To mark Nigel Slater's 20 years as an Observer food writer, 10 readers select their best of his recipes – and tell us why they work

Chicken, sherry and almond pot roast

Published 28 April 2013
Chosen by Mel Wells, Aldershot, Hampshire

"The taste of the sauce is unbelievable – when you take into account that the sauce contains no garlic, no onion, no chilli, no mushrooms, no tomatoes, no herbs, and yet when you remove the lid and taste, what a surprise!"

SERVES 2
chicken thighs 4 large
new potatoes 200g
salted almonds 80g
fino sherry 100ml
water 100ml
chervil a small handful

I use plump, slightly rounded Marcona almonds for this. Rich and sweet, they contribute so much flavour. Whichever type you use, toast them until they are deep gold in colour before adding the liquid.

Set the oven at 200C/gas mark 6. Season the chicken thighs, then brown them as evenly as you can in a little oil over a moderate heat. Slice the potatoes into thick coins and add them to the pan, letting them colour lightly. Drop in the almonds, allow to brown a little, then pour in the fino. Leave to bubble for a few seconds to burn off the alcohol, then add 100ml of water, cover with a lid and roast for 25 minutes.

Remove the lid, add a small handful of chervil and serve.

Classic peperoni alla piemontese

Published 3 July 2011
Chosen by Les Plant, Poole, Dorset

"Anchovies in mine but not for my wife. Easy to prepare, great hot or cold, couldn't live without it."

A dish of peppers, halved and baked with olive oil, tomatoes and garlic, generally served cold. Most people include basil and anchovies in the recipe, though if you drop the latter it's very useful as a vegetarian main dish.

Slice four red or yellow peppers in half lengthways, discarding the seeds and core. Quarter 8 tomatoes, skinned if you wish, and divide them between the peppers. Peel and slice 2 cloves of garlic and tuck the slices among the tomatoes. Add an anchovy, chopped or whole, to each pepper, a little salt and pepper, then enough olive oil to come half-way up each pepper. Bake at 180C/gas mark 4 for 35 minutes or so, until the peppers are soft and luscious. Serve cold with bread for mopping up the juices.

The trick

Use red or turning peppers rather than the less-sweet green. Let the edges catch a little in the oven, to give them a sweet, toasted note. Good olive oil is essential – you will be eating a lot of it with this dish, so choose one everyone will be happy with, maybe something fruity rather than overtly peppery. Tuck any extra ingredients, such as basil or olives, right down in the olive oil. If you are using anchovies, take care when adding salt.

The twist

Olives, stoned and halved, can be added with the tomatoes. Use cherry tomatoes, popping them in whole. To take the classic recipe on further, marinated artichokes could be substituted for some of the tomatoes, as could sliced courgettes – but you will have to think of a new name for the dish. I sometimes blitz a little olive oil and a few basil leaves in the food processor then pour the brilliant green puree into the peppers. The smell is wonderful. Serve them warm rather than cold if you wish.

An onion tatin

Published 29 August 2010
Chosen by Caroline Leygue

"It is so simple yet so tasty. I like recipes like this– they feel a bit like a miracle."

SERVES 3-4

small to medium-sized sweet onions, such as Red Florence 500-600g

butter 75g
thyme sprigs
all butter puff pastry 250g

Set the oven at 200C/gas mark 6. Peel the onions and slice them in half from root to tip. Melt the butter in a 20-22cm non-stick frying pan or tarte tatin tin over a low to moderate heat.

Place the onions cut-side down in the butter – they should fit snugly. Leave them to cook for a good 15-20 minutes, keeping the heat low, until the underside is golden and the onions are soft enough to take the point of a knife. Turn them over carefully with a palette knife and continue cooking until they are completely soft. (This is important: they will only be in the oven for a short while and must be fully cooked before you put the pastry on.) Turn them over, or not, as you please, making sure they fit snugly into the tin with as few gaps as possible. Tuck five or six small stems of thyme under the onions. Remove from the heat and let them cool for 15 minutes or so.

Roll out the pastry in a circle about 2cm in diameter larger than the diameter of the pan. Lower it into place then tuck the edges in around the sides of the pan. Bake for 20-30 minutes until the pastry is puffed and golden. Remove from the oven and cool slightly before serving.

To remove the tarte from the tin, place a large plate or flat baking sheet over the top of the pan, swiftly and firmly turn the pan upside down and let the tart slide out. It might need a bit of a shake. If any of the onions stick, loosen them with a palette knife.

Serve with a well-made cheese to complement the sweetness of the tart.Something melting like a Tunworth or Camembert would be perfect.

A mild and fruity curry of salmon

Published 19 July 2009
Chosen by Rosa Townsend, Tunbridge Wells, Kent

"Tamarind doesn't taste like anything else, so this recipe is an easy route to an unusual flavour."

SERVES 4, WITH RICE
salmon fillet 500g, skinned
onion 1 large
groundnut oil 2 tbsp
mustard seeds½ tsp
small hot chillies 2
ground turmeric½ tsp
ground cumin 1 tsp
ground coriander 1 tsp
tomatoes 6 fairly large ones
water 80ml
tamarind paste 1 tbsp
coconut milk 200ml

Cut the salmon into about 20 thick cubes. Peel the onion and chop it finely, then let it soften in the oil in a deep, non-stick pan. When it has started to colour lightly, add the mustard seeds, finely chopped chillies, the turmeric, cumin and coriander and stir for a minute or so till the spices are warm and fragrant.

Chop the tomatoes, add them to the pan and leave them to soften for a minute or two before pouring in the water. Stir in the tamarind. Bring to the boil then turn down to a simmer. Leave for 10 minutes before adding the pieces of salmon, some salt and black pepper.

Now leave to cook for 10-15 minutes until the salmon is completely opaque. Pour in the coconut milk and simmer for further 4-5 minutes. Serve as it is, or if you wish, with rice. Serve this with a spoon so as not to waste a drop of the gently spiced juices.

Classic liver and bacon

Published 17 October 2010
Chosen by Mark Kusionowicz, Camberley, Surrey

"When my wife is away I get the only opportunity I have to indulge my love of offal. This recipe is a celebration of that love. It has become such a treat for myself that I only have to say to my butcher "she's away again" and he knows to bag up a couple of slices of calves' liver and two best back rashers."

The recipe
For the gravy: slowly cook 2 large onions, peeled and thickly sliced, in 50g butter until pale gold, soft and sweet. Add a level tablespoon of flour. Brown lightly then stir in 300ml of stock. Simmer for 20 minutes then serve with the liver. Fry or grill the liver and bacon, allowing 150g liver per person and 2 rashers of bacon. Some mashed potato would be good here.

The trick
Cook the onions very slowly and the liver very fast. The usual cooking time suggested for fried onions is often underestimated. They take a good 15-20 minutes to cook evenly. Hurrying the procedure will forfeit sweetness. Grill the liver for a minute or two. If you're frying the liver, make sure the pan is searingly hot, so the inside of the liver stays pink while the outer crust forms. It cooks in a matter of seconds.

The twist
A splash of Madeira or Marsala in your onion gravy makes the whole dish into something really rather special.

Tarte au chevre

Published 13 February 2011
Chosen by Linda Johnson Lee, Roanne, Brionnais, France

"This shows my French friends a thing or two about British cooking, which still has a bad name over there. Recently a French friend celebrated her 70th birthday and requested Nigel's tarte au chevre. Before I could get a slice myself they had all been scoffed to approving cries of 'superbe'."

SERVES 6
For the pastry
flour 200g
butter 100g
egg yolk 1
milk a little

For the filling

onions 400g
butter 25g
thyme 2 tsp of leaves
eggs 2
creme fraiche 200g
full cream milk 200g
goat's cheese, moist and crumbly 180g
You will also need
a round 22cm tart tin at least 3.5cm deep with a removable base; beans for baking blind

To make the pastry, put the flour and butter, cut into small pieces, into the bowl of a food processor. Add a pinch of salt and blitz to fine breadcrumbs. If you prefer, rub the butter into the flour with your fingertips. Add the egg yolk and enough milk to bring the dough to a firm ball. The less milk you add, the better, as too much will cause your pastry case to shrink in the oven.

Pat the pastry into a flat round on a floured surface then roll out large enough to line the tart tin. Lightly butter the tin, dust it with a small amount of flour and shake off any surplus then lower in the round of pastry. Push the dough right into the corner where the rim joins the base without stretching the pastry. Make certain there are no holes or tears. Trim the overhanging pastry and place in the fridge to chill for 20 minutes.

Set the oven at 200C/gas mark 6. Put a baking sheet in the oven to warm. Line the pastry case with foil and baking beans and slide on to the hot baking sheet. Bake for 20 minutes, then remove from the oven and carefully lift the beans out. Return the case to the oven for 5 minutes or so, until the surface is dry to the touch. Remove from the oven and set aside. Turn the oven down to 180C/gas mark 4.

Make the filling. Peel the onions and slice them thinly. Melt the butter in a shallow pan and add the onions, leaving them to cook over a low heat for a good 20 minutes. As they show signs of softening, add the thyme. An occasional stir with a wooden spoon will stop them sticking or burning. The onions are ready when they are sweet, gold and soft enough to crush between your fingers and thumb.

Crack the eggs into a bowl and beat to mix with a small whisk or fork. Beat in the creme fraiche and milk. Season with salt and black pepper. Spoon the onions into the pastry case. Crumble in the goat's cheese. Pour most of the egg mixture over the onions then transfer to the hot baking sheet in the oven. Pour in the remaining custard mixture and carefully slide into the oven.

Bake for 40 minutes till lightly risen. The centre should quiver when the tart is gently shaken. Eat in the traditional style of a quiche, not hot nor cold, but warm.

Lentil and spinach cottage pie

Published 12 February 2012
Chosen by Anita Currie

"It's a big hug on a plate – suitable for vegetarians, good enough for any occasion."

SERVES 6
onions 2 medium to large
carrots 2 medium
celery a small stick
dark, open mushrooms 350g
olive or rapeseed oil
garlic 3 cloves
bay leaves 2
thyme 3 or 4 short sprigs
lentils a 500g jar
vegetable stock 500ml
balsamic vinegar 2 tsp
spinach 500g

For the potato crust
large, floury potatoes 1kg
butter 75g, or olive oil 3 tbsp

Finely dice the onion, carrot and celery, then cook in a deep casserole over a moderate flame for 10 minutes or so till the onion is almost tender. Finely chop the mushrooms and add to the mixture. Peel and finely slice the garlic and stir in after the mixture has been cooking for 5 minutes. Add the bay leaves and thyme, then the lentils with their bottling liquid, and stir briefly, pouring in the stock. Bring the stock to the boil then turn the heat down and leave to simmer for a good 20 minutes. Season with salt, black pepper and the balsamic vinegar to taste.

To make the crust, peel the potatoes, cut them into pieces and boil in salted water for 20 minutes or so till tender. Mash with the butter or oil. Beat with a wooden spoon till light and fluffy.

Set the oven at 200C/gas mark 6. Wash the spinach and, if the leaves are large, tear them into pieces then, while they are still wet, pile 450g of them into a pan with a lid and steam, with the occasional stir, for a few minutes till they start to collapse. Cool them under the cold tap, wring them out thoroughly then stir them into the lentils. (Don't add the spinach raw to the lentils: the leaves will produce a lot of water and you'll be left with lentil soup.) Fold the remaining 50g uncooked spinach into the mashed potato. Tip the lentil mixture into a baking dish and pile on the potato. It may sink slightly into the lentils. Bake for 50 minutes to an hour till the edges are bubbling.

Coffee and walnut cake

Published 28 September 2003
Chosen by Carol Hart

"It manages to combine a simple elegance with memories of the similar cake made by my Nan when I was a child, and is totally delicious."

SERVES 8 TO 10
butter 175g
unrefined golden caster sugar 175g
walnut pieces 65g
eggs 3 large
self-raising flour 175g
baking powder 1 tsp
instant coffee granules 2 tsp

For the filling:
butter 200g
icing sugar 400g
instant coffee granules 2 tsps
walnut pieces 60g

You will also need 2 x 21cm loose-bottomed sponge tins

As it is made with unsalted butter, unrefined sugar and free-range organic eggs, you will have something infinitely superior to any shop-bought cake. It takes an hour from start to finish and will keep for several days, sealed and at room temperature. The ideal storage is an old-fashioned biscuit tin, one where the smell of home-baking lingers even when the tin is empty.

Beat the butter and sugar till it is light, pale and fluffy. You could do this by hand, but it is far easier and better with an electric mixer. Set the oven at 180°C/gas mark 4. Meanwhile, line the base of two 21cm sponge tins with greaseproof paper and chop the walnuts. Crack the eggs into a bowl, break them up with a fork and add them a little at a time to the butter and sugar, beating well after each addition.

Mix the flour and baking powder together and mix into the butter and sugar gently, with the mixer on a slow speed or by hand, with a large metal spoon. Dissolve the coffee granules in 1 tbsp boiling water, then stir into the cake. Chop the walnuts and fold gently into the cake.

Divide the cake mixture between the two cake tins, smooth lightly, and bake for 20-25 minutes. I have noticed mine are pretty much consistently done after 23 minutes.

To make the frosting, beat the butter till soft and pale with an electric beater, then add the sugar and beat till smooth and creamy. Stir 1 tbsp boiling water into the coffee granules then mix it into the buttercream. Fold in the walnut pieces.

As soon as it is cool, turn one half of the cake upside down on a plate or board, spread it with a good third of the buttercream, then place the second half on top. Spread the remaining buttercream on top and round the sides.

