures. Since I had moved to Madrid alone, I didn’t really know anyone. I spent my days off roaming the local markets to buy ingredients, or walking around the busy neighbourhoods lined with bars, chock-full of Spaniards sipping cold beers. At my work desk, I began to fantasize more and origins more about ingredients and cooking, fetishizing the idea of slow-roasting a chicken to perfect doneness, or researching the best type of red wine to use in a stew. I would race to complete my work by early afternoon so I could spend time on my food research. There was a particular part of banking culture the Spanish called calentar la silla, or ‘keeping the seat warm’, which entailed staying late at work – even when there was no work left to do – simply to gratify one’s boss or to keep up with colleague rivalry. This was one aspect of the culture that was definitely not for me. I felt like a caged beast, counting down the seconds until I could leave. As soon as the clock struck eight, the earliest ‘acceptable’ time to go home, I would explode off the edge of my seat, walking briskly – but within the limits of socially acceptable speed – towards the elevator. As I left the building, I would often sprint into the cold night, my jacket and tie flapping behind me. There was something in me, a monstrous energy I was doing my best to suppress. During those two years at the bank, I became a kind of autodidact, reading and learning from all the great chefs through books. I remember seeing the first Noma cookbook, its unfamiliar but beautiful aesthetics grabbing my attention, and devouring many other works, including cookbooks written by Harold McGee and Thomas Keller. At the time, I genuinely believed I had it in me to open a world-class restaurant, because I could recall every single detail and recipe from each book I read. But that was a conceited attitude soon to be proved wrong. I gained my first real kitchen experience at Hibiscus. Claude Bosi was kind enough to let me enter his kitchen after receiving a few of my impassioned letters. Claude was, and still is, one of the leading names in modern French cuisine. At the time, he had a reputation for running a rigorous environment. I arrived on my first day wearing a pair of jeans and old sneakers. With no knife, shoes or chef whites in hand, I spent the day in one of the cook’s used jackets, sliding around with my grip-less shoes. I’d never experienced such early starts or such long days. I was up at 5.45 a.m. to be at work before 7 a.m., and often finished near midnight. I soon realized that working in a top kitchen requires both the hardy resilience of a manual labourer and the stamina of an endurance athlete. One does not simply walk in at that level without experiencing severe mental and physical strain. Removing peas from their pods and skins for four hours, hand-cutting boiled pig skin, scouring the scorching hot plancha, my body felt slow and timid, lacking the aggressive dexterity of the other young cooks. Some of them made fun of me because of my previous job, teasing me that this would only be a brief stint before I fell back into finance, but I didn’t pay them much attention. I deeply appreciated the fact that, regardless of résumé, education or background, if your hands didn’t move fast enough or you couldn’t accurately julienne leeks, you simply weren’t good enough. In a kitchen, there is nowhere to hide: raw ability and attitude eventually triumph. What had always drawn both Iré and me to cooking in London was the ability to source organic raw materials from local producers... seafood16 line-caught mackerel & red pepper kelp Although I took over cooking our family meals in my mid-teens, there were still certain maternal plates I craved. One particular dish was smoked peppered mack- erel and crushed buttered potatoes. I remember pulling apart the threads of the meat and mashing their oils into the soft, warm potatoes. Because the mackerel came from a packet, it was the kind of nutritious after-school comfort food that could be thrown together in minutes. My childhood memories of mackerel are of a strong-flavoured, stringy-textured fish that really made your mouth water. I also recall the little grains of pepper getting stuck in my teeth, the tiny, tedious bones, and thinking that smokiness was an innate characteristic of mackerel. My perception of mackerel totally changed when I began working with ike jime, line-and-hook-caught mackerel from the southwest coast. Ike jime is a technique originating from Japan, but is now widely used by fishermen as a humane means of killing fish and a way to optimize the quality of its flesh. After spiking the brain, which causes