FREE RANGING FOODIE

Nose to Tail Eats, Wall to Wall Heat

A St John-inspired birthday feast in high summer – what was I thinking?

It’s 2019, and I’ve just received The Book of St John for Christmas. I spend the next week or two daydreaming about which dishes to cook first. If you’ve eaten at this iconic London restaurant, you know it isn’t vegan‑friendly. Located beside the historic Smithfield meat market, St John’s embrace of the term “nose‑to‑tail eating” gives a clear indication of the food served within those hallowed, white‑washed walls.

Needless to say, I haven’t embraced Veganuary, or even Dry January. January is my birthday month, and I celebrate at any available opportunity. January in Melbourne can be punishingly hot with multiple days above forty or unexpectedly gentle, hovering in the mid‑twenties. As I plan my birthday feast, I’m firmly banking on the latter.

At this point, we’re living in a hundred‑plus‑year‑old house that hasn’t seen much love since a late‑1980s renovation. There’s no air‑conditioning, no overhead fans and very little insulation. It’s the epitome of “location, location, location”. We adore the neighbourhood and are determined to make it work.

Undeterred by arguments of logistics, equipment limitations and a small detail called the weather, I commit to producing an indulgent multi‑course meal—whether my guests like it or not. I make enquiries at my local butcher and order the required cuts. A sourdough bakery has also opened nearby, so naturally I plan a different bread for each course.

Watching the forecast a week out, my first doubts creep in. Still, I double down, finalising the shopping list and run sheet, my background in hospitality and catering shining through. Flicking through the tome, countless recipes catch my eye. St John champions British produce without being stubbornly parochial, and I take the same approach to menu planning.

Their classic Welsh rarebit (page 252) is non‑negotiable. The restaurant is, apparently, well on its way to serving half a million portions of this tricked‑up grilled cheese on toast. Then there are soft‑boiled eggs, dolloped with lashings of mayonnaise and draped with seductive, funky anchovies (page 101). Easy to prepare ahead and assemble just before serving—tick.

Smoked trout with cucumber and dill (page 105) follows. I choose Mrs Payne’s smoked trout fillet as it is delicious and proudly local. The dill dressing combines equal parts Dijon mustard, extra‑virgin olive oil and double cream—yes, double cream—with plenty of chopped fresh dill. Cream in salad dressing is emblematic of the St John approach: no namby‑pamby, softly‑softly restraint, just food for people who truly love to eat.

I toy with adapting Grilled Lamb’s Hearts, Peas and Mint (page 19), omitting the hearts and serving the peas and lettuce as a side salad. The fresh mint and vinegar dressing promises some much‑needed lightness. Or I could indulge my all‑time favourite salad: butter lettuce with crisp, thinly sliced radish and shallots, judiciously dressed with a simple vinaigrette of extra‑virgin olive oil, homemade vinegar, salt and a touch of Dijon.

As tempting as it is to replicate the iconic Roast Bone Marrow and Parsley Salad (page 150), I wonder if I’m making a rod for my own back. The bones are easily sourced from my local hipster butcher, but is it over‑gilding the lily? Yes. It absolutely is. I resist.

For the main, I deviate from the cookbook while staying true to its spirit: steak and kidney pie, made to my mother’s recipe. I include mushrooms because my mother does and because it feels right. Whilst trimming the kidneys, my ex‑farm cat mithers at me from nearby. Even though I explain to her that cats shouldn’t eat too much offal, she doesn’t care.

I slow‑cook the filling a few days ahead, giving it time to cool and develop flavour before I construct the pie. A rough shortcrust pastry forms the base, with puff pastry for the lid—a lesson learned years ago from a chef, and one I never regret repeating.

The final course will be Eccles cake and cheese (page 256). The Eccles cakes turn out to be far less fussy than I imagine: spiced, sweetened currants wrapped in puff pastry. I have no intention of making my own puff pastry when quality frozen versions are readily available. My own tweak is choosing a good Australian cheddar—Pyengana—rather than the Lancashire specified.

We set the table outside, where there’s room to spread out. I’ve always favoured a round table: no head, no corners digging into hips, and there always seems to be space for one more chair. A naked wooden table suits me just fine; scratches and marks simply become part of its story.

Cutlery is mismatched, crockery cobbled together from what we have on hand, and by the end of the meal every piece of glassware is pressed into service. The single nod to elevation is cloth napkins. I love the small ceremony of draping it across my lap and dabbing at the corner of my mouth, and I equally love seeing it abandoned on the table at night’s end— the universal signal of an evening well spent.

As the hour approaches, the day only grows hotter. We string an old blanket across the washing line to shade the dining area and drag in two portable fans to keep the air moving. No matter how we slice it, the day is damn hot. Why must I be so pig‑headed?

I make sure there’s plenty of chilled water and ice on hand. We work our way through the lighter dishes first, drinks going down easily, and the magnum of local rosé doesn’t last long. Melbourne may be about as far from London as one can get, but the generous spirit of St John joins us at the table. Rich food and deep summer may not be natural partners, but conviviality wins out in the end.

January 23, 2026