Lemon curd

Published 7 March 2010
Chosen by Iona Scott, Edinburgh

"A pleasure to make and eat. I usually whip up a fresh batch each week which is slathered on toast each morning by my partner, incorporated into delicious puddings for dinner, or given to friends as gifts."

MAKES 2 SMALL JAM JARS
unwaxed lemons zest and juice of 4

sugar 200g
butter 100g
eggs 3 whole and 1 egg yolk

Most lemon curd recipes instruct you to stir the mixture with a wooden spoon. I find that stirring lightly with a whisk introduces just a little more lightness into the curd, making it slightly less solid and more wobbly.

Put the lemon zest and juice, the sugar and the butter, cut into cubes, into a heatproof bowl set over a pan of simmering water, making sure that the bottom of the basin doesn't touch the water. Stir with a whisk from time to time until the butter has completely melted.

Mix the eggs and egg yolk lightly with a fork, then stir into the lemon mixture. Let the curd cook, stirring regularly, for about 10 minutes, until it is thick and custard-like. It should feel heavy on the whisk.

Remove from the heat and stir occasionally as it cools. Pour into spotlessly clean jars and seal. It will keep for a couple of weeks in the fridge.

Rosemary and honey bread for cheese

Published 10 March 2013
Chosen by Katherine Stephenson, Wickford, Essex

"My family loved this as it introduced us to goat's cheese and honey. My son tweeted Nigel and told him life was richer since I'd discovered his recipes."

MAKES 2 SMALL LOAVES
strong wholemeal flour 250g
strong white plain flour 250g
salt 1 tsp
warm water 350ml
honey 1 tbsp
fresh yeast 40g
rosemary 2 tbsp, chopped
dried cherries 50g
dried apricots 50g
golden sultanas 50g
rosemarystalks a few, to decorate
sea salt flakes

Put the two different flours in a large mixing bowl, add the salt and mix thoroughly. Pour the warm water into a small bowl then stir in the honey and yeast. When they have dissolved add the chopped rosemary.

Tip the yeast and honey mixture into the flours and stir in the cherries, apricots and sultanas. If you are using a food mixer armed with a dough hook (a flat paddle will work just as well) then mix for 4 or 5 minutes. You should have a dough that is really quite sticky. Cover it with a cloth and leave in a warm, but far from hot, place for about an hour until risen and lightly spongy.

Flour a large chopping board or work surface, tip the dough on to it and slice in half. Roll each piece of dough into a ball and place on a lightly floured baking sheet. Scatter the surface of each loaf with a few rosemary stalks and a few pinches of sea salt flakes. Cover with a cloth and leave for about 20 minutes, until the dough has flattened and spread slightly. Set the oven at 220C/gas mark 7. Bake for 25 minutes, until dark brown, remove from the oven and transfer to a cooling rack. When cool, slice and serve with goat's cheese and mild honey.

These spongy loaves will keep for two or three days if wrapped in clingfilm.

Books, television shows and Observer recipes: Nigel Slater reveals all in this diary of his working week. Always waking up at 5.30am helps

Friday:North London

Friday is my day off. Sacrosanct. Written in stone. Everyone who works with me knows I haven't so much as taken a phone call on a Friday for 25 years. There is the odd bugger who pushes their luck, but most people know they take their chances. The exception is my breakfast meeting with James Thompson, who works with me, full time, on my television series, column and books and without whom everything would have collapsed long ago. A meeting at which we discuss, well away from the usual kitchen, office and television studio, the work in hand. Today he has eggs Benedict, I have fish cakes with hollandaise. It is my long-held belief that you cannot have a worthwhile meeting without food on the table.

We discuss the BBC1 television series that is currently in production, my upcoming trip to Amsterdam for the Dutch publication of Keuken Dagboek, the Kitchen Diaries, and my new book Eat, which goes on press in Italy this week. The real heart of the meeting is to work on the recipes for the Observer column. It is the one constant in my life, and has been for 20 years, ever since Matthew Fort, at the time food editor of the Guardian, kindly put me up for it, and is the thing around which all my other projects revolve.

The route to the final recipes is long and somewhat spirited. I used to stubbornly develop and test the recipes myself, but long ago discovered that two heads are better than one. The most crucial are those we are to photograph this coming Monday. (Late as usual. I live with the perpetual guilt of always being tardy filing my copy. I am not sure I have ever handed anything in on time since I was at school.) Scrupulous notes are kept on both iPads and in notebooks. (Other than for trivial detail, my memory has never been reliable. It is never mentioned, but we both know it is getting steadily worse with each passing year.)

The ideas come quickly, a mixture of dishes I have cooked for dinner over the last few days and want to run in the column. Likewise, ideas from James and one or two things we just fancy having a go at. He deals, patiently, with my ability to change the subject in a heartbeat. I want to do a recipe with lamb's kidneys similar to the one I cooked a couple of nights ago, with toasted focaccia and Marsala, it was gorgeous, but offal doesn't go down well in the magazine unless it's pig's cheeks or oxtail so we don't. Instead we go with a duck idea I made last night.

We both feel it has been a while since we did a duck recipe. I want to use plums, sharp ones, to take the place of the traditional fruits that are served with duck such as Seville oranges or Bramley apples. We throw ideas back and forth at one another until, just as the restaurant is starting to lay up for lunch, we have a master plan of the upcoming recipes and the week's work ahead. All of which will go to hell in a handcart if I see something that excites me more at the market on Saturday morning.

Saturday:Shopping day

Saturday is market day. The only time it isn't is when I'm away filming my series on location, which at the moment is about three days a week. I seem to have spent half summer in the Cotswolds working on the forthcoming series, my fifth, for BBC1. Because we are growing most of the vegetables on site I usually have little need of a market trip, but today I do. Above anything in my working week, the trip to market, and to the Fern Verrow stall in Bermondsey in particular, is the bit I love best. Despite our well-laid plans, shopping is really where it all starts. It has done so since that first week, 20 years ago when, if I remember rightly, the recipes were roasted peppers and a damson compote.

Whether at the market or the local shops, there is a touch of the military operation about my shopping. With a weekly column and a 600-recipe cookbook on the go it has to be. There are ingredients I simply must have, and others I am hoping will be there. But there is also many an inspirational buy. The gold and ruby plums, the tiny fuzzy-skinned peaches, the extraordinary spotted trevise; all these will have a home either on the table or for the column. Often for both. It is here, among the trestles of new potatoes, flowering chives and courgettes and scarlet, tangerine and black-skinned tomatoes that everything can turn on a sixpence. Just as it can at the fishmonger or the butcher, the cheese shop or the greengrocer. Shopping lists are, to me, just wish lists, they are rarely adhered to, and I will often add a recipe simply because I have been tempted by a particular ingredient. I reserve the right to change my ideas on a whim. We deal with it.

Saturday afternoon is head down. I spend pretty much the entire weekend at my desk. The weekend works for me because of the lack of distraction. No phone calls, meetings or emails. What I call "the buggerance" of life. Yes, there are breaks, the odd radio programme to listen to, a trip to the gym, a look at the match or a bit of Nordic noir on television, but it is truly a working day. My Saturday is most people's Monday morning. I almost never eat out at the weekend and my loathing of the dinner party is well known.

The fact is that I love writing, the setting down of words on a page whether by ink on paper – I still keep a handwritten notebook – or the almost silent tapping of fingers on keyboard or screen (I have written my last two books on an iPad). I cannot remember a time when I didn't have a book, a column or a television programme on the go. I have worked almost every week without a break since I left school at 16. I'm lucky and I'm grateful.

Each cookery writer, or at least those who write their own books (it is surely no secret that there are those who don't) has a distinctive way of recording a recipe. I have always felt that a recipe is more than a set of instructions. Some readers use recipes purely as a means to an end. They want explicitly detailed "1, 2, 3" directions. But others read them like a novel and want more than a formula that leads to a result. Some use a recipe only as inspiration, rarely referring to it as they cook; they go off piste and do their own thing. There are bedside readers too, who happily read tucked up between the sheets, never lifting so much as a wooden spoon.

Ideally, a recipe will work for every sort of cook, even those who have never picked up a kitchen knife before. But finding the right pitch, without being condescending or confusing, is always going to be a work in progress. We can only do our best. I have never been the sort of cook who tests a recipe to death. It will inevitably have a few rough edges and some work better than others, but the bottom line is that it is delicious. I have long felt a recipe should have a heart and soul and a sense of joy, it should inspire and delight, rather than be mind-numbingly reliable.

It must be said that work on the recipes and text doesn't stop the moment they are sent to the paper. The subeditors have saved my life on more occasions than I care to recall. The readers too play their part with their seemingly endless delightful emails, warm tweets, kind encouragement, support and the occasional helpful pedantry.

Monday:Cooking and shooting

I cannot exist without espresso. It is the blood in my veins. Some days it's Allpress, other days Monmouth. Today is an Allpress day. James and I discuss, over coffee, the day's work ahead and what happened over the weekend. I did most of the shopping for today's shoot on Saturday but there are last-minute bits and pieces to get. I am a passionate believer in local shopping, so our trip to butcher, baker and candlestick maker takes almost an hour rather than the 20 minutes it might take in a supermarket.

We arrive home to find Jonnie (Jonathan Lovekin who has photographed my cooking for more than two decades) waiting on the doorstep. There are toasted cheese sandwiches, something of a ritual, and we start cooking. There is no rule about who cooks what, but somehow, by the end of the morning, we have cooked, tested and photographed a good half-dozen of the pictures we need. There is no "styling", and no props, the traditional crutch of the food photograph, and no tricks. Everything I have ever cooked for this magazine, and every picture for my books has come from my home kitchen – there is no studio. I have for 20 years simply cooked a recipe for photography exactly as I would if I was making it for dinner, testing as we go, then it is photographed as quickly as possible and then, without fail, we sit down to eat it.

The session ends when we move to the office, put our feet up and run through the recipes, making certain our notes match. I write every word of the recipes myself, and won't get the chance to write them up till next weekend, so the details have to be accurate.

I quickly pack a suitcase (I can now do it in 10 minutes flat) and we take the train to the Cotswolds, a journey during which James massacres me at both Risk and Trivial Pursuit. We check into our hotel, swap rooms because I don't like sleeping on the ground floor, and meet the TV crew, grab a bite to eat and, dear God, something to drink.

Tuesday:Filming

I sleep five and a half hours a night, rarely longer. I wake, almost without fail, at 5.30. It makes no difference whether I am home or in a hotel, I wake at the same time. I am invariably down to breakfast before anyone else and get quite a lot of writing done before being joined by James, the cameramen, directors and producers. We discuss the weather, not out of politeness but because we are filming outdoors. The farm is muddy and my boots are slippery. I now take duplicate clothes with me, but on more than one occasion the glamour that is location filming has seen me sitting in a car in my pants, drying my sodden jeans on the heater, as we drive through the country lanes.

"Notoriously private" they say. I'm not so sure about that, but yes, it is true that what you see on television bears little reality to real life. I don't cook alone in my shed-like kitchen (it's a set, like almost every TV kitchen). And, for the record, I rarely, if ever, eat alone. And, no, almost never standing up. I sit down like everyone else. But I do love making television programmes. I currently have two on the go. A documentary for BBC4 and the BBC1 series we are filming now, which is different from the previous four. We have borrowed a farm for the summer, where I spend much of my week, and while I can't really say much about it (television is a secretive beast), I can tell you that I have spent most of the summer with wellingtons on, just as I did as a teenager, cooking in a barn converted into a kitchen and have been growing my own vegetables, rearing chickens and pigs and generally working out the other side of the story. It is an experiment to find out a bit more about where our food comes from.

Despite having spent a quarter of my life living in the countryside, I am expecting some flak this year, not so much for the Barbour and wellies, but for my beard and long hair. The series is bigger than anything I have done before, and more complex. I have a co-presenter too, Adam Henson from Countryfile, which is huge fun, but no less pressure.

Wednesday:TV, book – and a night off

Whereas some television cookery is produced using four or five takes for each recipe, we only do things once or twice. This is partly because of the time pressures (there is a lot of location work for this series) and partly because I refuse to do it more than that. Once you have said the same line five times it starts to become a bit stilted and over-considered. Even the most off-the-cuff remark ends up looking rehearsed. I like the rough edges of reality (though quietly thank God for the editing that cuts out the worst of my cock-ups, hissy fits and truly appalling bad language. Mr Ramsay has nothing on me.) Lunch is always a pleasure. Today it is porcetta made with the farm's own pork. We eat in the yard, surrounded by the dogs, cats, horses and farm machinery that wander in and out of every scene. This is a working farm and life must go on.

Today's cooking is hampered by constant rainstorms that cause a nightmare for continuity and the fact that I decide to slightly change the recipe between takes, an act that causes a headache for the crew, but particularly for James who, as always, has overall responsibility for all the food on the series. Occasionally I have to remind everyone it is my series and I'll do as I wish.

As well as the usual cameras we also have a helicam. A seriously cool piece of kit – I get very excited by technology – that zooms over us like a crazed dragonfly. I am filmed tending the garden, but it's for real, so I spend the afternoon tying up the beans, digging the potatoes and picking lettuce. We over-run as usual. It's a mad dash back to the hotel to get our orders in for dinner before the kitchen closes. This involves two or three getting there first, then phoning the latecomers and reading the menu to them. It's not ideal, but it's often the way it is. Sometimes James and myself eat out locally, depending on how much work we have to do. Right now we are in the thick of proofreading the new book. I have 440 pages of recipes and pictures to knock into shape. We go through them, word by word, dealing with editors' and proofreaders' queries, arguing over the odd detail while eating dinner. "Relentless" is how he describes the job.

