Recipe: The River Cafe Spaghetti al Limone
Pamela Osborne reminisces about an adventure in the UK, Welsh mining lamps, and a meal at The River Cafe.
Except for the Horwitz twins, high school classmates, I didn’t know anyone who had been to Europe, wars aside, when I was growing up. Travel didn’t used to be as casually undertaken, or as inexpensive as it has, comparatively, become. It may be that we’re just richer; nobody on television these days lives in a cold water flat, the way the Cramdens did on "The Honeymooners."
I was in my late twenties the first time I went to England, in a cold, late November, with my husband. I had read an article that mentioned a shop off Piccadilly Circus that focused on British crafts and products. The days when I paid attention to shopping articles are long gone, but following up on this one led us on a small adventure.
At the shop, we were interested in some Welsh mining lamps which, we were told, were given to retiring miners as a gift to mark the end of their working lives. One wonders why these men, and I believe they were all men, would want these souvenirs to remind them of how they got black lung, if they did, but I didn’t think of that then. The lamps were upgraded replicas made of shiny brass, and were quite nice, really. The real lamps were hung in the mines as work lights, of course, and also to warn of danger: if the flames went out it meant there wasn’t enough oxygen to keep them burning, and the miners knew to get out fast. I doubt these lamps exist today except as antiques, as mining in the UK ended some time after the Thatcher era.
Anyway, we got to talking to Martin, a handsome blond who was the young salesman, who said he was driving down to Wales in a couple of days to pick up a case or two of these to sell by mail order in the States, and would we like to go? Why yes, thank you, and so it was arranged that he would pick us up at our hotel at 4 a.m. in a couple of days, and we would all drive down together. In the meantime Martin, who had an uncle who was an MP, volunteered to arrange tickets for us to see what was a controversial debate about Scottish secession. The behavior of the members while the case was being presented was a revelation: there was loud hissing, shouting, derisive laughing, booing, etc. back and forth across the aisle; being rude and insulting seemed to be the order of the day. The debate about secession still rattles along now, but I suspect the behavior has been toned down a bit as, according to what I read, some members are too focused on openly and unapologetically watching porn on their cell phones to bother with personal attacks or even, perhaps, to bother listening to debates. And no, I’m not kidding.
At any rate, off we went before dawn to Aberdare in Wales, where E. Thomas and Williams, Makers, were located. I had expected a big smoking factory, but we found ourselves at a little white building at the top of the town, set against a green hillside. We were greeted by Mr. Thomas, a small, pink-cheeked, white-haired man in a tweed three-piece suit. “Cherubic” is a cliche, but it’s the word that comes to mind, and he was. Unfortunately, though, the lamps were not ready for us, as a roll of screen, needed as part of the assembly, had not been delivered from Warrington. Oh dear, because Martin had arranged for shipping and for his own travel to America at a date not too far off. Mr. Thomas said, in that case, the only way to speed things up was to bring him the screen ourselves, so off we went to Warrington, an industrial city some distance away. Warrington was branching out in those days, or trying to, and we had seen a commercial advertising Vodka from Warrington, which was stentoriously pronounced Wodka from Varrington. Oh those Brits, they love to laugh, and they do. I was recently reminded of the old Monty Python routine, “The All England Summarize Proust Competition.” Hard to beat that.
Pamela Osborne's Welsh mining lamps
We arrived in Warrington by late afternoon, after a really good lunch at a restaurant romantically set by the ruins of a castle. We picked up the screen, a big, heavy roll that sat tilted on the other side of the back seat next to me, and headed back to Aberdare. When we arrived, long after dark, E. Thomas and Williams was closed, so we left the roll leaning against the door and crossed our fingers. We got back to London well after midnight. I slept on the way, but my husband was afraid if he fell asleep Martin would too, so they talked the whole way. It all worked out in the end, though, and Martin came to America and stayed with us part of the time.
