Of ham hocks and parsley

An Irish jambon persillé takes shape

Just back from London, I was wandering through the English Market in Cork city when I noticed a stall selling pig’s feet (or crubeens as they are called here), ham hocks (not something you see every day) and pickled pig’s tails (ditto). Now, having had jambon persillé in Joséphine Bouchon as part of a lunch that I have written about here, I fell upon a ham hock with, so to speak, glad cries.

Because I wanted to have a stab at making something vaguely similar at home. I bought it, and a pickled tail (for the extra gelatin), and had change out of a fiver. In all, I reckon my take on jambon persillé or, more correctly, ham hock terrine with a lot of parsley, cost about €5.50 tops. It’s not often that I can say that.

So, I brought these bits of cured pig home, placed them in a large saucepan, covered them with water, brought to the boil, and simmered them for two-and-a-half hours.

Purists will realise that I was already departing from the classic Burgundian jambon persillé because in those parts they wouldn’t dream of using water. They cook the ham in Aligoté, a wine that used to be looked down upon in the home of classic chardonnay; this grape variety is now more highly thought of and the wines it makes are no longer cheap or, presumably, the basis of a kir.

Anyway, leaving the bits of pig overnight to cool in their cooking liquid, I found that it had become a little jellied but not firmly enough to hold together a terrine. (Had I bought a crubeen and added it to the pot, I suspect it would have been solid.)

Meanwhile, I had picked a big bunch of parsley which, unusually for us, was the variety called Moss Curled. I have no idea where it came from as I have no recollection of sowing it but here it was, looking luxuriant. This form of parsley is not as deeply flavoured as the flat-leaved Continental varieties but, just now, we are between crops of those. Well, almost. What we do have of the flat-leaved kind had recently been pee-ed on by the dog.

Using a concave board and a mezzaluna, I reduced the parsley to something approaching a richly green powder and then took the meat off the bone and cut the larger pieces into chunks. These were mixed with the parsley while I brought some of the cooking liquor to the boil and then turned off the heat.

After about a minute I gently and slowly whisked a packet of gelatin powder into the hot, but not boiling, ham stock and kept whisking until all was dissolved.

Then I lined a loaf tin with clingfilm and poured a little of the gelatin solution into the ham and parsley mixture – just enough to moisten it fairly thoroughly. This was then transferred to the loaf tin and gently pressed down. The gelatin solution was then poured in and the tin given a few sharp knocks to dispel any air pockets. Then, into the fridge for four hours whereupon it had become delightfully firm and sliceable.

I have tried to make sauce gribiche on several occasions but never with any success. Getting the hardboiled egg yolk to emulsify with the oil seems to be beyond me but I make a faux version that I’ve come to think of as rather better than the real thing.

I simply finely chop some cornichons, capers, shallot, a couple hardboiled eggs and fold this into some homemade mayonnaise. Then very finely chopped chervil, tarragon and parsley is stirred in, plus a generous grind of black pepper.

This is what accompanied my version of jambon persillé and I have to say, it was pretty darn good.

As for a wine to accompany, I was too mean to open a Bourgogne Blanc from Domaine Dubreuil-Fontaine, but the Costières de Nîmes Blanc from Aldi for a tenner was absolutely spot on. No Chardonnay or Aligoté, of course, but Rousanne, Marsanne and Grenache Blanc, a combination of which I’m becoming increasingly fond.

As for a wine to accompany, I was too mean to open a Bourgogne Blanc from Domaine Dubreuil-Fontaine, but the Costières de Nîmes Blanc from Aldi for a tenner was absolutely spot on. No Chardonnay or Aligoté, of course, but Rousanne, Marsanne and Grenache Blanc, a combination of which I’m becoming increasingly fond.

So, €15.50, including wine, making it all taste even better. (Okay, including the “gribiche”, maybe €16?)