But most of the book is about to go to press, our work is done, and tonight we sit outside in the courtyard. I tend to drink more than anyone else, and it gets quite late. I'm dog-tired, slightly pissed and need to go to bed, but I know that trying to get an early night is pointless. If I turn in before midnight I cannot sleep. The rule is that I go to bed about midnight, am asleep in seconds and usually have a good five hours of rich, sweet, deep sleep. Then, as always, at 5.30am I'm awake (apparently, annoyingly cheerful).

Thursday:Trains… and home

Up at 5am for an early train to Penrith for the BBC4 documentary. A follow-up to last year's Life is Sweets, this little programme on the British love affair with the biscuit is a joy to make, but I have a recipe column to hand in so spend the journey writing, watching sheep and misty fells, marvelling at the beauty of the dry stone walls that bisect the meadows, while getting my column finished. I arrive at the home of our contributor and I immediately fall in love with his collection of old cookery books. We bake together from an ancient recipe, using a beautiful Georgian rolling pin and, for want of a cookie cutter, end up cutting out our biscuits with an exquisite Jacobean glass. Faced with a view over Wainwright country, I ponder briefly on whether I should move out of London. Then, as always, change my mind. It's a long day, and another long train journey. "Virgin Trains would like to apologise for the lack of catering on this train due to…" That means no bar either. Oh FFS. (In all fairness they did bring cheese sandwiches on at Doncaster.)

This summer my diary has looked like a train timetable. Endless trips to the Cotswolds, Hull, Cleethorpes, Reading, Scotland, a brief flight to Jersey. I dearly love a train journey outside the rush hour. Seeing the allotments that border the tracks with their tumbledown sheds and scarecrows remind me of the mess my own garden is in at home. The fact is that something has to give. This year it has been the turn of home. The garden is so overgrown it is unrecognisable, the house needs much work done and I haven't had more than a couple of days off since March.

The documentary has been enormous fun, but is part of an already packed schedule. All the time I am cooking, travelling or interviewing, I can feel my phone vibrating with texts from London about next week's trip to Amsterdam, the imminent publication of Notes From the Larder, the US version of Kitchen Diaries, some urgent corrections to my column and some last-minute decisions about the new book. It is like being pecked to death by pigeons. Suddenly there is a text containing photographs of the new book on press, sent by Jonathan who has flown to Italy to check the printing. Those first sneaky peeks are always exciting. Emotional, even.

At home, I find three red cards from the postman, two disconnection notices and a letter from my lawyers reminding me that I still haven't signed my will. In the dark I walk out into the garden and realise the gap in the hedge that leads to the rear of the garden has grown over. I can't even get to the end of my garden. I pour a drink and sit on the kitchen steps, alone in the dark. My phone buzzes. A text from James. I am needed down at the farm first thing, something about driving a combine harvester.

The BBC1 series and BBC4 documentary will be shown later this autumn. Eat is published on 26 September by 4th Estate. Twitter: @NigelSlater

Duck burgers, prawn baguettes, focaccia, sausage balls, and split peas with aubergine: five recipes from Nigel Slater's new book, exclusive to Observer Food Monthly
• Part 2 tomorrow

Duck burgers

duck breasts, spring onions, plum, honey, soy sauce, breadcrumbs, lettuce, cucumber, chilli

Put 2 duck breasts (about 200g total weight) into a food processor, add a large spring onion, a stoned fresh plum, a tablespoon of honey and a tablespoon of dark soy sauce. Blitz to a coarse mince then add 75g fresh white breadcrumbs. Form the paste into 4 burgers. Roll each in a few more breadcrumbs, then fry over a low heat for 10 minutes each side.

Place each burger on a large, crisp lettuce leaf, add shredded cucumber, chopped spring onion and a small, shredded chilli and wrap the burgers in the lettuce.

For 3-4. Sweet, fruity and crisp.

Vietnamese prawn baguettes

raw prawns, coriander, garlic, chilli, lemongrass, fish sauce, rice vinegar, pickled ginger, carrot, ginger, spring onion, mayonnaise, sesame oil, baguettes

Put 250g raw shelled prawns in a food processor with 8 coriander stems, 2 cloves of garlic, a bird's eye chilli, a lemongrass stalk, a lump of fresh ginger, 2 teaspoons of Vietnamese fish sauce and 2 teaspoons of rice vinegar. Blitz.

Finely shred half a carrot. Shred 10g Japanese pickled ginger. Finely slice a spring onion and toss all three together with a little fresh coriander. Stir 2 teaspoons of sesame oil into 2 tablespoons of mayonnaise.

Put the blitzed prawns in a non-stick frying pan and fry, without any oil, for 4 minutes. Toss with the seasoned carrot. Split 2 small baguettes and spread with the sesame mayo. Stuff with the prawn hash.

For 2. One of the great sandwiches. IMHO.

Fig and goat's cheese focaccia

figs, goat's cheese, honey, focaccia, rosemary

Split a piece of focaccia, about 10cm x 15cm, horizontally to give two rectangles, then place them side by side in a shallow baking tin or oven tray. Set the oven at 200C/gas mark 6.

Pour 4 tablespoons of honey over the focaccia (if you are using thick honey then warm the jar first in a small pan of boiling water to make it runny). Slice 5 figs into 4 from top to bottom and place over the focaccia, then trickle over another tablespoon of honey and a few finely chopped rosemary leaves. Bake for 15 minutes. Remove and turn the oven to the grill setting.

Slice 10g goat's cheese into thick rounds and place on top of the figs. Grill for 5 minutes or until the cheese starts to melt. Serve immediately.

For 2. Crisp bread. Melting cheese. Sweet figs.

Sausage balls, mustard and cream sauce

sausages, beef stock, double cream, Dijon mustard, chives

Remove the skins from 450g really good-quality butcher's sausages.

Roll the sausage meat into about 24 balls, slightly smaller than a golf ball. Warm a little oil in a non-stick frying pan over a moderate heat and cook the balls till they colour, turn them over and continue cooking till they are evenly browned. Tip away any excess fat and pour in 500ml beef stock.

Bring to the boil, allow to reduce a little then pour in 250ml double cream and stir in a tablespoon of Dijon mustard. Season with salt and pepper and continue cooking for 15–20 minutes.

Remove the balls to warm dishes, turn the heat up under the sauce, there will be lots of it, and let it reduce a little. It will not thicken. Pour the sauce over the meatballs and serve with a fork and a spoon for the sauce. A few snipped chives can be added if you wish.

For 2–3. My favourite meatballs, ever.

A few thoughts
Get a good sausage Perhaps something with plenty of parsley and pepper in it. To peel them, slit the skin from one end to the other with a knife, pull the skin apart and squeeze the filling out into a bowl.
Beef up the seasoning a bit if you like, with some chopped thyme, crushed garlic, black pepper or grated Parmesan.
Use a good-quality ready-made stock Supermarkets and some butchers have it in sachets or tubs.
Add chopped dill to the meatballs and the sauce.
Use crème fraîche instead of cream Or, for a less rich dish, use just stock and forget the cream.
For a milder version use chicken stock instead of beef.
Serve with wide ribbon noodles such as pappardelle.
Instead of using shop-bought sausages, season plain sausage meat as you wish. Try juniper, thyme, garlic, cumin or ground cardamom.
Freshness of lemon, warmth of rosemary Season the mixture above with very finely chopped rosemary, crushed garlic and a little grated lemon. Shape into balls, fry in olive oil, adding a little butter and lemon juice to the pan juices at the end.

Split peas with aubergine

yellow split peas, aubergine, onion, cardamom pods, turmeric, cumin seeds, canned tomatoes, coriander leaves

Soak 100g yellow split peas for an hour, or longer if you have it. Peel and roughly chop an onion, then let it soften in a deep pan over a moderate heat in a little oil. Crack open 10 green cardamom pods, extract their tiny black seeds and lightly grind them in a pestle and mortar or spice grinder. Stir a teaspoon of cumin seeds into the onion, then add the cardamom seeds. When all is golden and fragrant, add 2 teaspoons of ground turmeric. Stir in a 400g can of canned chopped tomatoes and continue to simmer.

In a separate pan, boil the split peas in deep unsalted water for about 30 minutes, till soft. Drain and stir into the onion and tomato mixture. Simmer, stirring regularly, till soft, scarlet and slushy, then season with salt and pepper. Halve and thinly slice an aubergine, then cook in a shallow pan in several tablespoons of olive oil till soft and golden. Drain and stir into the split peas, adding a handful of coriander leaves. Serve with steamed white rice.

For 2. Rich and earthy. Glowing colours.

Eat – The Little Book of Fast Food (4th Estate, £26) is out on 26 September. To order for £19 with free UK p&p go to theguardian.com/bookshop or call 0330 333 6846

In this issue readers select their favourite Nigel Slater recipes to celebrate his 20 years with the Observer, Tim Lott shares his perspective on getting kids to eat well, and Darcey Bussell talks food and dance

This week sees the 20th anniversary of Nigel Slater's very first column for the Observer. The sweet autumn heat of roasted red peppers and an intense damson compote for 28 September 1993, to be precise. He has been silkily transforming the tough and bland into the soft and sensuous for us all ever since.

To celebrate this milestone, we are presenting a feast of Nigel this month, starting with an exclusive extract from his brand-new cookbook, Eat, with 20 brilliant recipes to mark his 20 years of Observer columns. It's all here, including duck burgers, Vietnamese prawn baguettes, a spiced fish soup and his "favourite meatballs, ever". Delicious, simple and quick to make: trademark Nigel Slater.

Nigel also lifts the curtain on his life and week, from filming his television series and proofing his new book to shopping for and writing the recipes for his weekly column. Working through the weekend – but never on Friday – and getting up every day at 5.30am seems to help.

Perhaps my favourite feature, though, is a collection of your best-loved Nigel recipes from the Observer years. Reader Les Plant says he "couldn't live without the peperoni alla Piemontese, with anchovies in mine but not for my wife"; Caroline Leygue likes the 2010 recipe for an onion tatin because it feels "a bit like a miracle", while Katherine Stephenson's son's "life was made richer" by Nigel's recipe for rosemary and honey bread. (My own favourite changes with time but if I had to choose just one, it's maybe an early, buttery, tarragon chicken.)

Elsewhere in the issue, Tim Lott tells us why he no longer forces his girls to eat greens, Darcey Bussell explains why she associates Strictly with crème brûlée, and we share a surprising lunch with actor Simon Pegg.

It's the age-old family dilemma. And guess what, parents? It isn't worth the bother

One day, when my daughter, Ruby, was about 10 years old, I had a colossal argument with her about a pea. We were in Ikea in Brent Cross, north London. We had ordered lunch in the Ikea restaurant. It involved something and peas.

I had struggled to get Ruby to "eat normally" for as long as I could remember. She refused a wide variety of foods – most fruits, and most particularly any kind of green vegetable. On this day, I'd just had enough.

I was determined to make Ruby eat just one pea. Just one. It could be smothered in tomato ketchup. It could be dipped in honey. I just wanted her to eat… the… fucking… pea.

We spent half an hour discussing, arguing about and reasoning over that pea. I offered an absurd array of rewards. I don't remember what they were, but they were princely. Whatever she wanted she could have. If she would just eat that pea. Then I began to threaten punishments. She could see she had made me angry, and it was obvious I was going to get even angrier if she didn't Eat the Pea.

But she still wouldn't eat the pea. And she hasn't eaten one since.

After the Battle of the Pea, I reached a watershed. I became a lot less fussed about what Ruby ate. I don't know if it made any difference. I don't recall any marked immediate improvement in her eating behaviour. But I suspect that my defeat was a good thing.

Now she is 20, she has a very healthy attitude to food. She doesn't worry about it. She loves steak tartare. She craves sushi and sashimi, she eats fruit, she'll try most things. She has no body issues and no food issues that I can see. She has glowing skin and hair, and is a healthy weight.

She still doesn't eat peas. Or any other kind of green vegetable, including salad. Her explanation is straightforward: "They don't taste good."

They don't. But then, why do we spend so much time trying to get our children to eat them? And is it really, in the end, worth the candle?

My suspicion is that all the effort, care and concern that many families expend to get their children to "eat healthy", may have no effect, or a bad effect. We worry too much, and this worry has as much to do with social shame, social display and a need for control as it does with healthy eating.

We don't want our children to end up living on convenience foods, snacks and chips – partly because it is bad for them, but more pressingly, because it is bad for us. Because it is embarrassing.

Around the time of the Pea Incident, I had taken Ruby and her sister Cissy to a fancy French hotel in Mauritius. One night a week, they offered an amazing buffet. I sent the girls off to graze among the 50 or so amazingly varied and delicious platters of French and Asian food and charcuterie.

They came back with chips, white bread and a bit of chicken. That time I wasn't even furious. I was just ashamed. What was wrong with these kids that amid all this wonderful plenty, they opted for the crappiest dishes on the menu? I just thought they must be horribly spoilt.

Perhaps this was unfair of me. But I do think many parents would feel the same. Yet it was just a meal. Why was I so upset? Perhaps the need for our children to eat healthy food is just a mask for a number of other anxieties. We want to fit in with our neighbours. We want to be able to make the correct social signals to our peer group – "I am a good middle-class person, because my children eat a varied diet and healthy food". We are terrified our children might be overweight, which is now as much a social marker as a predictor of poor health.

Nutritional science, however, is inexact. Why did Ruby grow up with clear skin, shining hair and a healthy attitude to food despite eating very little fruit and no green vegetables and a relatively limited diet through most of her childhood?

