Sole Véronique: there’s no need to fear fish and grapes

One of the joys of writing about old-fashioned food is coming across dishes that are new to me, and turn out to be such a delight that they gain a recurring role in my cooking. Of course, some I’ve encountered were already among my established regulars – boeuf bourguignon, coq au vin. Others were childhood staples – shepherd’s pie, proper rice pudding. But a few of the dishes I take into my kitchen to work with I’ve never even tried before.

The first recipe I wrote for The Spectator was for blancmange. Having grown up during the brief period when milk jelly was fashionable, I’d avoided blancmange like the plague. I was sure it must be rubbery, flavourless and a bit, well, creepy. Quite a bit of persuasion and research were needed before I was converted: blancmange is delightful! Cool, wibbly, creamy – and the perfect vehicle for all sorts of flavourings and aromatics.

Likewise, I’d never eaten chicken Marbella before it landed on my desk as a project, despite its ridiculous popularity during its heyday. And what a revelation! Bold, garlicky, winey, and strangely sweet; delicious, and not like anything I’d ever tasted before.

Sole Véronique occupied a similar place in my culinary brain: I knew of it – fish with grapes, right? That didn’t sound great, but I’d never eaten it, let alone cooked it. Still, it’s a classic dish, and I’m not easily daunted, so I rolled up my sleeves and started peeling grapes.

It’s a simple sauce but a luxurious one, just thick enough to coat the back of a spoon

Sole Véronique is lemon or Dover sole – lemon is substantially cheaper, so that’s my preference – poached in wine or vermouth, and then coated in a creamy sauce. And yes, it’s served with peeled green grapes.