The Game Cook
Norman Tebbit
JR Books Ltd
176pp
£14.99

Imagine the glee in the Progress office. A cookery book by Norman Tebbit. The obvious Labour response to such an offering is satire, and that is, no doubt, why the folks at Progress sent it to me to review. I am sure they hoped for material such as: a book on game cooking by Norman Tebbit? What’s next? Margaret Thatcher’s Book of Flower-arranging? Guide to Origami by Cecil Parkinson? My Life as a Morris Dancer by Peter Lilley?

It would all be too easy.

Norman Tebbit became the main family cook after he and his wife were nearly killed by the IRA bomb that blew up the Grand Hotel Brighton. She lost the use of her legs, and since 1984 Tebbit experimented in the kitchen and learned to cook game. He makes the reasonable point in his introduction that most people will stick to tasteless chicken breasts, pork chops, a joint of beef, sausages or a leg of lamb rather than pheasant, partridge, duck, grouse, deer, rabbit or hare. That’s because people are frightened of the preparation and cooking of British game, and unused to the heavy flavours. I’ve always found it strange that friends will happily polish off a lamb dansak with keema naan but complain that jugged hare is too heavy-going.

There’s also a class issue. Pheasant, venison, grouse – these are toffs’ dishes, served up in country houses, after a day’s shooting on the moors. They are devoured before a hearty game of kick the footman. Most Labour people will eschew these trappings of the boss class, and go for more egalitarian fare like steak and chips, or Pukka pies. The reality is that game – rabbit, hare, pheasant and partridge – are really the dishes of the agricultural working classes, which have been expropriated by the bosses, and should be reclaimed in the name of socialism. Wat Tyler and John Ball would have known wood pigeon from woodcock. The Tolpuddle martyrs would have known a rabbit stew from a hare casserole. The recurrence of the poacher in popular songs, stories and pub names attests to the source of most of this game for working people. Every community had a healthy black market in poached game, and few families would have turned down the offer of a brace of pheasants, ‘hot’ or not. This is the authentic cuisine of England, long before the Russian Jews brought their battered fish, and the Huguenots their sliced, fried potatoes, and gave us fish ‘n’ chips, or the Bangladeshis created ‘Indian’ food on every high street, which is mostly about as Indian as the Eiffel Tower.

We should leave the inverted snobbery behind us, delve into Tebbit’s book, and judge it on its merits as a guide to cooking. There are two types of cookbook (leaving aside the sumptuous porn-fest that is Nigella). There are the simplistic ones such as those by St Delia or Jamie, aimed at cooks who don’t own asparagus kettles. These cooks love food, and want us to share their enjoyment. The other kind, by people such as Heston Blumenthal, Gary Rhodes or Raymond Blanc are aimed at people with a PhD in food chemistry, or a couple of Michelin stars, and require a degree of skill, equipment, time and domestic staff which few of us possess. These are mostly books for poseurs and can be found on kitchen shelves with their spines intact. Blumenthal’s ‘Big Fat Duck Cookbook’ retails at £100. Imagine if you owned it. You’d never let it get anywhere near food, for fear of splashing it with gravy.

Tebbit’s book belongs firmly in the former camp: good recipes, explained by someone who plainly loves cooking them, and wants you to too. There are some nice twists: partridge paella, curried pheasant with dhal, venison with fruit and spices. These will do well for a dinner party where you’re trying to impress. There are traditional game recipes for jugged hare, pheasant pate, rabbit pie, and haunch of venison. These are no more difficult than your Sunday roast beef, chicken or a leg of lamb, but imagine the satisfaction in serving up instead roast pheasant with a black pudding (or even haggis) stuffing, or a herb-crusted loin of venison with smoked bacon and Cumberland sauce. And to accompany each dish, Tebbit sensibly offers simple mashed potato and celeriac, swede, parsnips or cabbage.

One possible omission is a suggested list of wines to drink with each dish. I can imagine a full-bodied rioja with the partridge paella, or a red burgundy with the hare or venison. But it would have been useful to have some expert advice. It’s a shame Alan Clark is no longer with us; he could have been a perfect co-author.

I have nothing but respect for vegetarians. But if you are going to eat meat, then why not try some of the recipes in this book? Simple ingredients which can be bought at any decent butcher and greengrocer. Fewer food miles. All of the animals and birds were free-range, and never saw the inside of a factory farm or abattoir. And much of the meat in this book is as cheap, if not cheaper, than beef or lamb. It’s even cheaper if you know your local poacher.

Norman Tebbit. Hate his politics. Love his recipes.