The human body is more complex and adaptable than we realise. The Kitava tribe of Papua New Guinea subsist on a diet that mainly consists of sweet potato, coconut and some fish. They are healthy, have good skin, strong teeth and suffer from virtually none of all the "diseases of civilisation". They don't eat any green vegetables.

Greens are not a must-have. Nutrients found in green vegetables can easily be found elsewhere. "The human body is very clever and can adapt over generations. It can use what resources it has available," says Charlotte Stirling-Reed of the Nutrition Society, an independent organisation that promotes and disseminates nutritional science. "If you still eat a wide variety of different foods you will get those nutrients elsewhere.

"Most of the vitamins and nutrients in green vegetables can easily be found from other sources – in meat and fish and lentils and beans, in other fruit and vegetables. As long as you are getting variety and the right amount of food every day you will be OK.

"Everybody is individual and very different. If Ruby is eating well, every day, mainly healthy foods, she will be thriving. The anxieties and concerns and worries of the parents can rub off on their children and cause fussy eating. That's very common."

The psychotherapist Susie Orbach, author of Fat Is a Feminist Issue, makes a similar point about adults getting over-anxious about food and sees parental anxiety as a major contributor to disordered eating. I told her that I used to get particularly upset if I spent a lot of time and effort preparing my children's food and they rejected it.

She sees such anxiety as centring on issues of control and rejection of the offerer of the food rather than the food itself. In other words, you're not getting upset when your child won't eat because it's not healthy. It's because you perceive the child as rejecting your love. And the whole framing of the issue around health and nutrition – food as "medicine" – is misguided.

"As long as we make food 'healthy' or 'good' food an issue," she says, "we are going to produce anxiety. We should just eat well when we are hungry. We need to be relaxed about it – like you pee when you need to. When nourishment is labelled 'bad' or 'good', it becomes part of an emotional language and therefore problematic.

"We have a society with rules, regulations and terrors about eating and BMIs and God knows what, and mothers being assaulted by industries to create body hatred. It's induced."

I mentioned some of the spats I had had with Ruby over food – the Battle of the Pea, and other crude tactics, such as threatening no pudding if the main meal wasn't eaten. I would also sometimes say that if she didn't eat her dinner she would go to bed hungry.

"It's very difficult with children," says Orbach. "You want to give them something delicious and nutritious, but children go through food fads when they are rejecting many foods. It's just part of their development. Probably you will feel upset, but you must approach the issue in a neutral way. Don't lose your rag. The meal table should never be a site of conflict. You shouldn't make any threats around food."

So, saying, "Eat this or you'll go to bed hungry" is wrong?

"You could phrase it more tactfully, 'I'm closing the kitchen and I don't want you to get hungry later on.' Or you should say, 'I'll leave it out on the counter for you.'"

And what if they wake at 11 o'clock and say they're hungry?

"I probably wouldn't feed them late at night. But then that wouldn't happen in my household. I wouldn't make pudding a treat. I would offer the pudding during supper. I would let the child eat the pudding first if she wanted to. I wouldn't let them go to bed hungry. So many children won't eat at certain stages in their development, but then they change. I would give them pasta seven nights a week if necessary."

Both Orbach and Stirling-Reed point to the cultural factors over our difficulties and anxieties with food. This is an issue that is also raised in the book French Kids Eat Everything by Karen Le Billon. In the part of Brittany where she moved to live with her family (Le Billon is Canadian, her husband is French), the French food culture was incredibly strict. No snacking was tolerated. Proper table manners were insisted upon.

If children wouldn't eat, they were left to go hungry. You ate together – either at school or with the family – at regular times, and you ate slowly. Food is not seen as a pacifier, or an emotional distraction or a reward or a punishment. The subject of whether food is "healthy" or not barely arises. They don't, as Anglo-American cultures tend to, think of food to be parcelled out in indices of food groups, calories and nutrients. It is about enjoyment and variety. As a result, there were almost no fussy eaters in these traditional French communities. Kids ate pretty much everything the adults ate, and with relish.

Which is all very well when you live somewhere where everyone, rich and poor, behaves the same, and the school canteen has the standards of a decent restaurant. The French solution is unlikely to work in cultures such as the UK that are more predicated on individual choice. Billon's (successful) struggle to get her children to eat better – even in the supportive Breton environment – stretched over a difficult year.

So what is the solution? There are plenty of books on how to get your children to eat well – a good example is Getting the Little Blighters to Eat by Claire Potter, which contains an excellent practical guide to getting children to eat a good diet. It offers the following very sensible advice.

"Don't invite children to a power battle … when it comes to eating, behave as if you have no power. Completely let go of the parent-to-child authority that you use in other areas of life. Simply give your child their food and act as if you don't mind whether they eat it or not. No commands, no orders, no tellings-off, no threats, no punishments, no bribes."

This is because children want attention, even bad attention, and food is a perfect place for getting it. So as soon as you let go of the power struggle, they are liable to be more willing to eat a more varied diet – because they have nothing to gain by refusing it.

This all sounds like very good sense. I am not a nutritionist or a dietician or a psychologist. But as someone with four daughters, I have a very non-scientific, muddle-through policy and it seems to be going OK (though in the case of my youngest two daughters, my wife, Rachael, does much more of the feeding than me).

She is also tougher than me about food, possibly because she works so much harder to put good food on the table – she spends many hours preparing and cooking good fresh food, which she often has a battle to get the children to eat, particularly the seven-year-old, Esme, who for stubborn eating patterns matches Ruby. Both Lydia, my 11-year-old, and Cissy, 18, are much more tractable about food for no obvious identifiable reason – they received more or less exactly the same treatment as their sisters.

Rachael sometimes thinks I am unsupportive because I will simply not get into battles over it. I can see her point – I can even feel her point emotionally – but I long ago decided that it just isn't worth it, because it doesn't produce results. But I identify with her feelings very strongly, because I have been through all those feelings of anger and disappointment and rejection. In fact I still feel those things sometimes – I just try not to let them determine my behaviour.

My improvised and cobbled-together policy can be summed up thus: don't get too stressed about the serving of food, just do your best to present fresh and varied food without making the consumption of that food an emotional battleground. "Do your best" does not mean "be perfect", incidentally.

Eat together whenever possible but don't make an issue about it. As little snacking as possible – but you don't have to have an iron "no snacking" rule. Let them eat junk food, but not often. Let them eat food in front of the TV, but not often. And give them vitamin pills if they're eating poorly – why the hell not?

Make sure the food you give them tastes good. If you don't do that, you're never going to get anywhere. Don't emphasise health – make it about enjoyment. Emphasise variety over what is "good for you". Don't go on about vitamins and nutrients – don't sign up to the medical model of food. Offer food they reject repeatedly before giving up, but don't make a fuss about it. In the main, offer freshly prepared, unprocessed food, but a few baked beans and fish fingers aren't going to kill anyone. Don't brand any of your children "fussy eaters", particularly not in their hearing.

Relax. If you are living anywhere like the middle-class microculture I live in, the greatest danger to your children is not malnourishment or obesity but anxiety around food. Your children will come to good food and a varied diet in their own time. Peer group pressure – so much more powerful than parental pressure – will take care of that. I suspect that Ruby became a healthy – or at least more varied – eater because her friends at secondary school and university would try different kinds of food, and she would look silly not trying them.

Try to follow principles, but don't make them into rules. Try to be consistent but remember that you never will be. Finally, and above all, it's only food. You are not what you eat. You are what you believe. And the belief in the diet of guilt that the cult of healthy eating has produced is not only indigestible, it is potentially toxic.

Twitter: @timlottwriter

Spiced fish, aromatic pork, lamb cutlets and turkey couscous: four recipes from Nigel Slater's new book, exclusive to Observer Food Monthly
• Part 3 tomorrow

Spiced fish soup

mussels, pollock fillet, mustard seeds, chilli powder, turmeric, shallots, cherry tomatoes, coriander

Clean 1kg mussels, discarding any with cracked or broken shells and any open ones that refuse to close when tapped on the side of the kitchen sink. Tug off any wiry beards. Put the mussels in a large, deep pan with 500ml water and bring to the boil. When the shells open, remove the mussels, reserving the liquid, and take them out of their shells. Discard any that don't open. Strain the liquid through a fine sieve.

Peel 2 large banana shallots and separate the layers, then cook them in a little oil in a shallow pan until softened. Add a tablespoon of mustard seeds, half a teaspoon of chilli powder and 2 teaspoons of turmeric and cook for 3–4 minutes. Halve 12 cherry tomatoes and add to the shallots and spices, letting them soften over a moderate heat for 5 minutes or so. Pour in the reserved mussel stock, bring to the boil, then lower the heat to a simmer. Cut 250g pollock fillet into 4 pieces, add to the pan and cook briefly until the fish is opaque. Add the mussels and a handful of chopped coriander.

Enough for 2 generous bowls. Sweet, earthy, spicy.

A few thoughts
Other options Haddock, gurnard and cod are also suitable candidates for a spiced fish soup.
Rust-coloured, lightly spiced broth, firm white fish Thickly slice 100g chorizo and cut the slices into thick strips. Cook them in a deep pan over a moderate heat till the oil starts to run and the pieces are sizzling gently. Add a crushed garlic clove and a finely chopped small onion and fry till soft. Stir in a teaspoon or so of chopped rosemary. Tip in 200ml tomato passata and 350ml vegetable stock and bring to the boil. Add 400g hake, haddock or cod, cut into large pieces, and cook for 4 or 5 minutes, till the fish is opaque. Add a handful of chopped parsley, correct the seasoning and serve.
Sour, hot, refreshing A quick crayfish soup. Sizzle 2 tablespoons of green curry paste in a little oil, then pour in 800ml vegetable stock. Add 4 scrunched lime leaves, or 2 well-bashed stalks of lemongrass, and a couple of coins of sliced fresh ginger. Simmer for 10 minutes, then add 2 diced tomatoes, 300g prepared crayfish tails and a shot of lime juice. As the shellfish warms through, add a handful of torn coriander leaves and a splash of fish sauce.

Aromatic pork with cucumber

pork belly, cucumber, dried shallots, garlic, sesame oil, ginger, sugar, mirin, lime

Blitz 3 tablespoons of dried shallots with 2 peeled cloves of garlic, 2 tablespoons of sesame oil, a tablespoon of grated fresh ginger, and 2 teaspoons of sugar. Tip into a bowl.

Cut 300g boned pork belly into thin slices and toss with the blitzed aromatics.

Lightly peel a cucumber and thickly slice into chunky matchsticks. Sprinkle with 2 tablespoons of mirin.

Heat a wok, add a thin film of groundnut oil, add the pork and cook for a few minutes till nicely crisp, then add a tablespoon of lime juice. Toss briefly with the cucumber and eat immediately.

For 2. Aromatic, sizzling pork. The crunch of cucumber.

Lamb cutlets with mustard seed and coconut

lamb cutlets, coconut cream, ground coriander, black mustard seeds, garlic, ginger, cabbage

Spoon 160ml coconut cream into a shallow bowl. Add 2 teaspoons of ground coriander, 2 tablespoons of black mustard seeds and a grinding of black pepper. Peel 2 cloves of garlic and chop finely. Peel a thumb-sized piece of fresh ginger and shred it, matchstick-style, then stir both the garlic and ginger into the coconut cream. Roll 6 lamb cutlets in the coconut cream and leave for 15 minutes.

Heat a griddle pan or overhead grill and cook the cutlets till lightly golden brown. Expect quite a bit of smoke. Shred 300g Savoy or other dark-leaved cabbage then fry quickly in a little butter or oil.

For 2. Sizzling chops.

A few thoughts
Marinating tip Small lamb cutlets do not need to marinate for long – 15 minutes or so will do.
Choose quite lean cutlets to avoid too much smoke when grilling. Let the bones brown and even char a little; they are good to pick up and eat.
Use thick coconut cream in tins If you want to use the variety in packets, moisten it with a little boiling water first.
A pork version Pork, cut into thick finger-like strips, can be substituted for the lamb.
Add about a teaspoon of cumin seeds to the spices Include a little chopped spring onion or fine shallot. Use thick yoghurt instead of the coconut cream. Serve with roughly chopped coriander leaves.

Turkey or chicken couscous

leftover cooked turkey or chicken or goose, couscous, pumpkin seeds, dried cranberries, golden sultanas, pistachios, mint, pomegranate, yoghurt, pomegranate molasses

Pour 2 cups of freshly boiled water from the kettle over a cup of couscous, cover with a lid, then leave to plump up until the water has been fully absorbed

Shred 600g cooked turkey, chicken or goose into large, juicy pieces and put it into a mixing bowl with 2 tablespoons of pumpkin seeds, 2 tablespoons of dried cranberries or cherries, 2 tablespoons of golden sultanas and 2 tablespoons of shelled pistachios. Season generously with salt, pepper and chopped mint leaves then add the seeds of a whole pomegranate.

Fluff up the couscous with a fork, then fold in the dry ingredients. Top with 4 heaped tablespoons of yoghurt, a trickle of pomegranate molasses, more mint leaves, and a few more pomegranate seeds.

For 2–3. Bejewelled leftovers.

