Bring back hanging

In the name of the game

I greet the game season as eagerly as spring, when all the wonderful new produce arrives in the marketplace. It heralds those deep, rich flavours that, by now, I am ready for. The nights are drawing in, the weather is no longer the swelter it has been and I, for one, am looking forward to stronger fare.

Grouse, our indigenous beauty, has already been with us for two months, but by all accounts it is a g ood season, with plenty of birds to go round until at least the middle of November. I would not really want to eat grouse much after that. Pheasant and partridge are well into their stride by then, as are teal, wigeon and mallard. The woodcock - probably my favourite of all - is sometimes seen in December, but is more likely to be out and about during January and February, happier to be bagged - well not deliriously happy - in a colder climate.

Sadly, pheasant is not the bird of yore. It can still make a lovely roast, but with more and more intensive rearing its special flavour has been dissipated by a forced laziness in favour of fattening. Also, once the birds have arrived at market and game dealer, they are turned over to the buying public at an alarmingly quick rate, resulting in a minimum period of hanging. And hanging introduces two important changes to the creature, or used to: the development of flavour and an increase in tenderness. Though to be frank, pheasants are now fed so much corn, they will have become tenderised and fattened up long before bang! bang! plummet time. That's if they are able to lift their undercarriage from the ground at all.

My preference is to buy pheasants plucked but still with the guts intact, "long-leg", in game parlance, so that the birds can hang around for as long as you like. This can be done in a fridge, but a larder or cool cellar, if you are lucky enough to have one, is better. It goes without saying that hanging the birds while still in feather is best but if, like me, you are driven mad by plucking, keeping an ungutted, naked bird in the way described is better than nothing. (If you can't face doing the gutting yourself then ask the game dealer to do it for you.) The easiest way to gut game birds is to make a two-inch incision just above the parson's nose, insert two fingers, and gently start to pull out the guts, which will come away more easily than you think. Sometimes the liver and heart stay attached to the interior of the carcass, so make sure you feel around to find these two. All this is best done on the draining board.

Partridge are lovely game birds. I use the plural because there are two distinct breeds: the red, or French, partridge, and the grey, or English, variety. The red is the lesser of the two in my opinion and, although it is a bigger and meatier bird (cheaper too) than its grey cousin, the latter has a much gamier flavour. I understand that the red partridge is entirely farmed these days (presumably this was not always the case). However, the superior grey species is mostly wild and free. I say "mostly" only because I have a sneaking suspicion that rearing and cosseting is going on in the grey camp too - the birds just look too neat and tidy, and often throw up no trace of the odd nugget of tooth-jarring shot. But, even so, a grey partridge is still the tastier choice.

That very nice man Nigel Slater, who writes for the Observer, recently noted that I am always plugging traditional British food. Well, I am not so sure about that. But on this occasion his suspicions are well founded. For me, the ultimate treatment for a simply roasted game bird is bread sauce, crisp, buttery game crumbs (see below), redcurrant jelly and gravy. Of course there are other spiffing notions, such as braising pheasant with chestnuts, but as I loathe chestnuts you won't be getting a recipe from me. If I wanted to do something glamorous to a pheasant, then I would stew it with cider and Calvados, or with some Madeira, cream and plenty of morels, most commonly found dried in specialist food shops. Expensive, but once soaked in warm water and have swollen up, they become reassuringly plump.

A note about gravy, which I mentioned a few weeks ago. Most game birds, but particularly grouse, do not throw off many juices into the roasting dish as they cook. This is largely due to the brevity of time they have in the oven - unlike a chicken, which has an hour or so to exude its sticky bits. But gravy is so good. It flows into the bread sauce like milk in porridge and then soaks up those crisp game crumbs like croutons in soup. There are two schools of thought on making game gravy. If you eat game regularly, then always keep the carcasses and make stock for the next time (freeze it in ice trays and add to the next gravy). However, if you eat it once in a blue moon, roast the livers and hearts of the birds in the bottom of the roasting dish, together with any wing tips or necks. That way, these bits and pieces will eventually caramelise and can be moistened with a little fortified wine, briefly stewed, then strained.

I always buy my birds from R Allen & Co, a traditional butchers in Mayfair. They have been there for years and are extremely proficient game dealers. They can be found at 117 Mount Street, London Wl (0171-499 5831).

Roasting game birds

The practice of wrapping a game bird in a slice of pork fat prior to roasting is an embellishment I find slightly pointless, particularly on fatty pheasants. Even on the almost totally fatless grouse I find it an encumbrance. As long as a lot of butter is used to cook these birds, and basting is done as well, then all will be OK. If you must wrap, then at least use streaky bacon - which will crisp up and then probably fall off, but at least it will be nice to eat afterwards.

