
Chef Thomas
Anchovy Sauce
A proper white sauce sharpened with pounded anchovy, the old Georgian trick for waking up a piece of poached fish or a slice of roast lamb on a Sunday in spring.
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Created by Chef Thomas
The gravy that turns sausages and mash into an evening worth remembering, built slowly from onions, butter, and patience, and poured over everything in generous, unapologetic ladlefuls.
There's a particular kind of Wednesday in late autumn when the light goes by four and the wind gets into everything, and you walk in the door already thinking about sausages. This is the gravy for that evening.
Onion gravy isn't complicated. It's onions cooked down until they've forgotten they were ever sharp, some stock, a splash of wine if you've got it, a shake of Worcestershire. But it takes time, and there's no way round that. You can't hurry onions into sweetness. They go when they're ready and not before. Forty-five minutes on a low heat, with the occasional stir, is the whole trick. While they're doing their slow work, the kitchen starts to smell like a proper dinner is on the way, and that smell alone is half the pleasure of cooking it.
I wrote this one down in the notebook years ago, with a note beside it that just said "the good one." I've not changed it since. A recipe is a conversation, not a contract, so treat the quantities as a starting point. More onions if you're feeling generous. A splash of ale instead of wine if that's what's open. A knob of butter stirred in at the end if the day has been long.
We're only making dinner. But this is the kind of dinner that makes the evening settle down around you, and the rain against the window stop feeling like a problem.
Quantity
4 large
halved and finely sliced
Quantity
50g
Quantity
1 tablespoon
Quantity
1 teaspoon
Quantity
2 sprigs
leaves picked
Quantity
1
Quantity
1 tablespoon
Quantity
150ml
Quantity
600ml
Quantity
2 teaspoons
Quantity
1 teaspoon
Quantity
to taste
Quantity
to taste
freshly ground
| Ingredient | Quantity |
|---|---|
| brown onionshalved and finely sliced | 4 large |
| unsalted butter | 50g |
| olive oil | 1 tablespoon |
| caster sugar | 1 teaspoon |
| fresh thymeleaves picked | 2 sprigs |
| bay leaf | 1 |
| plain flour | 1 tablespoon |
| red wine or dark ale | 150ml |
| beef or chicken stock | 600ml |
| Worcestershire sauce | 2 teaspoons |
| English mustard | 1 teaspoon |
| fine sea salt | to taste |
| black pepperfreshly ground | to taste |
Melt the butter with the olive oil in a heavy-bottomed pan over a gentle heat. The oil stops the butter from burning; the butter gives you the flavour. When the butter foams and smells faintly of hazelnuts, add the sliced onions and a good pinch of salt. Stir them through so every slice has a coat of butter on it.
This is the part that matters. Turn the heat to low and let the onions soften without taking any colour for the first ten minutes. Stir now and then. After that, add the sugar and the thyme leaves, turn the heat up just a touch, and carry on cooking. You're looking for a slow transformation: sharp and white to translucent, translucent to pale gold, pale gold to a deep, sticky amber that smells like Sunday lunch. Don't rush it. Thirty minutes, maybe more. The worst thing you can do to onions is rush them.
When the onions are properly collapsed and coloured, stir in the flour and the bay leaf. Let it cook for a minute, just enough to lose the raw flour taste. Pour in the wine and let it bubble and reduce by half, scraping any sticky bits off the bottom of the pan with a wooden spoon. Those sticky bits are flavour. Don't leave them behind.
Pour in the stock and add the Worcestershire sauce and mustard. Bring it to a gentle simmer and let it tick away for ten to fifteen minutes, until it thickens to the consistency of a loose gravy that coats the back of a spoon. Fish out the bay leaf. Taste it. Season with salt and pepper. Taste it again. It should be savoury, deeply oniony, with a quiet tang from the Worcestershire and the faintest heat from the mustard at the back of the throat. If it feels thin, let it reduce a little longer. If it feels too thick, a splash more stock will fix it.
Pour generously over sausages and mash, or whatever needs it. A warm jug on the table for seconds. There are few better feelings than a jug of proper onion gravy going round a kitchen table on a cold night.
1 serving (about 200g)
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