A few thoughts
Remains of the day A frugal way to use up the spare meat from the Sunday roast, this is also a clever way to celebrate the remains of the Christmas turkey or goose. I pull the poultry meat from its bones in large, bite-sized pieces and only at the last minute so as to keep it moist and juicy.
Instant couscous doesn't need cooking. Pour an equal volume of boiling water over the grains and leave for 10 minutes or until the water has been absorbed, then fluff it up with a fork.
Pomegranate molasses, with its sweet-sour, caramel citrus tang, is available from Middle Eastern grocers and the major supermarkets.
Torn ham, parsley, green lentils, the rough crunch of russet apples Tear rough, bite-sized pieces of ham into the prepared couscous. Stir through golden sultanas, chopped parsley, cooked and drained Puy lentils and slices of crisp, cold, slightly sharp russet apple.
Roast pork, chilled tangerines, cool mint Tear pieces of cold roast pork into chunky pieces. Stir them through the soaked and fluffed couscous.
Add peeled and sliced tangerines, parsley and shredded mint leaves; no dried fruits but perhaps some pomegranate seeds and pistachios.

Eat – The Little Book of Fast Food (4th Estate, £26) is out on 26 September. To order for £19 with free UK p&p go to theguardian.com/bookshop or call 0330 333 6846

Chilli prawns, chicken with fennel, turnips with orzo, potatoes with spices, satay drumsticks and couscous: six recipes from Nigel Slater's new book, exclusive to Observer Food Monthly
• Part 4 tomorrow

Chilli prawns with watermelon

large prawns, watermelon, dried chilli flakes, fish sauce, lime, sugar, flour, mint, coriander

Mix 50g plain flour in a bowl with a teaspoon of dried chilli flakes and a grinding of black pepper. Pour 4 tablespoons of Thai or Vietnamese fish sauce into a bowl, stir in a pinch of sugar – no more – then add 400g large, raw peeled prawns (fresh are best; defrosted are fine) and leave them for 15 minutes.

Heat a thin film of oil in a frying pan or wok, add the prawns and fry, moving them around as they cook, for a few minutes until they are crisp and sweet. Remove from the pan and serve with the salad below.

Peel a large wedge of watermelon and pick out as many of the seeds as you can. Cut the flesh into large chunks and toss with the juice of a lime, a few chopped mint leaves and some torn coriander.

For 2. Mouth-popping prawns. Refreshing watermelon.

Chicken with fennel and leek

chicken thighs, fennel, leeks, chicken or vegetable stock, lemon, parsley

Season 6 bone-in chicken thighs with salt and pepper, then brown them lightly in a shallow pan in a little oil and melted butter. Cut 2 medium-sized leeks into cork-sized lengths, wash thoroughly then add to the pan. Separate 2 fennel bulbs into layers then add them to the chicken and leeks and leave to soften for about 10 minutes, covering with a lid. Grate in the zest from a lemon and continue cooking for a minute or so.

Scatter over 2 tablespoons of flour, then cook for a few minutes before pouring in a litre of chicken or vegetable stock.

Bring to the boil, season, then lower the heat to a simmer and leave to cook for 35 minutes, covered with a lid, giving the occasional stir.

Finish the dish with the juice of the lemon and a handful of chopped parsley. We have leeks and fennel already, so just floury potatoes, steamed in their skins, to soak up the parsley-freckled chicken juices.

For 3. Familiar flavours. A meal to nourish.

Young turnips with mushrooms and orzo

turnips, orzo pasta, mushrooms, shallot, rocket

Boil 100g orzo pasta in deep salted water for about 9 minutes, till tender. Peel a large banana shallot or small onion and slice it finely, then fry in a little butter or oil till pale gold. Remove and set aside.

Slice 200g young white turnips into rounds about the thickness of a pound coin. Slice 100g button or small chestnut mushrooms. Fry both in a little butter and oil till golden brown. Return the fried shallot to the pan, then add 2 handfuls of rocket.

Drain the pasta and toss with the shallots, turnip, rocket and mushrooms.

For 2. Earthy, frugal and mild.

Potatoes with spices and spinach

potatoes, cayenne, dried chilli flakes, turmeric, cumin, garlic, spinach, banana shallots, yoghurt, coriander

Cut 800g large floury potatoes into large pieces and cook in deep, salted water for about 15 minutes, till approaching tenderness. Peel 5 banana shallots and halve them lengthways. Drain the potatoes, then put them in a bowl, add the shallots and toss with half a teaspoon of cayenne, a teaspoon of dried chilli flakes, a teaspoon of crushed garlic and a teaspoon each of ground cumin and turmeric. Add 2 teaspoons of sea salt flakes and 4 tablespoons of groundnut oil, then tip into a roasting tin and bake at 200C/gas mark 6 until crisp. Wash a couple of large handfuls of spinach. Put them in a pan over a moderate heat, cover with a lid and leave for a minute or two to wilt. Toss with the crisp potatoes and a little yoghurt and torn coriander. Enough for 2–3. Hot, cool, crisp, soft.

Satay drumsticks

chicken drumsticks, peanut butter, Thai red curry paste, rice wine vinegar, sesame oil, tamarind paste, sugar, beansprouts

Set the oven at 200C/gas mark 6. Put 250g crunchy peanut butter in a mixing bowl with 2 tablespoons of Thai red curry paste, 2 tablespoons each of rice wine vinegar, sesame oil, and tamarind paste, 3 tablespoons of golden caster sugar and 400ml water.

Stir well then pour over 8 large chicken drumsticks and bake for about 45 minutes. Remove the drumsticks to a warm plate, toss 150g beansprouts through the sauce left in the tin and serve with the drumsticks. For 4. Nutty. Spicy. Delicious fingers to lick.

Couscous, lemons, almonds, squid

couscous, lemon, preserved lemon, salted almonds, squid, green olives, lime, parsley

Plump up 125g couscous in twice its volume of freshly boiled water or stock into which you have squeezed the juice of a lemon. Add the empty lemon halves to the couscous for flavour. Chop a preserved lemon into tiny dice, discarding its pulp. Mix with a handful of toasted salted Marcona almonds, a handful of stoned green olives, a little lime juice and lots of chopped flat-leaf parsley and add to the couscous. Finish with black pepper and a shake of fruity olive oil.

Score 500g prepared squid lightly with a sharp knife, then cut into large pieces. Grill for a couple of minutes, till lightly cooked, the surface a little charred here and there. Place on the couscous.

For 2. Warm grains of couscous. Grilled seafood. A spritz of fresh lemon.

Eat – The Little Book of Fast Food (4th Estate, £26) is out on 26 September. To order for £19 with free UK p&p go to theguardian.com/bookshop or call 0330 333 6846

Stir-fried chicken, smoked mackerel, spiced lamb, figs with bulghur, and mango mess: five recipes from Nigel Slater's new book, exclusive to Observer Food Monthly

Stir-fried chicken with cashews and broccoli

chicken breasts, salted cashew nuts, thin-stemmed broccoli, five-spice powder, garlic

Remove the skin from 2 large chicken breasts, then slice the flesh into thick chunks. Put the chicken into a bowl and toss with 3 teaspoons of five-spice powder. Thinly slice 2 garlic cloves, add to the chicken and toss together gently.

Heat 2 tablespoons of groundnut oil in a wok, then add the spiced chicken pieces and fry for a couple of minutes, till golden. Add 50g salted cashews, 200g thin-stemmed broccoli and 200ml hot water and bring to the boil. Cover with a lid and steam for a couple of minutes, till the greens are tender. You will need a spoon for the juices.

For 2. Crisp greens, crunchy cashews, tender chicken.

A thought
You can thicken the juices of a stir-fry by adding cornflour or arrowroot. I prefer not to, unless I am making a classic dish that requires it. If you like a thicker sauce, add a couple of teaspoons of Shaoxing wine and 2 tablespoons of cornflour to the five-spice as you toss the chicken.

Smoked mackerel with peas and edamame

smoked mackerel, peas, edamame beans, ciabatta, spring onion

Cook 200g edamame beans in their pods in lightly salted boiling water for 10 minutes. Drain the beans and pop them out of the pods.

Cook 150g frozen peas in deep boiling water till tender, then drain.

Flake 300g smoked mackerel into large pieces.

Tear 100g ciabatta bread into large pieces and fry in 3 tablespoons of olive oil in a shallow, non-stick pan over a moderate heat till pale gold and crisp.

Chop a spring onion and add to the pan, then toss in the edamame beans and peas, followed by the smoked mackerel. Serve immediately. For 2–3. A smoky, green feast.

A few thoughts
Holy smoke Whole smoked mackerel are often juicier than fillets.
Other options You could use broad beans instead of edamame.
Surf 'n' turf Add a little smoked bacon, cut into postage-stamp-sized pieces, to the spring onion. Smoked meats work well with oily seafood such as salmon and mackerel.
A rare treat An Arbroath smokie, that rare and wonderful dry-salted and smoked whole haddock, makes a splendid substitute for the mackerel.

Spiced sesame lamb with cucumber and yoghurt

minced lamb, black mustard seeds, white sesame seeds, spring onions, garam masala, cucumber, yoghurt, mint

Put 500g minced lamb in a bowl, add a tablespoon of black mustard seeds, 4 tablespoons of white sesame seeds, salt, pepper, 2 spring onions, chopped, and 2 teaspoons of garam masala. Mix well, then divide into 8 and flatten into large patties, about the thickness of a digestive biscuit.

Heat a little olive oil in a shallow, non-stick pan, place the patties in it, cooking approximately 2 at a time, and fry for a minute or two on each side, till patchily golden.

Take long, thin shavings from a cucumber and season with salt and pepper. Stir a tablespoon of chopped mint into 4 tablespoons of yoghurt.

For each person, place a patty on a warm plate, top with a few curls of cucumber and a spoonful of yoghurt, then add another patty.

For 4. Savoury, aromatic lamb cakes, a trickle of yoghurt.

A few thoughts
A classic Roll the mince mixture above into balls. Seal them in a little oil in a shallow pan over a moderate heat, then transfer to an ovenproof dish. Pour tomato sauce over them, then bake till the balls are cooked right through.
Mushrooms, cream An autumnal version. Make half the quantity of lamb mixture above and mix it with the same amount of ricotta cheese. Shape into patties and fry in a little oil, then remove from the pan. Fry sliced chestnut mushrooms in the pan until golden, adding more oil if you need to, then pour in a little brandy and scrape up the stickings from the base of the pan. Add creme fraiche or double cream. Stir, simmer for a minute or two, then pour the mixture over the patties and bake for a few minutes to cook the meat right through.
Mint and sultanas The crunch of pine kernels. Add fresh or even dried mint to the minced lamb mixture above, plus a few golden sultanas and some pine kernels. Shape into patties and fry all the way through, then remove from the pan. Add a good thick slice of butter and some lemon juice to the pan, stir to scrape up the tasty pan stickings, then tip the mixture over the patties and serve.

Figs, bulgur and blackberries

figs, bulgur wheat, blackberries, walnut oil, red wine vinegar

Bring 150g bulgur wheat to the boil in deep, lightly salted water, then cover the pan and turn off the heat.

Take 150g blackberries and crush 4 of them in a bowl with a fork. Stir in a tablespoon of walnut (or olive) oil and 2 tablespoons of red wine vinegar. Wipe 3 ripe figs, cut off the stalks, then slice down from tip to base, not quite cutting through to the bottom. Press the sides gently to open each fig out like a flower.

Drain any water from the bulgur, then toss the wheat with the remaining blackberries, the blackberry dressing and the figs. For 3. Calm grain, bright, fruity dressing.

Mango and passion fruit mess

mangoes, passion fruit, double cream, meringue

Whip 300ml double cream till it stands in soft folds. Crumble 180g shop-bought or homemade meringues into it, roughly, so you get both large and small pieces, but do not stir.

Peel 2 small, very ripe honey mangoes, slice the flesh from the stones and chop it into small pieces. Add to the cream and meringues.

Halve 6 ripe passion fruit, then squeeze out the juice through a small sieve into a bowl. Gently, very gently, fold the juice, mango and meringues into the whipped cream. It will need only 2 or 3 stirs at most. You can chill for an hour or so, if you wish. For 4. Heavenly assembly.

Eat – The Little Book of Fast Food (4th Estate, £26) is out on 26 September. To order for £19 with free UK p&p go to theguardian.com/bookshop or call 0330 333 6846

To mark the 10th anniversary of the OFM awards, our judges chose, from a shortlist of 10, the chef of the decade – it's the man from the Fat Duck and Dinner. But, he explains, it hasn't all been plain sailing

Recently, sitting with friends in a pub, Heston Blumenthal got some free psychotherapy. They were joking around when one of his mates, a psychiatrist, suggested to the chef that he had attention deficit disorder. Blumenthal could not help thinking the shrink had drunk one glass too many. After all, wasn't the three-star Michelin chef a man famous for spending years – decades – in search of the scientifically perfect ice cream? A man who had devoted his late teens, when most of his mates were queuing up for after-hours kebabs and a punch-up on a Friday night, labouring into the early hours in his parents' kitchen trying over and over again to create a plate of chips that did not go soggy? Hadn't he survived on "15 hours of sleep a week, maximum, for about eight years" with the singular purpose of trying to establish his restaurant, the Fat Duck in Bray? It was, however, the psychiatrist insisted, a classic case. "He said all ADD kids have the concentration of a gnat until they find the one thing that they adore, and that occupies the whole of their mind; I guess that's me." Blumenthal says.