For grouse and partridge - both red and grey - about 20 minutes in a hot oven (425F/220C/gas mark 7) will be sufficient. For a small hen pheasant, allow about 35 to 40 minutes. Put them into a solid roasting dish, smear generously with softened butter and season. Just before the required time, check to see if they are cooked by tweaking the breasts with thumb and forefinger. The density should be similar to that of a peeled, hard-boiled egg. You have to allow the bird to rest, ensuring that the blood settles in the meat before being cut. This should take about seven to ten minutes. Recipes often say, "put in a warm place". Well, where is this elusive "warm place" in everyone's kitchen, I would like to know. The dog's basket? The best way is to leave the door of the oven open for a couple of minutes, then pop the birds back in a clean dish, leaving the door ajar. Add some port, Madeira or sherry to the roasting dish and mix up with the scrunched giblet bits, if used. Simmer for a few minutes (adding any previously made game stock that you may have frozen) and strain.

Bread sauce, serves 4-5

I gave this recipe at Christmas last year, but I think you should have it once more.

450mls/34 pint milk

85g/3oz butter

8 cloves

1 large bay leaf, crumbled

1 thyme sprig

good pinch of salt

1 small onion, peeled and finely chopped

3 tbsp double cream

110g/4oz fresh white breadcrumbs

pepper

Think about making the sauce at least an hour in advance, preferably longer. (If I am using bread sauce for dinner, I often make the milk infusion in the morning.) Heat together the first seven ingredients until just bubbling under a simmer. Leave like this for about five minutes, cover, and infuse. Strain the milk through a fine sieve into a clean pan and press down on the solids to extract all their flavours. Re-heat gently with the cream until hot and steamy, but not boiling. Whisk in the breadcrumbs along with some freshly ground pepper and leave for a few moments to allow the crumbs to swell. Check the seasoning. Pour into a bowl, cover with a plate and keep warm over a pan of hot, but not boiling, water.

Game crumbs

165g/6oz butter

165g/6oz fresh white breadcrumbs

150mls/5fl oz medium sherry

salt and pepper

In a large frying pan, melt the butter until foaming and put in the breadcrumbs. Stir around with a whisk to disperse them in the butter. Fry gently until lightly browned and add the sherry, salt and pepper. The mixture will start to look sticky, but fret not. Carry on stirring with the whisk over a very low heat and gradually the sherry will evaporate and the crumbs start to crisp up again. It must be a gentle process and can take anything up to half an hour, but the end result is gorgeously buttery, with a rich, sherry aroma.

Pheasant stewed with cider and Calvados, serves 4

55g/2oz butter

salt and pepper

2 small hen pheasants, jointed into 4 breasts and 4 legs

85g/3oz smoked bacon, diced

4 large shallots, peeled and coarsely chopped

110g/4oz white button mushrooms, thickly sliced

50mls/2fl oz Calvados

275mls/12 pint dry cider

1 rosemary sprig

juice of half a lemon

275mls/12 pint whipping cream

Melt the butter in a large, preferably cast-iron, casserole pot. Season the pheasant pieces and, when the butter is foaming and just about to colour, put them in and gently fry on both sides until pale golden. Remove and put on a plate. Add the bacon, shallots and mushrooms and cook until lightly coloured, about five to ten minutes. Tip the pot and remove as much fat as you can. Put back the pheasant pieces, turn the heat up a little and pour in the Calvados. Allow it to bubble, light with a match and stand clear. Once the flames have subsided, pour in the cider and bring up to a gentle simmer. Tuck in the rosemary sprig, put the lid on, slightly ajar, and simmer very gently for 30 minutes. Turn the pieces from time to time. If you have one of those heat diffuser pads, use it. Or you may wish to cook the pheasant in a low oven (300F/150C/gas mark 2).

Lift out the pheasants, shake off any bits of vegetable, and put them back on the plate for a moment. Strain the cooking liquor through a sieve into a bowl, pressing hard on the vegetable matter, and then return the juice to the casserole pot. Add the lemon juice, bring to the boil, then simmer until reduced by about three-quarters and the consistency has become syrupy. Add the cream and whisk together. Cook for about five minutes, until creamy and slightly thickened. Now return the pheasant to the pot and further simmer, very gently, until the sauce is unctuous and generously coats the pheasant pieces. Serve with chunks of apple (Cox's, perhaps) cooked until soft in a little butter, sugar, a squeeze of lemon and a little more Calvados