From last Sunday's Observer magazine...
With the new addition to his kitchen, Nigel Slater anticipates slow-cooked stews, epic toast and endless warm tea towels. If only the cat would get out of the way ...
Sunday February 13, 2005
The Observer
I ran my hand along the length of its glossy top, pressed the back of my legs against the solid warmth of its doors, gazed at my reflection in its glistening lids. I stroked it, polished it and at one point whispered 'welcome'. And not only did I poke my head round the kitchen door before I went up to bed, I even came down again in the middle of the night just to make certain it was settling in. If you told me 10 years ago that I would ever fall head over heels in love with an Aga, I would have thought you quite, quite mad.
While Aga evangelists praise their cookers' ability to do everything short of the washing up, I really only intend to use mine for the sort of cooking you put in a heavy casserole dish and forget about. Everything that has come from this oven so far seems particularly unctuous and juicy. The deep, thick walls of the twin ovens have already produced a singly moist result for lamb shanks (with vermouth and rosemary); pork ribs (with honey and five-spice) and a pot roast chicken with thyme and leeks, whose juicy meat fell lazily from its bones.
None of this means I am about to throw out my wok or retire my charcoal grill, or for that matter invest in a farmhouse-style kitchen and a labrador. It simply means that I now have the added pleasure of an oven slow enough to braise even the toughest cuts of meat to a sticky tenderness, a permanent supply of warm tea-towels, somewhere other than the radiator on which to balance a bowl of proving bread dough and, best of all, the facility for making the best toast in the world. Believe me when I say there is no toast like Aga toast. Of course, it has its downsides, least of which is that after 20 years as my permanent shadow, the cat has barely moved from its side since the day it was installed.
I was worried that the fact that my oven is now on non-stop might mean I had just bought the cook's equivalent of a gas-guzzling SUV. Yet already its presence has enabled me to lower the main heating thermostat and regularly avoids having to put the oven on just for a couple of baked potatoes. I will continue to test all my recipes in the standard domestic oven upstairs, but I find the black beauty in the basement more tempting with each passing week. The braised oxtail with mustard I made last night which we ate with spoonfuls of sloppy, milky mashed potato seemed just what this oven is made for.
I can't wait to try a slow-roast leg of lamb I read about that takes about six hours. Or one of those Elizabeth Davidesque bean hotpots I've meant to cook for the past 20 years. Real slow food, anyone?