Anyone in this country who cares vaguely about what they eat is fortunate that the chef chanced upon the love of his life so early. For 20 years, Blumenthal has dedicated himself to proving that British food cannot only compete with the best in the world, but be the best in the world. The epiphany, as he has often recounted, was an accident. He was on holiday with his parents in France, as a 16-year-old, when they pitched up at the three Michelin-star L'Oustau de Baumanière in Provence. His dad was a "well-done steak man, a bit sniffy about 'agneau this and legume that'" so that first food adventure came out of the clear blue sky. Blumenthal has, it seems, thought about that meal almost every day of the 31 years since: it has become his shorthand for perfection. Not only the food but the whole "multi-sensory experience" – the crunch of the gravel, the weight and chink of the glasses, the smell of the lavender – all of which he recalls again now and all of which intoxicated his deficiting teenage attention and changed his life for ever.

It initially took Blumenthal 10 years to begin to bring that experience back to life ("all food is about memory eventually," he says). He left school with one A-level, in art, took out some of his natural aggression in kickboxing, all the time working out how he might recreate Provence off the M4 near High Wycombe. Looking back, chance seems a lot like fate. "Had I had a backer, for example," he says, "I would not have come here to Bray. The Fat Duck cost about 240 grand freehold back in 1995. We sold our house, car, borrowed a bit of money from my old man, got a mortgage on it, decked it out on a shoestring. What on earth was I thinking?"

You only have to go to Bray to see the sheer chutzpah – or naivety – of Blumenthal's choice back then. It is a one-road village, really; the restaurant is on one side of that road and his pub and "laboratory" are just across the way. Just around the corner, by the river, and the only other obvious place to eat, is the Roux brothers' Waterside Inn. When Blumenthal opened, the Waterside had been awarded three Michelin stars for each of the previous five years. Blumenthal was, as he says, "a self-taught chef, and I had bought an old pub with a tiny, cramped kitchen round the corner from one of the greatest restaurants there has ever been in Britain".

This bend in the river, adjacent to Stanley Spencer's Cookham, not far from Wind in the Willows and Three Men in a Boat territory, is in many ways at the heart of the heart of England. It is a conservative place. While rock'n'roll celebrity chefs were making their name in London, Blumenthal's playlist was more appropriate to the locale. In the early days, he says, the lifesavers for him and two assistants sweating all hours in the kitchen were Terry Wogan and Neil Diamond. "We were delirious from lack of sleep all the time," he recalls, "when madness seemed to be setting in, singing Sweet Caroline kept us going."

Thinking back it was also partly that sleep-deprived delirium that first led Blumenthal "down the rabbit hole" into the science of gastronomy, where he subsequently discovered all sorts of wonderlands. Crab ice cream and snail porridge don't seem quite so outlandish now, but when he first put them on the menu in 1997, couples were still coming into the Fat Duck expecting a roast dinner.

"Three or four times a week my maitre d' would come up to the pass and say, 'Sorry chef the table in the window says there is nothing on the menu they can eat so they are leaving.' I would say: 'We can just do them grilled fish and mashed potato, that's fine.' But no, they thought they were part of a practical joke or something and weren't staying a moment longer."

Times have changed. The Fat Duck, which books two months in advance, reportedly gets several thousand reservation requests a day. It has, Blumenthal says, now been eight or nine years since they had a plate sent back.

An even greater achievement, in his mind, is the way that his confidence with food has spread outward from Bray. Not only has Blumenthal felt the divide between Berkshire and London closing in terms of expectation and adventure, but now that spirit exists all over the country. "There were some great restaurants here in the 80s, but they were all very French," he says. "Now there is a real sense of proper British cooking."

Blumenthal – who has traced most of his lineage back to the English shires 400 years ago, with a recent "Latvian/Belgian Congo/South African/Jewish convert grandmother thrown in" – has done as much to re-establish that tradition as anybody. He was thrilled to find that the English were first called rosbifs not as a slight but as a compliment. "In the 18th century, French chefs would be sent here to learn how to cook meat properly over an open flame. Nobody could do it like us."

Blumenthal became fascinated by gastronomic history. He got talking, at an Oxford food symposium (where subjects in 2003 included baby food in the Middle Ages), to two food historians from Hampton Court Palace. That meeting led him to unearth, exhume and revive a great tradition of English banqueting that is now the basis of his menu at Dinner at the Mandarin Oriental.

"Our food history is a broken one, strangely, in the way the Italian and French traditions are not," he says, "whether because of the greater effects of the Industrial Revolution, or rationing, I don't know. But discovering we had a food culture has been the start."

That reconnection provides the foundation of all Blumenthal's experimentation with flavours and context. It led in 2004 to his third Michelin star at the Fat Duck, and the creation of brand Heston: employed, with varying success, at Little Chef, Waitrose, on numerous TV quests for perfection ("that's my R&D") and beyond. Such projection rarely comes without a price. Blumenthal's reckoning coincided with midlife. It began with the norovirus outbreak in the Fat Duck kitchen in 2009, which made more than 400 diners sick and all the wrong headlines. Blumenthal was still recovering from that when bad news came in a three: his father died, his marriage broke up, and two long-term friends were killed in a car crash in Hong Kong, having been out with Blumenthal the previous evening.

All three events unsettled him in different ways. "I still find it really hard to talk about the deaths of Jorge and Magnus," he says. "You turn the page of a newspaper every day and see someone has died in a car crash. You never stop to think about how it affects so many people. Well I do now."

That period seemed like the end of a phase of his career, he suggests, and of his life. He has been helped through it by "a life coach, a Buddhist guy". A couple of things in particular have been enlightening. "The first was to take full responsibility for everything here. If somebody does something wrong in a kitchen, the chef's response traditionally is to shout. But my coach, says: 'No, you are the boss, it's your fault. There are only three reasons for things going wrong: you have chosen the wrong person, you are asking too much of them, or you haven't given them enough training.'"

It doesn't sound the most liberating of strategies, I suggest.

"Well, along with it, you have this other idea. The three worst emotions are blame, shame and guilt. You need to get rid of 'could have' and 'should have' in your life."

Does he feel more centred, as it were?

"Much more. I could only deal with things aggressively. I could never really share more complex emotions with people. I'm a lot stronger. Not physically – I have a dodgy hip and a bad back – and I would certainly have the crap beaten out of me by my former self. But I understand myself more. I think I always had this real need for people to love everything I did. When they didn't get it I hated it. I understand that more now – but I still try to make them see it." He laughs. "Coasting is never going to be good for me."

If we were to interview him in 10 years time, what would he be up to then?

"I would love to have a James Bond-style lab with a big metal door that goes sshhhtk when it closes," he says. "This morning was a bit like that. We had this piece of beef that we were reconstructing. We have been working with this amazing company in Switzerland that ages meat with mould; it's a mould that lives off animals that die in the forest and kills off all the other bacteria. Each cut of beef had been cooked in a different way, then we bound it all together and tried to roast it on a spit. We had fire on one side of the spit and liquid nitrogen on the other, fire and ice, so the skin heats up and cools, heats up and cools. You keep caramelising the fat all the time…"

Other than that, he suggests, warming Wonka-like to the future, "We are looking at a new system for putting aromas on the top of liquids so you sniff one thing and smell another. And we are investigating the weight and shape of a glass and how that affects the perception of creaminess in particular."

He thinks about that possibility for a moment. "I am very lucky," he says, "because if I wasn't doing this, I have no idea what I would do."

Historic Heston (Bloomsbury, £125). To order for £100 with free UK p&p go to theguardian.com/bookshop.

Heston's Fantastical Foods will be shown on Channel 4 in November

One of the 10 nominees for the OFM's chef of the decade, Fergus Henderson says: 'You should be nice to your offal'

"Next year we'll have been here 20 years," says Fergus Henderson, taking a seat downstairs at St John in Smithfield and gazing around in mild disbelief. "Each day is different, so it never grows dull. But I like the way there's a sense of permanence – it's become part of the fabric of the city, like a chemist or a bank."

St John has become intrinsic to British dining. Few restaurants have done as much to make us appreciate our national cuisine, and Henderson, with his respectful and pared-down approach to ingredients, continues to influence chefs at home and abroad.

He shudders at the notion that he's responsible for any trend, and tells me that his nose-to-tail philosophy– making use of all parts of the animal – is sometimes interpreted in "weird" ways. "Someone was doing a tasting menu in New York and had half a raw sheep's head. It was all wrong – you like offal so you've got to be hard. No. What we do here is I think very feminine, we have a light touch. You should be nice to your offal."

He's also quick to emphasise that developments in the restaurant world have little impact on the way we eat at home. "Everyone's watching cooking shows on telly, but butchers are disappearing. Supermarkets are selling us pink-in-plastic [Henderson's term for heavily processed meat] and unnaturally ripe fruit. Chefs are a bit more glamorous: that's changed. But the change isn't as big as it should be."

Still, Henderson is clearly proud of what St John has achieved. About the many chefs he's had under his wing over the years, from Anna Hansen to up-and-coming names such as the Young Turks' James Lowe, he says: "I feel rather hen-ish. It's nice when people go off and lay their own eggs."

Right now, though, he's excited about lunch. The first grouse of the year has just arrived and he's heading off to inspect it.

From Nigella Lawson to Ferran Adrià, Jamie Oliver to Heston Blumenthal and more. See all 10 nominees for the chef of the decade

Noma's founder – and nominee for OFM's 10 chefs of the decade – recalls the restaurant's tricky early years

Noma in Copenhagen may no longer be ranked No 1 restaurant in the world but with its pioneering approach to locality, foraging and seasonality, it remains the most influential. Not that 35-year-old head chef René Redzepi has forgotten its humble origins. He still routinely refers to himself and his staff as "seal fuckers", a term used by cynics to describe them when the restaurant opened in 2003. "I'm trying to be polite," he says now. "This is one of the more friendly things we got called."

In those early days, a visit to Noma could be a primitive experience. A Belgian reviewer compared the toilets, unfavourably, with the train station in Delhi and vowed never to return. Dishes were inspired by a Swedish army survival manual that instructed soldiers how to live off the land during wartime.

"Today it makes no sense when you say it, but 10 years ago the world of food was so different," says Redzepi. "Here was a restaurant saying: 'We are going to focus more on some local ingredients, we are going to see if we can cook our landscape, we are going to see if we can play along with the local culture here.' People told me, 'What are you doing? Don't ruin your career René.' We were a joke."

Success came in 2010 when Noma was placed first in the World's 50 Best Restaurants awards; then won again in 2011 and 2012 (it's currently ranked No 2). Redzepi knows well the arbitrary nature of these awards – "Imagine if the best colour in the world was announced each year?" – but he is also aware of their allure and power. "If you let success become like a dear family member, something you can't live without, you will make the stupidest, most awful decisions to protect it and keep it near you," he says.

The world of food has changed drastically in Noma's lifespan. Redzepi notes wryly that when he left school at 15 – with no qualifications – a cook would never be given the same respect as an architect or a businessman. They were simply responsible for feeding them. "Back then there was no chance of you ever becoming famous," he says. "You didn't enter the restaurant trade because you thought, 'I could be a celebrity chef' or 'I could be on the cover of Observer Food Monthly.' This was never going to happen."

Redzepi sees the change in the personnel of his kitchen. "In the first three years Noma was open, there were four times when a member of staff came to me and said, 'Chef, I'm going to be gone for the next four months.' Why? 'Because I'm going to jail.' Four times!" Now Redzepi's staff includes an ex-banker from London, a Hollywood dropout, a lawyer from Brazil and a graduate from Yale University's Sustainable Food Project.

In large part because of Redzepi, Denmark is now a global gastronomic destination – a third of visitors to Copenhagen now cite food as a principal reason for their trip. Former "seal fuckers" have now opened their own restaurants across the city: a partial list includes Samuel Nutter and Victor Wagman's Bror, Christian Puglisi's Relae and Matt Orlando's Amass.

Noma has had blips and Redzepi guiltily concedes he has not always behaved to his staff as well as he'd like: "I was a beast, angry as hell." But, helped by writing a year-long journal – which forms part of an extraordinary new book A Work in Progress– he believes he is happier and more inventive than ever.

"If you'd asked me five years ago where I'd be now, I'd have said, 'At least a kilometre or 10 away from Noma.' It was just an animal eating us up. Whereas now, I've never had more fun in this project. The best moment to visit Noma is right now."

René Redzepi's A Work in Progress: Journals, Recipes and Snapshots is published on 11 November (Phaidon, RRP £39.95). To order a copy for £31.96 with free UK p&p. click here

Cook, campaigner, bestselling author – and nominee for OFM's 10 chefs of the decade

I know what you're getting at," says Jamie Oliver, holding a megaphone to his lips for his OFM photo shoot. "The loudmouth campaigner."

"More like speaking to the masses," replies Murdo, the Observer Food Monthly's photographer, diplomatically.

"There's lots worse things people say about me," replies Oliver.

When we meet in August, at a photo studio in east London, Oliver is having a bit of a week. He's promoting his new austerity cookbook, Save with Jamie and accompanying Channel 4 series, and receiving rough treatment for two comments. One suggested that some people struggling to make ends meet should spend less on flat-screen TVs and more on food . The other praised foreign kitchen workers as "stronger" and "tougher" than British employees. "I do have a tendency for causing a storm every time I open my mouth," admits Oliver. "But I like to think my intentions are good."

Of course, if anyone has earned the right to hold forth on British food culture it is the 38-year-old Oliver. If his influence were simply measured in sales and viewers, he would be one of the most significant chefs of his generation – Jamie's 30 Minute Meals was the fastest-selling non-fiction book of all time.

But, beyond that, he has plugged away obsessively over the last decade to make fresh, nutritious food available to everyone. It started with his rehabilitation project-cum-restaurant Fifteen in 2002 and continued with his campaign to offer cookery classes to the poor at his Ministry of Food centres around the country, along with his radical overhaul of school dinners.