Now, here is why I am telling you this story. I have been remembering, as we approach the Queen’s Platinum Jubilee, that on the wall at E. Thomas and Williams was a large photograph of Mr. Thomas standing next to a very young Prince Charles, the two of them wearing big smiles. “Oh, there’s you and Prince Charles,” I said, and Mr. Thomas flushed even pinker with pride, and told us about that important day. Except for having planned to marry Prince Charles when I was about six, when I had seen a picture of him and Princess Anne on the cover of LIFE magazine (it didn’t work out, I could never figure out how to trip him up), I hadn’t really given much thought to the royal family. But I realized that day what it is that they offer to the people they meet: gratitude, appreciation, reasons to be proud of accomplishments and of contributions they have made to their communities. The President of the United States doesn’t have time to go around encouraging people in a personal way. Hey, good job man, thanks. It’s not happening, for the most part. In these divisive days, here and in England and Wales and everywhere, I’m afraid, a few moments that suggest "You know, we’re all in this together, and thank you,” might not go amiss.
Food in England isn’t what it used to be: it’s good now, really really good. Indian, I believe, is the most popular, with Italian a close second. I considered giving you a recipe for Coronation Chicken, served on the original Coronation Day but, although it’s pretty good, I think in the chicken salad world it’s an also-ran; its recipe was devised in the period of severe austerity in the UK after the war. I know people who love it, though, and many versions, including the original, are available online, if you’d like to try it. One friend particularly likes the New York Times version, which is considerably more sophisticated than the original.
I offer instead a simple recipe from London’s River Cafe, which is a bit of a hike from the city center, but worth the trip if you’re there. There is an open-fire oven in the center of the room for grilling all manner of things, and a broad quay outside by the river although, the last time I was there several years ago, they said they couldn’t serve out there anymore, the neighbors complained about noise. This is a light pasta, quickly assembled, and they’re famous for it. You won’t miss much of the Jubilee ceremonies while you put it together, and you could wear your tiara while you do. There aren’t a lot of opportunities, go on.
The River Cafe Spaghetti al Limone
This recipe makes six small servings. Make it as they say to the first time; then, if you want to, alter it, the most likely change being less oil. Using fresh basil is important here, and I hope you will plant some for your summer meals. Please plant sorrel, too, wonderful sorrel. I bought the last four small packs last week at Ward’s in Great Barrington, but they said they had more coming in. I already had it in my garden, but there never seems to be enough.
9 ounces spaghetti. Buy only durum semolina pasta, extruded through bronze dies. Read the package.
3 or 4 very fresh lemons. You want fat, thin skinned lemons, at room temperature. They should feel heavy. Citrus season is at an end, so buy extra lemons in case you need them.
2/3 cup extra virgin olive oil I like Olive Oil Jones.
1 and 1/4 cups freshly grated parmesan
Sea salt (Maldon’s) and freshly ground pepper
2 handfuls of fresh, tender basil, rinsed and dried, and chopped, not too finely — a medium-rough chop is good.
Lemon zest, a teaspoon or so. Adding this will intensify the lemon flavor. Use only if you are using organic, unwaxed, washed lemons. Use a microplane rasp, one of the modern world’s greatest inventions, to grate only the colored zest, not the bitter white flesh below it. Grate the zest before you juice the lemons.
In a bowl, beat the lemon juice with the olive oil. Stir in the parmesan, which will melt into the mixture, forming what looks like sort of a wet sludge. Add salt and pepper, but remember that you should also have it on the table for people to season to taste, so don’t overdo it. Taste your mixture — it should be pretty lemony so, if it’s not, add more lemon juice, and add the lemon zest, if you’re using it.
Cook the spaghetti. Save a cup of water from the pot, then drain thoroughly. Put the pasta back in the still warm pot and add the sauce. Mix together until the spaghetti is coated with the cheese. Stir in the basil. If the pasta has congealed into a solid mass (it shouldn’t, with the original amount of oil), add a bit of the reserved water, only enough to loosen things up. Don’t go crazy, or you’ll be sorry.
This recipe started something, and there are many variations. One of the best is Nigella Lawson’s Lemony Linguine. It uses far less lemon and, with butter, cream, mascarpone, egg yolks, I could go on, it’s different from what’s above — luxuriously creamy, pretty terrific. More work, but you’ll be happy.