instant death and prevents the development of unwanted lactic acid and ammonia build-up in the flesh, the gills and the tail are sliced to drain the blood, while the spinal cord ruptures to destroy the nervous system. The process prolongs rigor mortis, allowing for the development of amino acids that contribute to the sensation of umami. At this point, the fish can be aged and stored at a very low temperature for a significant amount of time. While not all the fish we serve at Ikoyi is prepared in this way, during the slightly warmer months, when the weather is in our favour, some of the day boats practising ike jime can catch exceptional mackerels, up to 800 g (13/4 lb) in size. We tend to only work with this fish when we can get our hands on large specimens, as this allows for a more complex range of textures, from the skin down to the base of the fillet. Unlike the mackerel of my youth, the meat is a delicate and matte pink, the skin shimmering and firm. There is almost no smell, just a faint whiff of the sea. As soon as the fish arrives, we fillet and lightly cure the skin, brushing off the cure without water, as we do with all our fish at Ikoyi. The skin then lies flat on sheets of kelp seaweed for up to 24 hours, depending on its size and thickness. The outcome is skin so crispy it could shatter like glass, and gently flavoured but well-seasoned meat that flakes into soft pillows of fat. For one of the most reasonably priced types of fish, properly handled mackerel delivers some of the most flavoursome meat and luxurious mouthfeels. Many of our guests, particularly chefs, wonder how we cook this fish, as it’s one of those dishes that transforms perceptions of produce. Mackerel can go from its buttery, raw state to stringy white very quickly. I wanted to capture mackerel at medium-rare, when the flesh is gradually warming and therefore breaks down more fluidly in the mouth. Our approach is to prepare extremely dry skin, brushing it lightly with oil. We cook the mackerel from the fridge to ensure that the intense heat applied to the skin doesn’t transfer too far beyond the upper point of the meat. It’s only a matter of seconds before the mackerel leaves the plancha. We brush it with a smoked vinaigrette and some anchovy butter, then turn it over from side to side until its grey-pink meat begins to hint at white. At this point, it must be served. We make sure to remove every single bone, slicing the mackerel into hefty mouthfuls so the guest can experience the richness of this fish in all its glory. To make the red pepper kelp sauce In a blender, blend together the peppers, tomatoes and chillies. Add this blended mixture to a deep pot along, with the olive oil, and fry the juice in the oil until it has reduced by half, becoming caramelized and split with the oil. Return to the blender, along with the honey, roasted kelp paste, cold-brew dashi and katsuobushi salt. Blend for 5 minutes until aerated and totally smooth. Pass through a chinois and season with smoked salt. Store the sauce in an airtight container in the fridge and use within 5 days. To make the mackerel Gut the mackerel by slicing open the belly. Carefully remove the guts and clean out the insides with paper towels. Dry the fish well, then remove the fillets from the spine. Pin-bone the mackerel, then sprinkle a fine layer of fish cure over the skin and leave for 30 minutes. Brush the cure and juices released off the fillets until the fish is totally dry. Place the fish skin-side down on the kombu and blast-chill, uncovered, for 10 minutes, to dry out and ensure that there is no more residual moisture. Leave the fillets to cure for 24 hours, then remove from the kombu. Place the mackerel skin-side up on wire racks over a moisture-resistant cloth. Cover the top of the mackerel with a perforated gastro and keep in a 1°C (34°F) fridge for up to 7 days. To finish Remove the mackerel fillets from the fridge and pat the skin dry. Brush the skin lightly with oil, then cook the fish, skin-side down on a hot plancha for 10–15 seconds. Let the fish rest flesh-side down, then give it a few more short blasts of heat until the skin feels crispy and dried. Baste the fish with anchovy butter and smoked vinaigrette, then rest it on top of the grill at a point barely hot enough to burn your hand. Turn the fish over and around every few seconds to allow the heat to slowly penetrate the meat without overcooking either side. Leave the fish to rest in a warm place, under the heat lamps or beside the stove, until it feels delicately warm, turning a glistening white. Flip it over on to the skin side and carve each fillet into 6 × 2 cm (¾ in) wide slices. Be sure to use