Due in large part to Oliver's tenacity, children are now more likely to eat sandwiches, vegetables and fruit, and less likely to tuck into pizza, soft drinks and chips (down from 43% of teenagers in 2004 to just 7% in 2011). The dietary changes, in turn, have been linked by economists to a positive impact on both attendance and academic performance.

Does Oliver think that he's making progress?

"As you get a bit older and more fatigued and frustrated and experienced and all those things – positive and negative – you start to realise that change on a large scale happens at a snail's pace," he says. "And you are constantly battling with being a geek and lover of line-caught, organic, wonderful things and looking out for what's happening to an average Brit. So it's a funny old job, but I think I like it."

Save with Jamie is aimed squarely at the "average Brit". It was born from research that showed that a typical household in this country throws away 40% of the food it buys – which equates to around £1,000 of waste a year. Oliver then calculated that if a family cooked at home twice a week instead of ordering a takeaway, it would reduce outgoings by a further £2,000. The recipes in Save with Jamie cost an average of £1.32 per portion and, to combat the charge that those most in need wouldn't be able to afford the book, he donated a copy to every library in the country. "I only thought there were 45," he says. "There's two and a half thousand. Ha!"

Oliver is aware that such good deeds have not led to universal approval, but – as his recent comments prove – he has given up trying to please everyone. "If I don't say these things, no one else fucking will," he declares. "The government doesn't like to say stuff like that because they're chasing votes. I'm in the slight luxury of not being able to get myself fired. The public are my first boss."

What's his proudest achievement? "Improving the standard of school food. Getting £500m put into a service that hadn't been invested in for 30 years and raising the profile of lunch ladies. We are still doing it to this day and getting kids cooking in schools – it's gone from being a nice thing to do to being vital."

The Spanish revolutionary, one of the 10 nominees for OFM's chef of the decade, is building on the success of el Bulli

Some time in 1989, a 27-year-old chef working in a renovated beach shack on the north-east coast of Spain, decided to play around with one of his country's signature dishes. "What," he asked himself, "makes a gazpacho a gazpacho?"

Instead of whirring up the tomato, bread, cucumbers and peppers into a smooth, cold puree, he separated the elements at the bottom of a plate, added some slices of lobster, and had a waiter add liquid at the table.

Twenty years – and many enquiries into the nature of soup later – that gazpacho con bogavante seems unexceptional. But in its interrogation of a classic, the dish was the start of a revolution that would utterly change fine dining.

Ferran Adrià is the most influential chef of our time. That may seem a preposterous claim for a man who started his career as a cook in the navy, and whose restaurant – his sole restaurant, it should be pointed out in these days of far-flung culinary empires – only seated 50 people a night at the height of its renown. And yet, as René Redzepi, chef of Copenhagen's highly regarded Noma, has said, "He changed everything."

He did it by asking questions. Not just "What makes gazpacho gazpacho?" but also "Why does sweet come after savoury?" and "What happens if I attach a bicycle pump to a tomato?"

He is best known for his outlandish, delicious creations – turning mango juice into a semi-solid "caviar", using liquid nitrogen to create frozen globes of coconut milk – but his real contribution was to see every ingredient and technique's possibilities in a new way.

"What we did is to reconceptualise," he likes to say. "The Romans wore their togas above their knees, but it took Mary Quant to reconceptualise that fashion as the mini skirt."

At its height, el Bulli was receiving close to 2 million booking requests per year. Just as highly in demand were unpaid apprentice positions in his kitchen. Each year, thousands of young cooks from around the world applied for the 35 slots, and many of those who made it, including Redzepi, Massimo Bottura, Jason Atherton and Andoni Luis Aduriz, went on to become leading chefs in their own right.

All were profoundly changed by the experience. Alex Atala, chef of São Paulo's DOM, currently ranked sixth on the World's 50 Best Restaurants list, says: "He gave me the courage to become myself."

Adrià closed el Bulli as a restaurant in July 2011. Since then, he's been busy remaking it as a foundation dedicated to gastronomy and creativity. The foundation's first project is a massive compendium called Bullipedia, which seeks to unite all knowledge about ingredients, cooking techniques and culinary history into one open-source database.

"It's a monster," Adrià says. "We're creating a genome of cuisine."

Adrià intends the El Bulli Foundation to foster creativity – that ineffable quality that is his great legacy. In addition to the Bullipedia, it will house a museum and sponsor a scholarship program to bring young cooks from around the world to experiment with cooking's possibilities.

He is also working on several books (his latest, a catalogue raisonée of the recipes developed at el Bulli between 2005 and 2011, is out next spring) and exhibitions. He is even in discussions about a project that he describes enigmatically as "a step forward", in the exploration of what a restaurant can be if it's not a restaurant.

"Everything I've done while el Bulli was open as a restaurant is just a drop," he says, "compared with what is to come."

Lisa Abend is the author of The Sorcerer's Apprentices: A Season in the Kitchen of Ferran Adrià's el Bulli (Simon & Schuster, £8.99)

ElBulli 2005-2011 is published by Phaidon and is scheduled to be released March 2014. It will retail for £425.

'I've been cooking for 27 years and intend to continue for a long time' says the man whose restaurant is the best in the world and who is a nominee for OFM's 10 chefs of the decade

Joan Roca has been holding out the olive tree for two hours now, his arm frozen like a yoga aesthete. His eyes plead for release but he is too polite to ask. The tree, decked with caramelised olives, is a signature dish at El Celler de Can Roca in Girona in north-east Catalonia. Still, the OFM photographer presses for more, and Roca obliges. When you are the No 1 chef in the world, this stuff happens.

He laughs when I ask if it's a tyranny he could do without. "I had already developed crocodile skin with Michelin," he says, "but I have been cooking for 27 years and intend to continue for a long time."

Roca's teachers had wanted him to go to university but he loved being in the kitchen: "From a very young child, I learned to cook by playing," he says. "At cookery school, I was allowed to develop my voice but it was not until I went to France that I knew it would be my life."

He worked at Georges Blanc in Vonnas, and with Ferran Adrià at el Bulli in 1989, though it was later, working with his two younger brothers in Girona, that things really gelled.

Each brother (Josep is a brilliant sommelier, Jordi a sublimely talented patissier) brings a collaborative skillset to the creative process. "We join all the pieces together," says Joan. Sitting in the kitchen, eating Palamós prawns with "head juice" (by which I'll judge all prawns for ever) and an ethereal white asparagus and truffle viennetta it is easy to see what each brother brings to the plate. Respect, even love, for each other and local produce, an emotional cooking rooted in tradition and elevated by supreme technique.

Food at this level is usually the result of monomania, but Joan Roca is a sensitive testament to the truth that nice guys also finish first.

cellercanroca.com

One of the 10 nominees for the OFM's chef of the decade, Nigella Lawson discussses food, feminism and Twitter

Is it true you were inspired to write your first book after seeing a dinner party host in tears because of an unset creme caramel?
It is true that I had gone to a dinner party where the host spent the time rushing back to the stove and then could be heard sobbing loudly. I think that too many people feel that they must strain to produce restaurant food in a domestic kitchen, and I wanted to counter that.

But I wrote the book for another reason, even if at the time it wasn't a conscious one, and that is to memorialise the cooking of my mother and one of my sisters, both of whom died young. So many of my conversations with them hinged on what we were cooking, and How to Eat was a means of continuing the conversation.

You do not claim to be a chef. Is not being an expert part of your appeal?
I am not a chef; I am not even a trained cook. So yes, I do think the fact that I am a bit of a kitchen klutz, and fit cooking into an already busy life (and I started writing food books when I was a non-food columnist with young children), means that I cook in much the same way as my readers, or viewers.

Real cooking, the sort that goes on in homes, does not have to be tricksy or difficult, and I felt it was important to demonstrate that. It's vital to show people how easy it is to get something good on the table. I think of myself as a food writer rather than cook, and in writing I can encourage people to see food in the context of life, which is just as important as easing them, confidently, into the kitchen.

Are you a feminist?

I feel the answer to be so self-evidently a "yes", I am almost baffled by the question. When I wrote How to Be a Domestic Goddess, many felt I was saying that women's place was in the kitchen, but the ironic pictures on the endpapers surely undermined that, except for those people who consciously chose to misread my intent.

Feeling comfortable in the kitchen is essential for everyone, male or female. At the time it seemed so many people were fearful of cooking, and that meant home was never more than a stop-off from work. Women of my generation were keen – rightly – not to be tied to the stove, but the ramifications of this were that they felt a sense of dread in the kitchen. How can this be good for anyone? I also feel that to denigrate any activity because it has traditionally been associated with the female sphere is in itself anti-feminist.

What would your last meal be?
How long have you got? I'd start with my roquamole (guacamole and blue cheese) with tortilla chips, followed by linguine with clams and white truffle risotto. Then roast chicken with roast potatoes, mash, chips, petits pois à la française and fennel salad, or My Mother's Praised Chicken with rice, or maybe both, then steak bearnaise, with English mustard and more chips, roast grouse, Korean barbecue, fantastic sushi, slow-cooked pork belly and a bacon sandwich. Followed by lemon meringue pie, passionfruit pavlova and zabaglione, and ending with muscat grapes and gorgonzola so ripe it's ready to move of its own accord.

Is there one particular recipe that brings back especially vivid memories?
This would have to be My Mother's Praised Chicken – I call it this, as it was the way my mother most often cooked chicken, not-quite braised, not-poached, and cooking it feels like a devotional act.

My mother died very young, at 48, and cooking this not only makes me feel connected with her in an essential way, but also allows my children, who never knew her, to eat her food, and in turn feed it to their children and so on, I hope.

This is so much of what cooking is about. I also think it is important to show food in books and on TV that aren't photogenic or fancy, and a dish of chicken poached with leeks and carrots is definitely that. But it tastes good, and feels essentially nourishing, to both body and soul, to cook and eat.

You're famed for your use of Twitter. What do you like about interacting in this way?

I resisted Twitter for a long time, as I felt nervous of entering the arena of self-important pronouncements, but then – after a period of "lurking" – I saw that that was not actually what it was about. For me, Twitter is the Radio 4 of social media, and I enjoy the wit and cleverness so many demonstrate on it, and I am not referring to famous people, but the day-to-day reactions of the people who follow me.

As someone who writes books and makes food programmes, I am aware that I am printing only my side of the conversation: Twitter lets me hear other people talking back to me, and I relish the genuine interaction.

Are you surprised at how successful you've become?

I think people generally divide into those who are goal-oriented, and those who are fear-driven, and I am more in the latter category. That's not to say I am fearful about my work, but in considering this question, a desire not to fail carries more weight than a desire to succeed.

But I can say that what I do is somewhat of a surprise to me. It is not a career path I consciously chose, and I would never have imagined myself in this position. I feel inordinately grateful that I have work that I enjoy for its own sake, and, being somewhat of an incontinent communicator, can enjoy the sense of relationship with my readers that is also, in itself, gratifying. For me, the real success comes from the feeling of community – as cliched as that sounds – my work has fostered.

One of the nominees for OFM's chef of the decade says he's working smarter, not harder

"The world's got smaller, and my life is still a nightmare," says Gordon Ramsay, summing up how things have changed for him – or not – over the past 10 years. A decade ago, Ramsay had three Michelin stars at his flagship restaurant, one star at Claridge's and had just relaunched the Savoy Grill with chief protege Marcus Wareing. He'd also opened his first restaurant overseas, in Dubai, and was about to appear in Kitchen Nightmares and Hell's Kitchen, TV shows that would make him a household name in Britain.

Although he would go on to open restaurants on five continents and become an international celebrity – as likely to be seen hanging out with the Beckhams in LA, where he has a home, as in any of his kitchens – the 46-year-old remains influential in the UK, and not just through the three Michelin stars Clare Smyth holds at Royal Hospital Road. Jason Atherton and Angela Hartnett wouldn't be expanding their respective empires quite so rapidly had they not witnessed their former boss's ability to juggle kitchen and boardroom.

With the public debts, closures and split with his father-in-law and business partner, Chris Hutcheson, in the past, Ramsay is eager to emphasise his robustness ("strong as an ox, skin thick as a rhinoceros") as well as the health of his 23 restaurants which are now spread across five countries [we met before his Manhattan restaurant, Gordon Ramsay at The London, lost both its Michelin stars]. "I'm still excited about perfection," he assures me, though he can't help but keep expanding his business interests: his "lighthearted" new Italian, Union Street Café, has just opened in Borough, and he plans to open London House in Battersea later this year. There will also be two new openings in Hong Kong: a brasserie kitchen and a steak house by the harbour. He seems to be working just as hard as he was a decade ago.

"I'm working smarter, but nowhere near as hard. Fuck me, no."

He alludes to a major restructuring of Gordon Ramsay Holdings in 2011 which afforded greater autonomy to the individual restaurants, taking pressure off central office. It seems to be working out: this year's financial results, according to Ramsay, are the group's best ever.

"I've started looking out for myself," he insists. "It's a long game. I have four young children and I don't want them pushing me around in a wheelchair 10 years from now."

Union Street Café, 47-51 Great Suffolk Street, London SE1; 020 7592 7977; gordonramsay.com

Bill Buford profiles the chef who is the great practitioner of the French tradition, and is one of the 10 nominees for OFM's chef of the decade

By coincidences of geography, I have been witness to two versions of Alain Ducasse. One was in New York, where, in 2000, he arrived like evanescent vapour, sighted more than seen (and usually at airports), to open a restaurant of "very haute gastronomie française" in a fancy hotel facing Central Park. It failed. He persisted – miX in 2003, Adour, 2008 – and failed again. For his part, Ducasse wasn't to know that a city, once famous for its French dining, was in a seethingly anti-Gallic moment. Its legendary "mid-town Frenchies" were closing, as though contaminated, one after the other. New York, having fallen in love with simplicity, and olive oil and pasta, saw Ducasse as just another guy doing the French luxury thing. His name could have been Chanel, or Dom Perignon. He was a brand. New York didn't get Ducasse. (Benoît, Ducasse's number four, is a success and what the city wanted all along: a bistro.)