an extremely sharp knife to make a clean, straight edge on the skin, which can be brittle and fall apart easily. Use the length of your slicer to lift the fish from under the skin and gently turn the fish back around. Baste the insides of the exposed flesh with more anchovy butter, then divide each sliced fillet into two. Warm 4 spoonfuls of red pepper kelp sauce and spoon them into the centre of your plates, followed by the mackerel. Dress with the smoked vinaigrette and season with smoked salt before serving. line-caught mackerel & red pepper kelp serves 4see p. 000 For the red pepper kelp sauce 1.4 kg red peppers, deseeded and roughly chopped 600 g tomatoes, diced 100 g Scotch bonnet chillies, roughly chopped 300 g red chillies, roughly chopped 200 g olive oil 60 g honey 120 g Roasted Kelp Paste (from Roasted Kelp Oil, page xxx) 100 g Cold-Brew Dashi (page xxx) 10 g Katsuobushi Salt (page xxx) smoked salt For the mackerel 1 × 800 g whole mackerel Fish Cure (page xxx) 2 kombu sheets To finish Xxx oil Anchovy Butter (page xxx) Smoked Vinaigrette (page xxx) 16seafood seafood One of the reasons I’ve wanted to remain in the Great Britain as a chef is the incredible seafood that surrounds the island. We are in a very lucky position to be able to communicate directly with fishermen and boats, accessing fish caught on the line in the early hours of the morning and arriving at Ikoyi some hours later. What excites me about fish is its purity and energy. When hyper-fresh, there is almost no taste. The fish almost acts as a vehicle for other flavours, while its texture – which can be melting, dense or bouncy – heightens mouthfeel. While our meat ages for long periods of time, I prefer to serve fish fresh rather than ageing it for too long. We often dry our fresh fish with a very light cure, applied only for minutes and then brushed off with a dry towel. From the moment fish or shellfish enters our kitchen, it will never come into contact with water again. We use a blast-chiller set to 1°C (34°F) to further desiccate the skin or membrane of the flesh, which makes it easier to grill. Sometimes, we will age larger fish for up to 3–5 days to relax the meat and intensify flavour, especially if the ike jime method (see page xxx) has been used. When cooking fish, our job is to make the produce shine, and so there are very few movements involved once we have broken the fish down into fillets. Our preferred methods of cooking are by way of gentle heat – poaching, confiting and baking – followed by a few kisses of flame. Cooking beautiful fish is best achieved by careful observation, watching its colour transform to a fragile pearlescence and noticing its flesh expand in reaction to heat. I like to think of the perfect level of fish ‘doneness’ as hot-raw: the delicate moment when fish boasts the sheen of bursting juices while having the consistency of flaky tenderness. 16 Could spice not be subtle, varied and nuanced in its own way? Bold heat also entailed a sense of defiance. 1616see p. 000 Caption Captionsee p. 000 Caption Caption 1616see p. 000 Caption Captionsee p. 000 Caption Caption1616see p. 000 Caption Captionsee p. 000 Caption Caption Author biography Jeremy Chan is the chef and co-founder of Ikoyi. Born to a Canadian mother and Chinese father, Jeremy grew up between Hong Kong, Canada and England, experiencing a diverse range of cuisines. After graduating from Princeton, Jeremy originally worked as an analyst in Madrid, before deciding to become a chef. Today Jeremy is at the forefront of the gastronomic landscape, blending his dishes with spice, flavour and his personal experiences. Key sales points The book includes narratives throughout about Ikoyi’s inspiration and inception, influenced by Chan’s experiences living, cooking and travelling in Hong Kong, Canada, Sub-Saharan Africa and Europe. - Ikoyi received the prestigious ‘One To Watch’ award in 2021 by The World’s 50 Best Restaurants. - Each recipe features a headnote story about how the dish was developed, plus the influences of seasonality and produce from local farms and artisan producers. - Chan is an acclaimed London-based chef with two Michelin stars and a wide admiring international audience, with diners from all over the world. - With stunning food and atmospheric photography by Maureen Evans. Phaidon Press Limited 2 Cooperage Yard Stratford London E15 2QR Phaidon Press Inc. 65 Bleecker Street New York, NY 10012 © 2022 Phaidon Press Limited phaidon.com Signed Edition: seafood16 introductionintroduction 978 1 83866 630 9 phaidon.com ISBN: 9781838666309 9 7 8 1 8 3 8 6 6 6 3 0 9 978 1 83866 684 2 phaidon.com ISBN: 9781838666842 9 7 8 1 8 3 8 6 6 6 8 4 2Next >