Five years ago, I moved to Lyon and saw a Ducasse the French get. I attended a cooking school. On its staff were two recruits from Ducasse's École de Cuisine in Paris. They were not instructors. They were drill sergeants from a culinary nation: extremists in their knowledge, obsessives in their attention to detail, fanatics who lived the kitchen and little else. (My fish instructor was, in a colleague's description, "ruined by food".) It wasn't cooking; it was ideology. "Faire, faire, faire et faire savoir," they repeated, a Ducasse line. They were on a mission to teach people how to fashion an expression of French high culture. Later, when I acquired the five volumes of Ducasse's Grand Livre de Cuisine (think Carême, think Dubois, think the 19th century), I instantly recognised the same mission. Every page says: this is what French cooking can be now.

I once ate two Ducasse meals six weeks apart. One, at the Hotel de Paris, in Monaco, featured uncooked vegetables and raw shellfish. I vowed never to return: I didn't want to risk compromising my memory of a flat-out perfect and magical dining experience. The other, in Paris, at Aux Lyonnais, on its 125th anniversary, was ordinary. Ducasse didn't need the restaurant. He bought it to save it, not as an act of charity, but because he feared its disappearing: again, the mission.

Ducasse is no longer in the kitchen. Sitting opposite him once, I discovered why. He does not know how to behave. This is not an executive overseeing a €20m company of 1,400 employees. This is a muttering fusspot. The mise-en-place: hello? The counter: what, he has to wipe it himself? The service ("Service! Service!"): "Will you look at that artichoke?" (Ducasse doesn't "do" television, except occasionally in France. He forgets the camera; he fixes, wipes, intrudes; he is a disaster.) Why is Ducasse not in the kitchen? He is not allowed in. Maybe he, too, has been ruined by food.

Ducasse is described as an ambassador of French cooking. He is not an ambassador. He is a practitioner. He was trained by the four elements: the ingredient-obsessed Lyonnais Alain Chapel (earth), the gelatin-innovating pastry genius Gaston Lenôtre (air), the Mediterranean Roger Vergé (fire), and Michel Guérard, among the hot springs of the south west, who, too god-like to be simply water, must be Poseidon. Ducasse is the next guy. He does the now version of the great tradition. He has a lot to teach us.

alain-ducasse.com; Daniel by Daniel Boulud with essays by Bill Buford is out now

One of the 10 nominees for the OFM's chef of the decade, David Chang says: "I want to make simple food new"

If David Chang had a mission statement, it might be: it's all about the food. Nothing else matters, including the inflated bogey-man known as "Front of House" – the ritualised culture of servers and their attire, or the plates made in Limoges, or the paper the menus have been printed on, or the tablecloth's thread count, or that there is a tablecloth, or the pick-pocketing bill that is only accidentally about the cost of ingredients. "I love the intensity of the fine-dining kitchen, but loathe the fine-dining experience," Chang says, and adds: "Shouldn't a three-course meal be 90 minutes? Do you know how hard you have to edit your menu to pull that off?" Then: "Twenty-seven minutes. That's the average meal at Jiro's in Tokyo. " 

We are having a 63-minute lunch at Ssäm Bar, on 2nd Avenue, and my effort at following the "thread" ("Can you reinvent the lentil?" or "I want to make simple food new," or "My dream is good food for people who don't give a shit") is not unlike catching a fish with your hands. Chang doesn't have a mission statement. He has an encyclopedia of them. Actually, Chang in conversation is not unlike Chang on the plate (from pork belly buns to caramelised corn flakes to shavings of frozen foie gras), which is not unlike what might be referred to as Chang's "anti-business business plan." Chang, 36, a proprietor-chef for nine years, has four restaurants, six bakeries, a commissary, a fermentation lab, a kitchen-tool thinktank, a magazine, plus restaurants in Australia and Canada. 

I ask Chang to list 10 things that are important to him. "Japan," he says and thinks. "Street food." He pauses. "Hoping, one day, to pay everyone $20 a hour." (Chang employs 600 people.) Then he is in flight again, those people who don't give a shit, they're a preoccupation, and have no idea that, soon, they are about to discover how good eating can be. 

I then glimpse a quality that Chang's fast-talking, street-smart sassy persona keeps hidden: he is a softie. He has a profound capacity for empathy—it is evident in his lack of irony, or in how his cooks trust him, or in the undisguised sadness in his face describing a friend's illness, and another's death. He wears his heart, not on his sleeve, but under a magnifying glass. 

It continues into his food. There is humanity in the way Chang works. It is unusual. That is his theme. Amid everything else – the innovation, the flash, the creative brilliance – Chang is a nourisher. His mission is making food. It carries enormous responsibility.

Readers' choices for ethical dining around the country

• Best ethical restaurant winner 2013: Poco

LONDON

The Duke of Cambridge
Britain's first certified organic pub never airfreights anything and its electricity is solar- and wind-generated
30 St Peter's St, N1 8JT; 020 7359 3066; sloeberry.co.uk

Waterhouse
Brainchild of the Shoreditch Trust, this canalside restaurant puts some of its profits into local Hackney projects.
10 Orsman Rd, N1 5QJ; 020 7033 0123; waterhouserestaurant.co.uk

Wahaca
Wahaca insists on using meat that has led a happy, healthy and British life, and now has a Marine Stewardship Council certificate (supporting sustainable fishing practices).
66 Chandos Pl, WC2N 4HG; 020 7240 1883; wahaca.co.uk

Leon
A founder member of the Sustainable Restaurant Association, all the meat is Red Tractor accredited and they're working on the government's school food plan.
73-76 Strand, WC2R 0DE; 020 7240 3070; leonrestaurants.co.uk

EAST

Lussmanns
From wine to tea and charcuterie to cheese, St Albans's Lussmanns sources British ingredients and keeps food miles down.
Waxhouse Gate, St Albans, Herts, AL3 4EW; 01727 851941; lussmanns.com

Rainbow Cafe
Cambridge vegetarian restaurant; everything made fresh on-site.
9A King's Parade, Cambridge CB2 1SJ; 01223 321551; rainbowcafe.co.uk

Museum Street Cafe
Ipswich vegetarian restaurant that makes a mean chocolate and beetroot cake.
Westgate House, Museum St, Ipswich, Suffolk IP1 1HQ; 01473 232393 Facebook.com

Waffle House
The waffles might be Belgian-inspired, but all ingredients are British, and, where possible, organic. Also in St Albans.
39 St Giles St, Norwich, NR2 1JN; 01603 612790; wafflehouse.co.uk

MIDLANDS

Alley cafe
Creativity is at the heart of this organic cafe, both from the imaginative vegetarian and vegan dishes and the local art on the walls.
Cannon Ct, Longrow West, Nottingham NG1 6JE; 0115 955 1013; alleycafe.co.uk

Mem Saab
Acclaimed curry house whose charity dinners raised more than £90,000 last year.
12-14 Maid Marian Way, Nottingham NG1 6HS; 0115 957 0009
mem-saab.co.uk

Tamatanga
Tandoor, curry, thali and a great vegetarian selection at this good value Indian restaurant.
The Cornerhouse, Trinity Square, Nottingham NG1 4DB; 0115 958 4848; tamatanga.com

The Warehouse Cafe
Sustainable veggie cafe in Birmingham's Friends of the Earth building. Local produce, water heated by solar power and three courses of comfort food for under £20.
54-57 Allison St, Birmingham, B5 5TH; 0121 633 0261; thewarehousecafe.com

SOUTH

Terre a Terre
That meat is absent from the menu here is secondary to outstanding food, with an ethical approach to cooking integral to its business model for 30 years.
71 East St, Brighton, BN1 1HQ; 01273 729051; terreaterre.co.uk

Food for Friends
Sophisticated vegetarian food with Mediterranean influences using local ingredients.
17-18 Prince Albert St Brighton BN1 1HF; 01273 202310; foodforfriends.com

Chilli Pickle
Indian food in Brighton from the Himalayas to the coast – and a member of the Sustainable Restaurant Association.
17 Jubilee St, Brighton BN1 1GE; 01273 900383; thechillipickle.com

The Goods Shed
A superb restaurant - "where incorrigible foodies go to get their jollies" said Jay Rayner - using produce from the onsite farmers market.
Station Rd West, Canterbury, CT2 8AN; 01227 459153; thegoodsshed.co.uk

NORTH

Topaz cafe
Social enterprise championing the work of mental health charity Mind. Profits made from the sustainable menu are reinvested in their counselling service.
Katherine St, Ashton-under-Lyne, Lancs OL6 7AS; 0161 330 9223; togmind.org/topaz-cafe

The Waiting Room
Award-winning vegetarian restaurant that's so good it could seduce the most seasoned carnivores.
9 Station Rd, Stockton-on-Tees, Cleveland TS16 0BU; 01642 780465; the-waiting-room.co.uk

Greens
Inspiring vegetarian food in Didsbury and an impressive record of charitable donations.
43 Lapwing Ln, Manchester, M20 2NT; 0161 434 4259; greensdidsbury.co.uk

The Egg Cafe
Boho meat-free café. Try the tandoori mushrooms.
16 Newington, Liverpool, L1 4ED; 0151 707 2755; eggcafe.co.uk

NORTHERN IRELAND

Made in Belfast
The vintage furniture reflects their priorities – money is spent on quality ingredients like meat from local farmers with high standards of animal husbandry.
Units 1 & 2, Wellington Buildings, Wellington St, Belfast BT1 6HT; 028 9024 6712; madeinbelfastni.com

Ox Belfast
Ox maintain close relationships with small, local suppliers and their website features a clever larder section for seasonal ingredients.
1 Oxford St, Belfast BT1 3LA; 028 9031 4121; oxbelfast.com

The Bay Tree
Clever cooking that prizes Irish produce and, though it isn't vegetarian, has excellent meat-free options.
118 High St, Holywood, BT18 9HW; 028 9042 1419; baytreeholywood.co.uk

Common Grounds
Not-for-profit coffee shop and cafe, twice voted Belfast's fair trade cafe of the year, has given more than £55,000 to projects in the developing world.
12-24 University Ave, Belfast, BT7 1GY; 028 9032 6589; commongrounds.co.uk

SCOTLAND

Earthy cafe
Cafe-bistro founded by two gardeners who also have three market stores across Edinburgh, selling seasonal, local organic food from 100 producers.
33-41 Ratcliffe Terrace, Edinburgh, EH9 1SX; 0131 667 2967; earthy.co.uk

Urban Angel, Edinburgh
Conscientiously sourced Scottish produce, bread baked fresh each day and lots of gluten-free and vegetarian options.
1 Forth St, Edinburgh, EH1 3JX; 0131 556 6323; urban-angel.co.uk

Hendersons, Edinburgh
Edinburgh institution that opened 50 years ago and still serves great vegetarian food, including haggis and seasonal risottos.
94 Hanover St, Edinburgh EH2 1DR; 0131 225 2131; hendersonsofedinburgh.co.uk

The Gardener's Cottage, Edinburgh
Close relationships to local growers and the community are important here, where the seasonal set menu is served on communal tables.
1, Royal Terrace Gardens, London Rd, Edinburgh EH7 5DX ; 0131 558 1221; thegardenerscottage.co

WALES

Milgi, Cardiff
Eclectic vegetarian restaurant,with many ingredients foraged from Welsh fields and hedgerows.
213 City Rd, Cardiff CF24 3JD; 029 2047 3150; milgilounge.com

Treehouse
Each day at least one dish is made exclusively from Welsh ingredients at this Aberystwythorganic food store with a restaurant onsite.
14 Baker St, Aberystwyth, SY23 2BJ; 01970 615791; treehousewales.co.uk

Canteen on Clifton St
Set up to give Cardiff's vegan and vegetarian dining scene some pizazz. Try the carrot and black cumin koftas.
40 Clifton St, Cardiff, CF24 1LR; 029 2045 4999; canteenoncliftonstreet.com

Vegetarian food studio
This "almost vegan" Cardiff vegetarian uses no eggs or fish in its Asian-inspired cuisine. You can take away Indian sweets from the deli counter, too.
115 Penarth Rd, Cardiff CF11 6JU; 029 2023 8222;vegetarianfoodstudio.co.uk

WEST

Ethicurean, Somerset
Kitchen garden restaurant and the overall winner from two years ago. Owners recently published their first cookbook.
Long Lane, Wrington, N. Somerset BS40 5SA; 01934 863713; theethicurean.com

Friska Food, Bristol
Feelgood food that's not only healthy but good for the planet – profits help fund developing world microfinance schemes.
36 Victoria St, Bristol, BS1 6BY, 0117 929 8971, friskafood.com

Riverford Field Kitchen, Buckfastleigh
Riverford's simple approach to good food continues to draw people to the Devon farm.
Wash Farm, Buckfastleigh, TQ11 0JU; 01803 762074; riverford.co.uk

Maitreya Social
Exciting and original vegetarian cooking in Bristol, plus an arts space. Ingredients are fair trade and, where possible, organic.
89 Saint Mark's Road, Easton, Bristol, BS5 6HY; 0117 951 0100; cafemaitreya.co.uk